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[suddencolds]

Small Price to Pay | [1/1]

you know all those posts about making out with someone with a cold and the associated consequences? This is that in fic form, ~8.8k words. I'm embarrassing myself typing this, so here it is.

This is an OC fic ft. Vincent and Yves - you can read more of these two here! :)

Summary:

“So,” Brendon says. “You’re still dating him.” Something about the way he inflects the word still makes something sour in Yves’s chest. Yves frowns at him. “Is that supposed to be surprising?”

Yves has a birthday party to attend and a fake relationship to prove. Vincent is nothing if not adaptable. (ft. fake dating, an argument, contagion)

—

Here’s the problem:

Francesca throws a party.

It’s a birthday party, strictly speaking, but functionally it’s more of a college reunion—Francesca invites everyone from their year who rowed crew, which means that one: Yves will be surrounded by some of his best friends from college, and two: Erika will be there.

He thinks up an entire contingency plan—if Vincent can’t make it that weekend, for one reason or another, Yves will show up, hand Francesca his gift, spend the rest of the hour avoiding Erika and Brendon, and leave early, citing some excuse or other. It’s not that he doesn’t think he could handle talking to Erika—it’s just seeing her feels like reopening a wound. A part of him is scared that he’ll see her, and feel the loss intensely all over again—or, worse, he’ll get ideas about forgiving her, about letting her into his life again, about accepting her explanations.

And Brendon, too—seeing Erika means seeing Brendon, most likely, and Yves doesn’t want to justify himself to him any more than he already has. 

The point is: the less of the both of them that he has to deal with, the better.

When he asks Vincent a week before the event, though, Vincent’s response is immediate.

V: You can fill me in on the details later. I’ll be there.

It’s a little strange, he thinks, that Vincent always agrees so readily. Vincent isn’t a fan of parties—he’d been clear about that. He doesn’t seem interested in talking much about himself, either—he’s just the kind of person, Yves is realizing, who likes to keep his personal details close unless they offer some sort of utility.

Perhaps there’s something else that Vincent is getting out of this, then.

But when Yves asks, he’s met with the same cryptic answer:

“I don’t mind it,” Vincent says. “And you have something you want to prove to your ex. Ultimately, it’s a net positive.”

“While that’s technically true,” Yves says, “this seems like an unfair arrangement. I mean, you’re only doing this because I dragged you into it.”

“If I didn’t want to be dragged into it,” Vincent says, “I would say so.” as if it’s really that simple.

It can’t be that simple, Yves thinks—there must be more to his reasoning that he’s omitting—but he doesn’t press. Vincent is right. Vincent is the kind of person who knows precisely what he wants. If he really had a problem with this arrangement, he would’ve said so.

And, besides—a little selfishly, perhaps—Yves has started looking forward to their outings as of late.

—

Nevertheless, he doesn’t think about the party again until the Friday before it, when Vincent shows up at his desk.

“Do you have a moment?” he says.

“Yes,” Yves says, saving the spreadsheet he’s been working on and shutting his laptop. “What’s up?”

When he looks up, Vincent looks a little tired, though that’s not unusual—it’s been a long week, and busy season always means long hours and little sleep. 

“We can talk later if you’re busy,” Vincent says.

“I’m very free,” Yves says. He’s decisively not—and he’s sure that Vincent knows this, too, so whatever Vincent is approaching him with now must be important. 

“Regarding Francesca’s party tomorrow,” Vincent starts. He looks a little sheepish—as if he doesn’t quite want to be the deliverer of bad news. “I can still go. But I’m…”

“If something came up,” Yves says immediately, “you don’t have to come.” “It’s not that,” Vincent says.

“Or even if nothing’s come up,” Yves backtracks, “and you’re just not feeling it anymore? Also totally fine. Seriously. I can always just go by myself.”

Vincent seems to consider this. Yves is starting to get worried that something might actually be very wrong—something that Vincent is hesitant to even bring up—when Vincent takes a generous step backwards, raising his elbow to his face as his eyes squeeze shut.

“hhih’nGKTsHuhh-!”

The sneeze sounds harsh, even muffled into the fabric of his sleeve; it tears through him with little warning, loud enough to echo slightly in the confines of the office space.

That’s when it all clicks into place: the tiredness. The slight off-ness to his complexion, the tension to the way he’s holding himself, the fact that Yves hasn’t caught him in the break room at all over the past couple days. The fact that he’s currently standing so far away from Yves’s desk.

“You’re ill,” Yves says, comprehending.

“Yes,” Vincent says. His voice sounds a little off, too, now that Yves knows what to look for; it has that quality it often takes on after a long day of discussions with clients—not quite hoarse, but getting there. “I’m positive it’s just a cold. I just wanted to give you a heads up.”

“Don’t worry about it at all, seriously,” Yves says. He feels guilty, suddenly—here he is, asking Vincent to spend his already-limited free time at a party, when Vincent probably has a high volume of important clients—and a burgeoning head cold—to deal with. “If you want to take a rain check, you should. I’m sure this week has already been rough for you as it is.”

“When is the next time you’ll be going to an event where Erika’s going to be there?”

That question makes him pause. “I don’t know. In another month, or so, if I had to guess?”

“So this event is important,” Vincent says, sniffling. It’s the kind of light, liquid sniffle that implies that whatever he’s caught, he’s just at the start of it. “In that case, I’ll go.”

“Wait,” Yves says. “That’s not what I—your health is more important than any event. You shouldn’t push yourself.”

“I feel fine,” Vincent says. “No headache, no fever. It’s just a slight cold. I will be fine tomorrow if I make it a point to sleep early.” he sniffles again, his expression growing hazy for a brief moment before he blinks, rubbing his nose on one knuckle. “I just wanted to make sure you were fine with it.”

“I am completely fine with it,” Yves says, reaching for the box of tissues that’s perched on his desk. He holds it out. “I just feel bad about making you go if you’re sick.”

Vincent takes a handful of tissues out of the box, brings them up to cover his nose, just in time for—

“hh- hH’nGKT-! snf-! hH-Hhih… hh’hiHhh’iiZSCHHh-uhh!”

“Bless you,” Yves says, with emphasis, pushing the entire tissue box towards him. “Times two. Seriously. I think you could use the weekend off—you know, to catch up on sleep.”

“Assuming that things haven’t changed from the event details you forwarded me, the party will be in the evening,” Vincent says, taking the tissue box from him, a little hesitantly, and tucking it under his arm. “I’ll have plenty of time to sleep in.”

Yves opens his mouth to protest.

Vincent says, “I’m fine. I’ll call a rain check if I wake up with a fever.” He turns on his heels. “Otherwise, see you tomorrow.” 

—

Vincent, as Yves is coming to realize, is very good at appearing presentable, even when he’s under the weather.

“You made it,” he says. This time, they’d driven here separately. Yves had thought, initially, that it’d be easier to just drive Vincent places, so that the only thing he’d had to account for was his actual presence—but Francesca lives between them. I don’t mind driving, Vincent had said. You’d be going out of your way to pick me up, but he’d coordinated a spot a couple blocks down to meet up, so that it would look like they’d come together.

It’s cold outside still—it’s the sort of indecisive weather that seems to periodically hint at spring: a cold front, then a few warm days when all the ice thaws, a few flowers lining the grass along the road where the snow’s melted, and then another snowstorm. It’s easy enough, then, to chalk up the slight redness of his cheeks, the redness at the tip of his nose, as another effect of the not-quite-spring weather.

Yves is carrying his present for Francesca under one arm—a hardcover book—a sequel to one she’d read last year and gushed to him about liking; a couple fridge magnets, which she likes to collect; film for the polaroid camera her sister got her last year; and a letter, all wrapped up in a brown paper parcel. 

It’s nice to have an excuse to see everyone again, especially some of the members from crew whom he’s not close enough to invite to parties personally, that he knows Francesca was closer to. 

“It was a pain to find parking,” Vincent says. He’s wearing a red scarf today, and a white overcoat with black buttons and a sharply cut collar. Personally, Yves thinks it’s unfair that someone can be down with an irritating head cold and still look so good.

“No kidding,” Yves says. “You would’ve thought there’d be more than one tiny parking lot for all those shops.”

Yves asks how he is (fine, Vincent says—perfectly capable of spending a few hours at a party. Yves says, I feel like you would say that even if you were like, dead on your feet with a high fever, to which Vincent laughs, but doesn’t explicitly deny.)

Yves supposes he isn’t one to talk—he’d showed up to a crew event, near the end of the season, with the flu, just because it had been their then-captain’s last big event, and he’d been planning to give him a farewell speech. The speech had gone fine—and so had the first few hours—but then all his symptoms had hit at once—fever chills, exhaustion, a pounding headache, the likes—and Francesca and Erika had practically had to drag him home.

But that had been an important event—a once in a lifetime thing—and he’d drafted that speech for two weeks. This is so much less high-stakes. 

“I prombise I’m fine,” Vincent tells him, lifting up the side of his scarf to muffle a cough into it. “It’s just all the - hHIh-! all the annoyidg symptoms. I dod’t - snf-! - feel any worse than I did yesterday.” “Any worse?” Yves says. “Does that mean you were already feeling pretty badly off yesterday?”

“I barely even feel udwell at all,” Vincent says. “It’s just— I keep havidg to— hHih-! hihH’IIITshHHh-uuH!”

He sniffles, raising a sleeve to his face to cover the next, resounding, 

“hHih’iITTSshh’Uhh! snf-!” He buries his face deeper into his sleeve, his shoulders trembling with another gasp. “Hhih…. HIih’nNGKT—SHhuh!”

“Bless you,” Yves says, laughing. “Okay. Point taken.”

Vincent lowers his arm slowly with a curt sniffle. “Are Erika and Francesca close?”

“Yeah,” Yves says. “I think they still keep in touch pretty frequently.” it’s one of the reasons why he hasn’t told Francesca—or anyone else in the friend group—about the specifics of their breakup.

It feels wrong, somehow, to paint her in a bad light, to give people reason to take sides, when it’s always been all of them together as a group. 5am practice was a hell of a bonding experience, she was part of all of that, too. He has no right to take that from her. 

“How about Brendon?”

“Brendon’s sort of an odd one out,” Yves says. “I don’t think most of us had met him until he started dating Erika during our senior year. He usually hangs out with a different crowd, so he’s only really around when Erika is.”

Perhaps that’s better, too—more merciful—that when Erika had left him for someone new, it hadn’t been one of the people he knew and deeply trusted. If Brendon had been there too, at all those 5am practices, at all those oddly timed meetings—if Yves had had that much time to look back on, to wonder when Erika’s feelings for Brendon had materialized, to watch her fall for him firsthand, to look back and know that he was losing her…

It’s better, this way, he thinks, that at least he can look back on his time rowing crew as he’d always wanted to—not like the way he feels when he looks at Erika: heartbroken, and a little betrayed.

“I guess I’m in that positiod now,” Vincent says.

“In the sense that you didn’t meet everyone through crew?”

“In the sedse that I’m an outsider.”

Yves considers this. “My friends really like you, though,” he says. “I don’t think they think of you that way.” It’s a short walk to Francesca’s doorstep. Vincent really does seem to be okay, Yves notes—aside from the frequent sniffling, and the sneezes he turns away to direct into his sleeve, he isn’t shivering under his coat, and he doesn’t look more tired than usual.

Despite everything, Yves finds himself feeling cautiously hopeful. Something about Vincent’s presence has that effect on him. Vincent is always so sure of himself, even in situations Yves thinks he can’t possibly be certain will go well.

It makes Yves want to have faith in this too. Yves will see Francesca and his friends from crew, and he won’t have to say anything to Erika and Brendon, his friends will like Vincent very much, and everything will be just fine.

“Wait,” Vincent says, right after Francesca’s let them in through the apartment buzzer. “We should look like we actually like each other.” He holds his hand out, expectant.

“Good point.” Yves takes it. Vincent’s hand is warm, and a little calloused—when Yves tugs his hand a little closer, Vincent’s fingers interlace nicely with his.

“For the record, I do like you,” he adds.

Vincent laughs. “You kdow what I meant.”

—

It’s almost a relief, seeing everyone again. Yves used to feel a little apprehensive about reunions—around the possibility for the people that he’d known and loved to have changed past recognition, to have internalized everything some way but to come back and see that everyone’s moved on in their own ways, grown a little more into themselves—and a little further from him—than he remembers them to be. 

But when he sees Francesca, she still greets him with the same hug — one arm looped around his shoulders, for a firm squeeze. He hands her her gift, and wishes her a happy birthday, and she laughs and says the only good part about getting old is having an excuse to have everyone back in her living room.

“And Vincent’s here too,” Francesca says, turning to Vincent, who—after looking caught off guard for a second—smiles back at her. “I’m so glad you were able to come!”

“It’s good to see you agaid,” Vincent says. “And happy birthday. You look great, by the way.”

“Thank you!” she says, beaming. She’s wearing a cocktail party dress which slips elegantly over her still-bare shoulders. “I needed to pick something out for the occasion. I swear, these days, half my closet is just business formal attire. It’s depressing.”

“If that mbeans that the other half of your closet is filled out with idteresting clothes,” Vincent says, with a quiet sniffle, “you’re doing a lot better than I am.” 

Francesca laughs. “It’s just for my sanity,” she says. “Can’t let the clients dictate everything I wear.”

“It’s ndice that you’re celebrating your birthday, though,” Vincent says. He lifts a hand to rub his slightly-reddening nose with one knuckle. “My coworkers are always sayidg that they’re too old to want to ackdowledge it anymore.”

“It definitely feels that way sometimes,” Francesca says. “But it’s a good excuse to have everyone here, while we still can. Speaking of which—Yves is the worst at planning things for himself, which is ironic, because he’s always the one planning things for everyone else.”

“That is not true,” Yves says.

Francesca gives him a pointed look. “Last year, you were practically banking on having everyone forget your birthday.”

That is an exaggeration. “I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t let that happen, even if I wanted it to,” Yves says.

“You’re damn right.”

“The ndext time you’re planning a birthday for him,” Vincent says, clearing his throat with a quiet cough, “I’ll pitch in.”

Francesca brightens, at this. “Finally another soldier on the right side of the war,” she says. “You can definitely be part of the secret planning council.”

“Thadk god,” Vincent says, playing along. “I was starting to thidk I was going to have to do it all alone.”

“It’s not a secret if I’m right here,” Yves says. Francesca ignores him in favor of having Vincent type his number into her phone.

—

Halfway through the evening, Vincent disappears into the kitchen for a moment. When he comes back, it’s with two drinks in hand—canned cocktails, Yves realizes, judging by the cans. He hands one over to Yves.

“I actually don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink before,” Yves says to him. “Even at happy hours.”

“I don’t drink very often,” Vincent says.

“Does this mean that I get to see you tipsy? I’m sure our coworkers will be jealous.” 

“If you’re expecting my personality to change,” Vincent says, “you will be disappointed.” he says it with such certainty that Yves pays closer attention to him after that. 

Vincent does hold his alcohol well, as it turns out, with the exception of the slight flush to his cheeks a few drinks later—though even then, Yves can’t be entirely sure it can’t be entirely attributed to his cold. He listens intently as Yves talks to Diane—who’s a couple years younger than Yves—about how Crew has been ever since Yves graduated (mostly the same; the new underclassmen are good at showing up to practices on time, but that’s partially because their captain this year is a little intimidating). He gives several of the crew members a candid summary of his relationship with Yves, when asked. He tells Marin how they first met and he tells Kenneth what it’s like keeping their relationship secret at work and he laughs—a little sheepishly—when Sasha says they make a cute couple. If lying so openly is difficult for him, it doesn’t show.

If there’s anything that’s off, it’s subtle. It takes some time for Yves to notice—

The next time Vincent sneezes, his breath hitches with a sharp, desperate, — “hHhiH—!” Then he turns away, craning his neck over his shoulder for an uncovered, “HIiiIKTshH-uh-!”

He blinks in the wake of it, as if a little dazed, before he seems to straighten, lifting a hand to wipe his nose on one knuckle. It’s not stifled, as it usually is, nor is it neatly pinched off into his fingers, which is unexpected.

It’s as if the sneeze has fully caught him off guard—as if all the systems he has in place to sneeze as quietly and as unobtrusively as possible are just slightly impaired by the alcohol. Not that it matters much—Francesca has put some music on, and it sits in the background now, a low thrum, all but the percussive elements muted by the chatter of conversation.

“Bless you,” Yves says, leaning over to grab a cocktail napkin from one of the neighboring tables. He hands it to Vincent, who blows his nose and emerges with a small cough. “How’s the cold?” 

“Fide,” Vincent says, with a sniffle. “Ndo worse than before.”

“Are you just saying that to get me to drop the subject?”

“I’m sayidg it because I actually mean it. It’s a very tolerable cold.”

Yves laughs, and reaches for his drink. He’s about to take a sip when he feels Vincent’s fingers close around his wrist

 It’s only a brief moment of contact, but the warmth it leaves around his wrist stays, even when Vincent lets go.

“Sorry,” Vincent says, a little panicked. He withdraws his hand. “That’s mine.”

“What?”

“The cocktail.”

“Oh.” Yves looks down to the can in his hands. He supposes Vincent might be right—they’ve both had a few drinks, so he’d lost track awhile ago. A lot of the canned cocktails taste roughly the same to him, anyways. “Is it? I can get you another one if you want.”

“No,” Vincent says. “I drank from it.” As if that explains everything. And then—a little quieter, as if he’s embarrassed to say it: “I don’t wadt you to catch this.”

Truthfully, the possibility hadn’t crossed his mind until Vincent mentioned it. It seems a little endearing that Vincent would be worried about it in the first place—Yves has certainly shared food and drinks with friends who were worse off. “I’m not worried about that,” he says. “It’s just a cold. Didn’t you say it was very tolerable?”

“It’s still…” Vincent trails off, averting his glance with a sniffle. “...an annoyance.” 

He looks like he’s about to say more when his expression goes distant, his eyebrows furrowing.

“HHih’IIIzSCH-uhh!”  It sounds so thoroughly unsatisfying, half-shielded by a hand raised a few moments too late. “hh-HIh-! Hh…” He pauses, his eyes watering, his breath still wavering, and—after a few seconds of nothing—sniffles; a forceful, liquid sniffle that practically emanates frustration. “hIiIIh’kSHhhhh! snf-!”

“Bless you!”

Vincent emerges, teary-eyed, still sniffling. “Case in point,” he says. 

—

He doesn’t see Erika when she gets there. It isn’t until she passes him in the living room, halfway in a conversation, that she makes her presence known to him.

“Hi Yves,” she says, and he looks up. Today she’s wearing a pink dress which cuts off at her knees—a strapless dress, save for a pink rose over her left shoulder which blooms into a sleeve. She is every inch as beautiful as she always is.

He smiles at her, cordial, tight-lipped. “You made it,” he says. She looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to say more, and he realizes—with a flash of panic—that he doesn’t know what more to say to her. He hasn’t kept up with her over the past few months. He knows that she’s working as a quantitative analyst, at a company she’d been hired at a couple months after they’d broken up, but he doesn’t know if she likes her work, if she likes her coworkers, if it’s been busy as of late. If she works long hours, if she’s taken up any new projects. “Glad you found time. I assume work’s been keeping you busy,” he says,  

“Are you kidding? It’s Francesca,” Erika says. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

And there it is—that decisiveness. That same resolve that, back then, made everything with her seem so easy. Erika and Francesca have always been close—through college, back when they met during crew, and even after, when all of them had been still settling into their jobs or going off to grad school or moving halfway across the country; when seeing each other no longer meant just a fifteen minute walk across campus. 

“Yeah,” Yves says. “I know.”

They don’t speak, after that. Yves thinks it’s probably for the best—he doesn’t have anything to say to Erika right now. Back then, he could talk to her about anything, even if it was pointless or insignificant or of no real importance, and she’d make the conversation fun. 

These days, he only tells her things on a strict need-to-know basis, and—given that the only times he sees her these days is at events like this—there’s not really all that much to talk about. 

It had been difficult, at first. He’d wanted to share everything with her, still, back when his work schedule had settled enough for him to take long walks downtown, to start to go to concerts and bars again; when he’d redecorated his apartment, when he’d gotten someone to mentor at work, when he’d gotten back into cooking. For some time after the breakup, it still felt instinctual to turn to her, to text her about something interesting that’d happened, to ask her to try out something new that he’d found. 

But he hadn’t. Something about feigning normalcy seemed worse, even then, than accepting that she was really gone.

Perhaps her avoidance of him tonight is merciful. It’s easier, when he’s not thinking about her, to slip into the familiarity of talking to everyone, to enjoy all of it just as himself. 

It’s only when he excuses himself to get another drink that he runs into Brendon.

Yves has always been civil with Brendon. 

Brendon is—well, to say that Brendon isn’t someone he considers a friend is a vast understatement. The less of Brendon Yves sees, the better. Yves avoids him when he can, but he is good at holding up small talk, when it’s necessary, and on most days, Brendon has enough good sense to not start a fight.

Today, it seems, is not one of those days.

“So,” Brendon says. “You’re still dating him.” Something about the way he inflects the word still makes something sour in Yves’s chest.

Yves frowns at him. “Is that supposed to be surprising?”

“I guess I’m surprised,” Brendon says. “I have to say, I wasn’t expecting it to last.”

“Well, I’m happy to have exceeded your expectations,” Yves says. “Though it doesn’t sound like they were very high.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” Brendon says, waving a hand. “It’s just—new relationships can be fairly unreliable. Especially when you’re dating around.”

“Maybe in your experience, that’s the case,” Yves says. “But personally, I tend to date people I can see myself with long term.”

“That’s the thing,” Brendon says. “I’m surprised you can see yourself with him.”

Yves sets the drink he’s holding down and turns to face him properly. “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

Brendon scoffs. “It doesn’t take a genius to see that you two are very different people.”

“So people can only date their clones,” Yves says flatly. He’s already tired of this conversation. “My bad. I must’ve missed that rule somewhere in dating 101.”

“Obviously, I don’t mean it to that extent. You’re blowing it out of proportion. I just mean that you can only be so different from someone before you’re incompatible. ”

“I agree,” Yves says. “And I don’t think we’re incompatible.”

“Are you sure?” Brendon crosses his arms. “This isn’t his scene, is it? Cocktail parties? I mean, he’s practically married to his work. Does he even like parties?”

Vincent doesn’t like parties—Brendon is right about that point. But hadn’t Vincent been the one who’d agreed to come here in the first place? To imply that he’s only here because Yves has dragged him along seems somewhat disingenuous.

Yves says, “If Vincent didn’t want to be here, he wouldn’t be here.”

“Sure, but from what I’ve heard from Erika—” Yves doesn’t like this implication that Brendon and Erika talk about them behind their back, but he supposes it’s to be expected. “—he’s not exactly the type of person you’ve tended to go for in the past.”

That sounds awfully like an accusation.

“What exactly are you getting at, here?”

“I’m saying that it sort of looks like you just picked the most convenient rebound you could find,” Brendon says, quiet. “But usually people are honest with themselves when that’s the case.”

That startles a short, indignant laugh out of Yves. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says.

“Do you really not think that’s the case? Wouldn’t you say you’d usually go for someone more personable?”

“Personable?” Yves repeats. “Personable? Don’t make me laugh. Do you know how many clients I’ve seen Vincent talk down to a pleasant resolution because he’s so good at negotiating? Do you know how many conferences I’ve been in where Vincent is the one people come to after to privately compliment, because he’s so good at knowing how to talk to people?” he thinks to Joel’s housewarming party—to how compellingly Vincent had lied for him, then; to how good he had been at conjuring up a sense of history between them, of warmth. “His ability to answer difficult questions on the spot, with virtually no preparation at all, is something I can’t even begin to comprehend.”

He’s not sure why the accusation from Brendon makes him so upset, only that it does. Only that he wants to do nothing but tell Brendon just how wrong he is. “If you’re trying to imply that I’m settling for him, don’t patronize me,” he says. “Vincent is one of the smartest and most thoughtful people I know. Do you seriously believe I’d be dissatisfied with someone who holds himself to such a high standard?”

“I’m happier than I’ve been in months,” he says, resolute. “Because of him.”

Through the adrenaline, Yves realizes, faintly, that he hasn’t lied about any of it. He certainly could have—after all, Brendon would be none the wiser—but everything he’s said about Vincent is something he really, genuinely believes.

“Ah,” Brendon says, knowingly, as if he has it all figured out. “I got it wrong. This whole time I thought you were the one that felt lukewarm about him. But it’s the other way around, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re so sure he’s the one that you’re willing to overlook all of your obvious differences,” Brendon says. “Have you ever stopped to consider whether he feels the same way?”

“Presumably, he does,” Yves says. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t be in a relationship.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” Brendon says, as if Yves should already know this from past experience, which—if Yves is being really honest—makes him want to punch him.

Instead, he takes in a deep breath, schools his expression into a smile. “Usually, people in relationships aren’t still looking for other options.”

“Yes,” Brendon says. “Unless they’re unhappy.”

“Yves!” 

When Yves turns to look, Vincent is standing in the doorway. How long has he been here? Just how much of the conversation has he overheard?

“Sorry for the wait,” Yves says sheepishly. “I was getting us drinks.” Evidently, he’s been away long enough for Vincent to come check up on him, so he’s already spent unreasonably long getting drinks, and now he doesn’t even have the drinks to show for it. “Or, I guess I got a little sidetracked, but I swear that drinks are on the w—”

Vincent leans in, unprompted, and kisses him. 

Yves’s brain grinds to a complete halt.

It’s only a moment later that Vincent pulls away, but the decisiveness with which he’s carried it out, the broad confidence on his face as he smiles, unwavering, is—

Fuck.

“Oh,” Yves all but stammers. His face is most certainly red right now, and he can’t even blame it on the alcohol. “Um. Did you need anything?”

“No,” Vincent says. There’s something telling to his expression, some sort of quiet acknowledgement. “Just wanted to see what was takidg you so long.”

Suddenly, it makes sense.

Vincent must have heard. Everything Brendon said—or at least, the last part of it; the implication that Vincent isn’t as invested in this relationship as Yves is; the implication that their attraction towards each other is somehow one-sided. Vincent is doing this to cover for him, because he wants to make it excruciatingly obvious that Brendon is wrong.

The fact that he would go to such lengths to make a point makes something settle in Yves’s chest.

“It’s actually good that you showed up,” he says, playing along. “I don’t know what kind of drink you want. I was just going to get you something generic.”

He heads over to the ice box on the other side of the kitchen, and Vincent follows.

They’re far enough that they’re separated from Brendon by the granite island—and, beyond that, the cushioned high stools lined up next to it, but not so far that Brendon can’t still see them. 

So he certainly can see, Yves thinks, this:

Yves leans in, reaching up a hand to cup Vincent’s jaw, and closes the distance between them.

It’s nothing like the kiss at the New Year’s party.

That one had been all nerves—brief, impulsive, all adrenaline. This kiss is much more involved—Yves presses in closer, so close that he can feel the heat radiating from Vincent’s skin, so close that he can smell the faint, not unpleasant smell of laundry detergent on Vincent’s shirt collar. So close that he can feel the breath that Vincent exhales, warm on his cheek; can feel the softness of Vincent’s hair as he shifts. He feels Vincent’s hand settle on his chest, feels his fingers curl inwards to rest on the fabric of his shirt, and—

On the other side of the kitchen, Brendon is watching, and Vincent is here—here, present, in the flesh, looking as put together as always, looking like someone out of a goddamn magazine—so Yves kisses him like he’s used to kissing—greedily, as if he’s been wanting this for ages. It’s been awhile since he’s kissed someone like this. Back then, there was university—the people at parties who he’d met and kissed out of momentary attraction, or out of alcohol-induced courage—though of course back then, neither party had harbored any delusions about how impermanent that connection was, or how little it meant. And then there was Erika, who, for the longest time, he thought was going to be the last person he’d ever kiss like this.

For months after they’d broken up, he hadn’t looked for anything. It felt wrong to subject others—even strangers, to which he had no allegiance—to the messy remnants of his feelings, to attempt to get into something he knew could only be half-hearted, at best, when there was a person in his mind who lingered so sharply.

But Vincent crowds up every corner of his mind, as if to say, pay attention, and Yves finds that for once, he’s not thinking about Erika at all.

When he feels the small hitch in Vincent’s breath, he thinks nothing of it.

Except, then—abruptly, and with barely any warning—Vincent is wrenching away, craning his head over Yves’s shoulder to let out a sudden, uncovered—

“hh-hIIIH’hH-IIKTshHuh!”

Their proximity to each other means he feels the way Vincent’s body jerks forward under his hands, his chest tensing. For a moment after, the rigidness of his posture doesn’t dissipate, tension still strung through the line of his shoulders.

“Bless you,” Yves says, surprised.

Then Vincent curses under his breath, drawing away with a sniffle. “I’mb sorry,” he says, sounding really, honestly panicked—a reaction which Yves finds both disproportionate to the situation and a little endearing. “That was— sorry, I should’ve—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Yves says, with a laugh; “I honestly couldn’t care less.” Impulsively—and maybe to prove just how little it bothers him—he leans back in.

Vincent is less hesitant, this time around, when it seems to register to him that Yves really doesn’t mind. He’s a surprisingly good kisser—Yves probably isn’t the first person he’s kissed, and he probably won’t be the last, but the second Vincent’s mouth works around his, Yves feels himself nearly go weak in the knees.

Fuck. Yves can’t say he expected to spend this evening making out with his very attractive coworker-slash-fake-boyfriend, but at the same time, he isn’t complaining. Yves thinks he could do this for hours, given the chance. He kisses Vincent as if to say, thank you—for the New Year’s party, for going along with this, for lying on my behalf—and Vincent kisses him back as if he wants this just as much.

It registers to him, faintly—as Vincent pulls away with a sharp gasp before he pitches forward, smothering another abrupt, wrenching sneeze into the palm of his hand—that he’s probably dooming himself to Vincent’s cold ten times over. But it occurs to him, too, that if he were really dating Vincent—if, after the party, they’d head back to Vincent’s place together; if they were really close enough to share car rides and food and drinks on the regular, to see each other frequently both in the office and outside of it—he would’ve almost certainly caught this anyways.

Something about the intimacy of it, the false closeness it seems to imply, is a little intoxicating. 

When he finally pulls away, Vincent is breathing a little heavily, his glasses askew, his hair slightly unkempt from where Yves had—mid-kiss—run his fingers through it. Yves looks over his shoulder to see that Brendon has, at some point over the last few minutes, slipped off. Presumably, he’s gotten the point, then.

It’s a relief. Yves is glad to not have to talk with him for any longer than he has to. 

“God,” Yves says, with a laugh. “Where did you learn to kiss like that, anyways?”

Vincent smiles. “I’ve had some practice,” he says, which Yves thinks must be a massive understatement. “Do you think it was convincidg?”

“I don’t know what kinds of standards Brendon has,” Yves says, lowering his voice so that he’s certain no one outside of the kitchen will be able to hear. “But I’d definitely be convinced.”

“He seems strangely idvested in our relationship,” Vincent says.

Yves sighs. “I think he was just trying to make trouble. How much of our conversation did you hear?”

“Just the tail end of it,” Vincent says. “I—”

His gaze goes distant, which is the only warning Yves gets before he’s turning away, steepling his hands over his nose and mouth with a forceful:

“hH-! hhH-hH’iiKTsSHH-uhh! Hh-! Hih… HIIh’IzsSCCHh’hhh!”

“Bless you,” Yves says.

Vincent is quiet for a moment, his expression still hazy, the irritation evident on his features, before he’s ducking away again.

“hIiih’GKTTSHh-uhHh!”

The sneeze is loud enough to scrape against his throat. It leaves him coughing a little, his eyes watering.  

“Bless you,” Yves says, with emphasis. He takes a small stack of napkins off of the kitchen counter and hands it over to Vincent, who eyes it for a moment. There’s a slight flush to his complexion—whether it’s from the alcohol, or from embarrassment, or from slight fever, Yves can’t tell.

“I hope you dod’t regret this in a few days,” Vincent says, carefully extricating one napkin from the stack to blow his nose softly into it. “You—” His breath hitches, sharply, and then he’s pitching forward into the handful of napkins with a muffled, “hiiHh’IZSSCHh-uhh!”

He emerges, sniffling, looking a little apologetic. “You’ll almost certaidly catch this.”

Yves laughs. “It’s fine. I know what I signed up for. Besides, I’m glad you stepped in.” He kneels down, at last, to procure two drinks from the long-neglected icebox. “A cold was a small price to pay for getting out of that conversation.”

He hands Vincent a drink. “Can I have a sip of yours? Now that I’ve doomed myself to it already, I suppose you don’t have to try so hard to keep me from catching it.”

“That’s not very reassuring,” Vincent says, but he lets Yves try some, nonetheless.

Brendon is suspiciously quiet for the rest of the evening. Neither he nor Erika so much as look Yves’s way, which Yves thinks is better than another confrontation. Vincent looks happy—a little tired, a little tipsy, but happy. At some point into the evening he resorts to crossing his arms as a means to keep warm (“Is it too cold in here?” Francesca asks, passing him from where he’s sitting on the couch, to which Vincent shakes his head quickly, his face flushing red. “I’mb just slightly under the weather,” he says. “The temperature’s perfect.” to this, Francesca brings over a quilt from one of the closets and drapes it over his shoulders. “Your friends are very nice,” Vincent says, pinning the quilt in place with one hand, and Yves laughs).

At some point, Francesca brings out a cake (“earl gray with buttercream,” she says, “Erika and I made a smaller one as a test run last week, and it was a little too dense, so we’ll have to see how this one turned out.” which Yves thinks is very impressive—he’s certainly better than average at cooking, but that expertise does not transfer well to baking—truly, he’s not sure he’d be confident in his ability to pipe frosting in a straight line. When he tells Vincent this, Vincent laughs and says, “I’m sure people would forgive you as long as it tasted good,” to which Yves says, “I think you’re underestimating how bad I am at decorating.”) She’s piped small blue flowers around the periphery of it, and leaves that curl around the edges of the cake. Diane says, “this is way too pretty to eat,” and “are you sure you want us to destroy it,” while Kenneth—their year’s Crew captain—helps Francesca with setting up the candles around the periphery of the cake and lighting them one by one.

Francesca laughs when Erika tells a story about a series of errors pertaining to their last grocery store run and tears up when Marin gives a speech about how Francesca is the main reason she stayed in Crew. After that, everyone sings—for a brief moment, the clamor in the living room becomes strictly unified. Then she blows out all the candles in one go, and everyone claps.

All in all, it’s a good evening.

—

It’s really not a surprise when Yves wakes up a few days later with a sore throat.

It’s not a surprise, either, when his nose starts running shortly after, or when—a couple hours later—a harsh, wrenching sneeze catches him off guard at work.

It’s as if that first sneeze has opened the floodgates. After that, he finds himself muffling sneezes into his elbow, scrambling for tissues from the rapidly depleting stash—a travel sized tissue pack that he keeps in his briefcase, just in case. The persistent tickle that settles in his nose seems impossible to appease, no matter how many times he sneezes, or how diligently he tries to ignore it. Worse, the sneezes are forceful enough to leave his throat feeling tender and painful, and violent enough that he finds himself coughing a little after.

Vincent was right. The cold isn’t particularly miserable—aside from the sore throat, he’s a little tired, but he doesn’t feel strictly worse than usual. It is irritating, though, to deal with—and irritating, too, to be at the office as it settles in.

It’s probably not worth taking a sick day for. It’s more an annoyance than a tangible inconvenience. Besides, he has only a couple days left of work before it’s the weekend, when he can catch up on sleep.

He’s scheduled himself for a morning’s worth of back to back meetings—two meetings with clients, one with a coworker he’s been working with to go over her findings, another status update meeting to review the work they’ve all done over the past few weeks.

Yves is prone to losing his voice when he’s ill. It’s one of his most embarrassing tells—it’d certainly garnered more attention than he’d wanted in college whenever he was under the weather—but in a work setting where his participation in meetings is non-negotiable, with every meeting he takes, he can feel his voice get closer and closer to unusable.

His second meeting ends a few minutes early, which is a relief. But when he heads to the break room to make himself a cup of much-needed tea, he finds that the hot water machine is out of order.

Just his luck.

He pours himself a cup of cold water and looks through some of the storage cabinets for tissues, though he has no luck with that, either.

The office is always turned a notch too cool—air conditioned to keep everyone awake in the afternoons—but today, it feels brutally, unnecessarily cold. He really should’ve dressed warmer. Yves heads to the conference room his next meeting is booked in, speaks on the material he’s prepared, and tries his best not to shiver too visibly. His meeting before lunch runs over, too, which is not uncommon, but today it just feels like insult to injury.

All in all, he’s exhausted. He eats a quick lunch in the cafeteria, downs two glasses of water, and goes through an embarrassing number of cafeteria napkins.

“Coming down with something?” Stanley, one of his coworkers, asks him.

Yves smiles at him sheepishly. “I wish it wasd’t so obvious,” he says.

“It’s just the season for it, I think. Vincent was just sick last week.”

“Oh, was he?” Yves says, feigning ignorance. His cold is definitely, most certainly not related to Vincent’s. “I was just goidg to grab a bottle of hand saditizer to keep at my desk,” he says, with a small cough. “I thidk there’s somethidg going around.”

Thankfully, the afternoon is—for the most part—just occupied with work. Still, it’s becoming increasingly more difficult to focus on the financial statements in front of him, the slew of emails he has pulled up.

His nose is running fiercely, the trash can at the foot of his desk is close to overflowing, and the stack of napkins he’d taken from the cafeteria—certainly not an ideal solution, but it’s the best one he can come up with at the moment—is almost entirely gone.

He grabs one off the top of the stack—he’s only able to unfold it partially before he’s jerking forward with a wet, spraying, “hhEHh’iiiZZSCHh’EW!” 

Fuck. The napkins, while infinitely better than nothing, are not as soft as tissues would have been. Given the frequency with which he’s been using them, he’s almost positive that his nose is redder than usual.

The next sneeze nearly catches him off guard. He barely has time to lift the napkin up to his face again before his breath hitches again, sharply.

“Hhehh… HEHh—’IIDDSCHhiew! hEHH’iITSSHh’Yyew!” 

His nose is still running fiercely, and worse, the sneezes are loud enough to scrape against his throat. He thinks his voice is never going to recover if he keeps this up.

From behind him, he hears someone clear their throat.

Yves freezes. His first thought is that he’s probably being disruptive. His second thought is that even if he isn’t, whoever’s behind him must have been waiting to speak to him for some time—he’d just been too caught up with sneezing to realize, which is a little embarrassing.

His third thought is—whoever it is, he wants to face them looking at least marginally presentable. He’s almost certain that right now, he doesn’t.

He blows his nose into the napkins he’s holding, runs a hand through his hair, and pivots around in his office chair with a smile that is admittedly a little forced. “What’s up?”

He expects to see Cara, who he’s been working more with, or perhaps Laurent, who he’s been shadowing. But standing there, looking every inch as formal and as put together as he always does, is Vincent.

For a moment, Vincent just stares at him, as if he’s cataloging Yves’s appearance in silence.

Yves tries not to fidget under his scrutiny. “Did you ndeed anythidg?” 

In lieu of responding, Vincent steps past him to set a box of tissues down at the edge of his desk. 

“I figured you’d want this back,” Vincent says.

It’s the same tissue box he’d handed off to Vincent last week, he realizes, when Vincent was the one who had a use for it. Vincent has taken care to set it down at the same spot where it was initially: at the right edge, next to his monitor.

“Thadk you,” Yves says. “I’ll treasure it.”

“This, too,” Vincent says, setting a mug down in front of him. Whatever’s in there is hot enough to be steaming.

Yves muffles a cough into his hand. “What?”

“Tea,” Vincent says, as if that explains everything. “Chamomile, if it matters. I didn’t know if caffeine would keep you up.”

“Oh.” Yves stares at it. “You got the hot water machide workidg. It was broken this morning. Or maybe I’mb just really bad at using it.”

“Actually, no,” Vincent says. “I got this from the third floor.”

“You walked all the way up here from the third floor?” Yves says, a little surprised.  He’s about to say more, but then—in a progression that he should probably be used to by now—he finds himself succumbing, with little warning, to another sneeze, which he muffles into a perhaps-too-generous handful of tissues. At this rate, he might run out of them, even given Vincent’s generous contribution.

“It was just two flights of stairs,” Vincent says. 

“Still,” Yves says, lowering the tissues from his face so he can take a sip. The thought of Vincent precariously taking the tea up two flights of stairs, careful to not let it spill, just to get it to his desk is so endearing that he finds himself smiling. “Thank you.”

Vincent blinks at him, as if he wasn’t expecting to be thanked. “I don’t think it will keep you from losing your voice,” he says, at last. “But it might help with your sore throat.” 

Yves doesn’t remember mentioning that. “How did you kdow I had a sore throat?”

“How do you think?” Vincent says. “I had the same cold a week ago.”

Even so, the idea that Vincent already probably knows, and knows intimately, how he’s feeling right now, even though Yves hasn’t said anything about it, feels a little incriminating. Yves is under no illusion that his current affliction is subtle, by any means, but at the very least he’d thought that the less visible parts of it—his sore throat, the growing exhaustion, the pressure he feels building at his temples—were things that no one else would have to think about.

“Was it this bad for you?” he says. “I’d feel terrible if I mbade you talk to all my friends if your throat was already— Hh- heHh-! hHEH-heHh’iSSSchh-Iiew!”

It’s a good thing, Yves thinks, hazily, that he’s still holding onto the tissues from earlier. His nose is running again, and the tissues feel traitorously soft as compared to the napkins he’s been using all day.

“No,” Vincent says, frowning. “I think you just wore your voice out at work.”

“That mbight be the case,” Yves says. “I had a lot of meetidgs this morning. Ndow it’s pretty much just heads-down work, thankfully.” He muffles a yawn into one hand. Vincent is probably here for a reason—but Vincent is usually very conscientious about the work he passes onto others, so whatever he needs Yves to do for him, Yves doesn’t expect it should take too long. “Did you ndeed me to look over somethidg?” “I just wanted to see how you were feeling,” Vincent says, which is not the answer Yves expects.

Yves blinks at him. “How did you find out I was sick?”

“I heard from Cara.”

“Ah.” He probably owes Cara an apology—he’s sure that she’d probably prefer to work somewhere quiet, and his cold is certainly making that difficult. “Yeah, she would kdow. I’ve been like this all day—well, sidce this mording, I guess.”

“It came on quickly for me, too,” Vincent says. “Can I get you anything?”

“It’s just a cold,” Yves says with a laugh. “I’ll mbanage.” He means for it to be reassuring, but Vincent just frowns, looking off to the side.

He looks… strangely upset, Yves realizes.

“It’s ndot really all that bad,” Yves insists, backtracking. “And the weekend’s coming up soon. I’ll catch up on sleep when I get the chance.” Now is a really inopportune time to have to cough. He raises an elbow to his face to cough as quietly as he can, though the effort only seems to prolong the coughing fit—it leaves him slightly breathless, blinking away the tears that surface in his vision. “Seriously, don’t worry about it.”

“I’m sorry,” Vincent says, quiet.

“For what?”

“For giving you my cold.”

“I dod’t think you can even take credit for that,” Yves says. “I was the one who kissed you.”

Vincent does smile, at that—a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Even so.”

Yves wants to tell him that he would do it again, if he had the chance to. He wants to tell Vincent how easy it had felt to kiss him, how right.

How it felt to forget about Erika, and Brendon, and all of it—even if just for a moment—to feel so perfectly grounded in someone other than himself. To let himself experience the sort of closeness he’s been scared of seeking out, after the breakup, after Erika, in fear that no one would ever fit quite the same. To lean into the warmth of someone who still, even now, continues to be kind to him for reasons he can’t quite rationalize. 

How long has it been since he’s been able to place his trust into someone, blindly, in the way he trusts Vincent to keep up this act of theirs, to lie on his behalf? Vincent is nothing if not competent, but Yves hadn’t expected that competence to extend to this arrangement of theirs. How long has it been since Yves has been able to lean on someone the way he’s leaned on Vincent, to trust someone to meet him where he is?

“For the record, I dod’t regret it,” Yves says. He finds that he really means it.

[deliciousangelfestival]

The Imperfect Couple - 1 | Bucky

Character: politician!Bucky x ex-wife!reader

Summary: A separated couple must pretend to be happily married while the husband runs for Vice President, dealing with old issues and political pressures during his election campaign.

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 ,Chapter 5 , Chapter 6 , Chapter 7 , Chapter 8 , Chapter 9 , Chapter 10 , Chapter 11 , Chapter 12 , Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

By the way, I publish my book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing on Kindle.

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

You were exhausted. Having just returned from covering another incident, you were familiar with the grueling reality of being a journalist in a foreign country.

Limited access compared to local reporters made the job even more challenging. Despite your fatigue, this was the career you had chosen and loved.

When you arrived at your apartment, you noticed a woman waiting for you. She was shorter and bustier than you, with curly, short red hair. The woman approached you with a confident stride.

“Hello. My name is Natasha,” she introduced herself, handing you a business card.

You glanced at the card, noting her affiliation with the Secret Service.

Is this for real?

“Yes. How may I help you?” You asked, confusion evident in your voice as you fumbled with your keys at the doorknob.

“I’m here to bring you back home,” Natasha replied.

“Why?” you asked, still trying to process why a Secret Service agent would be looking for you.

“Because your husband is looking for you,” Natasha said.

You froze, your mind struggling to make sense of what you had just heard. Turning slowly, you looked at Natasha, your face betraying a hint of incredulous amusement. “I’m sorry? You must be mistaken. I’ve been divorced for years.”

“Yes, I know the story,” Natasha said, her tone steady.

“Goodbye then,” you said quickly, attempting to close the door. The mention of your ex-husband was something you had left behind, and you wanted nothing to do with it.

“The divorce was never finalized,” Natasha said firmly.

“What?” you exclaimed, your eyes widening in disbelief. You had signed the documents, or so you thought. You swung the door open wide and saw two more men standing beside Natasha, their presence making it clear you were outnumbered—three to one.

“Seems like you’ve come to understand the situation,” Natasha said. “I’ll explain everything, but for now, you need to follow me.”

What she meant by following her quickly became apparent as the men gently but firmly guided you toward a car.

Inside, you hoped Natasha would provide answers, but she continued making calls, leaving you in a state of growing frustration.

Upon arriving at the airport, you realized it was not a regular one but a private jet facility.

“Let’s go,” Natasha said, gesturing toward the plane’s stairs.

As you climbed aboard, you noticed Natasha following closely behind. An air steward offered you a tray with a cup of jasmine tea. You took a sip, the delicate aroma providing a brief moment of comfort.

“Let me guess, this is his plane?” you asked, your tone tinged with suspicion.

“Yes,” Natasha nodded.

As the plane took off, the tension in the cabin was palpable.

“You still haven’t said a word,” you remarked, trying to break the silence.

“Because of the timing and for precautions,” Natasha said, her expression serious. “You won’t like what I’m going to say.”

“Tell me something I don’t hate more. You know how much I despise my ex-husband and his family,” you snapped, the bitterness clear in your voice. The memories of their interference and disdain for your background still stung deeply.

“Your husband is going to be the candidate for Vice President,” Natasha said, her voice steady despite the gravity of the news.

“...What?” you replied, your voice barely a whisper as you processed the information.

Natasha didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she pulled out a tablet and handed it to you. On the screen, you saw a video of your ex-husband. He stood proudly in a suit, smiling and raising his arms as the crowd erupted in cheers.

The title beneath the video read, “James Barnes: The Youngest Candidate for Vice President.”

You gasped, your disbelief palpable. “This is a joke.”

“Hundreds of supporters don’t think it’s a joke, ma’am,” Natasha replied, her tone matter-of-fact.

“And the reason I’m here is because he needs you,” she continued.

You clenched your fists in anger. The reason for your resentment was clear: his ambition and his family’s obsessive involvement in politics. Their relentless meddling had been one of the key reasons for your separation.

“Turn this plane around,” you demanded, your voice strained. You didn’t understand why, but exhaustion was overtaking you, and your eyes felt heavy.

Natasha glanced at her watch, a hint of sympathy in her gaze. “You must be feeling sleepy.”

You widened your eyes and looked at the tea cup, realizing its effects. You shot Natasha a glare, frustration mixing with fatigue.

“I’m just doing my job, ma’am,” Natasha said, accepting a blanket from the air stewardess.

You wanted to protest, but the energy drained from you. As your vision dimmed, you felt a wave of drowsiness. You closed your eyes and succumbed to sleep.

Natasha watched you as you fell asleep, then carefully draped the blanket over you. She turned to her colleagues with a resolute expression. “Tell him to pick up his wife.”

✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️

You slowly regained consciousness, your head feeling heavy and foggy. As you blinked open your eyes, the reality of your surroundings became clear: you were still on the airplane, but it had stopped moving. The plane had arrived, and you were still groggy from the drugs.

“Welcome home,” a familiar voice said.

You widened your eyes, trying to focus on the figure before you. There, standing with a knowing smile, was your ex-husband, Bucky.

His smile seemed almost out of place given the situation, and you found it impossible to return it. You struggled to sit up, your limbs feeling leaden.

“Of course,” you said, your voice thick with sarcasm. “The last thing I needed was to wake up and see your smug face.”

Bucky’s expression remained impassive. “Careful now. You wouldn’t want to offend the future Vice President.”

“Future Vice President, huh?” you shot back, your irritation flaring. “Is that why you dragged me back here? You need a trophy wife to complete your perfect image?”

“You’re not just a trophy wife,” Bucky said, his tone dripping with condescension. “You’re a crucial part of my public image. A divorce would be a PR disaster.”

“Is that right?” you snapped. “You’re using me as a prop, aren’t you? You couldn’t just leave me alone. Some of us have lives outside your political games.”

“You think this is bad?” Bucky said, frustration seeping into his voice. “Imagine what would happen if the public found out about our separation. It’s all about maintaining appearances.”

“You’re still the same,” you said, your anger flaring.

Bucky’s expression hardened. “Let’s be honest here. You wouldn’t have left if you didn’t think I was using you. But if you think this is a game, you’re wrong. I need you to play along until the election.”

“And if I refuse?” you challenged.

“One year,” Bucky said, his gaze steady. “Until the election is over. Then I’ll give you anything you want. Just play the part of a happy wife until then.”

You knew why he needed you. His political career depended on maintaining a perfect public image. Only a few people were aware of your separation, so you had to pretend to be a happy married couple to avoid public scrutiny.

As you struggled to stand, Bucky stepped forward to help you. His touch was steady but impersonal. Both of you exited the jet, greeted by a throng of press and cameras. The narrative they were fed was clear: the Vice Presidential candidate picking up his sick wife.

With the press closing in, you turned to Bucky and said, “I see you’ve thought this through. Dragging me back here like a prized possession. What’s next? A public appearance where we hold hands and share a tearful reunion?”

Bucky met your gaze with a calm but resolute expression. “It’s not just about appearances. The election is critical, and I need stability. Having you here will help maintain that.”

“You’re the only one I could turn to. I need you,” he said.

The words “I need you” echoed with the same urgency he once used, the very words that had drawn you to him. But now, they felt hollow.

Bucky’s expression remained unchanged. He had no apologies to offer, and the facade of your ‘happy marriage’ had to remain intact.

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[pitchsidestories]

taste II Ingrid Engen x Mapi León x Reader

masterlist I word count: 1018

a/n: dear readers, this short, a little silly but cute oneshot was inspired by this request here, happy reading. 🫶🏻 🐈‍⬛

Autumn has finally arrived in Barcelona. Leaves painted in red, orange and yellow started to fall from the trees for one last dance. Baghera was entranced by what nature did and watched everything from her favourite spot in the living room close to the window.

Every year you both were falling in love with that season of the year, as it might be an ending to a summer you fully lived, but also the beginning of something fresh and new.

The champion’s league was about to start and games under the lights were always something special, alone the thought of it filled you with giddy excitement.

“Girls, I invited Esmee for dinner. That’s alright, right?”, you asked your girlfriends who were already in the kitchen.

“Yes, of course, kjaerste.”, Ingrid nodded friendly, standing in front of the stove. While Mapi was launching around in one of the chairs in a sitting position which screamed gay, and parents would judge because of bad posture.

“She was so sad that her parents left again. I thought she could use the distraction.”, you continued. The sad face of the young player was still fresh in your memory.

As a foreign player yourself you knew that being separated from your family for such long periods of time was hard especially when the nights got colder and the daylight shorter.

When you first came to Barcelona at Esmee’s age you were glad that Mapi and Ingrid welcomed you into their home with open arms, the appartement you began to share with them turning into a home away from home soon.

“That’s very sweet of you.”, the Norwegian commented, her forehead covered in frowning lines, looking concentrated at the recipe ahead of her.

“What’s for dinner?”, Mapi questioned smirking.

“I’ve something delicious planned.”, Ingrid announced delighted.

The Spaniard and you took a curious glance at the cookbook before exclaiming, faces formed to disgusted grimaces. “Pumpkin soup?!”

“Why do I have two children, one who has no patience and the other has the taste bud of a toddler?”, the dark-haired women groaned in response.

“Excuse me?”, you replied, pretending to be offended.

“I said what I said.”, Ingrid declared who tried her best to suppress a smile.

“Can’t you make some chicken nuggies?”, you asked your girlfriend, giving her puppy-eyes which you hoped would warm her Scandinavian heart. Often this worked out perfectly fine.

“Please, please, please.”, Mapi supported your suggestion loudly.

“Girls, seriously?”, Ingrid sighed, the defender and you knew from her sigh alone that you both had won in the question of what’s going to be for dinner.

A knocking on the door interrupted the discussion. You opened the door for Esmee and led her into the kitchen.

“Hi everyone. Ingrid, what are you cooking? Can I help you?”, the young player asked politely, peeking over the shoulder of the tall Norwegian.

“I’m making pum-…“, she started, one last attempt to get someone on her side.

“We’re having chickie nuggies!”, Mapi and you announced simultaneously.

Finally, Ingrid gave in: “Yes, we’re having chicken nuggets…“

“Thanks, love.“, you thanked her, beaming.

A small smile appeared on her face as she nudged your side: “You’re lucky I love you two so much.“

“We love you too, amor.“, Mapi replied, kissing Ingrids right cheek while you got on your tiptoes to kiss her left.

Esmee cleared her throat, making sure you hadn’t forgotten that you had a visitor.

Blushing, Ingrid pushed the two of you away and got to work.

You grinned at Esmee: “Hope you like nuggets, Esmee.“

She nodded happily, looking a bit relieved that it wasn’t pumpkin soup: “I do.“

“Then sit down while Ingrid shows us her cooking skills.“, you joked.

Ingrid rolled her eyes next to you. Of the three of you, she was definitely the best cook so making chicken nuggets was beneath her actual cooking skills.

Still, she managed to present you with a batch of perfectly crispy nuggets, a homemade dipping sauce and a bowl of fresh salad. You were all athletes after all.

“This is…“; Esmee said between two mouthfuls of salad.

“Delicious as always.“, Mapi completed the sentence for her, gleefully biting into a nugget.

Ingrid smiled across the table, seemingly happy that you all enjoyed her food: “Thank you, girls.“

“You’re the best cook.“, you agreed with the others.

“I’ll try the pumpkin soup another time though.“, the Norwegian warned you jokingly.

“I promise we’ll try it then.“, you assured her. It was only fair that she would get her pumpkin soup.

“Appreciate it.“

The food was quickly gone, leaving the table cluttered with empty dishes.

Mapi leaned back in her chair with a yawn: “Now time for a nap.“

“Thanks for the dinner, girls.“, Esmee said after she made sure that Ingrid didn’t want any help washing dishes.

“No worries, you’re always welcome here.“, you assured the young player and pulled her into a quick hug before she left.

You smiled to yourself as you closed the door behind her, you loved providing a safe space for the young players, making sure they had everything they needed even if it was just dinner.

“Y/n, Ingrid, hurry up!”, you heard Mapi call from the living room.

Ingrid left the kitchen, rolling her eyes: “That kid has no patience.“

“You still love it.“, you laughed as the two of you entered the living room where Mapi laid sprawled out on the sofa.

“Come into my arms, my loves.“, she laughed, making space for both of you on each side.

You didn’t even think twice as you launched yourself onto the sofa: “Coming!”

“All here.“, Ingrid smiled as she took the other side of the sofa.

Mapi sighed with content, wrapping one arm around each of you: “That’s how I like it.“

“Sandwiched on the sofa? We know.“, you teased her.

Ingrid chuckled lightly, reaching over Mapi and intertwined her fingers with yours: “Me too. With my two favourite children.“

With her eyes already closed, Mapi mumbled something unintelligible, already snoozing.

You cuddled closer into her side.

There was nothing better to do on your free day.

[loulou-land]

8x10 coda

bucktommy fix-it (sort of), emotional hurt/comfort, hopeful ending | cw: angst, dissociation, mild descriptions of a panic attack | 1.5k words

(Buck’s face at the end of that episode got me in the feels and I had to get these words out of me. Thank you @fuselsstuff for making me feel better about my writing and my endings 😘❤️)

As Buck watches Eddie drive away, something inside him crumbles, another piece lost to the wreckage that has come to be his life. He stands frozen in front of what used to be Eddie’s house—his house now, technically—but the words don't sit right. 

His house.

They feel foreign, misplaced. Like a title handed to someone else by mistake. He knows he chose it, knows the reason why he did it, yet what seemed like a good idea at first now feels like a crushing weight around his shoulders. 

He doesn’t know how long he stands there. Staring at nothing. His head filled with static noise. All feeling draining out of him, until emptiness is all that surrounds him. Distantly he’s aware of his clothes progressively getting soaked as the gentle drizzle grows into a steady downpour. But he can’t seem to make himself move, staying rooted to the spot. 

Eventually, however, the cold seeps so deep into his bones that it forces him into movement. Buck turns, steps inside and shuts the door behind him. And is promptly at a loss. He feels like he took a wrong turn somewhere and forgot where home was. It’s a disconcerting feeling. 

Buck makes his way to the bathroom, peels his wet clothes off and steps into the shower, turning the heat up as high as it’ll go. It skalds his skin, but even then, he’s still cold. It’s like it’s burrowed deep inside and refuses to let go. He pulls on a hoodie, refusing to think about whose it is and why he picked that particular one. 

By the time he stumbles into bed, his limbs feel heavy, weighted down by something vast and shapeless. His mind is scarily blank. Whatever thoughts flicker into his mind are gone too fast to take hold of. Maddie almost died. Eddie’s gone. And, why won’t they listen to me? Why can’t they see I’m drowning? Everyone has something, someone. And what do I have? What am I left with? 

Nothing. It’s always nothing.

I am nothing. 

For once, the thought doesn’t hurt. It barely registers at all. It’s just a fact—objective and empty. He notes the detachment like he’s reading about someone else’s life. It should scare him, but he doesn’t feel much of anything right now. I don’t like this, Buck thinks distantly, I don’t like this at all. 

He sees his hands move as though from far away, outside his body. His fingers close around his phone. It takes a few seconds for his eyes to focus, to process the screen in front of him. He scrolls through his contacts, searching for Dr. Copeland. That’s who he meant to call. That was the hazy plan he’d formed in his head. 

But somehow, Tommy’s name is the one he presses. 

The phone rings. One. Two. Three times. 

The sound should make his heart pound with anxiety. Instead, he finds himself being soothed by the repetitive sound. His mind latches onto the rhythm, following it like a thread in the dark. The longer it rings, he starts to fill each pause with a thought. Of course. He won’t pick up. You don’t matter to anyone. He didn’t want you. 

And then—

“Evan?” 

A pause, a quiet breath. Then softer, “you okay?” 

It shatters something in Buck. The numbness that had settled in him disappears. The concern, the familiarity, the way Tommy has never been anything but honest with him—hearing it now, when everything else has started unraveling In him, it’s too much. 

His breath is knocked out of his chest. His throat closes up. He feels a tingling in his hands as his heart rate picks up. He wants to speak, to explain, to say something, but all that makes it out is a choked, heart-wrenching sob that feels like it’s been ripped right out of him. 

“Sweetheart,” Tommy says, instantly alert. “Evan. Talk to me. What’s wrong? Where are you?” 

Buck tries to breathe, tries to push the words out, but they’re trapped behind his lips. He can’t speak and that drags him deeper into desperation. He clutches his shirt, as though if he grips it tightly enough, he’ll be able to keep himself together and he’ll remember how to use his words again.

His whole body shakes with the force of it, and it’s humiliating, it’s embarrassing, it’s—

“Okay, okay. I’m on my way,” Tommy says, voice steady but urgent beneath it. Buck hears the sound of an engine turning on, the rush of movement on the other end. “Just breathe for me, baby.” 

“Eddie’s,” Buck finally manages to croak out. 

“What?” Tommy asks, slightly distracted. Buck hears car horns and the shift of gears. 

“I’m at Eddie’s.” 

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” The words come quick, sure, no hesitation. 

And Buck appreciates that Tommy doesn’t ask any more questions. He just keeps talking, filling the silence with warmth. You’re okay. I’m here. Breathe for me, sweetheart. Just like that. You’re doing good. You’re so good. Just hold on, I’m almost there.  

Buck clings to every word like a lifeline, tucks them inside himself. He tries to believe them. After all, Tommy doesn’t lie to him. 

His sobbing has slowed, but now something worse is creeping in—the weight of reality pressing back down. He called Tommy. He’s on the phone with him right now. He’s crying like a fucking baby. 

“I’m sorry.” Buck rasps, voice raw. “I—I shouldn’t have called you. Shit. I’m sorry.” 

“Evan.” Tommy says his name like it’s a prayer, like it’s something precious. Like it means more than Buck ever let himself believe. Like it means love. 

Buck inhales sharply, stomach twisting in knots. He’d missed that. God, he’d missed hearing his name spilling from Tommy’s mouth. 

Tommy’s voice softens. “You don’t have to apologize for anything. It’s okay. Whatever it is…I’m here for you.” 

He can’t accept that. “No—no, I…you were probably busy.” Buck’s voice cracks. “I didn’t mean to pull you away from anything important.” 

“I wasn’t doing anything,” Tommy says, simple and reassuring. Then, quieter, “And, even if I was…I’d still come.” 

Buck should feel comforted. Instead, it makes something ugly rise in his chest. A sick, gnawing pit of self-hatred. Sharp and precise. 

Why does he always do this? Always need too much? He feels everything so loudly, and then drags people into the mess of him, makes them carry it when they shouldn’t have to. 

He lets out a dry, broken laugh. “There I go again,” he mutters, bitter. “Bucking it up. Making it all about me.”

Tommy exhales roughly through the line. And then, firm but gentle, “Evan. I don’t know what’s going on, but it's okay to feel things. And you’re more than allowed to be upset and want to talk about it. It’s okay to need people.”  

Buck closes his eyes. His whole body hurts. He wants to argue. He wants to tell Tommy he’s wrong. That everyone else thinks he’s too much. That Buck’s needs  are a burden. 

But before he can—

“I’m here. Can you open the door for me, sweetheart? 

Buck manages to drag himself out of bed and down the hall. His breath hitches once he reaches the front door, hands trembling slightly, his mind still caught between panic and exhaustion. 

He opens the door. 

And there’s Tommy. 

Standing on the other side, rain-damp and breathless. There’s concern written into every tense line of his body. His shoulders are squared, his jaw set, like he’s ready to take on every single one of Buck’s battles without hesitation. 

Buck swallows hard. “Tommy.” 

So much weight in a name, in a single word. 

Tommy doesn’t say anything. He just opens his arms. 

And Buck simply falls into them. No second-guessing or uncertainty. He clings to Tommy like he’s a safe haven, fists gripping at the fabric of his hoodie, pressing in close until there’s no space left between them. And still, Buck wishes he could crawl inside Tommy, just to be even closer. His mind quiets, the storm inside him calms into a single thought, repeated over and over again. 

Tommy. Tommy. Tommy. 

He breaths him in, the familiar scent anchoring him. Slowly, he matches his breathing to Tommy’s. And, in that moment Buck is entirely convinced their hearts are beating in sync. As one. 

Tommy holds him just as tightly, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other cradled protectively against his spine. He starts to run soothing circles up and down Buck’s back, murmuring lowly in his ear. 

“Shh, I got you. I’m here.” 

Then, gently, hesitantly, Tommy presses a kiss to the side of Buck’s head. Soft. Careful. Like he’s afraid he’s not allowed to touch Buck like that, but still feels compelled to, needs to do it. 

Buck lets out a shaky sigh, melting further into his arms. 

He knows eventually they’ll have to talk. About the break up, about them. About what had set Buck off.

He’ll have to untangle the mess inside him, sort through everything he’s buried deep. There will be therapy. There will be hard conversations. 

But not right now. 

Right now, he lets himself believe Tommy—that he’s here, that he means it—and decides to go from there. 

“Can I come in?” 

“Will you stay?” 

They speak at the same time. 

And then—

Yes. 

For the first time that day, Buck feels a genuine smile break across his face. 

It won’t be easy.

But he thinks that maybe—just maybe— things will be okay. 

[ducktoo]

Frayed Threads

LE SSERAFIM’s Sakura x Reader

Note: Thanks again @hyeyulenjoyer for the request again. At this point we're just doing for every single IZ*ONE members lol

You noticed the changes immediately—little things that wouldn’t have registered if they weren’t so unlike her. Sakura was always someone who kept you grounded. A quick text here, a photo of something random there, or even just a string of emojis when she didn’t have much to say. But for the past week?

Silence.

It started innocently enough. She cancelled your usual Friday dinner plans. "Sorry, something came up. Next week, promise!" she texted, followed by a heart emoji. It seemed fine at first, but then the pattern began.

Your goodnight texts were left on read. Calls went unanswered. Even her Instagram stories—usually filled with behind-the-scenes glimpses of her day—had gone dry. When she finally posted something, it was just a vague snapshot of her shoes and a caption that read, "Busy days ahead!"

Busy with what?

Then there were the whispered conversations when you swung by her dorm unannounced. Once, you overheard Chaewon muttering something like, "Does she think this will actually work?" before abruptly cutting herself off when you entered. Another time, Yunjin practically shoved you out the door after telling you Sakura wasn’t home, but her tone carried an undercurrent of don’t ask any more questions.

Even the LE SSERAFIM group chat felt weird. The jokes were fewer, and any time you brought up Sakura, the others changed the subject like they were guarding a state secret.

Your brain went into overdrive. Maybe she’s working on a new project and can’t talk about it yet? you reasoned, trying to calm yourself. But then the darker thoughts crept in, the ones you couldn’t suppress.

What if she’s seeing someone else?

It sounded absurd, but you couldn’t shake it. You thought about the way she’d been so distant lately, almost as if she didn’t want to see you. And wasn’t it just last week that Kazuha had mentioned Sakura getting a bunch of late-night calls? She’d laughed it off at the time, but what if it wasn’t so innocent?

And then there was the ultimate gut punch: the bracelet.

You found it sitting on her dresser during your last visit. It was simple, with a charm you didn’t recognize—something floral, maybe? She’d never worn it before, and when you asked about it, she got weirdly flustered. "Oh, it’s nothing. Just a gift," she’d mumbled, quickly tucking it out of sight.

A gift from who?

-

Fast-forward to Thursday, and you were restless.

You were sitting in your apartment, phone in hand, staring at the last text you sent her—read but unanswered. It’d been days since Sakura had gone radio silent. Sure, you had caught the occasional glimpse of her at a shoot or through a mutual friend's Instagram story, but even then, she seemed distant.

Now, your mind had gone full cinema mode. Was she okay? Did you do something wrong? Or was she… seeing someone else? You shook your head, willing yourself to stop spiralling.

But really, could you blame yourself? Sakura wasn’t just your girlfriend; she was the type of person who kept you on the ground, made everyone want to be around her with her calm demeanour. The idea of her dodging your calls for any reason was enough to stir up your anxiety like a blender stuck on high.

With an exasperated sigh, you threw on your hoodie, deciding that sitting around wasn’t going to help. You needed answers—or at least a distraction.

-

You found yourself at the LE SSERAFIM dorm, a place you usually walked into without hesitation. Today, though, you hesitated. The thought of knocking felt foreign, like you were suddenly on the outside of something you used to be at the centre of.

Before you could back out, the door swung open, and Chaewon appeared, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "Oh, hey," she said, stepping aside to let you in.

"Is…Kkura around?" you asked, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.

Chaewon tilted her head, studying you like a puzzle she couldn’t quite solve. "Uh… not right now. She said she’d be back soon."

Of course, she wasn’t here, as usual. That would’ve been too easy.

"Anything you wanna tell me?" you pressed, hoping Chaewon might spill some tea.

She shrugged, a hint of mischief in her eyes. "Not really. But if you're here to interrogate me, maybe try Eunchae next time. She cracks under pressure."

Her playful tone didn’t exactly ease your mind, but you nodded, muttering a quick thanks before leaving.

-

Hours later, you were at home again, pacing like a detective in a noir film. Then your phone buzzed, and you dove for it like it was a lifeline.

Sakura:

Can we meet? I’ll come to you.

Your heart leapt at the sight of her name, but the message didn’t ease your worries. If anything, it made them worse. The formality of it, the lack of her usual emojis or teasing tone—it all felt off.

-

When she arrived, you almost didn’t recognize her. She was bundled up in an oversized hoodie, her hair tucked into a beanie. She looked exhausted, like she hadn’t slept in days. And she was holding something behind her back, the aforementioned charm wrapped around her small wrist.

A tote bag, from what you can formed.

"Hey," she said softly, stepping inside. Her voice cracked, and the sound of it only made your chest tighten.

You stepped aside to let her in, closing the door behind her. She didn’t move far, standing awkwardly by the entrance as if she wasn’t sure she was welcome.

“Kkura, what’s going on?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady despite the storm brewing inside you.

“I… I owe you an explanation,” she began, finally looking at you. Her gaze was uncertain, her hands twitching at her sides, gripping her tote bag like lingering the last thread. She wanted to do something but didn’t know what.

Your patience snapped. “Yeah, you do. You’ve been avoiding me for days, dodging my calls, barely even texting me back. What am I supposed to think?! That everything’s fine?!”

Her eyes widened at your tone, but you couldn’t stop.

“Are you…seeing someone else?” The words tumbled out before you could catch them, raw and accusatory. "Did he give you that charm on your wrist?"

“What?” Her voice broke through your spiral, sharp and disbelieving. She became conscious of her own wrist. "Why did you think that?"

“I mean, what else am I supposed to think?” you continued, the words coming out harsher than you intended. “You’ve been distant, secretive, and—”

“I’ve been making this for you!” she blurted, cutting you off as she yanked something out of her tote bag and thrust it into your hands.

You looked down, blinking at the object in confusion. It was a scarf—lopsided, slightly uneven, and clearly handmade. The stitches were all over the place, some too tight, others too loose, with bits of yarn fraying at the edges.

“I wanted to surprise you,” she said, her voice trembling. “I thought it would be cute, and I thought I could actually pull it off. But it took way longer than I expected, and I kept messing up, and…” She paused, taking a shaky breath. “And then I got scared that it wouldn’t be good enough. That I wouldn’t be good enough.”

You stared at the scarf, your brain struggling to catch up. "What…about the charm?"

"ahh…" Sakura glanced down to her wrist. "the IZ*ONE members gave it to me…sorry…should've clarify it…"

"Ahhh…" You heaved a relieving sigh.

“So… this is what you’ve been doing?” you asked, your voice softer now, almost disbelieving.

“Yes!” She ran a hand through her hair, exasperated. “I know it’s stupid. I know I should’ve just told you. But I wanted it to be a surprise. And instead, I made you think…”

She trailed off, biting her lip, and suddenly, all your anger drained away, leaving only guilt in its wake.

“Kkura…” You stepped closer, the scarf still in your hands. “You thought you weren’t good enough? For me?”

Her silence spoke volumes, and the vulnerability in her eyes hit you like a punch to the gut.

Wordlessly, you wrapped the scarf around your neck. It was itchy and uneven, and easily the most imperfect thing you’d ever owned.

“It’s…a bit lopsided…” you said firmly. "But I like it. A lot."

She blinked at you, her eyes glistening. “You don’t have to—”

“I mean it,” you interrupted, pulling her into a hug. She stiffened for a moment before melting into your arms. “But next time you want to surprise me, can you…maybe…not stress yourself out so much that I think you’re cheating on me?”

She laughed against your chest, the sound muffled but full of relief. “Deal.”

As the tension between you finally dissolved, you tightened your hold on her, vowing to never let your own fears cloud your trust again.

You pulled away slightly, still holding her close, and looked down at the scarf wrapped around your neck. It was… well, it was something. The uneven stitches gave it character, and the mismatched colours—soft lavender fading into a slightly-too-bright yellow—felt endearing in a way you couldn’t quite explain. But it also raised some questions.

"You know…" you began, your tone light but teasing, "if this is the final version… what do the others look like?"

Sakura froze, her eyes widening. “What others?”

You arched a brow. “You said you kept messing up, right? I’m assuming there are… prototypes?”

Her face flushed instantly, the tips of her ears turning pink. “I—uh—they’re nothing! Just some failed attempts. Totally not worth seeing!” She tried to wave it off, but her nervous laugh betrayed her.

“Ehhhh, come on,” you said, a smirk tugging at your lips. “You’ve been dodging me all week because of this. The least you can do is let me see the discarded ones.”

“No way!” She shook her head vehemently, her hands coming up as if to block you from even thinking about it. “They’re terrible. Like, embarrassing terrible. You’d never look at me the same again.”

“Too bad, now I have to see them,” you teased, already stepping toward her tote bag, which she had carelessly dropped by the door.

“Wait—no—don’t!” She lunged for it, but you were faster, snatching the tote bag up and holding it out of her reach.

“Relax,” you said with a laugh as she grabbed at your arms. “I’m not going to judge you. I just want to see how much effort you put into this.”

“No, you really don’t,” she insisted, but her protests grew weaker as you peeked inside.

The first thing you pulled out was a tangled mess of yarn that vaguely resembled… a fish? Or maybe a lopsided bowtie? It was hard to tell. You held it up, squinting at it.

“This is… interesting,” you said diplomatically, biting back a grin.

“That was supposed to be a beanie,” she muttered, covering her face with her hands.

You couldn’t hold back your laughter this time. “This beanie? For who, Manchae?”

“That kid is wayy too big for that!” she groaned, her voice muffled by her hands. “Plus, it was my first attempt! I didn’t know what I was doing!”

Grinning, you dug deeper into the bag and pulled out another piece—a square of fabric with one corner wildly unravelling. It had a heart stitched into it, but the shape was warped, almost like it had melted.

“This one’s cute,” you said honestly, running your fingers over the uneven stitches.

“It was supposed to be a patch,” she mumbled, still hiding her face. “But I couldn’t get the heart right, so I gave up.”

You reached out, gently tugging her hands away from her face. “Aww, don’t hide. These are really good.”

Her eyes narrowed skeptically. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“I’m serious,” you said, holding up the patch. “Do you know how much effort it takes to make something by hand? You could’ve just bought me a scarf, but you didn’t. You decided to spend all this time and energy trying to make one yourself, even when it wasn’t perfect. That means a lot.”

Her expression softened, a small, shy smile creeping onto her lips. “You really mean that?”

“Of course,” you said, reaching up to flick her beanie playfully. “Even if Manchae's beanie looks like a deflated jellyfish.”

“Yah!” she exclaimed, shoving you lightly, but she was laughing now, the tension from earlier completely gone.

You put the patch and scarf down carefully, then pulled her back into a warm and tight hug. “Seriously, though. Thank you, Kkura-chan. This means everything to me.”

She leaned into you, her arms wrapping around your waist. “You’re welcome. But next time, remind me not to take up a hobby I’m terrible at just to impress you.”

"It's YOUR hobby you took, Ms. Miyawaki." You chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Plus, I kind of like seeing you flustered.”

Her groan of protest only made you laugh harder, and for the first time all week, everything felt exactly as it should.

-

Later that evening, as you and Sakura lounged on the couch, content and wrapped in the coziness of each other’s company, her phone buzzed violently on the coffee table. She reached for it lazily, glancing at the screen before answering on speaker.

“Hello?” she said, her tone casual. "You're on speaker by the way.."

“Sakura-unnie! For the last F*CKING time, come and get your crochet disasters out of the living room!” Yunjin’s voice practically boomed through the phone, making you stifle a laugh.

Sakura shot you a glare before responding. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the mountain of yarn vomit you’ve left behind, unnie!” Chaewon’s voice chimed in, equally exasperated. “There’s half a sock on the coffee table, something that might be a disfigured teddy bear on the floor, and don’t even get me started on the abomination hanging off the dining chair.”

“That was supposed to be a pouch!” Sakura defended herself, sitting up straighter.

“Well, it’s not a pouch, unnie,” Kazuha’s calm voice joined the chaos. “It looks like a... blob. A very colourful blob.”

“It’s art,” Sakura said firmly, though the red creeping up her cheeks betrayed her embarrassment.

“It’s garbage!” Yunjin shouted. “If we find one more piece of half-finished yarns lying around, we’re burning it. You have until tomorrow to get this stuff, or we’re holding a bonfire in your honour!”

The line went dead, leaving the room in silence for a moment before you burst out laughing.

“Wow…” you said, wiping a tear from your eye. “You really went all out for me, huh?”

"Shush…" Sakura groaned, burying her face in her hands. “They’re being so dramatic.”

“You did leave all your failed attempts lying around for them to find,” you teased, nudging her shoulder.

She peeked at you through her fingers, a sheepish smile tugging at her lips. “Okay, maybe I got a little carried away…”

“Just a little?” you quipped, grinning.

She groaned again but couldn’t hide her laugh. “Fine, I’ll clean it up tomorrow. But you’re coming with me to help.”

“Yes, ma'am.” you said, pulling her into your arms. “And for what it’s worth, I'll take it all home tomorrow.”

“Even the blob?” she asked, her voice muffled against your chest.

“Maybe no-,” you closed your mouth as her glare was lasering through your skull. "…Ok even the blob."

She sighed dramatically, but you could feel her smile against your shirt. “I’m never crocheting again.”

And with that, the two of you settled back into the couch, the laughter and mess of the day fading into the warmth of each other’s company.

[newtthetranswriter]

Hi there! Just read your Giulio Gandini x reader and I have to say it's just amazing! I've been inspired to send in a request, if that's okay.

Personally I love flustered men so... perhaps could you write, pretty please, something about him with a reader who's under his care (kind of like Anna was) that likes calling him sweet petnames and compliments him often? (you can use gender neutral terms, I don't mind, let it be for everyone to identify with hehe) One day they compliment his voice, the next is his eye, the next is his strength. And they call him not just Giulio, but also honey, or lovely, handsome, etc?

Sorry it's such a long request, I hope you make the idea come to life with your lovely writing!

Word Count: 3810

Paring: Giulio Gandini x Gn! Reader

Warnings: Mentions of reader being sick, Slight MHA Manga spoilers, MHA You’re Next spoilers, possibly Ooc Giulio

A/n: Hi, Thank you so much for requesting. I’m glad you enjoyed the last one enough to ask for more, and I hope this meets your expectations. Anyways enjoy, remember requests are open and as always remember to hydrate or diedrate.

    After the fight with Dark Might, Giulio and Anna moved into the U.A. shelter. It was the safest place at the time and they had no way to get out of Japan even if they tried. So the two of them settled into one of the refugee dorms they were offered and waited out the war between Heroes and villains. At first they were happy to be free of Anna’s quirk and the stress it caused both of them, and they tried to enjoy a life with each other. But over the weeks spent in the shelter, they both realized that the feelings they thought they had for each other were nothing more than friendship. Yes, they loved each other but it was more in the ‘this is my best friend and I would die for them’ way than the ‘I want to spend the rest of my life with you kind of way’. So, they agreed to just be friends and support each other through whatever comes their way.

   Eventually, the war came to an end with the Heroes standing victorious. With the restoration efforts underway, the Refugees were free to leave U.A. and flights out of Japan were finally available. With the ability to finally leave and get their lives back on track, Giulio and Anna discussed what it is they wanted to do moving forward. 

    Anna had suggested that they return to her home and rebuild it after the attack by the Gullini family left it in shambles. And as much as Giulio wanted to help his friend rebuild her family home, that place was now tainted with the reminders of the night she was taken and he was left for dead. He instead offered for them to stay in Japan and start over. They could find work and rent an apartment together until they both got on their feet.

   After a lot of back and forth, Anna had decided to return to her family home on her own, and Giulio stayed in Japan to start over. They remained friends, just living in completely different parts of the world.

   Though starting over in the wake of a war wasn’t the easiest thing ever, Giulio slowly began regretting his choice. It was impossible to find an apartment that was accepting new tenants, let alone one that wasn’t completely destroyed in the chaos. If it hadn’t been for the green haired hero student, who helped him out with the Dark Might situation, he would probably be living in some run down abandoned building since the kid was able to get Giulio permission to stay at U.A. until he was able to find an apartment and a job.

   And don’t get Giulio started on the search for a job. He knew it would be a struggle, after all he was a foreigner, wore an eyepatch over his prosthetic eye, and his right arm doubled as a gun. It was never going to be easy to find work even if there was just a country wide fight against a lunatic super villain. But even with his regrets, he didn’t give up hope.

   Roughly three months after the dust had settled and Anna had left, Giulio finally received a job offer. A small-time artist wanted to hire someone to help out around their house, as their work kept them busy. At first Giulio was hesitant at first, not wanting to just be some snobs maid, but when he saw that he would be allowed to stay in one of the spare rooms of their house free of charge, he accepted. After all, they were the first person to offer him a job, even with his looks, and it would eliminate the struggle of finding a place to stay.

 Time Skip

    It’s been just over four months since he took the job with the artist, and to say it was nothing like he accepted would be an understatement. You weren’t your average snobby artist who acts like they’re better than everyone else. You were just a normal person who happened to make high quality art that also happened to sell really well. You treated Giulio like you had known him  for years, and didn’t care that he looked like he had been through hell and back.

   But your kindness wasn’t the main thing that surprised him. It was the fact that you rarely called him Giulio. Anytime you needed anything, you would call him Honey or Love. Thanking him with a quick ‘thanks hun’ after he brought you lunch when they were busy. He couldn’t understand why you used pet names like that, he wasn’t mad about it, just confused. And not that he would admit it but every time one of the soft names of endearment would roll off your tongue in his direction, his heart would speed up for a second.

   “Hey Love, what do you think of this color palette?” You called from where you sat looking at work in progress you had been trying to finish for a few days.

   Snapping out of his train of thought Giulio walked over from his place by the door, looking over your shoulder. “I think that red with that green looks a little to christmassy but other than that it looks ok.” He answered, when he first started working for you he understood nothing about art but he was quickly picking up on what colors went well together and what clashed.

   You sat for a second, tilting your head from side to side, thinking over the input he gave. “You’re so right hun.” You said reaching for a new bottle of paint. “I think I need to add a little bit more blue to this green, and maybe just a smidge of brown to the red.” You rambled as you began mixing the new colors. After a few seconds, you turned to look at Guilio, almost as if inspecting his features as he just looked back confused by your investigative stare.

   “Is something wrong, Y/n?” He asked, breaking the silence that had fallen over the art studio.

   Shaking your head, you turned back to your paints before responding. “Nothing’s wrong, just kinda got lost in how beautiful your eye is.” You said as if it didn’t make Giulio’s heart speed up. “Anyways, how about now? Do the colors work well?” You asked, causing Giulio to look back at the paint in question.

   Taking a moment to actually take in the changes that You had made to the paint, Giulio refocused his thoughts. “Yeah, I think that works better now.” He nodded, before standing up and checking the time on his phone. “Well, it’s about time for me to make lunch, is there anything specific you want?” He asked, getting ready to leave You to work on their painting while he got back to work.

   “Nope, just make whatever you want hun.” You said with your usual smile before focusing back on your project.

   Giulio nodded and left the room. Once he closed the door to the studio behind him, he couldn’t stop the flush that rushed over his cheeks. Sure Giulio had received compliments in the past but that was before everything happened. Since he lost his eye, no one has complimented his appearance. People have complimented how cool his prosthetic arm is, or how he’s a good shot for someone who is self taught, but no one has told him he’s beautiful in a long time. 

   Taking a moment to calm his thoughts and tell himself it meant nothing and was probably just the artist admiring the color of his eye and not himself. Giulio settled himself, and moved to the kitchen to prepare something for lunch.

Mini time skip

   Other than the comment about his eye that day, nothing else out of the ordinary happened. After a couple days, Giulio even managed to convince himself that it didn’t happen. But he was once again doubting himself, as he found himself in a similar position a week later.

   You had once again called him into your art studio, needing more input on some design you were working on. “Which of these techniques look more like hair?” You asked him once he approached where you sat at a small desk in the corner.

   Giulio leaned over slightly to get a look at what you were referring to. On the desk sat three small canvases, all painted with the same reddish brown paint you had mixed the previous week. The only differences were the way they were shaded, each one having a slightly different pattern. Looking closely at each one Giulio couldn’t help but notice that the shade and pattern of each looked eerily similar to his own hair when it was down. 

   Brushing the thought off again he pointed to one that had the slightest wave in the shading. “That one looks more like hair. Even the straightest hair has waves and ripples depending on how it’s styled.” He answered, standing up. As he watched you take in his response, he subconsciously brushed his hand over his hair moving the pieces that came loose out of his face.

   Just as he brought his hand away from his hair, You looked up at him. “You know, you should let your hair down more often. It looks nice when you do.” You said casually referring to the few times he had left his room with his hair not in its normal bun. “Anyways thank you for once again helping me out of this road block. It will really help with this piece.” You moved to organize more of your smaller canvases you used for swatching colors or techniques.

   Nodding in response, Giulio then moved to exit the studio. He didn’t bother saying anything as he left knowing that you were busy and at the moment he didn’t trust his voice. He could feel a light blush creeping up his neck and he needed to be alone to calm his thoughts again.

   Once he was in the hallway, Giulio began to work through his thoughts as moved to work on cleaning up the house for the day. This was the second time you had complimented his appearance, surely there had to be a reason. He wanted to tell himself that it was really just the artist finding inspiration in his looks because you see him every day, but then he remembered what people say about an artist’s muse. Giulio didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but what if you actually found him attractive.

   Almost as soon as the thought appeared, Giulio shook it away. That was foolish, you were his boss and he was just there to help you keep your house in order while you worked. Sure, you guys would have long deep conversations over dinner or afternoon tea when you both felt like talking, but that's just what people do right. Giulio tried to once again convince himself that the compliments and pet names meant nothing and that you were just an affectionate person. You probably call all your friends Love or honey, while casually complimenting them.

Time Skip

    It wasn’t until another month later that Giulio realized that there actually was more to it than he let himself believe. The compliments hadn’t stopped, every other day you would find something about him to comment on. Like how bright his smile is when he’s truly happy, or how he doesn’t let his past define him. And of course the pet names never stopped, every question was started with ‘hey love’ and every ‘thank you’ followed by hun. 

   But what ended up tipping the scale from ‘Oh they must be like this with all their friends’ to ‘Wait, do they really think all these things about’, was when one of your friends came over for a visit. 

   Giulio wasn’t paying much attention to the conversations you were having, believing that it was none of his business. He just focused on bringing the two of you tea and then going about his daily tasks, before slipping into his bedroom to get out of the way. But as much as he wanted to ignore what the close friends were talking about, he couldn’t help but notice one thing. You never called your friend any of the pet names you used for him. It was always ‘hey f/n’ or ‘thanks buddy’. Hearing how you talked with your friend, caused Giulio’s thoughts to run a mile a minute.

   Later in the day not long before your friend left, Giulio was in the kitchen grabbing himself a snack when the final straw tipped the scale. Again he didn’t mean to listen in but he couldn’t help but eaves drop when he heard his name.

   “Giulio seems really sweet, a little on the scary side but really sweet nonetheless.” Your friend said. He wasn’t sure why they were talking about him, but his interest was piqued so he stayed quite in the kitchen pausing his actions.

   There was a pause before he heard you speak. “He’s not scary, just rough around the edges. He’s been through a lot these past couple years, it’s understandable for him to be cold.” You explained. “But you are right about him being sweet. He’s always checking in on me when I’m lost in the depths of a project, making sure I’m eating and getting enough water.” You said, complimenting Giulio as if it was second nature to you at this point.

   He heard a laugh coming from your friend before they spoke again. “Well, yeah I hope he’s checking on you. Isn’t that why you hired him in the first place?.” Giulio agreed with them, you hired him to keep an eye on yourself because prior to him, you had gotten sick numerous times because you weren’t the best at self care. “Come one Y/n, I know there’s more to it than he does his job. Since I’ve been here I haven’t heard you call him by his name except for when you introduced us, every other time you’ve spoken to him it’s been ‘love’ or ‘hun’. What’s up with that?” So they noticed too. “And don’t try to say you’re just friends because you never call me that.” They finished with an accusatory tone.

   Giulio anxiously waited for your response, hopefully with it being your long time friend asking, you would actually give a real response. 

   “Ugh you have always been able to read me.” You sighed, before continuing. “He just goes above any expectation I had. Like yeah I hired him to help make sure I take care of myself, but I didn’t expect for him to do things like carry me to my room when I pass out in the studio or replace my art supplies when they get low without being asked. Not to mention he’s not pushy, if I forget to eat he just brings the food in and lets me know it’s there and that I need to eat. He doesn’t get upset when he comes back later and it’s untouched, he just replaces it with a granola bar and bottle of water so I don’t have to take my mind off my work to eat.”

   Giulio was amazed that you had noticed all of that in the few months he’d been working for you. He figured you just excused all the times he replaced your paints as you forgot that you already got them. Or that you forgot you actually went to bed on your own, but clearly you picked up on it at some point. 

   You sighed again before continuing, after taking a drink of your tea. “As for the pet names. It just feels natural with him. I never meant to start doing it, one day it just slipped and he never told me to stop so I didn’t. It honestly kinda feels wrong to just call him Giulio at this point, because he’s more than that to me. He means so much to me.” You finished, likely with a soft smile on your face. Giulio could tell you meant every word, but he also heard the slight pain in your voice as they spoke. It was almost like something about the topic hurt on a deep level.

   “Why don’t you tell him that? Clearly he cares about you if he’s doing things like replacing your supplies or carrying you to bed so you don’t wake up in pain.” Your friend asked curiously.

   There was another softer sigh before you spoke again. “I don’t want to scare him away. He just thinks of this as a job and a place to stay. I can’t just be like ‘Hey I know I’m technically your boss, but I have feelings for you and they won’t go away’. That could ruin everything. If it made him uncomfortable to work for me or stay here anymore, he wouldn’t have anywhere to go. His best friend is in another country and he has no family, he’d be forced to stay here until he found something else. I couldn’t bear to put him in that kind of position.” 

   Giulio was shocked. He never expected to hear any of that, and yet it made him both extremely happy and sad at the same time. Had he really given you the impression that he wouldn’t want to work for you anymore if he knew your true feelings for him. At that moment his body moved before he could think about what he was doing, and before he knew it he was standing in the living room.

   His sudden appearance draws the attention of you and your friend to him. Before either of you could ask him why he was there he spoke. “You don’t have to worry about scaring me away with your feelings.” Giulio started, he noticed the surprised look on your face assumed it matched his. “I’m not sure how to describe what I feel, I’ve never been great with words. But I do know that every time you call me Love or say you like my smile, my heart races and I find it hard to speak.” As he told you all of this he moved so he was standing closer to where you sat. 

   There was a pause as his thoughts finally caught up with his words, and in that moment he decided that he was already this far so he might as well go for it. “And if you truly meant everything that you said, I would be happy to explore these feelings together.” He finished with a gentle smile.

   You sat for a moment speechless. Your entail thought was that you were dreaming and in a minute you’ll wake up laying across the desk in your studio. But after blinking quickly and pinching your arm to wake yourself, you realized that this was happening. Giulio felt the same as you, even if he didn’t quite know the words to use. “Yeah, I meant every word. You are so much more than I expected when I started looking for someone to help out around here.” You said returning your own bright smile. “I’d love to explore these feelings with you, Love.” You finished, standing up and grabbing both of his hands running your thumbs across his knuckles.

   He couldn’t help the blush that spread across his face at the act. Not only were you showing the same care to his robotic arm as his normal one, but you were looking him in the eyes. Rarely had anyone made eye contact in a way that included his support item, they always focused on his human eye as if they were uncomfortable with the tech that was now part of him. You looked at him as if you saw the real him, not the person everyone thought he was. 

   Giulio was truly at a loss for words at that moment. So instead of saying anything he leaned forward slowly, giving time for you to stop him, before placing a quick kiss on your cheek. As he pulled back he admired the slightly shocked expression on your face that quickly turned to a giddy smile. “I’m glad I took this job, nothing could have turned out better than this.” He said resting his forehead against yours, the smile never leaving his face.

   “I’m glad you took the job as well, now I don’t have to worry about Y/n working themself to death because they forgot how to feed themself.” You couldn’t help but laugh as you pulled away from Giulio to look at your friend who was now standing by the front door. “Don’t stop being all lovey dovey on my account, I was gonna head out soon anyways. But congrats you two. And Giulio I don’t care if your arm doubles as a gun, if you hurt her you will wish you never came to Japan.” They finished, waving quickly before slipping out the front door.

   The following silence was interrupted by your bright laugh once again. Giulio looked at you, still in shock from your friend's threat. “Don’t give me that look, we both know you would never hurt me. Anyways, do you want to see that project I’ve been working on?” You asked, stifling the giggles at the wide eyed stare he had been giving you.

   Giulio took another moment to process everything before nodding gently. He once again didn’t trust his voice. He had completely forgotten your friend was there and let his feelings out, he couldn’t help but be a little embarrassed by the situation.

   You smiled as you pulled him towards your studio. As you opened the door and ushered him in front of you, he couldn’t help but notice the giddy smile on your face. When he turned back to the room, he was not expecting this to be your project. Staring back at him was a hyper realistic portrait of himself. Every detail was clearly thought out from the shade of his hair to how it laid across his shoulders. He was shocked to see that not only had you chosen to paint him with his hair down but you also chose not to include his eye patch. Both his human and robotic eyes looked back at him.

   Watching as he silently took in the painting you couldn’t help but become nervous. “Do you like it? I wanted to paint you in a way that shows how I see you.” You explained coming to stand next to him.

   Instead of responding he turned to you, pulling you close and placing a quick kiss to your lips. “You're perfect.” Was all he said before pulling you back in. Conveying all his feelings through the kiss instead of trying to find the words to describe how perfect everything was.

(dividers by @/cafekitsune)

[the-lazyyy-artist]

i saw you in a dream a two-part Karasu Tabito x Filipina!reader story part two

Synopsis: The dreams of a distant war led you to believe that he could exist now. Maybe he did.

Word Count: 2.3K

Content Warning: Discussions of history (especially with how Japan teaches it), reincarnation au, reoccurring dreams, fluff, a little ooc (sighs again i know), mentions of Karasu's childhood experiences (lmao huhu)

Author's Note: Now, I know that the discussions of Japan's way of teaching their people about the history of WW II are quite different from how the rest of the world tells it and how it's still controversial, I dabbled lightly around this sensitive topic just to give an insight of how the reader and the other characters dealt with it. I just wanna give you a heads-up on that. If you have any insights about it, please let's discuss it together through replies, reblogs, dms, or asks. I want everyone who reads this part to have an open mind and be willing to give out their points in terms of writing and history. Thank you so much for reading the first part.

Read part one here!

@mininji @wannabepoeticischiya @x3nafix ✨

You were 8 years old.

The dream was always blurry like a camera lens that needed some wiping. The voices sounded underwater; only its tone was familiar to you. The song from the record player was oddly clear to you, but you never figured out what the song was. You can feel the grief in it... because, in the dream, you were the woman left behind by... what was his name again?

At a young age, you'd always read the story of the Japanese Occupation in the Philippines in your History Book almost every week, memorizing the events. However, to your knowledge, you know that there's something more than just the important date of when the Bataan Death March started and where the destination was or what McArthur said when he fled the Philippines for safety. 

You asked your teacher to tell you more when the class reached the lesson, being the only one awake and active in such a boring class. She was more than willing to tell you more after classes for a one-on-one session, further increasing your excitement. She warned you as you sat comfortably beside her desk that the deeper event of the colonization wasn't for children, to which you only responded, "I'm a big girl, teacher! I'm sure I can handle it." 

You did not.

Because who even knew that there were abuses against women, forcing them to bring men comfort? Who even knew that the Philippines suffered the most because of the battles between Japan and America? Who knew the country was almost erased from the map because of the war? Who knew that it was a bloody part of the country's history?

You struggled to sleep that night, and the dream didn't help you much.

By age 12, your parents took you to Japan as they worked there. It was better for everyone to be together; they told you to comfort you as you cried and cried not to let you leave your grandparents' house. They promised a complete family if you just go with them this time. The plane ride in a foreign country, the country that did so much damage to your homeland, made you feel nauseous. You didn't want to be with these people, you thought, as you sat in your seat, unable to understand anyone in class. It was a sad sight. You were thankful that your dad was patient enough to teach you basic phrases and Hiragana. "You'll get better when you make friends. That way, you can talk and learn from them," he told you one night after your nightly tutoring session.

Easier said than done. Until someone did approach you.

He was nice, at least. He didn't care much that you were different and quiet. He sat beside you one day and said, "Otoya." You replied with your last name, and he nodded. Then he started to talk. You tried to understand what he said, and he was patient enough to let you process what he said before saying more. He was so chill around you that you brought him home to introduce him to your parents, saying, "Ma, Pa, Otoya," then turning to Otoya, saying, "Otoya, Ma, Pa."

It was a weird sight that your parents talked to him more than you did to him, your parents translating what they just said in your native tongue. Slowly, he became a frequent visitor in your home, being around whenever your father gave you your daily language lessons. When you started to get the hang of the language, you finally had a proper conversation with him without writing your questions and responses on paper. There would be times that Otoya would correct you, and you'd roll your eyes at him at which he'd just shrug.

You told him about the dream, how it's connected to history, and how your country suffered. You and Otoya had a silent argument about what version of history was right, almost causing both of you to almost break off your friendship.

You decided to say sorry and to just drop the history thing. But Otoya was still intrigued by your dream.

"Might be reincarnation," he said as you two were taking a break from studying, lying on the hardwood floor of your living room. His silvery hair shone from the sunlight streaming through the window. You sighed and started to fidget on the hem of your shirt. "That would be weird. Why would I be a reincarnation of a sad lady?" you asked quietly. Otoya turned to look at you, his slanted eyes looking bored yet interested. "Maybe you'd grow into one," he teased, his tone unchanging. He always spoke nonchalantly, but you always picked up the intention of his words through the little quirks of his voice. You grabbed your notebook and slapped his head with it, earning a little "ow" from him. "And you'd grow up into a miserable old man who will never get a girlfriend."

Otoya laughed softly and shook his head. "You're wrong. I'm already on my sixth girlfriend this year," he said, his laughter fizzled into a small smile on his lips. "Eugh, we're in our second year of middle school and you had 6 girlfriends already? Gross." 

"If you aren't so hung up with your dreamscape husband, maybe you'd enjoy dating too," he replied, sitting up. The ends of his silver hair dropped on his forehead, then he fixed the green streak in front. "Are you really gonna grow your hair out?" you asked, ignoring his comment from earlier. Otoya nodded and messed his hair up a little. "I read somewhere that girls are into guys with longer hair. Might wanna try that out."

You let out another gagging noise before you sat back up. "Enough with the dating talk. You disgust me."

You noticed that the dreams were becoming clearer yearly, revealing more events. The conversations were a little audible, the faces of your dreamscape siblings were no longer a blur, and the song... you were finally able to figure out the tune of the song. The moment you woke up one day, you quickly hummed the song through your phone's voice recorder, hoping one day you'd find the title. 

By the time you reach the age of 17, you realize you've been having the dream more frequently than before, sometimes five times every couple of months. By now, you know how deep the man's voice was, comforting and warm despite the situation. He was caring, he was kind. You wondered if Otoya's guess years ago of this being a reincarnation was true because now, you only wanted to find someone like the man in your dreams. How much of a coincidence would it be when you find the same person as him?

Five years have passed, and you have slowly forgotten about the dream. Maybe it was just your busy life that made you forget how you had it for the past year. Now, it's just an afterthought, a memory of how you experienced a love story every time you closed your eyes at night. 

The classroom door opened, revealing Otoya and the security guard following behind him. "Eita! It's class hours, what are you doing here?" You asked, pushing him out of the room. The kids inside the room gasped and giggled, hushed conversations between them. "You're attracting too much attention now," you scolded him silently. Otoya shrugged and replied, "Come with me this weekend." Typical Otoya, not acknowledging the commotion he's causing. Now kids are lurking by the door, looking at the star footballer and wondering what he's doing with their beloved English teacher. You smiled at them and asked them to get inside, your sweet voice filling the hallways. The kids giggled and hid behind the door. "Eita," you said, returning your focus to your childhood friend, "you could've texted me that you're back in town."

"You could've been busy, and this is easier. I've invited some soccer friends to visit and take them around the city. Plus, they don't believe I have a best friend, so come with me," Otoya replied, his voice a little sing-song tune, but when he sounds like that, he's annoyed. You scoffed, reaching out to tug his green-streaked hair gently. "Alright, I'll accompany you and your friends. Just text me the details so I can clear my schedule, but only on the weekend. Okay?" 

As soon as Otoya nodded, you started to push him out of the hallway. "Now you have to leave. The kids might not be able to stop themselves from seeing more of you." Otoya nodded and waved at the kids peeking through the door, watching him leave. The moment you turned to tell the kids to get back inside, they started to bombard you with questions about your relationship with Otoya and how you knew him. You sighed, knowing that the lessons would be put aside for this.

The moment Karasu heard Otoya mention your name in the locker room after their last match, he knew.

The dreams, he knew this is what it meant. He knew that he was going to meet you one day. "Who?" he asked.

"Oh, interested?" Otoya replied, "Too bad 'cause she's in love with someone else."

He must be interesting, Karasu thought, but meeting you might change everything. Maybe. Chigiri chimed in, saying he doesn't believe that Otoya has a best friend when all he talks about are girls and how to pick them up. "How about we visit each other's hometowns while off-season?" Otoya suggested, throwing his duffle bag over his shoulder, and waiting for Karasu and Chigiri to finish up. Chigiri shrugged, saying he was okay with it. Karasu agreed too, saying it would be interesting to look around.

Your name has been on his mind for years, it's crazy. He has never told anyone about his dreams, how he sees himself as a soldier in high ranks, marrying a girl in a country he has studied so much about, learning as much as he could, even the parts he cannot accept at first but kept his mind open for the possibility that it might be true. It was crazy enough that people might start making fun of him for it, so he kept it to himself, kept it in his heart, and swore to find you, even if the possibility of meeting you were low. He believed that in his ordinary life, this dream made it extraordinary.

The dreams started when he was 8. Every night, it’s always so clear. Karasu could see the face of the lady, the way she smiled, the way she cried when he left, the way she looked when he danced with her. The sad lady, he once called her, became his favorite dream. Maybe that's why he rejected Marisa. He was too in love with her. 

It was sad when he dreamt of the lady less and less as he aged. He could remember her name, her face, and her voice. Karasu knew that this might have meant something.

He read about reincarnation in other religions and how it works. He read about it in fairytales and watched it in romance movies his sister loved to watch. Karasu knew he could be reaching, but if he kept dreaming of a certain woman, this might be it.

Now it seemed fate was working overtime as he and Chigiri waited for Otoya to pick them up at the station. It was a lovely day, too. The breeze was gentle and cool, and the sky was as blue as ever. 

He knew this would be the day he’d meet the sad lady.

"Sup," Otoya greeted as he arrived, walking towards the two. "Where's your best friend?" Chigiri asked, looking around, "You said your 'best friend' would be here."

"She will be here. She has some school things to do," Otoya responded.

"Student?" Chigiri asked.

"Nah, teacher."

The day went on as Otoya took Karasu and Chigiri to local spots to avoid a surge of tourists that day. Otoya was good at playing tour guide for the two, taking pictures of each other, noting places with great deals, and buying souvenirs for their families. It was not long before Otoya took Chigiri and Karasu to Sakae District, awaiting your arrival.

And Karasu knew you before you even spoke.

God, you looked exactly like how you did in his dream. The kind eyes, a smile that could take every worry away, and your hair, though longer, was the same. But you weren’t as sad as you were in his dreams. "Is that her?" Karasu asked, his eyes glued on you as you walked towards them. "Yep."

"Hi, guys! I'm sorry I joined you so late! Had to grade the kids' essay papers," you said, your cheerful voice somehow lifting their exhaustion. Otoya threw his arm over your shoulder, pulling you to him. "It's alright. We had fun without you anyway."

"Rude," you scoffed, nudging his rib with your elbow. "Are you gonna introduce me to your soccer friends, Eita?"

"Ah, right. Karasu, Chigiri, Y/n. Y/n, Karasu, Chigiri."

Your mind somehow sparked at the name. Karasu. Where have you heard that name again? 

His eyes met yours, pretty blues that reminded you of something distant. A memory? His smirk reminded you so much of someone you met before. He was familiar yet a stranger, someone you want to know more and get close to. What was this feeling?

You held out your hand for Chigiri, which he was happy to shake, and turned to Karasu who held your hand firmly, and for a split-second...

You were taken back to the conversations in the dream about the war and the soldier telling you he loved you, how he told you he wanted you as his wife, and how his name was...

"Tabito?"

Karasu smiled at you as he stepped closer, meeting your gaze once more.

"So, it really is you, Y/n. I've been waiting to meet you for years."

[illiterateaffairs]

DISTRACTIONS I | LONDON CALLING

pairing: jamie tartt x f!reader (ted lasso)

rating: T (language) 

word count: 4,772

summary: you arrive in richmond anxious about starting your new life, but quickly feel at home among this new cast of characters. one of them is of particular interest to you for some reason. 

A/N: thank you to everyone who read the prologue, sent messages, and left nice comments in the reblogs and tags!! would love to continue to hear your thoughts. 💕

distractions masterlist | previous chapter

The next two weeks are somehow the slowest and quickest two weeks of your life. You put your notice in at work the second you can. The coworkers you mingled with the most are sad to see you go, especially Kara. On your last day, she surprises you with flowers and candy, and you wish you’d spent more time with her. You make a mental note to reach out to her from time to time. 

Your landlord lets you leave most of the furniture behind since you won’t be needing it all at your new place. Rebecca promised the flat she had for you was both homey and chic. Despite being eager to get out of there, you feel a sense of loss as you say goodbye to your apartment before heading to the airport. Even though your relationship was far from perfect and ended tumultuously, you and Mason made some good memories there. You watched your first Richmond game there, even though you had no idea what was going on. And now here you are on an eight hour flight to London, getting ready to work for Richmond. 

You thankfully sleep most of the trip, having opted for a late night flight, so by the time you land, it's the afternoon in local time. You have no idea how you’ll manage to sleep at a reasonable time tonight, but that’s later-you’s problem. 

The butterflies that have taken up home in your stomach since you left finally take a break from aggressively fluttering around when you see Ted and Beard waiting for you outside. You break into a huge grin before jogging over to the duo. You instantly feel at home when Ted is engulfing you into one of his signature hugs, and you come to the realization you haven’t seen him since he started coaching over here. Same with Beard, and while the two of you wouldn’t normally go for a hug, you find yourself wrapping your arms around him briefly anyway, and you can tell he doesn’t mind at all. 

“How was your flight, Kiddo?” Ted asks as they lead you to a fancy black car parked nearby with an even fancier-dressed man. 

“It was good,” you respond distractedly, “I’m sorry, do you have a driver?” 

Ted smiles as he pulls out the back door for the two of you, Beard rounding the other side, loading your bags into the trunk. “Courtesy of Rebecca. She wanted to make sure you arrived in style.” 

In the back of the car, you fit snugly between the two coaches and you couldn’t be happier. 

“And don’t worry,” Ted continues, “We came over here as soon as training ended, so most of the team should be out for the day. And as far as everyone else knows, we’re just two generous colleagues who offered to pick up the newly-minted foreigner from the airport. No one will know we’re secretly two of your favorite people in the world.”

You chuckle, but you appreciate his words. Turning to glance at Beard, he mimics zipping his lips shut and you mirror him with a giggle. 

The car ride back is filled with loud chatter as the three of you- mostly you and Ted- catch up, while you try not to be alarmed by the fact you’re driving on the left side of the road. When you pull into the parking lot of Nelson Road Stadium, you feel the butterflies start to return. Here we go. 

The driver follows you, promising to wait in the lobby until you’re ready to head home for the night. Beard heads to the coach’s quarters while Ted introduces you to everyone you pass on the way to Rebecca’s office. You try not to seem overeager to meet her in person - which you are. You cautiously follow Ted into the room, overhearing the familiar sound of Rebecca’s voice mixing with someone else’s. When their attention is drawn to where you and Ted are standing, Rebecca enthusiastically stands from her couch to greet you and you’re instantly taken with her presence- she’s even more beautiful and tall in person. 

You go to shake her hand but she opts for a warm hug as she tells you how excited she is for you to join the team. She and Ted introduce you to Leslie Higgins, Richmond’s Director of Communications. He shakes your hand with a kind smile, but you can tell he’s surprised when he hears your American accent for the first time. The three of you don’t give him a chance to question it as Ted drags you back on your welcome tour. But not before Rebecca demands you text her later that night to tell her what you think of the flat she readied for you.

Ted takes you back downstairs to where the locker rooms and coaches offices are. To Ted’s earlier point, not many players are around but you can’t help but be intimidated by the few you meet briefly. You’ve never been around famous athletes before. You try to remember their names - Colin and Isaac are the two that have stuck so far. You smile at Beard’s familiar face when Ted takes you to their office, knocking on the window to grab another man’s attention. Ted informs you that the man is Roy Kent, a name you recognize from the handful of games you’ve watched over the years. He’s another coach for the team now. Roy grunts out a ‘nice to meet you’ without bothering to turn around, but Ted lets you know that's a pretty nice gesture when it comes to Roy, so you take it. 

As you leave the locker room, you meet the team’s kitman, Will, who immediately seems like the sweetest person in the world and you hope to get to know him better during your time here. 

Finally you make it to what Ted describes at the main event - the pitch - and he was right, it was glorious. You’ve never been in an arena of this size, and despite not being too big of a sports person, you feel excitement engulfing you. You’re only pulled out of your trance as Ted calls out to one lone straggler who seems to be getting in some last minute practice on the field. 

“Hey Jamie!” Ted yells across the field, “Practice ended over an hour ago bud! Grab a shower and go home and get some rest.”

Jamie jogs over to you two with the soccer ball under his arm, “Aye aye, Coach.” Out of breath, the not-unattractive footballer looks you up and down. “Who’s this?”

You introduce yourself and Jamie shakes your hand once before dropping it.

“She’s Rebecca’s new PA we told y’all about earlier this week. She’s going to be helping out with some social media posts and what not.” Ted reminds him and Jamie seems to nod in recognition.

“Guess I’ll be seeing ya around then.” he smiles politely and then heads back inside. 

You and Ted spend a few more minutes admiring the stadium but your interest shifts to Jamie. He looked familiar, but not from the football matches you’ve watched, you don’t think. But where else would you have seen him?

Eventually Ted leads you back inside, finally showing you where you’ll be spending most of your time. He explains that your office used to belong to the team’s PR person, Keeley Jones, before she left to start her own firm. He says the club is still one of her top clients, so you’d be working closely with her from time to time, and that he couldn’t wait for you to meet her, claiming you’d absolutely adore her. You believed him. So far you were taken with everyone you’ve met. Rebecca was incredible, Higgins seemed great, Colin and Isaac a fun pair, Will a sweetheart, and Roy an interesting man you looked forward to learning more about. Even Jamie - who you couldn’t get a read on just yet - still intrigued you. 

You plop down in the desk chair now belonging to you and can’t help but spin around a few times. Ted chuckles and tells you he’ll leave you to get comfortable for a bit while he finishes up some things for the night, promising not to be long before he comes back to take you home. 

Finally having a moment to yourself after almost 12 hours, you let out a long breath you didn’t know you were holding in. Distracted by the excitement of being in a new city, catching up with Beard and Ted, and meeting your new coworkers, you hadn’t had a chance to process that you did it. You uprooted your life and successfully made it halfway across the world to start a new one.

Before you let complete panic sink in, you open the laptop sitting neatly on your desk. There’s not much on the computer, but there’s a folder with information about AFC Richmond and the players. You decide maybe you should start learning everyone’s names since you’re going to be responsible for curating their social media presence and such soon. Looking at the team roster, your eyes immediately find Isaac and Colin’s pictures, feeling proud that you at least know a couple players' names. Same with Jamie, but then you scan the rest of the roster and realize there are a lot more names and faces you don’t recognize. Your mind scrambles to come up with some mnemonic device to help you remember everyone, but before you can come up with a comically long sentence, there’s a knock on your office door. 

Looking up, you expect to see Ted, but instead find a younger man with a bright smile. You feel a burst of recognition and glance down at the roster on your computer, matching the face of your visitor with one on the screen.

“Oh, hi! Are you…Sam Obi…”

His smile doesn’t falter as he steps into your office. “Sam Obisanya,” he pronounces smoothly, and then says your name just as eloquently. “I just saw Ted, and he told me you’d just arrived and I wanted to take the chance to say hello and welcome to the team.”

Warmth spreads across your chest as you smile back at him, “That’s so kind, thank you.”

“Of course! I know you haven’t been here for long, but how are you liking things so far?”

“Oh it's been good,” you trail off, finding yourself unable to lie to his sweet face, “A bit intimidating.” 

He frowns, “Why’s that? If Jan Maas said something strange to you, he’s just blunt because he’s Dutch.”

You chuckle, briefly glancing back down at the roster to put a face to that name. “Noted. But no, I think I’m just realizing how much I don’t know about soccer, or football, I guess. And that there are a lot of you to remember.”

Sam laughs, “We are a large team. Anything I could do to help?”

Part of you wants to be nice and tell him he doesn’t have to stick around any longer, but the anxious part of you grabs onto the life line, “Actually, yes, could you help me get to know all the players’ names- like, tell me things about everyone so it's easier for me to remember?” You lean back and tilt your computer towards him so he knows he’s welcome to stay, and he immediately gets settled in one of the chairs on the other side of your desk. 

You spend the next thirty minutes getting to know Sam as well as the rest of the team, and you already feel more at ease. Sam proves to be even more wonderful than his first impression gave off. He shares hilarious anecdotes about every footballer on the team, and before you know it you’re able to recall who people like Dani and Zoreuaux and Bumbercatch all were. 

Sam and you also exchange some personal stories. You tell him about your life in Chicago and how you were looking for a fresh start, albeit leaving out a few details you don’t want to burden him with on the first meeting. Sam shares that he'd moved to England a few years ago from Nigeria, and that he was going to open a Nigerian restaurant here soon for a little taste of home. You told him you couldn’t wait to try it. By the end of your conversation, you feel like you have someone you can call a friend in Richmond, and Sam even offers to show you around the city during some off time later this week. 

As Sam gives you one last quiz about AFC Richmond’s player’s and your eyes linger on Jamie’s picture again, your brain finally remembers how you know him. You flashback to a memory of Kara practically giving a full PowerPoint presentation to your office back home on the drama going down on her favorite British reality show. 

“Oh, my God,” you yelp, scaring the hell out of your potential new friend who rests his hand over his chest, “Sorry, I just realized how I know Jamie.” 

“You’ve met him before?” Sam questions, surprised. 

“No, I’ve just seen him on that one show, Lust something…”

Before you have the words out, Sam is cackling, “Yes, Lust Conquers All! Not Jamie’s finest moment but definitely a memorable one.” 

“God, he was such an asshole,” you comment, recalling the way he acted in the few clips Kara showed you. 

“Oh, he was,” Sam nods, “He used to be a total prick. He still is sometimes, but more in a loveable way.” At your unsure expression, Sam elaborates, “Jamie’s been through a lot. And yes, he used to be very self centered. But since Ted’s been around, he’s become a better teammate, and a better friend.”

You can’t help but smile at the nod to Ted’s impact. It doesn’t surprise you in the least; he’s always bettered the lives of the people he’s met. Still, your heart swells with pride. 

“Well, either way, I look forward to seeing what he’s like off the screen.”

Sam heads out a little after that, with another promise of being your tour guide this weekend and another to have lunch tomorrow. Then Ted’s coming back to collect you to take you home for the night. You bid a farewell to Rebecca in the parking lot before you’re driving off. After making sure you can get into your apartment building, you say goodnight to Ted, who promises to walk with you back to the stadium for your first official day tomorrow. 

When you enter your new flat, you’re taken back by how much you love it already. The furniture is feminine but not overly posh. The décor and colors are bright without being over the top. It feels more like you than your old apartment, even though you picked out that place and the furniture yourself. You quickly remind yourself of Mason inserting his opinions over yours when it came to those choices, before you push all thoughts of him away for the night. 

You spend the rest of the night unpacking your clothes and other small belongings. You’re pleasantly surprised that you're eager to sleep as it gets close to an appropriate time for bed. You quickly change into the first set of comfy clothes you find and climb into your very large and very comfortable bed. You text Rebecca to express how much you adore the flat and how grateful you are for everything. She responds pretty quickly, telling you that you never have to thank her but she’s glad you’re settling in. 

You bury yourself under your covers, trying to coax your thoughts away for a good night’s sleep. But your mind runs rampant with thoughts of working with Rebecca tomorrow and hanging out with Sam. A new country, new job, and (hopefully) new friends. It’s only been one day but you were already feeling reassured about your decision to move here. Which is good because you only bought a one way ticket. 

Your first few weeks with AFC Richmond could not have been more of a dream. You didn’t expect to enjoy working for a football club as much as you do. Where your old job was drab and had you focused on making boring food and clothes sound appealing, with this job you got to spend time with the players who were actually interesting people you got to promote. On most days, you got to hang out with the team and film content while they practiced or played. Sometimes events occurred after training or games so that’s when you’d gotten to know a lot of them. You were closest with Sam, who you’d begun to spend more time with when neither of you were working. On other days, you’d work more closely with Rebecca, assisting her with more mundane tasks, but still more enjoyable than any of the grunt work you did back in America. And Rebecca had quickly become one of your favorite people to be around. You didn’t think you’d meet a more remarkable woman until a week in when she introduced you to Keeley, who you’d already heard so much about. No surprise she lived up to the hype. 

Keeley is the friendliest and most talkative person you ever met, and you hope her and Rebecca’s energy rubs off on you even just a little. The pair of them quickly included you in their girl talks and invited you to sit with them during games when you’re not busy capturing content. They also quickly caught you up on the gossip around the club, first and foremost that Keeley is still getting over a breakup with Roy, and apparently she doesn’t quite understand why they had parted ways. While she seems to be mostly handling it alright- meaning not taking a job an ocean away from home to run away from him- it gives the two of you something to bond over.

When you have time to yourself, you try to sit down and write. Sometimes you’re able to get a few sentences typed out in a Word document, before you’re furiously smashing the back-space button because you hate every word. One day, you share your writer’s block struggle with Trent Crimm, a former journalist who Ted is letting shadow the club for a novel he’s writing. Roy and the team had been pretty bothered at first, but everyone is on better terms these days. Despite your respective preferences for non-fiction and fiction, Trent gives you the advice to not force anything. You’ll write when you’re ready. And while you appreciate and try to take the advice, you wish you were ready now. With a job that doesn’t make you want to rip your hair out and a beautiful city you’ve been exploring, you should be more inspired than ever. But so far no such inspiration has struck. So you try to be patient. 

Instead you focus your energy on helping Keeley with the new Bantr campaign she has AFC Richmond collaborating on. Most of the team is staying past practice to get new promotional pictures shot and in a few weeks you’ll be helping Keeley shoot video footage for the ads. You couldn’t help but feel excited to be on this side of the advertising world, and actually be a part of the team that's being advertised.  

You're squatting on the ground, off to the side so you’re not blocking any shots. Your phone is unlocked and ready to capture some BTS of the photoshoot as Isaac is the first team member to get his picture taken. As you're about to press record when the photographer begins to shoot, you can’t help but giggle at how serious Isaac is taking this. He stands stick straight with his hands clasped behind his back and lips in a straight line. 

“Something funny, new girl?” he asks without breaking eye contact with the camera. He’s been calling you that since you arrived despite now having been around for a month. You think he means it affectionately, though he probably wouldn’t admit it. 

“No, it's just you look so…stern?” you chuckle as you start recording a clip, “If this is for a dating app, shouldn’t you try to look more appealing to any potential suitors?”

“I thought they were blurring our faces?” he asks with furrowed brows, referring to the fact that the app was anonymous and this ad campaign would be following suit.

“Yeah, but don’t you want to be a sexy blur?” 

This makes Isaac crack a smile as he lets out a surprised laugh. You snap your fingers at the photographer, “There, get that!” 

Satisfied with your first piece of content for the night, you stand up and join Keeley where she’s observing everything from behind the monitor displaying the photos as the photographer takes them. 

Keeley smiles at you, “That was pretty good! They could all stand to loosen up a bit - they’re not taking mugshots.”

“That’s literally what all of their football headshots look like,” you joke, “Is there no smiling in football?” You laugh together as another idea strikes, “Hey, what if we play some music? That might relax everyone and loosen them up?”

Keeley’s light up. “That’s a great idea,” she turns to face the other players waiting for their turn, “Oi, does anyone have a speaker?”

Colin raises his hand, “I’ve got one in my locker.”

Moments later, the locker room is filled with upbeat music from a playlist Keeley curated on the fly. The team’s energy instantly escalates, and so do the pictures of them. As Dani takes over Isaac’s spot in front of the camera, you hear someone whispering your name from outside the locker room. You find Sam waving to you from the doorway. You smile and jog over to meet him.

“Looks like a party in here,” he comments amusedly. 

“Yeah, why aren’t you participating by the way? Got a secret girlfriend you’re not telling me about?” 

Sam flushes, “Not quite. I just don’t want to appear too…available.” 

You quirk your eyebrow, “Suspicious but I’ll allow it. So what's up?”

“I wanted to know if you were free Friday night? We end practice early that day and I was wondering if I could take you to that museum I told you about if you still haven’t been?”

“No, that sounds perfect, I would love that!” 

You share excited smiles. “Great! I’ll see you tomorrow then?” 

“Bright and early.”

As you bid good night to Sam and return your focus back to the shoot, you note that Jamie is getting his photo taken now. You accidentally catch his gaze and successfully fight the urge to break eye contact. You offer a smile as you go to get more footage for Richmond’s Instagram, but Jamie returns the smile seemingly half heartedly. You try not to take it personally since you haven’t really had the chance to get to know the guy since you’ve been here. You wonder why that is. While you weren’t very close with many members of the team, aside from Sam, most of them have taken opportunities to get to know you a bit. Except for Jamie.

You try not to dwell, knowing enough about his reputation to know not being close might not be a bad thing. 

The rest of the photoshoot goes extremely well. The Instagram stories you post of the guys are already gaining a lot of attention, and the photos look incredible. You ask Keeley to see if you can get Bantr to let the club use the photos as some of their new imagery online, knowing it would be a shame to just blur them and not have the world see the player’s personalities. As the team files out for the night, you stick around to help Keeley and the photographer pack up, wishing them a good night as you need a few things from your office before you head home. You think you’re the last one there until you hear a voice coming from the parking lot as you exit. Once you’re outside, you recognize the voice as Jamie’s with his distinct Mancunian accent. He appears to be on the phone but you can't make out anything he’s saying on the other side of the parking lot. Even from afar, you get the sense that it's not a pleasant conversation, so you linger by the door to give him some space. Luckily, Jamie’s hanging up with whoever it is a few seconds later, giving you the chance to resume your journey home. You try not to startle him as you get closer but you do anyway. You immediately apologize, letting him know you’re just passing by and you didn’t mean to sneak up on him.

“It's alright,” he assures, though he still seems a bit off, “Didn’t know anyone else was still here.”

“Just me,” you shrug. You know you shouldn’t say anything and just continue walking home, but you have to ask. “Is everything okay? I swear I wasn’t eavesdropping, but that phone call sounded tense and you look…unwell?”

Jamie eyes you like he’s trying to figure out what your angle is. You hurry to reassure him.

“I know we hardly know each other, so in no way do you owe me an explanation, but just figured I’d check in.” 

Jamie nods slowly. For a second you think he might share something with you, but instead he just lets out a quiet sigh, his shoulders sinking, “Nothing you need to worry about.”

You accept his answer and nod. You’re unsure of what to say next, or if you should say anything. You’re about to turn around and wish him a good night when he’s the one that speaks up. 

“So you and Sam seem quite close.” 

You turn back to him and narrow your eyes at him, “Yeah? He’s been showing me around the city.”

Jamie nods thoughtfully, “Are you two…,” your eyes narrow in a full squint as you cross your arms to egg him on, “Seeing each other?”

You can’t help but laugh. In no way were you expecting him to ask that. “Why do you care? Do you have a crush on Sam or something?”

Jamie’s face scrunches up, “No!”

“What then? You gonna tell me Sam’s nice-boy persona is actually an act and he’s secretly been plotting to murder me?”

“No, Sam really is that nice.” 

“Then why are you asking if I’m dating him?” 

“I’m just curious,” he spits out defensively, “Wasn’t sure if it was alright for players to hook up with the club’s employees or whatever.”

“Oh,” you lower your defenses for a second, “...So you have a crush on Beard then?”

Jamie’s defensive resolve melts away as he actually lets out a laugh at your teasing. “No he aint my type. Beard’s too scratchy.” 

You laugh along with him and enjoy that he played along. 

“Well then to answer your question, no Sam and I are not dating, we’re just friends. And no, I don’t think there’s technically any rule against any consensual mingling between the staff and you footballers.

“Hmm,” Jamie nods, his lip pouting a bit, “Good to know.”

“I’m glad to be of help, but I should get going,” you start walking backwards towards the parking lot’s exit, “But I’ll see you tomorrow I guess?”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Jamie steps towards you, “You’re just going to walk home alone? At night?” Jamie glances around and answers his own question when he doesn’t see another car in the lot besides his own. “Can I drive you?”

You shake your head assuredly, “Don’t worry about it. I walk home everyday. My place isn’t far.”

You can tell he wants to respect your answer, but asks one more time, “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” you smile, “Have a good night, Jamie.” 

He gives you a small smile back, “You too.” 

You wave before shoving your hands in your coat pockets and take off down the road. When Jamie’s sports car drives past you, he honks the horn twice and you chuckle. 

During your short commute to your flat, you replay your interaction with Jamie. You weren’t sure what you were expecting him to be like. While your conversation was brief, it seemed like he was a decent guy and that he had a sense of humor. The way his hair fell messily on either side of his face was nice, but that was neither here nor there. Maybe Sam was right. Jamie Tartt wasn’t so bad. 

A/N: mwahahahaha

[spacebaby1]

Hi babe 🥹 I love your vlog!

Can I request a Gojo oneshot where the reader is a foreigner and new to Jujutsu High? Like she was just entering high school and then Satoru falls in love with her as soon as he looks at her?

I also have another idea but I don't know if you like it. I was also thinking about Satoru's lifelong friend reader. Where he has feelings of love for her but she doesn't seem to realize it. And then Suguru's defection happens, and the reader wants to leave with him 😫

I really don't know if you're going to read this, I love you very much and I love your vlog, I'm always watching it!  Greetings from Venezuela 🇻🇪

Omg hello! Thank you for supporting! I really love the second idea and I would love to write it soon🫡💙enjoy, hope you like it!

Standing in front of the huge school building, you read the paper in your hand over and over; Jujutsu High. Yes, it was the building, your new school, but looking around, it seemed haunted and way too quiet since no one was around. You have just transferred to this new school, in the new country far away from your home and didn't know what to do. With a sigh, you walked inside the building, hoping to find someone and ask them for help, and that's exactly what you did.

Walking down the empty hallway was terrifying; your just joined being a sorcerer back in your home country for less than two months and they already decided to send you away since the higher ups needed more sorcerer in japan. Most of the classes were empty as you walked and that's when you heard a sound of talking and laughter and you followed it happy that the building isn't completely empty. Entering the class you saw two boys who immediately turned their head towards the door when you opend it. The one sitting on the chair has his hair in a messy bun while the other was wearing dark sunglasses and had white hair. "Uh, I just transferred here. Sorry to bother you but can you show me where to find the principles office?"

The open with white hair had his jaw slightly open while the one with black hair got with a small smile, "Welcome, I'm Geto suguru and this is Gojo Satoru. Sure we can show you the office." You smiled and followed Geto as he lead the way and Gojo joined him whispering something to Geto to which he elbowed Gojo and murmured a slight "shit up, don't start."

They walked few corridor down till they reached an office, "thank you for helping me. That's very kind of you." Geto simply smiled with a wave and grabbed Gojo by the collar as they walked away. Goja smiled and waved at you as Geto pulled him.

The meeting was brief with the principal and you were happy to get some sleep after the long flight. Falling on the bed you let out a long sigh and without another minute you feel asleep. Only to wake up earlier than everyone or as you thought. After getting dressed in your workout clothes you decided to go for a morning run even though you weren't familiar with the area you thought that you'll stay close; wrong idea as you got lost while running. You sighed when you realised that you had left your phone in your room. So you decided to walk back and hopefully you'll find your back, another back idea. You accidentally walked further into the woods, a sound of footsteps made you turn and that's when you saw it a curse running towards you; your body went numb as you couldn't move. The only reaction you gave was trying to cover your face with your hand but the loud bang made the curse disappear. Your heavy breathing was all you could hear before you looked up to find Gojo standing in distance from you with a concerned look on his face, "you okay?" You pouted before running to hug him for saving you as you cried. His cheeks were burning red but he played it cool by hugging you back and chuckled, "ah, of course you are okay, I saved you." You looked at him with teary eyes and he swears that something screamed in his heart at how cute you looked to which he gripped his arms tightly around you, "thank you." You whispered making his blush and giggle.

[imaginesbymk]

MARSTON. ━︎━︎ ZSAKUVA STRICT PROFESSOR !

chapter ten - ❝new friend.❞

← previous chapter: chapter nine - "professor green-eyed monster." next chapter: chapter eleven - "what do you really want?" →

fanfic info / read it on wattpad

SYNOPSIS — Andrew's thoughts and fantasies over Y/N have grown increasingly unhealthy, but he can't help but give in. Y/N flaunts their new friend in front of Andrew.

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Y / N 

I AM UP bright and early for a Thursday. Just last night Brittany showed up to my place as I was catching up on the lecture that I skipped. Professor Marston put at least thirteen slides in the module. Because of his long lectures, you'd have to be present in his class to receive in-depth teaching, or you'd be in a stump reading at least a couple sentences off one slide that wouldn't do much. 

As long as my textbook was here, I was in good hands. 

I was also in good hands thanks to Brittany, who offered me CBD oil for my muscle pain. Ever since my body felt like it had woken from surgery, she blamed it on the excess cardio walking around campus. If it wasn't fun or if we weren't commuting anywhere fun, she would drive or take the subway. I knew the CBD oil worked, because I had finished the final slide and collapsed under the sheets while Brittany took the other side of my bed. 

For a Thursday, I woke up feeling like I had never felt any more lighter in my bones.

This was one of the days where Brittany would be working a longer shift. [STUDENT'S NAME] offered to drop me home after school today. 

I roll over to my side to reach over and grab my phone off my desk.

My heart sank. I was not up bright and early for a Thursday. The atmosphere felt like 6 AM until I tapped my screen. It was nearly noon. My phone had never gone off, the alarm for 6 was never set.

"Holy fuck, Britt!" I scream, sprinting out of the bed. The post-CBD feeling immediately left my body, only for panic and adrenaline to replace it. 

Brittany lifts her head from her pillow, her eyelids opening halfway. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

I run past her, grabbing emergency sweatpants and a shirt from the drawers, then my bag off the ground. "I'm late! Professor Marston's gonna kill me."

"Late?" she lazily sits up and checks her phone. "Since when are you ever late for his class?"

Just by how busy the subway was, it was definitely the afternoon. The excess cardio was paying off, but I was beginning to lose my breath as soon as I reached campus, my shoes clamping against the pavement and grass. Brittany wears those high heeled platforms in any season as long as the outfit went with it, but all I grabbed from my shoe rack were ones I haven't worn in a while, and they felt foreign when I slid them on. 

A group of girls were walking slow in front of me at the front entrance. I had no other choice but to beeline through, making one of them drop their book.

"Hey!" one of them shouts angrily at me.

The Literature lecture, the time duration at least an hour and ten minutes in from when I've reached campus, had to be on the first floor. Just a few hallways down. More fast-walking. I swung the door open, hearing Professor Marston's voice echoing into a microphone at the lectern.

By now, everyone took a quick look at me, like I had just rudely interrupted to film a dumb prank for a YouTube video. I had to think quick. I went over to the second front row and plop myself down in one of the empty seats. 

From at least a twenty-meter distance, Professor Marston stares coldly at me, then resumes his teaching.

I forgot my textbook.

"IF THERE ARE no more questions, you may leave. Office hours will resume, respectively. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon."

That was my plan. I knew I missed half of the lecture, I missed important details Professor Marston had shared to the class. When I checked on Moodle, one of today's slides had two sentences. That's already ten minutes of a lecture. 

After I had a chance to eat something an hour later, I knocked lightly on his door. I was allowed in.

"Heyyy, Prof!" I sheepishly enter his office. I laugh nervously, all eye-wide with my hands up and shaking in the air. "It's me again. How was your day?"

I saw it right away just by studying the look Professor Marston gave me, the same look when I made my grand entrance earlier. 

"How was my day?" He asks, opening the blinds of his window. "Er, well, the lounge is still low on cream and sugar, so I am surviving on organic peppermint tea. I handed back everyone's mock assignment on annotated bibliography, everyone except you because you came late to my class. Or did you skip Literature again but decided to attend last minute?"

Not gonna lie, hearing Professor Marston scold me with a voice that stern had me frozen in my spot. There's no difference if he's a couple years older than me, as was his authority. I knew how serious he took his teaching, so it's not like I was trying to flunk Literature on purpose. "I got caught up with something earlier."

"Was that something another lunch hangout with that friend of yours?"

"No," I said. "Personal stuff."

"Hm." Professor Marston looked a bit on edge. "Is, uh, [STUDENT'S NAME] what's-their-name not here?"

"No," they skipped class again, just without me. I would feel extremely guilty for snitching on them, but the guilt for leading Professor Marston on like this was slowly picking up on me. Neither of us were playing hard to get, but if I continue sitting next to [STUDENT'S NAME], sharing their stuff and being so close to them that our arms were touching each other, it would feel like I was. 

If one of us speaks up, it would be just me and Professor Marston being much closer than the student whom I found out had a thing for me a while back. 

"How can I help you?" he asks.

My phone vibrates. I didn't wanna bother checking who was calling me now that I was with Professor Marston. Was it Brittany? Professor Marston notices my phone going off in my sweatpants and gives me an annoyed expression.

I reached in my pocket and double click the side of my phone to decline the call, to show I wasn't trying to be late, disorganized, unprofessional and rude all in one day. "I just wanted to apologize for barging in late, and that I've caught up on last week's lecture. Now that you mentioned it, I'd like my annotated bibliography back, if that's not a problem?" 

Effortlessly, he flips through one of the piles on his desk and hands it over to me without saying anything. I thank him with a quiet voice.

"Listen, I'm not flaunting my privilege as a university student by purposely skipping classes," I say. "Especially yours. I love attending your classes, it's probably the most engaging I've been in. I just overslept today. My alarm didn't go off."

Professor hums. "You must have forgotten."

I nodded. "It was because I was catching up on the lecture I skipped."

"Well, in order to avoid the chaotic errors you've made, start by attending class. You can always go out for food anytime you want, but one class you intend on skipping can cost you. Literature is not an easy course."

Professor Marston wasn't wrong. I had to learn that the hard way. One out of a couple times. "I know."

"Given that you're one of my top students, I know that you know. But what I don't know is this transition you've been having, lately."

I looked up at him. "What do you mean by that?" My phone buzzes again. A missed call and a text message.

Lol hellooo are u dead? I'm outside and I got us froyo

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A N D R E W

Y/N SHAKES their head, checking their phone. "Shit, I gotta go. [STUDENT'S NAME] called."

"Are you sure?"

The sound of the door swinging shut was my only answer. I can't describe the feeling as blood-boiling, but even after Y/N comes late to class and just leaves for [STUDENT'S NAME] again, my body felt hot.

"Get home safe," I wanted to tell Y/N. 

As a professor, I stress to my students that as adults they should be responsible if they paid an outstanding amount of money to study at university, while they get to decide on their own as adults. I am certain that Y/N is a dedicated student who does attend classes and does take initiative, but they're just latching themselves onto someone else in front of me on purpose. They really are as bold as I thought they were ever since they wrote about Abélard and Héloïse. 

Their explanation over being late doesn't even matter to me anymore. They were gone now. 

When I got home last night, I was alone with my own thoughts inside my home office. I must have been glued to my chair for almost an hour and a half, staring at the powerpoint I was supposed to be filling in for next week.

I imagined Y/N in front of me like last time. They were in front of me, leaning down to kiss me, and I wish we could be doing that right now. Why? Why am I feeling like this? Because I have an unhealthy desire for someone I wanted?

Were they doing this to get my attention? To fire me up? Intentionally play tricks on me? And if it really was to make me jealous, should it be my turn to do the same? I lifted my binder to take out more sheets, my impairment immediately making me drop everything onto the floor. Oh, joy. I sighed as I got down to retrieve everything up from the ground. 

Another thing thrown at me. I get a notification from my laptop. Another email from the same account posing as my brother. It also didn't feel great that a ghost was trying to mess with me.

I reported the email as spam.

Another notification appeared above it. I wanted to yell. Out of muscle memory I was about to delete it if it was them again, or an address I didn't recognize, not a student, staff, Y/N, or anyone I knew personally - until I read the subject.

NEW EXHIBIT OPENING AT THE BRITISH MUSEUM

I let out a sigh of relief. 

No, I tell myself, packing up to head for the next lecture I would be teaching. That isn't right. There's no one that I have had an eye on before I even knew Y/N. I couldn't even go back to Isaac if I tried. He's moved on with his career, and he's residing God knows where. 

Y/N has it all, and I'm here to suffer.

But I knew what this meant for me. It didn't feel so great. It didn't feel great that Y/N was with someone else.

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[pmpwbrrs]

I'm pretty much in love with your off string au could you ramble more abt it .,. I'd be extremely happy to read it

Im glad you like it and thank you for reminding me that I wrote this, and giving a reason to ramble <3!! Sadly i don't have anything to really add? But I'll say what i kept to myself i guess!

I keep remembering about one of the things ghostlycoze said.

—

—

I actually REALLY like this idea. I don't think ALL iterators are gonna have this problem, because not all iterators, i like to think, associate themselves with their puppet? And they are all different. But i love thinking about how some of them look up at the sky, and see endless heavy clouds produced by their still giant, powerful colleagues(family? friends?), while they are here, small, and so vulnerable. I like to think that that the longer they stare at the bottomless, grey sky, the more they can't tear the eyes away. How they feel their new heart beating faster now, and it makes them nauseated and more stuck in this moment – because this heart is beating like a mouse's. So fast, they can feel it, they can hear it, in their neck, in their chest. And it's foreign. The sky is foreign. The choking dampness of the air is foreign, the wet cold soil is foreign. THEY are foreign. Can they be even considered an iterator? How? They are not even the same person, how can they still call themselves an iterator?

What have they done to themselves?

I don't think some iterators even manage to handle this. I think some of them, with no way of returning to a previous live, take an easy way out. Or at least risk it – after all, they don't know what the Cycle thinks of not only iterators, but of an abomination like them.

For some of them this is not freedom. For some of them, freedom is impossible to obtain, even when they have risked it all and threw away everything that made them who they were.

Or maybe, for some of them, at some point – standing in the cold, wet soil, becomes a sort of relieve. Perhaps, for some of them, the damp air and the now rumbling, endless sky, become more welcome. Maybe it's better for them, than what they were before. Maybe they'll get used to this, even if it's so hard it makes their head heavy, and their breath quickened, and even when they are not what they were, and never will be. Maybe as they breath in, they'll be reminded that they are no longer stuck because they've been given no other choice, but they are stuck on their own accord. Maybe that makes them ecstatic. Or, yet again, scared, or regretful. Or guilty. It depends on an individual. But overall, it's hard for all of them. And not all of them can or wants to deal with this.

–––

I also remember I was thinking about «what if Pebbles is saved only in Saint's era?». But the more I thought about it, the more sad and existential I became, and I never got around to drawing anything, because the idea of slowly losing yourself and all your memories terrifies me.

I think, if Pebbles is saved in Saint's time, there is no way to bring him the way as he once was. It's just NO WAY, i can't believe it. His whole body had fucking giant TEARS in it, there wasn't a single place left of him, his neurons are now squashed by 574020 kms of rot, 30942 kms of metal and dead organic and his flesh, and 2933892 kms of snow, he's a home for fauna and flora now. He will never come back. MAYBE some neurons will help?? But i don't think they will, or that they should help as much as they helped Moon.

Pebbles cannot recover fully. Of course, care and patience and not being in his corpse will help, slowly, but still not a whole lot.

I wonder how Moon would feel about him. How everyone would feel. And mainly, how Pebbles would feel.

I already somewhat explored the idea of Pebbles losing his memories. It was an animatic about his life flashing before his eyes, but wrong and twisted, and he can't remember the names of the people he cared about, but he feels guilt and shame, and in the end he gets ascended (right now animatic is abandoned).

But... If he's off string....

Imagine how painful it is to look in the eyes of a person and know that you did something horrible to them, but you can't remember what it was, and you can barely even remember who this person is. All you know is that you love them, and that you have hurt them. How would their forgiveness feel? Would Pebbles feel weird relief? Confusion? Grief? Will it even help?

Will he feel anger and an inexplicable sting of pain when they look at him with pity? How would he feel if he saw people's hope when they think he might remember something, but he just can't?

I already said that "iterator off string is not even the same person", but in the case of Five Pebbles in Saint's time, I think it applies to him even more. He's not the same person even before he gets out.

How would he feel being so small and fragile, but being aware of it, now? How aware is he, really? Has he even agreed to go off string? Could he agree? How would HE feel about the stuff I said earlier? The sky, the snow under his feet, the freezing, biting wind?

I don't like making things all dark and gloomy and no hope FOREVER only SUFFERING though. I think there are ways to help Pebbles and to heal. For all of them, really. Sure, as I said, I like to think there's not much you can do to help FP, but there are ways. And in the end, even though he doesn't have his memories, and he's scared and confused, and he's weak and small, and he's in pain, and he feels cold – he's with people he loves, and who love him. I think it's beautiful. And I think it's an improvement on rotting away in the snow and listening to the same tune until the end of time. And now he gets warm much more often.

–––

That's pretty much it? I didn't think about off string that much. I GUESS there are also some fanfiction i wrote, but ehh + I'm shy about my writing + it's russian and needs translation + it doesn't focus the on a dread of being off-string and all that, so I'm not gonna show that.

A lot of people left really interesting thoughts in tags on this post with nsh though, so I recommend you to check them out, they are lovely <3

[deliciousangelfestival]

The Imperfect Couple - 5

Character: politician!Bucky x ex-wife!reader

Summary: A separated couple must pretend to be happily married while the husband runs for Vice President, dealing with old issues and political pressures during his election campaign.

Warning: The couple's arguments could be triggering.

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5, Chapter 6 , Chapter 7 , Chapter 8 , Chapter 9 , Chapter 10 , Chapter 11 , Chapter 12 , Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

By the way, I publish my book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing on Kindle.

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

You were deep in conversation with Greg, discussing the next move, when suddenly, you were called to Steve’s office. As you entered, you noticed Steve and Bucky sitting with serious expressions.

“What?” you asked, feeling a twinge of anxiety as both men locked eyes on you the moment you walked in.

Steve exchanged a glance with Bucky before he spoke up. "We found a comment that mentioned our divorce," Bucky said, his voice low.

“Oh,” you replied, crossing your arms defensively. “Does it also mention how you kidnapped me?”

Bucky chuckled, a small smile playing on his lips. “The things I’d do to bring you home.”

You rolled your eyes, refusing to be swayed by his charm.

“When we separated, did you ever tell anyone about our divorce?” Bucky’s tone grew more serious as he leaned forward, searching your eyes for the truth.

“Me?” You raised an eyebrow, the memory of Caroline’s threat flashing in your mind. “Did you forget that your mother threatened me not to tell anyone?”

The tension in the room thickened as you spoke. Caroline had made it clear she didn’t want the divorce to be public knowledge. She wanted you as far away from Bucky as possible, and she had the power to make it happen.

You’d learned quickly that fighting her was futile. Every news station and newspaper in the country had mysteriously closed their doors to you after the separation, leaving you with no choice but to pursue a career as an independent international journalist.

“That woman is ambitious as hell,” you muttered under your breath. Caroline’s wealth and connections were unmatched, and she wasn’t afraid to use them. She had even used Julius’s money to secure people who would do her bidding. Once you left the country, it seemed she lost interest in you, allowing you to continue your work in relative peace.

Working alone as a journalist in foreign countries had its challenges, but it also opened your eyes to the world. You found purpose in being a voice for the unfortunate, using your platform to shed light on the truth. Along the way, you met new friends, formed new connections, but you never let slip the truth about your marriage or divorce. The scars left on your heart were too deep, and the thought of trusting another man terrified you.

'What’s the point of having a husband if he can’t protect and defend me? you thought bitterly, the pain still fresh.

But perhaps, in a moment of vulnerability, you’d let a clue slip. You couldn’t lie to fellow journalists; they had a way of sensing the truth.

“What about your family?” you shot back, narrowing your eyes at Bucky. “Don’t just point fingers at me.”

For Bucky, the divorce was never acknowledged. He even burned the documents in the fireplace, a secret known only to him and God.

His parents, especially Caroline, were too embarrassed to admit their golden child had been divorced, while Julius, who never agreed with the divorce in the first place, remained silent.

Shawn, his oldest brother, was too high to care, and Hazel never bothered with such matters.

“It wasn’t my side either,” Bucky said, his voice steady as he locked eyes with you.

“Suit yourself,” you replied, your tone laced with a mixture of defiance and resignation.

“Sooner or later, the person who wrote it will show up,” Bucky added, his voice calm but carrying a cold edge.

“How can you be so sure?” you asked, a flicker of unease crossing your face.

Bucky merely shrugged, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “If they take too long, I’ll use my way to find them.”

A chill ran down your spine at his words, the threat lingering in the air. You knew what he was capable of, and the thought of him resorting to his methods sent a shiver of fear through you.

Steve, sensing the tension, stepped in, patting Bucky’s shoulder in a calming gesture. “Let the cyber team do their job. We don’t need you taking any extreme measures, especially with the convention so close.”

Steve understood Bucky better than most. While Bucky might present a soft, composed exterior, inside he was a beast—a man unafraid to take risks, to do whatever it took, especially when it came to you. The lengths he would go to protect what was his were both terrifying and awe-inspiring.

But Steve also knew the stakes. If the truth got out—that the future Vice President’s family, particularly Bucky's mother, had abused his wife to the point of divorce, and that the wife, thought to be widowed, had been kidnapped before the election—it would destroy the perfect image the Barnes family had worked so hard to maintain.

And it wouldn’t just affect Bucky; it would drag you down with him.

It would be the scandal of the century.

That’s why, before it could escalate, they had to find the source.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

The Barnes family gathered in the opulent conference room, tension crackling in the air like a live wire. Everyone was present, except for Shawn, who, as usual, was nowhere to be found.

Greg stood at the head of the table, flipping through his notes. “Well, after the Rogers family makes their appearance, it’s time for the Barnes to take the stage.”

“Of course,” Caroline chimed in, her voice sharp with authority. “All of us need to be up there.”

“Me too?” you asked, directing your question to Greg.

“Yes,” Bucky interjected before Greg could respond. “We’ve prepared the ramp for Tim’s wheelchair.”

Before you could even register the thoughtfulness behind Bucky’s statement, Caroline’s voice sliced through the room, dripping with venom. “No. It will ruin the balance. Everyone else can stand on their feet. While…”

“You know what? I hope you die and rot in hell!” you snapped, your voice ringing with years of pent-up anger.

The room froze, every head snapping in your direction. Caroline’s eyes widened in disbelief, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “Did… Did you hear that? She cursed me!”

You didn’t back down, the rage pouring out of you like a dam breaking. “So you’d rather parade your cocaine-addicted son who crashed his car and killed someone than show my brother who, despite losing a leg, works tirelessly from nine to five?”

Caroline was too stunned to reply, her face draining of color. Bucky, though usually stoic, couldn’t keep the anger from his voice. “You’re out of line, Mom. Tim is her only family left.”

Hazel, normally indifferent, nodded in agreement. “This time, I’m with them.”

Caroline, her voice trembling with indignation, shot back, “Is this how you treat your own mother?”

“No, Carol,” Julius said, his voice cold and cutting, “this is what we call karma.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened as he fought to control the emotions boiling beneath the surface. “She’s been in the same position as you,” he said, a lump forming in his throat as memories of his mother’s cruelty resurfaced. “You only felt that sting for three minutes, but my wife endured it for years.”

Caroline’s eyes narrowed, her fury now directed squarely at you. Her face flushed with rage, and you could almost see the steam rising from her ears. “So what? You want me to apologize?”

You met her gaze without flinching, your voice icy. “No. I don’t need your apology. It wouldn’t be enough to cover the pain I’ve suffered because of you. And honestly? I’d feel relieved if you died. If someone could confirm you’re burning in hell, it’d be the best news I’ve heard in years.”

Caroline, still believing she was the true victim, stormed out of the room, her heels clicking angrily on the marble floor. Julius and Hazel exchanged a glance before following her, leaving a tense silence in their wake.

Bucky watched them go, his fists clenched at his sides. He turned to you, his eyes searching yours for any sign of what you were feeling. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice softening for the first time that day.

You shook your head, the adrenaline still pumping through your veins. “I don’t know. It felt good to finally say what I’ve been holding in, but it doesn’t erase everything she’s done.”

Bucky nodded, stepping closer to you. “You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone. I should’ve stood up for you sooner.”

You looked up at him, the tension between you both palpable. “It’s too late for regrets, Bucky. We’ve both been through hell. The only thing that matters now is what we do next.”

He reached out, taking your hand in his. “Then let’s make sure this doesn’t break us.”

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Before the convention starts, the air buzzes with the anticipation of the event. As you stand in the corner of the vast convention hall, adjusting your outfit, a familiar voice calls out your name. You turn and see Ian, the British journalist you’ve met a few times before. His tousled hair and easy smile make him stand out in the crowd.

“Ian!” you greet him, a genuine smile spreading across your face. “What are you doing here?”

Ian chuckles, clearly pleased to see you. “I’m here to cover the election, of course. But, honestly, I jumped at the chance to come because I knew you’d be here.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “So, you flew all the way out here just for me?”

He grins, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “My boss didn’t believe me when I said I knew you. I had to show him a picture of us together just to convince him.”

You laugh again, feeling the warmth of his presence. “Well, I’m glad you made it. It’s been a while.”

As you and Ian catch up, the conversation flows easily, your shared ideas and interests making the time fly by. He tells you about his latest assignments, and you share some of your recent experiences. The banter between you is light and effortless, the kind that comes naturally with someone you’re comfortable with.

But then, you sense a shift in the air, and before you can react, Bucky appears at your side. He’s polite, as always, his smile perfectly in place, but you can sense the underlying tension in his posture. His eyes dart between you and Ian, and although he doesn’t say it, you know he’s not thrilled about the easy rapport between you and the British journalist.

“Hi,” Bucky says, his voice calm but laced with something you can’t quite place. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Just thought I’d come by and check in.”

Ian extends his hand to Bucky with a friendly smile. “Ian, nice to meet you.”

Bucky shakes his hand, his grip a bit firmer than necessary. “Likewise. I’ve heard a bit about you.”

There’s a brief, almost imperceptible moment of silence, where you can feel Bucky’s eyes on you. His polite smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and you can tell he’s itching to separate you from Ian.

“Well,” Ian says, oblivious to the tension, “I should get going. Need to find my spot before the chaos begins.” He turns to you, his smile warm and genuine. “Let’s catch up properly after this?”

You nod, still smiling. “Definitely. See you around, Ian.”

As Ian walks away, Bucky’s gaze follows him, his jaw tightening slightly. Once Ian is out of sight, Bucky’s shoulders relax, but only a fraction. He turns to you, his expression unreadable.

“You two seem close,” Bucky says, his voice carefully neutral, but you don’t miss the hint of something more beneath the surface.

“We’ve met a few times,” you reply casually, though you can sense Bucky’s unease.

He nods, but his eyes narrow slightly, as if something about Ian doesn’t sit right with him. Deep down, Bucky’s instincts are on high alert. There’s something about Ian—something he can’t quite put his finger on—that doesn’t add up. And as much as he tries to push it aside, the feeling gnaws at him, making him wonder if Ian’s presence here is as innocent as it seems.

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[progenycursed]

OHHH I LOVE PALE KING AS A CHARACTER AND I LOVE YOUR TAKE ON HIM, I AM EATING GOOD TONIGHT

If it isn't a spoiler for the comic, does he ever realise he was wrong about the vessels? And what do you think was his reasoning for escaping into the dream realm with his palace?

Thank you! I wanted a different take on his character than what I usually see. And I loved the idea of a god that doesn’t act regal because who’s going to stop him? So it’s great to hear people enjoying this hyper deep-in-denial nerd I have created. Now onto the lore dump!

I won’t say when for story reasons, but yes, he does eventually realize he was wrong about the Hollow Knight being mindless.

For the explanation for him being in the dream realm, it wouldn’t be covered in Progeny Cursed so I can let my chronic can’t-shut-the-fuck-up-itis run wild on this one.

As for why he entered his dream realm, it was his backup plan for catastrophic failure. When he realized the Hollow Knight plan wasn’t going to work, he had to come up with another way to keep his people safe. Since fully ascended higher beings can’t enter another's dream realm without them knowing and allowing it, it was his only option.

His plan was to pull all his still living citizens into his dream realm until it safe to bring them back out. But he needed to research how as he didn’t know enough about the dream realm to do such a feat. He needed time and data. His best source of information was from Unn, but even she wasn’t sure how to pull living mortals into a dream. But it was all he had to go on, so he did test after test to learn how best to do it. He learned no one who was even remotely infected could enter his dream. They had to be untouched. And he would need to pull in physical objects as well so the mortals could actually walk on something.

As the infection was getting worse, he began moving citizen to the palace. Those who had already lost their families, homes, towns were offered a safe place in the palace. Anyone willing to was allowed in as well. As being closer to him lowered the chances of them falling to the Radiance. Many in the city, especially the upper class, decided to stay in their homes.

He decided to run a larger trial on how to get people into his dream before committing to the final pull. When he ran the test, something went wrong. Instead of just the few volunteers, everyone along with the palace, was pulled in. Since it wasn’t his plan at that time to pull the entire palace in, some of it was left behind. Along with anyone or thing just outside it.

Worst of all, he pulled himself in. Without an anchor in the physical world, he couldn’t get anyone out, including himself. They were all stuck inside, and no one else could get in. Most, didn’t even know what had happened. Many thinking he had abandoned them. And all he could do was watch them all fall to Radiance from his dream realm.

But I don’t think this was his only backup plan. >:)

Has anyone ever been confused by the lore tablets in King’s Pass? When I first played the game, I thought higher beings was referring to those who had their minds given to them by the Pale Kings blessing. They became higher than animals. Then I learned that higher beings are the gods.

But then that lead to new problems. Any higher being that came from beyond the borders would know that there was a world beyond. They wouldn’t lose their mind outside of Hallownest. And the tablet about ‘only this kingdom could produce ones such as you’ would just be our right wrong. No foreign higher being would read these and believe them.

Then it clicked for me. The only group all these tablets would cover, is the vessels. They are technically higher beings so they could read these tablets. They are the only beings we have seen that can focus soul to heal. They were made within the Kingdom of Hallownest. And Ghost lost their memories beyond the borders, lost part of their mind. These tablets were made for them. And they were all trying to convince them to enter Hallownest.

Now why would the Pale King want vessels to return to Hallownest? How would he know these vessels would specifically come from the Howling Cliffs into King’s Pass? Why would he not want them to hide themselves? It’s almost like, he knew it was going to happen, and he wanted to lead them to something…

Lore Tablets referring to Higher Beings:

Higher beings these words are for you alone-

-(Kings Pass) Your strength marks you amongst us. Focus your soul and you shall achieve feats which other can only dream

->If you made it this far, you can heal by the way

-(Kings Pass) Within our lands do not hide you true form. Let all bask in you majesty, for only this kingdom could produce ones such as you

->Don’t hide your face or form. As this is the place you came from

-(Kings Pass) Beyond this point you enter that land of king and creator. Step across this threshold and obey our laws. Bear witness to the last and only civilization, the eternal Kingdom. Hallownest.

->Past here, you enter the land of the king that created you. Once you enter, obey the laws

-(Howling Cliffs) These blasted plains stretch never ending. There is no world beyond. Those foolish enough to traverse this void must pay the toll and relinquish the precious mind this kingdom grants

->There is nothing out there, to leave is to lose the mind this land gives you

-(Abyss) Our pure vessel has ascended. Beyond lies only the refuse and regret of its creation. We shall enter that place no longer

->Don’t look what’s past this door.

[theladyofdeath]

Lady Death's Lover {V}

Lady Death's Lover Masterlist & Summary

19th Century Period AU Nesta x Cassian Secret Affair / Enemies to Lovers / Forbidden Romance Fanfiction / Characters from Sarah J Maas / ACOTAR Based on a prompt sent in by anonymous

A/N: This chapter is slightly NSFW. No one under the age of 18 should be reading this story. Thank you to everyone who reads, comments, likes, and/or reblogs! I'm glad you're enjoying the story and hope you continue to do so! x

TW: marital abuse, sexual content, language, depression, alcohol abuse

This story is for readers 18+. Mature readers only. Content should not be read by anyone under 18.

Dear Emerie,

I hope you’re enjoying your time away. Just know that we miss you here in the city, but I hope your travels are everything you want them to be. I cannot wait for you to return and tell Gwyn and I all about your thrilling endeavors. She is convinced that you have found someone in which your soul cannot live without, but I have assured her that it is nothing more than a foreign fling.

I cannot wait to see who is right!

To answer your very thoughtful questions, I am doing just fine. You know how Tomas is, but he is busy with his business and I find peace in the distance that brings between us. I have found myself wondering one thing — what is it like to attend a ball as an unmarried lady? We used to have little get-togethers in my village, of course, but nothing as grand as the balls in Velaris. I used to love to dance and each time I attend one of these gatherings I cannot help but daydream of dancing once again. Of course, it is not common for a married lady to dance, and Tomas would never. It is a lovely thought though, isn’t it? I know you are content with your life as a spinster (which I admire), but even you love a good turn about the dancefloor. 

Perhaps one day I will be privileged enough to just get a tease of what it is like.

Write back soon. Be safe. We miss you!

With Love,

Nesta 

Nesta

I hate luncheons. Especially women-only luncheons. The only perk is that I don’t have to attend them with Tomas, but that is by far the only perk. All of these women think they’re better than me and each other. Every one of them has something shoved so far up their asses that I’m surprised they can still walk. 

They’re all talking about their husbands, how amazing they are, how perfect their lives are, but I can’t seem to contribute to the conversation. I may be forced to be here by my husband but I’m not about to praise his name. 

As I sip my lemonade, I let my mind drift back to where it’s been, repeatedly, constantly, for the past week. Ever since he left my home, ever since I ran into him outside just after midnight, the image of him has been branded into my mind. It doesn’t matter if I’m awake or asleep, I can see his face, his smile, the intense look in his eyes as he looks at me. I can hear him saying my name, voice low and rough, like no man has ever said it before. 

I’ve dreamt of him, fell asleep every night to these fantasies that I can’t control. 

They started off seemingly innocent, the two of us dancing, touching tentatively, doing nothing more than following the same steps that everyone knows, getting lost in the music as we stare into one another’s eyes. That innocence didn’t last long; it quickly escalated. 

Last night had me writhing in my bed, needing friction, needing release, needing something far greater than what my fingers could offer. I worked myself roughly, imagining my fingers were his, imagining his cock was hard and inside me, pounding into me again and again, recklessly. 

I was no virgin when I married Tomas, and although he would claim otherwise, my husband in full denial, that means I know what I like. Laying with Tomas is a chore, one that I have never enjoyed, one that never lasts long or gives me any sort of satisfaction. I know what I like in bed, what I like from a man, and I have no doubt that a man like Lord Cassian can give me just that.

Not that it would ever happen.

Of course. I am a lady, the wife of a renowned lord, and a woman of high society would never act so immorally. 

I can dream, though. I can let those unholy thoughts fill my mind, imagine a man like Lord Cassian exploring every inch of my bare body while I fall into a state of utter ecstasy. 

“Lady Nesta?”

My eyes snap up and meet the Lady Cresseida’s from across from me. Her smile is sly and I’m tempted to match it with one of my own, but I don’t.

“Are you well? You look a little flush,” she continues, mockingly. 

“I am feeling a little under the weather,” I confess. A complete lie, but if they’re asking, I may as well take advantage of it. “Perhaps I’ll take my leave.” 

They all nod in farewell, but I know that none of them care. I, however, am overjoyed at the excuse to leave. I make haste, wasting no time as I rise to my feet and stride out of the home in which the luncheon is being held. 

The second I’m in my carriage, I call for my driver to take me home.

The long way.

But, it’s always the long way. I stopped asking a long time ago. Now, they just take me home the long way when I’m by myself. They just think I enjoy the scenery, find peace in a ride by myself in the quiet. Or, perhaps they know the truth, that I loathe my husband and hate being in his presence, in his home, our home, and they just keep quiet about it.

I wonder what the help talks about when they’re alone, when they’re in their own quarters, far away from us. I wonder if they truly hate me, if they hate Tomas. I wonder what they think of our marriage, if they know it’s as awful as it truly is.

I’ll never know. I’ll never ask. Either way, I’m grateful that they drive me the long way home.

As soon as the wheels begin wobbling down the cobblestone, I lean back against the bench and close my eyes. The velvet lined seats are soft enough to relax on, and the moment I’m comfortable, I let my mind wander. 

Back to him.

His hands.

His cock.

I know I’m pitiful, know that these fantasies mean absolutely nothing and the reality of my life, my marriage, is still in shambles. But they’re a small reprieve, because if I cannot control my reality, at least I can control my thoughts to a certain extent. 

Those thoughts drift to Lord Cassian.

We don’t know each other and we surely never will. Perhaps that’s what makes him the perfect candidate for these fantasies, for these wandering thoughts. He’s a stranger, one that I’ve gotten a feel for, certainly, but still a stranger. 

I wonder what he looks like nude. I’ve tried to imagine it many times, have pictured what I thought, but I imagine it doesn’t compare to the reality of his body. He’s muscular, of that I have no doubt, and the part that matters most is long, thick, and wielded like a weapon. 

I don’t even realize that I’m inching up my skirts until my hand has made its way into my undergarment and the tip of my finger grazes my throbbing clit. I circle it slowly, biting my lip to keep myself silent. I’ve touched myself more in the last week than I have in the last decade but I have no shame. 

It’s hard to feel shame when your senses are alive and thriving. 

Sex is not bad. It is not a sin to feel desire, although my husband would claim otherwise. In fact, he claims that women should find no pleasure whatsoever when it comes to sex, which seems to be the reason why the focus is never on me when he visits my room. No, he does what he likes until he gets off, having no idea how to truly please a woman.

Lord Cassian — the man I have made up in my mind this last week?

He knows how to please a woman.

He knows how to leave her gasping, screaming, how to make the eyes roll back in her head. He knows how to make her back arch, how to make her toes curl, how to make her cry out for the gods, the Mother, the Cauldron. He knows how to make that little feeling, wild and unruly, go mad in the pit of a woman’s stomach until she can no longer contain herself, until her heart is bursting out of her chest and she’s seeing stars. 

He knows how to make a woman find release and he doesn’t stop until she’s found it. 

I grip the plush velvet seat cushion as I squeeze my legs together, trapping my hand within. We hit a bump in the road and I jolt, but it only adds to the madness that I’m currently drowning myself in. 

My other hand joins my first and I pump two fingers deep inside of me, working in tandem with the one still making joyous circles over that sensitive bundle of nerves. A long string of words falls from my mouth in a devout whisper, words that would bring shame to my husband and his name, words that no lady should voice but I cannot help it.

His face is in my mind, his smile unfurling behind my closed lids. His body is bare and his hands are roaming my body, every stripped inch of me. I call out his name and he urges me on, thriving on my indecent vocalization. 

Within the confines of my coach, I throw a hand over my mouth to muffle what I cannot control while I find my release with those loyal, fervent fingers of mine. I keep moving until my body grows limp, that intensity that makes me feel alive fading into nothingness yet again. I smooth out my skirts and lean back against the bench, fighting to catch my breath. 

I wonder if my driver suspects anything but find that I don’t care. No one would ever dare tell Tomas, would not dare anger the Lord Mandray. 

No one would be that idiotic. It would be a death sentence, the messenger every bit at fault as I.

I can’t help myself. I laugh.

I break into such a fit of laughter that I fear I’m going insane, but oh, it feels so good to laugh! 

I laugh until tears are rolling down my cheeks and my sides begin to hurt, and it’s only when I collect myself that I realize it was the first time I had laughed in a long, long while. It feels good to laugh, as mad as I may seem. There is something utterly triumphant about feeling pure, demented joy. 

Staring out the window, I watch Velaris pass by as we make our way back to House Mandray. By the time we arrive, all of my wonderful, demented joy has faded.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Cassian

“What do you mean you’re not going?”

We’re sitting around Azriel’s dining room table, feasting on roasted chicken, when my brothers decide to insert themselves into my personal business, yet again.

“I’ve been to two balls this season.” I sigh, stabbing a carrot. “I don’t need to attend another.”

Azriel and Rhys look at one another, concern written plainly on their faces, but I pretend I don’t see it.

“Besides,” I continue, “none of the ladies have caught my eye this season. It is a waste of time.”

“But you love to dance,” Azriel says, the same time Rhys says, “but you love to drink.” 

It’s true. I adore both of those things, but I know where the next ball is being held, and even I am not courageous enough to step foot into the Mandray’s house again.

Nothing untoward happened with Nesta and I in the garden, but it was inappropriate, nonetheless. I was a little tipsy after my closed door meeting with Tomas, but I still had my wits about me. I know that I should not have been alone with Nesta, but I couldn’t stop myself.

From the moment I saw her under the starlight, I was gone. 

“I thought your meeting with Tomas went well,” Rhys pushes, buttering his roll. The same roll that he’d already been buttering for over a minute.

“It did,” I say, and leave it at that.

They, however, will not leave it at that.

“Then this has to do with the wife,” Azriel says, mouth full of potatoes.

It’s only the three of us.

Manners be damned.

Across from him, Rhys’ eyes light up and swivel back in my direction. “Ah, the wife. Lady Mandray. Did you come on to her again?”

I drop my knife and fork with a clatter and rub my temples. “No, I did not flirt with Nesta.”

“Nesta?” They both repeat in unison, and I instantly realize my mistake.

“Lady Mandray,” I correct myself using her formal title, “and I simply do not see what she has to do with my absence.”

“You have always been a terrible liar,” Rhys quips, clearing his plate. “But, if you wish to live in a state of deception, so be it.” 

“I’m not—” I take a deep breath before I can let my frustration take control. I’ve always been prone to anger, as much as I loathe the fact. “I’m not lying. I simply do not wish to attend a party when I can be home, working.”

Drinking in solitude is more like it, but that’s beside the point. 

“Work is all well and good but you must allow yourself to have fun every now and again,” Azriel says, his tone as skeptical as Rhysand’s. “Besides, haven’t we established that it’s about time you marry?”

“If it’s time I marry, it’s time we all marry,” I grumble. 

Azriel suddenly looks horrified while Rhys chokes on his wine. I know that neither of them are ready to be a husband, although we are all quickly approaching our third decade of life. Rhys sometimes pretends that he is, but when it comes down to it, I cannot even imagine him with any of the women of the ton. 

No young lady could handle Rhysand.

Azriel is different. I cannot tell if he’ll ever marry. It’s not that he has never been in a relationship or that he is incapable of love. He loves stronger than perhaps anyone I have ever known. I’ve always felt that is the very reason why he keeps himself so guarded. The only people he’s ever truly let get to know him are me, Rhys, Mor, and Amren. There was a time when he pined after Mor, but that was so long ago. 

“I am perfectly content as I am,” I go on, trying to convince them or myself I am not certain. I pick up my silverware yet again and make another attempt at finishing my supper. My carrots have gone cold. I hate cold carrots. 

“Back to the ball,” Rhys says, sitting back in his chair and stretching out his legs. “You’re going.”

“I am not going.”

“If you’re not going, then we do not go. If we do not go, we will be sad.”

“Your sadness is none of my concern.”

“Now you’re just being mean.” Rhys pours himself another glass of wine while Azriel’s eyes swivel between us. “If this is about Lady—”

“Lady Mandray is none of my concern.” Perhaps I should have waited for his sentence to end before mine began, but I have never been good at holding my tongue. 

“If she is none of your concern, then you will join us,” he says, smoothly, and he knows he’s already won before I even begin to resign. “We will drink their champagne and dance across their perfectly polished floors until sunrise while we are still young enough to do so.” 

Azriel finally finishes his third plate of food and sits back with a groan as I sigh. “You’re intolerable.” 

“He takes that as a compliment, you know,” Azriel murmurs, and I’m afraid he’s correct. There’s always been a darkness to Rhysand. Not an evilness, never evil, but a certain…edge. A certain slyness, a manipulation of sorts. In another life, I’m convinced he ruled his own kingdom. 

Kingdoms.

“I will join you,” I say, at last, and Rhys grins as he dwells in his victory.

I, however, feel nothing but unease. The thought of seeing Lady Nesta again so soon both excites and revolts me. I haven’t been able to get her face out of my mind, haven’t been able to shake that feeling that I had when I spoke to her.

Even though I was lost and she surely thinks me a fool.

No matter. She can think me a fool as long as she’s thinking of me.

The Mother knows I’ve been thinking about her. 

[sunlightmurdock]

I was studying for way too long in my school library the other day and my head wandered…library study rooms are really nice and quiet.

So thot: Jake bringing lunch to Apollo while she’s using a library study room for hours because she hasn’t eaten all day and she seems stressed. So he goes in and tried to clear her head the best way he knows how. 2 minutes later, she’s on his lap skirt gathered up around her waist, clutching onto his shoulders for dear life, biting her lip to keep from screaming as he’s moving her hips up and down on his cock.

Her head is sufficiently clear after that :D

As someone who thought about this all the mf time as a burnt out law student, I screamed at this. But we all know that Apollo isn’t just some student. So, it’s like 2am, she’s the only one left in the library and her security are basically passed out waiting for her to be done. Jake checks his watch and lets out a big sigh, shaking his head and walking away.

He returns with some water and some snacks, letting himself into the room and swinging the door shut behind him.

“Honey, you either need to take a break and eat, or you need to let me take you home.”

“No! I just — can’t — fucking focus long enough to finish this section.” She growls as he sets the items down on the table.

Jake tugs at her wrist and pulls her up from the chair, setting her back down in his lap. He pushes the water towards her, pressing his lips softly to her shoulder. “You want me to read it?”

And so she sits on his lap, sipping at water and picking at a box of cut fruit as he reads through her essay with an arm draped loosely around her waist. Jake tells her what makes sense and which parts had him a little lost, he murmurs into the crook of her jaw how smart she is and then asks if she’ll let him take her home yet.

She shakes her head, a definite no.

“I can’t let you stay here all night.”

“I just need to finish this part but it’s all starting to look like gibberish to me. The word ‘the’ doesn’t even look real to me anymore.” She mumbles, shifting around to straddle him just so that she can press her face into his neck and rest her eyes for a moment.

“What can I do to help?”

And then she’s running her fingertips along his arms, tracing the veins on them all the way up to the short sleeves of his white tee, and giving him that look. He glances quickly around for cameras and then kisses her, grinning with amusement.

Quickly enough, her skirt is bunched up around her middle and Jake’s jeans are unbuttoned and pushed down just enough. She’s pressing her face into his neck, trying to muffle the sound of her moans against his tanned skin as she bounces on his cock.

Jake’s brows are knitted together in concentration as he guides her hips with a steady hand, trying his best to keep quiet as his other hand works uniformed circles around her clit.

It’s then as she’s breathing hard into his shoulder, coming down from her high, that she has that lightbulb moment. She sits up quickly and gasps a foreign sounding name.

“What?” Jake frowns at her, tucking himself back into his jeans as she shoves him back out of the seat.

“The theory that I couldn’t remember. I’ve got it. Thanks, Jake.” She doesn’t even have time to look at him, going right back to furiously typing away on the laptop. Proud of himself, you already know that Jake’s smirking and kissing the top of her head.

“Any time.” He grins, turning back around to leave her to it. Twenty minutes later, the paper’s done and everyone’s finally allowed to go home

[eleanorblythe]

Wicked Game - Emmrich Volkarin x Original Female Character (Rook) - Chapter 10

The fallout of Weisshaupt.

You can also read on Ao3 - here

Chapter 10 - Hard Truths

Time was often a foreign concept to Emlygil. Her home lived outside of time, in its own protective bubble. She herself was unaffected by the passage of time, she looked and felt no different from when she turned fifty to when she turned two hundred and fifty. The lighthouse itself was situated in a pocket of the fade, there was no true day or night. No time. It could (and had) try to simulate time to help its inhabitants sleep easier, but it was all an illusion.

Waiting for news from Weisshaupt, everyone was suspended in this fiction of time. Emlygil, alone in her room, knew nothing. Not what had happened, not if there were any survivors, not even how her team was doing. She was thankful and flattered that her team did at least know her well enough not to pry or attempt to console. No one had come to check on her, which was just as well seeing as when she caught her reflection in her vanity - she looked like hell.

Her eyes were bloodshot red, her skin was pale and blotchy, combined with the red scratches down her face, a couple had started to bleed slightly. She filled her basin with ice cold water and dunked her head under. It was somewhat peaceful, despite the chill and the rapidly dwindling oxygen.

She wondered why her thoughts now constantly drifted to thoughts of harm. She had to rationalise a lot of the cause had to be due recent events, to go from a quiet privileged life to witnessing so much horror and death, to be thrust into an impossible battle where the choices were fight or die.

There was seldom a chance to stop and breathe. To process. To heal. The few opportunities she had to stop…the vitriol, the hatred the viciousness was overwhelming. She had no way to combat or confront it, no previous experiences to draw on and she would be damned if she were to ask anyone for help.

And so she endured it. In the vacuum of time. In the silence of the water.

She thought she heard knocking and brought her head above water.

“Emlygil?”

Harding.

“We have word. We’re meeting in the dining hall.” She heard footsteps recede and once again approached the mirror. She looked the same as before, now just wet. There was not a chance she would let anyone see her like this. Ever. Emlygil crafted a quick glamour that she had often used back home, for dinner parties and social occasions. It was usually used to enhance the blue of her eyes or slightly elongate the tips of her ears, but for now she simply restored her normal appearance.

She left her room at the same time as Emmrich. Even he seemed deflated and affected by what happened. He didn’t greet her with his usual cheery disposition, he didn’t try to make any conversation at all, just gave her a small sympathetic smile and walked silently in step with her, hands behind his back as hers were laced in front of her. They remained close together, their arms and shoulders brushing together occasionally. They both tensed as it happened, but after such a harrowing experience they didn’t have the energy or the want to panic or withdraw. They continued walking, not speaking or even acknowledging the other was there. Just feeling each other beside them was enough.

He opened the hall door for her and guided her with the ghosts of his fingertips at her back. She hated that she felt that familiar fizzing sensation on the spot where he touched her, even through several layers of clothing. She hated that she liked it. She took her seat at the head of the table and waited until everyone was settled before flicking her eyes to Harding, giving a small nod that she could proceed.

______

“Evka sent word. Last of the civilians made it to Lavendel. Janos and his people held the line long enough for them to escape Weisshaupt. And the Wardens are in Lavendel too.” Harding looked over to Davrin who was staring contemplatively into the fire.

“What’s left of them, you mean. Over a thousand…that’s how many fellow Wardens I had. And now…One god. One Archdemon. That’s all it took to nearly wipe out our entire order.”

Emlygil hadn’t said anything, she was looking at the water pitcher in front of her, saw how the flames danced and reflected off the shining metal. Although she looked distracted, Emmrich could see the piercing intent behind her eyes, that told him, she was taking in everything that was being said.

He learned quickly that she was uncomfortable expressing (or experiencing) any kind of sentiment or emotion that could (in her eyes) make her appear as anything akin to weak. She must always be in control. Always be above such petty and trifling things. Always keep those walls high and secure. Emmrich imagined it was exhausting, he would have said he pitied her, if he was sure she wouldn’t kill him, for even thinking such a thing.

“We’ll make them pay.” Neve said determinedly after Davrin’s bleak words hung uncomfortably in the air. Davrin nearly scoffed.

“How? We all saw what she did. That’s beyond…” he took a deep breath, it seemed Davrin was struggling to express his true feelings as well, hiding behind his heroic persona, to mask his deep pain and loss.

“We killed her Archdemon though, that’s something isn’t it?” Bellara, bless that dear girl’s heart, stepped in to try to comfort.

“Yeah. After it turned into a snake monster with too many heads!” Taash added, trying to temper their own panic. “Are all blighted dragons going to do that? I don’t know how to fight that!”

“Well, at least we’ve made Ghilan’nain mortal.” Emmrich added. Trying to follow Bellara’s example of finding the positives.

“Mortal or immortal. It doesn’t matter if we can’t get close enough. We had our shot at her. And we missed.” Davrin lamented.

So much for positivity.

“Say what you mean, Davrin. I missed.” Lucanis, who had been silently stewing at the end of the table, finally spoke up. He sounded simultaneously upset and pissed.

“Nobody blames you for that Lucanis.” Harding, who had also jumped aboard the positivity train, chimed in.

“Yeah?” Davrin asked sarcastically. “Maybe I do. This crow has a demon inside him, right?” Anger rising.

“Now that’s not-“ Harding tried to cut in.

“How do we know we can trust him? Maybe the demon pulled his punches.”

“Okay, hold on! Now we’re getting-“ Bellara would do anything to avoid an argument.

“And you Warden? What about the blight that runs through your veins? The same blight that chokes my city. The same blight that Ghilan’nain commands so effortlessly.” Lucanis accused.

“Just a moment. Please-“ Emmrich implored but he knew it was pointless.

“Yeah you’re right, Lucanis.” Davrin sat up straighter in his chair, taut and ready to pounce. “I’m actually in league with these gods, that’s why I let them take out almost the entirety of the Grey Wardens. An ancient order of the best warriors fighting to keep even people like you alive, while your city is full of cut-purses and assassins-“

Lucanis twitched and shook his head, his eyes started to glow faintly purple. Spite.

“Oh ho ho! The good little solider wants to play martyr now? Maybe that’s why you didn’t die when you stabbed that Archdemon, elf boy, it knew you weren’t worth shit!”

“You son of a bitch-“ Davrin and Lucanis (or Spite) were about to leap from their chairs and fight when a huge banging and crashing noise pulled everyone’s attention. Even the purple faded out of Lucanis’ eyes as they turned to see Emlygil’s fist still clenched from where she had pounded the table with such force that a nearby glass had been knocked to the floor and the glass had spread by her feet.

Emmrich, like everyone else, was surprised to see such an aggressive display from Emlygil, however what surprised and perhaps terrified everyone the most, was that she was just as quiet and placid as she had always been. Even more so now. It was quite chilling. She finally raised her eyes from the tipped over water jug she had been staring at, not even moving her head as she glared at both Davrin and Lucanis and uttered an incredibly low, quiet but deadly:

“Enough.”

Emmrich wasn’t entirely sure how the two men didn’t turn to stone. Her beautiful eyes, that he often mentally waxed poetic about and, privately, had tried to recreate by sketching in his journal, looked completely different - had taken on a new form of horrifying beauty. Gone were the crystalline, shimmering depths of different shades of blue, both guarded and open for all manner of folk to be pulled in and lost within her gaze. Now her eyes were almost completely black, still able to pull people in by their arresting gaze, if only to devour them.

She blinked again and the darkness started to seep out of the edges, some of that cool blue returning to her. Emmrich suddenly noted that Emlygil was very deliberate when she blinked. She was quite reptilian, in that, she only appeared to blink when she wanted to, often to disarm or reassure or frighten- just another layer in how every aspect of her down to the tiniest detail was calculated and controlled. Emmrich marvelled at this revelation - it was no wonder she struck so many people as otherworldly or strange. He recalled a brief conversation he had had with Taash about it.

“I dunno man, she just doesn’t seem human half the time.”

“Well she isn’t, Tassh, she’s an elf.” Emmrich had tried to quietly correct her in an effort to get Taash lower their own voice, lest Emlygil overhear.

“Come on, you know what I mean. It’s creepy!”

“She’s just a private person, Taash.”

“No, it’s not just that, it’s just…surely you must see it too?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Oh please, I see how you sometimes flinch as she glides right by you. Or how you seem to hang on her every word, like you’re enthralled…It’s because she a witch.” Taash snapped her fingers and said like they had just figured out a mystery with a satisfying answer that somehow explained everything.

“She’s not a witch. And don’t call her that.” He defended her, indignant for her.

“Then you give me a better explanation.”

Emmrich was loath to say, he didn’t have one.

“This squabbling is getting us nowhere.” Emlygil cut through the silence and tension with a voice barely above a dark whisper. “If we turn on each other then the gods have already won. Chaos helps the gods and hurts us. It will get us killed, one by one. So that is enough.” She looked at Davrin and Lucanis again, both looking like scolded children. “We need to figure out how to defeat them.”

“We’re all in agreement on that point, Emlygil.” Emmrich started, feeling the ice of her stare. For a moment he wondered if she would glare at him, for interrupting her, but then she blinked slowly at him and he knew that was his invitation to continue. “But the question remains - how? We barely survived against one of the gods.”

“I nearly had her.” Lucanis said as he crossed his arms.

“Nearly. But Spite is a creature of raw emotion. Your turmoil over what befell Treviso, feeds him. Both of you vying for control…it’s no wonder you missed such a rare opportunity.”

“I think we’ve all been distracted.” Harding joined the conversation again.

“I’ve been preoccupied myself, after discovering that Hand of Glory,”

“And I can’t stop worrying about my new magic and what I means.”

“Or what the Venatori are up to in Dock Town.” Neve conceded.

“Until those problems are resolved, we will not be prepared to face the gods. A moment of inattention - a single lapse - could prove fatal. And the gods will allow no second chances.”

Emlygil knew he was right, but couldn’t help feeling bitter. She had come to stop the gods, not play therapist to everyone else’s problems. She also knew that her so called ‘distraction’ would have to go unresolved. She had done very little to ingratiate herself into the team, beyond what was strictly necessary, and while she could open herself up to the possibility of helping them and becoming a fraction more friendly, she was uncomfortable of the idea of them getting to know her too well.

Was this because of a deeply ingrained need of self-preservation or because she did not want to become vulnerable?

Neither. Both.

“We must be ready for them. But first we must find them. Harding, send word to Evka. See if she has any rested scouts.”

“Scouts? Why?” Harding asked.

“The darkspawn that attacked Weisshaupt had to come from somewhere. They will most likely return there. Following their trail should at least put us on the gods’ trail.”

“Got it.”

“As for-“

“Look. Nothing against Emmrich. He’s right about needing focus. But what happened at Weisshaupt, that was more than a distraction.” Davrin cut in.

“So is what happened to Treviso. What the blight has done to the city…to its people…”

“I agree.” Emlygil said her voice tinged with sadness, a reminder that it could easily be her own kingdom if they didn’t stop what was to come. Overrun by blight, then picked apart and destroyed by the rest of the world afterwards. “For now. We take a step back. Clear our heads.” She rose quickly after that, inviting no more discussion.

“Em, where are you going?” Bellara called out, slightly worried with how abruptly Emlygil rose and strode off.

“I’m going to talk with Solas.” She called out, not breaking her stride or looking back.

Everyone at the table watched her go then turned to each other a mix of confused, concerned and a little scared.

“Alright, so the elf has got some darkness in her. I kinda like it.” Taash said with a guffaw. “So do you think she’s coming back to clean up this glass or…?” Taash looked around for an answer and was met with grimaces. Emmrich silently got up and retrieved a dustpan and brush to sweep up the shattered glass that had been slightly trampled under Emlygil’s feet as she walked away.

It would be easy for many people to grow tired of Emlygil constantly blowing hot and cold - mostly cold, but for Emmrich it only made him want to know and understand her more. Why was she this way? What terrible pain was she hiding? Why did she constantly deny herself any feelings or emotions? Why did she feel like she had to be indomitable and immovable at every waking moment?

Why had he come to care so much for someone he barely felt he knew?

______

She settled against the cushions in the window seat and looked down at the lyrium dagger resting in her hand. She turned it over admiring its craftsmanship, before pressing the tip into the pad of her finger. She considered pressing down harder, to see if it would make her skin break, but decided against it and lay back to fall into meditation.

Solas looked at her, his expression unclear.

“You look terrible.” He finally said.

“I’m wearing a glamour.” She replied, just as bluntly.

“And I can see through it. I heard your cries of agony. They reverberated in my head, just as the fall of Weisshaupt and an Archdemon reverberated across the Fade. But unless I am mistaken, both Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain yet stand. That has shaken you. I also imagine morale within your team is shaken after what happened.”

“I believe we were overconfident in our abilities. They-I am scared.”

“You would be a fool not to be scared, these are gods, Emlygil, ancient and vengeful, and you-they are moral. With regards to, your team, if they are to succeed they must believe and know beyond any doubt that you believe in them. You cannot stand against the gods with logic. Those motivated by greed or self-interest will change alliances. But those that serve you with passion and loyalty will follow you wherever you lead. Even to their deaths if necessary.”

“I cannot ask that of them. I do not want their loyalty.”

“Why? You are a ruler, are you not?”

“These are not my people.”

“Ah. So the princess of Arlathan will only help her own?” He was mocking her.

“You cannot do that. I know it sounds cruel, and perhaps you think me no better than the humans who value and protect their own kind above all else, destroying that which is ‘other’…my world is all I have ever known and I have to do everything I can to protect it. My loyalty is to that, not these strangers.”

Solas regarded her, worried she was walking down the same path he was.

“I admit. I was guilty of obfuscating the truth about myself and my goals, I thought I had to shed any personal baggage and when I served the Inquisition, I tried to avoid entanglements.”

“Except for Inquisitor Lavellan.” She noticed the look of surprise in his eyes.

“I said that I resolved to do so, not that I succeeded. She is a good woman. Growing close to her was selfish of me.”

“And you regret it?” Hoping his answer would be yes, to affirm to herself that remaining detached was the best way to get through this. Solas knew this and considered lying to keep her focused on the task at hand, but he couldn’t, it was not fair to lie and to do so would be a betrayal of their feelings for one another.

“I live with countless regrets. Some of them I have come to cherish more than my victories.”

A half answer. A half truth. As was the Dread Wolf’s way. Emlygil bit her lip and avoided his gaze.

“Would it truly be so terrible to let these people love you, or for you to love them?” Solas finally asked.

“What good or purpose would that serve?” She asked caught off guard by the intensity in which Solas asked it.

“If for no other reason than to fill that gaping void within you. You wear a good mask, a glamour, of someone who needs no one, of someone who wants nothing more than to shed personal attachment and go forth in life not needing to consider anyone or anything other than yourself. You think that it frees you. But you are not that, Emlygil. You are lonely…and you are shackled by grief with it.”

“I am grieving because I have lost my parents! My home! Not because I seek companionship!” She defended, hating the quiver in her voice.

Don’t you dare cry! Don’t show him your weakness.

“Then why not let someone know that, let them comfort you-?”

“I don’t want their pity!” She shouted.

“They do not pity you, Emlygil. They only want to understand, to help…to love.”

“You are in my head, not theirs, you cannot possibly know what they want.” She snapped.

“Yes. I am in yours. And do you not think I have seen your dreams?” It was almost a taunt, from Solas.

Emlygil was frozen, in equal parts fear and embarrassment.

“You, honestly tell me, you do not wish for companionship?”

“You cannot seriously hold me accountable for what my subconscious conjures!” She spluttered.

“Perhaps not, but you cannot ignore what it made you feel, that longing for intimacy-“

“Don’t be so vulgar.” She retorted.

“I was not speaking of the physical aspects of intimacy, though I am sure you would find it…enjoyable. It is not a sensation you have experienced before, no?”

“I refuse to answer that.”

“Your obstinance to engage is answer enough.” He continued “I speak of the emotional intimacy. To wake up next to someone and know that you are safe and loved. To be seen and known as no one else can - that is what you crave. What you lie awake at night thinking of, as you try to will your body not to fall asleep, to stop yourself dreaming of it - of him - why do you fear it so much?”

“STOP!” She chocked. Her shout echoed loudly in the desolate space of the prison. Solas did look at her with pity, realising.

“You do not think you deserve it.” He said quietly.

“I came to ask for your guidance on what to do next regarding the gods, not have you pick apart my life and sense of worth. It is irrelevant. What do I do now?” She spoke firmly, ignoring the tears in her eyes, one knock away from spilling over.

“You know what is to be done. You have discussed it already. Build your team. Let them in. Help them. You cannot succeed if you are all divided.”

“And after that?”

“If you oppose Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain’s minions, you will get your opportunity.”

“You think one of the Antaam or Venatori commanders will help us find the gods?”

“Possibly, but more importantly, you will aggravate them. You rendered Ghilan’nain mortal at Weisshaupt. It is an embarrassment- an insult - neither she nor Elgar’nan can ignore. If you continue to disrupt their plans, you will not need to track them down. They will come to you.”

“I understand. Thank you.”

“One final warning: you have survived a confrontation with Ghilan’nain, which few still live to claim, but her power pales in comparison to Elgar’nan’s. If he takes the field himself…remember in a fight such as ours, escaping to fight another day is a victory.”

She opened her eyes, to her cheeks slightly damp. It seemed the prevailing opinion was that she needed to help and get to know her companions better. A prospect that filled her with dread. Not because she disliked any of them, but because eventually she would have to lower the drawbridge, even just a little and let them peer behind the mask.

She was terrified.

______

She thought of who to go to first and came to the conclusion that Neve was the most levelheaded and least emotional of all of them. Checking her glamour was still in place she sought out the detective.

She entered Neve’s office to find Lucanis already there. She suspected that the two of them were getting closer and felt as though she was intruding on something private.

“Neve - that coffee in the kitchen. You made it?”

“Keen eye.”

“Did you boil it? If so…why?”

“I’m not picky. I got a cup, and it does the job. That’s all I ask.” Neve, ever unpretentious.

“I…don’t know where to go with this,” Lucanis almost sounded more distraught about the poorly made coffee than he was about the state of his city.

“Maybe that’s how it’s made in Minrathous.” Emlygil offered, knowing absolutely nothing about coffee.

“Oh no, give Lucanis credit. It’s terrible.” Neve said with a smirk.

“You need a stronger word for terrible.” Lucanis grumbled.

“So what’s the coffee for?” Emlygil asked, trying to sound cheery.

“I’ve been looking into the Threads.”

“The Minrathous crime syndicate?” Lucanis asked, a bit surprised.

“Yeah. Smuggling, extortion, protection rackets - the Threads have fingers in the lot. They stay out of slavery and they’re decent about the rest. But something’s stirred them up. They’ve increased activity, changed their patterns…Dock Town’s in chaos. I have a contact, Elek, who wants to talk, and he doesn’t reach out for nothing.”

“I’d like to help. If I can.” Emlygil said trying not to sound bashful. Neve looked at her and raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“I’m not looking to drag you into this, Emlygil.” Neve said tentatively. She could tell Emlygil was wanting to lead by example, which Neve knew was challenging for her to be…social.

“For a city I helped to save from a dragon attack, I know very little of it outside of a single bar. I would like to help, and see more of your home.”

Never smiled, she was trying at least.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she said with a smile, perhaps she would finally get to know more about their mysterious leader.

“If you need more coffee, I’ll make it.” Lucanis quickly jumped in.

“Well now, is that sweet or trying to save me from myself?” Neve flirted.

“Let’s call it both.” Emlygil gave a shallow bow and left them to it. She decided next to see Davrin. She wasn’t sure what comfort she could realistically offer, but he was distraught, she needed to try.

She entered Davrin’s room and was immediately waylaid by Assan chirping and running to her to nuzzled against her. Much like Manfred, the companions of her companions gravitated towards her, and Assan was remarkably emotionally intelligent for such a young griffon. She smiled and fed her fingers through his feathers and looked up to see Davrin watching them, forlorn before turning back to his whittling.

“Davrin?” She asked as she cautiously approached. He didn’t answer her. She could understand that. “I’m sorry, about Weisshaupt. I wanted to see if you were alright.”

“I wouldn’t say that, no.” He then stepped back so Emlygil could see the three wooden carvings he had made. “That’s Rounald, Malmont. Anya. We used to argue. Who’d be the one to take an Archdemon down? Who’d die so that others could live? Not sure if any of us believed its actually happen.” She had never heard him talk this way before, she took a tentative step towards him.

“When the moment came, you did the Wardens proud.”

“Did I? Because I’m still here. They’re not.” He started to sound angry by the end. She could understand. She herself felt survivors guilt over all the soldiers who died protecting her and her family, that dreadful day.

“They died heroes, but that doesn’t mean that you aren’t one either.”

“I just need this to make sense. A Grey Warden kills an Archdemon, they die. That’s how it works.”

“I cannot say, Davrin. Maybe the gods changed things and the rules no longer apply. Is it truly so terrible that you’re still here with us?” She wondered if Davrin’s mind strayed even more to thoughts of harm and death than she did.

“I didn’t expect to still be here! Grey Wardens have an expiration. It pushed me!”

“There is still more of this battle to come.”

“And if we manage to pull that off?”

“Then you will continue to do what you do best: hunt monsters.” She offered.

“Plenty of people can do that! I’m talking purpose!” He shouted, “I feel like a blade sharpened all these years to confront the worst darkness in the world. And my blade struck true in Weisshaupt. What now?”

She realised she was struck with the same fear. If they failed and Arlathan was lost. What would she have? She would have no home and no family. She would be alone. Without joy. Without purpose. Her eyes fell to the ground as she pondered that fate and saw Assan’s bulging eyes looking up at her tilting his head curiously. She gave a small smile.

“Well, you’ll raise Assan to create a world where the light outshines the darkness.” She said quietly, not wanting to patronise him.

“Yeah? Well, let me tell you, that-will require a lot more gingerwort truffles.” He chucked. “I didn’t know you had it in you to be hopeful, Em.”

“Please don’t call me that.” She sighed. Assan gave a happy squawk and Davrin shook his head in disbelief.

“Guess we’re stuck with each other boy. No getting rid of me now.” Another squawk. “Someday I might actually know what that means.” He smiled at Emlygil, warmly.

“While you are differentiating between what each squawk means, perhaps you and Lucanis could try to resolve your…differences?”

“Yeah.” He agreed.

“He has suffered as well as you…as well as all of us.” She added quietly to herself.

“I know.” There was a moment where Davrin thought he might ask her how she felt, but he decided to drop it. He too understood that she was new to this ‘emotions’ business. “That was an incredible shot he took at Ghilan’nain.”

“You should tell him that.”

“Do you think he’d care?” He chuffed out a laugh.

“I think he would. I think it would help you as well. To share, to heal.”

“Would that include you too?” He couldn’t help but ask.

“I’m sorry?” She pretended she didn’t know what he meant.

“You know you don’t just have to fix our problems, we can help you, too.”

“That’s very gracious of you, but-“ she went to shut it down, but realised it would be counter productive to what she needed to do. “Thank you.” She decided to settle on.

“Anytime, Em.”

“But if you call me that again, I will have to kill you.” She half-joked. He barked out a laugh and pointed.

“And there she is. See you around, Emlygil.”

______

Emlygil was embarrassed to admit to herself that listening and talking about emotions had worn her out, and so she made for the tranquility of the courtyard with the great oak tree. She approached slowly, almost sluggishly but did walk around the large trunk to check she was alone.

She found Emmrich looking up at her, sat on a blanket with a small basket of food and a book resting in his hand.

“I heard you coming, this time,” Emmrich said with a small, knowing smile.

“Apologies, I shall leave you in peace.” She said hurriedly and turned to leave.

“If you are amenable, I would ask that you stay.” He called tentatively after her.

“Why?” She hadn’t meant to say it out loud. She looked down, and pressed her lips together, embarrassed. Emmrich stood up and took a small step forward, bending slightly to peer into her face. She sensed his searching and looked up.

“For the pleasure of your company.” He said softly. She couldn’t contain her look of surprise, she was so stunned that she nodded dumbly and took the hand he offered, leading her back to the blanket, and ensuring she settled comfortably. He sat down next to her, his long legs stretching out brushing up against hers. She didn’t know if it was deliberate or not. He lifted the basket and placed it in front of them.

“Are you hungry? I don’t believe you have eaten since this morning.” Emmrich asked. She was concerned and somehow flattered that he had noticed her eating habits. She looked at him, to see he was already watching her, watching for her reactions, watching for what she would say.

She should have been uncomfortable, a small part of her was, but she found herself drawn into his hazel eyes. She glanced between his eyes and his lips, and wondered for an absurd moment what they would taste like. Would he taste the same as he did in her dreams?

Stop it. To fantasise is one thing, but do not actually entertain the idea. Do not forget what he is.

“I’m starved.” She breathed. Emmrich was slightly taken aback by the intensity of her look and his mouth parted, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. He reached into the basket and offered her some figs.

“It’s not exactly substantial, but it will do for now, unless you would like me to fetch you something from the kitchen?” He made to get up.

“No.” She said a bit too quickly and lay her hand on his gloved arm to stop him from rising. Emmrich was astonished she had willingly touch him. As if realising her actions, she quickly withdrew her hand and settled against the trunk of the tree. “What are you reading?” She asked quietly.

“Oh. Um…” Emmrich wasn’t sure he wanted to admit to her what he was reading. He couldn’t have been more of a cliche. Instead of admitting it out loud he handed her the book. She took it carefully in her hands, like it was a precious object and read the cover.

“Faustina’s Song. I’ve never heard of it. What is it about?” She was so quietly curious when she wanted to be, like a much more subdued Bellara, Emmrich noticed.

“It’s an epic poem.” Emmrich informed her. She gave a confused smile and raised her eyebrows waiting for him to elaborate. “It is considered by many to be one of the greatest romantic epics of the Steel Age. The Necropolis had more than a few epitaphs that bear phrases from the it.”

She turned to look up at him again. They were so close, it would only take a short distance and they would…

“What makes it so special, there are plenty of romantic poets in the world?”

“Faustina’s Song is a beautiful ode, not only to romance, but to all shades and forms of love. In contrast to death, of which I am so often surrounded by in my day to day life, it is a wonderful measure by which we hold things most dear against.”

She shouldn’t have asked - She shouldn’t have asked something so personal, so intimate, so…romantic.

“Would you read some of your favourite passages to me?”

This time his mouth did hang much wider than would be considered polite. He wasn’t sure if she had meant to ask, and looking down at her, her questioning gaze did lend itself space to panic. She looked as if she was about to retract her request, and Emmrich quickly settled against the trunk next to her and flipped through the pages to find a section he could read. His deep swallow hidden by his high collar as he tried to find a part that would be appropriate for polite company, and not too sentimental or revealing.

He started to read aloud, nervously at first. As if he hadn’t been teaching and lecturing and delivering speeches most of his adult life. He cleared his throat as subtly as he could and continued reading. He quietly fumbled his way through a few stanzas and was thankful she was polite enough to silently endure his messy attempt. He came to a close and glanced her way to find a fond smile ghosting over her face.

“That was lovely.” She whispered. “Would you perhaps, permit me to hear more?”

The more he read, the more he settled in. He eventually stopped trying to find specific sections and just read along the story the epic was trying to tell. It was dusk when they had started and it was just starting to turn too dark to read, when Emmrich took a pause. She had sat and listened to him read nearly the entire poem. His throat was a little dry and he imagined she was quite uncomfortable now, after sitting on the ground for so long.

He put the book down and turned to look at her, but found that she was calmly asleep, her head resting against his arm and shoulder. He had been so focused on reading he hadn’t noticed her subtle warmth against his side or her scent filling his nostrils. He watched her then, wondering what to do. The decision was made for him as her eyes fluttered open and he saw her eyebrows quirk as she took in where she was. She rubbed her face against his arm, before feeling him shift and she leaned back.

“My goodness, I do apologise, Emmrich, you should have shoved me off.”

“I would never do that.” He said earnestly, and sat up straighter, angling his body towards her.

“You must think me a terrible audience. How rude of me to fall asleep like that. In truth, your voice was very soothing and after a day such as this I- I am sorry Emmrich.”

“No, it is understandable, I do not take offence.” She smiled and reached over to take the book resting limply in his hands.

“I could finish for you, if you would like, you have been speaking for so long, though I cannot promise I will have you flair for spoken performance,” she smiled shyly.

Dear gods. Did he love this woman?

That’s impossible, you just admitted to yourself earlier this very day that you knew next to nothing about this girl!

It was his turn to nod dumbly as he watched her sit straighter and fidget with her clothes and hair until she started to read aloud. Her voice was like warm honey over velvet, rich and smooth. Each word cradled with care, the soft cadence of her voice drawing him closer, as if every syllable was a secret meant just for him. Each breath like a gentle caress of her fingertips against his skin. She did not just recite the words beautifully, she breathed them into life. As if she was Faustina herself, wrapping him up in the very essence of love - gentle, yearning and completely enchanting.

When she finished she placed the book on her lap and released a soft sigh.

“That was…” Emmrich started, he didn’t have the words.

“Yes. It was.” She finished. She smiled up at him, but it was still tinged with uncertainty. Like she had lost herself in the moment and now reality had come to interrupt this moment between them. She shivered in the evening chill and slowly started to rise. Emmrich rushed to his feet to offer his hand, she almost didn’t take it, but she did not want to ruin what had been a beautiful evening.

She lightly laid her hand in his, feeling the leather or his glove and rings against her bare hand. She noticed that his glove had a small hole in the palm, experimentally she traced a finger around the edges of the cutout in his bare skin, feeling him tense and hearing his stifled gasp. She shook herself slightly, not quite believing she had let her intrusive thoughts take over.

“I am sorry again, I don’t know why I did that…” she wanted to flee, Emmrich saw her looking for a way to run, but he couldn’t bear to have that happen.

“Emlygil.” Emmrich stepped closer until he was toe to toe with her, he could practically hear and feel her heart hammering in her chest from where he was. “Please do not run from me.” He begged.

“I…I-“

“Why are you so afraid?”

“I am not afraid.” Despite her very obvious fear and shake in her voice, she still managed to sound slightly defiant.

“Emlygil you are trembling,” he went to reach for her hand, but she slipped them behind her back, out of reach. She looked down and hoped that the ground would swallow her whole.

Such a fool. A wretched, idiotic fool.

“Emlygil, please don’t do this again, do not shut me out.” his voice coming close to desperate.

“It is not what you think.”

“Because I am a necromancer?”

“Because I am cold, sir!” She hated how thin and frayed her voice was. Emmrich knew he had pushed too hard too soon. He took a step back and saw her shaky sigh. He reached down for the blanket they had both sat on and draped it over her shivering shoulders, pulling it closed around her, holding her in place.

“Then I bid you goodnight.” He said resignedly. He stepped away, releasing his metaphorical and physical hold on her, looking back one final time at her frozen stature and leaving her alone, under the great oak tree.

Walking away, Emmrich had only one horrible thought flooding his mind.

Dear gods, he was already in love with this woman.