#that trapped energy can sometimes be seen or heard but usually not touched

[zargontari]

well, you see, when a mommy and daddy love each other very much—

Since i already posted this on tiktok, may as well dump it here too

[morifinwes]

wangxian fic rec list!

aka in which i read fics, write some recs down for aamna and share them!! they're all wangxian fics and uhh @yibobibo i hope you'll like them!!

modern

wolf devours playboy bunny by @greenteafiend (5K, werewolf!lwj, getting together, idk if anyone needs to know that but there's nudity just not uhh explicit)

Lan Zhan has wanted Wei Ying as long as he has known him, and the worst part is that he thinks Wei Ying could want him back.

Too bad he could never in good conscience let himself go there—Wei Ying has a debilitating fear of all things canine, and once a month, Lan Zhan is the exact, precise thing that Wei Ying’s nightmares are made of.

Aka, Lan Zhan is a werewolf.

between the lines by @jywait (19K gaming au!!!, i'm always down for a good gaming au, lwj is the best aksks he's such a good boy)

☆yilingpatriarch☆: pls...give me some face, help me fight these monsters...I'm gonna die

Bluetooth: no.

"You have died." The screen said, and Wei Wuxian threw his hands up in frustration.

resonant frequencies by chinxe (15K, college au, fake dating au, tw mention of cheating but it's brief and no one was cheated on i promise)

In which Wei Wuxian decides that the best way to deal with being in love with Lan Wangji is to pretend to date him for three weeks.

It goes about as well as can be expected.

drift compatible by windoworwhatever (5K, poetry, fluff, drunkji, getting together, college au)

"It was just a fact of life. The sky was blue, university stipends for graduate students working in TA positions barely covered rent, bisexuals cuffed their jeans, Lan Wangji had a massive crush on Wei Wuxian, and spent his time pining and writing research papers about gay subtexts in ancient poetry."

OR

Lan Wangji is in love with Wei Wuxian, and everybody knows, except Wei Wuxian.

the bunny next door by detailsinthefabric (43K, this is mostly fluff and very light angst, and they were neighbors!!!, rabbits!!, aka wangxian's bunny children, this is... so cute i just have to rec it)

Lan Wangji did not know what he was doing. He did not know what he was going to say. He was frozen in place, puzzling over the situation. Maybe he had made the man uncomfortable, which is why he wanted to leave? But his tone had still been so friendly—maybe…

“Would…” he paused, swallowed, forced the last words to come out of his suddenly parched mouth, “would you let me pet him?”

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

Lan Wangji, who doesn't know how to socialize and whose icy demeanor scares everyone away, lets down all his defenses when he meets the bunny next door...oh, and also its owner, Wei Wuxian.

leading tone by silencemostofall (32K, everyone is a music student? or something like that akskk, curse fic, tw panic attacks, tw child abuse, small scene of drunkji, wwx has low self esteem, bro this was so painful to read)

The first time you touch someone you're fated to love, you leave a mark on their skin. If they will love you in return, they'll mark you where you touched them. The deeper the color, the deeper the connection.

Wei Ying has no marks at all.

public places, private thoughts by leahelisabeth (for the love of camelot) ( 8K, cherry magic au, getting together with like... immediate upgrade to fiance status, the author is wrong i crave good wangxian cherry magic aus even tho i haven't even watched cherry magic)

Wei Wuxian had heard the story of course. It had made its rounds through his high school and followed him into his college days. He didn’t think there was any possibility it was true. Virginity was a social construct, invented by creepy old men to exercise dominance over women. The idea that a simple lack of sexual activity before the age of thirty could give one magical powers was absolutely ludicrous.

Wei Wuxian believed this until the morning of his thirtieth birthday.

AKA the Wangxian Cherry Magic AU that absolutely nobody asked for.

i'd be all right (if i could see you) by @thirtysixsavefiles (16K, this was nice, i read this at 6am but it was cute, (while writing this post i must admit i don't remember anything but 6am-me said it's good))

The younger Lan brother is something of an enigma on campus; while Lan Xichen can sometimes be seen in the company of other graduate students or conducting a seminar, Lan Wangji appears to spend all his time in class or in the library. He doesn’t drink. He doesn’t smoke. He doesn’t attend social events. He doesn’t do anything for fun, as far as Wei Wuxian can tell, and it’s driving Wei Wuxian just a little bit up the wall.

Or, Wei Wuxian convinces Lan Wangji to come to a house party, and then they're assigned to the same group project. Wei Wuxian tries his best, but he is not in possession of all the facts.

axe on leg by itszero (4K, i still don't get why wwx did that but it was nice seeing him jealous for once, jealous!wwx, lwj i love you....)

Wei Wuxian pressed his face into his pillow and screamed. He paused to take a few deep breaths, partially hindered by the pillow, and listened to the sounds of Nie Huaisang slurping his iced coffee, from his seat on Wei Wuxian's desk chair.

Having caught his breath, he resumed his screaming and did not stop at the sound of his dorm room door opening.

"What's wrong with him?" He heard his brother, Jiang Cheng, ask.

The slurping stopped. "He's an idiot."

"He's always been an idiot. Why is he bothered about it now?"

"He forced Lan Wangji to go on a date," Nie Huaisang replied, shaking the ice cubes in his drink.

"Okay and…?"

"With someone else." The slurping resumed.

Wei Wuxian, in all his glorious dumbassery, convinces his boyfriend to go on a date with someone else.

these two most powerful by @stiltonbasket (4K, amnesia, wangxian with children!!!, aksksk this was adorable, dadji!!)

When Lan Wangji went to bed last night, he was alone in a tiny guest room with nothing but the howling of the wind in the mountains and his own lonely thoughts for company.

 

But when he opened his eyes in the morning, Wei Ying was asleep beside him.

 

(In which Lan Wangji loses twenty years' worth of memories after a night-hunt gone wrong, and his life as a doting father and husband continues without a hitch somehow.)

good things come to those who wait [but i ain't in a patient phase] by @cerlunas (4K, getting together, pining lwj)

Lan Wangji can't take it anymore.

 

“I love you”, he says, and god, it feels terrifying. “I’ve been in love with you for a long time.”

“Lan Zhan…” Wei Wuxian starts, but Lan Wangji doesn’t want to hear it.

He grabs his cup and drinks everything. He doesn’t know what face Wei Wuxian is making at him right now, and it’s okay. 

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian repeats louder, but it’s too late. He is already falling asleep.

Or, even after 13 years, Lan Wangji is still in love with his best friend. Maybe it's time to open up.

wei ying, will you marry m- oh my god he swallowed the ring! by selene210 (2K, marriage proposals, crack, marriage proposals but.. they go wrong)

“A ring?”

And indeed it was. The ring Lan Wangji was going to propose to Wei Ying with. That the man had now choked on.

“You swallowed it.”

“It was in my soufflé! Why did you put a ring in my soufflé Lan Zhan- oh. oh”

of glittery valentine's cards by @soft-fics (3K, valentine's day, this was adorable aksk, a-yuan best boy!!)

Lan Zhan didn't want to know what his best friend had planned for Valentine's Day; his heart would simply not be able to handle it. When his son tells him that he made Wei Ying a Valentine's Day card, though, Lan Zhan decided to bring it over anyway.

of coffee and white tea by @soft-fics (9K, fluff, lwj doesn't like coffee, wwx buys him coffee, then they switch drinks, again and again and again, the staff ships it lmao, tbh jc shouldn't have done that like wtf)

For the fourth time this week a stranger orders him a cup of coffee. Lan Wangji wonders how exactly to tell this man to stop ordering him coffee he doesn't even like. Turns out, buying the other white tea and switching drinks is not the best way to go about it

canon setting

on the importance of restraint (or lack thereof) by nixthothou (4K, in which sizhui snaps, i love that boy, no like seriously he's the best boy)

Lan Sizhui does not usually find himself in the company of Sect Leader Jiang.

Suffice to say, Lan Sizhui's feelings toward him are conflicted.

lan wangji is wei wuxian's baby by lilycs (3K, i was craving fluff while reading this, lwj my beloved, drunk!lwj)

Lan Wangji gets drunk from barely a cup of alcohol, becoming a whiny baby and asking his husband for cuddles.

one of our own by glitteringmoonlight (8K, wei wuxian & lan sect, 5+1 things, in which they learn to love him, they're all part of the wwx protection squad lead by lwj, wangxian isn't the focus but !!! THIS)

Times change, but some people remain the same.

The Lans are nothing, if not aware of this.

For one of their own, they will stand against the world.

Or, 5 times the Lans defended Wei Wuxian, and the 1 time he was there to see it happen.

so why not crack your skull when the mind swells by @greenteafiend (13K, love curse, post cql canon, curses, getting together, fluff, so much fluff, lwj tries to talk about his emotions!, lwj pov)

Lan Wangji detects the curse trying to curl through his heart meridians like smoke. A love curse, then. It must have been cast remotely somehow to have found him in his bed in Cloud Recesses. No matter. Lan Wangji crushes it easily, enveloping it in his spiritual energy, and then squeezing. Curse averted, Lan Wangji closes his eyes and goes back to sleep. He thinks no more of it.

Two days later, Wei Wuxian arrives in Cloud Recesses.

Or, Wei Wuxian is cursed to feel terrible pain when he and Lan Wangji aren’t touching.

i started from the bottom / now i'm rich by x_los (57K, time travel, fix it, jealous lwj, crack treated serious, god this is so good tho, wwx/wrh & wwx/jgs but like as a joke and it doesn't really happen, but it has its purpose!!)

“First, you get the money. Then you get the power, respect - hos come last.”

 

Wen Qing traps Wei Wuxian in the Demon Slaughtering Cave, but Wei Wuxian isn’t interested in being the beneficiary of the Wen Remnants’ noble sacrifice. His efforts to free himself accidentally send him back to the beginning of the Sunshot Campaign. Coreless but armed with demonic cultivation, knowledge of the future and his wits, Wei Wuxian takes advantage of this opportunity to come out on top of both the war and its aftermath—before either has a chance to happen—by marrying and swiftly burying the cultivation world’s worst men.

Lan Wangji is confused, hurt, and uncomfortably aroused by Wei Wuxian’s improbably elaborate series of Sect-themed bridal negligees.

lead me on through by mrsronweasley (55K, they're in love your honor, arranged marriage but they don't know to whom, basically wwx & lwj want to practice kissing which then goes beyond kissing but not the whole way y'know, lxc the best wingman tho)

"Who do you think your betrothed is?" Wei Wuxian asks, sprawling out in front of Lan Zhan and enjoying the prim thinning of his lips at the question. He shouldn't be sprawling—they're in the library, for one, and Lan Zhan is studying, for another—but he can't help himself. Wei Wuxian is a sprawler.

"I do not believe this to be of importance," Lan Zhan responds, without turning his gaze away from his book.

"What!" Wei Wuxian sits up. "How can you say that? Of course it's important! This is the person you'll be with for the rest of your life, Lan Zhan."

[whaleofatjme1920]

The Ends of Hallways (Proxies X F!Reader)

The Ends of Hallways

[Proxies X F!Reader]

[Warnings: slight language]

[AN: Y'all are just gonna have to thank Eris for always sending me the best requests. I don't have favorites,,, but Reader, I have favorites. Also no Kate sorry :( ]

Your face was practically squished against the glass of the car Hoodie had stolen as the four of you pull into the parking lot of woods that brim with the Operator’s energy. You’ve never seen these woods in person - only in dreams. You’ve never even really seen your master in person, once again, like these woods, he too has been confined to your dreams. But you hear him, and often. His voice falls down on your ears like gentle rains that fall from the heavens. He is everything and more. That is why it is so exciting for you to finally be here, so close to him, and to his presence.

“You excited?” You hear your group leader ask.

You nod and press harder up against the glass. “Are we going now?” You’re ready to bounce out of the car and everyone can see that.

He chuckles in response. “What do you think Hood? Time to go?”

The hazel eyed man behind him shoots the driver a look. “Masky, just look at her, she’s gonna break the window if we don’t.” There’s a slight playfulness in his tone that tells you the right hand really isn’t annoyed with you.

“Fair enough,” Masky smiles. He then reaches behind his seat, hand slapping at who used to be the runt’s knee. “Tobes? Tob-Tobes, get up.”

Toby’s eyes shoot open as he lurches forward. “I’m u-u-up, I-I’m u-up,” he yawns as his hands rub tiredly at his eyes. “Are w-w-we here a-alaready?” He asks, the exhaustion still clear in his tone.

Both of the men in the front seats nod. “C’mon, let’s get going,” Hoodie says as he pulls up the lock on his car door before sliding out.

You wait impatiently for Masky to unlock the car then zip out like a bat from hell. You’re immediately at the edge of one of the forest’s many trails and taking in the sights and sounds of your boss’s woods. They’re beautiful, really. The autumn colors bathe the woods in fiery oranges and passionate reds with threads of gold to interlock it all together. The sky is just the slightest shade of blue as clouds cover the sun. There weren’t any people here either - not under the little structures, not exploring, not anyone but you and your comrades.

“Wrong one,” Hoodie says as he closes the trunk to the car before tossing a backpack to Toby, who catches it like second nature.

You whip your head around to see that Masky, Hoodie and Toby are smiling at how excited you are before silently asking you to follow them. “Where are we going?” You ask, eyes wide as you jog up to them.

“Across the field. There’s this cool tunnel of trees we think you’ll appreciate,” Masky replies as he leads his group across the grass. It crunches slightly as the four of you move, like it hasn’t been watered in a long time.

“R-Really?” Toby hums as he puts his hands in his pockets. “You s-s-sure we’re n-not gonna be l-late?” The young proxy gives a slight look to his group leader, eyebrow raised as if he’s sure the Operator is okay with them possibly being tardy.

Masky shakes his head before tapping his temple with his free hand, “he told me it’s okay.”

“He did?” You ask as stars cloud your eyes. The Operator, as you’ve heard so far, is to be feared and respected. He’s like a father you can look at but never touch. He seems so out of your range, like he’s not even visible - not even if you squint your eyes. You wonder what makes you so… interesting… in his eyes. You really don’t think you’re worth all the fuss. Clearly he does.

Masky chuckles before ruffling your hair with his hand, “yeah. I think he finds your enthusiasm endearing.” Masky’s not entirely incorrect. When they first got Toby, the Operator was strangely favorable towards the young proxy as well - maybe because he was hand plucked, special, and therefore deemed worthy of his time. You were similar to Toby, albeit, you accidentally got involved with the Operator. He liked you, chose you, then kept you.

Hoodie whistles slightly as the four of you step into the trees, his gloved hand reaching up to tear off a branch from one of the low hanging trees then swing it aimlessly as his side. “Seems pretty obvious in my opinion,” he whacks Toby lightly with the stick making said proxy laugh. “Looks like Toby isn’t the only golden child anymore.”

“P-Probably not,” Toby hums, a slight melancholy coming into his tone. “Think I-I’ve been losing f-f-favor with h-hin for a w-while.” He glances over his shoulder and smiles at you.

You frown slightly and place your hand on his shoulder, “I don’t think so,” you say. “Just means he has two golden child-s now.”

Toby beams.

You do too.

The group continues to move through the trees, mostly silent save for Masky and Hoodie pointing out little memories from time to time. Things such as some guy named ‘Alex’ chasing them through here, Masky’s waking up with no memory, Hoodie’s nature shots, and everything in between. You learn a lot about the hands of your group from when they were just scared film students to the things they’ve done as proxies here. It’s kind of nice as you’ve never really spoken to them this way before.

When you first came into this life and were placed in this group, the hazing process kicked in like wildfire. Almost every day was a mentally or physically, sometimes both, a draining task and a bonding agent. Authority was not to be questioned and they made that more than clear. Eventually, the hazing grew lighter and lighter until it just… didn’t exist. That was how it went - you were no longer considered naive and starry eyed. Still, authority was not to be questioned, and it’s why you and your comrades have never really talked on this specific level before.

It’s why it’s such a treat that you get to talk to them like this now.

Eventually, the four of you make it to an odd stretch of trees. They tunnel over each other, a lot like a thorny funnel, but they frame the sky so well.

“If the sun was setting,” Masky starts. “It would look like a cradle.”

You take a step back and observe the tunnel of trees, trying to imagine the setting sun. The mental image is pretty. “Will we ever be back here to see it?”

“Oh definitely,” Masky continues. “But uh, the business we’re here for today? Don’t know if that’s meant for anyone but me and maybe Hoodie.”

You look on instinct to Hoodie who nods. “Is that normal?”

“Sure is,” Hoodie says as he takes in the scent of the cooling autumn woods. He knows the group is almost to the limits of the Operator’s realm. “Tell me what you feel right now, Reader,” he says in passing as he flicks the stick somewhere off the given trail.

With a glance around at your surroundings, you attempt to get a feel for the area you’re in. It’s cold, much colder, but the atmosphere still feels a little thick. The further you go into the woods (and by extension the Operator’s bounds to which you don’t even know exist yet), you get that odd feeling in your legs that feels like they’ve fallen asleep. It’s like the physical sensation of static. You try to explain it in words, but they fail. Instead, you allow Hoodie into your thoughts.

“Nice,” he smiles. “Alright, try to ask for permission in.”

“I need to ask for permission?”

“E-Everytime,” Toby begins as he and the others pause. They’re right on the edge of the bubble and can feel it so much stronger than you can. “It’s t-to ensure n-normal humans c-can’t come in,” Toby begins to explain as you gaze around your surroundings, wondering how you’ll even begin to ask. “T-Though, their f-feelings sometimes k-kick into o-overdrive and they e-end up p-piercing through the v-veil on a-a-accident.” He chuckles softly and you know exactly what he’s referring to - you’ve heard tales of the people who get stuck wandering where they shouldn’t: always ends in someone strung up in the pines. “W-We’ve all learned t-to ask p-permission like b-breathing.”

You shoot your comrade a confused glance, wondering what that will mean for you. “I just ask?”

“Kind o-of,” Toby says. “Just l-let your f-f-feelings guide you. She’ll t-t-tell you whether you’re a-a-allowed in or not.”

You close your eyes and begin to hone in on whatever your heart is telling you. It’s a cold feeling, mostly like vines that slip up and down your limbs as they grow upwards and then inwards towards your heart. It’s an odd feeling. Once the static vines pierce through your heart, you physically see a fog roll into the forest around you. It consumes you and your comrades before you remember Toby mentioned ‘she.’ The fog thickens. “Wait, she?” You say as the static begins to leave your system. It feels like you’re tearing through roots as you walk forward.

“He didn’t mean it,” Masky quickly replies as he begins to pull you through the fog. “Good job on asking though. Strong response,” he says as gestures to the fog, his hand swimming through the billowy clouds. “Wives’ tale is the stronger the fog, the more genuine you were in response.”

You wade your fingers through the thick fog as you and the others walk forward, deeper and deeper into the darkness where there was none. “Must’ve had a really genuine response, huh?” You mumble to yourself. The fog doesn’t even feel like normal fog - it feels thick and heavy and leaves slight dew on your clothing as you walk. How interesting.

‘Head talk from here on out,’ Hoodie says as the four of you reach a stretch of woods that feels slightly dangerous.

‘Did you feel it too?’ Toby asks, his hand at his hatchet.

Hoodie nods slightly, his eyes narrowing as he slows his pace so he’s guarding the back. He gives you a slightly concerned look as the fog evens out. Everyone but you knows that they’re in perhaps one of the most dangerous parts of the veil. The Operator’s mere presence is usually enough to deter the things like the Rake from his grounds, but that often means they get trapped here - in the in-between - and lash out on the first thing they sense. The sooner the four of you get out of this dangerous spot, the better.

‘What do you sense?’ You ask, cutting mentally through the rough silence, your own hand moving to your blade.

Hoodie looks like he’s about to answer you before he holds his fist up and the other three of you duck down instantly, dipping below the fog. Just then, some deer begin walking past.

‘Deer?’ You say in a questioning tone.

‘Not just any deer,’ Hoodie begins as the deer slowly nibbles on the leaves and other things. ‘Take a good look at their bodies. They look normal to you?’

You narrow your eyes slightly and get used to peering through the fog as the deer pass. Eventually, you’re able to look at their coats. There’s something off about them, something wrong. Something you can’t quite place. The longer you watch them as they move in front of you, the stronger that off feeling gets. They have every physical part of the deer down but it’s just not right. It’s like their joints don’t fit well beneath their skin. And their eyes… Their eyes are completely hollow.

‘You see it?’ Masky asks as the last of the deer passes by. He glances over his shoulder briefly to see you nod. ‘We’re lucky they didn’t change this time,’ he mumbles, slowly inching forward while crouched against the earth.

‘What would’ve happened if they changed?’ You inquire, moving quietly alongside your comrades.

‘Nightmare fuel,’ Toby finally pipes in. ‘Nothing about them looks right. Big mouths full of sharp teeth, black eyes, too many limbs, like a messed up centipede,’ he finishes, a slight shudder coming into his mental tone.

You notice the other two of your group members nodding in agreement before finally deeming it safe enough to stand up and finally exit the in-between of the veil.

You’re greeted to the sight of a beautiful, rustic looking Germanic mansion surrounded by iron gates that hold honeycomb patterns that trail skywards only to end on sharp peaks that you’re almost certain your boss has spiked people on plenty of times. There’s also flowers of every kind in the front gardens that catch your eyes the moment you step through the grand gates. There’s fountains and topiaires, statues and benches that tell you the Operator drips with style and elegance.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Masky smiles.

You nod, “it’s gorgeous.” The air smells slightly expensive, but mostly sweet. How is it that a place like this can even possibly exist? Around the mansion are autumnal trees, mostly maple, some sycamore and other birch. Scattered on the front lawn are other proxies and some independents, mostly catching up and talking before leaving through the same gates you entered from. Some of them smile and wave as they pass you, others grunt and turn their nose up at you upon realizing you’re the youngest. This place sings with the Operator’s overwhelming presence.

Your comrades continue to watch your amused expression as they lead you to the front doors of the mansion. They’re large and stained glass, slightly gothic in woodwork and tower over you.

“Go ahead,” Hoodie chuckles as he nods for you to open the doors.

You glance back to him, then at the large doors before tentatively placing your hands on their surface. With a small breath, you push them open and find yourself greeted to the most exquisite foyer you’ve ever seen. Large chandeliers hang from the ceiling, sapphires and rubies drip from the fixtures and shine the light beautifully across the marble floors. Gold leaf adorns almost everything that juts out while the huge staircase in front of you beckons you forward.

“Doesn’t seem like he needs us yet,” Masky says as he checks his watch. “Got here earlier than expected, huh?” He lightly ribs Hoodie who rolls his eyes in response. “C’mon, let’s go to the sun room. Don’t wanna wait around in here.” He nods for the three of you to follow.

Toby clears his throat slightly as if to remind the two in charge that you’re still very much here and new.

“Oh, right,” Masky says. “Reader, this is super important, so listen up,” your group leader begins as he turns on his heels to eventually rest his hands on your shoulders.

You raise a brow at his sudden contact. Masky normally didn’t touch you unless what he had to say was important - which really, really didn’t happen often.

“This mansion likes to play off your thoughts, feelings, and logic,” he says, his hand gesturing to the staircase that’s slowly moving directions. You didn’t even hear it begin to shift. “The Operator usually keeps things in line for when he summons you, it’s almost a guaranteed path you’ll make it to him, but,” his eyes go serious. “If it’s just you and you’re moving around, you need to have a place in mind or it’ll accidentally spit you out somewhere totally random. We’ve had people get lost in here because the mansion is slightly playful and weirdly baneful depending on the individual walking around.”

“The Operator has a playful side?”

Masky stifles a laugh before shaking you lightly. “I legitimately mean it, you need to have a place in mind or you’re gonna get lost and the Operator isn’t gonna be happy. By extension, I won’t be happy because I need to come get you.”

“Mhm,” Hoodie nods in agreement. “And you can’t have the thought in passing either, it’s gotta be on your mind until it’s in sight.” After Hoodie’s words leave his mouth, Masky lets you go.

You take all the information in and wonder just what makes the place run. It’s like it has its own personality - it’s playful and baneful? You have to ask it permission to even enter its grounds and it deems whether you’re worthy or not? What kind of power does the Operator even have and why on earth would he even care about that kind of stuff? If he truly wanted his proxies to access him, he’d do it with no hesitation. The humans that would wander into his rooms would just end up tasting someone’s blade.

“Sun room?” Hoodie reminds Masky.

Your entire walk to the sun room you try to conjure a mental image in your head. They say it’s doubtful you’ll get lost so long as you’re with them, but you consider it good practice. When you finally make it to the sun room, you’re pleased to see it’s relatively empty save for a few groups interspersed in the large, window adorned room overlooking a silver lake. There’s a few independents walking around with carts holding different tea time finger-foods and waiting tea sets on every table. Maasky leads you over to one of the tables nearest to the view of the lake.

“So, what business exactly are we here for today?” You ask as you waste no time in pouring yourself some tea.

Masky shrugs, “no idea. He said he just wanted us to come.”

“T-Think he r-really only n-needs an audience w-with them though,” Toby adds before silently thanking you for pouring him some tea as well. “L-Leaves us some t-t-time to chat. Y’know, t-the thing H-Hood hates us d-doing,” he lightly jokes.

Hoodie scoffs and feigns being annoyed, “I only hate you two chatting when we’re in the middle of tearing out some guy’s entrails.”

“Y-Yeah, which is a-all the time,” Toby giggles.

You laugh as well.

The four of you are in a heated argument about something relatively stupid when static overtakes Masky and Hoodie’s hearing. They visibly pause, as if they’re trying to key into something you can’t understand when it suddenly stops.

“Have t-to go?” Toby inquires before taking a strawberry tart and popping it into his mouth.

Both Masky and Hoodie nod.

“Yeah. Keep an eye on Reader, please? We won’t be too long,” Masky replies with a small, tired smile.

Toby flashes the two a thumbs up before the both of you watch them leave, a clear destination on their minds.

It’s not long until Toby gets distracted by some other independents that stroll into the mansion. You recognize the two of them as relatively minor legends - well, maybe not the one with the smile. His name is Jeff.

“So, this is your fresh meat, huh?” Jeff chuckles as he lightly pushes Toby’s shoulder. “She looks a little scrawny. Are you feeding her right?”

Toby laughs and nods, “Masky w-w-would lose his m-mind if you s-s-said that.”

Jeff’s chest rumbles as he laughs. “I’m joking,” he holds his hand up as a sign of truce. “Hope you know you’re running with one of the only decent groups out there, Reader,” he says before picking up his tea cup. It looks slightly comical as he brings it to his lips.

You offer him a smile and nod, “yeah, I know.”

The man to Jeff’s left nods in agreement, “Masky’s really good at what he does. Got one of the best.”

Toby immediately fights the notion (playfully) and the three engage in conversation that’s lively and vibrant all the same. You listen to the three verbally duke it out before you find yourself bored. You can’t just leave though, but you want to move at the same time.

“Toby?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I excuse myself?”

“W-Where to?”

“Washroom,” you reply.

“Do y-you need m-me to a-accompany y-y-you?”

Both Eyeless Jack and Jeff scoff.

“She’s a big girl, let her go,” Jeff says as he nods his own approval for you to go. “You told her about the mindset thing?”

Toby nods.

“Yeah, then she’s good to go,” Eyeless Jack agrees.

You flash the men at your table a smile before getting up. You push in your chair and then make it to the entrance of the sunroom, leading into the halls. You don’t have a set destination in mind. The moment you step out of the sunroom, you feel the air change. It’s not unpleasant, but it’s different. On instinct, you turn your gaze over your shoulder to see the sunroom is gone. It’s just hall and lining the hall are doors upon doors.

Alright, you can work with that! A small smile comes to your face as you begin to walk forwards, allowing your curiosity to bloom. The first door you decide to open is one that’s honestly not that exciting. It was just a storage unit. Another was a study. Then it was someone’s room. Another room. And another. How many residence rooms are there?

You close yet another door and then feel a thought come into your head, taking a seat on your train of thought like a butterfly sunbathes on a flower. She - Toby had mentioned it. And you wondered. You let the thought stay. Before you know it, you’re walking through the halls guided by forces you don’t quite understand, and the further you get into the mansion, the stranger the atmosphere becomes. It’s not unpleasant, but it’s not a normal feeling either. You watch as the light fixtures change from something relatively modern and regress into something more vintage. The dust begins to kick up. Irish lace begins to pepper the ceiling. You notice how the doors change style as well. How strange.

Eventually, you reach a dead end stretch of hall. At the very end of this hall is a singular door that looks weathered, as if it was sunbleached and painted over in oils. There’s an elegance to it you can’t quite place, and like a siren song, you find yourself being beckoned to it. Your proxy instincts kick in like second nature the closer you draw to it. You feel your breathing lighten, your steps as well, and you move towards it with a silence that is unmatched - as if you’re floating on air. You draw closer and closer to the door. It’s so magnetic, and you can’t quite explain why/ But closer still you must be to it.

Your hand tenderly grasps the doorknob - it feels like ice - and you twist it open. You wonder if you should be doing this. A part of you feels like you shouldn’t be doing this, but another part of you says this is what you were meant to see. You push the door open ever so slightly, just enough to be able to see inside, but the door is heavy, almost as if it doesn’t want you to. Like it’s trying to protect you from something further. You wonder if it just wishes to keep its secrets.

It’s gorgeous, it truly is. It puts the rest of the mansion to shame. It looks old - perhaps from 16th century Germany and fit for royalty. Plants of all kinds line the walls. They look like emeralds as light shines through their leaves. The sunlight kisses the flowers that sprout from the stalks. Beautiful woodwork surrounds the windows that are covered in fairytale-esque stained glass pieces. The scent is of something much, much sweeter and warmer than the rest of the mansion. Your eyes then draw to the center of the room, where an ornate table sits. There’s gold leaf decorating its legs followed by symbols you can’t really pin down. A tablecloth that looks like it was weaved from the stars above is the only thing that separates a delicate tea set from the precious mahogany table. The tea smells heavenly from where you stand.

Before you can press into the room, you pause upon seeing slender, pale hands take hold of the tea pot. Your eyes follow upwards to the owner of the hands only to see a woman so much more beautiful than the moon in twilight and the sun in the morning. Falling from her shoulders was golden hair that looked like a sea of amber as it cascaded down near the floor. Flowers were woven into it - mostly snowdrops, baby’s breath and queen Anne’s lace. She’s dressed in something from medieval Europe, and never once does her sleeve touch the table. She begins to pour herself some tea, a honey like hum coming from her being as she pours the sweet liquid. Her eyes flick upwards for but a moment when she hears a bird chirping outside. Her eyes are so dark, there exists no white sclera. They’re so dark, like black holes that hide in the depths of space, but you feel as if she holds the universe inside of them. She’s so beautiful, you’re not sure she’s real. A cat has jumped up onto the table, purring at her. When she smiles, your heart sings.

You want to say hello to her and spend time in her presence when you attempt to open the door some more. It creaks slightly. The hinges are ancient. Before you can say anything, the door is slammed shut, sending you flying backwards. You let out a sound of shock before seeing Toby reaching down to get you.

“What t-the hell a-a-are you thinking?” He hisses as he picks you up, grabbing your bicep and beginning to drag you away from the door that still holds your attention. “You r-really just w-wandered off l-like that?”

You furrowed your eyebrows, attempting to get free of his grasp as he continues to pull you along. No matter how hard you smack at him, he doesn’t let go.

“M-Masky said it’s not s-safe for y-y-you to wander o-off. A-And without m-me? D-D-Did you have a-any cognitive t-t-thought when you w-went out on a l-limb like t-that?” He sounds so heated.

You find he’s bringing you back to the sunroom, undoubtedly going to tell Masky and Hoodie about your misbehavior. “Why are you being so weird?” You retort as you attempt to wriggle out of his grasp. “It’s just a room!” You cry out in an exasperated tone.

Toby only reprimands you louder. It’s a losing game.

You eventually find yourself back in the sunroom. Only, instead of Eyeless Jack and Jeff, you see the deeply concerned and slightly pissed off faces of Masky and Hoodie. They’re not happy to see you, and you’re not exactly thrilled to see you either.

“Take a s-s-seat,” Toby says in a harsh tone as he thrusts you back into your seat.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Masky asks, not even attempting to mask his voice because that’s the privilege of being a proxy. You’re able to reprimand your proxies without anyone giving a care.

“You can’t just go off like that,” Hoodie continues as he furrows his brows. “You could’ve gotten-”

“Hurt? This is the Operator’s mansion, what the fuck is gonna hurt me in here other than himself or you two?”

“That’s it,” Masky points out. “He can seriously hurt you if you snoop where you shouldn’t!” His hands grips at your wrist, tightening to a point of pain.

When you feel tears prick your eyes, Hoodie sighs and puts his hand on Masky’s shoulder, “stop it.”

Masky hesitantly lets you go.

“What did you see?” Hoodie asks with a deep sigh, his posture tensing. He’s really hoping you didn’t see the Operator’s trophy room.

You give your comrades a concerned look, not sure whether you should answer or not when Hoodie raises a slight brow. Damn it. You’re emotionally compromised. He’s seeing what he needs to without your permission.

“That’s… Odd…” He says.

Masky glances to Hoodie. “No.”

“Unfortunately, I think yeah,” Hoodie says with a growing frown. He glances to Toby for confirmation, and upon seeing Toby’s nod, says “yeah,” again.

Masky groans and puts his face into his hands, finding comfort in being buried into himself.

You hold your wrist in your hand and lean back in your chair. “Just… What is it you guys aren’t telling me?” You question, hoping they’d just bite the bullet and tell you.

The group shares a look, debating whether they should even say it or not. When no one says anything, you press them again.

“Come on,” you sigh. “It can’t be that bad.”

“It really could be,” Masky says as he finally releases his face from his hands. “No one knows what seeing it does.”

Your eyes widen before you bark a laugh. “What?”

“No, he’s serious,” Hoodie picks up. “Seeing that door is rare, like, rainbow pikachu rare. Proxies think it’s an omen or a bad luck thing. To see it means a group’s eventual demise.”

You briefly scoff at the thought of proxies being superstitious before you remember some of you can actually cast portals. It’s really not that out of pocket.

“N-No one has e-e-ever found o-out though,” Toby shrugs. “W-We just know t-that the g-groups that h-h-have n-normally e-end in death.” He looks a little uncomfortable as he says the words, like there’s a legitimate truth to what he’s saying even though he’d rather it be utter BS.

“To be fair, we thought it was a rumor prior to you sneaking off,” Hoodie says as he tries to calm down his group.

You take in this information with a small frown. How could something that beautiful be that evil or a harbinger of doom? The thought of it left you perplexed as your comrades continued to lecture you on not wandering off until Masky and Hoodie were called away.

“I don’t know if I feel comfortable leaving Reader here with-”

Toby rolls his eyes, “you c-cant just s-say you want m-me to come with i-instead. N-Not need to insult m-my competence a-a-as a babysitter,” he mumbles before glancing down to his hatchets.

Masky sighs and nods for Toby to follow him out. Looks like it’s just you and Hoodie.

“So,” you awkwardly begin, not really sure what to do or what to say.

“So,” Hoodie hums back. “Anywhere you wanted to go?” When he sees the glint in your eyes, he shakes his head. “Like, a normal place. We’re gonna be here for a while while those two are out,” he chuckles, watching as you visibly deflate.

You allow the question to bang around in your head until you nod with a thought in mind. “The library. I’d like to go to the library.”

Hoodie smiles at that suggestion and finishes the rest of his tea before standing up. He stretches for a moment, then leads you to the hallway your original snooping began. You noticed as his thoughts immediately became clouded with the word and vision of ‘library’ as the two of you trekked the halls. As you walked, you barely recognized any of the doors you passed. They weren’t on your radar, which was odd in your opinion as you had opened a lot of door you probably shouldn’t have.

Eventually, you reach two large oak doors. Hoodie pushes them open and you’re greeted to the sight of a beautiful library. It’s impossibly huge - how could such a place exist in the mansion? You’re well aware it’s a huge place, but the fact that all of this is here… It’s bigger than a downtown city library you visited when passing through Chicago a few months ago. The Operator’s influence is beautiful, isn’t it?

“I’m gonna be in the sci-fi section,” Hoodie says as he nods over to the right wing of the library. “It’s on the second floor.” You notice the spiral staircase that leads to what appears to be a balcony - it must stretch backwards forever. “Check in with me in about 15 minutes. Don’t do anything stupid.” It’s surprising how relaxed he’s being with you. You would have expected someone like Hoodie to be a lot angerier and more observational.

Not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, you nod and flash him a thumb’s up before bounding over to the left wing of the library. Nothing is properly labeled, but you get a strong bout of intuition where everything is. Right now, you’re on the hunt for history.

The aisle that holds the history books looks just as old as you would have expected it to. The books here aren’t any you’ve ever seen in stores either - they’re largely from the time period they’re to be representing. Some are more modern, but you get the feeling that they don’t exist anywhere else but under the Operator’s influence. You find a few books that talk about the early history of proxies, some on independents, but nothing to inform you on what you had found.

It’s honestly a little maddening. You check in with Hoodie when you have to - he asks you to list the spines of the books you’re currently looking at - and then you’re back to your fruitless search. You run up and down the halls of the history section looking for anything when you hear static begin to buzz in your heads. The feeling travels upwards like the vines you felt earlier from your heels to your chest. When they claw deep into your heart, you feel a pull. And once again, like a sailor beckoned to the rocks due to a siren’s song, you follow it.

It twists and turns you through the shelves, making you zip past the few proxies and independents that are currently visiting this wing of the library before you’re drawn to a rotunda. You look backwards and see in the distance the front doors of the library. When did this place get a middle wing? It was just straight shelves and a wall with large windows overlooking the rolling hills of the woods. You turn your attention upwards to the ceiling of the rotunda. There’s a large skylight that allows sunlight to cascade down. Around that are gems you don’t even know the name of that weave a mosaic of something positively divine. You allow your gaze to follow the shaft of warm sunlight down, and there, sitting at a table with a book in hand (it looks like a journal) is the Operator himself.

“S-Sir!” You manage to squeak out as you find yourself startled to be in his presence, Heat rises to your cheeks when he looks up from his book to turn his attention to you.

“How did you get here?” He asks, confusion etching his body as he curiously tilts his head.

Your breath hitches. “I’m so sorry,” you apologize, bowing your head almost immediately. “I don’t know how I got here. It just felt like a pull and suddenly I was here? I was in the left wing and looking over history books and I-” you continue to rattle off until the Operator holds up his hand, silently signaling you to stop. You do so as soon as he asks.

“I-. It’s no matter,” he waves off. “Come, sit down beside me.” An inky black tendril sprouts from his back as he pulls the chair in front of him out, allowing you to sit in his presence.

You will your stone-like legs forward and attempt to gracefully take a seat in front of him. It’s a slightly awkward silence before he speaks again.

“How have you been, Miss Reader?”

“I’m alright,” you reply, voice no higher than a whisper.

The Operator hums. “Good.”

Another pregnant pause.

“Child, where is your book?”

“I uh, didn’t grab one?” You answer softly. You can tell the Operator is looking at you with what he can convey to his fullest as confusion. “When I was pulled here I just.. Followed,” you attempt to explain. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

“And what have you done today?” He asks, giving his passing attention to you like a father would.

You bite your lip before steering the conversation towards the room you saw. “I think I met someone.”

“You did, did you?”There’s a passing interest as if he’s saying ‘that’s nice, honey.’

You nod. “She was in a tea room-”

He pauses.

“I found her by accident-”

He makes sure he’s hearing you correctly.

“Her hair was golden-”

He looks up.

“She had plants-”

He’s sitting upright now.

“She had a cat-”

He leans forward.

“Her smile rivaled the stars-”

He’s focusing so intently on you now.

“Her voice was like honey-”

He entirely focused on you.

“She was beautiful.”

The Operator’s ichor pauses for just a moment as he takes in the description of the woman you described. It makes a part of him sing and another part of him sob. He hasn’t heard of her in so, so long.

When you look up, you see the Operator practically leaned halfway over the table and entirely focused on you. It makes you jump. “I’m sorry,” you apologize sheepishly, thinking you saw something you shouldn’t have. “I wasn’t thinking and I uh, think the mansion led me to her?”

The Operator wordlessly nods. “Was she pouring tea?” He asked, voice so much gentler than anything you could ever expect him to conjure up.

You slowly nod. “She was.”

The Operator suddenly slumps down, making you jolt. You rise on instinct to help him when he waves you back down. “Do you realize who you’ve come into contact with?” He asks.

You shake your head. “I’m afraid not, Sir,” you say with slight remorse.

The Operator chuckles deeply - it rumbles his chest and in your head. “You found her.” He could smile, you were sure it would be from ear to ear if he had the correct facial features. “All these years later and you found her.” He emphasizes you like a bittersweet affirmation.

“Who is she?” You ask softly.

Your boss sits back up again. “Someone who loves me,” his tendril sprouts once again from his back and moves towards you. “Someone who loves you,” it taps your nose. “Someone who loves us.” The tendril makes a grand, sweeping gesture.

You take in the words and nod, still not knowing what they mean. Upon seeing your confusion, he decides to elaborate.

“A long, long time ago, in a realm you could not begin to fathom, there was light and there was dark,” he begins, his voice slipping into something akin to someone saying a bedtime story. “I was the light, and that cur we call Zalgo was the dark.”

You scrunch your nose at the sound of his name.

“The dark and the light were born from nothing, and she was beautiful.” His audible smile is actually endearing to hear. “Throughout the years, the light and the dark fought, constantly at each other's throats. It was woven in the threads of history, it had been our birthright. When we came to this place, this planet after being cast from our home - a palace amongst all palaces, a kingdom that rose far above any other, the nothingness came with us. She called herself Liebevolle Frau. She loved her children.” By this point in the story, the Operator has taken the liquids from the coffee cup he drinks from and animated them into the characters for this story.

You watch with stars in your eyes.

“But no guardian is without its favorites, and I happened to be hers.” Liebevolle Frau’s figure was shown sheltering the Operator’s much smaller one. “And this caused a rift that could not be mended through the light and dark. Eventually, the dark waged war on the light.”

It’s a war you’re still fighting to this day.

“In the 1500s, long after this mansion had been built and my power continued to grow, Zalgo had almost wiped us off the face of the earth to splatter out remains across all the five realms. Liebevolle Frau, thought caught off guard,” that would explain the tea, “sheltered me and protected this place and all who resided in it. At the time,” the Operator looks at you. “Independents and proxies had lived here much more commonly than they do now.”

You smile softly.

“Liebevolle Frau’s power had been pushed to its limit in holding back her first born son, and mind, as well as her heart, broke because of it. In her remaining moments of lucidity, she imbued herself, her soul,” the liquids take the form of something fluttering and soft, like a bird, “her everything, and became the place I hold jurisdiction over today.”

Your eyes widen as you think back to the odd feelings you’ve had coming here for today - and Toby’s slip-up.

“I have not been able to find her since the late 1500s,” The Operator explains as the liquids dance back into the coffee mug, the figure of Liebevolle Frau taking a hair longer than the rest. “She lives in everything.”

You’re honestly speechless over everything the Operator has said because it’s so… It’s strangely heartfelt. You’ve never even spoken face to face with your boss and when you do, it’s because some force is guiding you to do so. But if that force felt so alive, it must have meant she wanted you to know.

“Her physical form,” you finally manage to wisp out. “She wanted to be at peace, didn’t she?”

The Operator chuckles deeply. “I would assume so.”

Before you can respond to anything or even come up with another response, you hear both Masky AND Hoodie yelling for you in your head. The jarring difference between your boss’s gentle voice and Masky and Hoodie crying out for blood is enough to make you jump (once again).

Upon seeing your sudden switch in atmosphere, the Operator hushes the voices in your head and calls them to his side.

Toby is the first to show up though, and quickly trailing after him is Masky and Hoodie. They both look ready to reprimand you but upon seeing you sitting with the Operator, nothing but reverence crosses their minds and bodies.

“Good evening, Sir,” Masky says as he bows his head. “Are you well?”

“Thoughtful, aren't you, Timothy?” There’s no animosity or anger in the Operator’s tone, but it makes Masky blush all the same.

A pregnant pause passes.

“I was just speaking with your newest member, Miss Reader,” a pale hand gestures to you. “Come, join us. I could use the company.”

You watch as confused glances get shared between your three comrades before they take a seat beside you.

A pleasant silence passes through the air before a gentle humming that’s sweeter than honey overtakes it like a passing breeze.

[lazywonderlvnd]

*hesitantly steps in the box* Umm.. soo.. I was listening to Cruel Summer by Taylor Swift again and that song (is awesome btw if you haven't listened to it already) just gives me such MAJOR drarry vibes .. like -

" And I screamed, 'for whatever it's worth I love you, ain't that the worst thing you ever heard?' He looks up grinning like a devil. "

Like if that's not drarry I'd chomp my pillows. So .. *twiddling thumbs* could you pls write something with that line as a prompt?? Pretty please 🥺🥺🥺❤️❤️❤️ maybe use the song as inspiration.. idk? Whatever you like. ALSO, don't forget I STILL LOVE YOU that ain't changing yet and you haven't seen the last of me! Imma tail after you for eternity and you better take that as the threat it is! *throws love at you* BYE!! ❤️❤️ *vaults outside the box*

my sweetest most loved angel!! thank u so much for this prompt based on a BOP i was obsessed w when the album first came out. it got sm longer than it was meant to be, so it can be found on ao3 as well!! i hope u like it ilysm ❤️❤️❤️❤️

warnings for minor drug use (weed) and implied suicide of a minor character (lucius, extremely vague reference but pls be aware!)

rating: e word count: ~5k

When Pansy asked him how it started, Draco discovered that he didn’t know what to tell her.

Technically, though, it had started at Ernie Macmillan’s party in the beginning of summer, with the cloying scent of Freesias and Freedom Roses (“Imported from the States,” Ernie told Draco pompously, when he asked) and all those string-lights dangling from the cedar pergola, perennial balls of fire inside their clear bubbles like tiny trapped suns. Cheap beer in plastic cups, Marlboro cigarettes, and some stupid Muggle game ... darts.

Technically.  

* * * 

“Get off me, Potter,” Draco says in a failed whisper. He’s laughing and drunk and fuzzy warm under a sprawling summer’s night sky that looks like black paint. Potter tastes like Guinness every time he kisses him, and his hands are surprisingly soft. In direct opposition to his own command he pulls Potter in by the face and glues their mouths back together ravenously. The alcohol makes him sloppy (he likes it, though — the sloppiness of it) and Potter’s skin is warm where Draco slides his hand under an ugly Muggle band T-shirt to touch. 

Around the corner, he can hear music coming from the patio where nearly every single one of their former classmates are gathered, drinking and laughing and getting along famously with a much-needed buffer of five years between them and their Hogwarts days.

Much-needed for himself and Potter as well. Apparently.

He sees him sometimes, at get-togethers like this or around the Ministry, once or twice at a dinner party thrown by a mutual friend. They’re always cordial. He hasn’t insulted Potter to his face in five years.

Except for tonight, when he couldn’t help himself loudly drawing attention to the similarities between Potter’s hair and one of the shrubs in the garden. But they’re kissing now round the side of the house and because of that he’s quite glad for his slip. And it’s their five-year reunion, so. What would it be without some bickering between the two of them?

Potter presses him into the bricks and snogs him breathless, only he keeps grinning and laughing and ruining everything just when Draco starts losing himself in it.

“Quit laughing,” he scolds him. “You’re the worst, Potter. No etiquette at all.”

“That’s rude,” Potter says. His breath wafts across Draco’s mouth. His eyes are excessively green behind their round frames, which have not changed since their school days. The scar is mostly hidden beneath his wild fringe, save for the very bottom where it slashes neatly through a dark eyebrow and touches his eyelid. “I can’t help it, I’m pissed good and proper.”

His hand moves to Draco’s hip and even through the thickness of the alcohol coating his brain like a muffler he feels that touch clear and ripe as daybreak.

“So  that’s  why you’ve decided to snog me rather than …” He waves a hand vaguely, in lieu of the proper witticism with which he might normally have trounced Potter. “You know. Beat me to a pulp.”

“I only did that one time,” Potter says, grinning. Grinning and moving his thumb in circles on Draco’s hip. “And it was because you were being a twat. And I didn’t beat you to a pulp. You’re so dramatic.”

“Semantics,” Draco says. “I had a bloody nose.”

“And you deserved it.”

“Now who’s being rude?”

Potter kisses him again.

Guinness and Freesias.

* * * 

“Macmillan’s party,” he told Pansy. “He kissed me.”

“So that’s where you disappeared to.” She looked smug. Her inch-long nails were sharpened to a point and painted a glossy black, and she drummed them against her cheek, the way a cat flicks its tail. “I’m surprised you kept it from me this whole time.”

“Well,” said Draco, lowering his gaze to his glass of wine and watching it flirt dangerously with the lip as he swirled it. His cheeks felt warm, but he wasn’t embarrassed. “We snuck around.”

Right, maybe a little embarrassed. Mostly conflicted.

“Oh?” For a single syllable the laughter underneath was remarkably transparent.

He looked up, eyebrows lifted. “Yes,” he said a little defensively. “For obvious reasons. At first it was just sex. A lot of it, so he usually came here. Apparently Granger and the Weasel are notorious for popping round his place unexpectedly.”

* * *

He feels opened up all over again every time Potter fucks into him, unhurried and so careful. His hand is hot on Draco’s thigh, both of them sticky with sweat and come. This has to be their third round at least, and Draco’s sluggish brain insists it might actually be four.

An open window lets in the late afternoon air, humid and drowsy and perfumed heavily with flowers (a la Macmillan, Draco planted Freesias and Freedom Roses outside his bedroom window and helped them along to full bloom with some careful magic). Potter’s hair is damp with sweat — from exertion and the relentless heat of July — and Draco slides his fingers into it, tangles them and pulls the way he’s learned Potter likes. If he’s honest, he’s harboured a very secret and  very  desperate yearning to touch Potter’s hair since he was quite young. He doesn’t know why.

Well, maybe he knows why.

Potter makes a quiet, whimpered noise that curls Draco’s toes. He speeds up his hips, closing in on his orgasm and putting his face in Draco’s neck even though it’s too fucking hot for it.

“Fuck,” Draco whines. He tries to lift his leg higher, wrap it around Potter’s waist to get that perfect angle, but they’re too slick with sweat and he lets out a frustrated noise when it falls back to the bed. “Potter,” he says helplessly, arching into each thrust and shaking with the effort. This third (fourth?) orgasm is building too slowly, sitting there hard and stubborn and heavy in his gut and refusing to be coaxed to completion. He’s dripping with the effort, muscles quivering. “Please — I need —”

But he seems to have figured it out for himself. He scoots forward, lifting Draco’s arse higher off the bed and bending him nearly in half. The angle helps him go deeper and he’s suddenly nudging Draco’s oversensitive prostate every time he fucks back in.

“Right there,” Draco gasps, tensing as this new angle lights a fire under his elusive orgasm. His cock is leaking but he doesn’t have the strength or energy to get a hand around it. Potter’s grunting with the effort of fucking him, sweat dripping down his temples and making his neck and torso gleam. “Right there, god, right there, please, I’m so close —”

Potter braces himself and redoubles his efforts, and it’s like he’s reached inside Draco and sunk his claws into that building storm in his belly because suddenly it’s ripped right out of him in a colossal wave of euphoria that approaches too much, cock spurting untouched between them  .  Potter keeps moving inside him while he rides it out, and at some point he feels the warm, wet explosion of Potter emptying in him, mumbling incoherent things that include Draco’s name.

They come down together too. Draco is clutching Potter’s arms and trying to catch his breath and Potter is trembling and clutching him back like an anchor in a veritable ocean of sensation. 

It’s like this every time. 

When Potter drops down onto the bed beside him Draco rolls over and kisses him, long and deep and satisfying, and Potter reciprocates with the kind of intensity that is completely unique to him as a person.

“That one was particularly good,” says Potter, and Draco laughs.

When he feels like moving, he knows that Potter will get up and go to Draco’s kitchen and make tea for both of them, and he won’t need to ask what Draco likes, because he remembered after the first time. They’ll drink it naked in bed as the sun sets on another endless summer day and transforms before their eyes into a humid and pungent summer night, in the midst of which they will fuck at least three more times, and Potter will keep smelling like sweat and bergamot and boy, and Draco will keep feeling starved for him.

And they won’t talk about it.

* * *

“And?” Pansy said.

“And what?”

“You said ‘at first,’” she pointed out, and arched a groomed eyebrow. “When did it turn into more than just sex?”

Draco tamped down on a smile, because that would have been more emotion than he cared to show at the moment. To Pansy or to himself.

He swirled his wine again and took a long sip, stalling. He wanted — needed, really — to talk this out with her, but he was becoming aware of an uncomfortable heaviness in his chest which was suggesting to him that he didn’t want to share everything. Not because he was embarrassed, but, well … it was private. It was between him and Harry.

“There was this one night he came over later than he was supposed to because of work,” Draco said. The memory stirred some emotion. He hadn’t thought of it in a while. “He had this bloody huge takeout bag of Thai food.”

 * * *

He sets it down on Draco’s desk, takes out a container, and after toeing off his shoes drops sideways onto Draco’s bed with it and uses chopsticks to shovel in a mouthful of noodles. Draco watches this in awe.

“Want some?” Harry asks once he’s swallowed (small blessings). There’s grease around his mouth. “There’s a million other things in the bag but you have to get it yourself. I’m dead tired.”

Draco thinks of asking what the hell is going on, because they’re supposed to be fucking by now, but something stops him. Harry really does look exhausted but quite content eating his Thai food on Draco’s bed, and he doesn’t have the heart to berate him for it or remind him that they’re fuck buddies, not friends, and that if he’d wanted to eat and lounge about perhaps he should’ve stayed at home.

And the food really does smell good.

He gets up and fishes another container out of the bag that turns out to be some sort of heavenly-smelling marinated beef, which he brings back to the bed. Harry’s rolled onto his back and has the container of noodles balanced on his stomach.

“They thought they found a Horcrux on a raid,” he says. His voice is perfectly casual, but Draco thinks he can see something troubled in his eyes. He has one foot crossed over the other and  it’s bouncing anxiously; he doesn’t think Harry’s aware of doing it. “Wasn’t. Obviously.” 

“But they needed your expert advice to be sure.”

“Yeah.” Harry looks at him, then his food. “Is that the beef?”

“Yes it is.”

“Good?”

“Haven’t tried it yet.”

He opens the container and chooses a piece, but instead of lifting it to his mouth he follows some crazy impulse and hovers it over Harry’s instead.

“Open, Scarhead,” he says. Harry blinks but does it, and Draco drops it in. He smiles, then chews.

“Brilliant.”

* * *

“We ate it instead of fucking. It was the first time I realised something had shifted.”

“And you let it shift?”

The question gave him pause. He didn’t answer right away, mulling it over. It made it sound as if he’d had a choice, and that wasn’t quite right.

“It already had,” he said finally. “It wasn’t a matter of letting it; by the time I noticed, it had already happened. Otherwise he wouldn’t have come over with the food.”

“But you did let it continue,” said Pansy. She wasn’t antagonising him, nor accusing him of anything. She looked amused, but not in a way that was at his expense. Pansy was both a twat and a fiercely good friend, the combination of which meant she would do nothing more or less than hold up a mirror and force you to look at yourself, gruesome as the experience inevitably wound up being. “Even after you realised he had feelings for you.”

Draco swallowed. He’d not heard it said aloud before now.

“Yes,” he said. “It felt good. Knowing he fancied me.”

* * *

Harry’s shameless in his staring.

He stands in the doorway of the ensuite bathroom and watches Draco like he’s been invited to do so. Draco pretends not to notice, stretched out in a tub full of bubbles facing the opposite way. There’s incense burning, and candles. Harry is completely silent, but Draco could feel those eyes on him from across a crowded hall.

They fucked a few hours ago and fell asleep afterwards. Draco pretended not to think about it, but had actually made the conscious decision to let Harry continue sleeping when he woke up and decided he wanted a bath.

When he can’t take it anymore he opens his eyes and tilts his head back and a little to the side, just enough that he gets Potter in his peripherals.

“Well?” he says. 

“Well what?”

“Join me, won’t you?”

Harry snorts. Then there’s a quiver of magic in the air, and a small, utilitarian chair appears out of thin air beside the tub. Harry sits down in it. He’s holding the joint they’d only gotten halfway through earlier. 

He’s in his jeans and nothing else, all limbs and sparse chest hair, and when he crosses a leg over the other one, elbow resting on his knee as he hits the joint, Draco feels a bone-deep attraction to him that’s beyond physical.

“May I?” Draco asks. Harry hands it over and Draco inhales deeply before returning it. The humidity of the room mixes with the smoke and the smell of marijuana, pungent and cloying like the flowers. 

After a length of silence, Draco says, “Will you read me something?”

“Will I what?”

He takes his wand from the floor and Summons a book from the shelf in his room — one of his poetry collections comes sweeping in through the cracked door and into Harry’s lap. Harry sticks the joint between his lips and starts rifling through it with his glasses all fogged up. 

When he starts reading Byron (“I had a dream, which was not all a dream”) Draco smiles and sinks deeper into the hot water and bubbles, letting Harry’s voice lull him into a pleasant stupor. 

 * * *

“So you led him on,” said Pansy. “Because you liked his attention.”

He stared at her, then let his gaze drop to his wine again. Had he?

“It sounds bad when you say it like that.”

“Well,” she said, smiling wryly, “I’m only saying it as you’ve told it to me. Maybe if it sounds bad, it is bad. Some things are that simple, darling. Unless there’s more to it.”

“Like what?” he said, not looking at her. There was a touch of pouty defiance in his voice he knew Pansy would detect instantly. He heard her sigh.

“What exactly happened yesterday, Draco? You didn’t give me any context.”

“What context do you need?” he muttered. “He told me he loved me.”

* * *

They’ve finished an entire bottle of wine between them. He’s not drunk, but he’s pleasantly buzzed. Harry’s sprawled on his back, T-shirt rucked up just below his navel so Draco can see the dark trail of hair leading below his jeans. There’s something implicitly erotic about the movement of his chest when he breathes, his hands folded behind his head, one leg stretched the length of the bed and the other bent at the knee.

He opens his eyes suddenly and grins when he sees Draco looking at him. 

“That wine just made me tired,” he says.

“So go to sleep,” says Draco. He takes a last swig, emptying it, and sets the bottle aside on his night table. He stretches his arms over his head and arches his back, yawning widely, thinking perhaps he’ll give into the tempting allure of sleep as well when Harry says, “I told Hermione about us.”

So he’s not sleeping, then. His stomach clenches hard and a completely irrational sense of panic rises in his throat.

“Us?” he says slowly, sitting up straighter. “What ‘us’?”

Harry looks at him upside-down, then rolls over and rises to his knees. He stares at Draco blankly.

“‘What us?’” he repeats.

“Yes,” says Draco. “What ‘us’?”

“Us,” Harry says. His voice is lower than usual. The word is starting to sound weird and lose meaning. “You and me, Draco.”

“‘You and me?’ Harry, there’s no you and me. We’re just fucking. What do you … what do you mean, you told Granger? Told her what?”

Harry looks … well, he looks fucking crushed. And angry. Draco forces himself not to look away.

“I told her I’d been seeing you,” he says quietly. There’s something … not threatening, but close to it, in his voice.

“Sure,” says Draco. “I see you three times a week, sometimes four. I s’pose if you feel the need to fill Granger in on everything you do with every second of your day —”

“Shut up, Draco,” Harry says. “You know what I meant.”

Draco glares at him. He gets off the bed, slightly lightheaded from the wine, horrified by the emotions welling up inside him right behind the panic, and he points at his bedroom door.

“Get out,” he says. 

“Are you serious?”

“Go!” he says loudly, voice rising. “If you’re gonna start turning this into something it definitely is not then get out of my flat, Potter.” As usual the window is open, but it’s the third of September and getting chilly finally and Draco’s Freesias and Freedom Roses started wilting last week. There’s a chilly breeze coming into that room that is utterly barren of the sweet smells of summer he associates with Harry these days. “It’s time we ended this anyway,” he says. “Summer’s over.”

“So?” From his position kneeling on Draco’s bed Harry shouldn’t feel imposing at all, but he does. There’s no sparkle of humour in his eyes, none of the softness Draco’s gotten used to seeing there. He looks like someone who’s realised they’ve been betrayed.

Worse than that. Someone who’s been betrayed and realises they should have seen it coming.

“What the fuck does summer have to do with anything?”

“Ever heard of a summer fling, Potter? We’re not ‘seeing each other’.”

Harry finally gets off the bed. Draco’s stomach clenches again, more painfully this time. He doesn’t feel bad, he tells himself — this is Harry’s fault. His fault for making a big deal out of something easy and fun and, most of all, temporary. For ruining this with feelings. 

 “That’s not what this was,” Harry says. It’s not an argumentative tone; rather, he sounds disappointed. Devastated, and disappointed. And that look of betrayal, like he’s surprised but not …  that  surprised.

That hurts. 

“This was as real as it gets, Draco,” he says matter-of-factly. “You and I don’t have the capability of doing anything as shallow as a fling.”

“Well, Potter,” says Draco, straining to maintain his level voice, “congratulations, because that is the most disgusting, romanticised, Gryffindorian piece of shit I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah?” He grabs up his wand from the bedside table and stuffs it into his jeans pocket. “Well here’s another: I love you. You complete fucking prick.”

Draco stares after him as he leaves the room, cowed for the moment. He hears Harry take the Floo powder off his mantle, hears the fire start, and then the sound of Potter disappearing. 

And he feels hollow suddenly.

* * *

“And he said it completely out of the blue?” 

Draco set his wine aside. He was suddenly feeling too sick to put anything else in his body.

“Sort of,” he said quietly, avoiding her eyes. “He was trying to make something out of nothing. He was just making a point, trying to guilt me, I don’t even think he meant it.”

Pansy said nothing for so long that Draco finally looked up. She had an eyebrow raised.

“Do you really believe that?” she said.

Draco didn’t answer right away. He glanced at the bottle of wine on the table and thought about the way it always tasted a little sweeter on Harry’s lips.

“I don’t know,” he said. “No. But it doesn’t change anything. It was a summer thing, not a … a relationship, for crying out loud. Like I’d date Potter.”

“Why not?”

Draco scoffed. “Why not? Pansy, please. He’s a …”

“A …?”

“He’s an idiot! He’s Potter!  He’s …” He couldn’t think of the right word, something bad enough to express the audacity, the gall , for Potter to think even for a second  that they could …

“Draco Malfoy,” said Pansy. She was smirking. “You love him too.”

Had he felt sick before?  Now he was going to be sick.

“I never would’ve imagined it,” she went on, seeming to take pleasure from his outrage and humiliation. The bint. “Look at you, you’re blushing! Oh my god,” she laughed. And then she stopped laughing, and instead the weight of her own words appeared to descend on her. “Oh my god. You do, don’t you? You are arse over tits for Harry Potter —”

He was up and out of his chair before she’d finished the last word, absurdly,  embarrassingly on the verge of tears all of a sudden. 

“Draco —”

“I’m glad this can serve as your entertainment for the week, Pansy,” he said. A tear rolled down his cheek — could he be any more histrionic? — and he brushed it away furiously. 

“Draco, no —”

“Call Blaise, tell him!” he shouted. “You two can have a good laugh over it —”

“Draco  —”

“Poor Draco’s  fucked himself over again, what a stupid wanker!” 

Pansy got up. He slapped her hand away when she reached for him, but she only came at him again and grabbed it this time when he swatted at her, enfolding it in both of hers. He closed his eyes and hiccoughed and two more tears came.

“Darling, will you please listen to me?” she said softly. It sounded eerily like his mother, which only made him feel young and childish. He tugged his arm away and she let him go, but he didn’t move any farther away. “I am  not  laughing at you,” she told him. “Blaise might, but that’s because Blaise has a black hole for a heart, Draco, the only emotion he’s ever felt is disdain.” Against his will, Draco chuckled wetly. Pansy smiled and took his hand again, tentatively. He allowed it. “ I think it’s lovely that you have feelings for him. I don’t understand what’s got you so upset, I mean … I know it’s Potter, but we’re not teenagers anymore, right? Who cares?”

Draco exhaled a long sigh.

“He let my father go to Azkaban,” he said softly, looking into her eyes. He saw comprehension dawning. “How can I be with someone who could’ve saved my father’s life and chose not to, Pansy?”

“No one could have saved your father, Draco,” said Pansy gravely. His throat was tight, swollen. He hated that he was hanging on her words, looking for truth in them,  wanting to hear something that would make this okay. “He would have done the same thing if they’d let him go back to the manor. It’s not your fault or your mum’s or Potter’s.”

“But —”

“But what?” she cut him off sharply. “Draco, please don’t let your father keep controlling your life from the grave! My god, you deserve happiness, don’t you see that? Even if it’s Potter! In fact, I … I think that could be really good.”

“What, being with Potter?”

“Yes, being with Potter,” she said. “Darling, I say this because I love you: you need to grow a pair of bollocks and start taking control of your own life. I’m not finished!” she added when he opened his mouth to retort. “I understand that it feels like a betrayal of your father, I do, and I’m not saying you can’t have your cherished memories of him, but Draco … you cannot live your life in his shadow, doing things because it’s what he’d want or wouldn’t want. I think that choosing to explore these feelings you have for Potter is the bravest and healthiest thing you could possibly do for yourself.”

He stared at her for a long moment, eyes wet though the tears had stopped falling. 

“What if it doesn’t last?” he said finally. “What if next week he realises it was a huge mistake?”

“First of all, I doubt that,” said Pansy with a roll of her eyes that was clearly meant to be teasing. “You said you’ve been seeing him all summer, that’s plenty of time to have gotten sick of you. And, even if that did happen, I still think it would be entirely worth that week of being disgustingly in love.”

“Do you?” he drawled.

“Yes! I do!” She picked up his discarded wine glass from before and held it up. “Does the effect of alcohol last forever?”

“No …”

“Of course not! And we don’t expect it to. We expect to have fun while we’re drunk and it’ll last as long as it lasts.”

“Dating someone isn’t like being drunk, Pansy,” Draco said sourly.

“Oh, that’s not the point ,” she huffed. “We don’t do things because we know they’ll last forever, we do them because we want to. In the moment.”

“Sounds irresponsible.”

“Well, of course it is,” she scoffed. “Love is completely irresponsible, that’s the fun of it, Draco. Now take this,” she shoved the glass of wine into his hand, almost spilling it. “Drink up, and then get your arse over to his flat and fix this.”

* * *

Granger opened the door. Draco sighed.

“Hello, Granger,” he said lamely. Her raised eyebrows said she was surprised and thoroughly unimpressed by his appearance.

“Malfoy,” she said.

“Is Potter in?”

“I guess that depends.”

“On?”

She looked at him, dark brown eyes impenetrable. Then she closed the front door behind her.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“To talk to him,” he said tightly. As if this whole thing wasn’t bad enough, now he had to pass a test to get past Granger the bridge troll. “I thought he told you —”

“He did,” she said flatly. “And about yesterday.”

“Well I’m here to apologise,” said Draco. Granger’s eyebrows lifted again. Still unimpressed. “And to tell him …” He sighed again and broke eye contact, willing himself not to give up, not to take this as a sign he should just go home and ream into Pansy for giving him such bad advice.

“Malfoy.” He looked up. Her voice was softer now, and her eyes seemed a little less hard. “What are you doing? You really hurt him, you know.”

“I know,” he said stiffly. “I said I’m here to apologise.”

“Well he doesn’t need an apology,” she said. “If you’re only going to let him down again —”

“I’m not.” He rubbed his forehead and looked at her again, exasperated, defeated. “I’ve … had some sense talked into me.”

She looked like it was the last thing she’d been expecting. 

“Have you?”

“Yes,” he said. “So would you please get him for me before I lose my nerve?”

It was the right thing to say. Her expression melted into something much softer and he fancied he even saw the beginnings of a smile.

“Can I ask who affected this change of heart?”

“Pansy,” he said. And, when Granger seemed taken aback, “She’s very wise when she feels like it.”

“I see. Well …” She still looked a bit conflicted, eyeing him and then putting her hand on the doorknob. “All right. I’ll tell him you’re here, anyway, but he was really hurt, Malfoy. I don’t know if he’ll want to hear it.”

“I’ll take my chances,” he said.

Granger eyed him another moment and then went back inside, shutting the door behind her. Draco only had to wait a minute before it was opening again, and this time Harry came out. The sight of him made Draco’s heart feel tender and sore.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi, Potter.”

He waited to see if Harry would say anything else but he didn’t. He only stared at Draco expectantly, arms folded, in all ways closed off.

“I came to apologise,” said Draco.

“Well you can keep it,” said Harry. “I don’t need an apology because you told me the truth.”

“It wasn’t the truth, Potter,” Draco said quietly. “Opposite, really.”

Harry was silent. Then, “You made me feel like shit, Draco.”

“I know. I’m sorry. You freaked me out, springing it on me like that.”

A beat, then two, and then suddenly Harry was dropping his arms and sighing and he looked at Draco with so much vulnerability he nearly had to turn away from it.

“I didn’t mean to tell you …” He licked his lips, scratched his arm. It reminded Draco that beneath everything, Harry was still the same awkward dorky leader-of-the-losers he’d always been, just with a bit more confidence now and the title of Official Saviour of the Wizarding World. “I wouldn’t have said that if … I was just angry.”

He didn’t need to ask what Harry was referring to.

“I know.”

“Not that I didn’t … I mean, I … I do —”

“Please don’t say it again,” Draco said. Harry laughed.

“Right. I just meant … I really do have feelings for you, Draco. Like … mad, crazy feelings, y’know? I don’t want it to be a fling.”

“It wasn’t a fling,” he said. He moved a little closer and Harry watched him carefully, eyes flickering once down to Draco’s mouth. “I didn’t even sleep with anyone else the whole time.”

“Well that’s good to know,” said Harry sardonically. But he was smiling, so Draco found himself smiling tentatively as well.

“I wanna be with you, Potter. Properly. I thought …” But he shakes his head, deciding that now isn’t the time to explain about his father. “I thought it was a stupid idea. Now I realise that it probably is, but that I don’t really care much. I’ve decided to ignore my better judgment this one time.”

“That’s quite Gryffindor of you,” Harry commented drily.

“Yes, well.”

“So I go against your better judgment, then?”

“Potter,” Draco sighed. “Please, I don’t mean it like —”

“I’m taking the piss, Draco,” Harry cut him off. He reached for Draco’s waist and pulled him close, and before Draco could get his breath back from a short, surprised intake of breath Harry’s mouth was on his, warm and familiar and soothing. He brought his hands to Harry’s face and kissed back without bothering to hide his overwhelming relief.

Harry chased his mouth when he pulled away and Draco breathed out a laugh, holding him at bay with a hand on his chest. 

“We have plenty of time,” he said. “D’you wanna come over later tonight, after your friends leave?”

“What? No, come in.” He took Draco’s hand and gestured with his head towards the door. “Please. It’s just Ron and Hermione. They know everything.”

“Really?” Draco drawled. “And you think Weasley won’t try to kill me?”

“I promise not to let him,” Harry grinned. “Please, Draco. You said you wanted to do this properly, right?”

He thought of what Pansy said about being irresponsible, and decided it was worth a try at least.

“Okay,” he said. Harry beamed and tugged him inside.

Towards his ultimate downfall or towards the beginning of the rest of his life, he didn’t know. That, as Pansy would have said, was the fun of it.

[tarotinapinch]

Pile Three: Red Healer Quartz

1. Soul Gift: What you came here to express and share with the world.

*We  the Hathors: Deep love. Mother's milk. Birth is a portal.

*Break the Chain: Ancestral patterns. Healing. Rewriting the future. 

*Get Wild

*Soul Song

You came here to express your wild side and give life to different yet beautiful creations. You came to break the chains of your family patterns and do something so totally different and wonderous that it will change your family dynamics for future generations. Whatever your soul sings about, that is whatever it is that calls to you and makes you happy, is what you are meant to express and share. You could very well be a parent but raise your children much differently than your parents raised you. You could be a natural born singer or song writer, giving life to new music that you will share with the world. Whatever the case may be you are meant to breathe new life into this world whether that is in a literal or metaphorical sense. The things you create will be wild and amazing, and sharing these things with the world will help to open the mind of the collective, challenging outdated views and replacing them with new, more flexible ideals. So dive into that wild side of yours and bring your amazing ideas to life!

2. Karmic Wound: What you came here to heal.

*Whale and Orca Elders: Share your song. Frequency of sound. Diving deep.

*Starseed: What lights you up?

*Nature

*Variance

In past lives you have followed the same kind of path as you are now, one where you are called to share your unique song with the world. The difference here is that within your past lives, you gave in to the pressures of society eventually, giving up on your soul dreams. In this life you are meant to heal that wound and push beyond, sharing your creations with the world without hesitation or fear of judgement. For you, being out in nature is the best way to ground and heal your energies. You could very well already have a favorite spot within nature that you like to retreat to when things get a little too hectic within your life. If you do not, you would be doing yourself a great justice by finding a happy, calm place within nature that resonates with you on a soul level. You could even have multiple places that bring you grounding energies, each one for different reasons. One place may bring you peace and calm, somewhere else may bring you a feeling of passion and inspiration, yet another place may bring you warm, friendly vibes connecting you with your soul family on a spiritual level. There are so many variants of how different locations within nature can heal you in different ways. The bottom line is that nature plays a major role in your healing process. Connect with the Earth and her elements as much as you can when you feel that your life is off-balance.

3. Life Lessons: What you came here to learn.

*The Void: Stop. Embrace winter. Great cosmic womb.

*Get Grounded: Empaths. Highly sensitives. Connect with Nature.

*Love

*Soul Name

You came here to learn how to embrace the seemingly slower times within life, the times when things are in the process of creation, but not yet ready to be birthed. You are learning patience with all things, but especially within yourself. The things that you bring to life take love and nurturing. And those things need time in order to cultivate properly. You are learning that love is the highest vibration that you can attune to and the most powerful fertilizer for your mental garden. The more love you use, the more potent and authentic your creations will be, attracting more abundance to you. You are learning to ground yourself within nature in order to harness and direct this warm, loving energy to all aspects of your life. You are also learning what things truly feel right for you. You could discover that a name that you were not given at birth suits you better, you could possibly be building a name brand of your own with your creations, or the names that you give your creations could play a big role. Whatever the case may be, you are learning the importance of naming things from the soul and how their meanings touch your life in significant ways.

4. Current Obstacle: The thing that's challenging you the most.

*Baby Steps: Action. Follow your intuition before it makes sense.

*Take a Break: A life's work, not a season. Get off the treadmill.

*Transmute

*You Are the Universe

A big obstacle for you is following that gut feeling without having any evidence that your actions will be fruitful. You sometimes feel like you need to see guaranteed results or you may not take the risk to go after something. But deep down you know that your inner voice is never wrong and always leads you the right way, even if the actions you take seem ridiculous or risky, things always work out for your best interest as long as you are following your true happiness. You are the Universe and the Universe is you, so as long as you support your dreams, the Universe will support you and help you to transmute your life into how you envision it to be. Another hurtle that is hard for you is learning when to take a break. You're naturally a very hard working person and perhaps you were taught that you need to work hard to achieve what you want in life. While focused passion is definitely helpful to success, "working hard" by running yourself ragged is not. Learn to listen to your body and take breaks when you need them. Recharge the batteries so that you can work at your full, attentive capacity rather than running on empty and chancing making mistakes or wearing yourself out to the point of burnout. This includes more than just physical work, it includes mental and spiritual as well. Do you get tired in the middle of the day for seemingly no reason? Do you have headaches that tend to hit you out of nowhere? Do you find yourself unable to focus on things that usually hold your interest quite well? These are all signs of mental fatigue and suggest that you need some serious relaxation and rest. Incorporate more self care routines into your week. Make the time to take care of you, you'll thank yourself later.

5. Soul Calling: What your soul is calling you toward.

*Cracked Open: Rock bottom. Surrender to the alchemy of life.

*The Great Gathering: It's all coming together. Intuitive hits. Soul tribe.

*Paradox

*Soul Family

What your soul is calling you towards is a paradox of sorts: Hitting rock bottom will actually lead to you rising higher than you ever have been before. Cutting off toxic relationships within your life or changing the boundaries around them to be more healthy, especially with your close friends and family will attract your true family. Your soul family. You are being pulled towards making the right connections with people and fixing the unhealthy ones as best you can. Set your boundaries. Your true family and friends will respect your decision and adhere to your personal rules. People who are not meant to journey with you at this time are the ones who will poke, prod, test, try to destroy, or even just blatantly ignore your boundaries. Boundary setting is a sure-fire way to weed out the toxic environments from your life. Revealing who may not be there for you when you were hopeful that they would be could feel like hitting rock bottom. But remember that just because those people do not have the capacity to support you and your dreams right now doesn't mean that nobody supports you. Your soul family will always have love and support for you and your dreams, no matter who you decide to be or what you decide to do. So don't be afraid to stand up for yourself and show your true colors.

6. Guidance Message from your Spiritual Team

*Sovereign of Coins

*You Deserve to be Seen: We each have a desire to be seen, heard, and known. These are natural desires that are crucial to our wellbeing and the embodiment of our true self. It is nothing to be ashamed of. Give yourself the gift of being seen, heard, and known by yourself and by others who appreciate you, allowing yourself to take up the space you need.

*Reconciliation

*Stay strong, be a guiding light. Ground yourself, be love.

You are meant to live a more than comfortable life with the abundance to do so coming from the creations you put out into the world. You and your work are meant to be well-known, seen and loved by many. Throughout this journey you will come across those who may throw some negativity your way, such as those who say "that will never work" or that your dreams are "unrealistic". The underlying message here is that these types of people are actually jealous of those who go after what they want because they themselves feel like they cannot do the same, they feel trapped in a certain way of life, like they can't do anything differently. So they take it out on others who broke free from this mentality that they are stuck in. Most of the time these snide comments come from somewhere deep like this and are the manifestation of these people's subconscious thoughts. So no matter who you come across on your journey, no matter what possible negativity they try to say to you, remain strong and respond in the energy of love. Be a guiding light to others with how you respond to negativity with happiness and love, not with more negativity. What someone says about you is generally a reflection of themselves, so the best thing you can do is wish these people peace and happiness and move on. Stay confident in who you are and remember that you and your creations deserve to be seen, known, and loved.

[violetwolfraven]

Ray Molina: Best Dad Ever

For the March 11th explosion of content thing. Just Violet being a fantom and doing my part for this!

Tw: mentioned death, mentioned abusive parents, mentioned panic attack.

So the boys can be seen and heard when directly touching Julie after the whole post-Orpheum glowy hug thing but Ray doesn’t know that just yet.

What he does know is that Julie’s mental health took a rapid turn for the better for seemingly no reason and then a couple weeks later he found out she joined a band without telling him.

He’s not stupid. He knows that’s probably because of the band, though he is a bit confused as to how she even met them.

He kinda figures it’s a kids and your internet tricks thing but there’s some flaws to this theory.

1) He asks Flynn what she knows about the boys only... it seems like she doesn’t know much of anything. That’s weird because he knows Julie tells her practically everything.

2) The boys have American accents despite Julie claiming they’re from Sweden.

3) Carlos is a terrible liar and on the rare occasion Julie actually talks about the boys he gets this weirdly conspiratorial look.

So anyway Ray doesn’t really believe it’s as simple as ‘I met these 3 Swedish boys on the internet’ but he trusts his daughter’s judgement and he leaves it alone.

Anyway he has other things to focus on.

Such as how Ray has literally never been able to keep track of his keys/phone/hats/camera parts/stuff and now it seems to just pop up whenever he’s looking for it.

Also he keeps feeling like there’s someone with him around the house more and more.

Like not a malicious presence like Victoria fears, and definitely not like Rose is around watching him, but like someone is there.

Sometimes it feels like there’s more than one presence around. None of them familiar but all of them friendly.

Oddly enough, whatever or whoever it is feels almost like Julie or Carlos. Young and excitable and like a verse of a happy song. He’s not sure why they’re around, but they definitely don’t feel dangerous, so Ray doesn’t feel threatened.

But some days a better comparison might be to Trevor back when Rose first introduced him. Raw and fragile and very, very sad.

Ray tries to put on happy music or a Disney cartoon or something on those days and he doesn’t quite know why or how but the energy usually gets more positive when he does that.

Anyway after a while of this (after the Orpheum performance) he starts noticing weird things that Carlos and Julie do now.

Carlos will just carry around a small whiteboard and a couple pens and he erases it whenever Ray comes into the room but before he does it almost looks like there’s two, three, or even four sets of handwriting on there.

And he walks in on Julie talking to herself like. All the time.

Carlos doesn’t ask for help on his math homework anymore. Julie makes this insanely good chicken recipe for dinner once and then clearly panics and lies when asked where she got it. Flynn makes a set of rainbow friendship bracelets one day while she’s hanging out at the Molina house but he doesn’t see Julie wearing the match to the one she keeps.

Plus Carrie starts hanging out at their house again?? Out of the blue?? And none of the girls have a good explanation for how they made up??

Then later Nick Danforth-Evans (who Julie used to talk about having a crush on but hasn’t in a while) starts hanging around too and the kid seems... well, Ray doesn’t want to throw the word ‘traumatized’ around, but he’s jumpy and guarded in a way that can only be described as a little bit traumatized.

So all 5 kids are clearly keeping some secret and Ray’s getting suspicious and worried.

He sits them down and asks what’s going on. Like is one of them having problems at home, or..?

The kids, simultaneously:

Julie: no, we’re just all in a play together!

Carlos: we’re fine we’re just ghost hunting!

Flynn: we’re exhibiting bisexual-pansexual-lesbian solidarity!

Carrie: Julie and the Phantoms and Dirty Candi are doing a collaboration album!

Nick: we all joined jazz band??

Ray’s calling bullshit at this point.

Then Julie and Nick both look up directly at the same spot, somewhere a couple feet above the arm of the couch, which is seemingly just empty air.

Whatever it is, it doesn’t seem like the other kids can see it but they all seem to be waiting for something and Ray is wondering if they’re sharing a hallucination??? Are they all on drugs??? Should he be worried???

Then Julie says to meet them in the studio in 30 minutes. Flynn, Carrie, and Nick go home to give the Molina family some alone time.

*cue music performance where Ray is introduced to the boys*

So anyway Julie and Carlos (with the help of the ghosts whenever one of them has something to say and grabs Julie’s hand) give him a clearly-sugarcoated version of the last few months.

Ghosts of Trevor’s dead bandmates help Julie reconnect with music, they form a band, they meet another ghost, other ghost accidentally gets them involved with evil magician ghost, Nick got possessed, Carrie figured it out and helped plot to get him un-possessed, evil magician ghost is still out there and they’re sticking together so he can’t get any of them in the future.

Despite how they say it like it’s no big deal, Ray now understands why the kids have been acting so weird because all these things sound scary and painful.

Also the more he thinks about it, the more he worries about the fact that he has three 17-year-old boys sleeping in his garage who died terribly of food poisoning.

They are children and they died incredibly painfully and then almost got enslaved and/or erased from existence.

Then one day Ray’s feeling one of those presences around the house again and he realizes it’s probably one of Julie’s ghost boys.

Ray: who’s there?

Whoever it is freaks out and leaves, and Ray takes notes for next time.

The next time he feels someone in the room, he has a notepad ready and he writes down “Luke, Alex, or Reggie?” from what he remembers from Julie’s introductions.

Immediately, there’s a spike of anxiety in the room.

Ray: it’s okay. You can stay and we don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. I’d like to know who it is I’m not talking to though.

There’s a few seconds of hesitation, and then the pen picks itself up and the name “Reggie” gets circled.

Ray: the bassist with the flannels, right?

Yeah, written in a teenage boy’s messy scrawl.

Ray: okay, do you want to watch a movie?

More hesitation, and Ray’s not sure what that’s about but he’s starting to suspect with the amount of fear still in the room, and there’s a good 20 seconds where Reggie doesn’t respond before I don’t know.

Ray: Moana or Tangled? Moana.

After that, he takes a page out of Carlos’s book and gets a small whiteboard with 3 pens that stick to it magnetically. Red for Reggie, blue for Luke, and pink for Alex.

Reggie has written conversations with him most, but Luke does sometimes too and Alex does least often but he’ll still request a movie occasionally.

All of them are wary around him and Ray doesn’t quite know what to do to earn their trust. But he asks questions about their preferences on things. He says they did good on their latest show. He remembers which movies are their favorites and introduces them to music he thinks are their styles.

Luke is a big fan of Fall Out Boy and Reggie fucking loves Taylor Swift.

Alex is less consistent but occasionally Ray will play a song and he’ll write something like This is a cool song.

He starts to be able to tell which energy is which even before they write who it is right around the time the boys start to be visible for longer and longer after playing.

They play a really good show and stay visible for like 2 full days and that’s the first (but not the last) time Ray really gets to get to know them.

He starts noticing after really good shows like that one how even more now that they can be seen, they’re all a little... off from how Nick and Carrie and Flynn act around him.

With Luke it’s mostly because he’s trying so hard to impress because *gasp* he and Julie are a thing but there’s still a little bit of tension that seems like it comes from something deeper than just being nervous around his girlfriend’s dad.

With Reggie it’s subtle caution. Like he’s happy to be hanging out with Ray but he’s constantly ready for something to go wrong. There’s a catch in his smile, a hesitation before he states an opinion, a practiced carefulness where he changes the subject at any sign of even mild frustration.

But with Alex... it’s mostly just avoidance. Like if he poofs in while visible and it just so happens that no one else is there, he’ll find an excuse to leave.

And Ray lets him, of course. He doesn’t want the kid to feel trapped. But all of the boys’ behavior bothers him.

On the rare occasion they spend more than 2 seconds together Alex is really quiet. He won’t admit if Ray guessed wrong about a song and he doesn’t like it even though his body language makes it clear he’s not vibing with it. Actually, his body language pretty much just spells I am very uncomfortable in every situation where Julie or Carlos went to the bathroom or someone went to grab a snack and they’re alone even for 5 minutes while he’s visible.

Ray’s not stupid. He knows three 17-year-olds don’t end up getting their instruments left to their only living bandmate’s new best friend’s family by having good relationships with their own families.

He doesn’t exactly want to bring it up, but he kind of knows.

Then one day he’s sitting with all 3 boys watching a movie while he fixes something on his camera and Julie and Carlos are at school and he messes up a little part that means he has to start over (don’t @ me I know nothing about cameras) and swears out of frustration louder than he meant to.

He reaches for the screwdriver on the coffee table and

And Reggie and Alex both flinch.

Ray hadn’t even noticed they were tracking his movements, but while Luke seems to just have moved his focus from the TV to his friends in concern, Alex and Reggie both look too tense to play it off.

He figures its as good a time as any to have a chat cause these boys aren’t his sons but they don’t have anyone else acting as a parent figure to them and he feels the need to take care of them. He pauses the movie.

Ray: Can we have a talk? About you boy’s families?

Naturally Luke jumps in to try to distract him immediately, telling a story about his dad taking him fishing once, but he stops when Ray asks him to stop.

Ray: That’s not what I’m talking about and I think you all know it.

The boys are all still silent. Luke looks 500% ready to deflect again. Reggie and Alex look more like they’re expecting to get yelled at or worse.

Ray: I just want to help. I’ll drop it if you want me to but I want you to know that I would never do something to hurt any of you intentionally. You can talk to me about anything if you need to.

He means to make it an option of ‘you can talk but you don’t have to if you don’t want to,’ but the boys clearly don’t take it as such with how Luke starts talking immediately.

Luke: I ran away when I was 17. My mom and dad didn’t want me to stay in Sunset Curve, I think they thought it was going to get me into drugs or something.

They have a short talk about parents having good intentions not equalling them being right to push Luke so hard they pushed him away and it’s okay to feel hurt by that and then press play on the movie again and Ray thinks he sees all 3 boys relax somewhat during that.

A couple weeks later Reggie comes in visible and hesitantly asks about watching this series he saw when Carlos was scrolling through Netflix once.

Mid-episode he blurts out

Reggie: I don’t want to look for my parents and I feel weird about that.

He rambles for a while about knowing he was lucky that his family had money and his mom and dad told him they loved him and stuff but also he remembers so many fights between them where he felt caught in the middle and it never ended well if he chose a side but there was no way to win because they’d both turn on him if he didn’t so it was just this constant balancing act to try to prevent fights in the first place.

Reggie: I felt like I was walking on a tightrope. Like, all the time. I tried so hard to keep them from getting mad at each other or at me. Only it never worked and it was always a question of when they were going to snap next and it was confusing cause one day we’d go to the zoo and everything would be fine and the next they’d yell at me and send me to bed without food.

He feels guilty for not wanting to put in the effort to find them because he’s pretty sure on some level they did love him but he doesn’t want to see them again.

And he doesn’t want to know if they even miss him at all because when he got older and the fighting got too intense he would sneak off to Luke’s or Bobby’s and no matter if he stayed away for an hour or a couple days they never seemed to notice he was gone.

Ray listens and a lot of things about Reggie start to make sense. How he’s so careful not to catch him in a bad mood. How he shuts down whenever anyone raises their voice. How he helps out so much in an effort to stay on Ray’s good side.

It’s a day and a half after the latest show so they can’t really hug but Ray does what he can to provide comfort and validate his feelings anyway because damn Reggie is a good kid and he didn’t deserve that.

Reggie and Luke get more comfortable with coming to him for meaningful chats, or even just to vent about whatever’s going on lately.

Eventually they seem to feel almost as comfortable with him as Julie and Carlos do so it kinda becomes a routine.

Like Julie will ask for cuddles when she’s sad about missing Rose or she’ll walk in and vent about Carrie and Flynn being so obvious about liking each other but somehow not realizing it’s mutual and she and Nick are 3rd wheeling and going insane.

Carlos will excitedly ramble about his latest baseball practice shenanigans for an hour but also sometimes ask for someone to watch old home movies or listen to old CDs from Rose and the Petal Pushers with him.

And that’s normal. That’s been Ray’s life since his kids started talking. But the thing is that it’s just as normal when

When Luke tells how he’s still angry about his music getting stolen because it feels like a part of him was taken away and he worked hard on those songs. Also one day he very shyly admits

Luke: I like Julie a lot.

Ray: I know, kiddo.

Luke: You’re not mad?

Ray: As long as you two make each other happy, no. I’m happy for you.

And it’s just as normal when Reggie talks about missing his little cousin Kelsi and wondering where she ended up only for them to look her up and find out she’s a major Broadway writer/director now oh my god— and also

Reggie: I think I like boys. Like boys are cute. But I know I’m not gay because girls are cute too and ugh it’s confusing it’s probably nothing I guess everybody goes through this.

Ray: Have you ever thought you might be bisexual?

Reggie: Bi-what-now?

Ray, already digging out his old flannels that he would have passed down to Julie except they’re too big for her: It’s okay to like both, kiddo.

All this is great of course. It’s great how Reggie and Luke aren’t afraid anymore and they feel validated and seen and listened to.

But months have passed and Ray notices how Alex remains separate. He still avoids Ray when he can and stays quiet and cautious when he can’t.

Like Ray still senses Alex around him sometimes but never right after a show when he’s visible. He doesn’t come to him with problems. He’ll stay and listen when Ray plays a song he thinks he’d like, but he still seems so cautious and Ray doesn’t know how to help.

He asks Luke one day while he’s introducing him to a Wicked bootleg if he’s done something specific to scare Alex away.

Luke gets this really dark look on his face and he just

Luke: Let’s just say that my parents didn’t do everything perfectly, but they’re saints compared to Alex’s.

Ray decides to drop it, but Luke wants to reassure him.

Luke: You haven’t done anything wrong. He’s just not very comfortable around most adults in general. It’s one thing when we’re invisible, but...

Ray: I just wish I could help.

Luke: You do help. But it took a while for Alex to trust me.

The conversation ends there because Luke starts getting really into Defying Gravity.

But then that night Julie comes in with a kind of out of character movie request so Ray thinks Luke talked to her.

Because Julie does not like most romcoms that aren’t musicals. She gets bored. But she requests Love, Simon anyway.

Ray kind of sees what she’s trying to do there because now that he’s thinking about it the boys haven’t really seen many things with queer rep. Especially not queer main characters.

And nobody’s really told him that Alex is gay but cmon he’s an elder bi. He has accurate gaydar so he can support his queer ducklings.

Despite how the boys all know being gay is more socially acceptable now (they found out about Nick’s dads and the girls gave them the ‘gay marriage is legal now’ talk) they still seem kind of baffled by how there’s an entire romcom centered around a gay boy and it did well.

From there Ray tries to find more movies and tv shows with canon queer representation.

And he keeps giving Alex space but also trying his best to show him that he’s not like his parents.

For a long time nothing changes beyond Luke and Reggie getting increasingly comfortable with him.

Well that’s not completely true actually cause Reggie starts tagging along to photo shoots and becomes Ray’s unofficial mostly invisible assistant.

Then the band plays an amazing show and the boys stay visible for a full week.

Around the middle of that week, Ray goes out to the garage to find Reggie and see if he wants to come on a photo shoot.

Reggie isn’t out there but Alex is.

And he’s crying. Hard.

He looks like he’s going to poof out when he sees Ray there but Ray’s already 100% ready to do exactly what he always does when he walks in on Julie or Carlos crying.

Ray: Alex. Hey, buddy, it’s okay. I’m here. It’s going to be okay.

Alex freezes and it breaks Ray’s heart how that kind of concern is clearly not what he’s expecting.

Ray: Are you okay with being touched?

Alex looks kind of like he’s in shock but he nods.

He clearly doesn’t really know what to do with it but he kind of melts into it when Ray hugs him and he just sobs on his shoulder.

When he’s stopped crying enough he starts rambling about how he’s been looking everywhere but he can’t find Willie.

At that point he’s basically having a panic attack so finding out what’s wrong takes a backseat compared to calming him down and Ray knows how to do that because he and Rose used to do that for Trevor all the time.

Ray: Alex, breathe. In for 4 counts, hold for 7, out for 8. Breathe with me.

It takes a couple minutes until Alex has calmed down enough, but once he does, Ray asks what’s wrong and what’s happening with Willie.

He only vaguely knows who Willie is from what he’s been told by the other kids but he knows he’s important to Alex.

So Alex takes a deep breath and explains that Caleb confronted him and basically said the boys had to join his house band or he would make sure he’d never see Willie again. And he doesn’t want to ask his family to sacrifice themselves for him but he doesn’t want to lose the boy he loves either.

Ray wants to throw hands but from what the kids have told him about Caleb, he has a better idea.

Ray: Here’s what we’re gonna do, buddy. Reggie said Caleb has this super catchy number, The Other Side of Hollywood?

Alex: Yeah?

Ray: How quickly do you think Luke and Julie could come up with an arrangement for you four to cover that and how desperate do you think Covington would be to make sure a video of that never gets published without crediting him?

Alex: :o

Spoiler alert: Julie and Luke, in collaboration with Carrie, can come up with an arrangement very quickly.

They do a private performance of it and film it and basically blackmail Caleb into letting Willie go.

Willie has an empty house that used to be his parents’ that he still considers his so he mostly crashes there if he needs to. Also he loves skating around so much that he never stays in one place for very long.

Julie can see him but she can’t make him visible so it’s a little odd but Ray gets an orange pen for him for the whiteboard and he finds skateboarding videos and stuff for when he visits.

They eventually figure out that he can be part of the magic by adding him to the band so they give him a tambourine and yay now Willie can be seen but that’s later.

The biggest immediate change to come out of all this is Alex.

He’s not afraid of Ray anymore for the most part (healing isn’t linear and he can’t help a few bad days) and he starts actually talking to him. Not about serious stuff but he’s talking. Mostly just rambling about how Willie makes him feel or how Luke and Reggie have been being annoying lately.

Then one day he comes in really nervous and says something about Reggie saying he talked to Ray about his parents.

And Ray confirms it and asks if there’s anything Alex needs to tell him.

Alex sits down and clearly he’s been holding this in for a long time and he just unloads how he came out to his parents because his youngest sister found his diary and he was scared she’d tell them. They didn’t react well and when he cried out of fear and frustration his father... gave him something to cry about.

His father did that a few more times, trying to ‘make him man up,’ and Alex never told his bandmates but he always knew they could see the bruises and that was why Bobby made it so clear his garage was open and his house was a safe place to run.

But Alex didn’t no matter how bad things got because he guessed some small part of him thought he deserved it but mostly it was about how his oldest sister dropped out of college and ghosted the family and Alex was the next-oldest so he felt responsible for protecting his younger sisters even if they both had learned behaviors from their parents and hated him.

Then that summer he found out his parents were planning on sending him away to some Christian camp where they’d ‘fix’ him.

Alex made it clear that he wouldn’t go and if they tried to make him he’d run away, but their ultimatum was that he couldn’t live under their roof if he was gay.

So he didn’t. And it was a situation somewhere between getting kicked out and running away, but he packed a bag and never went back.

He ran to Bobby’s house, he wrote a whole bunch of angry songs, and he tried not to think too much about how he understood why his older sister left and how he was doing the exact same thing to his younger sisters.

By the time he’s done explaining everything Ray’s trying not to cry but Alex is definitely already crying mostly out of anger.

Alex: I hated them all. I hated Molly for leaving me and I hated my mom for turning my little sisters against me and I hated my dad for hurting me and I even hated Anna and Josie for not standing by me and I just hated them all so much. I still do. And it is so stupid that I feel guilty for that because they were terrible to me and I was 16 and I didn’t deserve that but I do feel guilty for it because they’re my family and I hate them.

Ray doesn’t have much to say because damn this is heavy stuff but he assures him that after what he went through he has a right to hate his blood family.

Alex tells him awkwardly when he’s calmed down a bit that Luke is the only other person he’s ever told about all this, because after he ran away they dated for a few months before figuring out that they were better as friends.

Reggie and Bobby guessed parts of it and Julie probably has too but none of them have asked and Alex thinks he might tell Reggie and Julie someday if it ever comes up but he never did end up telling Bobby.

Ray assures him that he won’t tell anyone and also that he would never do that. He would never do anything to hurt Alex or the others on purpose.

He makes a silent promise that no one will ever hurt one of his kids like that again and if Caleb or anyone else ever tries, they will regret it.

But anyway on to happier matters.

Willie visits a lot and he’s a little skittish around Ray but he loosens up after he jokingly mentions one time that Willie and Alex are like the beginning of the Sk8ter Boy song.

Alex and Ray might be Denim Jacket Buddies but once Ray digs his old leather jacket out of the closet he becomes Leather Jacket Buddies with Reggie.

You’d think he has to tell Carlos and Reggie off the most for breaking things but he doesn’t. It’s Carlos and Luke.

Also Ray doesn’t consider himself an overprotective dad but Julie and Luke are not allowed to be alone in a room with the door closed.

Neither are Alex and Willie technically but it’s harder to enforce it when they’re both ghosts.

Lmao all the kids follow the rules anyway because they love Ray and he’s not being unreasonable.

He helps Julie in her plot to get Carrie and Flynn together and also he helps Nick plan how to make a move on that cute boy on his lacrosse team.

Because Nick loves his dads but they’re disaster gays. Neither of those men can properly flirt. They fell in love because of a baseball rivalry and Nick doesn’t trust their advice.

Pride month rolls around and Julie makes sure to book a big gig the day before the parade so the boys will be visible and tangible.

Trevor’s on tour and can’t get away and Flynn’s parents are working and Nick’s are busy too so Ray finds himself escorting this whole little gaggle of various queer ducklings to pride.

Carlos isn’t quite sure what he is yet so he’s just got a rainbow flag painted on his cheek and a shirt that says I love my bi sister on it.

Julie’s all decked out in the bi colors, complete with ribbons braided into her hair and a flag to use as a cape. She made the tutu herself and it took her hours but it turned out really good.

Luke’s got a tank top with the pan colors and a trans flag as a cape and also yknow face paint of course.

Reggie browsed thrift shops everywhere until he found a flannel in the bi colors and he’s got that along with pink purple and blue laces in his combat boots and what Ray is really hoping is temporary dye and not spray paint in his hair.

Alex has a rainbow shirt that matches Willie’s and matching bracelets with Flynn. Also he painted rainbow hearts on his cheeks and put a lot of effort into them and they look really symmetrical.

Willie’s of course matching shirts with Alex and also he has sparkly rainbow socks and a flag to use as a cape.

Carrie’s got a whole ensemble in the lesbian colors complete with a pride wig and also matching necklaces with Flynn.

Flynn’s matching colors with Carrie but more in her style with of course matching jewelry with the people closest to her. She’s got friendship bracelets corresponding to Alex and Julie.

Nick’s got a pan tshirt and a fedora with a ribbon in pink yellow and blue plus face paint cause all of them have face paint. Nothing too crazy.

Meanwhile Ray’s got a bi bandanna and one of those shirts that’s like Free Dad Hugs.

Plus everyone did each other’s nails with varying degrees of success the night before and Julie did Ray’s so they turned out good.

Nick’s lacrosse buddies and the rest of Dirty Candi are around somewhere but they didn’t ride in the same car so they’re not that relevant.

They party. Celebrate being alive. Idk I’ve never gotten to go to pride.

And afterwards they all go back to the Molina house and the couch isn’t really big enough for all of them but it’s okay it’s not like they know how to sit correctly anyway.

They all kind of pile together and cuddle and watch movies until Flynn and Nick’s parents can come pick them up.

And Ray just looks around and realizes that

Sure only 2 of them are his biologically

And 3 of the others have good parent(s) who are actively a part of their lives

The remaining 4 are technically dead

But he has 9 children and he’s totally fine with that.

Cause he’s Ray Molina: best dad ever.

Victoria’s head is going to explode when she finds out that not only is the Molina house really haunted, but he’s adopted the ghosts.

[queerbrujas]

like maybe you are magic

blades of light and shadow pairing: mal volari x reva of riverbend (female human) wordcount: 2.1k rating: T

read on ao3

kicking off my participation in @bladesappreciationweek with a little idea i’ve had bouncing around in my mind since blades was still airing—mal and reva and the sharing of magic.

—

It was Reva who led them to the caves.

Both she and Mal were unfamiliar with these woods, the ones they’d been exploring for the past day and a half—even their name had somehow evaded them, tried as they had to find out as they passed the nearby villages.

Reva was unfamiliar with this entire area of Morella, in truth, as was the case with much of the kingdom—that was neither unexpected nor new (her knowledge had been steadily improving, but there was so very much to learn still). It had taken Mal half a day, however, to admit to not knowing where he was, and only after hours of Reva’s teasing and needling he'd confessed.

(Not that she’d needed the confession to know the truth; or that he’d even expected to deceive her in the first place. It was only a matter of pride.)

Even so, unfamiliar as they were with the area, there was a pull that Reva had felt ever since they had crossed the treeline—and the only reason they hadn’t left the woods yet. Something like a thread of gold tugging at her, invisible currents and tides in the air that guided her further and further in. And in the depths of the woods, it was her woodslore skills that told her the rest of what she needed to know: there was a water source nearby, somewhere underground.

And still that thread pulled and pulled and pulled.

(She’d felt something like it when they’d met the voxper in the Deadwood, though she hadn’t recognized it then, inexperienced as she had been.)

Mal didn't question it, her drive to follow and find the source of it—he never did, not when he saw the determined look in her eyes and the purposeful stride of her movements, the way she always acted when she sought something, when she sensed something.

He was curious, too. Intrigued, even if he couldn’t feel what she felt.

It was high noon when they found the entrance, low in the ground, half-hidden by underbrush and overgrowth. Unassuming, inconspicuous—it seemed so easy to ignore and so undisturbed Reva was sure no living being had stepped inside in gods know how long.

“Can you hear that?”‌ Reva asked, more out of habit than anything, but she was starting to learn the difference now. The difference between the sounds she could hear, that anybody could hear, and the things she could sense that only seemed like sounds to her because she had no other words to describe them.

“I‌ hear water,” Mal said after a moment.‌“You hear something else, don’t you?”

He was starting to get used to it, too.

Reva nodded. She did hear the water, the flow of it running further ahead in the caves—but that wasn’t what she’d meant at all. There was, like the golden thread, the faintest sound of something she could only imagine as silver bells (and she had never heard silver bells before, but the thought came to mind and seemed to fit).

A vibration in the air that made her skin prickle and raise into gooseflesh.

He followed, close by, as she led them deeper into the cave—close, always close, trailing behind her with a hand on her back and his presence a steady comfort next to her.

(Steady. Reliable. It was the last thing she would have called him, back when she'd first met him—she'd called him out on it, even. And yet, now—)

“Kit, are you sure—” Mal started, after a good while of walking (and he had never stopped calling her this, not after months and months, but she barely noticed it anymore), but Reva only shushed him, trying not to lose the sound of the bells.

She was vaguely aware of his pouting, but he didn't say anything else, and she was too focused on following the trail of this thing that called to her.

He still followed her, curious, and she knew—she knew he would follow her anywhere, as she would follow him anywhere, as she had followed. Even if it meant not having a place to settle, even if it meant narrow escapes and having to hide, sometimes, having to run. Reva was a practiced liar and an even better charmer, after all, and the thrill of adventure had always called to her—but it felt different with him, somehow.

They walked on, their steps leading them down, down, down; the air humid and cool, darkening as they walked deeper inside. The cave turned as it descended, dark and damp, but the pull of that golden thread grew ever stronger, and there was a scent in the air, too—something that almost felt metallic.

The bow of Gal’dariel almost seemed to hum in response, strapped to Reva's back, and a brewing tension coiled within her.

Finally, after what seemed like hours of walking but was probably closer to minutes, the tunnel started to grow wider and the sound of the water louder than the rest of them. A hint of light seemed to filter from further ahead; Reva and Mal exchanged a look and pressed on.

The tunnel led into a small but open space—the walls curving towards the low ceiling, and in the center of it, a small blue lake, nearly (but not quite) sparkling, nearly (but not quite) glowing.

They had seen something like this in the Deadwood, but it was so much stronger here, so much purer. It was almost overwhelming and made the blood in Reva’s veins want to sing.

—

“You won’t join me?” she’d asked, and that was all it took.

Armor and clothes set aside (and she would never get tired of the sight of him, like this), they stepped into the water together, waist-deep—Reva had expected it to be cool as the air around them, but it was warm, almost unnaturally so. As soon as it touched her skin she felt a burst of energy around her, small explosions on her skin that tingled and tickled, not unpleasantly. Magic, pure and raw, stronger and more concentrated than she had ever felt it.

It passed through her like a conduit, warming her skin, her body from the inside; almost as though it replaced the blood in her veins with pure Light.

“You can’t feel it, can you?” Reva asked, turning to look at Mal, though the answer was obvious. She could feel the flow and the current now that it had settled into her, how it reverberated in the cave and dipped back into the water—and how it ignored him, weaved around him without touching him at all.

(It was the strangest thing, something she could both see and not see, something that could not be described with words but she knew it was there, all the same.)

“Not much. I can feel there’s something about this place,” he said, shaking his head. And that much was true, reflected in the way his usual demeanor had fallen into something quieter, admiring. “Aside from the glowing water. But that’s all I’ve got.”

How odd that was—the pure essence of this place seemed steeped in magic and Reva couldn't imagine how it would feel, how it look without it.

She wondered if—

“I want to try something,” she said, suddenly.

Mal raised an eyebrow at her, but any comment he might have thought to make seemed to die on his lips at the unusual expression on her face, replaced by something both like tenderness and apprehension.

He looked unsure—as he did often when around magic and especially when Reva’s own use of magic was concerned—the conversations with Nia and Tyril about Light and years and time no doubt present on the back of his mind.

But here, in a place like this, she wouldn't have to draw from her own Light. The air was brimming with it and she felt charged—it almost felt like a waste not to use the magic for something, as though it was itself asking to be spent, having been trapped in this underground cave, building and building for gods know how long.

“Please,” Reva said, and this too was unusual—unusually gentle, unusually quiet. An idea had taken root in her mind and she wanted to, wanted to.

Mal eyed her for a moment longer, amber eyes narrowing minutely before he nodded.

(He would always put his trust in her, without fail.)

She took her hands in his then, warm and calloused and he relaxed immediately at the touch of her fingers.

Nia and Tyril had taught her, taught her how to reach for magic within and without, how to extend it and project it and hold it in her hands—this was surely not, couldn’t be too different from that.

Magic is will made real. Tyril’s words, echoing in her mind.

Will made real.

So she willed it.

She closed her eyes and reached, felt—saw, saw with her mind as clearly as she saw Mal himself, as she saw the water and the cave walls—the golden threads of energy around them, swirling and delicate. She willed them to curve into her, into her body and out through her hands.

She felt resistance, too—as though the magic did not want to extend out of her body and into Mal’s (and magic has a will of its own, she had learned, independent of hers and what she would wish it to do. Especially in a place like this).

He repelled it, his body repelled it, but she insisted, coaxed it—focused on the warmth of his hands as they grasped hers tightly. A different warmth, solid and soothing instead of wild and unpredictable.

Different, but not incompatible.

That was the thought she focused on.

Her eyes still closed, she knew it was working when she heard him gasp. She smiled, but did not dare look yet—focused on holding the magic together just a little longer, extending her will so it enveloped them both, together.

The sight of him when she opened her eyes almost took the breath out of her.

The soft glow from the water, which had avoided him until then in all but reflection, bathed him now—bronze skin gleaming and highlighted, features alight.

But even more than that, it was the look on his face that made her heart beat faster—almost boyish in its awe and wonder (and she thought she must have looked much the same the first time he showed her the sea in Port Parnassus), eyes wide and his mouth silently parted as he stared at her, tightening his grip on her hands.

Reva’s smile grew—a small amount of pride swelling in her at being able to show him something for the first time, as he had done so many times now—in the time they'd been traveling together he had never made her feel lesser for her lack of knowledge about the kingdoms, but there were few things he had not experienced.

“And now?” she prompted, quiet, almost too quiet but this seemed a precious moment and she wouldn't risk breaking it.

He was still looking at her, a smile spreading on his lips but instead of speaking he laughed, something like a sharp exhale, breathless and delighted—and not a second later he leaned forward, sure not to break the contact between them.

He let go of one of her hands, raised his own to cup her cheek, the back of her neck (and oh, the touch felt like sparks dancing on her skin, his fingers and the magic flowing back into her)—and then he was kissing her, and she knew nothing else: magic flowing freely now between them through every point where his skin touched hers, his lips softer than they’d ever been, his hand on her waist and hers in his hair; golden threads, silver bells, all of it enveloping them.

When they parted and she opened her eyes—when had she closed them?—the hum was dimming, the light around them back to what it had been when they first entered the cave, but the light spark of energy still lingered under her fingers where they rested on his cheek.

Mal’s eyes were still closed, and he let out a low, appreciative whistle. Reva laughed, still a little giddy.

“I had to pay you back for the sea somehow,” she said lightly, the tinge of laughter still in her voice, breathless as she was.

“Ah, that's what this was?” he replied, opening his eyes. There was a softness to them that wasn't new, had nothing to do with the air around them or the water or the flow of energy that passed between them. It was something entirely earthly, fully him, and it still made her breath catch and her heart beat faster whenever she saw it.

“Are you ever going to stop surprising me, kit?”

“Not if I can help it, no.”

[blackberry-gingham]

The love language concept sounds interesting! I’d say George’s love language/the way he shows love is physical touch, Paul’s is receiving gifts, Ringo’s is positive affirmation mixed with quality time, and tbh I’m not to sure for John. maybe acts or service or quality time for him?

Mwahaha, you've fallen into my trap! The truth is I wanted to do this topic more or less for myself, but felt bad bc I still have a few requests left to do. So thank you for sending in a "request" for me so that I can do one out of order real quick >:3

Lol but really tho, thank you for humoring me and these are good! I could honestly see all of these, but for John I'd say acts of service with you, bc the "To Do" stuff just sounds like his character tbh, but maybe also I feel like there's some physical touch too???

Ik I've heard that John kind of actually didn't like being touched, but I mean... If you look at literally any picture of him with Yoko, he's always at least holding her hand, if not just totally draped all over her lol, so I'm assuming for an S/O it's totally different!

But anyway, here's some headcannons real quick and then back to requests. Thanks everyone!

---

George

Honestly? I feel like George would just not be able to keep his hands off you

Like, not necissarily in a sexual way (although that too, if you're in the mood lol), it's just that he loves to let you and everyone else know you're his

He's not all too shy about it either lol

I mean obviously he saves the more lovey dovey stuff for private places, but in public he still has a lot to offer

Everytime he sees you he kisses you either on the cheek, forehead, or mouth and then pulls you in for a hug

Always

Then the rest of the time, as long as he doesn't have to be working, he likes to hold your hand and play with your hair

And if he's feeling a little risqué, he likes to let you sit on his lap and cuddle against him

In private tho...

Oh, he is all over you!!!

You are his sanctuary and safe haven away from the public eye and the daily grind that comes with being a Beatle

I've seen quite a few quotes from geo lamenting the fact that he and the others had literally no private life thanks to their stardom

So yeah, believe me when I say he could live a thousand years and still never feel like he could repay you for giving him the rest and love he needs

He'd be like a long, giant cat. Wherever you are, whatever you're doing, if he has an opportunity to snuggle up to you, he takes it

And if he's not exhausted, and if you let him !! he likes to just touch and kiss your body and face

Having that closeness and intimacy is so important to him, he wants to let you know how deeply he loves you

All of you

And of course, the best way you can return his love language back to him is by returning the intimacy he does for you!

When in Rome, after all

Honestly, just by accepting his offers when he initiates a request to hold your hand or hug or cuddle, he already appreciates that!

But if you initiate any of those things, he's definitely feeling the love!!

Although, one thing you like to do a bit different is giving massages

Of course George would certainly give you one if you asked!

But since he's usually tired, either mentally or physically, from always being on the go, you like to do him a favor lol

And he loves it

Seriously, you've never seen a man more blissed out then George gets over something as simple as a back or scalp massage

Assuming he doesn't fall asleep under the spell of your skillful fingers, he repays you with kisses or cuddles after :)

John

Ok idk if I'm like projecting, or reaching, or SOMETHING along those lines, but I feel like of all the boys, John is probably the one most looking for a true partner, as in like his other half

Paul is very close behind with his relationship with Linda, but for John it always came off as a need for him, more then like a want or nice thing to have

So anyway, all this to say that as far as acts of service goes, I think he gets a lot of security out of receiving this!

Like, whenever John's feeling particularly stressed or overwhelmed having you there to approach the issues with an objective mindset is a HUGE relief

Really, like I cannot stress this enough

Phrases like, "What can I do to take some pressure off for you?"

Or, "Well what if we just focus on x for now, and then we can take care of y and z tomorrow?"

All give him such a powerful sense of relief

And of course, the way that you, you know, actually follow up on your word, makes him fall even deeper in love with you then he thought possible

Now on the other hand, is physical touch

While this is a part of his love language cocktail, John likes to express this one a bit more then he likes to receive it

You see, unlike George, John is a little more reserved with his PDA

He will kiss you and hold your hand of course! But unfortunately his anxiety is a thing, so as much as he hates it, he has to reserve his physical affection for more private settings

But when you two are alone, he's like puddy in your hands!

He likes to just hold you a lot

It doesn't matter if you're preoccupied with something else, like a book or the telly, he just wants to have physical contact with you

And if you can do any of those things cuddled up on his lap or against his chest, even better!

But also, John definitely loves to get that energy back

He likes it when you give him cute little kisses and pet his head

I think he'd also like it if you rubbed his temples or the bridge of his nose/third eye lol

Wearing glasses all day can get uncomfortable you know!!

I think if you can establish that trust and physical closeness, that's when you'd also get a return on his acts of service

Really, if you've bonded this deeply with John he'd do literally anything for you

Whatever you need, whatever you want, if he can do it he will and if he can't he'll find a way to do it anyway!

He'd be loyal to a fault and love you forever after

Paul

Please tell me why I could see Paul being your sugar daddy on the low 😭😭

Really, like he just likes to spoil you!

Honestly if someone showed me proof that the real actual, 78 year old, 2021 Paul McCartney uses stacks of hundred dollar bills as tinder for his fireplace, I literally wouldn't even blink

Like even back in the day, he's got that Beatles' money baby !!! and he.... Kinda doesn't care for it, actually

I personally don't think any of the boys come across as like money hungry or something like that, but I could see Paul especially figuring that he might as well use all this dumb money to buy you things you like!

It may feel overwhelming to be on the receiving end of so many random, but expensive gifts tbh

You might even tell him to stop or that he doesn't have to do all that!!

I think he'd be able to understand that overwhelming you with nice things kinda has the opposite effect of what he's intending, but....

He just gets a little carried away sometimes lol

I mean growing up he didn't have all that much, and even now, like obviously nice things are nice, but meh

What he really wants to do is make sure you're enjoying the high life too!

I could see him doing more of writing you songs and music instead so that he can still fulfil his desire to give, should you feel uncomfortable with the fancy gifts

But yeah, if you're uncomfortable he totally would get that and dial back the materialism, but if you don't mind, then he doesn't either!!

Now you might be wondering how you, a delightfully average person, could impress Paul McCartney with a gift giving love language...

I mean, what do you give the man who has everything?

Well I'd tell you this... It's simple!

You could bring him literally anything that you find meaningful and be like "This made me think of you!" or "I just thought you'd like this!" and he'll love it!

He would definitely run up some organized collections of the little things you've given him

He has some dedicated display boxes for all the random, shiny rocks and pebbles you've found

A little filing drawer of all the notes you've ever wrote him

And if you like art or photography, he'd decorate his personal spaces with your work!

Of course he'd appreciate traditional gifts too tho

Like a watch or bass strings or a new tie ect ect

But the thing for you to not get caught up on is the price!

That doesn't matter to him :)

He likes your gifts bc they came from you!

Ringo

Ok, positive affirmation is definitely a big thing for Ringo

He gets roasted a lot by the boys and even the media, and all in good fun I suppose, but after a while enough is enough you know?

Not to mention, he just feels a bit... Lesser then?? Compared to the others and their musical talent

So the poor guy really needs a break!

Literally, even just little one word sentences of encouragement mean sooo much to him

"I'm so proud of you Ritchie!"

"That sounded wonderful!"

"You've done a great job today at the studio, good work!"

Stuff like that makes him melt

Of course he also appreciates the more conventional things like "I love you" and when you call him handsome!

And as for the spending quality time, that comes easily!

Ringo looooves to take you out on dates!

Now yes, there's your typical movie date, dinner, dancing, all that

But his favorite things to do is go on little adventures!

He takes you to the park, the beach, out to explore thrift and consignment stores, and anywhere else you want to check out!

However, not everyone wants to run around outside 24/7

So in the house, he likes doing things that you two can do together!

Painting is a big one, seeing as it's his other hobby, but it could honestly be anything, like puzzles, board games, or just watching TV!

I'm trying to think of how he'd return the words words of affirmation side of his love language, but I think it would be a little harder for him to do then expressing quality time tbh

You just make him so darn shy!

What with all your good looks and kindness, he just feels a little overwhelmed

Have you ever seen a work of art, or architecture, or even a landscape so breathtaking that you don't really know where to start when describing it to someone?

Yeah, it's like that

He definitely wants to try tho!

I think he'd stick to simple things like complimenting your outfits and praising your work or personal projects you show him!

He's worried that that comes across as just common decency tho, so he says "I love you" a lot and tries to make up for his bad way with words with quality time

[dreamsmp-au-ideas]

Hollow Crown from Phil’s point of view is nice to think about. Like imagine.

You’re a dad of two kids. You’re currently residing in this small town called Dirtmouth. It once was a part of the fallen kingdom of L’Manberg, but all there is really is a few people now. You open up a small shop that sells charms and it’s semi-successful. People come in and you go and continue life like this.

You also get some books on L’Manberg’s history to have something to do. Might as well know more about the place you’re living in now. It’s not much but you have enough to somewhat put the pieces together.

Then your sons go and tell you that they want to go down the kingdom to explore and to get to the Colosseum of Fools. Understandably, you’re panicking over this. You’ve seen a lot of travelers go in and never come back out. And those who do, go babble on about how it’s cursed.

(You felt the pull more than once. How it whispers to you on how it can take away all his problems and protect your children. You refuse every time.)

And now your sons want to go in it.

Your own sons.

After some arguing and some compromises, you let them go, on the condition that they write to you and that they visit every few days. Yet you still feel intense worry for them. Intense big worry for them.

Then, not even an hour later, a kid drops in. Probably sixteen or seventeen from appearance but they drop in. They don’t really respond to your attempts at conversation but hey, they might be shy.

(It’s a kid. Where are his parents? Who’s watching them?)

You realize that the kid is going to L’Manberg and impulsively, you tell them to watch over your sons. You give him some change in return and he accepts. You have no idea why you did that.

A few days later, both of your sons come back from the kingdom and tell you about a Ravine and an abandoned town on stilts. They talk about the people they met. A three wanderers and how Tommy got in a fight with one of them. A lady who carries a needle and throws it with precision. And of a traveler who’s about Tommy’s age and how Tommy is trying to befriend him despite the weird vibes he gives off.

Turns out the kid actually did met your sons. You appreciate this and hope that he’ll keep on doing this. It’s a little worrying that your eldest child told you that the kid has no parents though. It makes you regret giving the kid that. You can’t really take it back now though.

Your kids depart once again and a few days later you see the kid again. They seem to got a different cloak and seem faster now. You thank him and show him your shop and offer some items you have on sale.

The kid buys a few of them (Sprintmaster, a shard, and what you think is an egg. You have no idea why he bought the egg.) You wave to him goodbye and the kid looks at you for a moment, before delivering his own stiff version of a wave.

Weird kid. Then again you’ve seen weird people before. No need to be offensive or anything.

You then wait at your shop once more and talked to them. Among the people who passed by was a lady with rainbow hair, claiming to be off to protect those who need her. 

A young man with ginger hair and mapping supplies has also passed by to ask for some ink for his travels. There also seems to be some history books in his bag and you both compared your notes and piece together more of L’Manberg’s history. Eventually he had to leave but he promised to come and visit again at some point.

There has also been two people who passed by. One a bard with a beanie and another, a historian wearing bright colors. The bard reminds you a bit of your eldest son with his chaotic energy and all that. The historian then asks to compare notes with you on L’Manberg and more of the history is revealed. They soon left, saying that they’re looking for the library of L’Manberg. An impossible task, but sometimes the journey is better than the end result.

Your kids come back again, only to be a little bit shaken from their last adventure. They tell you about the City of Tears and about them meeting the three wanderers again along with the kid. This time, your youngest did not go and fight the one with the bandanna but it’s a little hard to focus on fighting when apparently the kid and the wanderer with goggles accidentally got trapped in the Soul Sanctum.

The fucking Soul Sanctum.

(You hate that place. You have heard stories about it from those who came back and they all tell you about how they can hear screams from there. How they distantly saw human experimentation being conducted. It’s terrifying.)

All of them had to go and break into it and apparently when they did find the kid and goggles, they apparently defeated the Soul Master and the kid apparently got magic from his corpse. Disturbing but this kingdom is pretty disturbing.

The story thankfully takes a lighter turn as after a few days of rest, they all talked and gotten along pretty well. The kid as it seems also seemed to be a little bit brighter. A spar between goggles and the kid happen and the kid won. And apparently according to your sons, the kid has also won against the Badlands. Pretty impressive if you think about it.

They leave but not without telling you that they sort adopted the kid as their brother. A bit surprising, but nice to know about.

The kid comes back again and seems to be a bit lighter than usual. He seems to have a brighter look in his eyes and he perks up when you wave at him. He buys things and you thought that was it before the kid gives you a beautiful writing quill. 

He looks at you expectantly and you realize that this is a gift. You’re touched by this and smile a bit. He smiles back and your heart warms a bit at the sight. He waves to you goodbye and goes off to the Stag Station.

Things are slow for a couple of weeks. The map maker visits again and you find that some more people visit. You talk to them and you find them to be pleasant company. Your sons visit, the kid visits. Rinse and repeat.

Your sons visit again, this time the eldest is holding the hand of the kid that you’ve been seeing. They then tell you that this is their new brother and the kid looks so much more brighter than last time. He smiles a bit and goes to hang out with your youngest as you talk to your eldest.

Things then go back into rhythm again. The only thing that was changing that was when the kid one day visits you, and tells you, with the brightest expression on their face and with a shaky yet happy voice that their name is Tubbo. 

The kid comes a lot more often with Tommy and Wilbur. He seems happy with those two. More people start to visit the town. 

For one, the lady with rainbow hair seems to decide that this is her home now, saying that she has protected who she needed to protect but now is currently being told by the kid to be on bed rest after a rather close encounter with an infected. She seemed shaken despite her brushing it off, so you offer some tea and tell her that his door is always open to talk.

The map maker, bard, and historian also came back and also made residence in the town. Apparently the bard, historian, and the kid found L’Manberg’s secret library. Well shit. All of them actually found it. They came back with books they made copies of and you compare more notes and get about almost all of L’Manberg’s history. 

You also notice that they all seem to hate the dark now and panic a bit when it does get dark. There’s some trauma there but all you say is that they can talk to him anytime. You don’t know them that well but you still should comfort them.

Your kids came back but with another kid. Apparently an End Folk kid. You let him stay at your house after some convincing and you’re patient with them. Several days later and you accidentally adopted him. Whoops.

Things seemed to get weird in that week. The kid summoned the vessel of the blood god and then fought said vessel of the blood god. It was weird. Said blood god turns out to be just a vessel and you accidentally became friends with him after talking to him. Well then. He then tells you that the kid fought well and that he actually beaten the actual blood god.

The kid has beaten a god. 

What the fuck.

(Isn’t he like sixteen or seventeen? How did that happen?)

Well then. The kid apparently beaten a god! That’s great! ANd also a bit terrifying but you don’t say that. The potato farmer (what the vessel would like to be remembered as) then decides to make residence in the town.

A blacksmith with red and blue glasses then comes around and asks if this is Dirtmouth. When you said yes, he nodded and asked if he can stay here. You let him and now there’s no excuse for your sword to go dull.

A month has passed again and you grow closer to everyone in the town. A man in goggles also visits but seemed frazzled. Frantically asking for anything on the history of the infection. The historian seemed to know him and gave him access to the books.

By the end of it, he leaves disappointed and panicked. You tried talking to him but he only rushed to the stag station.

Several days passed and then you find that your youngest had almost died at the Colosseum. You panic. You panic so much and your eldest and the kid is crying.

He barely survived the fall and only was saved because of a woman who calls herself the Protector. You thank her and you get your youngest on bedrest after some arguing. You eldest however looks distant. You’re worried about him but before you can say anything, he leaves, saying that he has to do something.

Several more days passed and the kid is frantically pulling on your clothes to come with him, he seemed to be crying. You then find your eldest at the lake and looking at the water a bit too much and talk him out of it. You take him home and the kid stays with you for a couple of days before leaving.

Both of your sons are at home and you and the rest of the residents help them heal. Eventually they do and they start to be a bit like themselves again. You’re eternally relived and think that is the end of your problems before the kid comes back with the three wanderers that your kids talks about.

Turns out bandanna was infected and had to be snapped out of it. They made residence there in order to heal. Though after a couple of days you saw that the guy in the hoodie was slowly bringing things such as flowers and flower pots to the house they’re residing in. Yep. They’re permanent residents now.

The kid- no. Your son, then comes up to you and tells you that there is something he needs to do. If you looks closely, you can see that some parts of him seemed to be void. You aren’t sure what to feel about this.

A month passes and no one has seen your kid. The Badlands, the Protector, the Colosseum, no one, has not seen him. The Protector now goes to the town once a week to ask if anyone has seen him.

Then a week passed and the infection starts to fade away. People wake up and so many things happen at once. The Badlands are whole again, bandanna says that he can’t hear the call anymore, and the Protector confirmed that this is happening everywhere.

Then a guy with chipped armor and eyes with no pupils appears in town and you know. You know from the history books that they’re the hollow knight. Everyone asks if they’ve seen the kid and they sadly replied no.

Another week passes and as everyone heals, you start to think that the kid might be gone. And then you hear a thumping sound is heard and you look outside to see a humongous creature outside.

You were about to fight it only for them to raise their hands in surrender and then turn into the kid. You and your family (because admit it, you adopted all the people in this town) can only stare in shock before hugging him tightly.

This happened in a year. All of this happened in a year and you are glad for it. Your family has gotten a lot bigger and yeah they’re a bit traumatized but they can heal. All of them can heal.

[adhduck]

Chapter 3 of But I Can Hope How This Will End is now up, besties, and yes I have chosen violence 😌

AO3

CWs: canon-typical blue veins/disease content; accusation of ‘death wish’ implying suicidal ideation; canon-typical discussions/descriptions of injury, pain, death; several descriptions of blood; slight emetophobia; mentions of past trauma for Zolf; slightly in-depth descriptions of temporary first aid

With Wounds We Can Heal

Wilde almost never goes on missions; even before the curse blocked access to most of his combat skills, he wasn’t built to be an in-field agent. He’s a diplomat at heart, not a fighter, so there’s no need to risk getting him infected when the others can bring information safely back to him.

So when Wilde announces at breakfast one morning he’s going to a meeting, not just in-person but with someone they haven’t verified yet, Zolf is understandably upset.

“Since when do you have a bleeding death wish?” he demands, pushing his plate to the side.

Wilde remains perfectly, infuriatingly calm. “I will admit the risks are higher than usual, but if Mr. Douglas’ information is true, it will be both crucial and time-sensitive. We don’t have a week.”

“Well, isn’t that bloody convenient,” Zolf mutters.

“Does seem like a trap,” Carter agrees. “I mean, he just happens to have exactly what we need, and exactly the right urgency to not go through safety protocols? That’s classic untrustworthy stuff.”

“Which is why I’ve already put in safety measures myself. We will both come alone and unarmed. I made sure the meeting spot was neutral ground, something we couldn’t hide traps or snipers in. Nothing physical will be changing hands, so there won’t be a need for close contact. And just as with his initial report, any information I bring back will be verified before we commit to a next course of action.”

Barnes leans forward, drawing everyone’s attention in that subtle way of his. “What’s your plan if you get into combat? I know you said you’ll both come alone and without weapons, but that doesn’t mean he’ll actually follow that.”

“He knows I’m a talented magic user, and doesn’t know about the shackles, so that should intimidate him into not attacking. And if he does catch my bluff, and my excellent running shoes don’t do the trick—” Wilde shrugs, and Zolf’s hands curl into fists atop the table. “Well, I know I’m none of you, but I can hold my own just fine, I think.”

“Unless you show up and he shoots you right off the bat,” Zolf argues, trying very hard not to picture it. “Or he has a group with, like, invisibility spells or potions or somethin’, and they attack you all at once. Or—bloody hell, Wilde, or anything! There’s no reason to think this man is anything but a danger until he’s gone through quarantine, and even then, he could still be a- a regular ole dick who wants to kill you! You certainly made enough enemies before all this started.”

“Our job,” Wilde says coolly, though Zolf can see just a touch of tension forming in the corner of his jaw, “is to figure out how this blue vein scourge works and stop it. We are saving the world here. There’s no way to do that without a bit of risk.”

“Risk is one thing, but this is just plain stupid,” Zolf snaps back. “If you need the information, fine, whatever, let’s get it. But at least bring one of us with you.”

“That’s not the deal I made with Bo- Mr. Douglas.”

“And? Who says he won’t just break the deal and betray you first chance he gets?”

That, for some reason, brings down Wilde’s façade, but just for a moment—he’s covered it up almost as quickly as Zolf notices. “As I said before, I’ve already done some research on him and the information he presented as evidence of our meeting’s importance. If he’s still himself, not honoring the terms of our agreement will make him back out immediately. And if he’s infected, bringing someone else will almost certainly ensure a fight, and we cannot risk half of our group getting taken out in one go.”

Zolf is going to actually, truly strangle this man. “But we can risk you getting taken out?”

Wilde’s jaw tenses, releases. “We’ve all risked our lives for the cause. This is no different.”

“Yes, it is, because you’re relying on- on bloody trust when the world’s like this—”

The harsh scrape of Wilde’s chair being pushed back cuts Zolf off. Standing over them, Wilde looks every bit the rich, uncaring aristocrat Zolf thought he was all those months ago– save for that same tension in the corner of his jaw. “I’m trusting myself—my research, my insights, my diplomatic abilities.” He sweeps his eyes across the table, lands a few inches above Zolf’s head. “You can trust in me or not, I don’t care. I’m going either way.”

Zolf feels unmoored, suddenly. Like he missed something important, something he’s supposed to say or know. “Wilde—”

“Thank you for breakfast, Zolf,” Wilde says, and it almost hurts more that he sounds sincere. “I’ll be in my office if any of you need me.”

He turns and walks off, and all Zolf can think, a little nonsensically, is I do.

 Wilde leaves for his meeting the next morning, unarmored and alone, and Zolf is absolutely fine about it. Sure, he’s making more bread when he just made some yesterday; and sure, he rearranged the cell five times in some shitty wooden prosthetics because he couldn’t decide whether to put Wilde’s favorite blanket in there. And sure, when he tried to decide on a Campbell to read, he ended up with the only one he can’t read—a Gaelic translation of When Passions Collide Wilde once brought him. But it’s not- he’s just- it’s fine. He’s used to the people he cares about being in danger, and no matter how much he disagrees with Wilde, he does trust him.

So instead of going with Wilde, Zolf bakes bread.

The fussing gets him through the first day of Wilde’s three-day journey with only minimal stress-pacing. He cleans the inn on the second, doing an inventory of their supplies as he goes, and realizes they’re drastically lower on mundane medical supplies than they should be. To be fair, they rarely use them, as all the field agents can be healed magically, but it’s no excuse for this lack of upkeep, especially when Wilde could sustain any number of illnesses or injuries on his mission.

He brings it up to Barnes and Carter, and they agree it’s worth Barnes – who has both social skills and a sword – taking a trip to the village. Zolf gets a firm clap on the shoulder as a goodbye, which he returns with an awkward pat since their height difference doesn’t allow for much else. And for Carter, Barnes curls a hand around his neck and leans their foreheads together; not long enough to make Carter stay still, but long enough to loosen tension Zolf hadn’t noticed from his shoulders.

(Something in Zolf aches.)

Barnes is gone for maybe an hour before Carter gets too antsy to be around the inn and takes off for a run. Since there are no other visitors at the moment, that leaves Zolf alone in the inn besides the owner, who’s manning the bar, so he takes the opportunity to sit by the fire and flip through his Gaelic Campbell, trying to guess which scene is which. He’s doing pretty well, too, and then he spots Wilde’s favorite blanket hanging on the chair opposite him – he’d taken it out of the cell again this morning – and starts to feel the weight of the quiet. How it settles heavy on his heart and lungs, makes the space around him simultaneously cavernous and too small to move in. The deafening loneliness of it.

Zolf’s been around the block enough times to know when he’s starting to spiral, so he heads to the kitchen to make lunch. While he’s at it, he figures he can start prepping soup for tomorrow, which will be easiest on Wilde’s anxious stomach and convenient for leftovers. (Bread, too, but he’s already made far too much of that.)

He’s halfway through getting out the ingredients for miso when he hears the backdoor of the inn open, the muffled sound of his name being called, and his heart does a distinct, worryingly earnest oh.

It only takes thirty seconds to make it to the backdoor; just long enough for Zolf to concoct five or six ways to greet Wilde sans-touch, all of them horrible. Just say hello, you bloody idiot, he tells himself as he rounds the last corner, sees Wilde—

Oh.

There’s this feeling Zolf’s gotten a handful of times in his life, always right before disaster strikes—or after, sometimes, but just before he’s realized. When he kicked the tunnel’s support beam and heard a crack. A breath before he hit the water, already littered with debris and bodies from the ship that used to be his home. Waking in an unfamiliar lab with no legs and Sasha’s organs floating above her chest like some sort of horrible biology experiment. It’s a sort of…grounding feeling, but not in a settled way. Like the last moment before the earth crumbles beneath you, when you’re still on solid ground but somehow you know, you know, you’re about to fall.

Zolf sees Wilde, and he’s falling.

There’s blood—not deathly amounts of it, bleeding out wise, but he can’t tell where it’s from because Wilde’s currently facedown on the ground, weakly trying to pull himself onto his elbows. His clothes are torn, his bag of holding nowhere to be seen. A blood-soaked knife – the only weapon Zolf could convince him to bring – is clutched in one hand.

“Wilde,” Zolf says, and he’s underground again, he’s underwater again, he’s falling.

He starts forward, and Wilde flinches backwards with an alarming burst of energy. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Zolf freezes, forces himself to take a breath. Of course. Wilde was out, he could be infected, they can’t touch. But that doesn’t mean Zolf is gonna let him bleed out. “What happened? Are you injured?”

Finally, Wilde manages to pull himself to his elbows, but hesitates there; he’s leaning all his weight to one side, so probably a broken leg.

“Meeting wasn’t a big hit,” Wilde chokes out, head hanging low; his voice sounds wrong, and not just from the obvious pain and exhaustion. It’s gargled, and sort of twisted up, like he’s got something lodged in the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah, I fuckin’ noticed, Wilde,” Zolf says. He’s not going to panic. Wilde’s going to be fine, because Zolf’s going to make sure he’s fine, because Zolf is absolutely not going to panic. “Can you walk?”

Wilde lifts his head to look Zolf in the eye, which reveals where a lot of the blood is coming from: there’s a deep wound across his cheek, cutting from below his eye to his chin and ripping through his mouth on the way. He spits some blood, heaves a breath that seems to hurt the whole way in and out. “I could until about thirty seconds ago, yes,” he manages. His arms are shaking; Zolf’s hand twitches.

“Put pressure on that cut, if you can,” he says, trying to sound calmly firm but mostly just sounding impatient. Wilde winces when presses a hand to the wound, but keeps it there. “Good. Now, we’re low on medical supplies, but we should at least have stuff to clean it and sew it back up.”

Wilde nods. “Once I’m in the cell.”

In a show of good bedside manner, Zolf doesn’t outwardly roll his eyes. “Bloody hell, Wilde, I can’t doctor you through the bars. It needs to be before.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I won’t be stupid about it. We’ve got gloves, I won’t touch you at all—”

“No,” Wilde growls, that fierceness rising up again. He breathes in and out, hard, and the anger settles, or at least contains itself. “We get me into the cell, and you work me through how to treat it myself. If I pass quarantine, we’ll do further medical procedures, and if not- well, it won’t matter, because you’ll have killed me.”

Zolf can’t help it; he flinches. “Fuck, Wilde, don’t—look, that cut is bad, okay? You might lose some facial functioning if it’s not treated properly. And if your leg’s broken, which I’m pretty sure it is, you could end up with a limp, or not being able to walk at all.” He winces. “Not- not that not being able to walk is wrong or somethin’, it’s just- I mean, we don’t exactly have the resources—”

He trails off, too panicked to keep track of his words, and realizes that Wilde is…smiling? It’s more of a grimace, but Zolf is almost sure that’s an attempt at a smile. What the fuck, Wilde. He doesn’t answer for a second, either, so Zolf adds, “Wilde? You with me?”

Wilde blinks, then schools his expression into something more formal, nodding seriously. “Your concerns are noted.”

“And?”

Wilde does a rather pitiful attempt at a shrug. “That’s it; I’ve noted them.” And then the absolute bastard starts trying to crawl.

“Poseidon’s soggy arse, Wilde, you’re not making it to the cell like that,” Zolf hisses, looking around for an alternate solution. Gods, why did Barnes and Carter have to leave at the worst possible time?

Spitting some more blood, Wilde bites back, “Well, I have to make it somehow, don’t I?”

“Yeah, but not like—oh, wait, I might have an idea. Stay- stay here.”

(Wilde gives him a particularly withering look at that, which, fair.)

After half a second of hesitation at the idea of leaving Wilde alone and bleeding, Zolf runs for the living area. Wilde’s blanket is still there, and Zolf starts to reach for it, then imagines it stained to ruin with blood, burned to ash as a precaution. He grabs the big quilt instead.

“Here,” Zolf says when he returns, a little out of breath as he presents the quilt. “I can just wrap you up and carry you downstairs.”

Wilde, who is currently trying to work himself into a half-sitting position, eyes the blanket like it’s a vial of bubbling green liquid. “I’m over twenty inches taller than you, Zolf.”

“And yet you weigh about as much as my glaive,” Zolf replies. Wilde still seems unsure, so he adds, “It’s either this or waiting for Carter to get back, and then we can risk two people getting you down there instead of one.”

A muscle ticks in Wilde’s jaw. “Fine. But you don’t touch any part of the quilt that has touched me.”

Zolf lays the quilt out for Wilde to push himself onto—a slow, painful process that has Zolf cursing the world for giving weight to Wilde’s stubborn paranoia. Once he’s settled, Zolf wraps the quilt around him much the way he imagines one would do for a child, focusing his tension into the curl of his fists so the rest of him can be gentle.

He recalls the first night he helped carry Wilde to bed, tucking him in (shoulders, waist, thighs) so he couldn’t wiggle free in the night. This isn’t what I meant, you idiot, he thinks, and pulls Wilde’s half-limp form into his arms.

It’s difficult going, mostly because of the aforementioned two dozen extra inches Zolf has to manage, which also makes it slow. A few times, when Zolf stumbles or is forced to shift his grip, Wilde winces and starts to curl against Zolf’s chest; he always catches himself, though, muffling the noise against the quilt instead. Still, Zolf can feel the ghost of Wilde’s labored breathing on his collarbone, his matted hair against the curve of Zolf’s shoulder. He wants to look at Wilde; he can’t bear to.

They make it to the cell and, miraculously, down the steps, at which point Zolf remembers his legs are, in fact, magical. “Ah, shit.”

Wilde stirs a little from where he’s been drifting in and out of consciousness. (Zolf aches.) “What- oh. Your legs.”

Zolf tightens his grip (shoulders, hips) and does as a small a shrug as he can manage. “Only a problem inside the cell itself. I’ll just go on my knees.”

He manages to grab the keys hanging by the stairs with two fingers, leans Wilde more onto his chest as he unlocks the door and pulls it open. When he drops slowly to his knees, Wilde’s heels and then calves touch the ground; this makes Wilde chuckle, which then makes him curl up in pain. His forehead brushes Zolf’s shirt before he manages to turn away.

“Almost there,” Zolf says, trying his damnedest to not sound shaky. He shuffles into the cell’s interior, suppressing a grimace at the sensation of his legs going dead, and gently lays Wilde down. Their eyes meet for a moment, then he shuffles back out and locks the door.

“All right, now keep up pressure on your face, and since we can’t elevate your leg yet, just try not to move it, all right? I need to grab supplies, so just- just don’t go anywhere, or somethin’.” Wilde manages a full glare, which is almost relieving. “Okay, yeah, I know, I just meant- just don’t- you know. Yeah.”

Wilde sighs, nods his head. “As long as you bring me some wine, too.”

“I’ll bring alcohol,” Zolf promises, “but it’s for the wound, not for drinking.”

This earns him a heavy, dramatic sigh, and Zolf lets himself a smile a bit before he heads back into the inn proper. A bard to the last, that one.

He’s pulling out the last of the supplies he needs – which is everything they have – when Carter gets back. He comes in the front door at least, thank gods; Zolf doesn’t want to have this discussion standing over a pool of Wilde’s blood. He intercepts Carter as he enters the seating area, ready to explain, but it’s not hard to guess: bundle of supplies in one arm, alcohol and pillow in the other, what’s sure to be a harrowing look on his face. (Not hard for Carter, anyway, who’s already too perceptive for his own good.)

“What happened?”

Zolf huffs out a steadying breath. “Meeting went wrong, Wilde came back early, he’s not doing well. Got ‘im to the cell, but.” He lifts his full arms awkwardly.

“Shit. Did they betray him?”

“Didn’t ask.”

He nods, frowning. “Yeah, fair enough. Should I—actually, you know what, you should have that covered right now, so I’ll take watch. Make sure nobody followed him.”

Zolf hadn’t thought of that, and he kicks himself for not being more careful. “Good plan. Thanks, Carter.”

“Yeah, of course,” he says; brushes his hand over Zolf’s shoulder, a half-pat, then he’s off again.

When Zolf makes it back to Wilde, he’s in almost the exact same position he was left in: wrapped in the blanket, barely conscious, keeping up a low hum of pain. “Hey,” he says gently, and Wilde stirs a little. “Time to patch you up, yeah?”

“Sorry,” Wilde replies, unfolding the blanket and easing himself into a sort of lounging position. There are clear streaks of tears down his face; his jaw is completely clenched.

“Ain’t gotta be,” Zolf says firmly, sliding the supplies through. “Let’s get the blood cleaned up, see what we’re working with.”

Wilde raises an eyebrow but says nothing as he takes the damp cloth and gets to work. A lot of the blood has dried already, coming off in flaky clumps as he wipes away the worst of the mess on his cheek. He’s incredibly delicate around the wound itself, but there’s a sharpness to each careful swipe across his jaw and chin that tells Zolf he’d be harsher if he had the energy to be.

His mouth is what Wilde gets to last, resoaking the rag for the third time to squeeze out the blood, and as he swipes the corner delicately over where his lips have been torn open, Zolf—gods, it’s horrible, it’s unforgivable, he shouldn’t even be acknowledging it. But in that moment, with Wilde hurt and half-conscious and maybe just days away from not even being Wilde anymore, Zolf thinks for the very first time: I think I want to kiss him.

“So?” Wilde says; Zolf startles, which at least gets a fond little exhale. “What’re we working with, oh mighty healer?”

“Um.” Zolf absolutely cannot look at Wilde right now, but he also has to. He compromises by squinting a little, blurring out everything that isn’t the problem at hand. “Yeah, uh, it’s—you’re definitely gonna need stitches, though I don’t know if you can handle that at the moment.”

Wilde glances down at his shaking hands; the movement briefly unbalances him. “You’re probably right—as much as it wounds me to say it.”

It’s unclear whether that was intended as a pun, and Zolf’s not in the mood to find it funny either way, so he just nods. “We’ll just have to temporarily close it, then.”

Thinking of a way to do this takes several minutes, during which Wilde cleans the wound with an alcohol-soaked rag and a worrying lack of complaints. Finally, what Zolf figures out is to take a piece of surgical tape that’s slightly too small and stretch it across the cut so it’ll pull the sides together, trimming the middle part so it doesn’t stick to the wounded skin. He has to guide Wilde through some complex extra wrapping to stop it from peeling off without covering up his eyes, mouth, or nose; it ends up looking rather ugly and pins Wilde’s snarled hair to his head, but it seems to help.

They clean up a couple other scrapes and gashes Wilde didn’t mention earlier – there’s one on the side of his ribcage, shallow but terrifying with its intent – and then get to his leg. With Zolf unable to examine the injury properly, he can’t confirm what the exact issue is, but it’s not grisly, so Zolf walks Wilde through a basic wrapping and tells him to elevate it on the overstuffed pillow he brought. “We’ll need to do more when you’re out, of course,” he adds. “But right now your job is just to sleep.”

It says a lot about Wilde’s current state that his only response to that is curling up on the blood-soiled blanket, perching his leg awkwardly on the pillow, and falling asleep within seconds. Even with the accompanying ease of tension, he looks awful: clothes ripped and dirty, left trouser leg sheared off from the thigh down for the cast, a mummy-like arrangement of surgical tape crisscrossing his overly pale and pink-stained face.

But he’s also alive, and Zolf allows himself a shaky exhale at the knowledge. Puts his face in his hands when that breath threatens to quicken, focuses on the divine warmth in his chest until the panic fades. He looks back at Wilde, his hand resting delicately beside his face, a few locks of hair obscuring his cheek, and there it is again, that feeling—that terrifying, horribly-timed feeling that prickles at the tips of his fingers and in the pit of his stomach, that stretches languidly in his chest like a stray cat who’s decided to stick around. That makes him hope for something he doesn’t even have a name for.

Fuck.

[inmyownlittlecorner5]

Bifrost Blues Chapter 2: To Market, to Market

Fandom: Thor (movies), MCU Rating: T Warnings: None Pairing: Loki/OC Summary: According to the rules, no Jotun shall ever set foot in Asgard. According to the rules, no Prince of Asgard shall befriend a Jotun. According to the rules Rules were made to be broken. Written for @flufftober2021​

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Read on Ao3+

Prompt 2: sneaking out together

graphic by the author with @ourdiningroom​

1665 A.D.

Loki was bored, which was always a dangerous thing.

He’d been trapped inside the blacksmith’s shop with Thor for hours. The clanging of metal on metal, along with the terrible heat, was giving him a headache. As was usual, the blacksmiths ignored him in favor of Thor, who was easier to please and more profuse with his praise than Loki ever cared to be. For a time, Loki had amused himself by using his seidr to push the smoke into the workmen’s eyes. But by now, this joke had worn thin, even to him.

“We’ve been here long enough for you to purchase the entire shop, brother,” Loki said. “I want to see the new volumes at the bookseller’s.”

“As if I’d be stupid enough to follow you to the bookseller’s,” Thor said. “You’ll spend all day there. Aren’t there books enough in castle the library? I’m surprised you haven’t gone blind from all the hours you spend staring at words scribbled on pages.”

The blacksmith laughed heartily at Thor’s joke, and turned the prince’s attention to yet another weapon.

“At least I know how to read,” Loki muttered.

He stalked to the door of the shop, and leaned against the doorframe. As he watched the busy market-goers pass by, he began to spin tales about their lives to himself.

“Here is a madam well past youth who thinks she can buy some beauty in a bottle. And here is a fellow who thinks himself so shrewd. Too bad he will be cheated by every vendor he meets. And here—“ His eyes narrowed as he watched a hooded figure darting out of his favorite book shop. “What’s this? A rogue who thinks to escape detection?”

Thor forgotten, Loki prowled silently after the hooded figure. She wove her way expertly through the crowd, keeping her pace slow enough to maintain her anonymity. He was a patient hunter, following her to the edge of the market and to the deserted courtyard beyond. On the other side of the gurgling fountain, the figure risked a glance over her shoulder. This paltry mistake was enough. Loki caught sight of her deep blue skin.

It had been many years since he’d first seen the Jotun maiden. So many that sometimes he wondered if he’d dreamed the entire thing. But here she was, risking her life on Asgardian soil again. He had to know why. He darted forward to block her escape.

She’d grown in the years since he’d rescued her from the elder tree. But the feel of her temper as it flared to life, the lovely push and pull as she tried to restrain it, was the same as he remembered.

“We meet again, Maid of Jotunheim,” he said with a mocking bow. “You are still small for a Jotun.”

Angrboda glared up at him. “And you are still small for a prince.”

“What brings you to trespass on Asgard’s sacred ground again? I heard you had books enough in your own Realm.”

“Your Asgardian bookseller didn’t mind taking my gold. You will tax him, so you will get your cut. What does it matter where the gold came from?”

“I will have my tax now, I think. I want to know what book brought you to risk Odin’s wrath.”

She blew out her breath impatiently. “Your Highness, if you are going to arrest me, then do so. Otherwise, leave me to my own business.”

He advanced on her slowly, until she was backing up towards the fountain. “Arrest? I do hope it will not come to that. Imprisonment is so dull, don’t you agree?”

“Then you will excuse me. I’m sure you have much better things to do than waste time with a fugitive.”

As she attempted to skirt around him, he plucked the book from her hands. “As it happens, I don’t.”

“Give that back to me,” she hissed.

He glanced at the title, frowning. “Jord’s Rule for the Raising and Care of Horses. How disappointing. You would risk your life for this?”

“It may mean nothing to you, but it is of great use to me. Please give it back.”

He could feel her fury pulsing under the surface of her good manners. There was something mesmerizing about her energies. He wanted to chase them until he understood them completely.

“How do you come to Asgard? I had not thought Heimdall would allow a Jotun passage on the Bifrost.”

“I have my own path.”

A slow smile spread across his face. “Then you will show it to me. In exchange for safe passage home.”

He could see her warring with herself, and he could feel the moment of her resignation.

“I suppose it would be worth it to be out of your debt.”

He offered her his arm. “Come, let us walk together.”

She shook her head vehemently. “I shouldn’t touch you. I would burn you with cold. Asgardians are so sensitive, you know.”

He laughed at her barb. “I insist. I doubt you can freeze me through good Asgardian linen and leather.”

Her eyes flashed gold. “Fine. I hope you get frostbite.”

She put her hand in the crook of his arm and led them up a narrow, winding street. Her touch was a curious sensation, for while he felt the chill of her skin, there was a warmth pulsing under it.

“You should know this will not settle our previous debt,” Loki said. “It will only keep you from incurring another.”

Her fingers tightened on his arm. “I should have known an Asgardian prince would not play fair.”

“But I am playing fair. I am also making the rules. Don’t blame yourself. It’s not your fault I have every advantage.”

There was a hint of red streaking the gold in her eyes now. “I don’t understand why you insist on tormenting me.”

He raised his eyebrows at her, affecting the innocent expression that tended to fool everyone but his mother. “No, surely not tormenting.”

“Teasing then. Aggravating.”

As he opened his mouth to tease her further, there came a set of thundering of footsteps  behind them. Before Loki find a doorway or alley, Thor was at their side.

“Who’s this, brother?” Thor asked with his stupid grin. “Have you gone off on a liaison without telling me?”

Though Loki might have teased Angrboda until Ragnarok, he had no wish for any real harm to come to her. He raised his hand to disguise her with his seidr, unsure if he could even accomplish such a spell on another person. But it was too late.

“Loki,” Thor growled, his grin twisting into a fierce glare as he saw who Loki's companion was, “what have you done?”

End Note:

Jord is a Norse goddess of nature

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[irwinkitten]

feel like a monster | a.i

notes: told y’all i was writing again. i got inspired by ‘monster’ by skillet and it’s not the typical demon!ash we have seen previously. enjoy. Also I picture Lucifer being Tom Ellis’ from the tv series ‘Lucifer’. pairing: demon!ashton x witch!reader (genderless self-insert!)  warnings: violence, swearing word count: 3.2k

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-

The first time you had met Ashton, he was fully unaware of your presence. 

Eyes as black as night had roamed the small haunt that the local supernaturals frequented, free of any kind of glamour to appeal to the human prey. Most of the locals knew better than to step out without the glamour on, especially demons, but Ashton had kept his on when he stepped through the door, even with the wash of protective magic you had placed on the building.

“What’ll it be, sugar?” You finally asked him, his eyes unseeing as he muttered the word ‘whiskey’. You never took offence, because sometimes the creatures you encountered needed the time to come to terms with something that happened. 

“On the house, don’t drown.” You commented, not even inciting a verbal response as you returned your attention back to one of your regular vampires, a charming smile on your lips as you carried on, the despondent demon lurking in the back of your mind.

The night had been a steady one for the bar, and the demon hardly moved. He wasn't interested when a fight broke out, he ignored the other demons that seemed to sidle up to him and then abandon him once they realised he wasn’t going to pander to their whims.

It hit three am when you finally sat in front of him having a stool behind the bar for this exact reason.

“How about you give me a name, and I’ll go knock on Hades’ door to see if he’s got your soul locked up.” This pulled him from the funk he’d fallen into, his eyes finally focusing and finding yours.

“No need. How long has it been?” 

“You’ve been sittin’ there for at least seven hours, sugar. You sure you’re alright?” And it seemed to flip a switch in him, dark tousled hair finally coming to life as he groaned and let his head rest on the bar. 

Like with all of your other creature patrons, you didn’t hesitate, ruffling his hair gently which had him pulling back in shock, making you smirk as his own fingers ran through the jet black locks before sighing.

“I really need to stop falling out of my skin.” He muttered and you laughed.

“It’s been a long time since I had a skinwalking demon inside of these walls.” You commented casually, feeling his eyes study you as you moved to clean part of the bar.

“There are others?” The curiosity in his tone seemed desperate, which surprised you.

“There were, then good old Lucifer decided that the creation was an abomination. How’d you escape the culling?” 

“I didn’t know there was one? How long ago was it?” This had you confused. You’d heard through the grapevines before Lucifer himself had walked into your establishment. You’d been lucky to escape with your life that night.

“Merde, honey we’re talkin’ about five centuries ago. I’ve had this bar running for the last eight.” His face fell at your words, dismay crossing his features before his eyes closed and a sigh escaped him

“I’m barely four centuries old. How on earth did that freak mutation happen?” His words were all snark but you saw the way his shoulders slumped, how he seemed resigned to the defeat. But you frowned, chucking the rag at him, making him look up. 

“None of that in this bar. If good ‘ole Lucy is up to his tricks again, then you’re around for a reason honey. Now, what’s your name, my lovely skinwalker?” And for the first time that night, he smiled.

“Ashton. My name’s Ashton.” 

He became a regular from that day on. Unlike other demons who had assignments to take souls and cash in on debts, he never really did much. 

The only thing you gleaned from Ashton was that he was only ever called for when there seemed to be something that was too good to be true. And more often than not, they were, which left him to do the dispatching.

On those days, he was sullen and silent, unwilling to even share the possible horrors he may have witnessed, even with your experienced eyes, the way his were haunted, part of you wished to never see it.

He became steady at your bar, a fixture that kept your own morale up when things were rough. He was always there to kick someone too rowdy out, and eventually he started staying til you’d locked up and apparated home.

“Hey Ash. New suit?” You’d called out in greeting as he arrived. You’d noticed that he’d started to experiment with his wardrobe more now that he started to gain confidence in his own skills. 

“You ask me every time I’m wearing something different.” He grumbled, making you laugh as he took his spot at the bar, tugging off the suit jacket and resting it over the back of the stool. 

“Because you’re finally showing an artistic flair with your clothes, sue me for noticing and pointing out they make you look good.” You fired back easily, continuing to set up for the rest of the day. 

“Are we still swapping stories today then?” He asked, ignoring your previous comment as you slid his usual glass in front of him. You smiled in return.

“I love how you consider swapping stories of my relatively normal life something exciting.” He laughed at that.

“Hearing stories of domesticity is much more preferable to the ones of death. Let me have this one thing.” His plea with wide eyes was met with unimpressed ones, only for you to give way and crack a smile.

“It’s a good job that I like you then, not many people can get stories outta me. At least, not the ones of where I’m making a new spell in my own home surrounded by the green ferns and my familiar.” This brought a grin to his face.

“Like I said, hearing something so normal and simple, it makes me hopeful that there’s gonna be a day when I don’t get called in to death and destruction.” You felt your heart break for him a little bit. 

Most of the demons who crossed your safe haven had long since settled into the death and destruction that surrounded them. A lot of them even welcomed it with open arms and gleeful smiles. 

But not Ashton. 

He’d practically rejected that side of him. It was only when he’d met you that he worked ways to accept it but not sink into it. He hung onto you like a lifeline and you gave him those stories of normality, if only to keep him grounded, especially on the worst days. 

“I heard old Lucy has put out rumours of a skinwalker. What’s up with that?” You queried once you’d finished setting up the bar. His face took on a pinched look before sighing.

“I’m a skinwalker with control. I’ve seen the other demons, read the transcripts of the old skinwalkers. They, they lost their sanity towards the end. They sunk into themselves and had nothing to pull them back, nothing to keep them in the world we roam. It’s why I can’t lose control. So far I’ve kept it under lock and key, and yes it’s there, but as long as I don’t lose myself like they did, he won’t have a reason to wipe me out.” 

“Good old Lucifer doesn’t need a reason, sugar. But I’m proud of you.” His posture changed ever so slightly, but the smile he gave you in return was one of the more honest smiles you’d ever seen on his face.

“I guess it’s gonna be me keeping my head down?” He finally muttered and you laughed, patting his cheek gently.

“That and some luck, but you got me on your side, so you’ve got enough to see you through my favourite skinwalking demon.” 

But like many things, the luck had run out for both of you. 

Lucifer was sat on the lounge sofa you’d had moved into the VIP section, his casual demeanour betraying the crackling energy that you could feel.

“Most demons give me the time to open the damn bar, your highness.” Even though your age had nothing on Lucifer, you were one of the braver souls who knocked him down, reminding him that you were never one to bend over backwards.

“Unfortunately for you, witch, the bar won’t be opening today. See, there’s been a rumour. A rumour that you’ve been harbouring a skinwalker.” Ice ran through your veins as your stomach dropped.

But you kept yourself as calm as you could, a game you’d played far too many times before.

“Tell me, Lucifer. Why would you be interested in a skinwalker when you destroyed them over five centuries ago. I don’t need to remind you that you came to gloat that day.” The anger was easy to display, the bitterness in your voice telling him exactly what you thought of his choice.

“Ah, but this skinwalker is going rogue.”

“And so I’m harbouring them? Tell me, Lucy, do demons get to die like humans do, or do you just turn into ash?” You felt the burning of the chains before you even had time to react, your breath being stolen as the burning metal wrapped around your body.

Chains draped across your face, and apart from the low hiss of pain, you did nothing more.

“You’re lucky I don’t do what would be considered normal, witch.” 

“Trust me, your demons will turn on you quicker when they find out exactly who is threatening their safe haven. How will you cope when every demon is on my side?” You could see the way he twitched at the possible threat, the chains getting tighter in response.

“Then if I kill you and blame it on the skinwalker, they’ll go after them.” The taunt was enough as you felt the wards shift and you realised it was Ashton.

Part of you wanted to scream, to warn him. But your voice was trapped, barely able to take in a breath as Lucifer stood from his spot, curling his finger so that the chains yanked forward, bringing you to your knees.

“I must confess that I feel like a monster doing this. But let it be a lesson for generations who try to meddle in affairs that aren’t theirs to touch.” You could only close your eyes as he raised his hand, the shift having already started as the fingers elongated and the nails grew into claws. 

“Your confession will never erase what you’ll do. May the creatures of the darkness know who tried this day, to strip my life and make me pay. May they rebel and cast out, those souls so sure and cast out this monster forever more.” It wasn’t a full spell, but the intent behind the words were enough as a raging roar ripped through the building.

But it wasn’t in front of you like you’d anticipated. 

Your eyes snapped open to see something hit Lucifer and throw him across the room.

“Unbind them now.” To your shock, it was Ashton, his skin practically glowing as he towered over you, his stance in a crouch. 

“For what, skinwalker? You’re only going to die before them.” 

You watched in awe as Ashton seemed to shift, almost like his mind had sunk into base instincts and for the first time in your life, you felt a sliver of fear. But surprisingly enough, it wasn’t towards Ashton. No, it was towards Lucifer who had shifted forms with a look of fury on his face.

“You won’t touch them.” There was a laugh that rooted him to the spot, and you couldn’t stop the yell of agony as you felt yourself hoisted up, desperately trying to cut the feeling of pain off, the agony searing and exhausting. 

“Want a bet, skinwalker?” The deep cadence of Lucifer’s voice sent the thrill of fear, but Ashton didn’t hesitate as he launched at the self proclaimed king of hell, no words being spoken but guttural snarls instead. 

You tried to watch, but you could see the black dots in your vision. But you struggled for each breath, watching as Lucifer seemed to toss him like a rag doll.

You were dimly aware of a sound that shook the walls as you blacked out, a silent prayer that if you were to be sent on to the afterlife, that Ashton would be granted one mercy to be with you at least.

-

“Fuck, why is it when I need a witch, the one I want isn’t available.” Your head was fuzzy, pain rocketing around your body as you heard chains clink together.

You couldn’t pull any energy to speak even a single word before the fuzziness swept you under, drowning you from the pain that you were in.

-

“I can sense you.” A different voice startled you and your head shot up from where you were lay, shock colouring your features. “Death looks good on you.” 

You turned to the voice and felt your insides drop at the sight of Hades. Unlike Lucifer, those who knew, knew that Hades ruled the underworld.

“Are you playing as Hades or your alter?” You finally asked and he laughed, stepping from the shadow that had hidden his features. 

Pale skin with vibrant green eyes. He gave you the kind of smile that he only gave Persephone. 

“It’s my alter form today. Figured you’d seen enough already.” He countered with ease, holding his hand out to you. You took it willingly, allowing him to pull you up. In his alter form, he’d named himself Michael. He had soft features that looked welcoming ‘to not scare the children sent his way’, was his excuse. But it was nice to see familiarity.

“How dead am I?” 

“Not as dead as you should be. Since Lucifer used the death chains on you, I have more leeway than he thought, the little upstart.” You blanched at his words.

“He used the death chains? But, that-”

“Should’ve sent you to my realm almost immediately, or at least indefinitely when you lost consciousness.. But your little spell blocked the chains from doing what they do best. Not to mention my skinwalker nearly taking his own life getting those things off you.” Michael explained as he guided you around the forested area. You realised this must have been his wife’s work.

“Wait, your skinwalker? Is that-” Michael cut you off.

“Is that why Lucifer wiped them to extinction? No. His first batch had never found their grounding. Never succeeded in tying their humanity down. But Ashton was different. So I created him.” 

“What happens now?” His smirk bore the arrogance of a god and it took everything to stop yourself from punching him. You’d learned the hard way not to punch a god, they never bruised and never took well to being hit by what they considered a mortal. 

“Take care of my skinwalker. And tell him that he holds the crown in title for now. I’ll be along to make it official in the next day or so. Gotta make sure his royal partner kick-starts their recovery.” 

Before you could fully process the information, you felt the world spin around you once more, going black. 

The blissful pain free state you had been in slowly morphed as the pain seemed to wrap you tightly until you couldn’t breathe, only for your lungs to pull in the much needed air.

“Oh thank fuck.” Was heard above you, but your eyes were too heavy to try and open, your body lethargic and almost lead like to try and reassure the person above you.

When you next came around, the pain was dulled. There was a slow and steady beep that had you turning your head and you stopped yourself from groaning. 

“Please tell me I’m not in a standard hospital.” The mutter was scratchy and quiet. 

“You forget what we’ve been building this hospital for a few years now. This is one for all kinds of creatures. No regular humans in sight.” The voice made you jump, turning to see Ashton sat next to you, his hair dishevelled and eyes tired as he took you in.

“You’re alive.” His lips curved into a small smile at your whispered words.

“More like we’re alive.” He corrected and you could feel a tear fall from the corner of your eye, lifting a hand up to his face. He was quick to scoot closer, your fingertips feeling his skin and you felt the dam burst.

You were both alive.

He didn’t hesitate to rest his hand over yours, keeping it against his face as you cried, but there was understanding in his eyes as you processed everything, Michael’s words finally ringing back to you as you slowly calmed down.

He was here with you, and even though you’d been toying with the idea, you’d never been so sure of telling him how you felt. Once you’d gathered your bearings, before he could start talking, you cut him off quickly.

“So, king of hell, fancy going on a date with me when I’m out of here?” As much as you wanted to be sentimental with Ashton, your emotions were frayed enough as it was. This was the last thing you needed to add to it. And watching Ashton’s face as he processed your words was certainly worth it.

“A date, with me?” He clarified, tone mystified and dumbfounded. You grinned.

“Of course. Give me a week before I get to the sentimentalities, but I’m almost certain I’ve been in love with you for the last year. Hades was nice enough to point that out, since you can’t lie to a god.” 

“Hades? What?” You took pity on Ashton in that moment.

“Instead of dying immediately, I was trapped, but in Hades’ part of the underworld. He explained that you were his skinwalker, connected to your humanity. He could see my feelings for you as clear as daylight. I might as well try to-” Your words were cut off with his lips on yours, the feeling of them causing you to smile against his lips, breaking the kiss.

“I’m not about to get hexed, am I?” He breathed and you laughed, his lips moving to your forehead before he sat back.

“Not in a million years. So you think about actually coming with me now when I get out of here?” His smile spoke the thousands of words he wanted to say, but simply settled for squeezing your hand gently.

“I think it’s about time I moved in, huh?” 

One of the healers seemed to come in for that moment and you allowed her to fuss over you as Ashton settled back in the chair, a peaceful silence sweeping over the two of you. Compared to your last memory of the loud beast-like roars, the peace was welcomed and enjoyed, Ashton’s slow breathing accompanying the steady beep of your monitor that you knew would be gone by the end of the day.

The peace was something you appreciated as you felt Ashton take your hand once the healer had left, his thumb rubbing gentle circles into your skin. It was only when he jolted upright his face a picture of alarm as he stared at you before breathing,

“What do you mean ‘king of hell’?”

-

taglist:  @sexgodashton​, @goth5sos​, @malumsmermaid​, @empathycth​, @wildflowergrae​, @calpops​, @rosecolouredash​, @cakesunflower​, @loveroflrh​, @clockwork124​, @cal-puddies​, @stellar5sosrecs​, @ashtoniwir​ , @cthwldflwr​, @cthla​, @calmlftv​, @spicycal​, @liketheydidwithyou​, @sc0ttish-wildfl0wer​, @bluehairedtracii​, @drummerboy794​, @feliznavidaddycal​, @ukulelecal​​, @thecurlsofgod​​, @converse-luke​​, @madbomb​​, @ccnicole02​​, @youngblood199456​​, @megz1985​​, @lukesidentitycrisis​​, @snapback-irwie​​, @neonweeknds​​, @666yourwitchyfriend666​​, @cashtonasfuck​​, @ashtaway​​, @conquerwhatliesahead92​​, @itjustkindahappenedreally​​, @kchillout​​, @damselindistressanu​​, @colormekaykay​​, @findingliam-o​​, @sublimehood​​, @singledadharrington​​, @sugarcoated-pain​​, @singt0mecalum​​, @calumspeachy​​, @colourfulcalum​​, @lostincalum​​, @burncrashbromance​​, @asht0ns-world​​, @flusteredcliffo​​, @ixcantxdecidexwhosxmyxfave​​, @fangirl-everythang​​, @lashtonswildflower​​, @lashtondaddies​​, @calumssunshine​​, @ambskiwi​​, @abundant-stars​​, @myescapefromthislife​​, @lmao5sosimagines​​, @beyoncesdragon​​, @jae-writes-fanfiction​​, @cxddlyash​​, @tresfandom​​, @niallisworld​​, @lietomevalntyn​​, @babylon-corgis​​, @monochrome44​, @behind-my-hazeleyes27​​, @lyllibug​​, @bloodmoonashton​​, @ghostofmashton​​, @summerellaz​​, @a-little-less-sixteen​​, @cashworthy​​, @smokeinherlungs​​, @longlastingdaydream​​, @h0tsos​​, @sadistmichael​​, @sugar-nico​​, @sunnysidesblog​​, @angel-cal​​, @samros95​​, @maluminspace​​, @lukeinblue​​, @britnicole11​​, @gigglyirwin​​, @everyscarisahealingplace​​, @loverofcashton​​, @iovehemmings​​, @g-l-pierce​​, @jannimoeller3​​, @wildmichaelflower​​, @lukeskisses​​, @youngbloodchild​​, @abb-lan-5sos​​, @calumsbub​​, @flameraine​​, @here-for-the-uproars, @mateisit-balsamic​​, @ilovelukey​​, @castaway-cashton​​, @musiclover1263​​, @alloutofcashton​​, @tobefalling​​, @sarahshepherdblog​​, @cassie-sos​​, @possesedperson​​, @treatallwithkindness​​, @wonderlandiswhereitsatyo​​, @pinkbubbles-and-bigtroubles​​, @ashtonlrwin​​, 

if u wanna be added to my taglist just hmu! 

[donttouchmeimwriting]

Argo ch. 4

Friday the 13th - Friendship/Romance - Jason Voorhees/OC M/M ship

3326 words, 3rd person POV

Took a little bit of a breather so I don't burn out because this one is big! I'm going to have some mature content in future chapters btw so the rating will bump to 18+ for those. I will mark the chapters with that content appropriately so minors please do not interact with them!

Cross-posting on FFN under PyroTheWereCat

...

Some weeks passed and Jason and Lijah had gotten quite comfortable with their new routine. Jason had started to come by early every evening and leave before midnight every night, though Lijah still occasionally fell asleep while he was still there. Jason didn't mind these times. He took them as opportunities to watch Lijah without question or making him feel self conscious, as Jason rather liked the way Lijah looked and never grew tired of seeing his face. He still had sporadic thoughts of inappropriate things, but those showed up more now when he was alone and only thinking of Lijah.

The thoughts were troubling nonetheless, as Jason often found his mind wandering to daydreams of Lijah in the shower or how swallowed up by Jason's arms he would be if he held him. He even had thoughts of kissing Lijah, wondering just how soft those lips would feel. The images were innocent enough, but Jason still worried that he was sliding down a slippery slope by having them at all. He could hear Mother's voice in the back of his mind explaining how this was only the beginning. It would start with innocent curiosity and then, before he knew it, he would be consumed by lust and never be able to return home. The most troubling part about it all was that there was a frighteningly big part of him that didn't want the thoughts to stop.

In the silent moments that Lijah was asleep while Jason sat with him, Jason's strongest desires were to touch him. He didn't feel that these yearnings were particularly wrong in that he was only really interested in touching Lijah's hair and face, but he resisted out of concern for the progression of these urges as well as not wanting to wake Lijah. Still, the allure of his soft looking woody brown locks and even softer looking freckled skin called to him, inspiring a great many of his fantasies.

There was also the worry that Lijah would start to hate him like everyone else did. He was terrified that the instant he removed his mask, Lijah would never want to see him again. He could feasibly tolerate his presence now, but if their relationship progressed into something else, then what? Could Lijah stand to be with the monster who murdered so many people? The freak with a face so repugnant it instilled a murderous intent in others? Jason couldn't stand to think of betraying Lijah, but he also wished to find some kind of happiness for himself.

In the beginning, if Lijah fell asleep next to him, Jason would leave soon after to let him rest, but as their friendship went on, he would stay for at least an hour to enjoy the peacefulness of the arrangement. He would sometimes read one of Lijah's books, though usually he would sit and enjoy the calm atmosphere of existing in a safe location with a trusted friend. It was through these quiet nights that he learned Lijah was a sleep talker, and a relatively clear one at that. It had startled him the first time it happened; Jason thought that Lijah had woken up. He quickly understood that they were mumblings of a blissfully unaware Lijah, and soon came to enjoy listening to the odd phrases he would come up with while dreaming. A request to place a bag of fruit on a shoe rack, a denial of cream cheese spaghetti, occasional laughter...it was all somewhat funny to Jason until he heard his own name.

Lijah called out to Jason quite a few times in his sleep, increasing in frequency as time went on. The scenarios were often mundane - asking Jason to move from the hallway or how he was doing. Jason paid close attention any time these dreams occurred, curious about what Lijah was seeing. One instance, however, caught his attention like none of the others had before.

Lijah was sleeping curled up on his side, facing the wall. Jason was reading the final chapter of one of the adventure novels and the scene was coming to a thrilling climax. He heard Lijah murmur his name and turned to see if he was awake, as was the norm. Lijah's eyes were closed and he drooled slightly on the pillow, answering that question instantly. Jason returned to his book, but kept his ears focused on any further commentary.

"Don't go," Lijah whispered, his voice tinged with unmistakable sadness, "...want you...stay with me, Jase...please..."

His full attention now on Lijah, Jason's pulse quickened. He wasn't sure what to do to alleviate the distress Lijah was having in his dream. Eyes searching for a solution, Jason found himself fixed on a section of hair that had fallen across Lijah's face, hanging over his eyes and nose. Clenching his jaw muscles and praying he did not wake him, Jason reached out to push the hair off Lijah's face. He hesitated before touching him, beginning to panic, but then Lijah sighed his name again, his eyebrows furrowed with whatever upsetting images he was forced to see. Jason took a deep breath to steady his hand, then gently brushed the hair back.

Lijah's hair was even softer than Jason had previously imagined, like a young deer's fur. He couldn't resist running his fingers through to the ends, watching them slide effortlessly as if he were passing his hand through tall grass. Lijah's expression instantaneously relaxed as Jason combed his fingers through his hair, and he tentatively repeated the action. He stroked Lijah's hair several times like this, slowly, tenderly, fascinated by its soothing effect on him. Soon, Lijah had slipped back into a deep sleep, looking more comfortable than before.

Jason, on the other hand, could not be more energized. His touch was good for something other than bringing pain and death. He could be gentle and comforting. He had been uncertain before, but this proved it. He was capable of changing after all, not just in his mind.

He could not remain in the room for long after, his energy much too high to sit still or move quietly enough to not wake Lijah, so he left earlier than he wanted to. He spent this wild energy in the woods that night, hunting and trapping small animals to add to his own campsite's food stores. He felt deliciously alive in a way he was not used to.

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

Jason didn't tell Lijah about the nightmare. He worried that it might unnerve him that he stayed in the room while he slept, and Jason's top priority at the moment was keeping Lijah's favor. He had never really had crushes before, having no one around other than Mother, and could now somewhat understand that intense desire to be around the other person and ignore the world. Before now, he wasn't even sure that men could be attracted to each other. It was never in the stories Mother told him, and he had never seen it in his few ventures to the camp. He thought it must be extremely special, given that it was not as prevalent, and wondered why he hadn't heard of it before. Perhaps it was only heterosexual couples who were sinful and needed to be bound by marriage to erase that sin? He determined he would look into it later if it became an important question.

The desire to touch Lijah's hair again became much stronger after doing it once, however, and Jason resisted the urge each time he saw him. He could feel Lijah getting suspicious though, and didn't want to hide his feelings for much longer. What would Lijah think if he told him he liked him? He had told Jason he wasn't interested in dating anyone, and Jason was almost certain Lijah was only interested in a friendship with him. He wanted to at least tell him he wanted to explore a more sensual relationship, holding hands and hugging, perhaps, but he wasn't sure how to express that without seeming creepy. While he had no idea how romantic relationships worked, Jason had only the slightest inkling of how friendships worked, and didn't want to ruin this one by saying something weird.

One rainy evening, Lijah returned to the cabin with more energy than usual, claiming it was a slow day with the kids due to the weather, and he got to relax for most of it. This led to him excitedly showing Jason one of his favorite movies on VHS, setting up the living room with popcorn, extra blankets, and soda (though Jason politely declined the beverage and requested a water instead). Mother never showed Jason movies like this at home; he wasn't even sure they owned a VCR. When he was younger, they did have a TV and he would watch the occasional broadcasted movie, but once it broke, they never replaced it. As a result, he never cared much about catching up with popular media. There were chores to complete and plenty to do outside, so he'd never needed the extra entertainment. Still, it was nice to see Lijah get so worked up by watching the story on the screen, and Jason found it interesting as well.

The pair moved back to the bedroom once the movie was over, Jason having helped Lijah clean up the living room first, and Jason quietly read as Lijah did his bedtime routine. Jason had noticed he was growing rather smelly lately, more so than usual. He never cared much about hygiene - the smell didn't tend to bother him - and bathed infrequently with little water from creeks. Being around Lijah, who smelled so pleasant all the time, however, Jason was picking up on his own scent a little more, and found it potentially offensive. He remembered Lijah offering the shower to him, and contemplated using it at least a couple times a week so as not to offend his nice smelling friend who was surely not saying anything to avoid hurting his feelings. When Lijah returned from the bathroom, Jason wrote,

"can i use it to?"

"Use what?" Lijah asked, still toweling his hair dry, "The shower? Yeah, absolutely! There's plenty of soap in there and an extra towel. If you want, while you're in there, I can sneak over to laundry to wash your clothes for you too."

There it was. Jason grimaced. He was slightly embarrassed by offending Lijah, but grateful that he was being so casual about it. He nodded and awkwardly shuffled around Lijah to get to the bathroom. He shut the door behind him and leaned against it, sighing deeply. He began undressing, becoming more uncomfortable feeling that his shirt stuck to his skin. How had he gone this long without noticing? He found the spare towel Lijah mentioned and wrapped it around his waist to cover himself before opening the door to pass his dirty clothes out to Lijah. Lijah took the pile, cheerful as always, and promised to be back soon. Jason was trying to avoid making eye contact, but he saw that Lijah's cheeks flushed when he was met with the sight of Jason in the towel. What could that have been about?

Enclosed in the bathroom once more, Jason dropped the towel next to his boots and removed his mask, placing it on the sink. This room was even smaller and more cramped than the other rooms in the cabin, leaving barely any space for his large frame to navigate. It was a simple setup of only the essentials: a toilet, a sink with a mirror over it, and a narrow shower stall. Jason stepped inside the stall and pulled the curtain behind him. The air still smelled of clean steam from Lijah's shower: a calming scent. Jason had some trouble figuring out the knobs, but managed to get the water running. The spray felt glorious on his skin, and he took a moment to bask in the warmth of the water. Certainly, this was a feeling he could live with a couple times a week.

Once he was done washing and rising the soap from his body, Jason turned the water off and stepped out, feeling almost brand new. He dried himself with the towel, but had not heard Lijah come back in yet. He put his mask back on and tentatively opened the door, keeping the towel tight on his waist. He peered out, but there was no sign of Lijah yet. The laundry room was probably in a different area of the camp, he considered, and it would take a little time for him to get back. Jason retrieved a book from the bedroom to occupy the time while he waited.

Lijah did return shortly after, bringing with him Jason's now clean clothes. He handed them off, blushing still, and left Jason to get dressed. What was getting him so flustered? Jason rejoined Lijah in the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed next to him.

"How do you feel?" Lijah asked, fidgeting with the ends of his hair.

Jason nodded and gave a thumbs up gesture, admittedly feeling much better now that he was completely clean (and smelling almost as good as Lijah).

"Good! I've gotta say, though, that's some tough material. I wasn't sure the washer could handle it."

He touched Jason's arm as he spoke, feeling the fabric of his jacket. Jason stiffened, caught off guard by Lijah's touch. Lijah immediately retracted his hand, his eyes worried.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, "Was that wrong?"

Jason thought a moment, but then felt the strong yearning he'd had before to touch Lijah and run his fingers through that soft hair again. He shook his head, but felt a sudden, unexplainable distress that shortened his breaths. He reached for Lijah, who did not flinch or move away, and wrapped his fingers around his slim upper arm. Lijah's skin was so soft, so compliant to his touch...Jason released a shuddering sigh at how nice it felt. Lijah touched his arm again, running his hand up to Jason's shoulder.

"Wow, you're super touch starved, aren't you?" he said, giving Jason's shoulder a squeeze. Jason had never heard of the expression, but it made sense to him. Wanting to feel Lijah ached like a hunger, and being touched by him satisfied that hunger. He nodded, rubbing Lijah's arm as gently as he could, but still pushing him slightly from sheer size difference.

"Can I hug you?" Lijah asked, "I think that'll help the most."

Jason nodded, a little too exuberantly, and Lijah pulled away from him to hop off the bed. He faced Jason, his expression unreadable, then climbed up onto Jason's lap, straddling his thighs, and pulled him into his arms. Jason gave a small grunt of surprise, but melted into Lijah's embrace, clutching him tightly. The feeling was indescribably soothing and overwhelming at the same time, sending tingles throughout his body. How was it that Lijah always knew what he needed?

It was undeniable at this point that Jason loved Lijah. He loved everything about him. He loved the feeling of Lijah's breath against his neck. He loved that he was so small and delicate compared to Jason, and he loved holding him close. His scent was all Jason could perceive outside of the embrace and the sound of rain tapping on the roof of the cabin, that light, clean scent he could never get enough of. This moment was perfection to Jason. The only thing that could make it even better was...no, he shouldn't wish for such indecent things, especially not when this felt so wonderful. He also knew that there was a difference between loving someone and being in love with someone. He wasn't sure how to tell the difference, but assumed he would know if it happened. So far, he knew he loved Lijah, but didn't think he was in love with him (yet).

Lijah pulled back slightly to be able to look at Jason. His face was placid and reflected the happiness Jason felt.

"You've got some big, strong arms," he said, rubbing Jason's upper arms as he spoke, "I bet you're a fantastic cuddler."

Jason shrugged. He would not know, but from the way Lijah said it, he would like to find out.

"Gosh, you're cute," Lijah mumbled, "You don't even know how worked up you get me, do you? I'll give you a hint...I can't get that image of you in that towel out of my head and I don't want to."

He ghosted his fingertips over Jason's mask, his eyes lowered to where Jason's mouth would be under it.

"Is it all right if I take this off?" he whispered, "I would really like to kiss you right now."

The thought of kissing Lijah made Jason's heart flutter, but he did not want to frighten him with the face that earned him so much hatred as a child. There was also the matter of what his mother would think, with Lijah's bottom so dangerously close to his most private area, tempting him with physical pleasures. Would she be upset? Or would she not mind as much, given it would only be a kiss? At this point, it was not a question of whether or not Jason wanted it, but rather should he give in to what he wanted and disrespect his mother's wishes?

Pulse racing as he began to run out of time for an answer, Jason forced himself to make a decision. It would just be a kiss, right? There was no need to overthink. Definitely no need to read too far into what he said about the towel...He lifted his hands and slowly pushed the mask up to just under his nose. He could no longer see Lijah like this, but he didn't need to.

Lijah did not hesitate to close the space between them. He didn't kiss the way Jason had seen others before. This wasn't sloppy or aggressive...it was soft and warm and sent tingles throughout Jason's entire body...it felt nice. He slid his hands up Lijah's back as he dissolved into the kiss, an intense blush creeping into his cheeks. Lijah in turn pressed his hands to the sides of Jason's neck, holding him just as close. The slight movement of their lips together felt so incredible....Jason almost forgot that this was supposed to be wrong. He curled his fingers into Lijah's t-shirt and sighed softly as their lips parted. He didn't want this to end.

Lijah pulled back, Jason leaning forward as he went, not yet ready to stop. Lijah laughed, that beautiful, musical laugh that made Jason feel wonderfully weak, and playfully pushed his face away.

"Give me some air, big guy!" Lijah giggled, "Believe me, I want more too."

Jason pulled his mask back down so he could see his breathless partner. Lijah's face was flushed and he smiled serenely at Jason, resting his forearms on Jason's broad shoulders. Jason couldn't help but to smile himself. Was this how normal people felt all the time? Was this what it felt like to be attractive and wanted? But then again...Lijah felt this way about him as he was. He was attractive to him.

Jason thrust Lijah to his chest, hugging him tightly.

"Whoa!" Lijah cried out, startled by the sudden movement, "Easy there! You okay, Jase?"

Jason nodded into Lijah's shoulder, giving his body a brief squeeze. Lijah grunted softly and gave another short laugh.

"Remember how small I am," he said, returning the hug, "I don't mind getting a little manhandled but don't break me."

Jason couldn't fathom breaking Lijah. He wanted to keep him and protect him from the everything. The little kisses Lijah planted along Jason's neck were more valuable than any luxury he could imagine and touching their foreheads together fulfilled him more than any prior achievement he'd made. He was in bliss, and that bliss was named Lijah.

[blushingwithafever]

TMAHC week day 3: sickfic || misunderstanding || overwhelmed

I finished this at around 7 am so apologies if there’s any errors, I’ll fix them later on

Set sometime while Martin is still sleeping at the Institute

To be completely honest, Jon had no idea how he made it to work in one peice this morning.

Actually, it could be counted as afternoon now since it was around half past twelve when he stumbles into the Institute, but he still made it, and that’s all that counts.

He’d slept through the multiple alarms he had set, which was unusual for him since he’s normally not the deepest sleeper— the drop of a pen was enough to wake him with a start these days. A pulsing pain within his skull eventually drew him out of the comforting darkness of sleep as it throbbed in time with the annoying beep of his alarm. He wanted nothing more than to let sleep take him away again, away from the pain, but he knew he had to get up and head out.

Suck it up, you’re fine. It’s not even that bad. You’re just being dramatic, he grit his teeth as his exasperated grandmother’s voice rung out in his aching head. 

“Let’s get on with it then” Jon muttered while he scrubbed a hand down his slightly flushed face.

The day only seemed to get worse the more it dragged on.

He was already late, which of course Tim just had to make snide comments on, it was making the pounding headache turn into feeling like a jackhammer across his temples. It was bad enough that he was shambling down the hall like a drunkard, having to hold onto the wall for support every few steps, but he almost let out a frustrated groan when he heard Tim’s footsteps follow him.

He has neither have the time or the energy for this.

He wants to be left alone, is that so much to ask?

His office.

All he has to do was reach his office and he could find some peace, he was so desperate already that he flung open the door and slammed it after his entrance, nearly toppling over afterwards and wincing hard. He hadn’t actually meant for the door to slam shut as hard as it did, but the damage was done and he was regretting it. He had to lean back against the door as he rubbed at his temples with both hands, the loud slam made the pain 10x worse.

At least he was alone now. Alone in the quiet darkness, that seemed to help slightly after a couple of minutes.

The next three and a half hours are an agonizing blur of statement readings and recordings. A deep ache had made itself at home in his bones and his small frame is wracked with chills that switches to a sweltering heat in the blink of an eye. His free hand reaching up unconsciously to jam two fingers into his temple again for the umpteenth time, this time frowning when he notices the heat and sweat on his brow.

He isn’t sure if his throat feels sore from all the reading without anything to drink or if it’s just a little added bonus to his illness— but the coughs he produces after clearing his throat are answer enough.

Lucky him.

He’ll finish this statement, it’s getting a bit hard to focus anyway, and then lie down in the cot for a quick 10 minute power nap.

It’s worked in the past so why wouldn’t it now?

He remembers the old bottle of paracetamol in his desk before getting up, knowing that he should probably take something before heading over to the storage room, but his face falls upon finding it empty without so much as a rattle. Well... so much for that.

—————

Martin quietly shuffles around the Institute after hours; making sure everything’s locked up tight, washing up in the restroom, fixing himself dinner and a cuppa, and settling down by watching the telly in the break room before heading to bed on the cot that Jon lent him for the time being. It’s been his nightly routine since Jane Prentiss trapped him.

There’s no one else here to his knowledge, even Jon’s office is dark and empty, so he doesn’t expect company until at least 6 or 7 am.

Jon usually got here the earliest but today he threw a bit of curve ball at them by arriving at 12:30 pm while looking quite disheveled, almost like he’d just rolled out of bed. 

He really didn’t look good, and Martin wanted to press on the matter, but he’d promised to do the lunch run today so it would have to wait. By the time he returned, Tim made sure to let everyone know that ‘boss’ was in a mood. Martin went to check on him but decided against it when he felt the locked handle and heard Jon’s strained voice while he read aloud. He’d just check in before Jon goes home then.

He must have missed him.

But if Jon’s well enough to leave then he must be fine, maybe he was just exhausted after a few nights of restless sleep— Martin now knows the feeling.

He almost falls asleep in one of the wooden chairs as the show he was attempting to watch drags on. Turning off the boring show, he makes his way to the restroom one last time to change into sweats and a tee.

The silence of the Institute after hours is probably something he’ll never get used to. There’s just something eerie to it, like it’s too quiet, too calm.

A noise cuts through the silence, effectively spooking him, that’s coming from further down the corridor ahead of him. He’s not sure he wants to continue after that but he thinks it sounded like a moan of pain, there’s a beat of hesitation before his curiosity and concern win out as he continues to silently press on.

The door to the storage room is ajar so he makes his way over with caution until he can peer inside. What he sees isn’t what he was expecting. Jon’s on the cot, curled in on himself and shaking like a leaf while the blanket is hanging off the edge onto the floor. Martin’s quick to enter, concern overtaking caution as he hurries his way over.

“Jon?” Martin starts softly as to not cause more harm than good, “I thought you went home.”

He doesn’t like that Jon barely stirs at the intrusion, but instead he focuses on taking in more of the sight before him. Jon’s face looks too drawn and pale, a high flush on his cheeks, sweat making his shirt cling to his skin, and the ragged breathing that had a slight wheeze on the end— he looks a right mess. Before he even realizes it, he’s reaching a hand out to brush against Jon’s forehead.

He expects Jon to startle when he touches him, but the only response he gets is another moan that gets choked off as the poor man’s voice cracks painfully.

“Oh, Jon” Martin coos while brushing sweaty bangs out of the way, “that’s a pretty nasty fever you’ve got.”

Jon really doesn’t want to wake up and he wants to open his eyes even less with the spinning sensation he’d felt earlier when he woke. He registers a warm hand brushing his hair and chances cracking one eye open. It’s so gentle, working out the tangles and smoothing his sweat soaked curls, he almost falls back asleep before the person says something he can’t make out.

“Wha’d say?” It comes out a lot less elegant than he wants it to but whoever it is seems to get the point.

“I asked how you were feeling.” Martin is as patient as a ever while he watches Jon’s eyes blink blearily up at him as of trying to process what’s going on and what’d he just said.

“M’tin” recognition flashes in glassy eyes when he sees that Martin isn’t in his usual clothes anymore. “S’rry, I’ll get up. Jus’ needa sec.”

“No, no you’re fine there” Martin’s hands hover over Jon should he need to push him back down but Jon’s arms give out before then, “stay right here. You’re alright. I’d like to get a read on that fever and a bottle of water for you.”

“But your cot—”

“Don’t worry about it, plus it’s really yours and you need it more than me. Now, can you stay here for me? I’ll just be a second.”

Martin’s satisfied with the small nod he receives and bolts out to the break room for the first aid kit and a bottle of water from the fridge. Jon’s still in the same spot when he returns to his side.

He must really feel poorly if he’s accepting help so easily, Martin bites his lip while shifting through the kit, looking for everything he needs.

It’s a good thing he always checks the kit to make sure it’s well stocked with whatever the crew might need. He holds out the thermometer and waits for Jon to open his mouth far enough to slip it in. He’s already shaking a few tablets out of the bottle of paracetamol before the device beeps.

39.6

Martin tsks softly, helping Jon sit up before depositing two tablets and the bottle of water into his shaky hands. He doesn’t even complain when Martin helps lift the bottle to his lips.

The quick interaction seems to take what little energy Jon had left out of him as he slumps bonelessly against Martin, head pillowed on his chest. He’s never seen Jon like this before, and of course that’s concerning, but at least he doesn’t have to suffer alone through it.

“Stay” Jon whispers hoarsely against Martin before an even quieter, “please.”

“I’ll be here.” Martin shifts slightly to run a hand through Jon’s hair, gently coaxing him to sleep. He holds back a chuckle when he watches Jon try to fight against closing his droopy eyes.

Martin stays with him for the rest of the night and doesn’t dare move his body except for the hand that’s playing with Jon’s hair, even though the heat of the fever penetrates his shirt and leaves him a bit uncomfortable and sweaty— it’s well worth it.

[coreastories]

The Queen’s Dresser

Days and Nights of Forever Part 13 

On AO3 for kudos and download 

The first days of queenship, and the start of the queen’s famous sartorial elegance. 

Read with: 

Corea News #1: Meet Tae-Eul, the mysterious new queen of Corea

Corea News #24: 10 Times the king and queen of Corea made the ahjummas ugly-cry over their romance  (This is the Pyongyang Hospital scene)

Days and Nights of Forever Part 10 Pieces of Paper (for the 14th Rule)

This has been in my outlines for ages, but the recent fashion buzz made by the August 5 posts made me flesh it out. :) 

Let me know what you think! 

Daily life became daily life. 

He was a king. She was a queen, now. But life was somewhat normal until after breakfast. 

He always woke up first. He was an early riser. Sometimes Tae-Eul would blink to consciousness with the gray light of dawn seeping between the gap of the draperies and she’d have a moment to think she was the first one to wake but no, Gon’s arms would tighten around her, and he’d kiss her on the cheek or temple and burrow his face into her neck. 

They’d have another cat nap cuddled together, or make love, or make love and then nap again, before one of them got up. 

That was usually Tae-Eul. And when Tae-Eul got up, Gon would, too. She’d tried to make him sleep a bit more because she was only going for a workout, but he’d said, “I’ll watch. Or we can spar.”

So this became a part of their morning routine. 

Perhaps this one wasn’t normal, was it? How many couples in the kingdom or the republic had a suite converted into a dojang and started most mornings sparring? 

Tae-Eul loved it. Gon had now become comfortable and competitive enough to be a gratifying sparring partner. He didn’t pull his kicks and hits-- not by much. He expected her to dodge or parry. 

He was bigger and heavier, so he was pretty much what she had trained all her life to attack. 

The first morning they’d done this-- and once she’d taught him a lesson about his nonsense of not wanting to hurt her-- their spar lasted almost an hour, each of them getting to know each other’s moves, getting into each other’s defenses, and getting under each other’s skin. They’d discovered each other’s tender bruises when they made love in the shower. 

The second morning when she’d suddenly feinted a swing and then brought him down with a leg sweep, they decided to do away with the usual courtesies. No bowing. Not even facing each other across the mat. It was much more fun to never know when the other was going to start. 

Like now. As soon as they came out of their dojang’s shower in their workout clothes--tees and sweatpants--Tae-Eul spun a kick to Gon’s head. 

But his head was no longer there. 

Rising to full height from his momentary duck, Gon grabbed her by the waist and dropped her on her back on the mat, locking both arms around her shoulders as he leaned across her from the side, trapping her torso with his completely. 

She squirmed and bridged her hips and tried to lift him using her elbows and feet but she couldn’t budge him. “What are you doing?”

He was grinning as he kept her pinned, his head resting almost casually on her opposite shoulder. “This is jiu jitsu, of course. Tap when you’re tired.” 

She bared her teeth. She couldn’t believe the bastard surprised her with jiu jitsu. “Like hell I’ll tap.” 

She bridged her hips, using her feet and legs for leverage, but that did nothing because he was on her upper body. She could feel him laughing against her and it just infuriated her more that he had enough breath and energy to laugh. He was only pinning her with his body weight. 

And she was getting tired.

She straightened her legs and just rested limply on the floor. She smirked when he stopped laughing and instantly stiffened in awareness. He rocked forward a little bit more from his knees and ankles, and pinned her a little bit more firmly on the mat. 

He looked at her warily now. 

It was her turn to grin. “I bet you’re getting tired. You’re not in a comfortable position at all, are you?”

“No. I can stay here on top of you all day.” 

Of course, a court maid opened the door just as he said that. 

Tae-Eul closed her eyes and felt her blood rush to her neck and face. 

Without moving an inch, Gon said, “Annyeonghaseyo. Are you new?”

Tae-Eul felt as much as heard the thump on the mat as the maid dropped to her knees. “Pyeha. I’m so sorry. I was told to check here and clean. I was told I should do so before six.” 

“Ahh. I suppose we got here too early today. You can go.” A pause. A chuckle with his breath fanning across her ear and cheek. “She’s gone.” 

Tae-Eul bridged her hips and braced her legs and feet. But this time she didn’t try to push him off. She just started rocking him side to side. As she’d calculated, he hadn’t expected it, and he went off balance as she pushed and pulled him back and forth while he was on his knees. 

On the fifth pull, she had both hands on his shoulder, and on the sixth push, she pushed both hands on that shoulder and managed to break his pin. With the space she created between their bodies, she pulled both legs toward her chest and then kicked him off her. 

She followed his momentum as he landed on his back. She sat on his stomach, braced with her thighs and feet in case he tried something. She could still feel the heat in her cheeks so she might as well just continue blushing. With more audacity than she really felt, she said, “Well? What happened to staying on top of me all day?” 

He must have seen her embarrassment at her own words because he laughed, looking at her with that gaze that still made her want to hide or kiss him. Both. It wasn’t heated. Just too intense, too admiring. 

He put both hands on her knees and squeezed. “I can. But we’re going to Pyongyang today.” 

And just like that, she folded over and hid her face against his shoulder. 

“What should I wear? Are they going to dress me again?” 

He stroked her hair. “I’ve laid out something for you, and you won’t need help getting into these, so no, they won’t dress you.” She could hear the smile in his voice. The last time she’d been ‘dressed’ was at their wedding, when she’d been helped into heirloom silk and the dragon robe and the pheasant robe. Everything had been gorgeous… and overwhelming.   She lifted her face and looked at him. “You laid something out for me? I guess you do know clothes. The first thing you did when we met was go shopping.”

“No, the first thing I did was hug you.”

“No, the first thing you did was infuriate me.”

“I was just answering your questions.” He smiled at her and stroked her hair. “And you can really wear what you like, you know.”

What a lie that was. Tae-Eul knew she couldn’t just wear what she wanted, or rather, what she’d been used to. Truth be told, she hadn’t really wanted to wear what she had been used to, all those clothes she’d worn as a cop. She simply felt she had to. 

When she made detective and no longer had to wear a uniform, she’d been at a loss about what to wear. In the end, she defaulted to big trousers, roomy shirts, roomier coats, clothes she could move around in, clothes in sizes that disguised how small she was. 

It was always fun when she punched someone and they were stunned at both the punch and at the strength of it from the size of her. But she’d always faced lowlifes or their wider circle who all had things to hide and she’d rather not face them without armor. Her big clothes had been armor. 

And now those lowlifes were far, far away from her. The people around her were their complete opposite in station and stature, she’d seen how the women in this strata dressed here, and she knew what was expected of her as queen. 

She swung herself off Gon and got up, nudging his ribs with her foot when she was standing and he was still lying there. “Come on. I want to see what you laid out for me.” 

He sat up and stroked her leg over her sweatpants from the back of her knee to her ankle. “It’s okay if you don’t want to go. You can take your time. And contrary to what Secretary Mo says, they can certainly wait to meet you.” 

She bent down and retrieved his hand from her ankle, then used it to pull her to his feet. He went willingly enough, and she continued to pull his hand across her shoulders. He tucked her against his side and she looked at him with all the fondness she felt at that moment. 

“Fourteenth rule,” she said. “Let me worry about my job. You have yours.”  

Back in their suites-- no maids encountered in the hallways this time-- he watched her face as they walked into their dressing room and she saw what he had laid out for her. 

Laid out wasn’t the right thing to call it. The whole thing was on a dressmaker’s dummy so she could see how it would look when worn. 

She smiled. Gon grinned, half-smug, half-relieved. 

“I thought you’d want something more familiar to start,” he said, squeezing her shoulder gently. “And I knew you might not want a dresser yet, not until you get really busy.”

“You thought right.” She stepped away from him and touched the fabric. Soft. It was a black pantsuit, with bronze buttons on the front and on the cuffs, shiny enough when it caught the light, but still subdued. The blouse was white. It was simple. She loved it. 

She decided she wouldn’t ask if the buttons were genuine, precious metal. Then what Gon said registered. “A dresser?” 

“The queen’s dresser. It’s an official position. Someone who picks out your outfits so you won’t have to. Historically, he or she is your chief eunuch or court lady.”

They looked at each other and they both stifled a laugh at imagining Lady Noh dressing either of them. Gon shrugged. “She would look after our clothes. She checks everything.” 

“I suppose it’s not normal if you just continue what you’ve started? I like this.”

That boyish smile grew bigger and then turned impish. “I won’t mind. I’ll make time for it. I have lingerie and nightgowns in mind.”

Tae-Eul pursed her lips. “I won’t mind either. I love you whatever you wish to wear.” 

She counted three seconds for that to sink in and then she turned away giggling to go to the shower as he sputtered, “They’re for you! Not me! Why would I-- there are still rumors about me and Yeong-- don’t say stuff like that--” 

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

As Gon had predicted, three senior court ladies vying for the queen’s dresser position turned up with Lady Noh that morning. That day’s trip was their first official visit since the marriage, and the first time the kingdom would lay eyes on the queen. 

The women all looked familiar. He had probably seen them in his own dressing room over the years. 

Except for his valet, whom tradition had dictated to always be younger than the king, he hadn’t interacted with anyone who came and went from the dressing room, but he knew their faces.  

And now he looked over the women. One of them just might be chosen as his wife’s dresser. Her most intimate maid.

His wife. That still thrilled him when it crossed his mind. 

The three ladies all wore their hair in a bun, and in their uniform, they looked interchangeable, but they all looked kind enough. He knew Lady Noh was quite picky about faces. 

In contrast to the king’s valet who was always younger so that he didn’t surpass the king’s seniority in any way, tradition dictated the queen’s dresser to be older than the queen, to impart dignity and wisdom to the queen. 

Gon decided Tae-Eul didn’t need to know that. He whispered as much to Lady Noh while they waited for Tae-Eul to appear. 

“Oh, my queen, you look lovely.”

“You have the perfect body proportions for suits.”

Gon looked up-- that last comment made him grimace a little-- as the court ladies erupted into movement and soft but insistent compliments. 

There she was, walking in with long strides and her shoulders square. Her eyes sought him immediately, so he made sure his gaze locked with hers. He knew saying anything right now would just make her squirm because of the people around them, so he just nodded and smiled. 

He realized the last court lady hadn’t spoken yet. She seemed to be the youngest of the three, maybe late-thirties or early forties. She was approaching the queen now. 

“How does it feel, Your Majesty? Do you like it?”

Hmm. That was nice. Not obsequious. Sensible. Gon could see potential in this court lady. 

Tae-Eul turned to her and said, “Yes, I like it.” She twisted her torso and swung her arms across her waist, testing the sleeves, and the court ladies all had to step back. Gon grinned. Probably a calculated move. 

“You made a good choice with the shoes,” the same court lady said. 

Gon looked down, and Tae-Eul did pick the perfect pair of pointed shoes for the suit. She looked perfect. 

He could also see all the women in the room staring at her with open expressions of admiration. Lady Noh, three senior court ladies, and three maids in attendance, and they were all looking at Tae-Eul. 

Lady Noh had told him Tae-Eul grew prettier the longer you looked at her. That memory still made him smile. And Yeong-- not in many or similar words-- had told him that the palace pretty much agreed with Lady Noh’s assessment. 

The Royal Guard had put ears out, of course, to detect any malicious intent, but there were none. If anything, the palace was smitten. 

The court ladies and court maids were always talking about the queen every time one of them saw her, and the talk was always the same: how fine and flawless her skin was, how fair, the natural waves in her hair. They’d even discussed her figure, slender without lacking the right curves. How tall she actually was, the same height or taller than the court maids considered tall among them. 

Well. Gon agreed with all that. His wife was perfect. 

“What do you want done to your hair, Mama?”

“Maybe a braided bun, to add texture to the suit.” 

“With your hair down, it makes the suit and pointed shoes casual and accessible rather than a power outfit. But you still look very put together.”

Points to the third court lady again. Gon leaned down to Lady Noh. “What’s her name?”

“Torres Chung-cha,” Lady Noh whispered back. “She’s only half-Corean.” 

“What’s the other half?”

“Filipino.” 

“Family is known to us?”

“Oh yes. They’re good people.” 

Gon looked at Tae-Eul, and she was looking at the suit’s reflection in the mirror, her lips doing that unconscious pouting tic he hoped no one would ever point out to her. 

“I’ll leave my hair down,” Tae-Eul said. 

“Maybe I can run a heated brush through it?” said Torres Chung-cha. “It will look polished and splendid.” 

Tae-Eul caught Gon’s eyes in the mirror, and he saw her curiosity and approval. The court ladies saw it, too, because they immediately produced the ceramic brush. One of them plugged it in with an extended cable, another accepted and positioned the chair a maid had fetched, and Torres Chung-cha received the brush from her peers with humility equal to their deference to her now as the candidate with the highest chance of succeeding. 

When Tae-Eul was seated and they started on her hair, Gon sat down too, crossing his legs and stretching an arm on the back of the sofa. 

“So who was that new maid who was hazed and sent to the dojang this morning?”

It was amusing how synced Tae-Eul and Lady Noh were as they jumped a little and raised their eyes to the ceiling. The five uniformed women all looked at the floor. Tae-Eul was red to the roots of her hair and glaring at him through the mirror. 

Torres Chung-cha was the only one who laughed softly. “Pyeha, that’s my cousin. She started yesterday.” 

Tae-Eul asked, “Is she all right?”

“Yes, she is, my queen. It served her right. She should have known better and only accepted instructions from her senior court lady. I hope she didn’t disturb Your Majesties?”

Tae-Eul said, “No.” Gon said, “Well--” 

Torres Chung-cha was grinning. “You would have no worries on that account, of course, Your Majesties. My cousin wouldn’t talk. Well, she couldn’t talk for an hour or so.” 

Gon laughed and opened his mouth but closed it again when he saw Tae-Eul giving him a look that promised retribution if he didn’t. So he did. 

Tae-Eul looked at Chung-cha reproachfully, but Chung-cha only beamed. 

Gon nodded to himself. He had done what he’d intended. Tae-eul needed someone she could talk to rather than talk at, and Torres Chung-cha had proven she was that someone. 

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

Pyongyang wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. Tae-Eul let out a breath as she and Gon stepped away from the car and walked to the entrance. 

The Children’s Hospital didn’t have a helipad--a situation Gon told Secretary Mo to fix immediately--so they drove from another building whose name she couldn’t remember just now.  

There was crowd control already in place, and the Royal Public Affairs Office had kept a tight lid on the date. The result was only two news crews were there when they arrived, probably ones with eyes on helipads and recognized the royal chopper when it landed. Onlookers only came when they saw the press, and they were just passersby with time on their hands. 

“Pyeha, Mama,” was on everyone’s lips, and amid all the bowing and greetings, Tae-Eul nodded and smiled, her hand in Gon’s, gripping his tightly but remembering to let go when she saw the sign to the wards. 

Gon looked down at her then in surprise, as if he’d forgotten she could detach her hand from his, which was a silly thought. She bit her lip to keep from laughing hysterically. “I’m going this way, Pyeha.” She tilted her head toward the inpatient department.

“Ahh, of course, thank you, wangbi. I’ll see you in a few minutes.” 

He leaned toward her and Tae-Eul thought he was going to kiss her--and what would she do then? Let him? Deflect it?-- but he only went past her cheek to her ear, and whispered, “Saranghae.” 

She walked away before the dork said or did anything else mortifying, but she stopped short when she remembered the order of precedence. She was supposed to move only after the king had moved. 

When she turned back to him, he was still there, smiling, and motioning for her to continue on her way. She did as if she hadn’t just made a faux pas. To her right, In-yeong caught her eye and gave her a small nod of assurance. The Parks were royalists and In-yeong had been raised on guns and royal protocol, so that nod meant a lot to Tae-Eul. 

She visited all three floors of the inpatient rooms and talked to some of the kids, told them to listen to their mothers, drink their medicine, and get well soon. The rounds should have been quick, but doctors and nurses and parents all seemed to stop to talk to her, and she couldn’t turn them away. 

By the time she trailed kids and parents to the new wing, her fingers were trembling a little. 

It wasn’t because of the people-- they were all so nice. But Tae-Eul realized she wasn’t really used to talking to people. She usually interrogated them. Or arrested them. Her circle had been small all her life, people who were already around her in the first place, either at home, at the dojang, in class, and then at the academy and the station. 

She knew how to be polite and charming, but she’d just discovered doing it twenty-five times in a row was draining. She’d been polite and charming to twice that many people in the last hour. 

She also smiled and waved for photos about a dozen times before Jangmi saw she was tired of it and subtly stopped it through the rest of the guard. 

Tae-Eul was relieved when she was finally beside Gon again. 

The rosette to the new wing took up about half of the double doorway. It was in all the royal colors, black, blue, gold and crimson-- and she and Gon stood on either side of the huge rosette and cut the ribbon. 

There was loud applause and cheers, and Tae-Eul was sincerely happy because this new wing would help so many sick children. It was amazing how money well-spent could do so much. It made her proud and happy of this country--her new country. 

She wondered if that happiness had gone to her head or if she was really feeling lightheaded. 

She smiled and waved to more of the photos and hoped she didn’t look as pale and clammy as she felt. 

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

Gon took one look at Tae-Eul and caught Yeong’s eye. Yeong looked at Tae-Eul, looked at Jangmi, and Jangmi looked around and went into the nearest consultation room. When he came out and nodded, Gon rose from his seat and raised a hand to the people in the universally understood language of asking to be excused. 

Then he pulled his wife to the room Jangmi had checked. 

Yeong closed the door just as Gon pulled Tae-Eul against him. She sighed and burrowed her face inside the lapel of his coat and Gon was a little alarmed at how heavily she leaned on him. Up close, she looked even paler. He pressed his hand against her cheek and neck. Her skin was a little cold.   

“Are you all right?” 

She nodded. “I’m fine. Let me just catch my breath.”

He stroked her back. “I remember my first royal visit. I was 15. It was at Sejong University, and the Ministry of Science and Technology and I were awarding one of the research centers a grant of nine billion won. I remember meeting so many people, including the foreign exchange students. I had to go sit in an empty room in the middle of it all.”

“Really?”

Gon nodded. For all her bravado and pluck, Tae-Eul was shy. It was something easily hidden by the nature of her job, where initiative was paramount, but Tae-Eul wasn’t someone who basked in attention. In her job, the light was on her targets, whether they were suspects, accomplices, witnesses, or informers, never her. 

He’d been raised and prepared for this and it was still exhausting when he did it for the first time. “It helps to think of something else. Everyone just becomes background.” 

She sighed against him. Her face emerged from his lapel. Her grip on his back relaxed. “Who’s your dresser?”

Gon smiled. She was such a quick study. “I don’t really know. I pick all the clothes you’ve seen me in since we met. The normal clothes anyway. And when I have to go somewhere, sometimes I don’t like what they lay out for me and I pick something else, but for the most part, they do well.” 

“That’s why you were good at being my dresser today.” 

“And you liked what I picked.”

She nodded against him, and she felt lighter, once more standing on her own feet. 

“I like that I won’t have to think of clothes if I have a dresser.”

“Hmm, yes. You just have to tell them what you like and don’t like. It’s still your decision, but your dresser should also be able to predict your preferences and decisions.”

“Is it really okay when I break protocol?”

“You’re really worrying about that now?” he said in mock outrage. “After all the names you’ve called me? I haven’t beheaded you yet, have I?”

She raised her face from where it still rested on his chest and looked at him with eyes that sparkled a little. He saw so much there, and he tightened his arms around her. 

“I need something for me,” she said quietly. “I’m the queen today. The king’s wife. Even my clothes will reflect on you and the country. I need something that’s mine. Just mine.”

He understood. Since he’d met her, he’d also become Lee Gon. Not just the king, but Lee Gon-- and he had made things his, too. He had decided to be Lee Gon as much as king, and he was still discovering what that meant beyond mathematics and rowing. 

Meeting her gaze, he said, “Someone asked me once what kind of king I was. And I didn’t know how to answer her. I’m still discovering the answer to that now.” 

Two teardrops spilled over but she was smiling. He wiped those tears. 

“Let me break the fourteenth rule for a second. Your queenship is yours. You are queen because you’re my wife yes, but you’re also queen in your own right. You have your own authority. You’ll need that authority because it’s going to be a thankless job at times, but I’m already excited about how you’ll shake this country.

“And everything you do to define your queenship will be one hundred percent yours because of your fourteenth rule, won’t it? I won’t have any input unless you ask me. But-- I hope you won’t mind it if I step in where needed. I don’t want you to be any more exhausted than you need to be. And I have been doing this since I was eight.”

She nodded and he smiled at her trust. He hoped he had demonstrated enough times in the past that he never stepped in until she needed him to. 

“Your clothes should reflect you and no one else. You’re the queen. You can set trends. You don’t have to follow any.” 

She wrinkled her nose. “I doubt I’ll set any trends.” 

“You might if I’m your dresser.” 

They laughed. 

“Can I give you some practical advice?”

She nodded, squeezing his waist. 

“When your photos are taken, smile smaller and don’t move much. That way, it won’t tire you out. Just smile with your eyes and that’s it.” 

She smiled brightly up at him, her eyes curved slits. “Like this?”

“Well, no. Haven’t you been listening? That’s gonna hurt your cheeks.” She laughed and then calmed down, looking at him fondly. “There. That smile. Small but sweet.” 

She held the smile she was giving him and she looked so beautiful he kissed her forehead. Would have kissed her if he wasn’t aware of the public outside the glass windows. 

But he’d been aware of them since he was eight. 

“Let’s go. We’ve been here long enough.” 

They came out of the room to a quieter cheer, with some staff and parents asking if the queen was all right. 

Tae-Eul gave them a small smile and told them she was fine. She was. 

Of course she was. 

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

The ribbon cutting at Pyongyang Children’s Hospital was followed by a whirlwind of more appearances. Tae-Eul steadily got used to it all, her stamina increasing and her cheeks getting used to the workout, and true to his word, Gon laid out her clothes for her. More suits, casual dresses, tops and trousers and skirts. 

Over time, she also altered his choices, exchanging this blazer for another one, or this blouse for that one instead. On paper and in the palace ranks, Torres Chung-cha was the queen’s dresser, but so far, all she was doing was give Tae-Eul confidence in her choices. 

Especially in shoes. Tae-Eul always picked her shoes, and Chung-cha seemed to genuinely like what she picked. Tae-Eul had tested her thrice already, picking pairs she knew weren’t quite right, and all three times, Chung-cha had spoken her mind. 

“No, no. Not quite.” 

“Oh no, Mama, you only wear brown leather shoes with blue, and even then, it’s the absolute last resort. We’re not in the twenties, we don’t have to wear brown shoes.” 

“I’m not letting you out of the palace in that.” 

Shoes were easy enough for her to pick, since all the shoes she had were nice. Tae-Eul also discovered an affinity for some additional height. 

She’d always prefer flats, but she liked the way pumps pushed at her heels and the rest of her spine. Her gait changed. Her posture changed. It gave her a sense of aptitude and capacity, like she could face anything--and stomp painfully on anything that got in her way. 

Maybe that was why Seo-ryeong liked pumps so much and didn’t seem to wear anything else. 

“We have a line with Chanel, Versace, Givenchy, Diane von Furstenberg, Stella McCartney, and three boutiques who can supply different designers and brands. I think I have your preferred looks in my head now and if the king stops being your unofficial dresser,” Chung-cha said with wry amusement, “I’d like to try my hand at actually dressing you.” 

“He does have that trip to Sweden and it will take five days,” Tae-Eul said, telling herself she wasn’t actually already hating it. “You’ll have your chance then. But why are those designers all European? American? What about Corean designers?” 

“Hmm. Corean design is mostly streetwear, so far. Nothing you could wear, Mama. Rejina Pyo has nice coats. I can show you a selection. Leesle Hwang-- she creates modern interpretations of the hanbok. Although I think the Royal Court would prefer you to wear a hanbok properly if you’ll wear one.” 

Tae-Eul lifted her chin. She could still hear what Gon had said. Her clothes were her decision, hers alone. Hang the Royal Court. And if it helped a designer gain more recognition, all the better. “Let’s see what she has.” 

Chung-cha nodded, bowed, and left the room. 

Tae-Eul stood up and looked at her reflection. She-- well, Gon-- had always stuck to neutrals before, but now she was in her most colorful and most feminine outfit. A sheer purple blouse  and floral print skirt in black and silver. She had to wear a silk tank underneath the blouse. The shoes she picked were also bold with three colors, black fading into nude at the heels. And the heels and soles were red. 

Chung-cha said they were the most gorgeous Louboutins she had ever seen, and the nude color almost blended in with Tae-Eul’s ankles and legs. 

Tae-Eul had wondered if she needed to put on red lipstick, which wasn’t her at all, but Chung-cha told her it was fine. Purple and red just worked together by themselves. 

The heels were the tallest she’d worn so far, and when Gon came into the room and stood beside her, the top of her head was level with his ears. 

“Wow, you’re taller,” he said, smiling. He wore a simple black shirt, black trousers, and a beige coat. It was the perfect, understated match for her more colorful outfit. 

They were going to a children’s party. The Minister of Social Welfare’s first granddaughter was celebrating her 100th day with 100 kids and 100 elderly folks. The kids and elderly were from indigent families, orphans, or completely alone. The ministry--with backing from the palace-- would establish these children and elderly in school and housing. 

“You look like a doll. Perfect for a little girl’s Baek-il.” 

He must have seen the change in her face, because he put an arm around her shoulders and said, “You’re beautiful. You look absolutely fine. Too fine.” He frowned at their reflection at the mirror, specifically at her legs. “Maybe you should change into trousers.” 

She backhanded him on the stomach. 

It was very light but he groaned and doubled over. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot!” She stroked his stomach over his shirt. She had hit him there that morning in their spar. She hugged him and it felt good to be able to place her chin and laugh over his shoulder without having to tiptoe. 

“Try not to hit me in this sore spot until it heals, woman,” he said against her hair, which was down with the waves enhanced. “I’m already your dresser. Let’s not show them I’m also your punching bag.”

“Why didn’t you dodge?” It was a kick and he had to have seen it coming. He had been too winded earlier to answer when she’d asked, and she had been too busy checking if she’d cracked his rib to insist. When she was sure he was only bruised, she’d gone to get ice and forgot her question. 

Gon leaned back from her. “You really don’t know?”

She shook her head. 

“You were wearing tights! I ban tights on our spars.”

She gaped at him and then laughed.

“Well, you’re the queen’s dresser. You can remove all my tights.”

It was his turn to gape and laugh, since it took her two seconds to realize and sputter, “I mean from my wardrobe! Remove them all from my wardrobe!”

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

Sejong University 9 billion grant really happened in 2002 and it really came from the Ministry of Science and Technology. 

Chung-cha means noble. Patricia means noble. This is for the Patricia in my life, who needs some bracing. I hope this will do?

Swoon, I just saw your comment and I think you’re happy with the coat hiding here. Hahaha.

Please let me know what you think! This is a big chapter! I hope that makes up for the recent gap. More to come! 

[fresh-outta-jams]

Tale as Old as Time - Part 1

Namjoon x Reader Author: Admin Mo Summary: At the hands of an evil enchantress, Prince Namjoon has been struck with a beastly curse. Love is the only way to break the spell, but who could ever learn to love a beast? Note: Wow my brain really said “All you can think about now is Namjoon in Beauty and the Beast and you MUST WRITE IT NOW.” Warnings: None? Word Count: 1.7k

Prologue - 1

Prince Namjoon spent weeks in his wing of the castle, lamenting Rosaline's curse. He avoided the mirrors, spoons, and standing water. He couldn’t stand to look at himself or the others. Guilt ate at him. It was his fault Rosaline had come in the first place. It was his fault he’d doomed himself and his friends to a fate so grim with no hope of ever returning to normal. Not without dooming his kingdom, at least.

Jungkook brought Namjoon meals, as he was one of the few who didn’t have mobility issues due to his new...condition. Though the prince barely wanted to eat, it was important to him that his friend was taken care of, especially in his new form.

“How can you stand to look at me?” Namjoon had asked on one of the first nights of his self-inflicted exile. “I’m a monster.”

“You’re no monster, your highness. You’re my friend. This curse isn’t your fault. None of the others hold any anger against you.”

“They should. They should all hate me. It’s my-”

“It’s not your fault.” Jungkook repeated. “It could have been any of us. It’s not your fault the witch wanted you.”

Namjoon sighed. “I suppose not…”

“Will you please come see the others? They all miss you.”

“Why don’t they come here?”

“You see, it’s...not that simple.” Jungkook replied. “Many of the others...can’t walk, your highness.”

Namjoon was struck silent. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. It was even worse than he feared. “I’ll come see them. Lead the way.”

The first stop on the tour of the cursed castle was one of the bedrooms down the hall. Jungkook pushed open the doors and Namjoon followed him inside. It was a large bedroom, often used for guests. He knew, however, that Taehyung had been in the room, organizing the clothes in the wardrobe.

“Taehyung?” Namjoon asked. He stared at the wardrobe, waiting for it to respond to him somehow, but instead, it was the full length mirror beside it that came to life, Taehyung’s form trapped within the glass, as though it was a painting of his friend.

“Namjoon! You finally came.” Taehyung’s face lit up, but once he finally got a good look at their prince, his eyes widened. “She...what did she do to you?”

“It’s not worse than what she did to you.” Namjoon’s eyes watered, his voice so very deep and growly. “I’m so sorry, Taehyung.”

“It’s not your fault.” Taehyung shook his head. “I’m fine. I’m alive, aren’t I?”

“You’re trapped in a mirror.”

“It’ll be okay.” Taehyung wasn’t sure if his words were true, but he also didn’t know how to make the prince feel better. He put his hand against the glass, pressing against the invisible boundary trapping him inside. Namjoon raised his giant paw and matched it to Taehyung’s hand.

“I’m going to get you out of there.” Namjoon decided. Although, he wasn’t quite sure how he’d be able to accomplish that.

Next, Jungkook led Namjoon down to the smaller ballroom, the one that had been vacant during the party. He heard piano music coming from the small room, but once they got inside it, he noticed there was no one sitting at the piano bench. No one was in the room. Or so he though. He remembered that Yoongi had been absent from the party because he’d been practicing.

Suddenly, the music stopped. The keys stopped pressing themselves and the piano tilted slightly towards them.

“Your highness…” Yoongi’s voice emitted from the top of the grand piano, the strings reverberating slightly as he said it.

“Yoongi.”

“How are you...holding up?”

“Not well.” Namjoon sighed. “How are you?”

“It’s not all bad. I always did want more time to practice.” Yoongi chuckled darkly. “I was practicing in here during the party, and the next thing I knew…”

“That must have been terrifying.”

“It was at first. It...still is, sometimes when I wake up.”

Jungkook led Namjoon onwards to the kitchen, where he half expected to find the castle’s cook, Jin, making something. And he was, technically. Except there was a pot on the stove of the oven, which was stirring itself.

“Namjoon?” The oven asked.

“Jin?” Namjoon asked in return.

“It’s me.” The oven replied. “Just making dinner, your highness. It’ll be done soon.”

“I’m in no hurry.” Namjoon shook his head. Each room he walked into, he just felt worse. He’d seen four of the six staff members, all that were left were Hoseok and Jimin.

Jungkook led Namjoon out of the kitchen and into the den, where there was a candelabra and a teacup sitting on the table. At the sight of him, the candelabra lit up, hopping closer to the edge.

“You’re here! You’ve finally come out of hiding!”

“Hoseok?”

“In the flesh! Er, wax…”

And so the teacup must have been Jimin, Namjoon deduced. He sat on the couch, facing them, and picked up the cup gently. There was indeed a face painted into the cup’s surface where there hadn’t been one previously. When the golden painted eyes opened, the cup screamed, quieting down quickly.

“Jimin?”

“You scared me, your highness, I’m so sorry.” Jimin replied. A pink blush spreaded across his painted cheeks. “I didn’t mean to scream. I’m...I’m not scared of you.”

“It’s okay if you are.” Namjoon said, sullen. “I’m aware my new form is quite...frightening.”

“It doesn’t matter what you look like, you’re still the same Namjoon I grew up with.” Hoseok said, resting one of his candle-bearing hands carefully on Namjoon’s. “We know you’re not a monster.”

“I doubt anyone outside the castle would think that, though.” Namjoon sighed and carefully set Jimin back on the table. “None of you deserve this fate. Maybe I should just-”

“Go to Rosaline? Don’t.” Jungkook shook his head. “If she did this to us, what do you think she’d do if she was in charge of the kingdom? Besides, you don’t love her.”

“I don’t.” Namjoon agreed. He stared at his giant fur-covered paws, still in disbelief that they belonged to him. “But like this, I doubt anyone will love me either.”

***

Five Years Later

***

From birth, you had always been a little...different. And if there was anything your village hated, it was different.

“Witch.” An old man muttered under his breath as you passed.

You only sighed and pulled your cape further around yourself. You were used to the treatment, but that didn’t make it any easier to deal with. Your boots crunched the autumn leaves beneath your feet as you walked to the baker’s cart to pick up some bread for the week.

“The usual, (Y/N)?” The baker asked, a genuine smile on his wrinkled face.

“Yes, please.” You nodded.

He picked up the parcel he had waiting on the counter and handed it to you. You set the large paper bag in your basket. You handed a small bag of coins to the baker and he smiled. “I’ll see you next week, then.”

“Of course!” You walked out the door and wandered further through the market. You bought some jam from one merchant, some thread for another, and you stopped, staring at the most gorgeous yellow fabric you’d ever seen. What a beautiful gown that’d make. Unfortunately, you knew you definitely wouldn’t be able to afford it. After all, your craft as a seamstress only made so much money. Barely enough to keep you fed, let alone any other expenses. No, a yellow gown would have to wait.

So, on you walked through the village until you finally arrived at your little house. Since your parents had passed a few years before, you had the place to yourself. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. You walked inside and set your basket on the table before walking back out to tend to the three chickens you kept. You collected their eggs and then walked back into the house.

For a moment, you just sat in silence, enjoying the moment of peace before getting back to work on your latest piece, a long blue gown. You took orders from neighboring villages as well as your own, creating unique dresses for the women in town. Every once in a while, you’d receive a generous tip for your labor, but most of the time, you only made enough to afford your food for the week.

You sewed seam after seam, dressing your bodice slowly until finally, you had a finished dress. You’d have to deliver it to your customer in the next few days to collect your money.

You exhaled a long sigh, leaning back and finally letting your muscles rest. You’d need to save energy for tonight. There was going to be a meteor shower, and you were determined to stay up and watch it until its completion. Much to the village’s dismay, you took after your mother. You’d inherited her gift, just a touch of magic that seemed to be more powerful under the stars.

However, due to powerful enchantresses like Rosaline, who tortured the people of the outskirts of the kingdom and bent them to her will, magic users were feared, sometimes even persecuted. You were lucky the people of your village hadn’t burned you at the stake. Honestly, you wouldn’t be surprised if they tried at some point.

It was still nice out and the sun was beginning to set, so you walked outside your house to take a little stroll in the twilight. It was then that you spotted the baker, on his way home from work.

“Hello again, (Y/N). What are you doing out so late?”

“I’m headed to the field outside of town to watch the stars.”

“A beautiful night for that.” He nodded, thinking for a long moment before he added. “I heard beyond the forest, there’s an abandoned castle. Rumor has it, there’s an observatory in its tower.”

“You don’t say…” You murmured, looking out towards the woods. Perhaps you’d have to wander out there and find out for yourself. “Thank you for the tip.”

Tagged: @thetofuartist​