#that wretched wet napkin of a man

[minutia-r]

#tbh though I kind of thought poor little meow meow was already included in sexyman

A poor little meow meow can be a sexyman (or woman or NB) for sure but not every sexyman is a poor little meow meow or vice versa. As far as I understand, the defining characteristics of a poor little meow meow are that they have significantly suffered and also committed significant crimes. As @handwrittenhello put it in their fandom-wide plmm bracket:

Remember, don't just vote for your fave! Consider who is the DARLINGEST, MOST WRETCHED, and has committed the MOST CRIMES.

(as well as other variations on the same phrase)

Or consider the following tweet, which is considered instrumental in poor little meow meow entering the fandom lexicon:

So I must respectfully disagree with @tanakhsexywoman that Jonathan is a poor little meow meow; what did he do wrong? Except for eat honey that one time he was supposed to be fasting, I guess.

Whereas King Saul did so much wrong! Made such poor choices! Made things worse for himself at every turn! The first king of Israel, truly a pathetic wet napkin of a man (affectionate)

Other tanakh poor little meow meows for your consideration:

Cain

Esau

Peninnah

Jonah

Zimri

Okay tanakh sexyman and tanakh sexywoman are great and all but when are we getting a tanakh poor little meow meow bracket @tanakhsexyman

[watertribe-enya]

I posted 2,733 times in 2022

That's 618 more posts than 2021!

31 posts created (1%)

2,702 posts reblogged (99%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@chinchillasinunison

@blueeyeswhitegarden

@whetstonefires

@magical-awesome-kid

@forevergreenandblue

I tagged 754 of my posts in 2022

#pokemon - 176 posts

#the owl house - 116 posts

#submas - 97 posts

#toh - 76 posts

#legends arceus - 68 posts

#pokemon bw - 57 posts

#dracula - 53 posts

#jjba - 50 posts

#jojo's bizarre adventure - 42 posts

#sandman - 41 posts

Longest Tag: 136 characters

#even if she and like minded people decide to give their money away for charity or sth. that doesn't mean the rest of the super rich will

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

The Owl House S3 Countdown Day 8 - Family

“Son I’m naming you Philip Clawthorne-Wittebane, in honor of my little brother. Whom I miss everyday... I love you, Philip. I always will.”

How about we let Caleb have his little witch-human family, without knife related interferances from you know who. And lets throw in a Futurama reference for good measure. Maybe Philip can stumble into town later, but he doesn’t get to mess everything up this time. All he gets to do is maybe complain that the baby soiled his stupid pilgrim jacket when Caleb handed him over

@dragonflyable

97 notes - Posted October 9, 2022

#4

“Some day you’ll thank me”

A whole lot of drama could have been avoided if Caleb just dragged Philip with him to the Demon Realm. Of course the little guy would be less than thrilled about living among demons, but it’s preferable to the alternative (and he doesn’t have to live with and become a crazy witch hunter)

156 notes - Posted November 6, 2022

#3

The Owl House S3 Countdown Day 14 - Friendship

Collector: What are you doing?

Philip: I’m drawing...

Colector: Can you draw something for me? Can you draw me?!

Headcanon that the Collector nettled Philip with questions and art requests until he stopped drawing in the little guys presence (or stopped drawing altogether). Those were some long centuries...

@dragonflyable

159 notes - Posted October 14, 2022

#2

The Owl House S3 Countdown Day 9 - Wickedness

“I feel powerful! So powerful that I know I can do it now! I can bring Caleb back to life!”

This is actually based on a scene in one of the old W.i.t.c.h. comics when Cornelia decided to revive her boyfriend Caleb (hah!) and she had this completely deranged look on her face. It just fit to well. I had to replace the flower she was holding with something though...so a piece of Palistromwood it is (which looks kinda dorky)

See the full post

237 notes - Posted October 10, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Lots of people make fun of Jonathan Harker for not recognizing what's up with Dracula, despite the warning signs...And I feel the need to point out that Neil Gaiman's "The Graveyard Book" had Silas, a character who:

• does not cast a reflection

• only eats one kind of ( unspecified) food

• is very pale, has razor sharp nails, makes people feel insecure/ troubled for no apparent reason

• sleeps through the day and only comes out after sunset

• is neither dead nor alive

• sleeps inside a trunk filled with earth

• crawls down walls head first

• can fly and is compared to a bat when doing so

• has some form of mind control powers

• is bothered/ weakened by sunlight in some form

And people to this day question what kind of being this man could possibly be. I somehow doubt you all would have done any better than Jonathan. Modern readers seem to be just as, if not more more oblivious than him if a story does not explicitly spell out that it's featuring a vampire.

17,185 notes - Posted May 8, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[thelustybraavosimaid]

What the fuck.

Daenerys and Arya share the same values. We know based on this:

"All gods have their instruments, men and women who serve them and help to work their will on earth. The slaves were not crying out to a hundred different gods, as it seemed, but to one god with a hundred different faces...and he was that god's instrument. That very night he chose the most wretched of the slaves, the one who had prayed most earnestly for release, and freed him from his bondage. The first gift had been given."

Arya drew back from him. "He killed the slave?" That did not sound right. "He should have killed the masters!" (Arya II, AFfC)

--

"Unsullied!" Dany galloped before them, her silver-gold braid flying behind her, her bell chiming with every stride. "Slay the Good Masters, slay the soldiers, slay every man who wears a tokar or holds a whip, but harm no child under twelve, and strike the chains off every slave you see." She raised the harpy's fingers in the air...and then she flung the scourge aside. "Freedom!" she sang out. "Dracarys! Dracarys!"

"Dracarys!" they shouted back, the sweetest word she'd ever heard. "Dracarys! Dracarys!" And all around them slavers ran and sobbed and begged and died, and the dusty air was filled with spears and fire. (Daenerys III, ASoS)

There are a lot of ways in which these two leading ladies are similar, but this is my favourite example to make. Another thing to note is that both Arya and Daenerys realise that the system is wrong—and go against the grain. They are criticised for it, demonised for it, by both the world they live in and those outside of it -- the fandom itself.

Sansa and Arya do not have a normal sibling relationship—mind you, I have seven siblings. Pretty sure none of them would make me feel lesser or wish that I would have died instead of their pet if I threw an orange at any of them.

"Go ahead, call me all the names you want," Sansa said airily. "You won't dare when I'm married to Joffrey. You'll have to bow to me and call me Your Grace." She shrieked as Arya flung the orange across the table. It caught her in the middle of the forehead with a wet squish and plopped down into her lap. "You have juice on your face, Your Grace," Arya said. It was running down her nose and stinging her eyes. Sansa wiped it away with a napkin. When she saw what the fruit in her lap had done to her beautiful ivory silk dress, she shrieked again. "You're horrible," she screamed at her sister. "They should have killed you instead of Lady!"

I am pretty sure they would not betray me and say that I have "traitor's blood" because they wish to marry someone. Nor would they, I would hope, after believing I had died...that I was entirely unsatisfactory as a sister.

And to note, none of this has anything to do with shipping with Jon, maybe stop trying to insert Jon in a conversation that deals with *only* Arya and Sansa.

Whether or not Arya and Sansa end up as "friends" is dependent on George. He said that they have a lot to work out, and that the only reason why Sansa exists is to serve as a foil to Arya.

Arya was one of the first characters created. Sansa came about as a total opposite b/c too many of the Stark family members were getting along and familes aren't like that. Thus, Sansa was created; he ended by saying they have deep issues to work out.

[Source]

"Deep issues" does not equal a single heart to heart and everything ends up forgotten and they both are fine. Arya has been bullied and hurt by her older sister and her best friend and made to feel lesser—so much so to the point where she believed that she was a bastard and went to Jon for reassurance. This isn't something that Arya will just get over with a simple apology.

Misogyny is such a bizarre accusation. As far as I know, misogynists would not wish to be with a woman who could take power for themselves by wielding a sword. They prefer trad-femmery. You all consider Arya and Brienne "masculine" for taking part in swordplay, archery, horse-riding, so why exactly would you consider liking Arya—and, by extension, women like Brienne and even Margaery, who loves hawking and horse-riding—an act of misogyny?

[goamazons]

Monday, 6 September

Got a horrible bruise on my hip and still stink of the river no matter how thoroughly I wash. I was resolved to earn my millions with far less dangerous crafting or blogging, or just marrying a PRINCE. Then at school, Amazons showed me my rather funny pics all over the Net and said only sissies give up after the first try.

“It doesn’t matter how many times you fall. It only matters how many times you get up,” Hecta quoted her favourite Shaolin monks.

“And guess what,” Carmina piped in, “There’s Dress Show Live at Terra Mall today! It’s gonna be a total sell-out and huge fashion event meaning lots and lots of…” she looked over her shoulder to check if our potential rivals listened, and whispered conspiringly, “big fish to fish for.” She wriggled her eyebrows at me, and my heart started thumping the click-clock song of the glam shoes on Milan catwalks. Oh, Lord!

Luckily, my black knight costume dried up by the time I got back into my model role. Hecta did me a mega horrific battle make-up and Carmina sneaked a real camera from her ma. We took a bus to the town, and I breathed into a paper bag all the way to calm my nerves. Hecta went berserk at the smeared mask on my face. But by the time we arrived, I looked more like a dead (few times) knight, and it pleased her even more.

The fair-show was a big noisy place with so many people bustling around the stalls and talking total gibberish (probably, French). Anyone could be a disguised agent, so we pretended we didn’t care and simply played up. Carmina took pics of me yelling pirates’ commands and I wobbled in Hecta’s boots like a wretched ship but kept my powerful and mysterious face.

It was rather fun but not until some Oscar Wilde like man DID come up and fell to pieces with most exquisite compliments. “What grace, what elegance! What zest! A gust of fresh, spicy gale to my lungs! Or dear me, miss, have you ever considered being a model?” he sang.

And turned to Carmina.

Carmina turned to Hecta, Hecta turned to me and I turned and ran away, crying. I stumbled and bumped into all French on my way. I wanted to lock myself up in a toilet, but Hecta fished me out and said to screw it. “Forget it, okay? Modelling sucks!” she said. “This all sucked from the start.”

“But…” I snivelled, getting even deader dead knight. “But then I’ll never be rich and famous.”

“Y’know, you’d better be yourself.” She said, fixing my smeared mascara with a wet napkin. “And eat as much cookies as you like.”

That sounded like a good idea. I was so hungry. And I REALLY hated walking in two-size bigger boots. We went to buy sweets instead, and Hecta held my hand so I wouldn’t tumble over again. I’ll think about being rich and famous tomorrow, but right now, I want my cookies!

3/3

<<Previous    ❀Previous Story❀

[pedros-mustache-main]

for reasons wretched & divine

summary: unfit: unfit for duty, unfit for a proper teaching position, unfit for you.

word count: ~14k 

warnings: ~inappropriate~ student/teacher relations, age gap (27 & 19), war related topics, mental illness related topics, some suggestive moments (not 18+ but be mindful), angst, innuendo, language

a/n: what can i say? i’m a hoe for period pieces. i have been laboring over this for an embarrassingly long time so i’m pleased to finally share it with you all! would love to hear your thoughts. also: big big thank you to @joemazzmatazz​ for being an extra set of eyeballs on this one and listening to me ramble about my insecurities every other day! love you long time, sis. xoxo.

(photo: @consumedbygwirst​)

snowshill, gloucestershire, england. 1917.

a deaf ear, that’s why they wouldn’t take him; a deaf ear. he’d tried—god, he’d tried—to convince someone on the medical board that he was fit for duty. he’d come dangerously close to offering a bribe; something, anything, to be able to go and fight alongside his kinsman. but in the end, they’d still slapped his file with a rejection stamp.

gwilym james lee: unfit for duty by reason of physical impairment necessary for proper military response.

the words are engraved on his very heart now. he can’t shake them.

unfit, unfit, unfit.

his hands shake as he gathers the papers littered across his desk. the tremor has plagued him since he left his review with the medical board. why he can’t say for certain, and he doesn’t like to probe the issue too deep, but it’s always there, fluctuating in intensity. a slight waver in his fingers one moment and a full-scale trembling the next. it makes him feel like an old man, his deaf ear, his shaking hands. he’s twenty-seven years old, in the prime of his life, not eighty.

it’s sunday, and the mid-afternoon sun warms him through the window. he’s been in snowshill for a fortnight now yet his students—all twelve of them—remain a mystery. it’s clear they miss their former schoolteacher, but, like most, jefferson lewis has gone to serve his country. the vicar, bless him, had proven to be of more harm than good during his brief tenure as schoolmaster for the last four months, hence, gwilym’s new post: a stone, one-room schoolhouse on the edge of a vast field; a community away from civilized society, away from his father, away from any place he could soil the family name with his failures.

materials gathered, he slips out the front door. he considers locking the place up, but if anyone does break in, there isn’t much to steal. he’d come by this afternoon on a whim. lodging with an elderly woman and her six cats is one of the many things about snowshill that grates on his nerves, and the quiet air of the schoolhouse is a welcome respite from constance’s inane titterings. it’s nearly time for afternoon tea, though, and she’ll be cross if he doesn’t show, so he heads down the dirt lane, hands in his pockets, head bent low.

his steps slow, but do not stop, when the sound of his name reaches his ears. it sounds muffled, far away, as most things do. still, it’s loud enough to give him pause. he throws a glance over his shoulder. two pupils—maryanne clouder and you—walk down the lane. you stroll arm in arm with maryanne, your hair tied back in a long braid. maryanne’s arm is raised in a motion meant to flag him down. begrudgingly, he stops.

“mr. lee!” maryanne is not coy in the way she grabs your wrist and drags you across the road. her cheeks are flushed when she reaches his side, her elbow still circled around yours. “we didn’t see in you sunday service this morning.”

he shifts on his feet, fingers curling around the strap of his satchel. “no, i didn’t attend.”

“any reason?” maryanne’s head tilts to the side, her lower lip caught between her teeth. he stifles a sigh. the girl is young, merely fifteen. she’s cute in a girlish sort of way; one might see her as a pesky sister. still, she tries to catch his attention each day, her eyelashes batting against her sun-chapped cheeks, her legs swinging back and forth at her desk.

“i... overslept,” he lies. 

his eyes flick to your face, which struggles to remain unamused. you’re the eldest of his pupils, nineteen and itching to capture whatever semblance of freedom is left in the world. maryanne is your closest classmate in age, and he rarely sees you without her on your tail. to your credit, you never complain, never seem to mind. he admires that. there had once been a day he’d been like maryanne—so eager to please whoever would give him the time of day—but those days are long gone.

“well, mother asked after you,” maryanne continues. “she’d like to invite you over for supper sunday next—as a proper welcome to snowshill.”

he’s quick to turn her down, as he has two other families since his arrival. “that’s very kind, maryanne, but i’m not sure it would be appropriate.”

“nonsense, sir!” he hopes his eyebrows don’t rise too much in surprise when you jump to maryanne’s aid. “i’ll be there with my niece and my grandfather, and mrs. coulder makes the best roast you’ve had this side of london. you must come.”

from behind his circular, wire-rimmed glasses, he wonders if you can see the way his eyes widen. since arriving at the schoolhouse, he’s known you only as the eldest, wisest, and least rambunctious of his class. you’re quiet, but well-spoken; authoritative, but not domineering. the way you carry yourself—shoulders held straight, chin extended outward, eyes soft yet purposeful—he could easily mistake you for a woman. but you’re not. you’re a girl, his student, and just because you insist he attend sunday supper does not mean you look at him as anything other than your teacher. certainly, he doesn’t look at you as anything other than his student.

he clears his throat. it’s been a long day. he’s tired, on edge. he shouldn’t be thinking about these things.

forcing a tight smile, he gives a nod. “it seems i have no choice.” maryanne claps her hands together as he says, “tell your mother i’ll be there.”

“oh, goody! you won’t regret it, sir, i promise. i’ll be sure to tell hastings not to pester you too much.”

a groan nearly surfaces as he remembers the previous week’s antics of maryanne’s brother. he bites his tongue to keep from retracting his acceptance. “hastings doesn’t bother me, maryanne.” 

her grin turns sly, and she pushes his arm in a playful gesture. “you don’t have to lie, mr. lee.” her tone is slow, drawling, and he has the integrity to blush. his ears feel hot, uncomfortable—and not at all pleasurable. 

you tug on maryanne’s arm. “come on, mary.” stepping away, you jerk your head toward town, a measure of concern hidden beneath your smooth features. “we should leave mr. lee be. we’ve bothered him enough already.”

he doesn’t refute your statement. even if he jogs the rest of the way, he’ll still be late for afternoon tea, and he’ll still bear the brunt of constance’s wrath. in truth, you have bothered him enough already. so he lets you steer maryanne away without another word. at the last moment, he thinks he’s imagined it when you twist to look over your shoulder, your eyes running over him with a modicum of interest. he shakes the feeling off; it must have been his untoward imagination.

by the time he reaches contance’s cottage, a light drizzle has wet the shoulders of his suit jacket. his hair is damp, his glasses foggy. he ducks to avoid smacking his head against the doorframe as he enters. the cottage smells of tea and scones, both fresh, both warm.

from the kitchen, constance’s shrill voice meets his ears. no matter his hearing loss, her voice will never be one he can ignore. “is that you, gwilym?” she putters to the kitchen arch, wrapped tight in her pink robe, tea kettle in hand. when she sees him standing in the doorway, she frowns. “you’re late.”

“yes, yes, i’m sorry.” he sheds his jacket and places it on the wooden banister. rolling up his shirt sleeves, he makes his way to the kitchen. “i was accosted by some of my students.” 

constance laughs, her fleshy cheeks taut with a smile. “oh, child, you make it sound like you loathe those students.”

he says nothing, simply brushes a few crumbs away from his place at the table. a fat cat jumps to take his seat before he can settle, and he sighs. constance chuckles at his misfortune, placing the tea kettle in the center of the table. she shoos the cat for him, and he sits.

“pour for us, won’t you?” she says, turning to gather the scones.

gwilym hesitates. his hand flexes on his thigh, but there’s no point in arguing with constance, so he lifts the kettle. heavy with hot water, the pot wavers in his hand. as he pours, his tremor grows stronger, the pot shaking so violently water makes it everywhere but the teacup. 

“dammit,” he mutters. he puts the kettle down with more force than is strictly necessary; enough that he can feel constance’s eyes slide to his back as he rises to mop up the spilled water. it’s hot as it drenches the napkin, and he takes the moment of pain as punishment. he uses both hands to pour on the second go around. there’s still an unnatural rhythm to the stream of liquid as it descends to the teacups, but it hasn’t ruined the tablecloth, and he supposes that’s all that matters.

“there we are.” constance places a scone—blueberry iced with cream; she always makes his favorites—before him, and she does not mention the spilled water. “who were the rascals that accosted you this time?”

between bites of scone and sips of tea, he answers. “maryanne coulder and [y/n] [y/l/n].”

constance replaces her teacup on its saucer with a knowing nod. “ah, i know the coulder family. good bunch, except for that son of theirs.” her smile widens as his face blanches. “it seems you know him too.”

“he put tacks on my stool this thursday.”

“did you sit on them?”

he shakes his head. “no, but i might’ve.”

“and it would have given all the children a royal laugh.” she takes another sip, challenging him over the rim of her cup. “[y/n] i don’t know so well.”

“she’s in her last year. bright girl.” he doesn’t know why he feels to need to say such a thing. he’s barely given constance any information about his students thus far, but there’s something about the way she’s watching him that makes him speak and speak fast. “she could go on to university if she put her mind to it.”

“nineteen, i think, yes?”

he shrugs. “i think so.” constance hums and reaches over to pet an orange tabby cat. “they’ve wrangled me into sunday dinner next week. the coulders, i mean,” he adds.

“oh?”

“it was impossible to say no.”

“well, i believe it’s about time you show your face around town.” constance lifts a barely visible brow. “you really much try and engage your students more, gwilym. no one likes a sour puss.”

heat rushes up the back of his neck, and he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. she’s right, of course. he hasn’t always been this way, but since the war broke out and his subsequent service denial, he’s been nothing but a gray cloud in every room. he can’t help it.

constance changes the subject as her eyes move to the window at the back of the cottage. “did you know michael livingston went and shot a fox at four o’clock this morning?” she tuts her tongue. “that man! he really is the bane of my existence. a horrid excuse for a neighbor.”

gwilym’s gaze drops to his teacup, and he filters out what he can of constance’s prattle. she’s right. he should work on connecting with his students more. his father is a master at that. he has every student at the university eating out of the palm of his hand by the end of the first term week. gwilym thought he might have the capacity to do the same, but it seems he had been wrong. his students are respectful enough, but aside from maryanne and her silly crush, they are largely unattached. though, it isn’t as if he wants their affection or even their approval...

he’s fine without it. really, he is. 

still, it wouldn’t hurt to at least seem approachable. he’s in snowshill for the foreseeable future. he might as well face it and try to appear like he gives a damn.

at four o’clock sharp the following sunday, he stands outside the coulder household, his fist poised ready to knock on the dark green front door. only he can’t seem to bring himself make his arrival known. 

if he knocks, he has to be sociable. if he doesn’t knock, he can retreat to his attic room and spend the rest of his sunday in peace.

if he knocks, he might begin to chip away at the three-foot-thick barrier he’s placed around himself. if he doesn’t knock, he remains hidden, but protected.

his fist trembles in front of the door.

“mr. lee, are you alright?”

he nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of your voice. dropping his hand and readjusting his hold on the plate of muffins constance sent along with him, he turns away from the door. you stand halfway down the stone path leading to the home, one hand holding the chubby fingers of a toddler he doesn’t recognize. your other hand is pressed against the back of an old man, his shoulders bent with age, hands wobbling as he uses a cane.

gwilym swallows and looks away. “oh, hello. i just...” he can’t think of an excuse, so he, lamely, settles for the truth. “well, if i can be frank with you, miss [y/l/n], i was—am—feeling a bit apprehensive.”

you just smile and lift the toddler from the ground. with the girl on your hip, you come to stand by his side. he shifts when he catches a whiff of your shampoo. you glance up at him, your smile lifting, before knocking on the front door yourself.

“there’s nothing to be nervous about, sir,” you whisper in the lull between your knock and the door opening. “’s just maryanne.”

he isn’t certain, but he thinks you’re teasing him. the possibility makes his skin crawl in more ways than one. he hates that.

saved the duty of response, he pulls his mouth into a tight smile as the door opens. mrs. coulder, flanked by her daughter, stands in the threshold, brightly patterned apron snug around her waist.

“oh, mr. lee!” she stretches out her hand, and he shakes it, the plate of muffins tipping precariously in his opposite palm. “we’re so glad you decided to join us.”

“thank you for the invitation, mrs. coulder.” he waits until you’ve passed with your grandfather to cross the threshold. 

“please, call me vivianne. can i take that for you?” she nods to the plate of muffins, eyes sparkling all the while.

“yes, thank you. from constance pruder,” he adds. “she told me to tell you hello.”

“how kind of her!” vivianne takes the muffins from his arms and gestures toward the back of the house with her chin. “my husband, john, is out back. why don’t you go and chat until supper’s ready. he is ever so eager to meet you.”

gwilym fights to hold back his cringe. fathers—he doesn’t do well with them. not his own, not anyone else’s. it’s just another item on his long list of dislikes and annoyances. 

but he’s a guest, and he really does want to try. so he fixes his tie and follows vivianne’s directions to the back garden. 

john is sat on a wrought-iron chair, his hands braced against the arms, round face pulled tight in a frown as he watches maryanne play with the toddler on the grass. he stands when gwilym ducks to step outside. he extends a hand, his grip painful.

“lee,” he barks in greeting before dropping back to his seat.

the old man—gwilym assumes he’s your grandfather—twists from his place in a similar chair. “forgive me if i don’t get up, son.” the way his fingers waver in the air makes gwilym’s stomach clench; his own hand shakes slightly as he touches the old man’s palm. “name’s richard.”

“sit down.” john points to a bench against the house. “i’ve got questions for you.”

gwilym hesitates, caught bent at the waist as he goes to sit. his hands are firm on his thighs, and unwittingly, his eyes flick to yours. he’s surprised to see you already watching him, your fingers twirling in the blades of grass around your legs. when the moment has stretched far too long, he sits and smooths his sweaty palms against his trousers.

“i hope easy questions, sir,” he says. his tone is light, but his teeth are gritted.

“easy enough if you tell the truth.” john withdraws a silver cigarette case from his breast pocket. jamming a butt between his teeth, he offers the case to gwilym, who declines with a shake of his head. john puffs on the cigarette for a moment before saying, “why aren’t you off fighting, lee? all the other lads from gloucestershire are doing their part. what makes you special enough to stay away from the battle?”

to say gwilym is shocked by john’s pointed question would be an understatement. the force of the query, spoken in harsh, biting tones, is enough to tilt him sideways in his chair. he’s sure his face is red, his chest tight from forgetting to release the breath he holds in his lungs. his hands curl against his trousers, his knuckles gone white with rage.

“well, sir,” he drawls, careful to keep his tone even. more than anything, he wants to stand, leave, and slam the door on his way out for good measure. his ears burn with embarrassment. “i would certainly be fighting if i could.”

it’s an honest answer, the truth if ever he’s spoken it. what he wouldn’t give to be away from snowshill, rushing the battle field with his brothers-at-arms. what he wouldn’t give to be worthy of a moment’s notice when he returned from war. 

but he’s not worthy and he’s not fighting. he’s stuck in the back garden of his most precocious and love-sick student, the sun beating down on his brow with an undue heat, his muscles twitching with the restraint it takes to keep from decking snowshill’s most prominent lawyer. 

john narrows his eyes across the cobblestone patio. “if you could? what’s wrong with you?”

gwilym says nothing. red—the color of blood, ambulance sirens, and fire—flashes before his eyes.

“in my day,” john continues. “we fought no matter our delicate sensibilities.” he huffs around his cigarette, his chest ballooning like a baboon. “i’d say that i—”

“mr. coulder!” your voice is sharp, though not unkind, when you break into coulder’s soliloquy. gwilym’s eyes snap from john’s throbbing forehead muscle to you. you stand beside your grandfather, your skirt tangled around your legs in your apparent haste to stand. there’s grass pressed against your knees, and a faint tinge of red on your cheeks. “i believe i heard mrs. coulder calling for your just now,” you say, sweetening the blow of your interruption with a smile.

john looks to the open door, a pucker forming between his brows. “oh,” he mumbles, rising to his feet. “i’d better go see what that’s about.” he ambles on bowed legs into the house, and gwilym is left to pick of the pieces of his fractured dignity.

he dares glance at you. your eyes lift from the ground slowly, your fingers curling along the hem of your cardigan. when you meet his gaze, you look away first, as if you’re scared—scared to look at him, scared to admit you had to rescue him like a drowning puppy. he swallows hard and stands, though he isn’t sure why. he just can’t stay sitting anymore.

vivianne pops her head around the frame of the back door. “come come, everyone. supper is ready! mr. lee, you sit beside john. he has so much he wishes to discuss with you.” she grins and waves him inside, and who is he to refuse her?

later that night, when his back is pressed against his firm mattress, moonlight washing through the attic room, gwilym feels the overwhelming urge to cry. he can’t remember the last time he shed a tear. after his mother’s passing—god rest her soul—tears have seemed... pointless. they didn’t bring his mother back; they won’t cure his deaf ear or his tremor, won’t stop people like john coulder from asking questions.

still, his chest aches. there’s something in his lungs scratching to get out. it rises in his throat like a lump and bubbles forth in a broken sob. he presses his hand to his mouth, feels a hot tear slide down his cheekbone.

god, he hates it here.

really, he hates it everywhere. there’s nowhere he can go to escape from himself.

class on monday is disjointed. 

he didn’t sleep well, tossing and turning the whole night long, his dreams plagued with images of his mother, the war, you staring at him like a broken man. he woke several times in a cold sweat, his bedclothes drenched and sticky. 

his students bear the brunt of his poor night’s rest. he is tired to the very core of his being, and it shows in the way he waves hastings away after one-too-many attempts at the same arithmetic problem. it shows in the way he sits at his desk before the class, rubbing at this throbbing temples, the echo of the previous night’s supper ringing in his ears. though the sentiment is there most days, today he truly does not care if his students learn or not. he just wants a stiff drink, maybe a quick shag, something to take his mind off it all.

shifting in his seat, he withdraws the pocket watch snug in his trouser pocket. the gold around the clasp is worn with decades of use, and when he unlocks the face, the watch within is slightly obscured by a thin crack over the number five. still, despite its flaws, the clock ticks on. there’s a metaphor there, he knows, about himself: worn, broken, but still working. he’s too jaded to believe it.

he rises from his chair. the legs scrape against the floor. “it’s lunch,” he announces, breaking the heavy silence of the classroom with his deep voice. “take your things and go home. class is dismissed for the rest of the day.”

from her place in the front row, maryanne bats her eyelashes in confusion. “what’s the occasion, sir?” she sits straight at her desk, eager to please, panting for some drip of his attention.

gwilym doesn’t have any attention to spare for maryanne, for any of his students, really. his eyes flick from maryanne to the open window to you. he clears his throat and looks away. “it’s a nice day out, maryanne,” he says. “we shouldn’t waste it inside. don’t you agree?”

she grins and nods as she hastily gathers her things together. “oh, yes, of course!”

his jaw goes tight as he says, “thank your mother again for inviting me to supper yesterday. it was very kind of her.”

scarlet blush crawls over maryanne’s cheeks. she holds her books snug against her chest, her shoes dancing back and forth in nerves across the hardwood floor. “you are more than welcome any time, sir.”

he nods once, glancing toward the open schoolhouse door. she gets the picture; their conversation is through. grabbing hastings hand, she drags her brother out of the building and into the sunshine, leaving gwilym in blessed silence. he drops to his chair with a groan, cradling his forehead between his pointer finger and thumb. outside he can here his pupils laughing in the field. he removes his hands from his face and looks out the window-lined wall. hands crossed in his lap, he watches the children play, wonders what it feels like to live so carefree. 

had he ever been like that as a child: wild, uninhibited? he must’ve been—surely. his long-term memory is poor, brought on by a hard tumble he’d taken from a horse at an early age, but memory impairment aside, he wasn’t always this sullen, this removed. surely.

“mr. lee?”

he jolts at the sound of your voice, twisting in his chair to see you standing before his desk, a crease of worry between your brows. he frowns. “miss [y/l/n]? have you been there long?”

you shake your head, and a lock of hair falls out from behind your ear. you tuck it back, your eyes falling momentarily to the floor before you say, “no. well, yes. i was gathering my things, and you looked... pensive.”

he sits upright, and the urge to smooth his hair works its way to his fingers. he adjusts his glasses instead. “pensive? that doesn’t bode well.”

at his half-hearted attempt at levity, the corner of your mouth lifts. you step closer to his desk. “i wanted to be sure you were alright after supper last evening.”

his gut clenches at the memory, the shame of john coulder’s interrogation, at having to be saved by his own student, at that student being you. “i’m fine, truly,” he says, an edge to his voice he doesn’t mean.

still, you push further. “it’s just that mr. coulder... he’s not very diplomatic when it comes to asking questions. i thought maybe you—”

for the second time, gwilym stands from his chair with the intention of ending the conversation. he will not discuss sunday’s supper with you. the memory is still too raw, and his dream of you coming to his rescue is thoroughly and completely humiliating. yet when he stretches to his full height and sees you standing there, the most earnest expression of concern he’s ever seen on another face, he is powerless to stop himself from admitting the truth. he shoves his hands in his pockets, rolling his tongue over his teeth in thought.

“your concern is kind. mr. coulder’s questions were ill-phrased but not unwarranted. the men of this country hold a heavy duty right now. i suspect he was only asking out of patriotism.”

you blink, lips pressed together. he’d thought you’d be satisfied with his answer, but it appears you are not. the crease in your brow deepens. “sir, he was very unkind to you.” you speak as if he didn’t realize, as if he didn’t wet his pillow with tears of shame and hurt.

he nods. “perhaps.”

“it’s not fair, though. i’m sure whatever your reasons are for staying away from the front are valid.”

“again, your kindness does you credit.”

“i’m not trying to flatter you, mr. lee. i’m only speaking the truth.”

gwilym hesitates before saying, “i did not assume you were the flattering type.”

you shake your head. “i’m not.”

he’s not sure if it’s just the warm spring breeze drifting through the open window, but the air feels heavier than it did moments before. his eyes search yours. searching for what he can’t say, but he searches nonetheless. you hold his gaze until the faintest of blushes rises to your cheekbones. 

“i must thank you, though, miss [y/l/n], for coming to my aid last evening.” he’s surprised by his confession. it should drive him to his knees in embarrassment that he must concede to his student after they help him with a man twice his age. he is embarrassed, but something—manners, the desire to replicate your honesty, your doe eyes—makes him say it. “i am not sure i would have answered mr. coulder’s questions with a cool head, but you showed great tact. i’m indebted to you for that.”

he bites his tongue. too far, perhaps. a teacher should never be indebted to his student. least of all his oldest, brightest, and yes, he will admit it: most attractive student.

your chest lifts as you draw in a breath through your teeth. “well, i know a way you can repay me.”

his eyes widen, his throat seizing around his adam’s apple. he removes his hands from his pockets and shuffles a stack of unmarked papers on his desk. his hand wavers as he moves, though he’s not sure if it’s due to his tremor or an unwarranted image of you in his arms flashing through his mind.

too far. too far. you’re just a student. he’s just your teacher.

“what would you have me do?” it’s stupid to ask, to play along, but he can’t help it when your hands are clasped behind your back, the ribbon at the end of your braid falling over your shoulder. 

“there’s a benefit next week,” you say, and your face eases into a smile. “it’s for the wounded soldiers, and i’m in charge of the bake sale. my grandfather is too old to help and my niece is too young, so i thought perhaps you might like to help me? i’m sure more people will stop by if you’re there. everyone’s still curious about the new schoolmaster.”

gwilym stills, his eyes falling on you. not for the first time, he wonders if there’s something beneath your gaze, beneath your question. there can’t be; there isn’t. just like he is not interested in you, you are not interested in him.

unless...

he clears his throat and looks down at his desk. he brushes a stray pencil to the side. it rolls, rolls, rolls, stops against a heavy book. “i suppose i can make the time to assist.” he meets your eyes despite his gut telling him not to entertain this foolishness any longer. “for you, miss [y/l/n].”

your face clears in something akin to shock. you blink rapidly, your eyelashes fluttering against your freckled cheekbones. for a moment, gwilym imagines maryanne in the moments past, batting her own eyes. it hadn’t made his gut twist like this.

“it’s not for me,” you whisper, and the breathy sound of your voice sends a rush of blood from his head to his manhood. “it’s for the soldiers.”

“yes,” he replies. your gaze is locked on his, deep and probing. “the soldiers.”

a pebble hits the window with a sharp ting, and you both startle—you with a gasp, he with a muttered curse. turning, he stares out the window long enough to see a few of his male students playing a game of stickball with pebbles. a sigh shudders through his chest. no one had seen, had felt the thick tension in the room. thank heaven.

when he turns back to ask you how he can help before the benefit, you are gone.

the day of the benefit dawns bright and clear. it’s warm despite the month. april is generally cool and balmy, but gwilym breaks a sweat as he carries arrangement after arrangement of flowers to a little red wagon outside the cottage. constance sits perched on her portable stool, a cane between her legs as she watches him work.

“be careful with those, gwilym james,” she chides. “i spent all week and won’t have you breaking a single one.”

“i’m being careful, constance.” he huffs as he lowers a bouquet of blue hydrangeas to the wagon. the glass rattles as it squeezes between the dozens of other vases. the wagon is full to bursting of flowers of all kinds and where constance unearthed such of a treasure trove of flowers, he cannot be sure. “you truly expect to sell all these in one afternoon?”

constance draws in a sharp breath and whacks the butt of her cane against his shin. “how dare you!” he yelps, clutching his offended leg, but for once finds it easy to match her sly smile. “my flowers are sought after in the next three counties!”

“i’m sure they are,” he says, chuckling at her twisted features. 

she stands, snapping her stool shut with ease. with her chin tilted, she gestures with her cane to the road. “we’ll be late. you know i detest being late.”

rolling his eyes, gwilym grabs the wagon handle from the ground and gently maneuvers the vehicle onto the dirt road leading to the center of the village. the flowers jostle and clang as the wagon dips with the unevenness of the road, but the arrangements hold steady. constance’s steps are slow and small, so he shrinks his stride to match hers. a whisper of a breeze cools the sweat lingering on the back of his neck, and he glances at the cloudless sky. no one could have asked for better weather.

“i hear you are to assist miss [y/l/n] in her confection sale today?”

gwilym nearly trips over a rut in the road, but catches himself at the last moment. he adjusts his hold on the wagon handle, his hand trembling even curled against the cool metal. “yes—she had no one else to help her.”

constance’s eyebrows lift. “ah.”

“you did tell me to be more kindly with my pupils.”

“that i did.”

“then why do you look so displeased?”

“i’m far from displeased, child,” she says with a laugh. “merely cataloging this moment for later.”

gwilym doesn’t ask for further explanation. he doesn’t want to know. it’s bad enough that he spent the entire morning primping and preening over his own reflection. god, he’d felt like such an idiot. 

but he couldn’t deny the urge to at least try and put some effort into his appearance. he would be spending the day by your side, after all. not that it mattered...

by the time he rolls constance’s wagon into the village square, the benefit is well under way. snowshill is a small parish; only one-hundred-twenty-three residents, yet it seems every soul has turned out for the event. colorful streamers whip through the mid-morning breeze. a gaggle of musicians sitting underneath a shade tree amble through a litany of well-known tunes. the baker twins, annie and joy, race past gwilym, hand in hand as they head for the dunking booth. he pauses in his study of the square. there’s happiness here. despite it all—the war, the fathers and brothers and husbands so far away, the uncertainty of the future—the villagers have still found a reason to smile. surely, he can to.

“i’ll take this.” constance pulls gwilym from his thoughts as she pries the wagon handle from his hand. “you go over there,” she adds, nodding to a booth on his left. “miss [y/l/n] is waiting.”

he ignores the telling sparkle in her eyes. she can see right through him, the old bat, see straight to the part of his heart he so desperately wants—no, needs—to ignore. 

chasing the thoughts away, he turns to locate the corner set aside for the bake sale. it isn’t hard. in an uncomfortable but familiar sort of way, he’s drawn to you, and he finds you easily. at the base of the church gardens, you’re already hard a work. your hair is loose around your shoulders, and the sun glints off a pearl barrette clipping a portion of the strands back. stepping forward, he allows his eyes, for the briefest of moments, to run over your frame. your forest green dress is cinched at the waist with a wide gold band, accentuating your curves. the sleeves of the dress, which fall to your elbows, are sheer, and he can see your skin glistening beneath the sway of shadows and sun. you’re lovely, breathtaking even. he hates the way his heart gallops in his chest at the sight, like he’s a love-struck schoolboy. in reality, he is your teacher and a grown man. the thought alone makes him advert his eyes from the picture of you, dressed well and elegantly, smiling as you speak to a customer.

“there you are!” you twist away from the pie, cake, and cookie laden table to grace him with a brilliant smile. knowing you first and foremost as the level-headed student who rarely speaks save to impart pearls of wisdom, the sight of your wide smile is near blinding. “i was beginning to think you’d forgotten.”

he shakes his head. “never.”

“good.” you point up the hill to the church. “the rest of the pies are in the kitchen. bring them down, won’t you?”

he does so without complaint, returning to the booth with a cherry pie in one hand and a rhubarb pie in the other. he places them on the table with care before asking, “who made all these?”

you shrug and straighten the sign hanging from the makeshift portico attached to the table. “mostly the older ladies of the parish. though,” you say, your eyes sliding to his with mischief. “i did make those.” you point to a small plate of chocolate chip cookies. “you can steal one if you like. i won’t tell.”

gwilym narrows his eyes. “how do i know if i can trust you?”

you laugh—a clear, bell-like laugh—and it goes straight to his gut. “try it and you’ll just have to find out.”

you sit, your attention caught by the toddler scooting about on the a picnic blanket behind the table. gwilym hesitates before taking one of the cookies. it snaps in his hands, and he nudges your arm with his knuckles. you look over your shoulder, glancing at the half of a cookie melting between his fingers.

“take the other half,” he says. “that way we both get in trouble. if i’m going to go down, i’ll take you with me.”

your cheeks color, and he wonders where your mind has gone, but then you take the cookie and your fingers brush his palm. a jolt shoot through his arm, but he ignores it, sitting in the seat beside you. 

“it’s very good,” he says after swallowing the dessert. “chocolatey.”

you smile in thanks then reach out, your thumb nearing his cheek. he stills, uncertain if he should move back and risk offense or lean in and risk it all. you swipe your thumb across the corner of his mouth, your touch fleeting but like fire all the same. sitting back, your grin widens.

“you had a bit of chocolate on your lip,” you explain.

“oh.” he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks the opposite direction. 

few villagers have meandered over to the bake sale booth, but the day is early yet. he dares relax and lean back in his chair. he unbuttons his suit-jacket, letting the breeze waft through his sleeves and around his torso. when he turns his head to look at you, he finds you already watching, your eyes trained against his chest which strains against his snug waistcoat. all thoughts evaporate until your eyes lift to his and you blush.

he clears his throat. “uh—the child?” he questions, pointing to the toddler on the ground. she’s chubby, her legs stumpy beneath a yellow day dress and bloomers. “who does she belong to?”

you lift the baby and set her on your knee. the little girl smiles at him and leans against your shoulder, her mouth gnawing around her fist. “my sister,” you say. “she’s away, so grandfather and i are left to take care of eliza.”

“and where is your grandfather?”

“he’s with his mates. they’ve set up shop outside the pub and are more than likely pestering anyone who will listen with their own war stories.”

“he seems like a kind man.”

“oh, he is!” you grin and return eliza to her spot in the shade. “after my parents died, he took me and peggy—that’s my sister—in without a moment’s hesitation.”

before gwilym can question you any further, a familiar voice hits his ears. he rises alongside you as vivianne coulder draws close to the booth. 

“oh, look how darling! [y/n], you’ve really outdone yourself!” vivianne eyes the sweets with interest. “however am i to make such a choice? there’s simply too many good things here to choose from.”

“you can always buy multiples, mrs. coulder.” you press your palms against the table, leaning forward to watch as vivianne surveys the array of food. gwilym’s eyes stray toward your backside, which is pushed out, until vivianne breaks his train of thought.

“mr. lee, how did you get mixed up in a bake sale?” she asks, dropping a few coins in your palm as she makes her purchase. “i might have thought you’d participate in the dunk tank like my john.”

as if to punctuate her question, a bell across the square rings followed by a cheer and a splash. someone hit the bullseye.

“mr. lee owed me a favor,” you say. “i had to watch the class one afternoon while he tended to a feral dog in the yard.”

the story isn’t a falsehood, but it’s certainly not why he stands beside you now. he’d almost forgotten about that dog, but perhaps the mangy mutt had been a godsend after all. it certainly kept you from having to admit the real reason for his appearance at the bake sale.

vivianne giggles behind her gloved hand. “how brave!”

your hand, ungloved and warm, lands on his arm. your fingertips squeeze the flesh of his bicep nearly imperceptibility but he feels the gentle pressure like a vice around his skin. “yes,” you continue, seemingly oblivious to the way your touch wrecks him. “he was quite brave.”

vivianne chats with you a moment more—something about maryanne and her sixteenth birthday celebration—but he can barely focus. he’s unnaturally hot under his jacket, despite the cover of shade protecting the table of sweets. he wants to shake your hand from his arm, loosen your hold around his gut, but he doesn’t want to appear rude. he doesn’t want to push you away.

so he stands still. he lives with your fingers against the curve of his shoulder like a man readying himself for execution. his jaw is tight, his eyes focused on the people milling about the square.

when vivianne finally ambles away, he feels free enough to step out of your grasp. he releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. his eyes dart from the ground to your face. you stare at him, your own eyes wide and lips parted ever-so slightly. god, he could kiss you. maybe it would quell the fire in his stomach and get you out of his head. maybe the simple touch would fix all the worn-out and tired thought swirling through his head. he would give into his desire but there’s too many people around and maybe that’s a good thing. he’s not sure he could stop himself if he started.

blessedly, a trio of older women approach the table. he jerks his attention away from you and finds a modicum of solace in auctioning off the bake sale items to whomever will purchase them. the faster the table is clear, the sooner he can go home and take a cold shower.

fate, it seems, has other plans for him because it is not until past-dusk that the charity benefit ends. the last of the pies have been sold off, your niece dragged home by your grandfather when the hour gets too late. gwilym helps you break down the table in silence, the only sound a bird twittering in its nest overhead and the rumble of the dunk tank being hauled away. you look tired, and he’s sure he does too. on the whole, he enjoyed himself. you are pleasant company and skilled at carrying on conversation. in truth, he finds himself wondering if he could spend every waking moment simply sitting by your side. the busy-bodies and children who came by the booth brought him small smiles, as well. the occasional woman called him handsome, even though her age well surpassed his own, and it buoyed his neglected heart. mothers thanked him profusely for his work at the school. he had not realized how much his students seemed to appreciate his efforts in the classroom. on more than one occasion, he’d left the schoolhouse under the impression the vast majority of his pupils were plotting his demise for being so sullen and boring. but perhaps not...

with your aid, he carries the booth’s table to the basement of the church. it is cool in the dark hallway of the building. his shoes sound against the stone floor as he searches for a light switch with nothing but his gaze. he hears a sharp bang followed by a muffled curse.

“you alright?” he asks, casting a glance over his shoulder. he can barely make out your form what with the dim hall and your form covered by night.

you adjust your hold on the end of the table. “yes, i’m fine. i bumped into the doorframe ‘s all.”

“where do we put this table then?”

“the vicar got it out for me early this morning. i suppose we could simply leave it by the pantry in the kitchen.”

“i’m afraid i don’t know where that is.”

he swears he can see you smile despite the low light. “perhaps i should have led the way.”

he mirrors your grin. “perhaps you should have.”

nodding to the left, you say, “that way. down the hall and first door on the right. i left it open.”

with some trouble, he manages to make it to the kitchen, though he too runs into the doorframe of the hallway and you giggle at his misfortune. together, you lower the table against the kitchen wall and step back. you brush your hands together with an air of finality.

“well,” you say with a sigh. “nothing like a good day’s work.”

gwilym turns to look at you in the darkness of the kitchen. a beam of moonlight filters through a single window in the corner of the room. it falls agains the back of your head, shrouding you in a halo of yellowy light. you’re looking at him, too; he can feel it. you look soft, and you stand close enough to touch. he keeps his hands at his sides; they tremble against the creases of his trousers.

“thank you, miss [y/l/n],” he whispers. “i needed a day like today.”

silence reigns supreme for the longest of moments. universes are born and wither in the space between his confession and your response.

but then your lips are on his. 

your hands grasp the material around his shoulders, your nails pressing through the fabric in earnest. he can think of nothing else to do—nothing else he should do—other than remain planted firm on the stone floor of the church kitchen. he itches to hold you, to weave his fingers through your hair, and move his mouth over yours. you taste sweet, like cookies, for the brief moment you claim him as your own. still, he is level-headed enough, rational enough, scared enough, to not react—no matter how much he wants to.

you pull back, swallowing hard. your fingertips skim over your mouth. you stare at him, starlight caught in your eyelashes, then run from the basement before he can say a word.

you do not come to class for several days. he calculates that it must be three days you’ve skipped out on him—no, on school. really, he can’t be certain how long you’ve been gone. since he felt the touch of your lips on his, he has thought of little else. the memory consumes him, threatening to swallow him whole. it distracts him when he turns around from the blackboard to see your seat empty and when he dismisses class at the end of the day and does not see you gathering your belongings with your elegant movements. he has lost track of time and of order. at night, he lays awake and stares at his ceiling, his hands clasped behind his head. he runs the moment over and over again, replaying and reframing how it could have gone different.

he could have pushed you away the second you moved closer. at least then he would be able to claim he tried to be a professional, that he tried to distance himself from his interest in his own student.

he could have kissed you back. he’d wanted to. he’d wanted to so badly. he’d wanted to so badly the mere thought of how he’d kept his hands still at his sides makes his brain clench with discomfort.

the thursday after the benefit, after yet another day without your presence in the cramped schoolhouse, he drags his feet to your home. he’s reluctant to go, knowing he should allow you to come back on your own time. whatever it was that possessed you to kiss him, he knows you probably regret the action as much as he regrets not seizing the moment for himself.

you live on the outskirts of snowshill on your grandfather’s sheep farm. the dirt road leading to the white farmhouse is clogged with tufts of fresh grass, revealing its lack of traffic. a handful of hens peck the ground beneath a sprawling oak tree. a flat swing hanging from a thick branch sways back and forth with the afternoon breeze. it’s idyllic—removed from the rest of the world, even as far as snowshill goes, but idyllic.

he’s out of breath from the walk by the time he reaches the front door, but gwilym is self-aware enough to know he would out of breath regardless of his mode of transportation. he’s nervous. his hands shake, and there’s an incessant ringing in his deaf ear. he waits, unsure if anyone on the other side of the bright red door has heard his knock.

“mr. lee?”

the sound, garbled by the blood rushing to his ears and the tilt of his head, comes from his right. he twists to see you standing at the corner of the house. there’s a basket in your hand; it’s empty, save for a pair of small scissors which catch the sun. your blue-checkered dress is faded, the sleeves bunched around your elbows. one of the pockets on either hip seems weighed down with an invisible object. he stops his perusal and notes the clear frown on your face.

he steps forward, huffing out a rushed “miss [y/l/n]”, and nearly topples off the rail-less stoop. he catches himself at the last moment, his hand darting out to press against the frame of the farmhouse.

you gasp, dropping your basket, and rush forward, but when you see he’s righted himself, you stop. “goodness,” you say. “that would’ve been a bad tumble. i’ve told grandfather dozens of times that we need a railing.”

gwilym chuckles in a lame attempt to save face. he takes the three steps to the safety of solid earth and crosses to stand before you. you blink up at him, your lips pinched. there’s a mysterious lack of sparkle in your gaze, and he wonders if he’s the cause of its disappearance. 

“you’ve not been to school,” he says.

you shake your head as you turn to pick your discarded basket. “no.”

“why?”

you lift a slim brow. “isn’t the answer obvious, sir?”

“no.”

you hold his stare, and he is the one to look away first. a chill settles around his spine despite the warmth of the day. he wrings his hands together as he looks over the field.

“if that’s all, sir—”

his eyes snap back to yours. “no!” he winces at the desperation in his tone and tries again. “no. i think we should talk, miss [y/l/n], about what happened at the benefit.”

this time you do look away, your cheeks tinged with blush. you gesture toward the meadow behind your home. “i was going to walk down to the river. i need to replenish our herb stock. you may join me if you like.”

“that’s fine,” he says, nodding. “you lead the way.”

the beginning of your walk is spent in silence. the meadow grass tangles around the hem of his trousers, staining them green with leftover dew. you trail ahead of him, your basket skimming over the weeds and grasses like a sailboat in an ocean of nature. he realizes you are without shoes, and the sight of your bare calves and ankles sends his thoughts elsewhere.

you lead him into a grove of cherry and birch trees. pink petals cover the ground and obscure the sky. it’s a haze of color here—cherry blossoms and green leaves, the flutter of an anxious bird’s wings, the clear but rushing waters of the creek. he stops when you do and inhales deeply. strangely, tears prick the corners of his eyes. he could stay here, he thinks, in this picturesque place—no one to bother him or question him or loathe his very existence. 

“i never knew snowshill boasted such a beautiful spot,” he admits.

from your place crouched against the ground, your voice is muffled. “yes. i keep it secret”—your voice is clearer when you rise and look over your shoulder—“from nearly everyone. it’s too special to share with the world.”

you lean down again and use your small pair of scissors to snip at a collection of herbs growing along the creekbed. gwilym dares take a step closer, and he points to the herbs in your hand.

“what are those?”

“mint. it grows well by the water.” you lift the bundle. “would you like some?”

instead of taking the offer, he squats beside you. his knee, bent as it is, almost brushes your elbow. he plucks a small leaf of the mint and puts it on his tongue.

you watch as he allows the herb’s flavor to coat his tongue. “my mother used to make very good lemonade with mint.”

“my mother too.” he clears his throat, glances at the trickling stream, then back at you. “miss [y/l/n], about the benefit...”

to your credit, you do not shy away from his pointed gaze. your jaw tightens, but you maintain eye-contact, and he wonders if you can see all the thoughts racing through his head as he looks at you.

“i’m sorry if you misunderstood my gratefulness for our interactions at the coulder dinner and at the benefit. my intention was not to give you any untoward thoughts or—”

“why are you not fighting? in the war?” you interrupt with ease and do not blink as you question him.

despite his initial shock at the change of topic, he finds himself rushing to answer, to explain himself—though to anyone else, he would balk and turn away. “my right ear is deaf.”

“oh.”

“has been for a long time,” he continues. “apparently, good hearing is the mark of a good soldier.”

“and your hands?”

“my hands?”

“why do they tremble?”

at this, gwilym does balk. he stands, running the hands in question through his hair as he turns his back to you. “my hands do not tremble,” he says, his tone close to seething.

you stand to your full height, which isn’t much next to him. “yes they do. i’ve seen them—in class, at the benefit. were you denied service because of that, too?”

he openly glares at you, but he answers truthfully. “no. it developed after my denial.”

“oh,” you say again.

“really, miss [y/l/n], this is not why i wanted to speak with you.”

“i know. you wanted to talk about us.”

“there is no us. there can be no us.”

“i disagree.”

“yes, you would because you are a child, and you don’t understand that you and i giving in to whatever is between us would mean disaster.”

the slap that lands across his cheek echoes in the small grove of trees. he whirls, clutching his face as he stares at you in disbelief. his ear is ringing again, and it’s painful this time, but he knows he deserves it.

your chest heaves when you next speak. “i’m not a child.”

he knows this. he’s seen you as a woman—dreamt of you as a woman—too many times to count.

dropping his hand from his face, he nods. “i know. forgive me.”

you’re quiet, thinking, then you open your mouth to speak.

“i don’t think you realize, gwilym, how good you are for this community.” the sound of his name on your lips is sinful, threatening to tear his focus away from your words. “in the short time you’ve been here, i’ve seen the children in that schoolhouse learn more than they ever did before you came. you’re truly teaching them about the world, not just maths and reading and science. why, even last week hastings actually apologized for pulling on my braids in the past. he told me that you taught him that.”

gwilym frowns. “how? i never told—”

“they watch you. he told me you apologized to mark after you were short with him one afternoon. he told me he wanted to be like you—not his father, you.”

“miss [y/l/n]—”

“and my grandfather? he so admires you. i think he sees himself in you, after he came home from the way. he told me you’re very brave. and constance swears you have the gentlest soul built for caring for others. you may hide it, but she knows that you—”

“that’s enough—please.”

you fall silent, unshed tears washing over your eyes before you say, “don’t you see, gwilym? you walk around with such a weight on your shoulders, but all anyone wants to do—all i want to do—is ease the load. you’re worth that.”

he shakes his head and swallows hard. your speech all but shatters his heart. more than anything, he wants to believe you, wants to believe that he’s good for something. but the pesky thoughts in the back of his mind grip him hard. he can’t shake them.

unfit, unfit, unfit.

“i kissed you that night because i think you are wonderful.” your face cracks into a smile, vibrant and gut-wrenching. “wonderful and smart and handsome and—”

he puts a stop to your words. winding his arms around your back, he pulls you flush against his chest, his mouth lowering to capture yours. you’re stiff at first, in shock by his sudden change of heart, but then you relax, your arms lifting to circle his neck, drawing him ever closer. his lips explore yours with desperation, the weeks he’s spent pining after you crashing to the surface in an explosion of want and need. he moves his hands to cradle your face, and your hands skim to his shoulder blades, your fingers pressed into the skin beneath his waistcoat and shirt. you taste like fresh mint. it’s all he can do to not lower you to the bed of blossom petals on the ground and ravish you until the sun dips below the horizon.

he pulls away, breathing heavy, his forehead rolling against yours. “[y/n]...” you suck in a sharp breath through your teeth, and he realizes it must be the first time he’s spoken your name aloud in your presence. “[y/n],” he whispers again. “we can’t.”

you fist your hands in his shirtsleeves. “don’t say that. you feel it as much as i do.”

nodding, he moves to hold your waist. the feel of your body under his hands is heaven. you are divine, like an goddess escaped from la primavera. “i do,” he admits. “i feel it.”

he bends his head to kiss you again. the touch is softer this time, more hesitant, but when he gathers the nerve to pull you closer, your hips against his, you whimper into his mouth, and the sound pulls him back to reality. he practically trips backward, breathing labored, thoughts muddled, and body rigid. 

the space between you swims with lust and desire and yearning. your lips are plump, your cheeks flushed. your eyelids flutter, seemingly dazed, but not at all confused. you know what you want; he knows what he wants.

“we must keep it secret,” he says.

you nod.

“i won’t be able to touch you or���or be with you in public.”

“i know.”

“i could get in a lot of trouble if anyone finds out.”

you flinch at this, briefly looking to the side. “i know.”

shaking his head, he mutters “god help me, it would be worth it even if i did” as he crosses the space between you and crashes his lips to yours once more.

there is no hesitation now. he moves with purpose and you follow his lead. gently, he guides you to the blossom-strewn floor, his fingertips discovering the valleys and contours of your body with ease. his lips graze the curve of your neck, a feather’s touch, a butterfly’s kiss. you shift beneath him and pull his face level with yours. you glance between his eyes, chest brushing against his with the labor of your breathing.

he removes a twig from your hair, flicking it away. “do you want this?” he asks.

“always.” you smile, and it sends his heart tumbling in his chest. 

you reach down and lift the hand pressed against the ground beside your hip. it leaves him in an awkward hunch overtop of you, only his left elbow propping him up, but he’s curious at your movements. holding his wrist, you touch your left palm to his.

“your hand isn’t shaking,” you whisper.

he looks at your joined flesh, at the way his fingers stand straight against yours. there isn’t the slightest waver in his hand. dropping his palm from your grasp, he melds his body against yours beneath the cherry tree as the sun inches toward the horizon.

it goes on like this for some time: you and he stealing moments throughout the week, in whatever privacy is available. for the first time in years, he is happy. he’d grown so used to his sullen state he forgot what joy felt like, but you’ve given it back to him in bundles.

he’s not exactly sure what it is about you that captivates him so. perhaps it is your whole being.

you are intelligent, easily tutoring your classmates when they fall behind. you are generous, often sharing your meals with the neediest of students. you are witty and lively in your silliest of moods and gentle and serene at your most centered. you listen to him when he speaks—truly listen—and you challenge him with your observations and questions. 

he enjoys holding you, caressing your soft skin, kissing your lips. the cherry blossom grove is where he holds you most. it is a safe place amidst an unsafe world. beneath the shade of the birch trees, he is untouchable. he is free to speak as he wishes, love you as he pleases. he is open and honest and everything he feels he cannot be in town.

and, yes, he thinks he loves you—even after such a short time. he would be a fool not to have fallen for you by now. despite the years between you, despite the complexities of his position, he knows he would chose you again.

the weeks bleed into months. spring edges into the beginning of summer. you will finish school soon and be out from under his tutelage, released to the frayed fragments of freedom to which britain still clings. neither of you have spoken on the topic. though it looms overhead, it’s still far yet. you have time.

you are cradled against his chest, the aftermath of your most recent lovemaking still lingering on your bodies and in the air. you hum into the crook of his neck, and your fingers swirl around the hair peppering his chest.

“gwilym?” you press a kiss to his shoulder before adjusting yourself to lean on your elbow, looking down on him.

he opens one eye. “hmm?”

“what do you think will happen after the war ends?”

he opens both eyes at this and moves his head to meet your questioning gaze. the blanket beneath him rustles, and the branches overhead sway with the warm breeze. he isn’t sure what question he’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the one you posed. you surprise him every day in that way—always curious, always searching for answers.

“i’m not sure,” he says. “provided we win, i suppose germany will be forced to make reparations. with the americans in the fight now it won’t be long before the kaiser gives up.”

“will you leave us then? once everything’s back to normal?”

he answers quickly and honestly, surprised at the passion in his own voice. “no, never.”

your brow creases. “but you came here running from the war. won’t you go home when it’s done?”

he blinks and considers. months ago, he would have said yes. given the chance, he would have fled back to london without a moment of hesitation. now... now he’s not so sure.

“home is wherever you are.” the words tumble from his mouth before he can stop them, but once they hang in the air, he knows they are the truth. wherever you go, he will follow. he would forsake his entire past if it meant he could stay by your side.

your lips tug into a small smile, and you sit straighter, turning your face away. “you mustn’t say things you don’t mean.”

he runs a fingertip over the curve of your exposed shoulder, down the rise and fall of your spine. if anyone were to break through the line of trees, they would see you both and have no issue filling in the missing pieces of the puzzle, naked as you both are. still, he’s comfortable; he always is around you.

“i mean what i say, [y/n]. i’m not a flatterer.”

your head whips around, and your eyes twinkle with mirth. “don’t steal my words, gwilym,” you say with a laugh, pushing at his chest.

sitting up, he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you against his side. “i can steal whatever i please. like this,” he says, punctuating his words with a kiss on the mouth. “or this.” he kisses the flesh beneath your collarbone. “or—”

you press a finger to his lips. “not everything.” your grin turns sly, and you coquettishly bat your eyelashes. “i’m a virgin, after all, and must remain so for my future husband.”

gwilym laughs, tossing his head back. “is that so?”

you nod. “my maidenhood is the most sacred thing about me.”

“oh, we’ll see about that!”

with an easy maneuver, gwilym has you on your back. your giggles—girlish but edged with desire—circle his head like a drug. you swat at his shoulders when he braces himself over you, his mouth like a tattoo on your skin. he could stay like this forever—just you and him, the cherry blossom trees, and the endless sky. he would stay, too, but after your picnic dinner and an argument over the smartest literary character of all time (he insists sherlock holmes; you insist portia from the merchant of venice), he must walk you home before your grandfather begins to worry.

he wonders if the old man suspects anything. he comes to your house multiple afternoons a week under the guise of preparing you for university should you choose to go further with your education. that study time always floats from the kitchen table to the back garden to the grove of trees, and you’re gone for hours. you always return looking rumbled, your dress askew, his tie undone, but the old man never says a word if he does know the truth. for that, gwilym is thankful.

tonight, he leaves you at the backdoor. the sky is a blanket of stars, and the moon shines bright overhead. standing as you are on the lowest stair leading to the door, you can meet his eyes with ease, and you seem to appreciate the change in perspective. you run your hands through his hair, your fingernails grazing his scalp. his eyes flutter shut at the feeling, his grip on your hip tightening.

“don’t do that, [y/n],” he breathes.

you smirk. “why? do you like it?”

he grits his teeth and opens his eyes to level you a dark stare. “you know i do.”

grinning, you kiss him hard, enough to leave him breathless when you pull away. “tomorrow? same place?”

“i have a meeting tomorrow afternoon with the vicar. i’ll come by afterwards.”

you shake your head and smooth your hands against his shoulders. the action is so domestic, so wifely, he can’t help but picture you as his wife, sending him away for a day of work. “don’t bother. i think i’ll pop around for tea with constance. perhaps i’ll run into you then?”

gwilym audibly groans at the idea of seeing you in his own home, sat across from his landlady, smiling and laughing, all the while making eyes at him from across the table. he shivers—but not because of the cold. “you’re gonna be the death of me, girl.”

you touch his cheek with such tenderness it makes his knees weak. “i hope so.”

maryanne is the one who ultimately discovers and reveals your affair. even so, gwilym blames himself and himself alone. he got too comfortable. months of loving you in secret—months of tasting you and knowing you and cherishing you—cannot be hid behind a sullen face. and his face is not longer sullen. 

he finds himself smiling more, asking his students about their lives instead of their assignments. he grades easier, waves his hand at forgotten homework, prolongs lunch break so he can eat with you. perhaps the change in his demeanor was what sent maryanne on the hunt. that—or the fact she caught him kissing you amongst constance’s prized hydrangea bushes.

he hadn’t been positive if the flash of pink fabric and yellow hair was maryanne, so he’d never mentioned it to you. he’d just kept kissing you, though his attention had slipped and his movements turned distracted when he heard the rustle of a bush. he’d opened his eyes long enough to see the out-of-place pink nestled within the green bushes and blue flowers, but then the color was gone and you were whispering something filthy in his ear and it made him laugh. he’d forgotten; he’d gotten comfortable.

now he wishes he’d grabbed maryanne and forced her to keep her mouth shut. with two weeks until your graduation, time is of the essence. he’d lose you if anyone found out, and he wasn’t about to let that happen.

he hadn’t caught maryanne, though, and she’d rushed home to tell her mother who had promptly told the idiot john coulder who had informed the vicar and the vicar had come to relive gwilym of his teaching duties—no questions asked.

“you do realize what a mess you’ve made, haven’t you?” the vicar had said upon his arrival. “there will have to be an investigation. we don’t stand for this sort of thing in snowshill.”

gwilym hadn’t said anything. he’d simply loomed over the squat man and summoned as much of a glower as he could. it wasn’t very hard, not with his entire world crashing down around him.

he lies down that night and wonders what will become of him. he will be a social pariah, an outcast, the man who seduced a child, the teacher who coerced a student. it isn’t like that; he knows it and you do too. he loves you, though he hasn’t said as much. he suspects you love him too.

he could take you away from here. you could both start over somewhere new, where no one knows your names. the idea is tantalizing, and it wouldn’t be hard, but he knows you won’t leave your grandfather and niece behind.

there’s a knock on his bedroom door, and he sits up, hitting his head on the slope of the attic ceiling. rubbing the offended area, he frowns.

“who is it?”

“who do you think?” constance says, her tone as unamused as his.

“i’m not really in the mood for visitors.”

he knows she knows. he knows she stood in the front parlor and listened to every word the vicar spat at his feet. he just didn’t have the guts to look her in the eyes before he fled to his room.

“you missed supper, child. i’ve brought you a bowl of soup.”

reluctantly, gwilym slides from bed and goes to open the door. constance stands at the top of the stairs, wrapped in a purple robe, the neck lined with feathers. she pushes him a bowl of split-pea soup and swishes into the room to drop in the single, hard-backed chair. it creaks beneath her weight. he turns to look at her; the heat of the bowl burns his hands, and his palms tremble.

“constance, i—”

“i must admit that i’d hoped you would find a friend in [y/n] [y/l/n], perhaps even something more.”

his jaw slackens. “i’m sorry?”

“when you mentioned you were going to the coulder house for supper and she would be there, i knew she would do you well. i knew her mother before she died, and that girl has her mother’s tender heart. both could heal even the sternest of wounds.”

he blinks, looks away. yes, you could. you healed him, after all.

“i simply wished you would have been more careful. my hydrangea bushes are not the most secretive spot in the world.”

“you knew?”

she nods, her painted lips tight. “mhm. ever since you came home that first afternoon smelling too much like women’s perfume and sheep’s wool.”

gwilym drops to his bedside, the soup in his bowl sloshing with the movement. “why didn’t you say anything?”

she laughs as if she’s taken offense by his query. “i may concern myself with everyone’s business, gwilym, but it is not my business to go about spreading the business which i know.”

“you are a strange woman.”

“you are a man in love.”

he looks down at the rapidly-cooling food in his lap.

“i shouldn’t tell you this,” constance continues. “it will only make you hope, but i know what it is you’re feeling.”

he scoffs. “do you?” somehow he doubted that. constance, having never been married, knew more of felines than she did feelings. at least, any of the feelings roiling through his person now.

“when i was seventeen i had an affair with my teacher. he was young and handsome and charming, and i was happy. but we were found out, and he was run out of town. i never saw him again.”

“how is this supposed to give me hope?”

“my xavier was not given the chance to explain himself before his accusers. you are being afforded that opportunity. use it.”

“they’ve taken my position already. they can do nothing more. this hearing is a farce, and you know it.”

constance smooths the wrinkles of her dressing gown and flicks away a spot of imaginary dust as she shrugs. “prides goeth before the fall. remember that come thursday.” she rises. “you have the chance to keep her, gwilym. she turns twenty next month and will graduate in a fortnight. even if you leave snowshill together, will you be able to live with yourself knowing you did not defend her honor before the people who know her best? sleep on that, won’t you?”

she exits the room before he can respond, and he falls asleep to growing pit of desperation in his stomach.

there’s a ping against his window some time late wednesday night. it startles him out of his uneasy sleep, and he sits up, rubbing his eyes. when it happens again, he turns to look out the window over his head. nothing but the black, starless night sky and open meadow beyond constance’s gardens. he huffs. perhaps it had been a bird or—

another ping.

teeth gritted, gwilym flings his window open and peers into the darkness, straining his eyes to see. what he doesn’t see, he hears, despite his deafness.

“gwilym!” the whisper is harsh and frantic, but a beautiful melody nonetheless. somewhere in the darkness, you stand, looking up at him. “gwilym, come down here!”

he doesn’t need to be told twice.

forgoing his shoes, he tumbles down the stairs and into the back garden. the night is brisk, chilly, a precursor of what is to come at dawn. he finds you in the darkness, or maybe you find him, but you’re there, in his arms, and that’s all that matters. you cling to him, your hands fisted in his bedshirt, ear pressed against his chest. he hasn’t seen you since maryanne revealed your relationship to the world; you feel like heaven amidst hell.

“i don’t have much time,” you whisper. “mrs. coulder is at the farm, watching over me to make sure i don’t come to find you.”

gwilym draws back. he holds your face in his hands and is struck by how large his palms are against the side of your head. your hair feels soft under his shaking fingers. the tremor is back; it has been since his world collapsed. 

“are you alright? have they done anything to you?”

“i’m fine. the vicar questioned me yesterday, tried to make me confess that you’d pressured me into being with you, but i only told the truth.”

“the fucker,” he mutters. “i’m sorry you had to do that. the blame lies entirely with me.”

“don’t worry about me. you have to speak before everyone tomorrow.”

“and it’ll be fine.”

“will it?” tears sparkle in your eyes as you look up at him. “no one will accept us even if—”

he silences you with a kiss to the forehead. “hush, [y/n]. whatever happens will happen. so long as you are well cared for, it will all be fine.”

“you sound as if you’re prepared to go away.”

“if they ask me—”

“gwilym, you promised you wouldn’t leave.”

he looks down at you. god, he loves you. with every fiber of his being, he longs to make you his. but he’s reminded of constance’s story every time he thinks of you now, and he’s been imagining a new sort of life by your side. one filled with dirty looks and whispers around every corner; of evenings alone, no friends to call on, no family to worry over; of a job in a far off village which takes him on the road and leaves you to yourself in that overly large farmhouse; friendless children; lonely in old age.

can he subject you to such a life? a life so similar to the one you’d pulled him from? he’s not sure he can—and he’s begun to wonder if constance’s xavier did the right thing by leaving her, by giving her a second chance.

“i know i did,” he finally says.

“then why are you talking like this? like you want to go?”

he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip and feels his gut wrench. “that’s the last thing i want.”

you chin quivers beneath his fingers, and he removes his hand from your face. “then tell me what it is you’re planning to do. please, gwilym. don’t you owe me that?”

in lieu of answering you, he wraps his arms around your back, lifting you so your feet merely brush the carpet of grass. he kisses you softly, savoring the touch and tucking it away in his heart for a future moment. he wants to memorize the map of your skin beneath his fingers and the feel of your mouth on his. he wants to commit the smell of your hair and the contours of your body and the feeling of love that crashes over him to memory. he’s not sure if he’ll have a moment like this again, so he prolongs the touch until he can barely breathe. he returns you to solid ground and pulls away.

“gwilym—” you’re crying, and he wonders how he didn’t taste your tears.

“don’t come tomorrow. i don’t want you to hear what they say.”

you set your jaw. “i’ll be there. i won’t leave you.”

he knows you’re bating him to reveal his plan, but he won’t. until his dying day, he will protect you from harm. tonight, he must protect you from himself.

because he can’t help it, he grabs your elbow and pulls you in for a last bruising kiss. you circle your arms around his neck and cling to him, even as he tries to pull away.

“let me go, [y/n],” he whispers. 

you hold tighter, your eyes screwed shut as you shake your head. “no.”

“let me go, angel.” with some amount of effort, he pries you from his body. a rush of cold fills the spot where you’d stood, pressed against him. 

he turns away, returning to the cottage, but not before he sees you hide your face behind your hands and hears you sob softly into the darkness.

you arrive at the hearing dressed in red. the sight of you flanked by your grandfather, wearing your boldest, brightest red dress, almost makes him laugh. you’re nothing if not brave. 

standing in the doorway of the church, you survey the room, which is full to bursting. everyone has turned out for the event of the year, and the air is hot with sweat and summer and scandal. when your eyes meet his from across the room, he can’t help but offer a smile. you smile in return, and the softness around your eyes is a balm to his soul. you point to an empty pew in the back of the hall and take your seat. though your face is obscured, he can make out the shoulders of your bright dress from his place in a chair on the dais. 

he sits before the entirety of snowshill, the weight of the world pressed down on his shoulders. he feels close to vomiting, but he knows what he must do. he’s ready.

when the vicar begins the proceedings, outlining your entire affair in torrid detail, gwilym keeps his face set firm. his hand bunches the fabric at his thighs and his teeth press against his tongue but he’s calm to the untrained eye. it’s only when the vicar asks him to say his piece that his facade begins to crumble.

he stands too rapidly, and his chair crashes to the floor. he leaves it lying against the cobblestone. he opens his mouth and releases a squeak. heat rushes up the back of his neck, and he clears his throat. from her place in the front pew, constance leans forward, her brows knit tight in concern. his gaze skips to you and, standing now, he can see your face. 

you’re beautiful.

gwilym opens his mouth to speak. “everything you have said about me here today is true, vicar.” there’s a muffled gasp throughout the crowd, but he continues. “i did enjoy an illicit affair with my own pupil and, though i admit i should have perhaps waited to court the girl in question until after her graduation, i will not concede that what we did was wrong.”

the vicar’s hands curl around the pulpit, his face ashen. “have you no shame, sir?” 

“no shame in partaking in what the lord intended us for: communion and fellowship with one another.”

“how dare you!”

gwilym ignores him and returns his eyes to yours amidst the crowd. “if i am guilty of anything, i am guilty of doing as the lord commands us: loving my fellow man—or, in this case, woman. the greatest of these is love, i believe, yes? so yes, i am guilty, but guilty only of loving a woman whole-heartedly.” he pauses and feels the overwhelming urge to laugh bubble in his chest. “i love you, [y/n], and that is the truth. if that is my crime, i will bear it with honor.” 

tears blur his vision as he extends his hand to you. a beat of silence and then—

you stand, your red dress a spotlight among the sea of browns and greens and grays. you step into the aisle, smile, and he notes as you walk forward that his hand does not shake as he waits for you to reach his side.

[ktheist]

eleven.

chapters:   10 / 11 / 12 

knight!jungkook x princess!reader

x

The seat at the end of the table where the King sits and the one on its left where the Queen sits being empty was not odd. Nor was Taehyung smirking at you when you entered with your maid trailing behind you without your knight. Now that is odd - the lack of Jungkook by your side.

He does that back home but not here. He never once left your side since you came here. His presence has been your beacon of strength through out this ordeal and you thought it would be for a long time coming.

But then, the sun begins to set and night casts it shadows upon the alien kingdom you’ve been forced to call your new home and your knight is still absent. 

“Your highness, may I suggest calling it a night?” The inquiry from Lord Park breaks you out of your reverie and brings you back to the wetness you feel on your smallest finger where the ink has blotched the proposal letter for the King pertaining the negotiations with the mountain people. 

In no time, you jump to your feet, grabbing hold of the napkin you carry around and trying your best to wipe the extra ink away only to make the area of the ink stain worsen and render the words around it unreadable.

“Oh, I’m dearly sorry!”

“I’m sorry, your highness, perhaps I’ve kept you for too long with the wedding barely over and you only beginning to settle in, jumping straight into work would be quite taxing for myself as well.” The noble’s smile is warm and assuring as he gestures for the footman standing by to take away the ink and feather before you tear the poor thing into half.

“It’s... not that.” You fall back into the leather chair with a thump, not understanding why you trust him so much that when he nods for you to continue, you do just that, “Jungkook, I mean, Sir Jeon... my knight, I haven’t seen him all day and it’s quite... odd for him to be missing when he has one job which is to well, protect me.”

“What is it?” You question when he looks like he’s about to say something, only to have him recline with care which is unusual for someone who speaks his mind and still manages to be pick his words wisely.

“I shouldn’t...”

“My lord, we’ve spent hours discussing more urgent matters, I would appreciate some non-political advice for once.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, your highness but he swore his allegiance to the crown and you’re married to Prince Taehyung... wouldn’t that mean, his allegiance falls on your brother, the soon-to-be King of Northern Kingdom?”

“Well, yes.” You try not to show the hurt on your face, “But there would - should - be a notice sent to me by the palace calling him back to his post...”

“A letter did come from the Northern Kingdom a couple days ago and was directed to the Crown Prince right away, maybe he didn’t want to worry you and informed Sir Jeon of his relief from his current post...” Lord Park looks at you meaningfully before shaking his head with a smile which only screams pity, “sometimes, one mistakes another’s rank for his loyalty.”

It takes a good half an hour after Lord Park bids his good night before you gather the strength to stand up and make your way to your bedroom. And even when you’re bathed and ready for bed, there’s a sort of restlessness in your chest that makes you toss and turn in your bed. It can’t be helped that your maid may find the bed empty and unmade at dawn when she comes to prepare you for the day. That is, if you didn’t manage to find your way to your room as you tip-toe down the hall and hide behind a wall when the patrolling guards pass by.

The sneaking out and hiding feels all too familiar except the ground is colder and the scent of roses is replaced with viscous smell of torches.

You’re about to reach the room at the end of the hall where Jungkook described his chambers to be at when you almost bump into a bare chest and a body that’s barely covered by a night robe. If you hadn't looked up to meet a pair of familiar smirking lips, you would have shamelessly gawked at this magnificent sculpture of a man.

“My, my, what do we have here,” he drawls as though he’s found a rabbit who strayed too far from her hole, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were looking for me.”

It takes you half a minute to find your voice and even then, you still curse yourself for sounding less poised than you would like it, “I-uh, I was thirsty and unlike you, I would rather not bother my maid because I know she’d be tired of putting up with my unbearable self the whole day already.”

“Glad that we agree on you being an unbearable wench.” His smirk only grows as though he’s won something.

“By ‘me’, I meant you.” Hands your hips, you forget that you’re donned in nothing but your peignoir and while squaring your shoulders has made you appear bolder, so do your cleavage.

Taehyung’s eyes lingers on your bosom for a brief moment which is enough for your to realize your mistake and immediately cross your arms over your chest. He clears his throat, intent on looking at the torch by your head rather than your face.

“In any case, do summon your maid when you get thirsty or hungry. It’s their job to cater to your unbelievably insatiable stomach.” The insult in his words feels forced as though he doesn’t really mean it but you brush the thought off as you take a brave step forward.

“I know my brother sent me a letter a few days ago.”

“What let-”

“Which he would never and the only explanation is, you’ve been keeping the letters addressed to me to yourself.” His facial expression is getting scrunched up by the second as though he’s completely and utterly lost, oh, but you know better than to believe that, “I know you may have gone through each one just to make sure we’re not planning a secret attack or something but the matter concerning my knight has nothing to do with your kingdom’s security and should be handled by his highness, Prince Seokjin and I!”

“Ah,” a smile curls on his lips at the mention of Jungkook and you can almost see the screws turning in his little head, “it’s always the knight that gets you so worked up, isn’t it?”

His chest brushes against your crossed arms and you try your hardest not to so much as blink in the face of the devil.

“It would be an insult for us to have that scoundrel of a knight walking around in your family emblem when you’re married and devoted to the Southern Kingdom. As though our own knights can’t protect the pretty little princess’ head.” It doesn’t help that he’s taller than you, giving him the advantage to quite literally look down on you with that wretched smirk, “Think of it as a favor I did for you. No knight, no distrust and no nobles to bring up the matter in the next meeting.”

Before you manage to get a word out, the doors to his chambers shut close with a sharp thud. All that’s left is you and your thoughts which at the present, is a jumbled up mess of anger, sadness, distress and confusion. The worse thing is, Jungkook might have left willingly because of you.

x

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[honestsycrets]

His Fuck

❛ pairing | modern!hvit x reader

❛ type | oneshot

❛ summary | reader catches hvitserk talking pretty to another girl. when she runs away, he suprisingly follows.

❛  warnings | fuck buddies, open relationships (kinda), jealousy, chasing, bad hvit, fuckboy hvit

❛ sy’s notes | written for @geekandbooknerd (its not letting me tag her)’s man crush may. @cris101071 wasn’t able to do a few prompts this go around so I added them into mine after talking to her about a confusion I had. 

❛ prompts | “Did you mean the things you said?” + “We’re… just friends.” + “Youre so hot when youre mad” + “It was you the whole time” + “I still remember how you taste”

Your flats hit the fake, beige tile of the floors of your university hard. Clicking up from the first floor to the steps, you might have heard the squick of his boots in hot pursuit. In situations like this, you’re that much more grateful for the elastic strap across your foot. However, the only thought on your mind were the words. Those god awful words that made your stomach churn into a wretched despair.

We’re just friends, he said. Your eyes squeeze together, shutting in the tears. You don’t want them to wet those cute little falsies that your brother had bought you for your birthday or run the slick eyeliner that flicked off your eyelid.

“Baby girl-- come back,” he’s undoubtedly skidding to a stop just at the base of the staircase, trying to find the sight of your cute dark red skirt puffing in the wind you caused by running up the stairs. “Son of a bitch.”

His voice is breathless. Perhaps he was chasing you since the incident at the student union where you had seen him. You breach the base of the forth floor, flinging the door separating the stairs from a placid, wide hallway. Instead of walking down another flight of stairs, you turn into the bathroom on your heels. The back of your feet are raw with the friction of the back of the flat grinding, skin sloughed off and likely raw. They’re ready to blister.

It’s one of your last concerns. First and foremost, you take a napkin from the dispenser and urge it against your eyelids, drying up the tears over your cheeks, lightly dusted with a champagne highlighter to compliment your make up.

As you stand over the countertop with sectioned off sinks, you remind yourself over and over. He’s just a boy. There are plenty of boys in the world. That one-- that one just felt like he was yours.  There’s a sudden woosh of air behind you. A loud squeak marks someone else coming in. You tense, rationalizing that it could not have been who you thought it was. This was the girl’s bathroom.

With a rush of pressure, you’re suddenly pinned between the bathroom countertop and some hips. A male, you realize. If not by the musculature, by the sensation of his cock behind lazy joggers, hardening against your silk panties. Then you remember-- Hvitserk has no shame.

“Shit, I fuckin’ forgot. You’re hot when you’re mad.” Hvitserk slurs the words, thick with his heavy accent. He leans forward against your back, his breath hot on your neck. Hvitserk’s muscular arms turn around your waist, slipping into your panties past your cute miniskirt. He palms your cunt, massaging with his whole palm.

“Stop--”

“You still mad at me baby?” he says as if it wasn’t just a few minutes ago. Fifteen, at the most. He acts as if the incident happened a month off! He glides his fingers into your folds, digits massaging until you become soaked for him. His cock grinds into your ass, rocking between the crack. Your hand drops to his thick wrist, stopping him where he is. Despite the pleasure shooting up from his fingers, you’re still upset with him.

“Why don’t you go with her?” You say, realizing that his fingers could very well be wet with the pleasure of another woman. And the other women he had before he came to you. Hvitserk bites back the grimace on his lips. Not exactly what he wanted to hear after he ditched the girl for you. “I’m just a ‘side dish,’ aren’t I?”

So maybe he said that.

“I didn’ mean that.” Hvitserk husks in your ear, thick with his foreign tongue. Since he came here, you had been his top fuck. He had twins, that cute little mixed Arab girl with a gorgeous face and a deliciously plump body, the Mexican girl he mostly… could never understand-- and you.

“Did you mean the things you said?” you ask while tightening your hand on his wrist.

“Jus’ a little fuck baby. She’s nothin’ special. It was you the whole time.”

Even as he says that, you have a hard time believing it. It could be the exact same thing that he told Alejandra or Samia and… Hvitserk’s lips connect with the side of your neck, puffing his words in barely so much as a moan. You exult in his next words, damning yourself for doing so.

“I still remember how you taste.” His fingers sway over your cunt once again, letting so much as his middle finger dip into your sweet hole. You gasp out once he pushes fully to the last knuckle, flicking his finger forward and back.

“Hvitserk…”

He has you. He knows it. He can just feel it. Hvitserk stretches you around his fingers once more, looking over his shoulder. No one is around. No one would be around. They would all be at the game, even those useless ass university guards. He withdraws his fingers, turning you around and lifting you up onto the black countertop. Hvitserk knocks open your legs, dragging your hips to the edge. With your back against the cold mirror, you support yourself from sliding off by pushing your hand across the pocky surface of the wall.

“Spread them.” Hvitserk commands while getting down onto his knees. The floor is filthy. So what? He wasn’t going to worry about it when he had some Grade A pussy looking to be harvested. His hand snakes into his joggers, delighting in his victory when you shyly part your legs. His cock twitches in the cool air, and playfully he gives it a sparse few jerks before leaning in.

His fingers hook at the side of your panties, dragging them over your ass and down your smooth legs. He could care less where they ended up after that. For the time being, he’s been forgiven. It won’t last, he knows, but he’ll take it for now. One of his hands snake around the root of his cock, jerking himself lazily to maintain his arousal.

Hvitserk’s mouth is on you in seconds, his familiar loud slurping leaves your eyes tight. It’s familiar, the way he eats of you, wet kisses encompassing the outside of your cunt up until he finds your clit, hidden away like the little prize it was. You flinch, expecting the worship of a prince toward his princess, but Hvitserk suckles it between your lips. Then, with a swish of his teeth, he gives a playful nip to your skin.

Your knees knock together against his head, finding you can’t stop him from doing just what he wants. Deliciously pointless. To your relief, his tongue sways its way back down your core. Despite your face now grinding up against his, he slips the tip of his tongue against your entrance and glances up, hoping to catch the range of emotion spreading across your face.

“Please--” You find yourself aching with your need to cum over his face, nudging him with your needy legs back up. Hvitserk lifts his head, a few stray pieces of his honey coloured hair having fallen out of his bun in his run. A hand leaves the wall and you pull him forward by his bun. “Finish me off.”

Your whining reaches his ears. He lifts his head, rolling his wet lips into his mouth as if he had just eaten a delicious popsicle. Then turning his head, he nips your inner thighs.

“Lemme finish eatin’.” He commands, licking his way up your core. He deliberately avoids your clit, and you whine, kicking off the panties hanging from your ankle. A wily hiss falls from your lips. Not good enough--

“Then… then finger fuck me.”

Fuck, Hvitserk’s hips rut into the nothingness of air. If only there were two of you, that would be perfect. To quell your complaints, he coats a finger in your slick, rolling to coat it. It glides smoothly inside your walls-- and to hell with whatever women he had before. For now, right here, he was yours.

He presses them deep, curling them as he beckons them back out. Your feel yourself tightening, denying yourself the jerking motion that you so desire. Everything is throbbing from your toes to your fingers, but most of all, your core clenches. A wet gush spills from your cunt and greedy Hvitserk follows the source, licking over your entrance and his own moistened fingers for every last drop.

“More--” He lifts his hand from his cock toward your clit, grinding his thumb over your clit over and over until your eyes are seeing nothing at all. Not the nasty stalls or the little girl with a poofy ponytail that peeps and dashes away. Only the motion of his thumb massaging you to a finish, blinded by a hard force and a familiar tinkle of fluids dribbling between your cheeks. He draws his fingers out when you come to your right mind, focused upon the light drip of fluid over the countertop.

“Fuckin’ shit.” Hvitserk mumbles, popping his drenched fingers free. His neat bun is wrecked by your pawing motion at his head. Strands of his long hair flop down his back. Hvitserk staggers to stand, nudging you with the underside of his shaft. He grasps the root, slapping your oversensitive cunt with his arousal.

“Think you can take more?”

You nod, shifting off the countertop and turning around. Hvitserk lazily grips your hip with one hand, bending his knees so that he might have a perfect thrust. He pumps himself forward in one smooth thrust.

“Ngh,” you gasp, turning your head up to him. “As long as its you.”

“Tha’s what I like to hear.”

Because after all, Hvitserk didn’t share.

@two-unbeatable-beaters, @igetcarriedawaywithyou, @kylobien, @titty-teetee, @breathlessouls, @nejijjeoroo, @bcat1291, @readsalot73, @mslothbrok (no mix), @romanchronicles, @captstefanbrandt, @ailucascen, @michaeliskindahot, @naaladareia, @cbouvier23, @the-geeky-engineer, @dorned, @lisinfleur, @tephi101, @akamaiden, @ethereallysimple, @venusloviing, @happylittlepuppydog, @beyond-the-ashes, @slutforrpg, @hipsternoionlylikeunicorns, @mixedwiththemoon, @sparklemichele, @alicedopey, @lif3snotouttogetyou, @rubyquartzshades, @noregretsandyeteveryregret, @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol, @deathbyarabbit, @unacceptabletatertots, @beyond-the-ashes (no sig), @babypink224221, @titty-teetee, @ivarandersen, @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla, @moose-squirrel-asstiel, @icarus-fell-in-spring, @piebytheocean, @strangunddurm,, @rekdreams247, @justacrush, @ivarswonderlust, @peachesnpisces, @elenawrit, @equalstrashflavoredtrash, @roxxck, @dylanowhyyien, @ilvebeenabad, @vikingsmania, @huntingbears, @my-little-wolfe, @seize-the-droid, @moondustmemories, @colourmeinblue, @ilvebeenabad, @queenmissfit,  @hallowed-heathen, @neeadinghugs, @mblaqgi, , @triumphantreturnofpies, @dmv49, @attorneyl, @iconicvaleria-blog, @lovelynerdytraveler, @tierneygonzalez, @zabee113, @meganjudee, @sdcyumyum, @ms-allenbrown, @pancake-blonde, @ivarswickedqueen, @starkiddreamer, @austenkingmylady,@pinkrockstar19, @jeowjungkook, @end-of-night, @yaminax-kuss-a , @gruffle1, @arses21434@natalie-rdr, @tempt-ress, @thevikingsheaux, @poisonedjoinery, @smokealone, @chewythecatus, @laughinglikenialler, @lefrenchfrye, @mybarnesmyhero, @vengefulflange, @imcreepininyourheartbabe, @therealmrshale, @that-goodgirl, @supernaturalvikingwhore, @athroatfullofglass, @x-valhalla @dreaming-of-never-neverland @igetcarriedawaywithyou, @kylobien, @titty-teetee, @breathlessouls, @nejijjeoroo, @bcat1291, @readsalot73, @mslothbrok, @captstefanbrandt, @ailucascen, @michaeliskindahot, @cbouvier23, @naaladareia, @cbouvier23, @the-geeky-engineer, @lisinfleur,  @tephi101, @akamaiden, @ethereallysimple, @venusloviing, @happylittlepuppydog, @beyond-the-ashes, @slutforrpg, @sparklemichele, @alicedopey, @lif3snotouttogetyou, @noregretsandyeteveryregret, @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol, @deathbyarabbit, @unacceptabletatertots, @beyond-the-ashes (no sig), @babypink224221, @ivarandersen, @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla, @moose-squirrel-asstiel, @icarus-fell-in-spring, @end-of-night, @gruffle1, @lol-haha-joke @arses21434,  @smileyparrots, @miss-artemis-wild, @two-unbeatable-beaters, @wonderwoman292, @wish-i-was-a-mermaid, @killerb00sdeath, @heartbeats-wildly, @boo20017, @acacheofstrange, @shaelyn102,  @smokealone, @shaelyn102 @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly--canthrope @cris101071 @daughterofthenight117 @unassumingviking @ladyofsoa, @inforapound @winchesterwife27

[neo-culture-taste]

Loosen Your Tie, Doyoung

Genre: AU, college, frat life, comedy, romance

Pairing: Doyoung X Fem (w/ the lovely appearance of fuccboi Yuta)

Rating: M for language, suggestive themes

Word Count: 9100+

Summary: He was an uptight nerd that just wanted to relax after taking his exams, but the universe had something more eventful planned for this particular evening.

Masterlist in blog description @neo-culture-taste.

Author’s note: A year ago Nctzens were given the gift that was NCT 2018 and with that gift came Doyoung’s teaser photo with him donning a blazer and tie. That one photo caused my creative juices to flow and thus this oneshot was born—an entire year ago. So a whole year later and a few tweaks here it is. Enjoy! - C

P.S - my imagination was running rampant when I first wrote this so 🤷🏽‍♀ 

“You have five minutes left.”

He flinched at the sudden tickle of the proctor’s words against his skin as he whispered into his ear. Doyoung absentmindedly nodded in agreement forcing down a scowl at the interruption of re-re-re-reviewing his physics based calculus midterm exam for the fourth time.

He absolutely hated computer-based exams. He had written several letters to the head of the physics department pleading that they change their decision on computer-based tests, citing that difficult mathematical exams of this magnitude would be more beneficial if the professors were present for any questions the student(s) may have. Not to mention the wrong numerical typo could be the decision between an A or D, and unfortunately Doyoung had witnessed that first hand amongst he and his classmates. It was a depressing sight to see aspiring engineers momentarily yanking their hairs out in fear of failing an exam thanks to one little, measly typo.

At first his letters fell on deaf ears until he became a class representative for his major on the student council. He was tired of seeing his classmates struggle and tired of having to visit his professor after each exam on the basis of a typo in order to raise his 93% A to a 100% A+. The department heads had no choice but to listen to the pleas of both Doyoung and his fellow students after a lengthy, yet informative presentation to the entire department.

After reaching the final question on what would be his last computer based physics exam of the semester, Doyoung took a deep breath and hovered the mouse over the submit button. The computer would automatically score his test once the time went down whether he was ready to see his grade or not; so deciding to bite the bullet, he closed his eyes and hit submit only waiting a few seconds before opening his eyes.

A beautiful 15 out of 15, 100% A+ graced the liquid crystal display, and a large smile fanned over Doyoung’s face as he released the breath he didn’t know he was holding. Unfortunately, the wretched garlic breath of the proctor finally infiltrated his senses despite occurring five minutes prior. That was just how focused he was.

Doyoung exited the exam’s browser and reached for his backpack underneath his chair, careful not to disturb the other students. With a bounce in his step he made way for the quad, stopping momentarily to do a celebratory twirl in the middle of the hallway and then popping in his earbuds. He had aced all of his midterms and could finally relax and take full advantage of a well-deserved break.

The sun was shining as brightly as ever casting shadows on students spread throughout the quad. Some were furiously doing last minute cramming, while others cried oceans of tears over their unsuccessful attempts at cramming, and others mirrored Doyoung and radiated the same exam-passing glow.

Feeling starved after supplying the neurons in his brain with enough glucose to ace his exam, Doyoung decided to make a quick turnaround in the quad and head towards the dining hall. Upon entering the cafeteria, he swiped his meal card before quickly reveling in the realization that today was Pizza Friday.

He grabbed a plate from the counter and loaded it with four slices of pizza before moving to the fruit counter to grab some watermelon. Once he was finished, he noticed that his favorite booth in the back corner of the dining hall was free, prompting him to maneuver his way towards it. He carefully placed his plates on the table and threw his backpack in the other side of the booth before realizing he was missing a nice, cold beverage to accompany his lunch.

He made his way to the drink counter which was only a couple feet away, filling two plastic cups with soda so he didn’t have to get up and get more later. Once finished, he made way toward his booth, the music in his ears keeping him walking at a steady beat, but also prompting him to do another victory spin.

However, his twirl unfortunately did not come to completion because he felt the sudden collision of his hands against another object. Despite the heavy base rippling through his ear canal, he heard the spine-chilling shriek erupting from the human body directly in front of him; the contents of both his glasses inappropriately bathing the front of her blouse. He quickly popped out the ear buds form his ears, a flurry of apologies falling from his lips--some coherent and some barely even a language.

He looked down at the ruined white blouse before him in dismay. The palms of the soda soaked girl were turned upward as if she had absolutely no idea how to move on from this situation that could have been avoided. And the longer she stood in front of Doyoung, the quicker the liquid spread across her blouse, finding a comfortable fiber to soak into all while revealing a baby blue lace tank top underneath that clung to the curvature of her bosom. To make matters worse, the liquid had trickled down the front of her skirt and down her legs, causing Doyoung to give her an unintentional once over. Once his eyes returned upward, she served him expressions of both shock and lividness to say the least.

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you-“ He said quickly setting down his now empty glasses in order to grab napkins to help her. With a bit too much force, she yanked the napkins from his hands and began aggressively patting her chest. He felt bad. But not bad enough to dampen his post test high. Ain’t nobody would be fucking with his post test high. “I can go ask for a towel-“

“Ew. A dirty dishrag? Don’t worry about it. I live in the dorm next door. But watch where you’re twirling next time, you fake ass ballerina.” The girl abruptly threw her damp napkins on the table, her neck tinged with a rosy shade from anger and embarrassment before quickly scurrying away.

Doyoung hung his head low and turned back to his table picking up the wet napkins in disgust, as she had thrown them on his Friday pizza and watermelon.  It was an accident for goodness sake, but she didn’t have to be so rude about it either, Doyoung thought. He tried to apologize! And that was one of the reasons why he kept to himself most times and disliked significant amounts of human interaction. Someone was always bound to piss him off.

"If you're just going to sit there and mean mug your plate, then why not give me what's on it.”

Speaking of someone always pissing him off, Doyoung looked up from the table as he was pulled away from glaring at his pizza by the voice of the ultimate pain in the ass of his life: Nakamoto Yuta.

“Shake it off, bro. A little wet pepperoni never killed anybody,” said Yuta has he grabbed a slice of pizza from Doyoung’s plate and shook it from side to side before sitting across from him. Yuta was one of Doyoung’s few close friends and the use of the word “friend” to describe Yuta was oftentimes inaccurate.

Continuing to munch on Doyoung’s pizza, he chuckled. “I saw what happened, dude. Smooth move! When I suggested you should get a girl wet after midterms I didn’t mean like that.” Yuta was the last person Doyoung wanted to see his blunder with the opposite sex. Whenever hilarious, embarrassing, or social status dampening events occurred, Yuta was like the appointed historian to always make people remember times they wished hadn’t even occurred.

Doyoung sent Yuta a death glare but it only resulted in more loud chuckling from his friend. It really was times like these that Doyoung questioned why he had continued to keep Yuta around after entering university. He didn’t take his studies seriously like Doyoung, despite being at the university on a soccer scholarship where he needed to keep his marks up. He also had proved to be unreliable, as on countless occasions he flaked on hanging out because he said he “needed to give thanks to mother nature for the cosmic gift she had bestowed upon man in the form of female orgasms” through numerous trysts with the university’s cheerleaders. One would assume that someone who only wanted to climb the social ladder, attend the best college parties, and drink until he was ass-backwards or passed out (if it was the off season) would have already left a hardworking nerd, who desperately wanted to become an engineer. Alas...he didn’t. The two of them were like night and day, yet they just couldn’t be one without the other.

Despite being a huge nuisance to his nerves, Yuta did however possess the minimal characteristics of what Doyoung would qualify the use of the “friend” title. Sometimes. He was an asshole but he was an asshole that looked out for Doyoung and was always there to lend a helping hand, albeit it oftentimes led to more harm than good whenever Yuta inserted himself in a situation. But his intentions were in the right place and the situations would eventually work themselves out. All in all, there was some use to keeping Yuta around. And it wasn't all one big headache. They had fun a lot of the time, too.

Defeated, Doyoung picked up one of his slices that hadn’t been tormented by the wet paper. “Why are you here, Yuta? Shouldn’t you still be in a midterm or something?”

Yuta sighed. “I just finished up, actually. It was an oral final, but it didn’t last that long.” He shrugged his shoulders with disinterest.

“You waited until the last minute to come up with what you were going to say, didn’t you?” questioned Doyoung innocently wiping some pizza sauce from the corner of his mouth.

Yuta cocked his head to the side and looked at Doyoung somewhat disappointedly. “No, no. I went prepared. I could have tongued a few more sentences if she would have let me. But she grabbed the back of my hair too roughly, and then she came all over my tongue, but was too stimulated to con-“

Doyoung choked for obvious reason. “Yuta!” He reached for one of his glasses only to realize it was empty and quickly remembered the accident with the girl that had happened a few minutes prior.

“What?” asked Yuta nonchalantly.

“I’m eating! And it’s pizza day!” He was accustomed to his friend being lewd at all hours of the day and normally it wouldn't phase him, but he had been caught off guard this time.

“And I got an A! What’s the problem?!” Yuta reached in his backpack for his water bottle and tossed it towards Doyoung who was still coughing over loose pizza crust.

Taking a long ass swig, Doyoung gave Yuta a pointed look before harshly whispering. “You had relations with your professor?! Do you know how much trouble you would be in with the university if anyone found out? Not to mention you would probably get kicked off the team and consequently kicked out of school!”

Yuta did a dramatic neck and eye roll at his friend across the table. “Sometimes...I want to twist the stick that’s shoved so far up your ass and make you mellow out.”

“You and everyone else,” muttered Doyoung as he stared incredulously at the idiot.

“I’m in college, dude,” continued Yuta. “I’m allowed to fuck up.  And if you must know I did do my presentation in class and earned my A the right way. I just…had more things to say that wasn’t able to fit within the time limit. And I had already requested an appointment for office hours beforehand and this chemistry had been brewing between us since the beginning of the semester. So one thing led to another and--“

“Yuta, fuck off,” said Doyoung, his tolerance wearing thin. “Between you and that girl I just ran into, the both of you have tried my patience today. I aced all my midterms and I just want to be left alone to recuperate.”

“Now you know how I feel having a friend that only wants to study all day! You’re always so serious. Once we graduate you will regret not having as much or more fun as I’m having. You need to loosen your tie, Doyoung, and liiiive~. The books will always be there but your youth won’t. Get this pussy now and get the money later!"

Now it was Doyoung's turn to cock his head to the side as he absentmindedly forked his watermelon. “Do you ever think about what you say before you say it, Yuta? Do you ever realize what kind of idiotic logic you’re spewing?”

“It’s not idiotic. It’s fact. Now moving on to the real reason I interrupted your lonely ass pizza day.” He shoved a neon green flyer adorned with terrible font towards Doyoung’s side of the table. “I’m throwing my first official party tonight at the frat house. You had been ignoring my texts all week because you were studying or whatever it is you do when you read a book and make flashcards. So now I’m reminding you in the flesh. I’m treating this party as if it is my first kid. If it’s successful, I know I can bang out a few more. So I need you to come out and support me like the true friend I know that you are.” Yuta batted his eyelashes at Doyoung who merely pushed his plate away, his appetite clearly vanishing.

“Yuta, I hate parties and all that encompasses them. And as a true friend you would already know this.” He slid the flyer back towards Yuta and reached for his backpack.

“Doyoung, please. You haven’t been to a party in the three years that we’ve been here and you literally have nothing exciting planned for tonight, and I know because you're you and you never really do anything besides…doing nothing.”

Doyoung scoffed and stood up, partly because he was annoyed and partly because Yuta was correct with his assumption. He was indeed going home to do nothing exciting in particular, but at least he wouldn’t be surrounded by wasted young adults who just wanted to fuck each other and adults that couldn’t take the hint and graduate already because they were scared of adult responsibilities.

“C’mon, dude!” Yuta stood up to stand eye level with his basic ass friend. “I really need you to be there.”

“Why?”

Yuta ran his hands down his face before calmly placing his hands on his hips. “The only way I can strip this one girl and bathe in her cosmic essence—with her permission of course—is if you come to the party and…y’know, hang out with her friend. Who, by the way, thinks you’re really attractive for some reason. I think she likes the way your tie is tightly wound around your neck like it’s choking you, but you find a way to sexily breathe through it. And that any minute you’ll rip it off and bind her wrists or blindfold her or some shit. I don't know. Girls are weird. But she likes you, man! She just wants to make sure your stuck up façade and actual personality aren’t synonymous. And if you don’t hit it off with her, there will be plenty of other girls you can-- ”

“No, Yuta. I will not babysit your potential fuck’s bestie so she can relieve her kinky fantasies and gossip to her friends saying, ‘Girls, he may look like a cute little bunny, but he fucks like a wild tiger that was just begging to be tamed.’” Yuta scrunched up his nose at the high pitched voice Doyoung put on to mimic a girl, and also because he had a hard time comprehending why Doyoung would compare himself to a giant jungle cat in bed. “Nor will I accidentally wind up in some room with some cute girl only to find out she was using me to make her jock boyfriend jealous.”

“DUDE, THAT WAS FIVE YEARS AGO IN HIGH SCHOOL!” Yuta exclaimed, exasperated that his friend was still bitter after all this time. “You gotta let that shit go! I told you not to go upstairs with her. And we need to revisit how you think you’re good in bed when you’ve only slept with like, one person.”

“No, Yuta. Leave me alone. Have fun at your party.” Doyoung curtly walked off and left Yuta standing there at the booth with his flyer crumpled angrily in his fist.

I’m not that stuck up, am I?, thought Doyoung as he left his friend in the dining hall. But he shrugged away the notion and continued to walk toward his apartment.

~~~

The cacophonous soundtrack that played on Doyoung’s laptop signaled yet another end credit scene for one of his favorite tv shows that he promised he would binge after midterms. More like the show was watching him as Doyoung had long casted aside his laptop and curled into the fetal position, sleep having grabbed him no more than ten minutes after he had returned to his apartment. His roommate, Winwin, hadn’t been home, serving as the perfect time to just relax alone.

The only thing that had managed to break him from his snooze cruise was the blatant disrespect of his cell phone ringing obnoxiously loud next to his ear. He quickly stirred and sat up looking at his phone in disgust as the words YUTA YUTA YUTA flashed across the screen. He begrudgingly answered deciding to be rude and not even say hello.

“Hello? Hello?” Asked Yuta whose voice was a bit drowned out thanks to the blaring EDM in the background. “Doyoung?!”

“Yuta! I didn’t change my mind about coming to the party!” Yelled Doyoung because he was pissed off and cranky.

“I know! But Winwin, ugh! Some clown from that BBX frat dared Winwin to keg stand and now your poor roommate is drunk off his mother fucking rocker! I told him not to do it, but he acted like he had something to prove and now he’s shitfaced, dude.”

Doyoung slapped his face and dragged his hand downward. “So, what are you asking me, Yuta? You’re his friend too and more than capable of-”

“Oh, shit! Winwin, that’s fucking disgusting!” Cried Yuta and interrupting Doyoung. “Quick, Kun, let’s take him to the bathroom. Here, Lucas. Talk to Doyoung.”

Doyoung heard the rustling of the phone being passed around through the receiver before a gruff voice spoke. “Hey, man! I’m sad you’re not here but I shall pour you one in your honor...and then not drink it because Taeyong won’t let me.”

“Thanks, Lucas. And you’re under the legal age to drink anyway.”

“Yeah but, I wanna keg stand, too!”

The thought of lil’ baby Lucas acting a fool and puking his brains out like the rest of his friends moved Doyoung enough to decide and go save his roommate. “It’s not worth it, dude. Tell Yuta I’m on my way.” He jumped from his bed and grabbed his keys before heading to the EXT frat house.

The walk to the frat house from his apartment was about eight minutes and twenty seconds. A time Doyoung remembered from several nightly trips when Yuta actually had time for guys night or when he needed to be saved from a girl he decided he didn’t want to sleep with after sobering up. Doyoung was always his scapegoat.

Upon arriving at the frat house, Doyoung immediately noticed all the loitering bodies of drunk college kids on the front lawn. He had to maneuver through the small sea of plastic red cups and beer bottles littered across the walkway before stopping abruptly as some guy flew across the cobblestone pavement and ran into the plastic flamingo on the lawn. “DUDEEE THAT NOSEDIVE WAS SICKK!” was heard causing Doyoung to roll his eyes and quickly make his way into the frat house. The sooner he retrieved Winwin, the faster he’d return home and relax. Well, not really. Not if he had to babysit Winwin all night and make sure he didn’t swallow his vomit and choke.

Doyoung entered the frat house and immediately noticed Lucas standing across in the foyer. He wasn’t hard to miss as he was the tallest human standing in the area with all the other new frat recruits who were tiny compared to him.

Doyoung sauntered over to Lucas who gave him a big hug causing the other recruits to disperse. Although Doyoung wasn’t in the frat, Yuta knighted him an honorary member, meaning no one was allowed to mess with him, yet was allowed to give him special treatment. “Bro, you made it!”

Doyoung’s face morphed into a grimace after telling Lucas he had come to get Winwin. He began to ask what bathroom in that giant frat house had Yuta dragged him to but was cut off when two tall, beautiful young ladies interrupted their conversation.

“Hey, stud? What’s your name?” Asked one of the girls, one Doyoung recognized as being the star junior of the girl’s soccer team.

Lucas quickly looked toward Doyoung as if he needed confirmation of what his name was before turning back to the girls and blushing. “I’m 20.”

Doyoung immediately hung his head low and scratched his eyebrow, rapidly giving up on humanity. He didn’t have time for this awkward shit. He had come here for one reason and one reason only, and now he felt precious time slipping away from him as he stood there fooling around with Lucas. “They asked for your name…”

“Oh, uhh. Sorry.” Said the giant baby clearing his throat. “Lucas. My name is Lucas.”

“Aw, you’re so cute and funny.” Both girls closed the space between themselves and Lucas, causing Doyoung to roll is eyes and become even more annoyed. Like, hellloooo? Were they too entranced by Lucas’ pretty face to not see him standing there having a conversation with somebody?

“Let’s go somewhere and chat for a bit?” suggested the other girl.

Lucas laughed again before his “how to be a fuccboi manual by Yuta, illustrated by Taeyong” kicked in, causing his cute smile to quickly change into a sexy smolder. His voice dropped a couple of octaves lower, which Doyoung didn’t even think was possible. “How about I meet you guys out back on the patio? I have to show my loser friend here something first.” His comment made Doyoung roll his lips into a straight line in aggravation. He knew Lucas had only said that to seem as cool as he thought he was. It was classic textbook Yuta.

“He can come, too,” said the girl eyeing Doyoung up and down. “I like them stoicc.” The annunciation she put on the last syllable was hella thicc.

“I’m sorry, ladies I’m flattered, but I'm really not interested. I have more pressing matters to attend to. Lucas. Winwin, please,” Doyoung demanded to Lucas sternly.

The girls were taken aback by the unintended harshness of Doyoung’s tone and Lucas made up for it by kindly reminding them he’d meet them soon. He lead Doyoung to one of the corridors on the other side of the frat house. There were even more bodies in this area as the pool table and other assorted games were being drunkenly utilized.

As they approached some party goers playing darts and dodging the projectiles as to not be impaled by one, Doyoung heard Yuta’s thunderous guffaw before he even saw him. Brushing past Lucas while channeling on the cackle, Doyoung spotted Yuta and grabbed his shoulder to turn him around. Before he could speak, his attention was drawn to Winwin sitting on the couch across from him, his clothes in perfect place, hair nice, and not a sign of having emptied out his entire digestive system through his mouth. If anything, he would say his roommate was simply a little buzzed. Winwin noticed him staring incredulously and gave him a sheepish smile and a wave. Doyoung was livid.

“Oh, hey~, Doyoung!” A beer in his hand, Yuta stuck his neck out to look around at his perturbed friend and pointed an accusatory finger at Lucas. “Dammit, you! You were supposed to text me when he got here!”

“Sorry, I got distracted! But I’ll be in the backyard if you need me! Bye!” rushed Lucas ready to run off to his rendezvous but was called back by Yuta.

“Oh, bro! You got distracted by some hot girls, huh?!” The knowing grin on Yuta’s face grew twice its size when Lucas nodded in affirmation. “MAH, MAN!” He went in for a high five with the taller young man, but Doyoung blocked them from coming in contact with one another by violently slapping their arms down.

“Enough! ”After using eight minutes and twenty seconds of his precious life to walk over to that frat house for what had now made itself clear as complete bullshit, Doyoung needed to get something off his chest. “Yuta. Can I speak with you in priv--” he began, but he was cut off for the second time that night.

“No, man! No more talking!” Yuta grabbed two bottles of beer from the cooler near his feet and popped them open, the noise agitating Doyoung closer to the point of no return, and shoved both bottles in his hands. “So, Winwin isn’t shitfaced and I lied. You walked into that trap on your own.”

“Yeah, and Doyoung’s the smart one,” cackled Johnny, another one of his so-called friends. He was clearly drunk, so Doyoung spared him from a possible verbal beatdown.

“But you’re here now and that’s all that matters!” continued Yuta. “There’s unlimited drinks and unlimited girls--except this one. She’s mine.” He slithered his arm around the waist of his Friday date (who had a bigger bosom than last Tuesday’s date), who Doyoung assumed was the one who’s friend wanted some facetime with him.

Upon that realization, the gears in his brain quickly switched over to escape mode. His eyes quickly glanced around the room in a small panic that he immediately realized was futile considering he had no idea what the girl looked like. Now with the sudden shift of his objective, Doyoung's top priority was to get out of there before whoever she was entered within a ten foot radius of his person.

“So, go crazy and have some fun! I’m really glad that you’re here, dude.” Yuta raised his beer up, a sly and cheeky grin plastered on his visage that Doyoung desperately wanted to punch. “To Doyoung!”

The people around responded in unison as Yuta clanked his bottle with Doyoung’s, who simply stood there in a silent rage. The aspirated sounds of quenched thirsts emanating from everyone’s throats prompted Doyoung to turn on his heels and walk out the game area. Not only did Yuta forcibly drag him to participate in an event he was clearly against from the moment the flyer was shoved in his face, he used his roommate Winwin as bait. He made a mental note to not invite Winwin shopping the next time their apartment needed groceries as payback. He then made another mental note that he was trying to punish his roommate who wouldn’t ever hurt a fly, and that wasn't something he thought he was capable of doing (purposely passive aggressively hurting Winwin, that is), which caused him to make yet another note that Yuta needed to be unfriended.

“He really likes screwing with me. He should stop harping about being my friend if he can’t under-” Doyoung’s mutterings were cut short when he felt a familiar pillowy thud hit against the back of his palm causing both bottles of beer to fly upwards before shattering on the floor. Tuning out the people around him yelling that he had just committed a party foul, his instincts immediately prepared his lips for a second set of apologizes that day as he looked to see who he had run into. Upon realization, his mouth fell open in surprise and he soon felt the front of his blazer soaking with beer.

“Why does this keep happening to me?!” She screamed. Her palms faced upwards, stuck like they were earlier in the dining hall and her expression was just as dumbfounded. “This is the second time today. First it was the fake ass ballerina and now-” She lifted your head and scoffed in absolute disbelief and possibly even a hint of disdain. “Still the fake ass ballerina. I knew I shouldn't have come here tonight. Ugh! Do you have absolutely noth--HEY! Where are you going, asshole?!”

A little ticked off by her attitude, Doyoung held up a finger signaling her to wait and silently brushed past her to head towards the conveniently nearby supply closet. Despite not even being a member of the frat, this wasn’t the first time Doyoung had to fetch the broom and dustpan from this particular room. He had Yuta to thank for that incident as well.

When he returned to the girl, her body was still tense although she had lowered her hands to pull her soaked halter top away from the front side of her body. Her face was adorned with complete discomfort, however she stepped aside as she watched Doyoung sweep the shards of glass and scoop them up with the dustpan.

He stood in front of her and gazed at her pitiful form in exasperation. He took a deep breath before saying what he had to say. It took a lot of strength for him not to go completely off on an innocent bystander who unfortunately kept getting in his way.

“I’m sorry. Once again, I truly am sorry,” he stressed. “I was lost in my train of thought because of my dumbass friends. Because I, too, do not want to be here. I’m sorry I ruined your outfit again. Although it really isn’t appropriate for this weather, by the way. Especially now that your clothes are wet. But still, I am sorry.” He chucked the shards of glass into the also conveniently nearby trash bin before bending back down to pick up the last pieces.

The girl narrowed her eyes and cocked her head to the side in agitation. “Okay, but your apologies can’t magically dry the front of my shirt and shorts, and remove the awful stench of cheap ass beer. I look like I fucking pissed on myself upwards!” She wanted to cross her arms over her chest, but she would risk getting them sticky.

“That’s impossible,” said Doyoung matter of factly. Standing up again, he looked at her now as if she were incompetent before emptying more glass into the trash bin.

“DUDE, REALLLY?! Is that really what’s on your mind right now? The physical impossibility of me being able to pee upwards is what you’re worried about?!” Frustrated with her current situation, and apparently the world given her actions and word choice since the beginning of the day, she rubbed her hands against her face and slowly slid down the wall behind her.

Now, Doyung was a nice dude. Ladies--even ones outside of his family--found him to be a real gentleman...if you caught him on a good day. He could have very well informed the girl that the ground was still very much wet, but today wasn’t a very good day. Not anymore, at least. So, he didn’t. Instead he watched her slowly sink to her demise, the liquid quickly seeping into her shorts. Any moment now...3...2...1. “AW, FUCK! THE GROUND IS STILL WET! Why didn’t you say anything?!”

He returned the broom and the dustpan to the closet before addressing her question. “I didn’t feel like mopping.” He stated without any remorse. Her eyes almost bulged out her sockets at his response, so he immediately backtracked realizing he didn't mean to be that big of a dick. He wasn’t really a dick at all, actually. “Because I didn’t think you’d hear me over your incessant yelling--” Okay, maybe he was a dick.

“I’m not yelling. This is how I talk.” She ran her hands through her hair in frustration. “Now my ass is wet. And I reek of beer. I don’t even drink! Never even touched the stuff! This has been the worst day of my life. But I can’t leave because I promised to be a designated driver. And if I leave, what if I get stopped by the police?! ARE THEY GONNA BELIEVE THAT I’M SOBER?! I should be at home studying!” She threw her head against the wall and winced at the hard impact she didn't mean to make with it.

Doyoung’s feet made to leave, but his moral compass pointed towards the girl when the word “studying” tumbled from her lips. It was as if she had calmed some of his anger knowing she could be potentially studious as he was. He also sympathized with her on the fact that he too had been roped into being a designated driver countless times. Although, he never attended the parties. He would only show up when he thought his friends had had enough and throw them all into the backseat. Upon rethinking the situation, he made a decision to help the girl and bent down, grabbing her hand and pulling her to her feet.

“W-what are you doing?” The girl was a little shocked to say the least. His attitude had done a surprising 90 degrees. He was being gentlemanly, yes, but it was not a complete turn around. He was still tense, just not as much.

“Follow me.” He commenced to walk her hand in tow, but his pace was hindered by her hesitance.

“Where are we going?”

“To get you out of these wet clothes.” But before she could take it the wrong way and retort, he stopped walking and clarified. “Not like that. My asshole friends are inhabitants of this frat house. My clothes are damp as well and like you, I hate the feeling of wet clothing on my skin. We can grab a change of clothes and then we both can go our separate ways. Cool?”

Visibly relaxing after his explanation, she mulled it over, her tongue poking the inside of her cheek as she weighed the possible outcomes. “Fine. Lead the way.”

He lead her upstairs towards Yuta’s room, flicking the light upon entering the masculinely decorated room. He silently thanked his friend for not being a slob this weekend and not waiting forever to launder his soccer practice clothing that he usually just left on the floor to rot.

“Wait here,” said Doyoung dropping her hand. He quickly moved across the room towards Yuta’s black dresser, opening the first drawer a bit rougher than he intended and caused Yuta’s collection of bobbleheads to, well, bobble. The drawer contained an assortment of socks and underwear neither of which Doyoung needed, so he proceeded to the next row of drawers which contained athletic shorts and shirts.

He heard something ruffle against Yuta’s bed so he assumed it was the girl, his newfound companion who didn’t understand simple instructions of “wait here”. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw in annoyance, only to reopen his eyes and catch her form in the mirror. She apparently wasn't shy and wasted no time shedding off her sticky shirt. She discarded the wet material on the floor beside her feet and let out a deep sigh. Doyoung relaxed and continued to stand there admiring her reflected figure from behind. His eyes trailed from the top of her head to the strap of her baby blue bralette haphazardly falling down her shoulder, then to her lace trimmed jean shorts that had turned a darker hue (primarily on the curvature of her booty cheeks), which was entirely his fault. And in that moment, he could honestly say he was glad he didn’t tell her about the wet floor.

The motion of her reaching for her bra strap shook him from his reverie and he proceeded to grab two shirts and two shorts from the drawer. With his head hung low and eyes only focusing on the clothes, he turned around and extended a pair of clothes towards her. When she didn’t accept them, he noticed she was no longer standing there. “Hey. Where’d you go?”

He did a complete 180 degree turn and found her standing on the other side of Yuta’s room near his large armoire. “Oh. You move very quietly...umm I have dry cloth--NO DON’T OPEN THAT!”

His cry was too late as the girl had already opened the doors of the armoire and was already being showered with several boxes of condoms that had collapsed from the overstuffed piece of furniture. Before he could move to help her subdued form, he heard the door to Yuta’s room close shut and lock. He ran towards the wooden door and pounded on it, yelling in anger that his attempts to open the door from the inside were futile. “Hey! Open up!”

“No!” Screamed the terrible voice on the other side.

Doyoung dropped his hands from the doorknob knowing full well that no matter how much he retaliated he was not going to leave the room anytime soon. “Yuta...you asshole. Let us out. Right now. Open the damn door!” Doyoung’s chest ferociously rose and fell as his mind shrouded with rage.

“No, Dodo. I will not open the door. If you don’t want to mingle with us rowdy college kids, then mingle with the half naked girl you got in the room with you! Bye!” Doyoung heard footsteps and snickers trail away down the hallway.

He leaned his head on the door before remembering the ladder Yuta used to sneak in and out the frat house after hours. He ran towards the window and lifted it up happy to see the ladder right where he remembered it would be.

“What is going on?” the girl asked as she massaged her temples and continued to lay under the boxes of condoms.

“I’m going to get us out of here.” He kicked some boxes out of his way and grabbed her hand to pull her to her feet. So far their relationship with one another consisted of repeated actions and events. It was so unromantic it was lowkey romantic.

He gave her the set of clothes and motioned toward the closet and told her to quickly change. He discarded his blazer, shirt, and pants before sliding on the fresh pair of shorts. While deciding he could make do without taking off his tank top and tie he heard scraping outside against the wall.

“No, no, no.” He looked out the window only to find a drunk Johnny and Jaehyun trying to confiscate the ladder from the wall. “Stop!” He latched onto the ladder and tightened his grip as the pair pulled from the opposite end. Two against one was proving to be difficult as Doyoung’s waist was starting to go past the window sill, but he tried to maintain his grip as best as he could, hoping the drunks would give up soon.

“Hey these shorts have--OMG!” The girl had come out of the closet only to have to quickly run to the window and grab Doyoung’s waist so he wouldn’t fall forward and out the window. “Let go of the ladder! LET GO! LET GO! LET GO!”

“NO!”

“It’s not worth it!” She tugged him back harshly causing his grip to release from the ladder.

“Have fun Doyoung!” Yelled Johnny and Jaehyun as they hauled off with the ladder, laughing as they went.

“This is bullshit!” He closed the window and threw the dry T-shirt on the floor before he started pacing back and forth in the room. “That was our only way out! We’re going to be stuck here until Yuta decides he’s done playing this little game of his!”

The girl shifted and crossed her arms before speaking, “You have the biggest--“

“STICK UP MY ASS! YES, I KNOW.” He took a deep breath a little sorry she kept getting mixed up in all his shit. “I’m sorry—“

“Stop saying you’re sorry. It’s starting to sound weird coming from you.“ She placed her hand over your mouth to smother a laugh. “And that wasn't what I was going to say.”

“What?” He knitted his eyebrows and looked at her, only now noticing her bare legs peeking from under the hem of Yuta’s oversized T-shirt. Her baby blue undergarments showing underneath. “What is it?”

She picked up the shorts she had been given earlier. “I can’t wear these.” She handed them to Doyoung and stepped backwards meekly, trying to hold in her giggles.

“Why are you laughing?” He opened the shorts and noticed the big ass cut out hole on the crotch area before flinging them to the ground.  “Dammit, Yuta! I didn’t know--“ He looked down at the shorts he had changed into and noticed the giant whole in the middle of his crotch, showcasing his Scooby Doo boxers. He looked up and saw the girl keel over on Yuta’s bed in laughter. And despite the outrageous situation, he relished in defeat and succumbed to laughter himself.

Once the girl had adequate use of her lungs to breathe again she said, “I didn’t peg you for a cartoon guy. Your face screams you enjoy the five o’clock news and peer reviewed journals.”

He rolled his eyes and sat on Yuta’s bed as well as wiping the tears that had accumulated in his eyes. “They’re my lucky exam boxers.”

“So you wear them three times a week?”

“The stench holds the knowledge.”

“Gross! Guys are so weird,” she said before locating Yuta’s crotchless shorts from before and chucking them at him.

“No. Not all of us. I never liked that group assumption. Why do girls group all guys together? Some of us are cool!”

“You...cool?” He watched as she stood up from her kneeling position and removed his wet blazer and shorts from the floor before finding her own wet clothes. She went towards the closet and hung the clothes to dry. Doyoung watched her intently, his eyes admiring her backside once again. “You’ve been in a mood since we first bumped into each other. That’s not cool.”

“It’s the circumstance. I’m usually a nice guy. I just...today wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. I was supposed to finish my physics midterm, enjoy Pizza Friday, and then relax at home. Midterms were hard this semester. I deserved the break. I didn’t want to get dragged to a party and get stuck--“

“In here with me?” She walked across the room toward the several boxes of condoms still littered across the floor.

“I didn’t mean--“

“It’s okay. I didn’t think my day would end up like this either.” She bent down and absentmindedly picked up a half full box of condoms. “We can just sit here quietly and not talk to one another until Yuta let’s us out. Or we can talk about why Yuta has an armoire full of condoms that nearly ended my life.”

“Despite Yuta’s assholelery, he’s a big activist for safe sex. He lives with all these young and horny guys so he has to look out for their well-being. Whenever they need protection or stupid advice Yuta is who they run to. Plus, a frat with a reputation for STDs would be bad publicity.”

“Interesting,” she said simply. Doyoung watched curiously as she dug inside the box and pulled out a foil packet that she then proceeded to open with her teeth. “But how’d he get all of these boxes? He went on a condom shopping spree?” She blew air through the condom and tied a knot at the end before neatly placing it on the nearby desk.

“No.” Doyoung watched her tear open another packet and wanted to advise her that opening it that way could puncture and render its contents ineffective, but he stopped himself when he realized what she was up to. “Spring Break contest sophomore year. He had to lick whip cream off a girl’s body and eat a cherry out of her mouth within a time limit at a resort we went to. He won first place, which included a lifetime supply of condoms and 5000 dollars cash.”

“Wow.” She deadpanned.

Doyoung reached for a packet in the box she was holding and began blowing one up like she did earlier. He carefully placed his condom balloon in Yuta’s pencil holder, making sure it didn’t pop. “By the way, my name is Doyoung.” He extended his hand towards his fellow prisoner while reaching for another packet with the other. She stopped blowing her latex balloon to shake his hand. She told him her name in return.

~~~

After going through about four boxes with twelve packets each, both she and Doyoung had run out of air. He was still on a devious power high from semi-trashing Yuta’s room, so he was glad when she agreed to his suggestion of filling the condoms with water. After going through a box of thirty-two, the two of them finally decided to call it quits. Yuta’s drawers, closet, backpack, shelf, bathroom just about every surface of his room was covered in an assortment of either air or water filled latex balloons in various colors, shapes, sizes, and texture. It was a condom carnival.

She was reclined on Yuta’s bed, Doyoung having found her a blanket to cover herself with as Yuta’s questionable fashion sense was out of the question. “So why do you continue to hang out with him if he’s so troublesome?” she asked.

Doyoung took a moment to answer. “Because he’s the complete opposite of me. He’s the fun one and I’m…the not fun one.” Doyoung lowered his chin atop the desk chair he was sitting backwards on.

“Well, I think you’re sort of fun. I’ve only known you for…an hour and twenty-five minutes? Plus the five minutes in the dining hall this afternoon makes it an hour and thirty minutes?”

He laughed. “Thanks? You’re pretty cool, too. I wouldn’t have done this interior decorating we did otherwise. I mean I would have, but it wouldn’t have been as fun.”

“I honestly didn’t think you had it in you. You’re always so focused in class I figured you would be pretentious and stuck up. Plus, you wear a blazer and tie everyday.”

Doyoung’s face fell at her words. “We have a class together?” He chose to ignore the latter part of her comment.

Her cheeks took on yet another red hue that day as she gripped the blanket tighter in embarrassment. “Uh…no not exactly?”

Doyoung clearly heard the inflection on her last word. “Well then how?“

“I’m not a stalker!” she suddenly blurted.

“I didn’t say--“

“Your physics class is across the hall from my physics class at the same time on the same days. You sit down in the front near the door, and I sit towards the top in my classroom, but I can still see you through the doorway. You’re directly in my line of sight.”

“Yeah, that’s a stalker alright,” joked Doyoung. “What physics are you in? Did you pass your midterms?”

She was a little embarrassed to answer that. “I’m in general physics for pre-medical students. I made a 64. That’s a D. I might as well withdraw from the course at this point. I don’t think I can save my grade.”

“Well, that makes sense...Oh!” Doyoung snapped his fingers, something suddenly returning to his memory. “You’re that girl that eats candy and texts the whole class period. You own a light grey sweater that you wear every time the air conditioner kicks on.”

“You noticed me?”

“Yeah. You’re in my line of sight, too. I mean I’ve never seen you up close, that’s why I didn’t immediately recognize you from our run-ins today. But in case you didn't know, your behavior is why you failed your exam. If you ask me, I think you deserved an F rather than a D. And judging by all the candy you eat, I’m surprised you even have teeth--“

Without thinking, she grabbed the water filled condom from the nightstand and chucked it at Doyoung, which burst all over his face and white tank top. He looked shocked and blinked slowly as the water trickled down the desk chair. Before either of them realized what was happening, Doyoung was standing over her popping a balloon on top of her head, dousing her with cold water.

And thus, the war began.

After several back and forths of overhand throws and running around the room, there were now less condom balloons, severely wet furniture, and two soaking wet human bodies.

“Yuta is going to be so pissed,” she said looking around the room.

“He’ll survive.” Doyoung grabbed the blanket from the bed and moved to dry her off but she dodged, considering the wet t-shirt was cooling her skin from her sudden rise in body temperature. The impromptu physical activity, closeness and contact between the two of them, and the way their wet clothes clung to each of their bodies, and outlining every detail of their figures were to blame.

Doyoung dropped the blanket only to catch her furiously fiddling with the oversized wet shirt. “There’s no point,” she muttered. “You won’t be able to get every part of me that’s wet, so why bother?” He watched as she looked to the side at nothing in particular, her fourth time in one day garnering that rosy hue of embarrassment. He was starting to find it rather cute. However, while her expression dictated she couldn’t believe she had said that aloud, his dictated the internal struggle he currently faced with her words bouncing around in his head, immediately causing his lower head to fight against the tight restriction of the wet material clinging to his skin.

Doyoung was very intelligent. However, it didn’t take his stellar 4.0 GPA to know that Yuta’s diabolical plan since the beginning of the afternoon was finally starting to make progress. And one thing he hated was when people, well namely Yuta, got away with their evil plans. So he quickly turned away from her and walked toward the bathroom, closing it shut behind him. He laid his forehead on the door and took a deep breath. Cold water, he thought. Buddy you have to go down. Wait, I’m already soaking wet with cold water. Function, brain! He moved toward the shower anyway when he heard her lightly tap on the door.

“Doyoung? I’m sorry if what I said was inappropriate. What drawer are the clothes in?” Doyoung simply looked at the door and didn’t respond. “Doyoung?” After three more repeats of his name she let it go with a heavy sigh and went to find the drawer herself.

Doyoung felt bad for ignoring her so he peeped his head out the bathroom only to find the wet T-shirt discarded. She was standing in only her bralette and panties this time, the garments perfectly outlining the shape of her assets. He couldn’t help the choking noise that was caught in his throat, causing her to spin around in surprise.

Both their eyes grew wide like two horny teenagers who accidentally saw the half naked body of the opposite sex for the first time.

“I found the drawer and--”

Legend has it Doyoung lost control of his body as he walked from behind the door and into the room. The tent residing on his lower half at full attention and on display for her enjoyment.

He locked his eyes with hers. “After three years of pent up sexual frustration, my prefrontal cortex has decided to shut off and allow my glans and shaft to think for itself. Hence the situation I have in my boxers.” He motioned a hand downwards and she couldn't help her eyes from quickly darting to and from the area. “Now, I’m not one of those dudes like you see running around this frat house that needs to bang girls everyday. My education comes first. Speaking of coming,” her eyes slightly widened at the abrupt segway, “I haven’t done so with another person since high school, which was with my ex-girlfriend who later cheated on me with a football player. Therefore, I’m super clean with minimal, yet enough experience.

“Okay, Yuta is a horrible best friend, but I have to give him props because without him I wouldn’t be in this current situation. I was awarded a full scholarship to this school for my academic achievement, so I’m smart enough to know that there’s a 99% chance of the both of us leaving this room after pleasuring one another.” There wasn't even a chance for her mouth to fall open as he kept on speaking. “If not, I would have killed this boner in the bathroom and you would not be standing here with me looking this damn sexy in your...fuck!” He urgently ran a hand through his hair as sweat started to accumulate on his brow. “I’m not forcing you to do anything, we don’t have to do anything, and I’m not insinuating that you’re a girl that came to this party just to hook up with a guy. We can just continue to sit it out and wait to be rescued and then maybe I can show you what a pizza Friday should be and maybe help you bring your failing class average to a decent C+, maybe even B-. I don’t know. How’d your other tests go? Wait, who’s your profess--“

“Doyoung!” For a guy that looked like he had it together he sure let it all go in front of her. She stepped closer to him, her skin igniting as she did so. Whether the stars were aligned or not, admittance to paying attention to one another during class time was the first step of mutual chemistry. That and the evident arousals in both their underwear.

Doyoung’s breath hitched when she placed one hand over his chest and watched her carefully as she played with his wet tie with the other. “Fuck it,” she shrugged. “I’m all in. Me, mons pubis, and friends.”

Both of them had to stifle a laugh and then she tugged him closer by the accessory. His arms instinctively wrapped around her, his palms warm against the smooth skin of her cold back. He watched her eyes flicker from his lips back to his eyes as she bit the side of her bottom lip.

“Loosen your tie, Doyoung.”

And loosen his tie he did.

- C

[baekyeolife]

Baekyeol Fanfic Game– The Moon Keeper and The Sun Soilder Part 2

Baekhyun took Chanyeol's hand, but just as he lifted himself up from the dust of the ground, he pushed the man with all of the power he could muster and bolted out of the cave like his life depended on it.

He dashed across the river that separated the two parts of land and submerged himself into the forest that laid beyond the horizon.

He was fast on the ground, jumping over logs and dodging trees that seemed to appear out of no where. Baekhyun felt pebbles and shards of wood pluck into his feet, and that was when he realized he had been shoeless.

He attempted to continue, but the thorns cut deep as they made sure to buffer his stride. Unable to handle it any longer, Baekhyun came to a hault and bent over to rest his weight onto his knees as he took in deep belly breaths at the wild distance he had run.

He then resumed to limp over towards a tree stomp, where he laid back against the edgy bark. In this moment of stillness he received from his surroundings, he plunged it with his thoughts of disarray.

The confusion of where he was and how he got there was too complex in that small head of his, and before he knew it, a giant headache added into the misery.

“Oi, that looks really bad. Let me have a look for you." A voice suddenly came out from the side, and his head turned in an instant to find a man with a bandana wrapped around his forehead, face pulled down in what appeared to be concern.

Baekhyun shook his head, he didn't want another encounter with the people of whatever this place was. "Leave me alone."

The man put his hands up as if in surrender, "Don't worry fella, I live up hill. I know these forests so I come down to see if anyone needs directions. I'm just trying to help out here."

Baekhyun surveyed the man and a soft spot within his ribcage began to uncurl. He had a walking stick with him and looked like a harmless old man, and Baekhyun's foot hadn't stopped bleeding since he stopped, so he decided to nod subtly, accepting the help, but he was definite he would not stay.

The man took him up hill and Baekhyun saw that his house had been similar to a shack. But since he appeared to live alone, it was probably quite fitting.

"Let me grab the Hugentics." The man had said before going into another room. When he came back he had a clear bottle in his hand and napkins in the other. The man removed the cap, and Baekhyun recognized the smell as rubbing alcohol. Hugentics? That's what they called alcohol... here? The thought had been unsettling.

He dabbed the wet napkin onto his wounds and Baekhyun bit his lips at the sting.

"The name's Minseok, in case you were wandering." Minseok revealed, catching Baekhyun off guard. "What do they call you?"

Baekhyun shifted an eye at him for a second before saying anything. He felt a fog go over his head and tried to shake it off with jiggle to his head. "Baekhyun..."

The man let out a laugh, "I think that you're mistaken." His words caused him to narrow his eyes at him, but Minseok went out of focus in the next second. Baekhyun could see four of him. "You are the wretched Moon Keeper. And your day on Asmerti is soon to be over."

He squinted his eyes shut and shook his head another time. What was happening? "W-What did... wh-what did you do?"

"I'm ending the war." Just as the room began to tilt to the side and his vision became blurred, he heard the door slam open and caught a glimpse of it literally flying off of its hinges. He tried to focus on what it had been, and could only make out a man on top of a horse.

"Back away from him or else I will have you whipped before your execution!" The deep voice was back, and Baekhyun didn't know if he had been relieved or even more worried at the sound of it. Chanyeol had been holding what looked like a gun towards Minseok, but Baekhyun couldn't see clearly.

Minseok had a syringe in his hand and the tip of it had been pressed to Baekhyun's leg, any movement could have him as good as dead.

"That's your problem, your greatness." He spoke with smite and sheer contempt. "You think I actually care. My job is to get rid of the one who rules the tide, and I'm not dying until I get the job done." And just like that, Baekhyun gasped as the needle entered him and the gunshot when off. However, instead of a bullet, a flame escaped and caught Minseok by the heart, where it seeped through his skin and had him lying on the floor.

Baekhyun lost all senses as soon as the substance mixed into his bloodstream, and he felt strong arms hold him up as he fell completely back, the world dark and void.

Waking up and not knowing where he was felt like a ritual to Baekhyun. Except this time around he hadn't been in a cave, but a room much, much, much hotter. It felt as if he had been stuffed into an oven to bake.

But the strange thing was that his body hadn't reacted in the decaying manner that it should have. If anything, he sensed the knot in his stomach slowly become looser as time went on, as if he had been regenerating.

He felt arms on his chest and stomach and when it occurred to him to look over to the side, he found a man with glasses and a fixed stare pointed at his stomach area. He moved his hands around him I circular motion, and with each movement, the knot became less of a concern.

"What's... wrong with me?" Baekhyun croaked out, and the man flicked his eyes over at him like he hasn't known he had woken up.

"You've been poisoned, but your healing." He moved his hands around his stomach again, and Baekhyun shivered, ironically. The man noticed and pursed his lips. "You need Chanyeol."

"What?"

"You'll heal more if he's with you. He's your sun, basically your other half."

"N-No." Baekhyun declined like it was by instinct. Seeing Chanyeol again after all that has happened felt mortifing.

"He wouldn't have come in voluntarily anyway." The man snided, which caught Baekhyun's attention. "This is a disaster."

Baekhyun completely ignored the numbing of his feet and hands, "Are they going to try to come back and kill me?"

"I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about you and Chanyeol. He doesn't even want to see you because he thinks you've shunned him. The moon keeper and sun soilder aren't supposed to be like this." He sounded extremely disappointed, and Baekhyun didn't know what to think. This role seemed to have come to him without a consent form, how is he to take it on with no choice?

"Listen, I get that you're afraid, but Chanyeol isn't the one you should hide from. He saved you today. And believe it or not, but you will do the same for him." He put his hands down and Baekhyun felt the cramp in his stomach return. "Talk to him and sort things out. He'll explain everything to you." And with that, he was out of the room.

- END -

Pick what you would like to happen next:

1) The next day Baekhyun left the hot room to grab a glass of water. He hoped to come across the healer so he could help him, but instead he found Chanyeol sitting out on the balcony. The healer's words rang into his head and he felt guilty. What had been worse was that he was afraid to make a move, not sure what to even say. "A thank you for saving my life would be nice." He suddenly heard the other man say as he turned to look at him, and Baekhyun trembled as he stood there with utterly shocked eyes. Oh so what? He could read my mind too? "No, but I can sense your heart beat."

2) Baekhyun had wanted to leave the room to use the restroom, but just as he tried to open the door, it suddenly started to quake before he could even touch it. Swiping his hand back, he looked at it as if it was rocket science. "Um, you can open it now." He heard a dim voice say, and realized it had been Chanyeol. Licking his lips, Baekhyun opened the door and found Chanyeol standing a couple feet away from him. "That happens when we're close together... sorry." Baekhyun walked closer to him and held onto his stomach on the way. "Actually... I'm the one who's sorry."

Comment your pick ^-^

[lala-kate]

Indescretion:  Pt. 2

So I’m celebrating reaching page 105 of my original story by having some fun with short fic updates this week. Wednesday I posted a Hindsight update for my OQ readers. Today I’m posting something for my very patient MM readers. :) You can read Part 1 of this S1 AU here. Again, thanks for all the support and well-wishes as I strive to get published. I appreciate them more than you know. 

Cousin Mary is an enigma.

Matthew should not be as fascinated by her as he is, but she possesses something that clasps on to his attention and holds on to it with the strength of an elephant. There’s a tragic mystique to her, one heightened by elegance and sharpened by wounded pride, one that hurts to behold yet follows him constantly like a lost dog who’s gotten a whiff of fresh sausage. There’s her mind, one of such sharpness and clarity it rivals that of any men of his acquaintance. There’s her spirit, one so fiery that it’s rather shocking to note just how cool it can be to the touch. Lady Mary is a woman of contrasts, the daughter of an earl who’d been primed for a good marriage, yet a woman who now finds herself considered by polite society to be decidedly unweddable.

The fact that she’s bloody gorgeous hasn’t escaped his notice, either..

If she weren’t expecting another man’s child, he would believe himself to be infatuated with her, but it’s not reasonable to be attracted to a woman in her condition, a fact of which he keeps reminding himself, not that it’s helping him one iota. Of course, if she weren’t with child, she wouldn’t have come to stay with them six weeks ago, and he wouldn’t find himself  in this predicament. She also wouldn’t give him the time of day, he realizes, smiling to himself over the fact that she acknowledges him only begrudgingly even now.

He’s a bloody idiot. And she’s a difficult woman.

“Has she come down for breakfast yet?”

His mother studies him over her juice, and he shakes his head, setting down his own cup along with the morning paper.

“She’s probably still sleeping,” Matthew says with a shrug. “The morning habits of aristocracy are hard to break, I suppose.”

Isobel draws a breath.

“No one is aristocracy in this house,” she states. “Lady Mary is most welcome here, but I refuse to allow her to wallow in her condition or act as if she deserves to be waited on hand and foot.”

She stands from the table after dabbing her lips with a napkin. “I’ve tried to give her some leeway due to the difficulties of her circumstances, but it’s time for her to pull herself out of her depression and face the state of her life.”

“I’d say that’s easier said than done,” Matthew muses, wondering just how helpless a woman in Mary’s condition must feel.

“Most assuredly,” Isobel agrees. “But it’s necessary all the same.”

He nods as he pokes his fork in his eggs.

“I must be off,” Isobel continues. “Three cases of measles yesterday means that we shall probably see at least that many today.”

“Be careful, Mother,” Matthew returns. “I know both you and I are immune, but I still don’t like the idea of you being in the middle of an outbreak.”

“Possible outbreak,” Isobel corrects. “Which we’re doing our best to curtail.” Her gaze drifts towards the ceiling where light footfalls now tread. “Keep Mary indoors, Matthew. I don’t know if she’s ever had measles like we have, and we do not want to take any risks with either her or her baby.”

He winces at muffled retching coming from upstairs.

“I’d hoped she’d be over her morning sickness by now,” Isobel states. “Most women are by this stage, but hers is lingering. She’s too thin as it is, you know.”

“I know,” Matthew observes. “But I suppose it must be difficult to eat when most foods don’t sit well with one’s stomach.”  He pauses, flinching as Mary continues to retch one floor above. “The morning sickness explains why she hasn’t come down for breakfast, so it would seem I spoke out of turn earlier.”

“No,” Isobel says. “You did not. Her attitude is still far too regal for her current station, regardless of her morning sickness. You know that I neither judge nor condemn women who find themselves in such difficult predicaments, and it infuriates me that men and women are held to vastly different standards, but Mary must put her pride aside and learn to stand on her own two feet. It’s the only way she’ll come through this unscathed.”

He takes another drink of his juice as Mary continues to empty the contents of her stomach.

“Is there any way for her to come through this unscathed?” Matthew questions.

“No, unfortunately,” Isobel sighs. “She has two options: Either give up the child to whom she gives birth after carrying for nine long months and resume her place at Downton, or keep her baby and live under a constant shadow of censure.” Her face creases as she shakes her head. “One can be almost crippling, while the other leaves a gaping hole inside only a mother can comprehend.”

Matthew’s heart cinches as he listens for more signs of sickness. He cannot imagine the agony of giving up one’s child, regardless of the circumstances of conception. As a father, it would be difficult beyond reason, but for a mother who had felt that small life stir inside her body when no one else could…

It would be too much to bear, he thinks.

“What if she were to marry?” he asks. “Could she not keep her child then?”

“Suspicion would follow her for some time,” Isobel answers. “But I daresay it would eventually subside. The problem with that solution is in finding a man who is willing to claim and raise another man’s child.”

Sweat breaks out over his upper lip, and he takes another sip of juice as thoughts he shouldn’t entertain wash over him in waves.

“I should get Mary a cool cloth before I go,” Isobel states. “One feels wretched after a bout like she’s just experienced.”

“I’ll take it to her,” Matthew offers. “After all, you’re in a bit of a rush this morning, and I’m not.”

His mother stares at him a second too long, but he returns his gaze to the newspaper.

“Have Sophie deliver it,” Isobel instructs. He smiles at the subtle reminder that even as a caregiver, he shouldn’t step into Mary’s bedroom. “Alright, then,” she continues, leaning down to kiss his cheek. “I’ll see you this evening.”

He waits until she leaves before wetting the cloth and making his way upstairs, Sophie be damned. His heart beats mercilessly, and he tries to talk himself out of what he knows he’s about to do. He owes nothing to Lady Mary Crawley, even if she is a distant relation. She doesn’t even appear to like him, for God’s sake. But when she bids him to enter following his knock, the sight of her curled up into a ball under her blankets leaves him breathless, the ache in his chest too decided to ignore.

“I brought you a cloth,” he says, hating the hesitation in his voice. “I thought perhaps…”

“Thank you,” she interrupts without looking at him. Her gaze is fixed towards the window, and he draws the curtains apart on his way to her bedside, blinking at sunlight’s intrusion into the dark room.

“The sun might help,” he says, laying the cloth across her forehead. The dark circles under her eyes are painful to behold, the paleness of her skin only accentuating their dominance.

“Nothing can help me,” Mary murmurs, her tone flat, her expression unmoving. “Now go away and leave me to my misery.”

Her words sting a bit, but he doesn’t move.

“I thought you were stronger than this,” he stated, rewarded by a spark of angry challenge in dark eyes. “When you first arrived several weeks ago, you didn’t strike me as the type to give up at the first sign of difficulty.”

She rolls onto her back, careful to keep the blanket tugged up to her chin.

“First sign of difficulty?” she snaps. “You have no idea what difficulties I’ve faced over the past four months, Cousin Matthew. None, whatsoever.”

He swallows hard, the tightness in his throat making it difficult to breathe.

“You’re right,” Matthew says. “I don’t, nor can I change your past.” He draws a breath he feels everywhere at once, sending up a silent prayer that he’s not about to do something he’ll regret. “But perhaps I can do something about your future.”

[bloojayoolie]

Apparently, Beautiful, and Head: Operation Payback July 22, 2013 Verified Purchase The target was 10 yards away. I was currently residing in some pseudo-shrubbery, outfitted in impeccable office camouflage. In my head I reviewed the operation I had planned an eternity (about twelve minutes) ago... how had it gone so wrong? The hit was supposed to be a quick in and out job, a rookie mission. That all changed when someone had tipped off my unsuspecting target. Immediately he launched the perfect preemptive strike: a doughnut was hurled over 2 cubicles, armed with what apparently were homing sprinkles. The maple missile hit its mark: my right thigh. As a result, I was now sporting a dark sticky stain on my once immaculate khakis. My mind snapped back to the present situation: I was deep behind enemy lines, and my Dockers demanded retribution. I felt a disturbance in my bowels and knew my patience was about to be rewarded. Rewarded with gas so foul that it cleared out the 3rd floor men's restroom earlier that morning. A flatulence so potent, almost symbiotic in the way that it latches on to living beings in an attempt to ensure its disgusting survival. These particular toxic fumes were brought into existence by last night's dinner of Wang Thai's takeout red duck curry, although I nor Mr. Wang could have predicted the sheer magnitude of the weaponized methane about to be released. Carefully I peeked out of the bush to check for bystanders. The cubicle hall was deserted, only the murmur of forced phone conversation prevailed in the background. I felt the final pressure surge below my belt. Quickly I ducked back into the bush, unbuckled my belt, and dropped my pants. As I felt the release coming, I sealed the open end of the Airzooka Air Gun directly against my bare posterior. Immediately the all-familiar sensation carried its course and as this gas was actually denser than air, it remained in it's cannon-shaped container. I caught a whiff of the fume's overflow and my eyes watered as I hastily refastened my pants. Silent but very deadly, indeed. I carefully positioned myself in the optimum vantage point in the plastic ferns and raised my Air Gun, it's plastic crosshairs trained directly on my completely unaware target in the cubicle across the hall. I smiled as I pulled back the trigger... Harold was having a very productive day. He had finished two proposals, chatted up the beautiful new receptionist Melanie, and even managed to hit Sean with a doughnut projectile flown over 2 cubicles! He smiled to himself about the prank. Sean had looked ridiculous scrubbing his pants with a wet napkin, which led to the poor chap's hilarious failure with Melanie shortly after. Harold was sure he wouldn't take it personally, after all these pranks were an amusing way to circumvent boredom in the office and always in good fun. Still, something in Sean's eyes was unsettling as Melanie laughed at his apparent semen stain... something shifted Harold's wandering mind back to his cubicle. Something was off about his cubicle, something crucial. Slowly he realized what it was, something smelled rotten in here. Of course Harold had no idea the abhorrent ordeal he was about to experience. Instantly the toxic plume hit him, wrapping the lethal cloud around his body. The ghastly odor forced its way into his nostrils, overriding every other smell in the room. His vision clouded and his senses felt like they were exploding. Harold spun in his chair, desperately trying to grasp what was happening. His eyes began to tear up and his tongue tasted like a jock strap. The noxious sensory overload forced him to the ground, hacking up spittle on the carpet in an attempt to get the horrendous taste out of his mouth. Harold could see only green now as the symbiotic stench continued to assault its new host. Hauling himself up with the cubicle wall, Harold realized he had inhaled too much of the wretched fumes; the office walls began to tilt and warp as the deadly gas now began to act as a hallucinogen. Stumbling out of his cubicle-turned-Hell, he somehow managed to navigate down the hall which in his mind had turned into a sick perverted labyrinth. Suddenly the urge to exorcise this demon surfaced: Harold needed to puke. The nearest container was a trashcan by someone's feet, and Harold snatched it away like it was the lost gold of Atlantis. Collapsing to the ground, he stuck his head in the plastic bin and spewed as if his life depended on it. Several minutes went by, and eventually Harold regained his bearings and stopped convulsing on the floor long enough to look up and out of the can. His eyes were greeted by two shapely legs. He followed the incredible hourglass figure all the way up and met the eyes of none other than Melanie the receptionist. Silence ensued for what felt like an eternity, their eyes locked in confusion and disbelief. Finally she opened her luscious lips and to Harold's horror, said the 8 words no man ever wants to hear from a beautiful woman. "Did you really just puke in my trashcan" RIP Harold

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

Wrack and Ruin

Part I

Part II

Part III

Joseph is cheerful at breakfast and Napoleon is congenial. Arthur considers Napoleon's nocturnal visit a strange fever dream. He considers most of the man's nocturnal visits strange fever dreams. It is easier to parse them as the imaginings of his evidently disturbed mind than things he allows because he has become fond of the wretched man.

Joseph says, 'we will start directly after breakfast. Better to get in a full day I think.'

'Just the three of us?' Napoleon asks. 'Wouldn't a wider search party be better?'

'Unfortunately it's planting season so most everyone is occupied. We're still making up for the weather a few years ago. Did you get red snow? We got red snow. In July!'

Napoleon brightens, 'oh yes. We got that. I thought that was just a result of some of the strange magic happening on our side of the pond.'

'Volcano,' Arthur says as he butters toast. 'I read a thing on it.'

Napoleon makes a face at him, 'be more precise. What thing when?'

'Hm, Royal Society, a year ago? This time? Or in the autumn? Whenever their annual journal comes out. I was reading it and there was something or other about a volcano.'

Napoleon looks to Joseph, 'volcano, brother.'

'Indeed, brother, volcano.'

Arthur looks up from his toast. Both Bonapartes stare at him. He takes a bite. Chews very slowly and upon swallowing says, 'you're hair is sticking up.' Both reach up to check. Arthur stares at them. Napoleon is the first to break with a grin.

'You're wicked, Arthur Wellesley. Positive rascal.'

'Pot, kettle,' he waves his knife.

Joseph turns in his chair and says with firmness, 'tell me of mother.'

Napoleon, switching into Italian, 'mother is well. She remains in Rome with Fesche.'

'Good, good. She is keeping her spirits up?'

'She is, though I have heard worrying things about the company she keeps. Lucien wrote me about it.'

Joseph raises his eyebrows. Napoleon bats his arm. Lucien and I, he declares, are quite made up.

'I don't believe it.' Joseph turns to Arthur, still speaking in Italian, 'do you believe it?'

Arthur shrugs.

Joseph takes this as confirmation of bias, 'he doesn't believe it either.'

'He doesn't speak Italian,' Napoleon replies in French. 'He knows. He is on my side.'

'Who?'

'Wellesley.'

'Something for the history books.'

Napoleon leans over and flicks Joseph's nose. Joseph returns the sentiment and the rest of break is spent with the brothers bickering over who Lucien favours most between the two of them. Arthur is deeply relieved when Napoleon finally stands and says that it is time to look for devils. Joseph spreads his hands, 'by all means, run my table.'

Napoleon, although not in a grudging manner but certainly stilted, says 'my apologies. Force of habit.'

Joseph is mollified for the moment. Dabs his lips with his napkin before standing and leading the way to the gun room.

--

Napoleon is not sure what he expected when they set out into the Pine Barrens but given the name and the rough translation from Wellesley he had not expected quite so many trees. He takes up the point of confusion with Joseph who explains that the name comes from the poor soil. He says it is not sufficient for most plants to thrive and so we have pine trees. Pines and pines and pines. The monotony of the forest, which is wide and never ending, creates a disjointed effect.

It is nothing like the Shrubbery in Woodford with it's cool, quiet, claustrophobic English atmosphere. No, no this is a little like some parts of Austria. But not quite. He attempts to think of a comparison but all he calls to mind are either lacking something or have too much of something. But, as he is not botanist, he does not wrestle with the subject for long.

'I think it was loitering around your estate last night,' Napoleon says as they stop for Joseph to tie a piece of ribbon to a tree. 'I heard something hissing very early this morning.'

Arthur glances, sidelong, towards him.

'I happened to be up.'

Joseph rejoins them nodding, 'Yes I've heard it around before. I dislike that it can fly. Makes me want to reinforce the windows.'

Napoleon is uncomfortable with that reminder. Indeed, if it can fly then it can reach their first floor rooms. What he had seen had been on the ground but who is to say it had not been up in the air spying. He looks towards Arthur who is scanning the trees with a resolute expression.

Joseph explains the history of the Pine Barrens to them as they continue to pick their way through the forest.  They had forgone horses as they were tracking and it is best to be on foot for such work. Joseph had also said that many of the accounts he and his friend Nicholas Biddle has accumulated over recent months have most encounters occurring to people on foot. Being without sturdy animals adds a layer of unease to the group.

'There are people who make their living out in these woods,' Joseph says. 'We may run across them or signs of them. They are friendly if wary. They do not trust easily but, in my experience, they will cause no trouble to us. It is lucky we have his grace here to translate. I have run into them on my own and by the grace of God one of their wives was an Acadian woman and had something like French. Down from Nova Scotia. We made piece-meal sense. It worked.'

'How do they survive?' Napoleon wonders. It is clear that the sand beneath foot is barren of nutrients. What grows here much suck bare minimal of survival from dusty earth.

'There is some industry. Bog iron is mined although that is slowing down of late. It was apparently quite big thirty, forty years ago. There are mills here and there, paper, saw, grist and the like.' Joseph hums for a moment as he considers the forest around them. 'I think, if someone were to be enterprising, they could have a fair go at a sawmill. But you would have to be intelligent about it but I do believe it entirely manageable.'

'Not going into trade are you?' Napoleon teases.

'No, no. It was just a conversation I had with Mr. Biddle recently. We usually talk banks. He picks my brain about France's and I am woefully inadequate when it comes to answering his questions.'

Spying Arthur's quietude and pensive features Napoleon asks him what it is he is so concerned about. This is merely one creature. We've dealt with more.

'I dislike the quiet,' Arthur says. 'I do not trust a quiet forest.'

Napoleon agrees and the three find themselves glancing over their shoulders more. The peaceful transforms into the sinister. It is the unheimlich, the familiar becoming the terrifying. Horror in a place of safety. Perhaps a bit much to apply it to a forest that is, for two of them, foreign. But Napoleon likes the word and so uses it when he can.

He had first applied it to his home after the Fairy Incident in Woodford. Everything was uncanny, then. What had been safe bore memories of terror. The Bertrand children regularly woke crying. He wishes he had the word earlier in his life. He might have been able to explain things with greater ease to Josephine and Louise.

Things can make the familiar alien. The obvious one for him is war. It gets worse, too, the more he is removed from it. He had mentioned it to Bertrand who had said that it is because the body understands it is safe now to be weird. The way bodies are weird. He had said, It is how you become ill only after big events. It's as if your body knows it is safe to be weak.

//

It is in the late afternoon that they come upon a bog. Reeds and dead, over salted tree stumps jut up from the mire. Mosquitoes, midges and a few early black flies buzz around making a nuisance of themselves.

'I haven't seen anything yet,' Arthur says waving away the pests. 'Just a damn lot of bugs.'

'July is worse,' Joseph mutters. 'Can barely go out shooting for the things. Anyway, there's not much of way through here without a boat but I do know an alternative path back so we won't be covering the same ground twice.'

To get to the path they follow the edge of the bog for half a mile and just as they turn to head back into the trees Arthur grabs Napoleon's arm.

'There,' he says. He points to tracks in the mud. 'Hoof prints. Fresh too. They'd be more shallow if the mud had time to fill them in.'

Napoleon looks around them and sees little sign of the creature then scans the trees and heavens above. All equally void. Joseph inspects the prints and confirms that they are identical to the ones he saw the previous winter.

'It clearly stood here for a time,' Joseph says. 'Judging by the depth of them.'

The three again look out to the bog. It is, baring the bugs, a peaceful place. There is a beauty in it and Arthur says that isn't it odd? A creature such as this devil admiring the view?

Returning to the forest they follow a clear hunting trail back towards the township. The pines thin the closer they get to Bordentown and the air cooler. Shoulders relax, grips on muskets more friendly. Napoleon teases Arthur about being nervous. Arthur says he is never nervous, only ever prepared. Joseph says that he remember Napoleon almost pissing himself once, as a boy on Corsica.

'With good reason,' Napoleon sagely replies. 'We were cornered by Antonia di Piero Vezzani's dog in an alleyway. I almost wet myself. You actually did.'

Leaving the Pineland they are laughing. There is relief, for a moment. Napoleon glances back towards the trees and thinks he sees something watching them. Hovering six feet above the ground. Large wings flapping. Then, gone. As if it had never been.

He returns his attention to Joseph and Arthur. Listens amiably to Joseph's stories of their youth and only corrects when absolutely necessary and not nearly as often as he usually would. The urge to take command of the narrative is only an ember, not even a flicker of a flame. The land around them worth looking at. The sky, something to admire. He looks up to clouds and blue and the gold of an afternoon sun. He wonders when he will learn how to speak to Joseph again. When they will rediscover that lost language they had as brothers.

Part IV

[bittersweetmigraine]

what if we never met? (chapter 1)

Author's note: I'm late. Very, very late, I know. And I don't have any excuses. When I had time to write, I wasn't inspired and when I was busy, I was too busy to think of a storyline. But tonight, as I realized some stuff about my personal life and what I want for myself, I got inspired so here you go. Idk whether this will become a series or not, but I'll try my best. I hope you enjoy and please give me some feedback! summary: y/n is one of the girls of the Moulin Rouge, the famous cabaret/brothel of the eighteenth arrondissement of the City of Lights, Paris. Once she steps foot inside she becomes Lola. Lola is a prositute. Lola is seductive and charming and she gets what she wants. Lola is fearless. But once she meets someone who makes her want to drop all pretense, her identity and entire life are threatened in the name of love.

“Every week. Same day. Same time. I swear, what is it that she's got between her legs that make men like that come back for her.” Bitterness dripping from the older woman’s tongue as she looked over at the man wearing couture sitting in one of the red velvet chairs that decorated the entrance of the Moulin Rouge. It was already the third week in a row that he came. Same day, same time, every time. He’d wait for her in the hall and stand straight up as soon as he caught a glimpse of her. She had become like a drug he couldn’t quit. But today was different. Today he had been waiting for almost half an hour and she wasn’t coming out to greet him. Finally he saw a large man marching out of the room she used most of the time, a grin on his face and his fly still down. It took a couple minutes for her to come out as well and what he saw made his blood boil. He knew of her situation. He knew what she did for a living. He knew that the cabaret was only a facade for what was going on backstage, for what men of his stature paid good money for. And just thinking about it made his stomach churn. Just thinking of another man's hands on her body made his hands turn into fists as his fingernails dug into the palm of his hand. He couldn't bare the thought of it and yet, there was nothing he could do. He knew that she simply couldn't be his and yet the thought of her being with another man tortured him. The thought of her being with a man that didn't respect her kept him up at night. Because he could give her all she ever needed, but his world was far from hers. And as they collided on that one afternoon, he realized that was simply a twisted turn of fate. Like the universe telling him “you own everything a man could ever ask for but you'll never be able to get what you really want. Sucks, right?”. He got up as soon as he saw her and marched in her direction, cupping her face with his hands, his thumb slightly brushing over her bruised cheek. “I will kill the fool who did that to you.” he said, venom dripping from his every word. She tried to put up a brave face, a weak smile appearing on her face as she brought her hands up to his wrists. She looked up, her eyes meeting up with his and she could see the hurt and anger in his brown eyes and her heart was hurting at the thought she was the one who brought him so much pain. And she hated herself for it. “Don't. It's not worth it. I'm not wor-” he placed his index finger over her mouth, shutting her up. “Don't you ever dare say you're not worth it.” Her breath caught in her throat. “Got it? Don't you ever dare say that.” She nodded slowly, still staring deeply into his eyes. He sighed, both relieved she agreed and hurt that she could ever think that of herself. His hands came back to his side and her gaze diverted towards the group of women gossiping about them. “Let's go somewhere more private.” she whispered to him as he nodded and she took his hand, leading him to a private room they had never been to before. As he entered, he noticed the table in the middle of the room, dressed with multiple items of food and a bottle of champagne. The bottle looked cheap and the velvet walls made him feel slightly suffocated, but he kept it to himself, putting up a front for her sake. “What is all this?” he asked, both surprised and touched at the attention. She tried getting her composure back as she turned around, motioning for him to sit down and he did so. “Well I talked to my boss and told her I had this special client who liked to pay for my time in order to actually talk to me.” she said as she sat down in front of him. “She actually laughed in my face, absolutely certain I was joking.” a chuckle escaped his mouth as he picked up the bottle of champagne and opened it. She looked surprised a man of his stature would even think to reach for the bottle instead of waiting for someone else to open it for him, but she moved on and continued with her story. “When I described her to you, she instantly knew who I was talking about. You're quite the talk of the town, you know?” A gentle smile appeared on his face as he poured both of them some champagne. “Anyway, she likes me and I'm one of her best employees so she agreed to do me this one favor and let me prepare all of this for you. Free of charge.” he looked up at her as he put down the bottle he had in his hand. Her best employee. He knew what that meant. She was young and pretty. Her skin was smooth like silk and her voice sweet like honey. Being her boss' best employee meant she was the one bringing in the most profit. And that thought had his hands tighten into fists, his knuckles turning white. Still, he forced himself to put on a smile, trying to forget what being in her line of work really meant. “Are you sure? You know I don't min-” she was the one shushing him this time, just like he did her earlier. “My treat. I feel like you've done so much for me already, I just want to return the favor a little.” she picked up her glass and put in up in the air in front of her, the sparkly liquid reflecting the pure and innocent glow emanating from her. “Let's just enjoy this moment, alright?” Her cheerful voice resonated in his ear and he nodded as the clink of their glasses was heard in the almost empty room. He took a sip of the clear liquid and as the bubbles hit his tongue, a smile appeared on his lips. He was a man who could have anything. Anyone, really. He couldn't step outside of his house without paparazzi's taking his picture and he had to take both the subway, a taxi and go through some back-alleys to lose them in order to enter the Moulin Rouge. And yet, fate had it that he'd fall for the one person he wasn't allowed to want. The one person he wasn't allowed to have for himself. The one person he wasn't allowed to call his. Because no matter how much money he gave her or her boss, they'd never let her leave. Not before her time was over. Not before the customers stopped lining up asking for the new girl. And then again, they'd probably have her work somewhere else in the cabaret. They'd probably have her become one of those bitter women who liked to gossip more than do their actual job. Those same women who worked behind the scenes because they weren't the main attraction anymore. It was hard getting out of that business. Especially when it was running as smoothly as the Moulin Rouge was. They talked about little things. From the name of her first pet to the streets in which he used to play football with his friends, back home. Back home. That thought hit him suddenly. He'd been in town for way too long already, delaying his return because of her. He'd been telling his company that on top of the multiple fashion shows he had to attend, Paris was simply being a source of inspiration to him and he couldn't go home quite yet before he'd seen everything through. But he was needed back home. People were starting to talk and in South Korea, it was never good when people started to talk. Because soon enough, from rumors came facts and from those facts emerged enraged fans protesting to the whole wide world just to have him burnt at the stake. He put his glass down, sighing deeply before he looked back up at her, at her smiling face and his heart broke in million pieces when he realized he has to rob her of that happiness. “I have to... I have to leave the country. Go back to Korea.” She took a sip of her glass, clearly breathing a lot slower than just a few seconds ago. He could see her chest, slowly going up and hardly going down, her breath catching in her throat. She put her glass down shakily, a few droplets of the champagne escaping from her glass and ruining the table cloth. She took her napkin from her lap and started to rub at the wet spot, determined to rub it out of existence. "When?" was all she managed to say at once. He sighed, reaching for her hand as she pulled it away, returning to her cleaning. "Tomorrow morning." Her hand stopped moving. She stared at her fingers trembling for a few seconds before she got up all of a sudden, straightening her dress. And then her face froze. From the sweet and genuine expression he had seen all day, she went back to Lola. She went back to the persona she had created. She hid behind the shield she had built to protect herself from this wretched world she had become a part of. "Then I guess you better get going." is all she said before she headed for the entrance. In a second, she was past the heavy velvet curtain that had separated them from the outside world and without stopping to think about it, Jiyong ran after her. He caught up with her as she was passing the same red velvet chair he had been sitting in just hours earlier. Grabbing her by the arm, he turned her around. Her face was cold, but her eyes were filled with tears threatening to fall. His hand came up to cup her cheek and this time she didn't flinch, getting accustomed to his touch. She slightly leaned in to his touch and a warm smile spread across his face, trying to appear more confident than he actually was. "I know your name isn't Lola. I know she's just a persona you've created yourself because it helps you cope." She closed her eyes, a single tear rolling down her cheek, crashing against his hand. "So please. Please tell me your real name." Her eyes slowly opened and she stared straight at him. She was so fiercely looking straight into his eyes and yet he could see that she had never been more vulnerable. She searched his face for a sign, any sign that assured her it was okay to bare it all to this man she met only three weeks ago and he smiled that half-smile that made her fingertips tingle and her chest feel warm. And she finally let go. "(y/n). My name is (y/n)." He brought her to him, keeping her close to his chest, so close she could hear his heart play a steady tone into her ear. "(y/n). Such a pretty name." Such a pretty name for such an innocent girl, he thought. His hands ran down her arms and he took her hands in his. He stared into her eyes and without giving it much thought, without filtering his feelings, he blurted it out. He blurted out an empty promise that he so desperately wanted to fulfill. He let his heart take control. "Run away with me." are the last words he uttered before he heard a loud crack and he started feeling dizzy. He felt his body fall to the floor and before he lost consciousness, the last thing he heard was her voice, screaming in French at the men who were dragging him away. And then it all went to black.