#the gardening itch has arrived

[cultivating-wildflowers]

🌱

[theblacklewinsky]

Note: Hey y'all! I hope y'all enjoy, the next one might be submissive Terry idkidk 🫣 kinda hate this one.

Perfect Gentleman. | Aaron Pierre.

Gentle!Terry Richmond x Black!Female Reader

Warnings: MNDI!! this story is 18+ with depictions but not limited to; sexual content ( penetrat!on, oral s3x ( m receiving), extreme language (cursing, sexual references) established relationship, slight daddy kink if you squint. Not proofread!

Summary: terry's been the perfect gentleman, maybe a little too gentle.

swear you can have me, you really one-of-one.

how you so nasty? you really one-of-one.

You eagerly scratched the itch away in your bitten up ankles. The mosquitoes out here in the Black Bayou had torn your exposed ankles up—and this was why camping wasn't your thing. You'd never complain though, any excuse to be with Terry was a good one.

"I told you to wear long socks," he chuckled looking back you and at how you'd scratched the skin on your ankles red, "all that gardenin' you do and you out here with no socks on," he softly lectured as you watched him pitch the tent, at his demand. He was such a gentleman.

You'd been dating Terry for over four months, you've both went on a plethora of dates, had the steamy first kiss, and even spent a night at each others apartment, but you still hadn't fucked yet. Was it you? You knew you had an Oscar worthy performance of your coy-innocent act that Terry ate up all of the time, but you weren't a prude. You couldn't count how many times you'd hinted, and seduced only to be met with more gentleness.

And you loved how patient, protective, and gentle he was with you. He was everything you'd practically asked for when you started dating. A nice man, a sweet man—and you got it, a full blown golden retriever boyfriend. He had so many amazing qualities, he was always on time arriving fifteen minutes early. Something he said was one of the most useful things he learned from his time in the Marine Corps. He was a full blown de-escalator, he never wanted to argue with you, always communicating as calmly as he could before coming to an understanding with you. He was gentle. But maybe he was too gentle? You wanted Terry in the worst ways. It didn't help that he stayed in good shape, gym four times a week, and his infinite morning runs kept him in tip-top shape.

You pouted, squinting your eyes as you looked at Terry from underneath the brim of the Nike bucket hat you'd retrieved from him. Although he was pitching the tent and the sun was currently beating down on him, he decided that, you, sitting in the shade doing nothing, needed the hat more. Such a man.

"You said come comfortable, and I garden in my crocs—that's what I came in!" You defended your reasoning for not wearing the socks that he did tell you to pack last night over a quick FaceTime call, but he did say come comfortable in the same sentence. "These mosquitos are relentless, baby, look at my ankles!" You frowned looking at how red and irritated the skin has gotten there even on your deep brown skin.

Of course Terry stopped his meddling with the tent and came over to assess your so badly injured ankles. He tsk'd softly his big hands cradling both of your ankles gently. Now push them behind my head! you eagerly thought feeling him touch you at all always sent shocks and shivers through your body.

"They eatin' my baby up," he somberly acknowledged rubbing his thumbs where the bites were firmly, "you put bug spray on like I told you?"

You nodded. "Yeah, just go and finish the tent," you dramatically sighed waiting to eagerly scratch at the bites, "I'll just be sitting over here, itchy, getting ate up." At least something was eating you up.

He brought your left ankle up to his lips casually, placing a soft kiss there before setting the both of them back down carefully. You almost moaned, it had been way too long. "stop scratchin' at em, you makin' em worse."

You looked at him, batting your eyelashes at him a dazed nod following right behind. He was so gorgeous, and it didn't help that he was so sweet and treated you like the absolute brat you were. He continued on with his quick work with the tent and you continued on with your sneaky scratching. After it was perfectly pitched, he got you inside as soon as it was done to rub a bit of alcohol on your itchy ankles and making you put on a pair of his socks that were way too big for you.

You frowned looking down at your legs later that night as you both set around the campfire, that you had gotten started. You hadn't forgotten all the survival tips your father had shown you. Terry focused on cooking the fish he and you caught earlier from the pier. He'd cleaned it and dissembled it himself. "These are puttin' a damper on my outfit, so not cute."

Terry chuckled, quickly flipping the searing fish over in the pan. Your eyes flickered over to him. "What?"

"You so country," he commented through a light chuckle, "damper?"

"That's not country!" You defended through a smile. "Everybody says damper!"

"Nobody says damper,"

"Does too!"

"Why you gotta be such a brat? Why you act like that?" He teased playfully, holding his hand out to you only to pull you up from your chair and into his lap. "Hm?" He hummed nuzzling his faced into your neck where he playfully nipped at the skin on your neck, knowing the ticklish effect it had on you.

You laughed hunching your shoulder up to push him away from the area, "stop!" The assault lasted a few more minutes before he reluctantly stopped, only when he seen the tears from your nonstop laughter, and how you cradled your aching stomach when you laughed.

"Brat," he mumbled in between persisting kisses to your lips. You happily returned each one, who were you to deny the brat allegations. They were very true. "Always gotta have yo way."

"You love how bratty I am," you retorted, trailing your own lingering kisses from his lips, to his jaw, to his neck.

"I do," he mumbled out an agreement making you laugh against his neck before continuing on, and you thought maybe, as his hands kneaded the back of your thighs and the undersides of your ass. But all that came undone when he urgently removed you from his lap in light hysterics about almost burning the fish.

The fish.

How could he even think about fish when he had your throbbing pussy in his lap, was he really blind to all this shit? Or was he just not sexually attracted to you? Or was he fucking celibate? The questions brought on a lingering insecurity. The rest of the night you were more distant, quiet, the situation left you a little embarrassed and salty. You'd never had a man be so indifferent to your advances. Or did he even see them as advances? Hell, you didn't know anymore.

Your distance and quiet demeanor didn't go unnoticed either Terry, who constantly made it his mission to see if you were okay and enjoying yourself. You answered the same all the time, yes, which did very little to comfort him—but he also didn't wanna push you into irritation.

"You sure you good, baby?" He asked later that night as you both settled into the cozy tent. You made sure to nestle yourself into your cute, pinky, sleeping bag. It was so you.

"Yeah." You simply answered with a nod, forcing the weak smile. Such a liar. But you weren't gonna admit that the situation left you feeling a little salty. You didn't wanna bring the situation up at all, you'd much rather forget it.

"You sure? You not actin' like yourself, baby. You want me to take you home?" There he went. Being so him. Always being so caring.

"No, I'm fine. It's nothing really, im just..itchy still." You seamlessly lied. Or maybe not. You were still itchy.

Terry decided not to press the issue instead making sure he got as close as possible to you, something he always did when you slept together, he loved being right up under you—you didn't contest to it. Ever. You both gave your good nights, and Terry made sure to turn off the LED lantern lamp you both had in the tent. A soft and easy silence falling over the both of you. Terry's soft breathing, body heat, chirping crickets and the pitch black were enough to lull you to sleep. And they almost did, but damn, you were still itchy.

You brought your knees to your chest, hastily scratching at your extremely itchy ankles, a heavy, draws out sigh from the temporary but almost euphoric relief skipped past your lips.

"Stop scratchin'." Terry's deep voice but through the silence, the raspiness on the edge of his voice attributed to the sleep that had took him in quick. The words halted your actions quickly as you tried to quietly morph into a comfortable position.

"I'm not," you spoke quietly.

"But you were."

His damn hearing. He heard everything.

"Well I wouldn't have been if I was doing something else." Your tone snappy but the suggestiveness fore fronted the sassiness.

"Somethin' else like what?" Terry questioned.

You huffed immediately, sitting up abruptly from your sleeping bag and flickering the lantern on. "Are you really that clueless?" You exclaimed almost, looking at his ever so lost expression. "Terry, are not you sexually attracted to me?"

Terry looked at you as if you'd grown two heads. Like he couldn't understand why you'd ask him such a question, like you didn't know he was a full blown raging man. "Why would you even ask me that, of course im sexually attracted to you, baby."

"You don't act like it," you quietly murmured, "it's like every time I try, you pull back. What is it? I really thought I was obvious enough with everything."

And you were. Terry wasn't ignorant to your advances. But he also wasn't ignorant to your past relationships and the men that you dealt with. Full blown sex addicts a few of them seemed to be, and some of them seemed unable to form a real bond with you without sex. He wanted to prove to you that he actually liked you, that he wanted to get to know you past sex. That he wanted this to last. It'd taken copious amounts of restraint for him to slyly deter away from the advances. Copious amounts.

He wasn't exactly sure how he made it to four months himself, without caving in. Maybe it was his serious he'd gotten about your relationship, maybe it was genuine like for you that made it somewhat easy. He was still a man though, taking care of himself when he was finally away from you.

He said your name slowly, sitting up himself, "im utterly, completely, and deeply sexually attracted to you. But I wanna show you that when it comes to keeping this together, sex is indifferent to me. I don't want you to think we need that shit to connect. I genuinely like you, alot."

"I like you too, but I already knew that Terry," he softly laughed, the weight of the insecurities dropping off your shoulders. You couldn't believe that once again, all this time, the lack of sex was catered to his feelings about you. You were gonna fuck this man so good. So good. "I knew that at the end of the first date when you didn't try to kiss me when you dropped me off." You giggled at the recanting of the memory.

"I wanted you to feel it though."

"And I do feel it," you slinked even closer to him, hand trailing up his thigh, "I feel it so much." You looked up at him, batting your long lashes.

Terry sat there slack mouthed, brows furrowed, his stormy eyes looking down at you with bursting pleasure and astonishment as he watched you suck him down. How the fuck did you get so good at this shit? You'd completely covered his shaft in your saliva, you were loud and sloppy. Just how he liked it. Throat so tight around him, every time you nuzzled him in. You were dazed yourself, tasting him, having him in the back of your throat where you craved him so many times before. You were savoring all of this.

Your hands wrapped themselves around his girthy length, stroking them at a brisk pace, your wet mouth guiding them in their dizzying up and down movements. His grunts and groans of approval only furthered you to please him more. You looked up at him, eyes watery, and soft as you took him down, spit bubbles formed around him, as you nuzzled him in deeper into your mouth. Removing a spit soaked hand, you nuzzled that into your soaked panties, pleasing him, pleased you.

"Sss-shitttt," he drug out through a groan, his strong hand grasping the back of your neck, as he bucked himself up into your mouth, relentlessly fucking your throat. You shut your watery, burning eyes letting him use you how he wanted. "Fuck, eat that dick up baby. You do that shit so good," he slurred through his persisting moans.

That only furthered your arousal, which furthered your efforts. The rough gags and choking from you was almost enough to send him over the edge. Almost. You finally pulled back, giving him a chance to recover and giving yourself a chance to catch your ailing breathing.

You stroke him off, spitting down on his shaft in your hands, eagerly stroking the lubrication in, leaning your head down to suck one of his balls into your mouth; gently. You knew too much. How did you know so much?

"Why you so nasty?" He mumbled grabbing your chin once you were done tending to his balls. "Hm?" He hummed before pressing your wet lips to his own. His kiss rushed, sloppy, and deep. His tongue searched every inch of your mouth, his lips sucking your own into his mouth.

Oh he was nasty like that?

"Move," he knocked your hands away from his still hardened dick, "take that shit off." He comments taking heed to the articles of clothing you still had on, his own hands slithering under the oversized shirt you'd put on for bed.

"But I wanted to make you cum—" you started, wiping your wet mouth with the back of your hand once he eagerly pulled your t-shirt off, nipples immediately pebbling due to the exposure of the cool night air in the tent. You didn't get to finish your sentence before Terry's lips were already latched onto the flesh on your neck, creating red blemishes as he cascaded down your body skillfully.

"You bout to," he mumbled attaching his lips to yours once again, "open up," he tapped your jaw firmly, "lemme see." The firm taps to your jaw ignited the fire and aching need in your belly, a moan slipped past your lips as you opened like he asked.

You watched, dazed, as he spat down into your mouth. Oh, he was nasty.

It was like yin and yang to you. This couldn't be your Terry. Not the Terry that bought you flowers every Sunday and never let you lift a finger Terry. This was a different Terry, nasty Terry. Impatient Terry. Demanding Terry. Just what you wanted.

"Oh my god-uhhhh!" You slurred out through a moan. Terry's vice grip on your locs matched the same vice grip you currently had him in right now. He had you positioned on all fours, one hand on your hip to steady his hard, dizzying strokes. He was fucking you hard, too hard. Too good. Your thighs trembled beneath you, knees threatening to buckle as he slammed into your heated core repeatedly. It's like he knew exactly where that spot was located. "Right there, daddy! Right fucking there," you whimpered, face pressed pathetically on the pallet beneath you.

"I know, i feel that shit," he groaned, sending another hard smack to your ass cheek, the recoil from his pelvis constantly slamming into your ass had him in a complete daze. Four months he kept himself from this, restrained himself from what he knew had to be good. But he didn't expect it feel like this. "Wettin' me right the fuck up—mm mm, keep that shit right there, you better not fuckin' lay down, keep that shit open just like that." He mumbled out into the tent, taking into head your trembling legs. The lewd sounds of your sopping wet pussy, followed by the loud slapping of your skin together filled your tent and your empty head.

"Fuckkkk," you groaned out, managing to sit up in your elbows, acrylics clawing at the covers beneath you, your eyes crossed as you felt his tip kissing a little too deep, "so deep, baby."

"Mhm," he hummed pulling your head back with his tight grip on your hair, his lust filled glare looking right down into your own crossed eyes, "right where i should be. Look at you, takin' this dick like a good girl. This what you wanted right?"

"Yesssss," you managed to fully get out, a series of breath taking moans following. He was giving you exactly what you wanted; hard, rough shit. He was fucking you like he hated you, like he had a point to prove. This shit was only making you delusional did he not understand the type of you he would get now?

"Yeah? Wanted daddy to dig yo' shit out just like this, huh?" He nodded watching you nod in response, your breaths coming out in a series of heavy puffs. "I know you did, can tell by the way you creamin' on my dick."

"Shittt!" You gasped out the exploitive, planting your hands flat against the ground, mustering yo whatever weak energy you had to fuck yourself back against him, working toward your own impending orgasm. "I'm finna cum!" You rushed out.

Terry pulled you back toward his chest, your small frame engulfed in his as you sat promptly in his lap getting impaled in the most delicious way possible. You felt lightheaded, high, and perfect all at once. "Babyyyy, im cummin'!" You whined out.

"Keep tellin' me, do that shit. Lemme feel you cum on my dick," he grunted, the lewd works making you clench around him as they clearly sent you tumbling over the edge. Terry mocking your long, loud and drawn out moans with his own. His lips attacking wherever they could on your exposed neck. His impaling strokes never stopped, even when it was clear you'd completely rode it out. He kept fucking you, sending you into a deep place of overstimulation. When was he ever planning to cum?

"Look at you," he mumbled a smug smirk on his lips, hand firmly holding your slacked jaw in his hand, "dick got you dumb—breathe through that shit, baby." He tapped your jaw, repeatedly. The sight of you alone, plus the constant contracting of your walls around him had earned you a deliciously sounding groan. You hadn't even realized you were holding your breath until he spoke up.

Everything was too much. It was too much to focus on. The pleasure, his voice, his kisses. Forgetting to breathe in the middle of your overstimulation was warranted.

Your breaths cane tumbling back to you fast, hard and quick you panted. Body trembling in Terrys grasp, as dared to lean forward feeling another orgasm approaching, but this one felt harder. Body-shattering. It hurt and felt so good at the same time.

"Fuck, ima nut baby," Terry grunted in your ear. "Pussy so good, why yo shit so good like this?" Finally.

"Cum in my pussy, please daddy," was the first and only thing you could get out, not even warning him about your oncoming orgasm. This one cramped everything, the tightness in your stomach didn't subside but seemed to get tighter. Your thighs were numb, but your legs ached. The squeal you let out left your throat raw, and that's why you didn't hear Terry when he finally announced that he was cumming, but you felt him for sure, right where you told him to.

You felt Terry's lips against your jaw, kissing you repeatedly. Telling you how well you did for him, how he couldn't believe he kept himself away from that for four months. How good it was. These were finally the words that lulled you off to a blissful sleep, you'd finally got what you wanted. There you were, fucked out In a tent, with cum leaking out of you. Such a whore. A happy whore.

-

still no tag list! 😭 hope you enjoy this little filler! 💕

[romanteacism]

Knight Aemond x Princess Reader Lonely

Synopsis: Ser Aemond grew to realize the gravity of his decision to distance himself from you; unable to bear the shift in your demeanor that was the consequence of his actions. Warnings: None (yet), Infatuation, Jealousy, Fluff PREVIOUS PART / NEXT PART

“Goo—“ You ceased the words that were to escape your lips as you exited your chambers and realized no guard was waiting for you outside your chamber doors. Today was your first day of not having a sworn protector by your side—an odd sensation of freedom and as well as loneliness surrounding you. You walked down the halls in silence, without the clang of armor that cuts through the quiet. “Good morning,” You smiled as you saw two maids, them bowing their heads as you walked past them, noticing their curious gazes as you were alone in the halls. 

You walked down the stairs to venture into the gardens, nearly tripping on the steps, and no one was there to assist you and wrap their arm around your waist to steady your frame. You bit your lip as you realized how truly dependent you had become when in the presence of your knight, and you pondered if that was a good thing or not. “Good morning, princess,” A squire greeted you as you were served your first meal in the gardens, noticing that he, too, was curious about the absence of your guard. His eyes passed around the near vicinity to search for Ser Aemond, and you were itching to di the same. “Thank you,” you smiled as he left, breathing in deeply. You had the urge to speak and engage in conversation, but no one was around to listen to your babbling. 

Ser Aemond watched you from above the gardens, alone in your usual spot with a distracted look in your eyes as you tried to hide your dullness. Though he was granted leave for a week, Aemond felt no want nor need to venture out of the castle walls. He was rarely granted respite from his duties— and never once was he given such a prolonged leave; he never knew what to do with himself when he was not in his post. Aemond took in a deep breath, his scowl severing as he realized how stale the air was when your scent did not envelop it. “Good morrow, Ser Aemond,” the knight heard a greeting from a distance, making his attention shift from you to your chambermaid. “Celia,” He nodded in greeting, quickly glancing towards you once more before turning fully to the girl. 

“I heard the princess granted you leave,” She mused, stepping closer to the knight. “She has.” He confirmed, trying not to show his displeasure about the arrangement. “Then might I ask why you are spending it here? If I were granted such opportunities, I would venture to the town— there is much entertainment there.” Celia smiled, still inching closer to the knight standing by the railing of the balcony that overlooked the gardens. Only then did she realize that where Ser Aemond stood provided an unobstructed view of the princess who sat alone in her usual spot. “I do not care much for entertainment,” Aemond stated, resisting the urge to turn to you as he heard an audible sigh leave your lips. 

“Then… what do you do on your days off?” Celia questioned, and Aemond could not find a response. There was a silence that surrounded them, and the chambermaid was shifting from one foot to the other. She did not want to leave and cease her conversation with the knight, but she knew she must tend to her duties. “Would you might want to join me? I… I can tour you around the keep,” Celia proposed, holding her breath as she waited for the reply of the knight she had been eyeing since his arrival by the side of the princess. Since the beginning of the summer, she had been praying for an opportunity to have a moment alone with Ser Aemond, but he was always by your side, and now, it would seem her prayers had been heard as Ser Aemond was finally pried away from the princess’ presence. “Very well then,” Aemond agreed, knowing that touring around the castle he found no particular interest in was better than watching over you from afar when you had made it clear that you did not wish for his presence. 

You frowned as you heard Ser Aemond's distant voice. You looked around your surroundings to search for his unique silver locks. You raised your gaze to the balconies and saw as Ser Aemond walked the halls, and beside him, was your chambermaid who looked completely besotted by your knight. You pursed your lips and felt your hand clench tightly around your fork as your eyes followed their departing frame, a burning throb in your chest that was hard to ignore and an irritable twitch in your eye that you could not control. 

Ser Aemond walked with Celia through various halls of the keep, the girl constantly speaking and telling him facts about the castle he had no care for. He could not even pay attention to what she was saying; everything she uttered went from one ear then out the other— different from you, who he still remembered all the things you babbled about. As they turned a corner, Aemond halted in his steps as a portrait caught his attention. He looked upon the artwork, a furrow returning to his brows. “When was this portrait of the princess made?” He asked, interrupting whatever Celia was saying. Aemond grimaced at the painting; the artist had lots of lapses in how they pictured you. Though you were still your breathtaking self— the painter had failed to capture the actuality of your eyes or the small beauty marks that riddled some parts of your face, and he even had the gull to make you appear older.

“That is not the princess,” Celia informed him, the girl noticing how focused the knight was on the portrait. “What?” Aemond asked, distracted. “That is not the princess; that is her great-grandmother— the queen.” Aemond glanced at the chambermaid, not fully believing her words, as the portrait he looked upon convinced him that it was you. “Why is there a knight’s helmet by her foot?” Aemond asked, turning to a small plaque at the bottom of the frame, confirming that the portrait was of your great-grandmother, whose beauty you had inherited significantly. “They say that it was an ode to her husband, the king consort who was once her sworn protector.” Aemond almost choked at the words he heard. 

“This portrait was made for her coronation, and it was said that under the knight’s helmet was a wolf pup to signify her past betrothed, but they had painted over it after her coronation as she broke off her betrothal and instead married her knight. No one could hinder her, for she was queen,” Celia shrugged, gaze growing curious at the more obvious tenseness of Ser Aemond. There was sweat beading from the side of his forehead, and he looked rather flushed. “Are you well, Aemond?” She asked, moving to take hold of his upper arm, but Aemond quickly moved away, unaccustomed to anyone else’s touch. “Yes,” He said, but there was an obvious imbalance in his voice. “I must go,” Aemond said and marched away, leaving no room for Celia to reply as he left her alone in the halls. 

Thankfully, the week without Ser Aemond by your side was quick to pass. Aemond was growing restless as he had nothing to do. At his witts end, all he wanted to do was return to his post. All he did was trail you from afar during the days that were supposed to be his break. Watching over you even though he was dismissed from his duty because that was all he knew— and if he were being honest, anxiety filled him as he feared something might happen to you and no one would be there to come to your aid. 

When it was the day for you and your family’s return to the capitol, Aemond walked the halls of your chambers and stopped by his post, sighing in contentment as he returned to his rightful place. When the doors of your chambers opened, Aemond parted his lips to greet you as he realized that he was perhaps too harsh with his choices before of trying to ignore you altogether. He came to the realization that he could still maintain your distance and cease the wagging tongues of the court but still be cordial with you. However, the words died on his tongue as you walked past him and went your way without even giving him a glance or at least acknowledging his presence. Aemond hurried his steps to catch up with you, whose once leisurely pace now fastened as you walked the halls. 

You were holding your pet cat in your arms, your gaze completely focused on your pet, and Aemond knew all too well what he needed to do. He moved to assist you as you walked through the halls, but before he could place his hand on the small of your back, he realized you already knew the obstruction in your way, not at all needing his help. When you two reached the steps, Aemond offered his arm to aid you as you descended down the stairs, knowing that your dress was cumbersome when in such terrain, but his furrowed brows furthered as you only placed your hand against the wall to assist your balance, and ignoring the help he offered. 

“Are you excited to return home?” Your brother asked as you met him by the entrance hall. You hummed and shrugged, staying silent because, in the past week, you had learned to control your tongue and ceased babbling, leaving your thoughts to yourself. Your brother frowned as he realized he had not heard you speak much the past week, and not once had he seen a true, beaming smile on your lips. “Welcome back, Ser Aemond,” Your brother greeted your knight, who led out his arm to assist you in the wheelhouse, but you ignored his aid once more. Aemond bit his tongue and gave a curt nod before going to his horse. He watched as your brother bordered the wheelhouse that housed you as well. 

Aemond rode beside your wheelhouse, his eye flying toward the small gap that offered him a glimpse of you from time to time, a bored look on your face as your brother tried to speak with you, but you were in no mood to hold a conversation— something quite concerning for you always had a multitude of words ready to spew from your lips. 

Your convoy was halfway to the capitol when the king and queen’s wheelhouse halted to a stop, confusing Aemond and, from the looks of it, you as well. 

“What is going on?” You asked, turning to your cat, who had woken from the commotion of guards shouting orders and the halting of the wheelhouse. “We are set to go to lord Dacre’s house— some business to tend to,” Your brother explained, moving to stand. “We are?’ You asked as you were not privy to such matters. “Well… we— mother, father, and I are.” You frowned. “But why can I not join you three?” You asked, but your brother did not answer your question as the wheelhouse doors were opened by Ser Aemond, your mother waiting outside. “Because you will only be a distraction— constantly trying to chat up the lords and ladies, distracting them from the important business on hand. This matter is of quite importance, and we cannot risk bringing you to disturb this meeting.” 

Aemond’s gaze flew to you as he heard your mother’s words. He never realized how estranged your relationship with your mother was; seeing that both of you would have luncheons almost every day, he would think you two were close. But now he recalled how he would listen to the silence of the royal apartments as you and your mother were alone together. Aemond observed your hands tightly grasping the pillow on your lap as you looked upon your mother with nothing but hurt in your eyes, but you did nothing to defend yourself. “You’re leaving me?” You asked your brother, “Do not be so dramatic; we will return in three days,” Your mother sighed, impatient, as she waited for your brother to stand and lead her back to the other wheelhouse. “And we’ll bring you back a present,” Your brother smiled reassuringly, hoping the promise of a shiny trinket would lessen the melancholy in your eyes. 

Your brother gave you a quick kiss on your temple before exiting the wheelhouse and turning to your sworn protector. “Take care of my sister, Ser Aemond,” He said, and Aemond gave a nod, glancing towards you, who could not even meet him in the eye. “Of course, my prince.” 

For the remainder of your travels, you tried to console your mind and not let yourself succumb to the loneliness brewing inside you. Your family often did this— leaving without you knowing their plans and returning with a crate filled with gifts to justify their disappearance. You tried your earnest effort to distract yourself with the fact that when you returned to the capitol, the scarce friends you had made with some of the ladies of the court would be waiting for you. 

“Welcome back, princess,” a maid greeted, and you offered her a smile as you threaded the halls in search of Lady Grace and Lady Cassandra. Aemond followed you silently as you hastily roamed the castle, searching for your friends. Your legs were aching with the various halls you passed and stairs you ascended and descended during your search. You had the mind of just finding them the next day, but luckily, you ran into the brother of Lady Grace. “Lord Abbey,” You called and curtsied, “Princess, great to see you back,” He bowed. “Thank you… might you tell me where Lady Grace is?” You asked, but confusion quickly took over your face at the shocked expression of the lord. 

“Oh… you had not heard. My sister was sent to the south to be acquainted with her betrothed… I believe she had left you a letter in your apartment. She regrets not telling you directly, but all the arrangements were quick to happen.” Lord Abbey said apologetically. You could only nod and force a smile through your disappointment. “And Lady Cassandra? Might you know where she is?” You asked in hope. “Oh, princess… the Lady Cassandra has fled,” Lord Abbey said slowly; the matter was of delicacy and of scandal. “What do you mean?” You questioned, dread pooling in your stomach. “A moon ago, Lady Cassandra had run off with her father’s squire, who she had revealed was her lover— having no choice, she was disowned and had fled with the said squire.” 

Aemond could practically feel the anguish exuding from you as Lord Abbey informed you what had happened during your absence. He remembered your concern as neither of your friends had replied to your letters during the summer. Aemond followed you back to your chambers; your head hung low as the friends you were looking forward to seeing again had left you alone. “Shall I ask your maid to bring your supper to your chambers, princess?” Aemond asked before you entered your room. He watched you shake your head, not even uttering a word nor turning to him before closing your chamber doors. 

When the hour of the bat came, Aemond stood restlessly at his post, uneasy at the behavior you presented. He never thought you were capable of being anything but the cheerful, affectionate, and loquacious princess that he had come to know and accustomed himself to since his first day. He never thought that it was possible for you to hold and display such somberness— he never thought the light of the realm that constantly radiated upon them could grow dim. 

Aemond was brought out of his thoughts as he heard the jingle of your cat’s collar. Theodore made his way through the halls and stopped your door, hissing at Ser Aemond to open it. Aemond rolled his eyes, pushed upon your chamber door, and left a gap big enough for your cat to enter, but as he partly opened your door, Aemond felt dread consume him as he heard the sound of your sobs. Aemond froze, not knowing what to do. Should he just close the door and ignore your crying? Or should he enter and console you? Aemond was leaning toward choosing the former, but as he heard another heartwrenching sob leave your lips, he knew he could not just stand there and let you cry into the night. 

“Princess?” He called by the door, cautiously threading closer to your bed where you lay and cried onto your pillow, your whole frame shaking with each sob. “Princess, are you hurt?” He called again, and at the sound of his voice, your sobbing ceased. Aemond felt his knees grow weak as you turned to him with your bloodshot eyes and quivering lips. “Wha… leave, Ser Aemond,” You say, holding back your cries. Your knight did not do such things but only dared to step closer to the side of your bed. “You… you’re crying— are you hurt?” Aemond asked, having no idea how to console someone in such a state. 

You frowned at your knight’s words. “I’m fine— please, Ser Aemond, leave.” You say once more, sitting up on your bed, embarrassed that your knight had caught you in such a state— balling your eyes out and helpless. “Not until you tell me the matter at hand— why are you crying?” Your fists baled the sheets of your featherbed. “You overstep, Ser. I have asked you to leave twice now— go and return to your post… that is all you care for anyway.” You muttered the last part, remembering the first and foremost reason for your somber mood that had plagued you since a fortnight ago. “I shall return once you tell me what is wrong,” 

You bit your tongue, your usual tendencies of vocalizing all the thoughts that ran your mind coming forward. Aemond challenged you with his eye, standing straighter by your bed, signifying that he truly will not leave until you explain to him the reason for your tears. You sighed, wiping away the tears from your cheeks before letting out a huff of breath. “The matter is, everyone leaves me!” You erupted. “They always leave me alone! And I would think I would have gotten used to it by now, but it just keeps gnawing at me. They constantly leave me lonely! My family leaves me for matters of the crown, my friends to get married— even my past guard left me! And I wager it is only a matter of time when you leave me alone as well!”Aemond’s heart pitted at your words. He stood there in silence for a moment, having no words to offer you comfort. 

You scoffed as Ser Aemond just stood there in silence. “There, I’ve told you the matter— now, leave.” You sighed, trying to calm the anger and sadness that had consumed you. “No,” Aemond answered. You looked at your knight in disbelief. “You are aware that you are disobeying the princess of the realm,” You say, one of the few times that you had held your title over someone’s head. “I’m not leaving. I’m staying here. I’m staying with you.” Aemond said, voice filled with sincerity, his words an oath. 

You could only roll your eyes. “Are you certain? Are you not wary of what the court will think?” You taunted, reminding him of his words. Aemond’s jaw clenched, not particularly enjoying this side of you, but he would have your stubbornness and animosity any day rather than your ignorance. “Princess… it’s just that— I do not like to be gossiped about,” You scoffed, “No one does. You cannot control what the court takes as their new chatter piece— you can, however, control how you handle it.” 

“I did not intend to offend you,” Aemond explained. The words he uttered before had struck something deep inside you, something that brought forth such emotions you had always repressed, but just one word from him had undone all your efforts to hide such unpleasant dispositions. “Were you not the one to tell me that whatever intentions one has, you must know of the consequences?” You asked, the heaviness in your chest miraculously disappearing with each moment you finally spoke with Ser Aemond. You knight sighed, shaking his head. “I did not think anything I say would be of such consequence to you— I did not think you would care,” You stayed silent, not having to utter a word as it is evident that it did. “I… I apologize— I was only trying to protect us both from speculation and the whispers of vipers.” 

“I’m afraid there will always be a devious snake lurking in each garden I roam,” You sighed. “Well, then, it is a good thing you have your knight who’ll always stay by your side to protect you,” you breathed out a laugh, finally meeting Ser Aemond’s eye, seeing sincerity in the lilac orb. You nodded, choosing to believe his words because every part of you told you not to doubt him. “Good night, Ser Aemond.” You say as his cue to leave. Aemond bit his lip and gave a nod. “I shall be at my post,” He informed you, and you gave him a small smile. “I know you will.” 

[arabellasleopardcoat]

A challenge (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: In which you are in a search for identity, and Aemond is in search for a way to prove his superiority to your father. Somehow, you find each other.

Warnings: Fluff. Chaotic family dynamics. Royce! Reader. Angry! Reader. Sword-fighting in dresses. Mature language. Unkind thoughts. Deeply violent thoughts. Eyefucking. Aemond’s toasts ™

A/N: I tried! Feral reader to match Aemond.

THE PETITION FOR Driftmark is none of your concern. Your castle sits in a different region altogether, but you still show up a few days before it is meant to take place.

The years spent trying to turn into bronze have not served you well. Hard metals are also brittle, after all. The fact that all these years have passed, and you still wish to meet your father shows it.

Your ears in King’s Landing are paid handsomely enough to provide you information that allows you to beat him there. It allows you to avoid the riffraff, and settle into the unknown territory before the confrontation.

Not knowing the terrain well enough had killed your mother. You wouldn’t make the same mistake.

Daemon should have raised you. Taught you how to hatch your dragon egg and speak the tongue of your ancestors. But it isn’t like the Rogue Prince to raise daughters. You have heard he has also sent one of the replacement ones to foster at Driftmark. He only raises other men’s sons.

The same could be said for his brother. King Viserys had kept a steady stream of correspondence with you when you had been a child, perhaps feeling guilty for Daemon’s behavior. Not enough to stop it, or bring you justice for your mother’s death, though. It was why you had no qualms about using the flimsy connection to convince the Queen to host you.

The day of your arrival is perfectly sunny. You have always liked the outdoors, a fact that your cousin Tobar attributes to your mother. It is why you decide to explore the grounds instead of supervising your trunks being taken inside.

The Red Keep has grand gardens and a Godswood, but what really catches your eyes is the courtyard. Some knights and squires are training in groups, and it has your blood pumping. After hours copped up in a carriage, your hands itch for the chance to unsheathe Lamentation.

Tobar had gifted you with it when you had turned six and ten, claiming you had become proficient enough to be trusted with it. The same age your father had been knighted, and given Dark Sister. A woman's sword, just as you carried a man’s one. The symmetry amused you.

You stood to the side, arms crossed over your chest. There was a cluster of men in the center, watching a fight. The rhythmic smacking of steel against flesh could be heard, hinting at proficient swordsmen, even if their bodies didn’t allow you to see what was actually going on.

“Smaller than I remember.” Someone shoves you, making you stumble. You turn to glare, and meet the back of a brown haired boy. Another one, smaller, follows him. They are already moving past, without even apologizing.

The courtyard is a big space. It’s only rudeness or hurry that leads them, and you incline towards the first one. With a scowl, you move towards the fight instead.

The crowd parts easily for you. Most of them are knights and squires, and your dress identifies you as a noble lady, with the intricate stitching and heavy velvet. They are practically trained to be polite.

One of the fighters has dark coloring, and wears a Kingsguard’s gambeson. He is handsome, but the one that really catches your attention is the other man. He has long, silver hair, and moves gracefully in the ring. Your traitorous heart gives a lurch.

Daemon. You step closer to the front, and one of the knights places an arm before you, as if to protect you. Your father. He is so slight, and he is deeply-

He is not Daemon. His waist is too trim, his limbs longer. And as he shifts around his opponent, you notice an eye patch on his face. Must be the King’s second son.

Aemond? Daeron? You cannot recall. He prances around with all your father’s arrogance, as if he were certain of his victory. You assess him with a critical eye. His confidence is unwarranted. His footing is slightly askew. He leans too much forward when lunging, trying to overcompensate and add strength he lacks to his blade. He would benefit from focusing on speed rather than brute force.

Despite all the unconventional techniques he employs, he seems to be winning. The crowd makes awed noises when he manages to land a hit, and cheers as the Kingsguard is pushed back.

The duel ends quickly. He disarms the Kingsguard with a quick flick of his wrist, his sword sent flying. You frown, finding it sloppy, but the crowd breaks out into applause.

“Well done, my Prince.” The Kingsguard says, confirming your initial thoughts. This is one of your cousins. “You’ll be winning tourneys in no time.”

“I don’t give a shit about tourneys.” The man says, and you fight a smirk. The profanity is amusing, for someone so tightly wound. You step closer to them, but he spots the rude brown haired boys before he spots you. “Nephews… Have you come to train?”

The boys look like they are about to shit themselves. It makes you smirk.

“They haven’t.” You answer, only realizing the words once you speak them. You had not planned to make a challenge, nor had you intended to part from the crowd. But often, your body reacts before your mind can do so. “But I have.”

Some squires laugh. The younger brown haired boy fights a smile. It doesn’t anger you. You know what you look like to them, in your heavy velvet dress with bronze embroidery. The skirt is full and pleated, covering the sword strapped to your hip in a sea of cloth.

The only ones who do not laugh are the Kingsguard, who is too busy wiping blood from his mouth, and your cousin. Instead, his eye meets yours.

He stalks towards you, every movement calculated to look intimidating. He moves like a predator, all graceful and long lines. It is clear he is used to using his height as a part of the routine, so it amuses you that he can’t quite loom over you.

Because you stand tall. You always do.

“And who are you, who dares defy a Prince so openly?” His voice sounds amused.

You look at him. It is true you have not met him before, but you would expect at least a hint of recognition in his eye. Even if you look more Royce than Targaryen. The runes embroidered on your dress practically scream your identity.

“No one who wishes you harm.” You smile, picking up the hem of your skirts. Most of your dresses have been cleverly designed, to allow you to turn the lower part of them into breeches by tugging on a few ribbons and securing some knots. The sword at your hip is revealed as you do so, and you revel in the attention the dramatic display gathers.

“I welcome all challengers.” Your cousin bows his head to you. “If they dare face me.”

“My prince I do not think…” The Kingsguard advises, wisely. Perhaps he senses the sharpness of your grin doesn’t forebode anything good for his pupil.

“Oh, Cole. Let the lady try.” The Prince answers, dismissively. “And we can go on with our days after I disarm her. It’s not as if I will hurt her.”

You unsheathe your sword. While the thought is gallant, he won’t hurt you because you are the superior swordsman. But it’s sort of cute that he worries.

“Of course, Ser. The prince will not harm me.” You slide into the proper stance, Lamentation held loosely by your side.

Your cousin studies you, in silence. He must know as well as you do that the person to make the first move is always at a disadvantage. He is handsome, you think. His jaw is so sharp, you could cut your hands while trying to hold him.

You are better at the waiting game. You have waited years for a chance to meet your father, you can wait a few minutes for him to become unsettled.

He lunges at you, a smug smile on his face. Hoping to force you into blocking. Instead, you move aside, allowing him to tumble forward. Your assessment of him was right. He put too much force behind his blow, sure it would connect.

Someone snickers, and you turn slightly towards the sound, recognizing it as made by the Strong boy. A sudden smacking sound and a flash of heat against your arm forces you focus on the fight. Your cousin has taken advantage, and managed to hit you with the flat of his sword.

Lamentation remains held by your side, but you tighten your grip on it, feeling the ridges on the pommel dig against your palm.

He lunges again, a frown marring his handsome face. You twist away. Once again, he repeats the same mistake.

“Are you aware…” Your cousin shouts. “That swordplay involves using a sword?”

“Oh, I am.” You grin at him, hoping to goad him into making more mistakes. Your arm still feels warm from his blow. For such a slight man, he sure is strong. You had underestimated him too much. “It’s just… You are such a poor swordsman I thought we were dancing.”

The rest of the knights and squires fall silent after you speak. It allows you to hear the change in his breath, exertion yielding to rage. He can't take a joke, it seems because his next cut is aimed at your neck.

Were you not ready to meet him, he could have killed you. But fortunately, you are done playing with your food. You lift Lamentation and smack the flat side against his wrist, hard enough to make him drop the sword.

Had you not swung flat side first, he would not only be missing an eye. By the look on his face, and the way he stares at his wrist, he knows it too.

His eye lowers to the fallen sword, perplexed. He seems unable to believe how it has betrayed him.

You unmake the knots and lacings of your skirts, releasing them back into their normal state. You fluff them up, just for show.

“Nice match, cousin.”

You prance back inside.

“HOW GOOD IT is… to see you all tonight… together.” You are sitting next to your decaying uncle, the place of honor having been afforded to you thanks to your supposed stream of correspondence. You are deeply regretting that lie, since King Viserys smells strongly of herbs and rotting flesh. It’s putting you off your appetite.

Lately, the Queen confesses, he seems lost in the past. He seems to have a hard time remembering your latter letters, instead having a fixed image of you as his little niece who sent him drawings and questions about Valyrian history. You do not mention further letters do not exist.

Your father sits with his new family, studiously avoiding your eyes. He has chosen a seat on the same side of the table you are in. Your heart aches. You wonder if after all these years, he has given any thought to what he had done.

The day he killed your mother, she was just two moons shy from birthing you. Had he known, you wonder? Did he intend to kill the both of you, or just her? After robbing you from your mother, he had fled the Vale, and married another woman. He had had two girls not even a couple of years later, the ones that now sat with the Strong boys.

They had the Valyrian coloring you lacked. You wondered if he loved them more because of it.

You have zoned out enough that when you come to be, King Viserys has grabbed your hand. His head is lowered, as if about to pray.

You imitate him.

“Don’t worry, niece.” He whispers, kindly. “I didn’t know how to pray before either.”

Queen Alicent grabs your other hand, gently.

“The Gods listen to us regardless.”

Someone snorts. Your other cousin, the uninteresting one. Aegon, you think he is called. As you look around the table, you notice only the Lord Hand and your cousin Aemond have bowed their heads. No one else is a believer here.

You lower your head.

“May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love. May the Smith mend the bonds that have been broken for far too long. And to Vaemond Velaryon, may the gods give him rest.” The Queens says, and you try not to think of how unlikely her words are.

Your bond with your father cannot be fixed. He is a murderer. Your bond with your uncle cannot be fixed either. He has protected the man who killed your mother, and weakly tried to make amends during the first years of your life.

As for your father’s new wife, new sons, new daughters, you look around and all you see is weakness. They are pathetic. Lowly. Baseborn. You despise them all. Had you owned a dragon, you would watch them all burn.

Your teeth make an awful, creaking, sound. You cannot burn them, but oh, how you wish to.

Someone is watching you. You know it instinctively. There is an odd prickling on the back of your head, you cannot sit still. You try not to look up, knowing it is not your father, but soon it feels like the stare is boring a hole through your skull, opening it up. Watching your most secret and inner thoughts leak out.

You shift on your seat. As you look up, Aemond meets your eyes without shame. He gives you a smirk.

“This is an occasion for celebration, it seems. My grandsons, Jace and Luke, will marry their cousins, Baela and Rhaena, further strengthening the bond between our houses. A toast to the young Princes… and their betrothed.” The King toasts. You raise your cup, feigning a smile.

“Hear, hear!”

“Well done, Jace. You’ll finally get to lie with a woman.” Aegon whispers, but not low enough for you not to hear. You have to take a sip from your cup to hide your snort. You look towards your father, but he avoids making eye contact with you, eyes firmly ahead.

“Let us toast as well Prince Lucerys… the future Lord of the Tides.” The King continues, and you return your attention towards the dramatics taking place in front of you. The Strong boy is starting to look offended.

“You do know how the act is done, I assume?” Aegon leans in, a mean little smile on his face. He is a cunt, but an entertaining one. “At least in principle? Where to put your cock and all that.”

“Let it be, cousin.” One of the new daughters interjects. You do not know which one she is, and frankly, you do not care to learn. They are named something ridiculous, like Bela and Rhaela or Rhaenys and Laena, you are not sure. It’s some sort of Valyrian name.

“You can play the jester if you wish, but hold your tongue before my betrothed.” The Strong boy threatens. You fight your smile. While Aegon looks smug, the Strong boy looks ready to fight. His hands are formed into fists, his face red with a mixture of humiliation and rage.

“It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table. The faces most dear to me in all the world… yet grown so distant from each other… in the years past.” The mask the King is wearing falls down, and you wince. His face is a ghastly sight, full of holes left behind by festering wounds. The illness has claimed his eye, leaving an empty eye socket behind.

Your eyes dart towards Aemond. Does he look like that under the eye patch too? Perhaps you should reconsider your thoughts on his attractiveness.

He lifts an eyebrow at you, amused to be the one catching you looking this time. You feel your face heating up, but force yourself to lift an eyebrow back at him.

He smiles, and lifts his cup to you, almost imperceptibly.

“My own face… is no longer a handsome one… if indeed it ever was. But tonight… I wish you to see me… as I am. Not just a king… but your father. Who may not, it seems… walk for much longer among you. Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts. The crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. But set aside your grievances. If not for the sake of the crown… then for the sake of this old man who loves you all so dearly.”

This time, you roll your eyes. It’s an unavoidable reaction to hearing someone spit such bullshit. The day you died was the day you forgot all the slights committed against you. The only way of erasing them was getting your pound of flesh from each of them.

You cannot believe what you are hearing. Only Aemond and the Lord Hand seem as resentful as you are. Everyone else seems either neutral or taken by the words of the King.

To your astonishment, the most taken are the Queen and Princess Rhaenyra. You grab your goblet, and chug your wine like there is no tomorrow.

“Everything alright, Lady Royce?” The Strong boy asks you, very politely. You want to grab him by his awful chamberpot-shaped haircut and smash his face against the table until his mouth is bloody.

Instead, you banish the violent image from your head and smile, as fake as you can.

“Just thirsty. Pass me the pitcher?”

“I wish to raise my cup to Her Grace, the Queen. I love my father. But I must admit that no one has stood… more loyally by his side than his good wife. She has tended to him with… unfailing devotion, love, and honor. And for that, she has my gratitude… and my apology.”

You sigh. These people are delusional, and it makes you fear for the future of the realm. You have no idea what you were thinking by coming here. The hopes for a confrontation with your father seem absurd now, when he has done his best to hide from you and avoid you during your stay in the Red Keep.

He had never answered your letters, either.

“Your graciousness moves me deeply, Princess. We are both mothers… and we love our children. We have more in common than we sometimes allow. I raise my cup to you… and to your house. You will make a fine queen.”

Aegon leans towards the replacement daughter, whispering in her ear. If someone has drank more than you tonight, it’s him.

“I, um… I regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer. But if you ever wish to know what it is to be well satisfied, all you have to do is ask.”

The Strong boy springs up from his seat as if his pants were on fire. He clears his throat.

“To Prince Aegon and… Prince Aemond. We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth. And as men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your family’s good health, dear uncles. To you as well.”

“Beware… beneath the boards.” You don’t quite catch what Helaena says.

“Well done, my boy.”

“I would like to toast to Baela and Rhaena. They’ll be married soon. It isn’t so bad. Mostly he just ignores you… except sometimes when he’s drunk.” Helaena makes her own little toast, and you frown. She is married to Aegon, if you recall correctly. She also seems… Quite odd.

Some laugh at her. You do not. You cannot wait for this dinner to be over.

“Good. Let us have some music.”

Much to your dismay, the Strong boy asks Helaena to dance. His brother looks at you, and you give him such a murderous glance, he doesn’t dare rise from his seat.

You engage in quiet conversation with your uncle and the Queen. He calls her Aemma several times.

“I have a niece.” Viserys tells you, very softly. “She has hair like you. Dark. One day, she will grow to rule the Vale. We write letters.”

You don’t mean for it to happen, but a sudden wave of pity for the old man hits you. He is lost in memories, thinking Alicent is Aemma, and you are still a young girl. He had seemed so lucid before, even like he was doing well. Happy, with the merriment taking place around him. And then, a switch had been flicked, the conversation had started to become more stilted, and he was winded and lost.

“Guards.” Alicent calls out, and they rush to assist the King, who groans. They take him away as he orders for you to go back to dining.

You do, chewing your food in absolute silence. You can feel eyes on you. The conversation is stilted, the people gathered at the table both uncomfortable with your presence and with each other.

The awkwardness doesn’t deter you. You relish on it. You want them to suffer in your presence. Want the replacement daughters to feel guilty for getting to have a father, the Strong boys to be frightened by you, the whore he has for a wife to wonder if she will die next.

And your father? You want him to die a slow, agonizing death. But you will settle for his wife having a massive row with him tonight.

As the main course is placed on the table, the Strong boys and your male cousins exchange glances. Suddenly, Aemond slams his fist on the table and gets up. His expression is icy.

“Final tribute. To the health of my nephews: Jace… Luke… and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise… hm… strong.”

You snort. The Queen doesn’t seem to think it as amusing as you do.

“Aemond.” She complains.

“Come… let us drain our cups to these three…Strong boys.” Aemond smirks, and you lift your goblet, eyes full of malice. Anything that hurts them seems nice to you.

“I dare you to say that again.” The eldest Strong boy, the one with the awful haircut, jumps up.

“Why? ‘Twas only a compliment.” Aemond goads, emboldened by your attention. “Do you not think yourself Strong?”

The boy lunges and punches Aemond. Rhaenyra screams. Aegon gets up and slams the other Strong boy into the table.

Queen Alicent and Rhaenyra try to separate them. So do the guards.

“Jace!”

“That is enough!”

You want to jump in, want to smash a wine jug on his face. Break a plate, strangle your father. But as you are reaching forward, ready to seize one of them, someone grabs your wrist.

The hand is warm, and holds you gently but firmly. A man’s hand.

Your father’s.

You look at him. His eyes are dark. This man, who you once thought larger than life, who killed your mother, who almost killed you. His eyes are dark, and wide, and so much like yours.

His other hand goes to your jaw. He brushes it, tenderly. For a second, you lose yourself in the thought. You are no longer the angry woman, but the little girl who wanted her father so desperately.

“You have…” His voice breaks your spell. Grown? Your mother’s eyes? Face? Hair? You never got to meet her, thanks to him.

You jerk out of his grip and flee the room.

THE PAIR OF breeches and a shirt feel much more comfortable against your skin than the dress you had worn to dinner. It wasn’t one of your modified styles, and so, had felt suffocating against your body. Too tight on your ribs, too heavy against your legs. You had not noticed it when wearing it, but taking it off had been an immediate relief.

Unfortunately, your anger doesn’t subside as easily. Your shoulders ache from swinging Lamentation over and over again, but you still want to scream. Scream and scream, until you wake the whole Keep.

When the moonlight illuminates a tall figure, you only feel more anger. Aemond’s face now has a bruise, a mark left by Jacaerys’ fist. You hate when other people dare touch what is yours. Much less, when they dare mark it.

He has no claim to him, this Strong boy that can barely lift his sword. Aemond is yours. The audacity astonishes you.

“My lady.” Aemond bows his head to you. He carries his sword on his hand. “Shall we dance?”

“I fear I might have gotten enough disappointments for a day.” You set Lamentation down on a bench. In truth, your arms are too sore, and you fear you might lose if you face him. Aemond is smart. He will not underestimate you a second time, and while you are good, you lose your advantage when exhausted. “Your brother has the smallest cock I've ever seen, and you are a poor swordsman. Are the Strong boys really the best House Targaryen has to offer?”

Aemond’s mouth falls open. He stares at you in disbelief, a hint of anger briefly crossing his features, before barking out a laugh. He sets his own sword aside.

“You wish to goad me again. It won’t work.”

“Goad you into what? Mud wrestling?” You say, gesturing to your lack of a sword.

“Don’t jest.” Aemond rolls his eye. “There is no mud here.”

“Plain wrestling, then?” You arch an eyebrow.

“You are infuriating.”

“I live to please.”

“Have you given marriage any thought?” His voice is casual. Far too casual.

“No.” You say, plainly. “I wish to never marry, and let Tobar’s brats inherit everything.”

“Your abilities with the sword do not correlate to your abilities with deception.”

“You think very highly of yourself, don’t you?” You step closer to him, feeling your amusement ebb into annoyance.

Aemond smirks. He is a bit taller than you, and seems to enjoy that fact greatly.

“I am a good prospect.” He captures your chin in his hand, and makes you tilt your head up.

You despise that you get a bit unfocused by how warm and big his palm feels against your face. It feels so good, you could close your eyes and melt into it. But instead, all that comes out of your mouth is…

“Your blood is unsavory, your manners lacking, and your skill with the sword could use work.”

“My, that almost sounded like a compliment.” Aemond laughs.

“It wasn’t.” You complain because you hate that he is starting to understand you. How when you feel scared about the too big feelings in your chest you lash out, and say things you do not mean.

He grabs your hand, and kisses your knuckles.

“I’ll ask for your hand in the morrow.”

“Do try.”

He does. Much to your dismay, Aemond asks his father for your hand, openly slighting yours. King Viserys finds the whole thing delightful. No one else but you seems to share his joy.

[bosbas]

Chapter 1: if a man talks shit then I owe him nothing

series masterlist previous part || next part

pairing: colin bridgerton x enemy-ish!fem!reader WC: 4.2k words

Warnings: period-typical gender roles, some strong language, a small part of the dialogue is in French (with translations provided), period-typical views on women, alluding to sex, mentions of alcohol

Summary: It took precisely two days in England for you to utterly despise Colin Bridgerton. It took him approximately twelve hours after that to hate you right back. But he doesn't care that you're the only person in the ton who doesn't like him. You're set to marry someone else anyway, right?

A/N: French is not my first language so IM SORRY if the dialogue is a bit weird. I speak some French and obvi double checked to make sure it made sense but please lmk if i made a mistake 

April 14, 1816 – Dearest Gentle Readers,

A new season is upon us, and so my work begins anew. Firstly, we can reacquaint ourselves with the familiar faces we expect to see this season. It has been two years since Viscount Anthony Bridgerton married, and dowager Viscountess Bridgerton is surely itching to secure a match for more of her children. Miss Eloise Bridgerton, now in her second year of being out, remains unmarried. And, of course, one cannot help but wonder whether the charming Mr. Colin Bridgerton will return from his travels in time for the season. Though Benedict Bridgerton has been absent from the public eye as of late, he could also be considered an eligible bachelor. Shall we see any of them marry this season? This author remains skeptical, though, with the Bridgertons, one must always expect the unexpected.

There are, however, plenty of new faces. Chief among them are the two youngest Montclair siblings. The Montclairs resided in London for the debut of Lady Charlotte Montclair, now the Duchess of Somerset, before vanishing from England’s social scene. Until now, of course. Though Lord Louis Montclair is only two and twenty and may still be considered green for the marriage mart, all eyes will surely be on Lady Y/N Montclair as she steps into the spotlight and searches for an impressively titled gentleman. Though the Montclairs have graced the streets of Calcutta, Rome, Geneva, and Madrid, among other illustrious locales, one can only hope that the grandeur of London lives up to their expectations.

You let out a resigned sigh of frustration, scolding yourself for your tardiness as you hurried down the stairs. It was half an hour past when you were supposed to be in the breakfast room, and your mother was bound to be at least a little displeased with you. It was the first time your entire family was in the same place since your older brother Jacques got married in September. Despite being a big family, six siblings in total, four of whom were married, it was unusual that you had gone so long without seeing them all in one place.

Moving from country to country every few years for much of your upbringing had made your siblings a very tight-knit bunch. So, as you neared the breakfast room, which was full of laughter and lively conversation, you couldn't shake the twinge of guilt for your late arrival.

But you couldn’t help it! Not this time, at least. It had been your first night in London since your sister Charlotte’s season eight years ago, and you had stayed up until the early hours of the morning stargazing in your garden. There was a secluded patch of grass between the summer pavilion and the tulips, a secret spot hidden from prying eyes, where you could spend hours looking at the sky in peaceful solitude. Last time you were in London, you had snuck out of your bedroom every night to stare at the stars, and you had been pleased to find that the spot remained undiscovered.

You had always been comforted by the fact that the cosmos would remain the same even if your home did not. The night sky had become somewhat of a companion during your childhood years, and you were interested to see what part of it you were privy to in London at this time of year. Perhaps a scolding and a lecture from your mother were not such a high price to pay for the opportunity to reacquaint yourself with the stars, you reasoned.

You slithered into the breakfast room quietly, hoping to draw as little attention to yourself as possible, but you had no such luck. Your brother closest to you in age, Louis, was sitting nearest to the door and noticed your late entrance immediately.

Taking advantage of every opportunity to make your life just a little harder, he goaded, “T'es très en retard, demoiselle. Ce n'est pas convenable pour une fille en quête d'un mari!” (You’re very late, young lady. This is not suitable for a girl looking for a husband!)

Under any other circumstances, you might have laughed at his impression of your mother, but you were quite sleep-deprived and in no mood to have your brother lecture you. You sighed in frustration, hissing, “Louis, ferme ta gue-” (Louis, shut you mou-)

“English, please!” interrupted your father, not even looking up from his newspaper as he sat at the head of the table.

You were relieved he hadn’t commented on your colorful language, but his curt reprimand reminded you that it was in poor taste to speak a language not everyone could understand. Growing up, your family had primarily spoken French, but with none of your siblings having married a francophone, you were now only allowed to speak in French when everyone present could speak it, too. It was a rule enforced particularly during big family gatherings such as this one. Despite your fluency in five languages, your parents insisted on English, the only common language among all twelve family members.

“Sorry,” you muttered, not quite sure that your father had even heard. You slid into your seat between Louis and your brother Jacques’ wife, Chiara. Still annoyed with Louis, you turned to the newest addition to the Montclair family and smiled at her warmly.

“Ciao, Y/N,” she greeted, smiling back and kissing you on the cheek.

“Ciao, Chiara, è bello rivederti,” you responded (Hi Chiara, it’s nice to see you again). You were tempted to keep speaking to her in Italian–you liked the practice, after all–but feared another scolding from your father. So, you settled for, “I trust your trip back home was good?”

“Oh, it was lovely. Florence always is at this time of year. You should come back to visit sometime! Beatrice misses you terribly,” she exclaimed.

Beatrice was Chiara’s younger sister, whom you had become dear friends with while living in Tuscany. You had remained in Tuscany for nearly four years, longer than you usually stayed in one place, and though you were itching to leave and see more of the world by the end of your time in Florence, you were thankful you had met Beatrice. Both of you were delighted when you realized your brother was marrying her sister, ensuring you would remain close even when you moved away.

You sighed. “I miss her, too. We correspond quite regularly, but it’s simply not the same. I assume it will be worse now that I am in England and even farther from her,” you lamented.

After Jacques and Chiara’s wedding, your parents, Louis, and you returned home to Amboise for a few months. Beatrice had visited for the holidays along with Chiara and Jacques, but you knew she was unlikely to come to England when she was busy with her season back home.

Chiara smiled sympathetically. “Well, Jacques and I are only staying for a few weeks before returning to Tuscany. If you get bored here in London, you are always welcome to visit,” she comforted.

It was a lovely thought, but you doubted your parents would allow you to leave England until you were married. Your parents’ marriage had most certainly not been a love match, and though they did grow to love each other eventually, they didn’t particularly care whether you loved the man you married. To them, marriage was an economic endeavor rather than a romantic one. You had never minded much, having accepted your fate early in life as you watched your siblings marry strategically.

Nevertheless, you had grown rather nervous about your season after watching the outcome of Charlotte’s. In your parents’ eyes, her season was a complete success as she married a Duke a few short months after her debut. But you knew better. Not all of your siblings had enjoyed moving around so much, but you, Louis, and Charlotte were the most enthusiastic. Having married the Duke of Somerset, Charlotte had become Duchess, and her duties tied her to England. After such an international childhood, you knew Charlotte was dreadfully bored of staying in England year after year.

You knew there were much worse marriages to be in, but you still wanted to avoid being permanently tied to England, of all places. You were only twenty years old, after all, and you still had so much of the world to see.

---

“By the way,” Violet said, strategically avoiding the topic until she was about to leave the sitting room. “Both of you are attending the Danbury ball tomorrow night.”

The expected chorus of complaints filled her ears, and she shook her head in amusement at her children’s petulance. One would think she was trying to force them to walk halfway across the world!

Violet sighed and said firmly, “I understand that neither of you is particularly enthusiastic, but we are not so rude as to miss the first ball of the season. And at Lady Danbury’s home, at that! Surely the retribution you would receive from her is enough to make you want to go.”

“Well, Colin’s coming home from Greece tomorrow and I hardly think he’ll be in attendance, so I don’t see why we should be,” argued Eloise, earning an enthusiastic nod from Benedict.

“You make the mistake of thinking that I have not already informed Colin he will be in attendance. None of you have the option to stay home, I’m afraid.”

And with that, she left her grumbling children behind in favor of a quiet turn around the garden.

---

Colin arrived at Number 5 Bruton Street feeling rather unkempt. His journey from Greece had been particularly tumultuous, and he was ready to change clothes and sleep for the next seventeen hours.

“Colin! I’m so glad you’re home,” exclaimed Violet upon seeing him. For all her nagging, he was quite fond of his mother and found that he had missed her while he had been away. Seeing tears forming in her eyes, Colin wrapped Violet up in a tight hug, hoping to avoid feeling worse about being away for so long.

“He’s home!” shouted Gregory, running up to greet him. The rest of his siblings followed suit, and Colin basked in the excitement of his homecoming.

To the rest of the ton, Colin was the most well-liked Bridgerton due to his easygoing nature and cheerful demeanor, and because he was rather good-looking as well, he hoped. However, it was nice to know that his family still cared for him despite his prolonged absences.

“The Danbury ball is in a few hours, so make sure to be ready on time,” his mother reminded him once she had gathered herself.

He groaned, having forgotten he had promised his mother he would attend. He sighed as he prepared for an evening of excruciating conversation as he politely listened to ambitious mamas name every single positive attribute their daughters possessed in the hopes of impressing him. It wasn’t that he didn’t like them, but rather that he remained uninterested in marriage, finding his travels a much more exciting prospect. But he had a reputation to maintain, so he would be as courteous as ever to everyone he met and perhaps even dance with a few of them.

A few hours later, the Bridgertons were, quite impatiently, one could say, waiting for Benedict to finish getting ready so they could leave for the Danbury Ball.

“Excited for your third season?” Colin directed his question at Eloise. He knew the answer, of course, but he was growing bored of waiting for Benedict and thought that this would be the perfect distraction.

“Shut up.”

“Maybe you’ll find someone you absolutely adore, El. Don’t close yourself off to the possibilities,” preached Colin, annoying Eloise further.

“What about you, Colin? Five and twenty and still unmarried, that’s a bit ghastly don’t you think?” she shot back.

Of course, it wasn't unheard of to be unmarried at his age, but Colin panicked regardless, knowing his mother would surely love to join the conversation now that his marriage prospects were a talking point. But Benedict saved him by walking down the stairs at that moment.

“Finally! Now can we go, please?” exclaimed Eloise.

“I’m surprised, Eloise. I thought you didn’t want to go to this ball,” teased Benedict, but she only grumbled in return as they headed toward their carriage.

The carriage rides were usually the worst part of going to a ball. Violet Bridgerton, efficient as ever, would inform each of her children of the possible prospects that would be in attendance that night, impossibly elongating the journey and making the Bridgertons less and less pleased about being forced to go. They weren't always forced, of course, but the carriage rides certainly made it seem that way.

“The Montclairs will be in London for the season, I heard. Lady Y/N Montclair will be making her debut, which will surely interest you two,” said Violet, nodding at the men in the carriage. “And for you, Eloise, her older brother Lord Louis Montclair is perhaps too young to get married, but it wouldn’t hurt to speak with him and practice your French.”

Violet droned on for the rest of the ride, and the Bridgerton siblings could barely get out of the carriage fast enough when it arrived at Danbury House. Little did they know that they had played right into Violet’s plan. She wanted to enjoy the evening and visit with her friends, and hopefully, her overly long analysis of the key figures at today’s ball would keep her children away from her enough for her to do so.

Inside the ballroom, you were speaking with a perfectly nice but quite boring gentleman. You couldn’t quite remember his name, having talked to at least a dozen men practically identical to him already. You barely registered his request for a dance, and you only realized you had accepted when you found yourself in the middle of the dance floor. Luckily, the dance went by fairly quickly and you were able to sprinkle in interested hums and “oh really?” at the appropriate times. All in all, it was not a terrible experience, if only you could remember his name.

He returned you to your mother and bowed in parting, kissing your hand and promising to call on you the next day.

“Who was that?” you muttered once he had left.

“Y/N,” she scolded, but could barely contain her laughter. “I can’t believe you danced with a man you don’t even know the name of!”

You shrugged, not particularly interested in learning who he was anymore.

“Is there anyone else you want me to meet?” you asked her, hoping she would say no and you would be free to find Louis and talk to someone familiar at last.

But your mother was distracted from answering as she saw two tall men crossing the ballroom. She squeezed your arm and nodded in their direction, careful to be discreet.

“Those are the Bridgertons. Their oldest brother, the Viscount, is already married, but it is of no consequence. Perhaps the second and third sons might not be fit to be your husband, but you should still introduce yourself and make a good impression should you encounter them.”

You nodded, disinterested. You were too busy looking around the room, realizing that there was still a myriad of gentlemen left to speak with. It seemed that there were too many eligible bachelors if that was even possible. You had thought there would be five men that your mother would have approved of, at most, and you could make your pick between them. But it seemed London was a particularly popular place for titled gentlemen to search for a wife, and you were growing uneasy.

Trying not to think about the long evening ahead of you, you tuned back into what your mother was saying. “Oh! I don’t quite know where Colin Bridgerton has gone off to now, but Benedict is over by the lemonade if you can see him. I believe that is his sister, Eloise. They all look identical, don’t they? The same brown h-”

“Pardon me,” you interrupted as panic rose in your chest. You were in desperate need of a respite, and could hardly handle another minute listening to her speak about more men she needed you to meet. “I think I see an old friend of mine, and I must say hello,” you lied.

Your mother raised her eyebrows in surprise, shocked that you remembered people from eight years ago, but let you go regardless. Impatiently, you waited until someone else engaged her in conversation and quietly slipped out into the hallway. Stepping out of a ball on your own like this was forbidden, and your father would surely have your head if he found out you had risked being found unchaperoned and away from the ball, but you needed to get away for just a moment to gather yourself.

Lady Danbury’s home was quite beautiful, you found, and you were enjoying looking at the art on her walls as you roamed the halls. You were careful not to stray too far, not knowing your way around and recognizing that you only had a short time before someone was bound to notice your absence.

Suddenly, your senses heightened as you heard two men’s voices far closer than you would have liked. Panicking, you jumped around a corner and prayed that no one would find you, absolutely not ready to be forced to marry a man only one ball into your debut. You willed your heart to stop beating so loudly lest you get caught and tried to discern what the men were saying, unable to quell your curiosity despite the precarious position you found yourself in.

“And, if she's the right sort of woman, you won’t even have to do anything, she'll just get on top and do all the work. Though I suppose it all depends on her dowry. The larger the dowry the more I’m willing to overlook,” slurred one of them. “And you, Colin? Do any ladies catch your eye? I’m sure you could get away with anything with any of these girls, though I suggest picking one that’s got good hips.”

Your jaw dropped in disbelief at the same time as you heard 'Colin' say, “Why don’t we continue this conversation outside, Nigel?”

Their footsteps echoed down the hall and you risked a glance at them, still horrified but wanting to know who they were anyway. You were unsurprised to find Nigel walking toward the garden, having met Mr. Nigel Berbrooke earlier in the evening and finding him quite unpleasant. However, you were shocked to find who you assumed to be Colin Bridgerton walking quite close to Mr. Berbrooke. Hadn’t your mother said the Bridgertons were people of good standing? Surely someone would have noticed that the third son was a complete ass. But perhaps he was the odd one out, and the rest of his family was lovely. Or perhaps Englishmen were simply unpleasant as a whole. Whatever the reason for his horrible comments, you decided you despised Colin Bridgerton and dreaded the day you would have to speak with him.

“Quel salaud,” you muttered angrily under your breath after you heard Mr. Bridgerton close the door to the outdoor patio (What a bastard). Pacing up and down the hallway, you were too enraged by what you heard to return to the ballroom.

The quality of men in England seemed to be quite lacking, and suddenly you wished you could follow in your sister Isabelle’s footsteps and go to Spain to find a titled gentleman there. Isabelle had seemed quite excited about all her suitors before eventually settling on Carlos, who practically worshipped the ground she walked on. Unfortunately, it seemed that you were not destined for such a husband, you thought glumly.

But you supposed you didn't really have a choice. You let out a weary sigh and leaned heavily against the wall, shaking your head as you accepted the reality of your situation. With an angry humph and one last look to make sure no one was around, you quietly slipped back into the ballroom and searched for your mother, who would surely be looking for you now. As you expected, she spotted you almost instantly, and she immediately drew you into conversation with a gentleman you believed to be an Earl.

---

Colin stood outside the door to the ballroom, flexing his fingers to make sure there was still feeling there. Confirming the health of his right hand, he gently opened the ballroom door with his left and stepped inside, looking around for Benedict. Spotting him a few feet away, Colin quickly made his way over hoping to avoid any particularly insistent mamas at this precise moment.

“You look quite relaxed,” commented Benedict, earning a glare from Colin.

“Berbrooke,” Colin explained flatly. “How that man manages to get so drunk so quickly I will never know.”

But suddenly his attention was drawn elsewhere. Time seemed to slow down as a stunning lady he had never seen before crossed the ballroom. He was paralyzed, stuck to his spot on the ground as he stared after you. The only thing he could hear was his heart beating loudly in his ears, and though Colin wasn’t one to believe in love at first sight, he imagined it might have felt something like this if he did. Without a second thought, he knew he had to know you. It was almost instinctual.

Colin tugged on Benedict’s sleeve, his eyes still glued to your form as you laughed politely at whoever you were speaking with. “Who is that over there? Have you spoken with her?”

“I’m sure I have no idea,” responded Benedict. “You could always ask Mother.”

“I might do just that, actually,” hummed Colin, deep in thought.

Benedict choked back a laugh, looking over at his younger brother. “Are you being serious?”

Tearing his eyes away from you for a moment, Colin turned to his brother, confused. “Well, yes. If anyone knows who she is, it’ll be her, no?”

Realizing that Colin was, in fact, quite serious, Benedict’s expression sobered. “You are aware if you even hint at the fact that you might be interested in her, Mother will surely come up with at least a dozen plans to marry you off?”

“I don’t think that would be the worst thing in the world,” Colin reasoned, eyes searching for you in the crowd again. Five minutes ago, he would’ve thought it silly, how captivated he was by you. But five minutes ago, he had not yet seen you.

Just as he was about to seek out his mother to ask about you, Lady Danbury walked up to the pair of Bridgertons and poked Colin's foot with her cane. Usually, her presence would have instilled a healthy dose of fear in him, but tonight all he really wanted was to know you, and he supposed Lady Danbury was just as knowledgeable as Violet Bridgerton about the goings on of the ton.

“What are you doing staring at Lady Montclair?” she demanded.

“Lady Montclair? Is that her name?” Then, vaguely remembering what his mother had said on the carriage ride to the ball, he added, “The one from France?”

Lady Danbury hummed, suspicious of Colin’s enthusiasm. “Yes. Lady Y/N Montclair. Speaking with her brother Lord Louis Montclair. Are you interested?”

“I think I am, yes,” he sighed.

“I do believe she has space left on her dance card,” prompted Lady Danbury, doing very little to hide the fact that she was nudging Colin in your direction.

Once Colin had taken off, Benedict turned to her, not distracted enough to forget decorum as his brother had. “This is a wonderful ball, Lady Danbury. My deepest gratitude to you for inviting us, as always.”

But she only waved his thanks away. “Shush, boy. I’m trying to pay attention to Colin willingly asking a lady to dance for the first time.”

Soft music floated through the ballroom as you laughed quietly with Louis, who seemed to be having a wonderful time terrorizing your mother and refusing to dance with any ladies she introduced to him. The gentle hum of the room was interrupted by the sound of footsteps beside you, and with a polite smile on your face, you turned to greet whoever had approached. Realizing you were face to face with Mr. Colin Bridgerton, your expression immediately turned stony.

Bowing with just the right degree of formality, Colin introduced himself, his charm seemingly effortless. He certainly played the part of a perfect gentleman; you could give him that. But you couldn’t forget his conversation with Mr. Berbrooke, the distasteful words replaying in your mind over and over.

Then, extending his hand to you and tilting his head slightly toward the dance floor, a soft smile on his lips, he asked, “Would you care to dance with me this evening, Lady Montclair?”

Looking at him squarely, you responded, your voice sickly sweet, “Why no, Mr. Bridgerton. I don’t believe I would.”

—

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[ddarker-dreams]

Idée Fixe.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader.

Warnings: Some not SFW elements, yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, emotional manipulation, depictions of general & social anxiety disorder, depictions of a panic attack, mentions of anxiety medication, Chrollo administers medications to Reader without her consent, and mentions of religion. Also Chrollo just really, really sucks. Word count: 12.3k.

You met a strange man at the arboretum today.

Perhaps you aren’t in a position to describe others as ‘strange’, considering your latest proclivity for expressing earnest thanks to any honey bees you happen across for their service. After much contemplation, however, it’s ultimately the word you arrive at. ‘Strange’ not in a disconcerting sense that inspires fear, but just being out of the ordinary enough to exude an undeniable allure. A raised panel on the floor you stumble over yet suffer no serious injury from. 

Well-kept gardens might be the closest imitation to heaven on earth. That’s what brought you to this little oasis hidden in the desert that is urban life. It’s the type of day romanticists wax poetic about: baby blue skies, puffy clouds, and moderate temperatures with a light, forgiving breeze. 

You situated yourself strategically, so you’d be beneath the shade of a magnolia tree whose pink petals kept fluttering down as if in greeting, and near a patch of daffodils that matched the shade of your gingham dress. Blades of grass tickle your legs, but not unpleasantly so, they scratch an itch found only in nature’s loving reprieve. There’s no thought of upcoming assignments, what to eat for dinner, or if buying that purse you thought was a steal at 30% off was a good idea or not. 

It’s just you and your book. 

Until it isn’t. 

Every woman is connected in the experience that is trepidation whenever a man randomly approaches. There’s no telling his intentions, if he has any. You’re left to smile awkwardly and temporarily realign yourself with religion by praying to a higher deity for his hasty departure. You map out potential escape routes and recall the pepper spray situated in your impulse-bought purse. He gently calls out “Miss”, confirming that he hopes to speak with you. 

At least he has the propriety to stop a few paces from where you sit, electing not to intrude on your personal space. This causes your shoulders to relax. In the few seconds you’ve been made aware of his existence, you recognize his appealing features. He has loose, dark hair, along with wide and seemingly unassuming eyes. His outfit of a dark gray turtleneck accompanied by a black jacket and pants somewhat strikes you as odd, considering spring is in full bloom. Two other details steal your attention away from this; those being the beige wrapping around his forehead and his spherical, turquoise-colored earrings. It’s like he was caught undecided between wanting and not wanting to attract attention. 

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he begins. You try not to think about how pleasant his voice sounds. “I’ve been trying to make sense of the directory, but I’ve never been the best with directions. Do you by any chance know how to get to the Starling House?” 

You nod. It’s a quaint, centuries-old mansion, maintained by the non-profit that oversees the flora here. Getting over the initial apprehension from his approach, you try verbalizing the most efficient path to get there. This proves more difficult than you expected since the arboretum is vast and has few waypoints that can be used for reference. Still, throughout your explanation whose unhelpfulness you grow painfully aware of, he patiently nods and makes no attempts to rush you through. 

This willingness to put up with your scattered description wins over your sympathy, pushing you past your sheepishness. 

“I guess I’m not good at giving directions. I could just show you the way, if you’d like.” 

“I’d hate to disturb your reading, but… if it isn’t a bother, I’d certainly appreciate it.” 

You’re already setting your bookmark into place. “It’s no bother. This is my second time reading it, anyway. So don’t worry. I’m not being left off on a cliffhanger or anything.” 

He smiles at that. When you’re preparing to stand, he extends his hand, a gesture that gives you a momentary pause. Well, you are wearing a dress. You suppose it’s the polite thing for him to do. You accept his unspoken offer and he hoists you up without the least bit of exertion on his part. His hand is warm and bigger than yours, slightly coarse too, surprisingly. His immaculate presentation gave you the impression of a trust fund kid or something in that vein. He’s tasteful in ensuring his touch doesn’t overstay its welcome. 

Your heart pounds in your chest. 

You catch a hint of his cologne. Sandalwood, amber, and leather blend together to form a delightfully woody fragrance. As amazing as he smells, you create a little distance, walking ahead motioning for him to follow. His longer legs have no trouble catching up, yet he never creeps too close. 

The short journey that you expect to only be accompanied by the sounds of cardinals chirping and house finches singing is interrupted by the man speaking up again. Oddly enough, you don’t mind. 

“Do you find your thoughts on Prince Myshkin’s initially endearing simple heartedness changed, knowing how the book ends?” 

You pause, taking a moment to realize he must be familiar with the work. This revelation fills you with a tentative giddiness. It isn’t often you have a chance to delve into your literary thoughts to a willing audience. There’s plenty more you could say on the subject, but you try to exercise restraint nonetheless. 

“I thought I might, but I found myself more critical of the other characters instead.” 

“Oh? And why is that?” 

He appears genuinely interested, otherwise, you would’ve kept it at that. 

“Ah, well, maybe it’s that they serve as proof that innocence is never meant to last. Or if it does, it’ll inevitably be punished. There are moments where I feel frustrated with the Prince’s naivety… but then I stop and wonder why it’s so bad to want to see the best in people. Does that speak to a flaw in his character, or to a flaw in the character of others? Maybe it’s both. I can’t help but feel the Prince’s case is more sympathetic.” 

His eyes never leave yours while you give your answer. Heat rises to your cheeks and you internally groan over the prospect of making a stranger listen to your ramblings. He was probably just looking to make casual conversation, not everyone wants an existential crisis on a Saturday afternoon. 

“You must be someone who wants to see the best in people as well,” he surmises. There’s no hint of mockery in his tone — he’s oddly sincere. He says it with a hint of bittersweet nostalgia. 

Before you can hazard a response, you come across a sign displaying information for an event at the Starling House. The building itself lies in waiting atop a hill less than a quarter of a mile ahead. He stops to read it, as do you, operating under the assumption he came here for the event. It seems that they’re displaying historic artifacts from around the area. You suppose this will be where you part ways. You’re about to wish him well when he sighs, the miffed noise stopping you. 

“I got the time wrong,” he frowns, staring at his wristwatch. 

The sign says the event begins at 6:00 p.m. and a quick tap of your phone reveals it’s 4:00. 

“If you’re looking for a way to burn time, there’s a nice garden behind the House that’s always open to the public,” you explain. This piques his curiosity. “If the sage is in bloom, you might get lucky and see some hummingbirds.” 

“That does sound lovely,” he says. Then, his lips quirk up, promising the start of a smile. “Would you care to join me, Miss…?” 

You give him your name and he nods, as if deciding it fits you. 

“[First]. I understand if my tour guide wants to get back to her reading, though.” 

Bashfulness creeps up your back and threatens to sink its fangs into your neck. Your heart’s rhythm takes an erratic cadence. He’s posing the proposition in such a lighthearted way, offering an easy out if you want to take it. You internally weigh your options on a scale that’s worn from overuse. He’s being friendly, you tell yourself. That’s all it is. 

“Well, I guess I’d be a shabby tour guide if I didn’t show you where the gardens are.” 

On the brief walk to the gardens, the man introduces himself as Chrollo. You both situate yourselves on the same stone bench. You sit on the right, he sits on the left. Once again, he leaves you plenty of space, never testing boundaries. The scent of nascent sage wafts in the air. While you scan your surroundings for hummingbirds, he tells you that his work often necessitates travel, hence his unfamiliarity with the area. 

“Does it ever get lonely?” You ask, not thinking much of it. He gives you a look you can’t quite place, so you elaborate. “Traveling all the time, I mean.” 

He tilts his head, more inquisitive than offended. “What makes you think it’d be lonely?” 

“I just think I’d get homesick after a while, always being in an unfamiliar place. I’d miss my family and friends.” 

When he continues staring at you in silence with those unreadable eyes, you swear you want to slam your head repeatedly against a wall. Not everyone has a good relationship with their family or people to call their friends. The weight of your potential insensitivity comes crashing down on you like a tsunami. 

You move your hands around wildly, rushing to correct your discourtesy. “Uh, I mean, that isn’t to say you need those things!” 

“You don’t think I have any friends?” 

Your face must be radiating more heat than a furnace. Still, the embarrassment doesn’t reach a point where you’re unable to notice his omission of the word family. “I didn’t—” 

Contrary to the reaction you were expecting, Chrollo laughs. Not a little chuckle, but a genuine laugh, hearty in a way that stands in stark contrast to his otherwise reserved demeanor. The smile it imprints on his face somehow feels different than what he’s displayed before. Those were always so well timed, lasting as long as necessary and never a second more. It hits you then just how handsome this man is. Alabaster skin, soft and glossy hair, lips as rosy as the blush on his cheeks from his outburst of laughter. 

It doesn’t last long, he’s quick to school himself. The speed he does so is almost unnatural. “I apologize, I’m only teasing. You’re very expressive, [First].” 

You let out something between a huff and a sigh. “God, I felt so awful…” 

“I can tell,” he puts his hands up in mock surrender when you send him a non-threatening glare. “To answer your question… I’ve never thought about it much. I suppose it is lonely at times.” 

This revelation pours a bucket of ice-cold water over the embers of your indignation. Your face softens and a stinging pain shoots throughout your body. You can’t bring yourself to remain miffed when you’re the one who dredged this topic up. People use humor as a means to cope, that may be what Chrollo does. 

“Enough about me, though. I’m far more interested in you.” 

You shift in your seat. Did it always feel so warm out? 

“Here, let me guess. You’re certainly a student. Hm… of the humanities, perhaps?” 

“You got the student part right,” you agree. “I’m majoring in criminal psychology.”

There’s something like a twinkle in his eyes. “Oh? Is that so? You want to catch criminals, then?” 

“Er… not exactly. It’s more that I want to help them.”

He blinks. “Help them?”

“Not, like, as an accomplice,” you earnestly reassure, to which he smiles, “How do I explain it… take the city around us, right? It’s considered one of the most dangerous in the United States of Saherta.” 

As if on cue, a cacophony of police sirens begins blaring in the distance. 

“In the 80s and 90s, there was a surge of incarceration, yet crime as a whole set higher records each year. The policy at the time was ‘build more prisons, give longer sentences’. Obviously, that didn’t work out very well for anyone… except for private prisons maybe… that’s a whole different beast. Anyway, you reap what you sow. Crime rate is going down, but communities were gutted by these policies. There’s still a lot of work to be done. I want to understand ‘deviant’ behavior so I can see what safety nets would benefit them the most.” 

Chrollo is such an excellent listener that unlike before, you no longer feel the pressure to remain succinct and have little qualms completely delving into your passion. His body language suggests total engagement. 

“Ah, so you view crime as a result of societal shortcomings.” 

“It’s more nuanced than that,” you shake your head. “Hell, even when there were only four people on earth according to the Bible, Cain went ahead and committed murder anyway. That’s like… killing 25% of the population… how messed up. Wait. If there were only four people on earth, who did Cain go on to marry? How does that work…? Asexual reproduction…?” 

“The Quran says Cain and Abel both had twin sisters,” Chrollo offers. 

“Alright, that makes more sense than asexual reproduction. Okay! Enough about theology! Back to crime. There’s no totally eradicating it, but there is circumventing it. That’s what I want to help do.” 

You’ve been so preoccupied with verbalizing your thoughts, you failed to notice he’s scooted slightly closer to you. There’s enough room for decorum yet you can’t help feeling slightly flustered. Why this cute guy is still hanging around despite the fact you casually mentioned asexual reproduction not once, but twice, is a phenomenon that transcends human reason. 

This is so going to be one of those interactions that haunts you periodically at three in the morning for the rest of your life. 

“It’s a noble pursuit,” Chrollo comments. Then, he places a hand to his chin. “Forgive me if this comes off as pessimistic, but… what if you put in all that work, only for nothing significant to change?” 

You shrug. “I’ve considered that plenty, trust me. It’s fine if I don’t kickstart a utopia. So long as I can say I helped one person, that’s good enough for me.” 

“One person, huh?” 

It seems more like a rhetorical musing on his part, so you allow yourself to be momentarily distracted. In your peripherals, there’s a flash of colors, shades of green and red bleeding together. A low buzz accompanies the sporadic sight. The blur moves erratically, high to low, then low to high. 

You cover your mouth to stifle a gasp, then whisper to your companion, “Chrollo! Look! A hummingbird!” 

The thrum of nature is a wonder you’ll never tire of. It inspires awe that reflects in your eyes like a mirror, enchants without needing to cast a spell. You wrongly assume that Chrollo must be partaking in the same miracle that has stolen your attention. He’s fixated, yes, but not on the right subject matter. He’s still staring at you. This disruption of your expectations can only be explained away by the possibility he hasn’t spotted the creature yet. To remedy this, you slowly point in the hummingbird’s direction. Finally, he breaks his gaze from your form, acknowledging what it is you find so fascinating. 

By then, it’s too late. Your newly made acquaintance departs as swiftly as it arrived. 

“Aw, that’s a shame,” you lament. The disappointment you’d feel if you were in his shoes would be immeasurable. “You didn’t get to see it for very long.” 

You have no concrete proof, but you swear every smile he wears is different than the one before it. 

“It’s alright. I saw something far better.” 

Curious, you glance to your right, searching for whatever it is. You must’ve misinterpreted whatever he was looking at before. “Something better than a hummingbird?” 

“You could say that.” 

The remainder of the time you spend together is relatively uneventful. Chrollo asks you a great deal about yourself, ranging from your hobbies to book recommendations. You try to return the favor — as is only polite, in your opinion — yet the conversation never lingers on him long before circling back to you. It isn’t until you say you feel vain talking about yourself so much that he offers some morsels of knowledge. Aside from traveling for his occupation, he’s something of an antiquarian, hence his interest in the Starling House’s event. He also reveals he has colleagues coming into town soon, the aforementioned ‘friends’ you questioned the existence of. The way he teases is so devoid of malice, you can’t bring yourself to be upset. 

The hour flies by. Good looks aside, he’s a remarkable conversationalist. There’s never an awkward silence or social misstep. One could even call him perfection incarnate. His steady cadence, command of language, meticulously formed ideas… they’re reminiscent of cogs in an automaton turning together in complete harmony. Paradoxically, this immaculate image speaks to some underlying defect in his character he mustn’t want anyone to see. There is such a thing as being too perfect. 

For whatever reason, this draws you in closer rather than repelling you. 

Chrollo’s disappointment is palpable when he glances at his watch. It’s then you’re reminded that all good things must come to an end. 

“I—” 

“It—” 

You both start and stop talking at the same time. When it’s made obvious you intend to stay silent until he speaks his piece, he motions to you with his hands, insisting you go first. 

“It was very nice meeting you, Chrollo,” you say, your voice softening. It’s amazing how you can feel your previously discarded sheepishness returning in real-time. Amazing and annoying. “I, uh, hope you enjoy the event.” 

“Please, I should be the one thanking you,” he insists. Then, for such a well-spoken man, he goes uncharacteristically quiet. Deliberating on some issue you’ll never be privy to. “You’ve already helped me a lot, but could I possibly ask for one more thing?” 

You give a nod.

“May I have your phone number?” 

You stare at him.

He stares at you. 

You continue staring at him.

He continues staring at you. 

His request echoes through your head like it was spoken in a vast cavern. Phone number… phone number... you have one of those. He is asking for it. He wants to remain in touch. Indeed, that is what the statement normally means. Ah, it must be in a platonic sense! It’s nice to have someone to talk to, especially since you both share many interests. Not many of your friends are chomping at the bit to discuss if obtaining the philosopher’s stone was a literal practice or meant to be interpreted metaphorically. 

Whoops, you left the poor guy waiting for a response. 

“S-Sure!” 

He hands you his phone without delay. You put in your contact info, then hold it up for him to take. His fingers brush over yours when he picks it back up and you shiver. 

Well, that was certainly nice. You’re forming a blossoming friendship. You love making new friends. The word repeats in your head as if it were a broken record. Friends, friends, friends. Don’t look too into this. Put your magnifying glass down, brain. The stupid three pounds of gray matter delight in tormenting you with outrageous ideas and conclusions. There’s nothing flirtatious happening here. 

“Also, I hope you don’t mind my saying so…” he trails off, weaving a web you willingly allow yourself to get trapped in, “But you are very beautiful, [First].” 

… 

Ohhhh, he’s been flirting with you this entire time, hasn’t he? 

-

Going on a date is a harrowing experience. 

For some unknown reason, your traitorous amygdala regards going to a café at noon with the same severity it would if a lion were actively chasing you down. Your flight or fight response raises the banners of war. The army it amasses digs its trenches, readies the cannons, its matches lit to fire off the artillery on standby. Who is the dreaded opponent, one may ask? No one. Absolutely no one. Incredibly enough, you can actively recognize this fact, and still, your physiological response claims it knows better. 

Social anxiety is so stupid. You thought you and your body were supposed to be on the same team. Whatever inspired this mutiny, whether it be serotonin deficiency or some other science-y term you can’t pronounce, you most certainly don’t appreciate it. 

To be fair, your parent’s reaction didn’t inspire much confidence. Your dad was asking for information on Chrollo you’re 90% sure could be used to conduct a background check, whereas your mom posited the idea he’s a human trafficker. You felt like a lawyer trying to plead your case for why it’s okay that an adult such as yourself may go on a date (sacrilegious, you know, premeditated murder would be more excusable). With some solid arguments and a few instances of stretching the truth (this sounds far nicer than the word lying), the tempest was dissipated. If Chrollo ever were to meet your parents, you’ll have to tell him he’s actually a sensitive, poetic soul that donates to orphanages and saves kittens from burning down buildings. He’s also celibate. More important than any of those things, though, he’s a political centrist. 

Suddenly everything in your closet either felt prudish enough to befit a woman entering the convent, or raunchy enough you’d need to wear a trench coat to leave the house unobstructed. In the end, you find a skirt that’d pass your middle school fingertip test and a cute blouse that shouldn’t land you in purgatory. 

Your hands are shaking when you go to do the winged eyeliner on your left eye. Then you sneeze while applying mascara, granting a raccoon appearance you could’ve done without. You feel wound up so tight there a mere poke could shatter you into millions of pieces. This is great. Millions of years of evolution led up to this. That selfish, inconsiderate fish should���ve never grown legs and stepped on land. Everything’s gone wrong since then. Fuck that fish. 

Ultimately, you succumb and take one of your ‘stage fright’ medications. If it’s doing anything to help, you can’t tell yet. 

You have to beg your dad to stop staring out the window with a pair of binoculars. 

Eventually, a sleek black car pulls in front of your house. 

Following the theme of the day, you almost trip over yourself walking out the front door. Your phone buzzes — no doubt it’s Chrollo telling you he’s here — but you decide to just go to the car rather than text him back. He must’ve spotted you, for he exits and gives you a wave. You’re grateful he did that while a considerable distance away. There was a time a guy waved at you and you thought he wanted a high five. Needless to say, that was a traumatic incident no amount of therapy could help alleviate. 

“You look absolutely lovely,” he compliments. Your Broca’s area temporarily malfunctions at this bold declaration. Fortunately, you gather yourself fast enough to stop yourself from saying “you too”. 

“Thank you,” the phrase comes out as smooth as butter. You silently congratulate yourself for your immaculate delivery of two words. “Wow… you have such a nice car. And here I thought you were a fellow member of the middle class. Am I allowed to touch this?” 

Chrollo chuckles, having gotten used to the peculiar way you word things after all your electronic communication. No matter how you expressed yourself, he still texted you back, so you figured he must be okay with whatever it is you’re doing. He would’ve blocked you by now otherwise. 

His reply comes as he holds the passenger side door open. “Ah, don’t worry. There was a bit of a mixup at the car rental place. I wasn’t expecting something of this quality either.” 

You tuck this piece of knowledge away for later, should any sugar daddy-esque allegations be thrown your way. One can never be too prepared. 

Sinking into the leather seat is a luxurious experience, although it's cold against the exposed area of your thighs. Chrollo slides into the driver’s seat not long after and sets the car into drive. You silently wonder if your neighbors think you’ve gotten into an Uber. 

The short trip to the café soothes your electrically fried nerves. You’re once again reminded of how good he is at making you forget your anxiety, he could put SSRIs out of business. Or maybe the propranolol is finally working. Whichever it may be, by the time you both order your drinks, you feel more giddy than nervous. Is it a good idea to drink a caffeinated beverage when anxiety threatens to drag you into limbo at any second? Probably not. Does that mean you’re going to wisely choose a different beverage? Nope. 

The sunlight is harsher in the afternoon, but you find this is offset by an occasional breeze. No one else is present in the outdoor dining area except for you and Chrollo. You choose the seat facing a row of bushes so you can observe the house finches and house sparrows fluttering about. One little fella is helping itself to a dirt bath in the freshly spread-out mulch. You coo at the adorable display, pointing it out to Chrollo who admits it is a precious sight. You’ve made it your raison d'être to convince him that every bird is equally fascinating, whether it be a rainbow lorikeet or a common pigeon. 

He takes the first sip of the drink you recommended. 

“Well? What do you think?” 

“It’s good,” he decides with a smile. “I can see why you get it so often.” 

“Right? I’ve thought about conducting an Ocean’s Eleven type heist to get the ingredients they use to make it.” 

“Oh? Do you grant a moral exception to thievery?” 

Despite how lightheartedly he phrases this, his eyes have a certain intensity to them. You mull over the question for this reason. 

“Hm… it depends, I guess? Some people need to steal to survive. I probably wouldn’t care if a rich person or mega-corporation got stolen from either,” you say. He quirks an eyebrow at your last statement and you hastily add, “A-As long as no one gets hurt, of course.” 

He doesn’t bother trying to hide his amusement. “Your reasoning is very cute.” 

You groan and shrink back into the garden chair. “I know, I know, that probably came off as terribly naive and self-contradictory… the issue is complex. Giving a one-size-fits-all type of consensus feels impossible. How about you? What do you think?” 

“Coveting is mankind’s original sin,” Chrollo begins. He’s using a tone that tells you to prepare for an in-depth explanation. “It’s a theme that’s recurrent throughout history. David and Bathsheba, Hades and Persephone, Heathcliff and Catherine… we always want what we cannot have. This dilemma never leaves us entirely. We either ignore it, despair in it, or succumb to it. The desire to steal is as involuntary as the diaphragm contracting for us to breathe or the electric signals that cause our heart to beat.” 

A house finch begins its soulful serenade in the background. 

“Wouldn’t you say that calling it involuntary implies we can’t control it, though?” You query. 

“The only way to exercise total control over it is to kill it.” 

“Some parts of us are better off dead,” you decide. “Getting what you want doesn’t guarantee satisfaction. The examples you listed… maybe they were happy for a time, but ultimately, their transgressions caught up to them.” 

“Is a moment of bliss not worth a lifetime of anguish?” 

“Maybe, if I was a sensualist.” 

He rests his chin on his fist, the skin beneath his eyes crinkling with mirth. “Is that what you’re saying I am, darling?” 

Your eyes widen and you almost choke on your drink at the unexpected pet name. Warmth floods your cheeks and you take a long second to recompose yourself. Your blatant display of embarrassment further fuels his amusement, he actually chuckles. You consider kicking him under the table, but decide that isn’t very ladylike. Then you remember it's the twenty-first century, and to honor your feminist ancestors, you scrunch up a napkin into a ball and fling it at him. Although the aerodynamics of your makeshift projectile are questionable, it almost hits him. Until he catches it with admittedly impressive reflexes. 

“You have a good throwing arm.” 

“And you should consider retiring from your white-collar job to join a baseball team,” you take a sip of your delicious drink. This is definitely the most memorable date you’ve been on. “But no, I don’t think you’re a sensualist. I honestly don’t know how I’d classify you. You’re jaded… almost misanthropic. You acknowledge the world for what it is, but it’s like you once thought it could be better. You don’t care to be proven right or wrong about it anymore, you want something else.” 

“Ah… when put that way, I must seem pathetic,” he muses, his casual air hardly matching the severity of the words spoken. 

“Not at all!” Your passionate outcry appears to momentarily take him aback. “If you’re still looking for something, that means deep down, you have hope you might eventually find it. To me, that’s admirable.” 

He regards you for a few moments, before closing his eyes, his countenance strangely content. “You’re a very interesting woman, [First].” 

“Pfft, not really.” 

“I’m afraid this a point I’ll have to insist on,” or so he says, but you both know he secretly relishes his contrarian ways. “I have to wonder, though. How is it you came to gather any of this about me?” 

“Your opinion on books.” 

He blinks. “Pardon?” 

“We interpret media through a lens that’s formed by our experiences, so… I dunno. You can just infer a lot from what a person gets caught up with in a story.” 

In Chrollo’s case, what he doesn’t pay attention to is equally telling, although it took you a while to notice his unique display of apathy. He’d brush on certain themes while giving a rather surface-level commentary. Playing it safe, almost. He still had such an excellent way of weaving his words, that telling it came from another person's loom was difficult. It wasn’t until you hit on a subject he truly cared for that you could tell the difference. He’d give insights so particular to him that they must contain the true essence of his character. 

Even if it is a mere glimmer. 

He speaks your name.

“Hm?” 

“About what I’m searching for…” he unwraps the napkin you unceremoniously threw his way earlier, smooths out the wrinkles, then returns it. “I think I may have found it.” 

-

Everything has a way of escalating faster than you anticipated. 

You’re about thirty minutes into the movie Perfect Blue. For some time now, you’ve been praising its merits to Chrollo, who recently said you should watch it together. This begged the question of where. In the months since you’ve begun dating, while your parents have taken a liking to him, you didn’t think the subject matter of the movie should be proudly displayed in your living room. 

To remedy this, Chrollo suggested watching it in his hotel room. 

You couldn’t fully explain your initial apprehension if you tried. You felt comfortable around him and have been alone together plenty. Yet for some reason, being alone with a man in a hotel room produced this mental image you weren’t sure you were ready for. He never pushed you or asked why you seemed hesitant to take things further than kissing and some light petting. His lack of questioning had the unintended side effect of birthing different doubts. 

Does he not want anything else? Is he only acting like it doesn’t bother him? Will a day come when he tires of your squeamishness and simply moves on? 

It’s this taunting mantra that haunted you in the lobby, the elevator, then the long, impersonal hallway to his room. 

Your chest feels heavy enough that you wonder if lead has filled your lungs. 

When he sat next to you on the couch, you barely registered his presence, much less his question if the temperature in the room felt agreeable. At some point, his arm wrapped around your shoulders. Then his hand began to meander, although his attention never left the screen. He played with your hair. Gently stroked your forearm. His hand wandered down, down, down, to the hem of your skirt. He straightens the lightly bunched fabric out. Your heart pounds. 

Chrollo’s fingers stay there, seemingly placated. 

During the scene where Mima sees her reflection as her idol persona, his hand creeps onto the exposed skin of your thighs. He gives it a gentle, tentative squeeze. A soft gasp leaves you and your attention turns to him. Immediately, your eyes meet his in the dark. The side of his face is lightly illuminated by an array of cool tones. He uses his free hand to cup your chin, the pad of his thumb rubbing your lower lip. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

He speaks the question with such rapture, low and quiet. 

Your heart violently hits your ribcage like it’s trying to burst free. 

Silently, you nod. He tilts his head to the side and slots his lips against yours. There’s a pleasant buzz that tries so hard to overpower the frantic adrenaline pumping through your veins. Your body is at war with itself; indulgence or indignance. It’s a conflict that’ll never have a winner. You want to enjoy it — and you are, you think — so why does your biological makeup hold you as a prisoner without ransom? He tastes nice, feels nice. He did everything right. You don’t want to tremble at what’s a normal aspect of a relationship as if it were death itself hanging over your head. 

It’s this mounting frustration at your condition that spurs you into action. 

While maintaining the languid kiss, you situate yourself on his lap, a gesture that causes him to inhale sharply. He may be as surprised at your boldness as you are. You snake your arms around his neck and intensify the kiss. Humming, he reciprocates your ardor. His tongue runs along the seam of your lips and you grant him entry. He tastes of dark chocolate and mint, a combination you wish you could get drunk on, if only to put your tense body at ease. 

One hand squeezes and massages your thigh, the other cups your feverish face. In this position, you’re afforded no modesty. You can feel your skirt hiking up, exposing more of you. His fingers explore the new territory. They venture dangerously close to your panties, though he doesn’t go beyond there, as if respecting an invisible barrier. The cocktail of emotions this invokes is impossible to properly sort through. 

Can he feel the heat emanating from your body? Your pulse which finds new highs every minute? You want to lose yourself, but you can’t, your anxiety always drags you back kicking and screaming. It is an unforgiving warden that thinks you’d be better off in a cell. 

Chrollo admires you when you pull back, in desperate need of air. You’re starting to feel dizzy and you don’t know if it’s the right kind. There’s something hard forming beneath where you sit. His lust for you is apparent, and you want to please, want to be normal. It should be fun. Your friends regale you with stories of taking strangers home and never feeling more than butterflies in their stomach. That’s what you want. Not this contortion of the aforementioned organ that makes you think your insides are slowly liquifying. 

You still haven’t fully caught your breath, each one growing more shallow, more panicked. He finds other ways to entertain himself, namely, by lavishing your clammy skin with kisses. Your jawline, neck, then collarbone. He’s so calm you think you might be envious. Finally, he works his way back up, teasing your earlobe with his teeth, his breath warm as it fans against you. 

Thump, thump, thump. 

“[First],” his voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. Garbled, distant. “Should we take this to the bedroom?” 

You break into too many shards to fix. 

You get up. Straighten your skirt. You think you mutter something about needing a moment. Your legs don’t feel right. They move anyway. The bathroom’s door knob is like ice. You grab a hand towel. Turn on the faucet. Soak the towel until it drips water down the sink basin. Sit on the floor. The tiles are almost as cold enough to help. You place the towel around your neck. Your ears are ringing and you wish they’d stop. You hug your legs to your chest. What is it you’re supposed to do? Breathe? 

It’ll pass, it’ll pass, it’ll pass. 

It always does. 

Just hold on a bit longer. 

Feeling comes back in your hands first. It spreads throughout your body, though the antidote is far too late. Exhaustion is the next thing you register. The kind that seeps into your cells, makes your limbs feel like dead weight. Cognition returns as well. You remember where you are, who you’re with, what you’ve done. 

It’s been a while since you’ve experienced one of these. Somehow, it’s worse than you remember. Infinitely worse. 

A shiver runs down your spine. Has it always been so cold? You wonder what temperature your body was running at for you not to have noticed sooner. 

How nice it is that your homeostasis decided to return. Is your sympathetic nervous system giving itself a pat on the back? Celebrating and popping champagne bottles at yet another job well done? We’ve done it successfully again, folks, you imagine it cheering. We’ve stopped her from doing something completely normal and harmless! 

You’d laugh, but this time, you can’t bring yourself to. 

As tempting as it is to stay here and pray for the tile floor to swallow you whole, you sincerely doubt that’ll happen, so you’re left with the far less appealing option of being an adult and facing the predicament you’re in. Getting back up, you’re treated to a glimpse of your reflection. 

The change in your complexion would make any onlooker think you’ve seen a ghost. 

Abruptly, you’re fourteen again, trying to get your mom’s attention so you can beg her to take you home because the social gathering of ten or so people is just too much. Next, you’re fifteen, talked into some weekend youth getaway because saying ‘no’ makes you feel guilty and the car ride has another two hours remaining. You feel sick, terribly sick, but you don’t want to get sick, because then your peers would think you’re strange, so you sit there and endure. Then you’re sixteen, locked in the stall of your high school bathroom, trying not to pass out because you think it’d be an inconvenience to anyone that happened upon you. 

You thought you were over this. You’ve done the therapy, read the self-help books, and taken your medication every day like clockwork. 

What’s left for you to do? 

Why does it always come back? 

Chrollo asks if everything’s alright when you walk back over to the couch. You say yes. He then asks if he can get you anything. A glass of water, please, is your reply.

You can tell he’s examining you when he hands the glass over. Your face warms — not in a fun way. The television screen is dark and yet you’re fixated on it like it’s the most intriguing thing in the world. Going from feeling as if you’re a stranger in your own body to being hyper-aware of everything never fails to give you whiplash. You can hear the low thrum of the air conditioning, footsteps coming from the hallway, the steady drip of the sink he filled your glass from. You think to rub your eyes then stop yourself; that’d smudge your mascara. It’d be nice if he could at least think you’re pretty as you struggle to hold yourself together. 

“Was it something I did?” Chrollo questions. He almost sounds… curious, a concept you furiously scrub from your head. You’re exhausted and your brain is waving the white flag. Attributing false interpretations to his words is not going to help. 

“N-No, not at all, I, um,” you have the words, you just don’t want to say them, so you opt for taking another drink instead. The glass runs out of water, your safe haven disappearing with it. “Just… a panic attack. It happens… sometimes.” 

“Entirely unprompted?” 

You gnaw on your lower lip. “Kind of…? It— nothing about it is exactly logical. I can know I’m fine, believe it too, and still, that doesn’t matter. It’ll happen anyway. I guess I have some reservations about that level of physical intimacy, but what my body decides to do is completely overkill.” 

“You always minimize the role your anxiety plays in your life,” Chrollo points out. You’re grasping the glass tight enough that your knuckles hurt. “You can’t mention it to me without making light of it in some way. Is there a reason for that?” 

Well, he’s got you there. 

You’re about to joke and ask if he’s the one studying the behavioral sciences, when you realize that’d just be proving his point. 

So uncharacteristic acrimony bubbles to the surface instead.

“A reason? I can give you more than one. It’s stupid, it’s annoying. The most simple things become like a fucking life or death experience for me and I can’t stand it,” you feel tears gather at your lower lashline but you’re too far gone to care. It’s a good thing your mascara is waterproof. “And then I… I think sex sounds nice, but when it actually gets to the moment, I feel so guilty and anxious and wrong that I leave my partner frustrated or thinking they’re some sort of monster.” 

Usually, Chrollo's countenance is difficult to read, but there’s this raw emotion that makes itself known. Understanding? Relief? You don’t know for certain. It disappears without a trace, leaving you no way to confirm or deny your intuition. It’s probably too fried to be reliable, anyway. 

“Hm… you must think all this would put me off, then. Make me want to move on to someone else.” 

A knife stabbing you in the gut and twisting its blade until your viscera turned to mush would hurt less. 

“Sweetheart, I was already aware that it was worse than what you let on,” his voice sounds so kind and near, you marvel at it, the gravitational pull drawing you in. You barely realize he’s brought you into an embrace. Your cheek is against his chest, right above his heart. His has a calm, steady rhythm, whereas yours is picking back up once more. “Your avoidance of talking on the phone, how soft your voice gets when interacting with strangers, the way you act like you’re an inconvenience by asking for the slightest assistance.” 

The tears you tried holding in break free, soaking into the fabric of his shirt. 

“I find these qualities of yours very endearing. You can go from passionately speaking about your interests over dinner to going shy the second the waiter walks over. You care so much, feel so much… it’s a wonder to me. You experience this life in the exact opposite manner I do.”

With the hand he isn’t using to keep you secure against him, he rubs your back up and down. 

“Ah, my poor, sweet girl. What a tender heart you have,” he whispers. His grip on you tightens. That’s when you hear it — the undeniable sound of his heart beating a bit faster than it did before. “I wouldn’t give it up for anything. Not after all the effort I put into stealing it for myself. No, I’m almost hurt you entertained the thought. Have I ever treated you with anything less than the utmost care? Hm?” 

Chrollo starts to pull you away from him, yet you refuse, clinging adamantly to his torso in an attempt to hide your face. He ignores the way you shake your head and by exerting the slightest force, achieves his original goal. His fingers find purchase on your chin, which he tilts upward, allowing himself an unobscured view of your puffy eyes and runny makeup. He smiles, wiping away your tears with such gentleness, he must think you’re made of porcelain. 

Sniffling, you remember he asked you a question, and attempt cobbling together a coherent response. Such is the polite thing to do. “I guess not.” 

“And why do you think that is?” 

“... The once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to conduct an in-depth case study for your future dissertation on GAD and SAD?” 

His visage lands somewhere between mild bemusement and exacerbation. “I know you’re smarter than that. Try again.” 

“My winning personality, once you wade through all the mental illness?” 

“That certainly plays a role.” 

“I know I’m cute, too. I suppose that helps. Otherwise, I’d be completely and utterly fucked.” 

“Yes, yes — you are terribly cute.” 

Sensing your hesitancy to land on a definitive answer, he decides to spell it out himself. “I’m fond of you, to a degree I previously thought myself incapable of. I have a… callous disposition, for lack of a better word. Yet for whatever reason, this doesn’t seem to bother you. I’ve never cared for subjective terms like ‘good’ or ‘evil’, but… if there is goodness in this world, it’d be found in you.” 

Chrollo’s knuckles brush against your cheekbone as he speaks, seemingly bewitched by the glittering stream your tears left behind. Tangible proof of your emotions that tumult like a tempest, whereas his often remains an unmoving body of water. 

You take his cheeks in your hands and glare at him. This time, when your lower lip trembles, it’s with righteous anger, not sorrow. “Why do you always talk about yourself like you’re the world’s biggest villain?” 

His eyes slightly widen — you’ve never used a tone like this with him before, or anyone else, for that matter  — though his composure doesn’t wane for long. 

“So what if you don’t think everything is sunshine and rainbows? You aren’t heartless; you just know the dangers of putting your heart on display for everyone else to see. I can’t blame you for that, from what you’ve told me.”

He’s never been particularly forthcoming about sharing details from his past. What you do know is that he grew up in extreme poverty, without parents or a guardian, scraping by with some other children in a similar situation. You never pushed to learn more. There was this quiet melancholy that possessed him in the rare moments he shared glimpses of his childhood. The specters that haunted him could almost be felt lingering in the atmosphere, turning the air heavy and thick. 

“You lost a precious friend in such a cruel way. That loss of innocence, it’s unforgivable, it’s completely unfair…!”

This time, your tears aren’t for you, they’re for a little boy you’ll never know and a girl that you couldn’t if you tried. “I don’t get why you’re so harsh on yourself. You act like you’ve done something unforgivable.” 

He parts and closes his lips. Whatever he intended to say, he must’ve decided against it. Instead, he pulls you back against him, almost greedily. He presses kisses atop your head then murmurs a few words you can’t quite catch. Your body is deprived of energy, having flickered through almost every major emotion a human being can experience. If your parents wouldn’t have fussed over the act, you could’ve fallen asleep on him for the night. 

The person who inadvertently caused your blistering anxiety is also the best balm for it. 

It’s unexplainable, teetering on the edge of delusion, this sentiment that he could shield you from all harm. He’s always so sure of himself when you remain plagued by indecisiveness. He can talk you out of any irrational thought, anchor you when a stressful situation is beginning to be too much, and understand you almost eerily well. He’s able to piece together your chaotic thought processes with next to no context. He listens to you, remembers everything you say (and you mean everything), and genuinely values your input, even if he disagrees with your opinions. 

This level of an intimate connection is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. 

“No one’s ever cried for my sake before,” he thinks aloud. He’s stroking your back again, almost mindlessly. You swear there’s something magical about his touch. 

“Do you think I’m weird?” 

“There are a lot of words I’d use to describe you,” he decides. As always, he’s clever at avoiding questions he doesn’t wish to answer. “Currently, the one that stands out to me the most would be…” 

You feel his lips curl into a smile against you. 

“Warm.” 

-

The arboretum is far different in autumn. Green leaves have transitioned into rich auburn and golden shades, hesitant buds nowhere to be seen. The grass beneath your feet is crunchier, the foliage dry and scattered, almost as if it were trying to form a protective sheath for the earth. No longer can you hear the melody of grasshoppers and buzzing from busy bees. The wind whistles when it blows, the underlying frostiness biting at your cheeks and ears. 

“Ah, would you look at that, it’s a junco,” Chrollo points out. You cover your mouth to muffle a gasp. Thanks in part to your guidance, he’s gotten better at identifying different types of birds. While you’d like to think it’s because he appreciates them too, you’re convinced he finds your excited reaction far more interesting. 

The little blob of black and white hops to and fro, using its feet to rummage for anything edible. You silently lament your lack of birdseed. You’ll have to settle for cheering the tiny friend on from afar. 

Hand in hand, you both traverse the area of your original meeting. Sweet nostalgia swirls in your chest. You’ve always found it befuddling how a single chance encounter can permanently change the trajectory of your life. In the moment, you have no idea how your actions will go on to form ripples that influence the future. Whether this is chaos theory or some other fancy metaphysical-sounding concept, you haven’t the slightest clue. 

What you do know is that meeting Chrollo was a catalyst for something greater. 

A wave of chills cascades over you.

“Are you cold?” He inquires, his tone having this ‘I told you so’ quality to it that you don’t appreciate. You’re wearing a light beige, plaid fitted blazer, that while chic, doesn’t have much insulation. You waved off his initial concern by saying you’ll warm up once you both get to walking around. So much for that. 

“Cold is a mindset,” the chattering of your teeth doesn’t do much to help your cause. He raises an eyebrow. “Mind over matter… mind over matter…” 

Chrollo shrugs his coat off and drapes it over you. “I wouldn’t want you to get sick, dear.” 

“You sound like my grandma.” 

“The one who tried taking my head wrappings off, or the one who kicked me?” 

“A combination of the two that coalesces their tendency to fuss over me.” 

“You’re very easy to fuss over,” Chrollo chuckles at the face you make at him. “You’re absolutely precious. It’s a mystery to me how you make the smallest acts endearing.” 

At this, you strike a dumb pose, winking at him all the while. “Aha, it’s no mystery. You have my irresistible charm to thank for that.” 

He sighs wistfully. “Indeed I do.” 

Although the sage gardens behind the Starling House are no longer in bloom, you decide to swing by anyway. The plans for the remainder of your day follow a similarly simple yet pleasant precedent. You’re going to go window shopping in a quaint commercial district, grab something to eat at a pub, then end the night off with a movie. Chrollo’s trying to convince you to watch some indie flick that’s in black and white and uses a 1.19:1 ratio. You want to watch Alien, a classic he’s never seen like the weirdo he is. 

The walk isn’t long or monotonous. It’s so idyllic that you could believe you’re the only two people in the world. 

However, that isn’t the case. Upon entering the garden, you’re quick to note the presence of another.  

A young woman is kneeling down, murmuring under her breath. She’s acting as if she’s lost something and can’t find it. Frowning, you detach yourself from Chrollo, approaching her with the intent to offer your assistance. She doesn’t lift her head upon hearing the obvious sounds of your footfall. She just continues blindly grasping at the ground. 

“Miss?” You ask, to which her entire body freezes. “Did you drop something? I could help you look for it.” 

She mutters another incomprehensible jumble of words. 

“Hm? What was that?” 

You lean over in an attempt to hear her better. 

Then, much to your confusion, she enunciates your full-given name. Even while doing this, she doesn’t spare you a single glance. 

“Have to… have to…” she’s back to being difficult to make sense of, “I have to…”

 A strange sensation possesses you.

Have you met this woman somewhere before? You do a quick mental scan of her disheveled appearance and come up with nothing definitive. Her hair is matted, her complexion sallow and her cheeks sunken in. Her disoriented state stirs concern within you. It’s a good sign that she’s still conscious and exhibiting motor functions, but the longer you examine her, the more you can tell she isn’t in a proper state of mind. You don’t want to leave her out here alone in such a vulnerable state. You try to push aside the uncanny feeling that came from her apparently recognizing you when you’re certain you’ve never met. 

Chrollo speaks your name. Turning around, you face him just in time to catch a surreal expression forming on his countenance. His eyes widen slightly, his lips part, then he’s reaching out for you. 

The passage of time grinds temporarily to a halt. 

And then there is a visceral burst of energy. 

It’s as if a blizzard manifests from the direction the woman is hunched over in. There’s this thick, harrowing tension that causes your legs to buckle at the knees. Swirls of negative emotions wrap around you in shadowy tendrils. Grief. Hysteria. Rage. Bitterness. Most notable, however, is the sickening yearning to inflict harm. How can a human being produce and project such raw feelings? It’s like hatred itself has been given a palpable form, submerging you in a swamp of mire. 

You don’t understand what’s happening to you, but you do have this primal foreboding that the longer you’re exposed to it, the more endangered you’ll be. 

In the millisecond it takes for you to blink, Chrollo is no longer in your line of sight. 

It’s strange, you think. There are no knives, guns, explosives; or anything that could hurt you in the traditional sense. In a way you could understand and reliably assess the threat level of. 

And still, despite this uncertainty, you have this unshakable premonition that death isn’t far away. 

-

You wake up in a bed that is not your own. 

Your body is drenched in sweat, your muscles sore, and your head feels as if it’s being clamped in a vice-like grip. Trying to get up proves to be a poor decision. Nausea and dizziness force you to lie back down. You take shallow, frantic breaths, wincing at yet another wave of throbbing coming from your temples. Your senses aren’t reliable either. The first few times you open your eyes, dark spots dot your vision. Then there’s your hearing, or lack of. There’s this distant ringing that while slowly fading, isn’t replaced by anything better. Your hearing grows so muffled you almost think earplugs have been jammed in your ear canal. 

Groaning, you manage to lift yourself off the mattress with trembling arms. The dark spots fade away enough for you to make out your surroundings. 

You’re in Chrollo’s hotel room, lying on his bed. 

It’s nighttime. The digital clock sitting on the bedside table reads 3:40 a.m.  

The next thing you do is feel around for your phone. It should be in the back pocket of your jeans, but it isn’t there. 

The brisk air takes your breath away when you tug the comforter off. Your body groans with protest at all the movement, yet you ignore its request to lay back down, the situation at hand far too perplexing. Your outfit is the same as the one you put on this morning, aside from your boots, which sit together near the wall. You then assess your body for any physical injuries, finding nothing visible to explain your current malaise. Are you hungover? Frowning, you dismiss the idea. You know your tolerance well and never try pushing it. 

Taking small steps and using the wall as leverage, you make your way over to the adjoined bathroom. You fill a dental cup with water and down it instantly. After satiating your thirst, you call out for Chrollo, your voice gravelly with sleep. 

No response. 

Sighing, you slink over to the closed bedroom door. Your equilibrium steadies itself enough that you only need to grab onto something every few steps. The handle doesn’t budge. You try again, exerting more force — still nothing. The subsequent attempts end in the same manner. There’s no denying it, it’s been locked. That begs the question of why. Safety, maybe? It’s possible Chrollo stepped out for whatever reason and wanted to ensure no one could get to you. Then again, that’s what the deadbolt on the door leading to the hotel hallway is for. 

You don’t want to start rattling the door and making a scene when you’re certain there’s a solid explanation for this. He has to come back eventually, his stuff is still here. Although, you can’t help noticing how sparse his personal belongings are. The book he was reading no longer sits on the bedside table, the framed picture of the two of you gifted by your parents isn’t on the wardrobe either. Next, you check the closet, finding it in a similarly desolate state. You once pillaged a shirt of his when you grew tired of wearing a dress, so you know its usual presentation. The hangers remain on the rack yet everything else is gone.

Chrollo told you his job had placed him in this city indefinitely. Is he planning to move to another hotel? 

Not knowing what else to do, you sit on the edge of the bed. The former pounding in your head has soothed into a far less egregious dull ache. You must’ve been asleep for a decent chunk of time, this initial grogginess is what you experience upon first waking up in the morning. You hope you weren’t unconscious for too long. It's an unsettling thought, being in that vulnerable state, totally shut off from the world. 

A few minutes of absentmindedly admiring the twinkling lights that make up the city skyline’s pass. 

Then you hear the door handle jingle. 

Chrollo silently examines you. It’s almost as if he’s gauging your entire being, anticipating what is to come. His mouth is set in a straight line and he’s standing unnervingly still. There’s this intensity to him that has you breaking off eye contact. Your mouth goes dry and you temporarily forget how to form words. You had so many burning questions in his absence, why is it that they've been wiped clean from your head now that he’s here? 

When you find the courage to look up at him again, there’s not a vestige of his former expression. The grave lines have smoothened out and you no longer believe you’re face to face with a stranger. 

“How are you feeling?” He’s quick to close the distance. The mattress dips, adjusting to his presence by your side.  

“Oh, uh, not the best, but… I don’t think it’s anything serious,” you say. Silvery moonlight shines into the room, illuminating him in an otherworldly veil. Goosebumps line your skin when he takes the side of your face into his hand. He’s cold. “I’m mostly just confused. Is— is everything okay? Why am I here?” 

“How much do you remember?” 

Remember, remember… that’s right, you hadn’t given that much thought. You pick through your hazy memories aloud. “Well, we were at the arboretum, just walking around. I remember heading to the gardens behind the Starling House. Then… um…” 

You squint and furrow your eyebrows together. It’s as if your recollection was a film reel that had been trimmed after that point. You try piecing together a mental image of the garden. Hummingbirds? Sage? No, that isn’t right, you’re thinking of its spring appearance. The colors would be more muted, there’d be less shrubbery. The image grows sharper.

Then there’s a shadow. 

Vaguely human-shaped, situated right in the middle of the mosaic you’re trying to form. Their outline isn’t solid, it’s splotchy, like water paint left to run on a canvas. 

Finally, something clicks. 

“That woman!” You exclaim. The corner of his lips twitch downward. “That’s right! Is she okay? She seemed so out of it.” 

“I’m not sure.” 

“How is that possible? You were—” 

“Let’s focus on you for now,” he cuts you off. There’s a finality in his voice you can’t bring yourself to challenge. “Can you tell me what symptoms you’re experiencing?” 

“Um, some disorientation and a headache.”

“I see. I’ll get you some painkillers, then.” 

You grab his wrist to stop him when he starts getting up. “I’d really prefer you told me what happened first.”

When he doesn’t immediately acquiesce to your request, you quietly add, “Please.” 

His eyes soften at your gentle, uncertain timbre. He intertwines his fingers with yours and gives your hand an encouraging squeeze. 

“Earlier, when we arrived at the garden, you grew lightheaded and fainted.” 

You take a moment to process the information. It seems plausible enough, yet the more you mull over it, the more little details start to catch your attention.

“Okay…” you trail off, pursing your lips. A vengeful throb from your head causes you to wince. He notices — frowns — then places a featherlight kiss against your forehead. The thoughtful gesture doesn’t invoke any pleasant warm fuzzy sensations. “So I fell unconscious for over ten hours and you didn’t… call an ambulance…?” 

“That is correct.” 

You shuffle in your seat, momentarily taken aback at how easygoing he’s acting about the entire ordeal. “Why?” 

“I’ve been monitoring your vitals,” he reassures. Sensing your growing apprehension, he adds, “I can promise that you were never in serious danger. I would’ve acted accordingly if you were.” 

The phrase ‘acted accordingly’ doesn’t tell you much either. What does he mean by that? Is there some threshold you needed to enter for him to have taken you to the hospital? Your various volunteer experiences with the city’s vulnerable communities taught you that if a person is unresponsive for over a minute, an ambulance should be called, just to be on the safe side. Besides, isn’t that just common sense? Chrollo is an intelligent man. You can’t fathom any line of reasoning that’d justify not erring on the side of caution. 

You glance at the clock again. 4:03 a.m. glows in the dim light of the room. It’s late. You wonder what your parents—

Holy shit. 

“Do my mom and dad know?” You glance around as if expecting to find them. There’s no way they wouldn’t have insisted on calling emergency services if you were unconscious for that long. 

“I didn’t inform them, no.” 

“What?” You make no attempts to tone down your incredulity. “Then— they must be out of their minds with worry! My phone, where’s my phone? I need to tell them I’m okay!” 

You shoot up off the bed too fast and your body doesn’t take kindly to the rushed movement. Debilitating lightheadedness causes you to lose your balance. Chrollo steadies your swaying form and helps sit you back down. You scoot away from him as far as you can, your thoughts an absolute mess. Nothing here is making sense. It’s not even a puzzle that’s missing a few pieces, there’s almost nothing to work with at all. 

He’s staring at you in that strange, anticipatory manner again. It makes your stomach churn. 

“My phone, Chrollo,” you hold your hand out. “There’s no way you don’t have it.” 

“I’m afraid I can’t give it to you,” he sounds apologetic too, which makes your subsequent temper flare up even worse. 

“What is wrong with you?” You hiss, exasperation winning out. You were trying to be reasonable, but that is over and done with. “You’re acting like— like there’s nothing weird happening! Can you please take this seriously? You’re really starting to freak me out.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with me. I knew this wouldn’t be easy for you, so I wanted to remain calm for your sake.” 

Your tongue couldn’t properly form words if your life depended on it. Sure, remaining calm in a crisis is helpful, but he isn’t acting like this is a crisis. He’s treating it as if he was burdened with sitting you down to relay bad news that no one else had the heart to share. 

You’re starting to think you don’t know the person you’re talking to. 

“For my sake,” you repeat in a wry deadpan. “If that’s true, then tell me what’s actually going on, Chrollo. Because I know you’re bullshitting me.” 

Not calling the ambulance or informing your parents, withholding your phone… then there’s the matter of how he got you here in the first place. Did he carry you through the lobby? No good samaritans thought it was unusual to see a man carrying an unconscious woman up to his room? Hotel staff these days are trained to have a vigilant eye for these situations too. Not one person thought it might be a good idea to ring up law enforcement over such a blatantly suspicious act? 

Nothing is adding up. 

“I’m being more forthcoming than you think,” Chrollo says, as if he’s doing you a favor. He tries reaching out for your hand again, only this time, you don’t allow him. “Everything I’ve said and intend to say is the truth, even if you don’t particularly like it.” 

That’s a hell of a creative way of putting it!

“Who was that woman earlier? What did she do to me?” 

“I have someone ironing out the details, but from what I’ve gathered, she was sent with the intention of killing you. I don’t believe she was aware of the fact herself until you entered her vicinity, triggering the necessary condition for the true culprit’s ability to activate. Otherwise, I certainly wouldn’t have allowed you to get so close.” 

Someone was sent to kill you? You? A run-of-the-mill college student who has no enemies to speak of? It’s not like you’re a part of the fucking mob. That can’t be right, not to mention the bizarre jargon he’s using. There’d be no plausible motive. If he says she was sent, and you choose to believe he isn’t making this all up, that implies it was premeditated. Not a spur-of-the-moment decision. That’d almost make more sense. 

That is, unless… 

You stare at him, eyebrows knitting together. 

“If you’re telling the truth — and right now, that’s a big fucking if — does this have something to do with you?” 

“That’s my clever girl,” he praises, entirely devoid of condescension. The pure fondness in his voice makes you sick. It’s almost as if he’s delighting in watching you piece this nightmare together. “Yes, you haven’t deliberately done anything to earn the wrath of the wrong people. They simply know getting to me is near impossible, hence their decision to go for the next best thing instead. That’d be you, dear.” 

“Oh my god,” you bury your head in your hands. “Why… why am I not freaking out more? I should be hysterical, or, or— I don’t know…” 

“Beta blockers,” he reveals. You look at him like he’s speaking another language. “In anticipation of how… touchy this conversation was going to be, I thought it might be best for you to be in a good headspace while receiving this information for the first time.” 

“You drugged me?” 

“If that’s how you want to look at it.” 

“Because that’s how it is!” 

A lump forms in your throat and lodges itself there. Are you stuck in a hellacious dream? Or hallucinating, perhaps? Visual hallucinations aren’t supposed to be this cohesive or clear. There has to be another explanation. Something you’re missing that’d make this all go away. The beta blocker admission certainly holds weight. Your heart rate, while slightly elevated, isn’t anywhere near as chaotic as it should be. It’d explain the general malaise, fatigue, and lightheadedness too. That, and you doubt you’d be able to think this clearly if there wasn’t something heavy pumping through your system. 

Your eyes hesitantly settle on Chrollo, who sits there perfectly still and almost relaxed. He’s observing you like a hawk. 

“Listen,” you try using a mellower voice. He raises an eyebrow at your drastically different approach. “You had ample opportunity to hurt me and you didn’t. That must mean you have my best intentions at heart, right? Why don’t we try to work something out, because this isn’t sustainable. My absence isn’t going to go unnoticed.” 

Chrollo sighs, heavy if not unsurprised. “Sweetheart, I’m not suffering a break from reality, although I’m sure you’d prefer to rationalize it that way. I assure you I’m lucid and everything I’ve done is intentional. You’ll come to accept it eventually.” 

It isn’t going to help, yet you feel your remaining grains of patience slip through your fingers. 

“What’s this talk about a ‘condition’ and ‘ability’, then?” You challenge. 

“Ah, I was wondering when you’d mention that,” he doesn’t sound like you landed on a reason that’d prove him wrong. “How to explain it… you once told me you think there are phenomena in this world that can’t be explained by empirical evidence. Consider this an example of that. I’m sure you must’ve felt it before you fainted. An intense, concentrated sensation that awoke your primordial fear. Bloodlust.” 

You want to argue until you run out of breath, but this description does strike a chord. Reality itself feels as if it’s drifting further and further away. In an awfully cruel twist, Chrollo and his collected disposition is the most grounding factor you have to latch onto. 

“I’m sure it’s a lot to take in,” he finally replaces that matter-of-fact tone with something resembling compassion, “But know this: you’re not in any danger. Neither are those you care about, so long as you act sensible.” 

Shivering, you hug your arms around your chest. “How can you say that to me so easily? I thought… I thought you…” 

He’s enveloping you from behind. You didn’t even see him move. Weakly, you struggle against his hold, but you’re not in any condition to put up a fight. In the event you were, it’s doubtful it’d make much of a difference. He’s strong. It goes beyond physical strength, into some esoteric realm you’ve become forcibly acquainted with. He’s exerting this slight pressure that makes your heart skip a beat, despite the medication. It isn’t comparable to what you experienced in the garden — there’s no malice — it feels more like a warning. 

“You’re surprisingly sensitive to Nen,” he murmurs, humming contentedly when you go limp against him. His chin rests atop your head and his arms ensnare your midriff. “How interesting. No matter. Whatever your fascinating brain concocted is still true. You may think me merciless, but if you knew me, you’d find this to be my greatest act of mercy yet.” 

“I thought I did know you,” is your weak reply. You don’t recognize the sound of your voice. 

“The parts of me I wanted to show you, yes,” he moves your hair aside so he can press a kiss to the nape of your neck. “And a few glimpses you gleaned in your own way. Really, you are such a sweet girl. Willing to overlook discrepancies to see the ‘good’ in me.” 

Heat rises and ignites on your cheeks. “I-I could scream, you know.” 

“You could.” 

That’s not the reaction you were expecting. 

“You’re… not going to try and stop me?” 

“No,” he responds. “I’ve always found experience to be the best teacher.” 

“You really,” you heave a humorless laugh, uncertain of what else to do, “You really don’t see anything wrong with this?” 

He nuzzles his nose into the crook of your neck, marveling at how your pulse remains steady, thanks to his intervention. 

“‘So long as I can say I helped one person, that’s good enough for me.’” 

“What?” 

“It’s what you said the first day I met you,” Chrollo explains, nostalgia evident. “I’ve thought about those words often. Your effulgence, your desire to do right by others. It made me wonder if there could ever be anyone more perfect for me than you. You, whose pretty neck I could snap before you’d ever realize what happened, stirred up a sentimentality in me I thought myself incapable of.” 

Sandalwood, amber, and leather. His scent is the same as that day.

Are his intentions? 

Is this a prophecy he himself ordained and always intended to see fulfilled? 

“You stole my heart, and as recompense, I will steal you. Think whatever you want about me, dear. Just don’t think I’m selfless enough to ever change my mind.” 

[kneelingshadowsalome]

hi!! 🩷 i've been playing skyrim so much just for comfort and all i can think of is former mercenary könig who now has a farm and a huge house where you have a personal library and a garden and an alchemy table because you're his pretty mage wife <3

or könig who's still a mercenary, this huge scary nord who always has war paint all over his face even with a hood on, only uses two-handed weapons etc. and you're possibly just a mage who needs to explore a bunch of ruins so you have to spend most of your money to hire him and all of your courage to even talk to him about the job in the first place.

SHUT UP I LOVE SKYRIM

Ugh he def proposed to you under the auroras or when you were enjoying a rest at some secret grotto. Held an awkward “I want to spend the rest of my life with you” speech right after you emerged from a stream with nothing on (König stole a glance or two from the banks after promising he wouldn’t look, the big pervert)

He’ll carry anything you give him, and loves it when you make him a homecooked meal <3 Poses as a rough Nord but is always happy to arrive home after adventuring, sleep and fuck you on a cozy comfy bed that has a soft straw mattress with some mountain flowers tucked in it.

Is a bit skeptical about your magic and potions tho, König never understood those things and you dabbling with them makes him think you’re some sort of witch, soon luring him into a trap with your enchanting eyes :/ That’s why it took months before he finally threw caution to the wind and rutted you in the hot springs near Kynesgrove...

He just couldn’t take it anymore, his flirty little mage being such a tease :( Do you even know how many times he had to fap himself to sleep under the furs? ...While you slept soundly not a few feet away, unsuspecting and sweet? Always walked ahead of him so that he had a hard time keeping an eye for the bandits because your ass was swaying right there under his nose >:(

Paws itching to touch you, he especially hated when you sought out a tavern and started to chat with townsfolk or flirt with men to hear rumours. Either cheeky or far too innocent to be travelling with someone like him, you proposed that you pay for single room only and sleep in the same bed to save costs.

Sometimes snuggling closer for some body heat, you didn't get intimidated by the obvious boner soon swelling between you. You even dared to comment on how hairy he was, and fell asleep with a soft smile on your face, pressed snug against his chest. In the morning, you cupped his ass and he had to get a little gruff, warn you that he’ll fuck you until the bed breaks if you’re not careful (that finally got you to your senses, but only for a few days)

He always wanted to build you a proper house, a manor even, steal you away from all the diplomatic nonsense and dangers, he even put some coin to the side so he could someday offer you a safe, happy life away from all this. You could have your own chickens and leeks, he could make you a little alchemy lab too, you’d look so cute perched on some bench with your nose in a book <3 So imagine how his heart soared when you whispered 'yes' to his proposal, König was sure you’d just vaguely tease him about it as per usual!

[sheeple]

Miracles don't exist | 34: Stay and leave

Genre(s): Riddle!reader / Slytherin!reader / kinda slowburn / little happy moments Fandom(s): Harry Potter Pairing(s): Theodore Nott x Reader / Harry Potter x Riddle!reader Summary: Being the Dark Lord's daughter and raised under the strict supervision of the Malfoy's is no easy life. Especially if you start crushing on your father's arch-nemesis, Harry Potter. And that while being engaged to one of his follower’s sons. Warning(s): None really [Masterlist] [Mini masterlist] [Playlist]

You wouldn't have thought that shadowing Dolores Umbridge was the worst part of the Voldemort takeover. But surprisingly, it is. The woman takes a true delight in bringing dread and sorrow to other people. 

You're not even listening to the hag questioning the poor Muggle-born witches and wizards. Instead, you write letters with no intention to send them. They're mostly to Sirius. You miss the man. The safety and comfort he provided is a far-away concept in the middle of the war.

Sirius,  How are you? Are you safe? Is the Order still fighting the fight? I wish I could join. But I am under close observation at the Manor. The Dark Lord has great expectations for me and I am scared what will happen if I don't follow them to a T.  I am married now. For a while actually. To Theodore Nott. It's the same boy who was at the hospital. Despite it being a forced marriage, I am happy it's him. He takes good care of me, so don't worry. We keep each other safe in the eye of the war.  How are Harry, Hermione and Ron? Are they safe? The last thing I've heard was that they are on the run for the Ministry. Do you know what they are doing? Maybe I can find some things out for them to help them?

You look up from the letter and your frustration with the words on the page only grows when you look at the pink hag. There is a constant high-pitched ringing that follows Umbridge wherever she goes. And it seems like only you can hear it. It brings you to the brink of insanity and your hands itch to grab your wand and silence the witch and the ringing once and for all.

A chill rolls over your back while your head twitches. The thoughts scare you. And they have been getting a lot worse ever since you have been ordered to shadow the Muggle-Born Registration Commission. You glance up at the ceiling, where a pack of dementors hoover above the Patronus barrier Umbridge created. 

Mafalda Hopkirk has been giving you skittish looks the whole time and every time you give her a small but awkward smile when you catch her eyes. She then quickly looks away, her eyes wide as saucers. Shaking your head, you crumple up the letter to Sirius and put it in the pocket of your jacket. 

The high-pitched ringing around Dolores picks up when she speaks. "Marry Elisabeth Cattermole. Of 27 Chislehurst Gardens, Great Tolling, Evesham?"

"Yes", whispers Mrs Cattermole scared.

"Mother to Masie, Ellie, and Alfred? Wife to Reginald?"

Mrs Cattermole turns her head. Her husband gets dragged in by Albert Runcorn, the former having a skittish look on his face. Mafalda tenses in her seat at the arrival of the two men and you raise your brows. Interesting.

Mr Cattermole goes to stand next to the chair his wife is seated on while Runcorn stands in the doorway.

Umbridge continues after thanking Runcorn, "Marry Elisabeth Cattermole? A wand has been taken for you upon your arrival at the Ministry, Mrs Cattermole. Is this that wand?" She holds up the wand.

Runcorn starts to circle Mrs Cattermole as she answers the crude questions the hag throws at her, her voice getting thick with desperation.

As Umbridge accuses Mrs Cattermole of lying, Runcorn's face hardens with hatred. It piques your interest as the man always has seen impartiality of the many claims Dolores makes. You sit up straight, no longer leaning with your head on your hand.

As the poor woman begs her husband to defend her, the ringing intensifies. It's almost unbearable. Your head snaps towards Umbridge, seeing that Runcorn has snuck upon her, his wand in his hand.

Suddenly, Runcorn's face starts to bubble and deform. A nightmarish sight as his face morphs. "You're lying, Dolores. And one mustn't tell lies." 

Runcorn- no Harry! Harry fires stupify at Umbridge, who slumps in her seat. As Mafalda reaches out and janks something from her neck, Mr. Cattermole hits Yaxley with a spell, which makes him fall off his seat.

You have no clue why the two strangers help Harry, but you're quick on your feet, running after them as they bolt out of the interrogation room with Mrs. Cattermole. 

The dementors swoop after you as the Patronus charm disappears with Umbridge rendered unconscious. Just before you jump after them in the elevator you send your hippogriff down the hall, which fends off the dementors.

The elevator speeds off and you're met with two pairs of wands in your face. You hold up your hands in surrender as you try to catch your breath. "Please", you pant, "I'm on your side. We have to escape the Ministry as soon as possible as it is likely that the fireplaces will be shut off at any moment. But we have to pretend. Please..."

Mr Cattermole takes a step towards you, his wife still tightly clutching his arm. "And why should we believe you?" Now that you hear his voice you recognise him. It's Ron. So that means that Mafalda is... the Poli-juice has run out of her system and Hermione looks at you, an unreadable expression on her face. But she gives Ron and Harry a look that tells them to trust you.

The doors of the elevator open and you all bolt out. You decided to run behind them so it looks like you're chasing them. As the police storm your group, spells fly around your ears. You can hardly dodge them.

"They're mine!", you growl at Yaxley as you pass him, throwing spells yourself that you misfire on purpose. 

With Yaxley hot on your heels, you fire Depulso at the man so he crashes into the opposite wall, before diving after the Golden Trio into the last open fireplace.

You twist and turn, your body contorting uncomfortably until you roll onto the ground, dirt and try leaves in your mouth. You cough and wheeze as you try and scramble upon your feet.

Your wand flies out of your hand and a hot glowing tip gets pushed into your face. You up scared at Harry as he holds you at wand point. But painful wailing catches your attention and you look to the side.

Ron lies squirming on the ground, the flesh of his arm removed in graceful twists. Blood coats Hermione's hands as she tries to comfort the wailing redhead.

She yells to Harry for him to grab the bottle of Dittany from her bag. As he searches haphazardly, you reach for your wand before crawling towards them. "I know a spell. Please, let me help."

Hermione nods, tears and panic paint her face. Closing your eyes, you begin to recount the sing-like incantation of Vulnera Sanentur, the same spell Snape used on you after your incident in the toilets a couple months back.

Ron's twitching slowly eases as his wounds gradually close. Hermione pets Ron's head while she watches you work. Her bloodied hands leave red streaks on his forehead.

You sit back on your heels, watching your spell work. Your eyes travel from Hermione and Ron towards Harry, who stands off to the side with something in his hand. A necklace or some sort.

"Why- what were you thinking?! Do you realise how incredibly dangerous the Ministry is right now for you lot?!" You raise from your feet, dusting off your knees. You run frustrated a hand over your face. "Was it at least worth it?"

Hermione and Harry share a look with each other, the former giving Harry a sympathetic look. Harry sighs and holds up his hand, showing you what Hermione snatched from Umbridge. A locket.

You reach for it and when you touch it, a weird feeling goes through you and your head twitches violently to the side. And so does Harry's. 

"Wha-what is it?"

Harry still looks hesitant. "A Horcrux."

Raising your eyebrows, you look at Harry, silently asking him to explain.

The bespectacled boy sighs. "You-Know-Who has split his soul into seven pieces in order to be immortal and put them in objects. And to defeat him, all those objects need to be destroyed."

Your eyes flicker towards the locket. "So... You're telling me that a part of the Dark Lord's soul is in that locket?"

Harry nods and you sigh heavily. "How many did you destroy already?"

"Dumbledore managed to destroy two, but other than this one we have no clue what those objects are."

Chewing on your bottom lip you frown, thinking deeply. "I imagine that the Dark Lord keeps those objects close to him or in a secured place. I mean... I wouldn't be surprised if Nagini is a Horcrux. She's everywhere he goes. Except for a couple of times, she's with me when it is not safe for her to join him."

While you and Harry discuss the locket, Hermione has set up a tent and is placing protective charms around the encampment. Her voice makes you turn towards her.

"I have to go. If I stay any longer people will be suspicious."

"You-you can stay", blurts Harry out, his eyes wide. "With us... if you want. Or we can bring you to Sirius, where you are under the protection of the Order." He takes a step towards you, his hand reaching out. But you flinch away from him, not having forgotten the pain his curse caused.

You shake your head, playing with the ring on your finger. "You know I can't Harry. I'm so afraid of what they'll do to him if I don't return. Once they discover I betrayed them, they will kill Teddy to make an example. I am sure of it." Your bottom lip wobbles at the thought of those warm, brown eyes staring up at you blankly. Just like Mrs Burbage's.

"You're married?" Hermione has finished the protective enchantments and grabs your hand, examining the ring. "It's beautiful..." Her eyes catch the faded outline of the bracelet around your wrist and frowns. She looks at you with silent questions in her eyes.

You snatch your hand away, tugging it behind your back. "Ancient wizarding traditions", you say, hoping it explains enough. 

You turn around to walk out of the protective barrier, but just before you stop. Turning around, you say, "you have to hit me with a spell. Preferably in my face."

"I'll do it", quips Ron, who you honestly to Merlin kind of forgot that he was there. Hermione shoots him a look.

"Yaxley saw me leave with you. I can't come back and claim to have battled you without any proof. I'm not saying you have to break my nose. But just a few cuts here and there."

After some convincing Hermione reluctantly agrees to do it, as she is arguably the most skilled out of all of them. She stands a few metres away from you, wand at the ready. 

"Just... don't scar my face again, please", you say before closing your eyes. 

You hear Hermione take a sharp breath in before wordlessly firing a spell your way. It hits you square in your face and sends you flying back a few metres. A pained groan escapes you as Hermione hurries towards you, helping you to your feet.

"How do I look?", you ask weakly, half a smile on your face. You feel blood run out of your nose and staining your lips while your forehead stings. "Thanks for not going easy on me."

Hermione engulfs you in a tight hug. "Please be careful."

You hug her for what could be the last time for a very long time before stepping outside of the boundary. The encampment is gone when you turn around. Taking a deep breath you dissipate back to the Manor.

You land safely back in your and Theo's bedroom. Expect it's a total mess. Every door, drawer, and cabinet is wide open, and clothes and papers are strewn about. Everything is turned over like it was searched for something. And then you see it. The box you stored all your letters to Sirius is pulled from its hiding place under your bed and empty, every letter taken away.

Shit! SHIT!

The door flies open and you raise your wand. Theo stands in the door opening, eyes wide and hair dishevelled like he has been running his hand through it. 

The two of you stare at each other before it finally clicks in your mind. You wildly search the pockets of your coat for the letter you wrote today. But it's gone.

Within two strides, Theo's next to you and grabbing your face, wiping the blood away. "What happened? They are turning the house inside out in search of you. Why are you covered in blood?"

"You have to leave", you say, turning around and grabbing the first bag you find and stuffing it with clothes for him. But he grabs your arm which effectively stops you. You look at him guiltily, casting your eyes to the ground. 

"I'm not leaving without you."

You shake your head. "Listen to me, Teddy, please. They will kill you if you don't leave. Please." As you beg, you grab his hand and push the bag into his hold. "Quickly, before they find me."

You hear footsteps down the hall. Panic floods your system and you look around the room. you spot one of the first letters you wrote for Sirius and take it, pressing it in his hand. "Go to 12 Grimmauld Place and show them this letter."

"I'm not leaving without you. We're married, (Y/n). We're supposed to do this together."

Shaking your head, you hear the people near your room. "Now, Theodore", you growl, your breath picking up. 

Just before the Death Eaters storm your room you hear the distinct sound of disapparition and Theo is gone.

The door gets thrown open and a handful of Death Eaters pour into your room. "Get her!", one says before they pound upon you.

Taglist: (bold means I couldn’t tag you): @the0doreslover @lqndkxlmqma @st4rrry  @choppedpartymuffinwinner @ledtassoo @literallyobessed @lestat-whore​ @vanishingcherry @harrysnovia @pietrobae @ireallywannasleep127 @yeolsbubbles @fruityfrog505 @fluffybunnyu @theroyalmanatee @shinrjj @hegdus @kermits-bitch @m1kasawps @noah-uhhh-what @mypolicemanharryyy @fals3-g0d @decapitated-coffee @thatgirljas13 @slytherinambitious @raineisms @mastermindmiko @timmytime17 @regsg18 @supernatural-lover @bubybubsters @lafrone @hermionelove @the-sander-fander @akengii @aliciacat20 @unstablereader @burns-in-the-sun @rachelnicolee @damagelove @mqndrqke @llpovi @clairesjointshurt @222244445555 @jolly4holly @padf00ts-l0ver @fandom-life-12 @prettyb1tchsblog @pari-1 @f14ever @nopedefe @randomgurl2326

[petrichor-idyllic]

Hi Petri <3, I have a request for a Minho x fem!reader where they're still in the glade. It's the middle of the night and everyone's sleeping, Minho and reader are together on his tent (because here they're already dating), she hears a little cry so she goes outside to see what's happening and find Chuck sitting on the ground and crying next to a tree, he's sad cause he thinks he's not good at anything and is just bothering and annoying everyone around, so she talks to him and explains that he's new and its normal to not know what to do or how to help properly, she tells a story about when she wanted to be a runner just to impress someone and prove her worth, even though she was really bad at it, and how she discovered that actually she was really good at something else, gardening. They have one beautiful conversation and hug it out, after that she put him back to sleep and goes back to the tent, just to be surprised by Minho who was awake and heard the whole conversation and begins to tease her about the little crush she had on him, the ending can have a bit of spice if your comfortable with that.

That was it, love you :)

This is an adorable idea and I have been itching to get around to it.

Your ideas are always so good, man. I'm always honoured to write your work.

EXPOSURE

MASTERLIST | MINHO MASTERLIST

SUMMARY: See above. Takes place before the arrival of Thomas, but not by much. Established relationship.

WARNINGS: Inappropriate language, spice, Chuck being sad, you getting bullied by your boyfriend.

You've been dating Minho for a while now.

And you couldn't be happier.

You love him. He's your favourite person in the Glade by far, for multiple reasons. Being the only girl is no easy feat, but Minho was always respectful and any flirting was always jovial and friendly.

Unlike some other people.

He always defended you and was sure you were always comfortable, and if he came back from his job and found out someone had upset you - well, good luck to them.

In your eyes, Minho is the perfect man, even if he is a bit too cocky.

And is never fucking there.

The most contentious point in your relationship is definitely Minho's line of work. He's always busy out in the Maze, and whilst a lot of the other Runners work on a cycle so they're not bleeding themselves dry - Minho doesn't get that luxury. Day in, day out, Minho goes out into that Maze. He's Keeper, so he has to.

Which sucks for you because that means the only time you get to see your boyfriend is in the evenings. When he's exhausted. Well, Minho is a stronger man than you, for sure. You doubt you'd have any stamina if you had to do what he does every day. And he still manages to come back to the Glade and not pass out.

So, that's something, at least.

Though, this means the most time you spend with him is at night.

No - not like that.

At least not most of the time.

The man is tired, okay?

The Builders made you a hut the first week you arrived by Alby's orders. Mainly for privacy reasons, but also Gally thought it might get him on your good side.

Gally wasn't very happy when Minho started sleeping in your hut.

So, whilst Minho sleeps through the night, you often spend some time watching him.

Sometimes, it scares you how much you care about him. Especially since he risks his life literally every day.

Every night, you admire him and appreciate that he's still here and that he's asleep; safe and sound - next to you.

Your fingers trace the scars littering his bare back as he faces away from you, the blanket loosely covering his lower half. You and Minho are comfortable enough around each other that you normally just sleep in your underwear.

His soft breaths reminding you how lucky you are to have him, you lay on your back.

You should probably get some sleep, too. Zart will have you doing heavy lifting in the morning, no doubt.

You sigh. Going to grab the blanket, you freeze when you hear what sounds like someone sobbing, and then trying to stop themself. You sit up straight, listening for the sound again.

And after a couple of seconds, it returns.

You swing your legs over the side of your creaky, makeshift bed, grabbing Minho's trademark blue button-up and slipping it on.

Being careful not to wake your boyfriend, you open the door and peer out. It's hard to make out since the Glade is quiet and dim at this hour.

But, with your hut being pretty close to the Deadheads, it doesn't take you long to spot Chuck, sitting in front of a tree. His knees are pulled up to his chest and his face buried in his knees.

Chuck is the latest Greenie - and the youngest Glader here. He's about twelve, definitely no older than thirteen.

You walk the couple of yards away from your hut to the crying boy.

"Chuck?" You ask after a second, standing in front of him. "Are you okay?"

He sniffs, not even bothering to look up from his self-cradling. "Go away."

You sigh.

Looking back at your hut, you almost want to go back and cherish your precious time with your boyfriend. But you can't leave Chuck crying here - you promised you'd look after him when he first got here.

You take a seat in front of him, crossing your legs and adjusting Minho's shirt to make sure it keeps you decent.

"Chuck," you say, your voice low and reassuring, "what's going on? It's me; you know you can talk to me."

He peaks up at you, thinking for a second before shaking his head and returning to his hiding.

"Chuck-" you huff, "I'm not leaving you here."

"I'm not gonna tell you."

"Guess I'm staying here all night then, hm?"

Chuck glares at you, his eyes appearing above his knees, and you grin at him. He rolls his eyes, but moves his legs so he's sitting how you are. Legs crossed, sitting opposite each other, you raise your eyebrows, promoting him to speak.

"It's just... ugh, it's dumb," he rubs his face with his hands, trying to hide any remaining tears.

"I'm sure it's not - if it's upsetting you this much, then that means it's important to you. Come on, what's wrong?"

He hesitates. "I'm just... I'm just sick of being useless."

You furrow your brows. Chuck's been here for two weeks; he can't be sick of anything yet.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm- I'm just bad at everything. And no one likes me. I just piss everyone off and get in the way and everything thinks I'm useless - and what's the point? Why is everyone else so good at it all and I... suck."

"Hey," you shuffle forward, reaching for his hand. "You're not useless at all, Chuck." You rub his hand, offering some comfort. "You're just new, dude. Everyone feels useless and annoying when they're new because you don't know anything yet. We were all the same - we've all gone through the same klunk."

"Yeah, right," he scoffs, clearly not believing you.

You think for a second, recalling your own first couple of months here and smiling to yourself. You let go of Chuck and let your hand fall into your lap.

"It's the truth."

"Uh huh."

"You don't believe me?"

He shakes his head.

"Alright, you wanna hear a story? Something I've never told anyone?" This gets his attention. You smirk. "It's embarrassing."

"Yeah, okay." He crosses his arms. "This better be good."

"Well, did Newt ever tell you that I wanted to be a Runner?"

Chuck tilts his head, his mood already lifting. "No? You wanted to be a Runner?"

"Mhm," you nod, chuckling to yourself. "My first few weeks here, I didn't really know what to do with myself. I tried everything and nothing really fit - and then I suddenly decided I wanted to be a Runner."

"So? What's embarrassing about that?"

"Well, I'm not sure if you've noticed Chuckie-boy; but I am no Runner."

"So, what happened?"

"Well, I uh," you scratch the back of your neck, "I actually wanted to become a Runner because I... well, because I had a crush."

Chuck blinks, and you look away, sheepishly. You've never actually told anyone how long you've had a thing for Minho - but it started way before you started dating, and probably way before he had a thing for you.

"Shuck off," Chuck snorts, "you wanted to be a Runner 'cause you wanted to screw Minho?"

"Ew - don't say it like that!" You warn him, but he simply raises his eyebrows, giving you a knowing look. "Well, yeah - but that's not the point."

You clear your throat before continuing. "Anyway, I didn't really have any other motivation to do a job. So, being a Runner seemed like a good bet. I convinced Alby to get Minho to trail me - and I was shit." You snort, mainly out of embarrassment. "All I did was embarrass myself in front of the hottest guy I'd ever seen. I'm not fast, and I have a klunky memory and no sense of direction. So, I made a complete fool of myself."

"How is this meant to make me feel better?"

"I'm getting there," you snap. "After that, Newt got me a second trail in the Gardens - and because I wasn't so hell bent on being a Runner anymore and accepted that was dumb, I actually tried and ended up being good at it. And now I'm a Track-hoe - and it's great."

"So, you've got a decent job? Congrats." The boy flops backwards, sarcasm lacing his voice.

"Jesus- Chuck," you try to level with him. "It all takes time. It took me months to even trial as a Runner; never mind, shuck it up. You can't expect to be brilliant straight away. It takes a lot of effort and patience, and you've only been here two weeks. And sometimes things don't go how you expect them to, but that's fine. You'll be fine. You're gonna find your place and settle in - you just have to be patient." You pause. "And shuck what everyone else has to say; I know you're capable, and so do you. That's all that matters."

He smiles at you, nodding. "Yeah, okay, you're probably right. I'll be fine."

"Yeah, you will," you shift so you're on your knees, "now, gimme a hug and shuck off to bed, Chuckles."

Chuck sniffs, but grins at you, leaning forward and hugging you. He buries his face in your neck. "You're okay, yeah?" You ask as you rub his back and he nods.

"Yeah, I'm okay," he pulls away, "thanks, (Y/N)."

"Don't worry about it, kid, now - scram. Bed time." You stand up, offering a hand to him and yanking him to his feet before playfully pushing him away.

He laughs when you push him again. "Okay, okay, I'm shuckin' goin'."

You stand there for a moment, watching Chuck vanish off into the Glade and to his hammock. Shaking your head, you scoff, turning around and returning to your hut.

Though, when you open the door, you did not expect to find Minho sitting up straight. His legs hang over the bed, the blankets bundled around his crotch, a grin plastered across his face.

You freeze.

He's meant to be asleep.

"You should wear my shirt more often," he hums, "it suits you."

"Shut up, shank," you roll your eyes, shutting the door behind you.

"Hey, that's no way to talk to your long-term crush, is it?" You pause again.

Oh God.

He's never going to let you live this down.

"You're eavesdropping on my conversations now?" You cross your arms defensively, trying to ignore the heat coming to your face.

"Kinda hard not to when you talk so loud. Ain't my fault the walls are thin," he leans forward, tilting his head slightly and a faint smirk playing on his lips.

Dammit.

He's hard to resist.

"So, how long were you crushing on me for, exactly? 'Cause I don't think we've had that conversation." He's enjoying this new power. You are not.

You sigh, walking towards him and standing in front of him. You touch his hands, which he gladly reciprocates. You look at the floor and his looks at you.

"You're cute when you're flustered."

"Shut up, Minho," you hiss, making him let out a chuckle.

"You became a Runner because you wanted my attention?"

You look at him, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth. "Yeah," you say reluctantly.

"How much?"

"What?"

"How much did you want my attention?"

"Minho, seriously-?"

"And for how long?"

You throw your head back, groaning. "Minho-"

"No, no," he cuts you off, "I wanna hear it."

You hate it when he's like this. Well, no, you don't - but you do. He knows exactly how to get you to talk and how to turn you into putty at his touch.

You huff, dropping your head again. "I... I always wanted your attention." You murmur, the words being barely audible.

"What was that?"

"I always wanted your attention," your eyes meet his as you raise your voice. "From the first time I saw you jogging back into the Glade, gross and sweaty." You fiddle with his fingers, avoiding his gaze once again. "I was never attracted to anyone else." You press your lips together. "I was immediately attracted to you - there."

Your face burns, and your hands are sweaty. It's not like you can't tell Minho everything - it's just that this is going to be a teasing point for the rest of your life, and Minho doesn't need the ego boost.

"Is that so?" His voice is heavy and silky as his hands come to your waist. He slips them under your (his) shirt, resting them on the skin just above your underwear. He draws small circles into your hips.

You look at him, already getting drunk off of his touch. "You gonna show me how much you want me, then?" He mutters, leaning up.

Caving in, you press your lips against his, allowing him to guide you with his hands. He frees one hand and tosses the blankets to the side, leading you to sit on his lap. Your hands come to the back of his neck, brushing against his hair and deepening the kiss.

The thin amount of fabric between your bodies and the energy in the room is enough to get friction going. You hum into his mouth, grinding against him as you feel him harden against you.

Your hands go to the bottom of the shirt, about to lift it over your head when Minho stops you.

You pull away, puzzled and he grins. "Keep it on, it suits you, remember?"

You roll your eyes, kissing him again, your hands coming down his back, digging your nails in as you roll your hips.

"Shit," he mumbles pulling away for a moment, panting into your mouth. He takes your bottom lip between his teeth, pulling gently. "I shucking love you, you know that?"

"I love you, too." You look at him for a second before shoving him back.

"Shuck!" He exclaims just before you kiss him again, you lips trailing down his jaw and littering his neck. You leave deep purple marks on his chest, making the boy hiss and pull on your hair.

You keep going further down, peppering his abs with your affection as Minho's eyes roll back into his head.

"Shit," he repeats, his forearm coming to cover his eyes as his brain completely short-circuits. "What are you doing to me?"

His skin is flushed, his chest rises and falls, his hair is a mess, and you don't have to see his face to know his pupils are blown wide.

Sure, Minho holds a lot of power over you, but it goes both ways. You're the only person that gets to see him like this; dishevelled, whimpering, needy - weak.

You fiddle with the waistband of his boxers, feeling his grip tighten.

You look up at him, admiring him once again before you speak.

"I'm showing you how much I want you."

Whoop whoop, another Minho piece done.

The Glade pieces are so fun to write, and it's not very often I get to involve Chuck, so this was a nice change.

I hope you enjoyed :))

[dessertgeek]

The Twitter Mari Lwyd saga (2019 - part two)

Since people seem to be happy that I'm copying over the Mari Lwyd sagas, have another transcription! This is for the second round of 2019, between @seananmcguire and @kbspangler. Part one is here, the source to this round starts here.

(Seriously, these aren't mine, they're the property of @seananmcguire, @tkingfisher, + @kbspangler, I'm just transcribing so extra records exist. Support their works!)

That being said, if anyone can find the 2020 Twitter thread, can you send me a link so I can transcribe it (or transcribe it and link me)? It has been found! Thanks to @dor-min for finding the thread, it's going to take me a bit to transcribe.

CWs for food, alcohol, and caps.

K.B.: SO YOU SAY YOU WANT A BATTLE? YOU'RE BRINGING NAUGHT BUT PRATTLE TO THIS FESTIVE DAY WE DESIGNATE WITH LIGHTS AND FOOD TO CELEBRATE THE SOLSTICE, DEAR, WITH ME AND MINE AND YOU AND YOURS AND HIS AND HERS AND THEIRS AND OURS A BREAKING DAY A FRESH NEW YEAR WE CALL SPRING UP AGAIN

Seanan: WE'RE PAST THE LONGEST NIGHT AND I'M ITCHING FOR A FIGHT IF YOU'RE COLD, WE'RE COLD, SO LET US IN. WE HEARD YOUR LARDER'S STOCKED, SO GET READY TO GET ROCKED THIS TALE'S OFTEN TOLD WE ALWAYS WIN.

K.B.: YOU SAY YOU'LL FIGHT THIS GARDNER'S MIGHT?! THE GROUND IS COLD MY PLANTS ASLEEP I'VE GOT ENOUGH STRESS TO PUNCH A SHEEP I AM WIGGING TO GO DIGGING AND HERE YOU COME TO STEAL MY PLUMS?

Seanan: I DON'T WANT YOUR PLUMS THE MARI LWYD COMES TO SAMPLE YOUR CHEESE AND YOUR BOOZE. YOUR GARDEN IS SLEEPING SO WHY ARE YOU KEEPING A SENTRY POST YOU DIDN'T CHOOSE? COME WASSAIL WITH US. THERE'S NO NEED TO FUSS. THERE'S NO SHAME IN CHOOSING TO LOSE.

K.B.: I'M NOT YET CONVINCED A DEAD HORSE HAS ENVINCED THE SPIRIT OF THIS WINTER'S PAST CAN YOU SWEETEN THE DEAL WITH A CAROLING PEAL? THEN MY GARDEN WILL HAVE TO HOLD FAST

Seanan: WE ARE NOT RETREATIN' THIS HORSE WON'T BE BEATEN, IT A BATTLE OF HOOVES VERSUS HANDS. THE JINGLE OF BELLS IS A SOUND THAT FORETELLS OUR CONQUEST OF ALL OF THESE LANDS.

K.B.: THEN I GOTTA SAY NO SORRY, CAN'T GO YOU SEEM LIKE A NICE HORSE AND ALL BUT MY HOUSE IS QUITE HAUNTED AND I AM UNDAUNTED BY YET ONE MORE SPECTRAL ODDBALL

Seanan: IT'S NOT REALLY RESPECTFUL TO SAY THAT I'M SPECTRAL. I'M CORPOREAL AS A GIRL COMES. YOU CAN PURCHASE MORE CHEESE SO JUST GIVE ME THESE. DON'T FORCE ME TO BREAK OUT THE DRUMS.

K.B.: (My parents are about to arrive so)

FINE, I DON'T CARE IF YOU'RE BIRD, DOG, OR MARE ON THIS DAY WE'RE SUPPOSED TO EMPLOY THE LOVE OF THE SEASON SO HERE, HAVE SOME CHEESE IN PRECUT SIXTY-FOUR SLICES OF JOY

Seanan: DESPITE THIS GRAVE LOSS, YOU'RE A SHEPHERD TO MOSS, AND I AM A CHILD OF THE GRAVE. SO I'LL GO NOW IN PEACE, AND I WON'T BREAK YOUR LEASE, THOUGH YOU DIDN'T ASK ME TO BEHAVE.

K.B.:

[Alt ID: A small Black child in a crowd. The child takes off his black baseball cap as if to say "I tip my hat to you dear sir," which has RE2PECT embroidered on it in white thread.]

[adobealmanac]

Appalachian Traditions from my Father

My dad and his relatives came from the Netherlands, however, when they arrived in America they settled in the Appalachia's. Many of my relatives on his side still remain in those mountains, and thus, continue practicing the rich traditions of one of the oldest mountain ranges. Here I will document some of those old-fashioned remedies and superstitions:

Remedies:

To cure a fever take a bulb's worth of garlic, and a few layers of the largest onion you have on hand and wrap them in a cloth as if you were rolling up dough to cut fresh linguini. Sinch each end with a piece of twine. Take a hammer and with all your rage beat the cloth into a pulp. Once the contents are sufficiently mashed tie the cloth around the wrists, right over the pulse. Leave the poor man's poultice in place until the fever reduces. It should take effect in around an hour.

Headache bandages were one of my great-grandmother's go to remedies to enjoy during a nice warm winter night after a long day of hard work. It would take away any symptoms of a sore head swiftly. First, grab one or two paper bags and cut them widthwise into long, thick strands of brown paper. They should be long enough to stretch across the front of your forehead and onto the sides of your temples. heat up some apple cider vinegar so that it is warm but not hot. Drench the strips of paper in the vinegar like you are making paper mache. Then, apply the strips onto your forehead so that it is thoroughly covered and pat them down with a washcloth. Cover the strips with a headband or bandanna so that they do not drip onto your hair or face, and leave in place until the soreness is gone.

Throat salve is a cozy drink we used to make to sooth a soar throat. First, combine the juice of one lemon with a cup of water. Boil the lemon water on the stove. Once it is boiling add a tablespoon or two of honey depending on your own preferences. I typically add two as it cuts the sourness of the lemon, plus the honey is good for you. Boil the mixture until it is all combined and serve hot in a mug. You may garnish it with a lemon slice to make it feel fancy.

Sunburn Soother is a simple thing to make. Begin by picking some fresh sage, and lavender if it is in bloom from your garden. Get about two cups of water boiling, and add the herbs. Boil it until a strong tincture is made. Make a similar tincture out of black tea too. I usually leave both boiling until there is just a bit of liquid left in each. Get about a cup of fresh aloe (or bottled, either works so long as it doesn't contain alcohol) and combine it with your tinctures. Once thoroughly mixed apply to the sunburn liberally as needed.

Vicks Vaporub is a cure all as my granny says. Got a cough? slather it on your feet and cover them with socks before going to bed. Anoint yourself with Vicks while doing the sign of the cross to cast out and protect from evil. Congested? Rub it under your nose and on your chest. Going near a decaying animal carcass? shove some in the openings of your nostrils to prevent that god awful scent. Need to fake cry at your enemies funeral? Dab some of that good ol' Vicks Vaporub underneath your eyes. It can even be used to oil a squeaky door. If you don't have a jar that is older than you and somehow still full, go buy one on amazon! Vicks is the gift that keeps on giving.

Superstitions:

Minding your own business is a powerful thing in the dusk draped skies of the Appalachian forests. Whether you hear your name called out on your evening walk, or seeing your neighbor walk to his barn late at night, keep your head down. It don't involve you now, does it? Whether you believe it's a cryptid out there ready to strike, or the moonshiners up to their hobbies, leave them be. Live and let live is the word of the wind, and thus is the virtue of Appalachian life.

Is your ear itching? That means someone has spoken your name. Pay attention to which ear is tingling. If it is your right, they are speaking truthfully about you. They may even put in a good word. However, if it is your left, they are spreading gossip and speaking ill of you. If this is the case, carry a sprig of rosemary on you until five days have passed since the last tingle of your left ear. This will protect you from any ill will sent your way.

The pillows of the dead often contain a wreath of feathers known as an angels crown. Often, it is believed that they signify your loved one being allowed into heaven. However, if you find one in the pillow of a living soul it may signify that their time is near. That is why it is so important to fluff your pillows each night, as you want to break up any budding wreaths before they lay claim to your life.

Drinking alone is never acceptable. Whether it is tea or scotch, be sure to pour a little out on the ground to quench the spirits. I always keep a small clay figurine by the kettle to give a drop of tea to in the morning. Drinking without offering some to the nearby spirits could upset them.

Iron nails can be strong protective amulets. Whether you nail them into the corners of your bedroom or fashion a cross out of them, they provide strong protection against malevolent spirits and evil forces. Superstitions around iron from Appalachia are quite similar to those spoken about in my post the magic of scissors.

Witches marks are said to protect your home from malicious spells and witchcraft. They can be easily fashioned out of sticks by making a five-pointed star with sticks and strings. Place this above the entrance of the home to ward off evil.

While many of these superstitions and remedies are shared around the world, my dads family from the Appalachians continue to practice these folk practices, and thus they remain a strong part of the culture in such an isolated and harsh environment. Many folks from the Appalachian mountains continue to practice folk healing and magic due to the isolated nature of many parts. They take care of their own, you know? The mountains provide a unique environment where the woods truly have some unique powers. While I myself do not reside in those hills, my ancestors on his side did and I continue to practice their ways to connect to them and their homeland. I fondly remember my trips to visit family in the region and the unique culture that fosters there.

[gentil-minou]

Lanuary 2024 - Day 12, Sizhui's Birthday

The gentians in his mother's garden grow late into the season, as if her spirit still tends to them. A-Yuan's laughter flutters on wings toward where Lan Wangji sits on the wooden deck and watches.

"He's doing well, Wangji," Xichen says.

Lan Wangji nods, the corners of his eyes softening despite himself.

He is. A-Yuan has come a long way in the long months that have passed since…since…

His fingers clench tight and he hides them in his sleeves.

"Soon he'll be of age to join the little ones' class. He'll be a bit behind in core formation, but with diligent study and practice I am certain he will catch up in no time."

Xichen smiles, as if he has no memory of why A-Yuan is so behind his peers. Why he will be starting late.

Lan Wangji's back itches. The bandages stick uncomfortably to his skin. He'd split the stitches open again the other night. He hadn't even done anything this time. His scars just tear open and blood spills from them afresh, uninterested in healing and moving on.

Lan Wangji cannot blame them.

Xichen continues speaking, unaware as always. Lan Wangji knows his brother has other responsibilities and his concerns about the Nie sect leader's growing sickness have recently taken precedence. But sometimes he wonders what sort of world Brother resides in. It cannot be the same world Lan Wangji inhabits.

"He will need a courtesy name soon," he says as his gaze drifts to the ribbon A-Yuan is still getting used to.

He'd marveled over the cloud pattern when Lan Wangji first presented it to him, delighted in being able to match his gege.

Again, his thoughts stray to another caregiver with a different colored ribbon. He wonders, not for the first time, what A-Yuan would have said if Wei Ying gifted him a red ribbon.

A-Yuan has not mentioned his Xian-gege once since he'd arrived. The masters say his memory has been altered forever. How mournful a life never knowing Wei Ying would be. Or would it be a mercy? Lan Wangji still does not know.

His brother gently tugs him away from his thoughts. "Have you thought of a courtesy name yet? If he is to be your heir then—"

"He is already my heir."

Rule number 24. Do not interrupt. Let them add another scar to his back, if they so choose.

Xichen sighs. "Yes. As a Lan heir, normally his name would be chosen by the elders, but I suspect you would disagree."

"Mn." He will, when the time comes.

The boy already has a name, though Lan Wangji will not share it with Xichen or Uncle or anyone.

The only one who's heard it are ghosts lingering at night by his bedside, when Lan Wangji is weak and whispering that name alongside another.

No one else will know the name until it's time. And they will have no say in it. Bitterness swells rotten and tired on his tongue, poison in his teeth. After all, why should they?

The person who should have given A-Yuan his name is no longer here. Why would anyone else ever deserve that privilege?

Eventually, Xichen stops his patient waiting, shaking his head and pretending Lan Wangji can't see. They spend a few more moments watch A-Yuan chase after a bunny, giggling as he trips over his ribbon. The garden is awash in color as red and golden leaves fall to join their brethren in the small pond. Curious carp swim to the surface for a nibble, dashing away once satisfied.

"What about a birthday?" Xichen asks. "You have not yet given one. Will you choose the day you brought him back?"

The day Lan Wangji found A-Yuan and brought him back? The day he learned of Wei Ying's death? The day he spent hours and hours scouring a barren wasteland for a ghost, for a body? The day he found only bones and misery, and one small sickly boy breath so sallow he'd been afraid to take a step lest he hurt him?

No. Nothing on that dark, horrible day. If he could, Lan Wangji would wipe that date off the calendar forever.

But his brother is right. A-Yuan deserves a day to celebrate.

"Mn. I will think of one," he tells Xichen, then says nothing as he waits for his brother to leave. Sometimes Xichen refuses to budge. Other times, he leaves Lan Wangji in peace, and Lan Wangji can let himself feel the fury that spikes in his veins at the sight of him.

This time, Xichen leaves quickly, blessedly. But simmering fury does not flow through his veins. How can it, when A-Yuan's laughter is music that lifts his spirits and fills this quiet space with life it hasn't had in decades.

A breeze scatters leaves into a whirlwind, spinning around A-Yuan as he yelps and holds his prized ribbon to his head. A red leaf gets caught in his hair, nestling unnoticed near his small ponytail.

This time of year…soon it will be Wei Ying's birthday. It would be fitting for A-Yuan to share that date with his Xian-gege.

It could also become a curse.

Lan Wangji swallows down the rising shame at his cowardice. How can he claim that day for A-Yuan when he cannot even speak Wei Ying's name to him? How can he pretend he has any right to that day, to anything belonging to Wei Ying.

No. That day will stay Wei Ying's. It will remain as Lan Wangji's day to repent.

But then, what else? Lan Wangji had so little time with A-Yuan and the Wens, he wouldn't know where to start. Should he seek out a fortune teller for an auspicious date. Another person assigning them their fate?

The idea sours low in his stomach and he casts it away. Whatever else, he wants A-Yuan to live a life freer than his predecessors. He wants him to have more than they ever had.

But he still needs a birthday.

A memory whispers along a winter's wind, carrying a chill from long ago.

"Zhanzhan, come, come. Let's eat cake."

In his memories, his mother's voice sounds like wind chimes and glass. Beautiful, yet breakable. So fragile, and so precious, something to handle with care and polish as needed.

"Mama. We have not yet eaten dinner," he'd said, already following rules that sought to bind.

"Mhm, but that's okay, little one. We can keep it a secret. Come, come. I want to celebrate your birthday early this year."

"But why? Won't I see you next month to celebrate?"

In his memories, his mother's smile is sweet and sad, but stubbornly sticks to her face.

He cannot remember what the cake tasted like, time becoming a chasm he cannot cross. But he remembers his mother's joy as she ate, how she dabbed frosting on his nose, how she laughed at the face he made, how she kissed it off with tenderness.

He remembers how a month later, long after her body had turned to ash, he refused to eat the cake set out for his birthday for years to come.

Eventually, he grew to love the taste anew, finding his mother in every sweet. Sugary syrups and fluffy dough, the same as her laughing cheeks. Honey eyes and candied laughter. Powdery warmth that cradled his back when she'd press him to her heart.

Now, he's grateful they were able to share one last cake between them, the memory better than any treat.

"Gege, look at this pretty flower!" A-Yuan's voice wraps warm around his thoughts, a hug that gently lifts him from his memory.

Lan Wangji blinks down at the purple-blue gentian sitting in his lap as A-Yuan's strokes gentle fingers over soft petals.

"There's so many. Can we keep them? I want to put them in my bed."

Lan Wangji's hand drifts to the stem, hesitant to touch the petals lest he break them.

"No, little one. We cannot."

A-Yuan pouts and whines, "But whyyyy? I want to make them my friends…" His bottom lip sticks out and trembles dangerously. He doesn't often throw tantrums, too well-behaved to try. But Lan Wangji has held him through silent tears after nightmares. It is not any better.

He swallows, wishing again for Wei Ying's guidance. The boy would never shed a tear if he were here. His eyes drift towards the flower bed where the buds drift in the wind.

"The flowers," he start haltingly, "need to rest in their bed. The way A-Yuan must rest in his."

A-Yuan tilts his head, "Really?"

Lan Wangji nods, anxiously on the lookout for any tears gathering in the corner's of big brown eyes.

A-Yuan's faces scrunches up as he thinks. "They have to stay in the soil… so they can grow big and strong? And make lots of friends?"

Lan Wangji nods in a hurry, not sure what else to say. Where did A-Yuan learn this?

But the rain does not pass, and churns into a storm.

"Then—then," A-Yuan quietly sniffles as he stares at the flower in his hand. "Then, then then when I— when I picked—picked the flower, did I—did I take it away from, from, from…its family?"

His tears slip like morning dew, with not a sound like there's no one there to notice. Lan Wangji helplessly cradles A-Yuan's face and tries to wipe them away before the can fall.

"I, I, I," A-Yuan whispers, "I did a bad."

"No, no little one." Lan Wangji repeats desperately. "You did not." He casts his glance around as he tries to think of something to salvage this.

There. An empty tea cup. He rises swiftly and fills with with water from the pond. Then, he holds A-Yuan's hand and guides him back to the flower bed.

He thinks of what Wei Ying would say. The story he'd tell.

"Your flower went on a little trip," he says. He digs a small hole in the ground and with gentle, slow movements shows A-Yuan how to plant the stem back in the ground.

"It went on a trip to see its friend, and now it's back home." He gestures for A-Yuan to pour water over the soil. "And now, it's been fed and it will be with its family."

A-Yuan sniffles and stares at the patch of disturbed ground. "It's having dinner with its family now?"

"Mn."

"Is it loud? Are they laughing? Are they eating soup?"

"…Mn." Water is technically soup.

"…I don't like soup…"

"…Plants enjoy soup. Water soup."

A-Yuan accepts his answer with a nod before smashing his face in Lan Wangji's robes. Lan Wangji gently brushes back his hair and straightens his ribbon, letting A-Yuan have a moment as long as he needs.

Eventually, A-Yuan lifts his head and pulls back, wearing a sheepish look. Lan Wangji crouches down to eye level and waits.

"Sorry gege, A-Yuan will get you another present…sorry…."

Lan Wangji shakes his head as he wipes away the remaining tear tracks. "No need."

"Gege doesn't like presents?"

"No, I like presents," he says, thinking of rabbits and fruit and pink flowers. "But I do not need one."

"Not right now?"

"Mn. Not right now." He tickles A-Yuan and his giggles sing across the garden.

Sugary syrup and fluffy dough cheeks, honey eyes and candied laughter. Powdery warmth that settles in his heart as he cradles the boy to his chest.

Gentians that bloom late into the season, petal soft and vibrant against red and yellow trees. Alive well after they should be, as if cared for by spirits unseen.

Gifts that have no end, that do not fade with time. That stay soft and sweet in his memories.

"A-Yuan, would you like a birthday?"

A-Yuan hiccups around a giggle. "What's a birthday?"

Lan Wangji's lips twitch, just a tiny bit.

"A day where we will celebrate A-Yuan."

"Hmm," A-Yuan ponders as he taps his nose in an achingly familiar gesture. "Does gege have a birthday?"

Lan Wangji blinks mist from his eyes and nods.

"Then A-Yuan wants a birthday too!" His cheers echo against the walls until stopping instantly. "How does A-Yuan get a birthday?"

Lan Wangji lifts A-Yuan into his arms, holding him close. He steps along the garden path winding through his mother's flowers and over the bridge that looks out into the small pond.

For a long time, after his mother's death, nothing seemed to grow in this garden. For a long time, Lan Wangji took satisfaction in it. Nothing should grow here where death festers.

But despite his past wishes, death begets life, and one year the gentians bloomed as if they had every year, and the next year again and the next year again. Year after year, stubbornly clinging to life.

His mother, he thinks, was probably the same.

The day she died, he vowed he'd never celebrate another birthday. They'd remain quiet days for reflection. After all, he never learned his mother's birthday. The elders never saw it fit and mother had never mentioned it.

But Lan Wangji has grown tired of choices being made for him. Perhaps he should make more choices of his own.

Although he won't ever learn his mother's birthday, he can celebrate her life over the memory of her death. He can give new meaning to the day, give new meaning to all the days.

"Your birthday," he tells A-Yuan, who resettles after attempted to grab the carp from so high up. " will be several days before mine, on a very important day."

"Yay!" A-Yuan cheers. "How will we celebrate? Do we celebrate together? Will we get presents?"

"Mn. A-Yuan will have many presents." He will make sure of that.

"What about gege?"

"No need."

He doesn't need them, he thinks. The gifts he'd wish for are impossible to receive.

But there are gifts he has, right in his arms. Gift that life in memories, close to his heart, polished to a shine.

(threadfic here)

(A/N My headcanon is that Sizhui's birthday is the day Mama Lan passed, but because he can't properly mourn her, this way he can celebrate her life alongside this boy who was his gift from another loved lost one.)

[uyuartik]

othello ch. 1 | anakin skywalker x reader

tags: othello au mini series, no major character death (just want to make that clear), borderline dark fic, but this chapter is just tooth-rotting fluff, smut comes way later, lots of miscommunication, lots of sadness and stress

summary: He looks troubled, but it is all fixed at the sight of you.

a/n: okay, here we go!! this is still the very beginning, but it's the most important piece in my opinion, and i'm obsessed with how sweet this was. i hope you agree as well! let me know in the comments or reblogs, or simply by liking!

enjoy, and hope to see you soon!

also crossposted on ao3!

word count: 818

prologue | ch.1 | ch.2 | ch.3 | ch.4 | ch.5 | finale

chapter 1

Of course, his love faltering was never the first thing you suspected when you saw him distracted, a few weeks after your arrival in Cyprus. That could never be the case—not even the last thing you’d suspect, even if you were on the brink of death. And surely, he didn’t provide any suggestions for that case, the frown on his face disappearing at the sight of you, his eyes shining brighter than the Mediterranian sea.

His beautiful wife. His angel.

How could he not ignore the rest of the world when he was with you?

Wasn't that what he has always done, since that fated day, as you walked past the hall he was waiting in, gazes locking in curiosity? He’d forgotten all else at that moment, his purpose, his manners, even his name… It was your melodic voice that brought them back- or should he say lend back, as his being belonged to you henceforth- and he started talking with you, like a miracle, reveling in each word he said to earn an answer from you, and reveling in each word you say, blessed to hear.

After that, at every chance he got to talk to you- sometimes he felt like it was only him that did the talking, but my God, you showed how you took every sentence into your heart, and since you positively rambled on for hours and hours, it was nothing embarrassing. He adored how you worried when he told you he had been injured in a combat years ago- even as you currently saw him safe and well, he honored how you pushed through your distaste for violence and blood to listen to him more, to be involved in his life. You two had almost gotten caught the night he talked about his life before the army, his late mother and the dunes of sand he hated. He never preferred disclosing those subjects, but as you asked more questions, trying to get everything right and to understand him, he didn’t feel uncomfortable at all, just overwhelmed by the love he had for you, and the obvious proof that you had it too. He didn’t think twice about gifting you his mother’s napkin under that moon, and he never thought it  not fit in your bosom. In his eyes, the two halves of his world had finally come together- and he couldn’t be more content.

“My lord!” You chirped, the sound putting some color into his vision once more, and his arms opened wide, then wrapped around you tightly. The invisible weight around his shoulders dissolved, and the muddy clouds that blinded his mind temporarily dispersed into thin air, leaving their place for your soft touch and sweet perfume. 

“My sweet lady.” He whispered with a wide grin, not a hint of his previous troubles evident now. He pressed you closer, and even lifted you off of your feet for a second or two. Your high laughter echoed through the walls of the garden- surely that was a little too much, but it was your house after all? But still, redness crept into your cheeks, a color he only found in the most exquisite, expensive roses. As he set you back, his arm stayed looped around your waist, digging into the silk fabric. Your hands twitched with the itch to hold onto him, any part of him, but you didn't, impatiently waiting for his friend to bid their farewell. Iago didn’t linger anyway, the baby steps he took undone by your simple presence in seconds. He needed a moment to calm down, and another to strengthen his plan.

Then, you two were alone in the confines of your home, belonging solely to each other. You pulled him closer, tilting your head up to meet his expecting lips. You had been craving him too, as you do all the time he's away. The touch was… everything, putting an end to your miseries, filling your body with warmth and reassurance and happiness. He tasted you like you were the only thing that would quench his thirst, and you adored the way he treated you with the utmost care, but pushed you to your limits. This always left a tingling sensation on your lips, sometimes making you feel his kiss even hours after he was gone. This was what being married to him was like, both the togetherness and the separation causing excitement, keeping your hearts young and minds hopeful, your spirits content with the knowledge that the two of you were to share a life time.

With beaming eyes, you tucked one of his unruly curls behind his ear, noticing how long his hair had gotten. He reciprocated, but the impervious smile reminded you of the moment that it wasn't there, and you had to ask.

“Are you okay, my dearest love?” 

The light in his eyes didn't dim even a little. “Better now, angel.”

[starrycassi]

Hate, love, guilt, mothers. Aren't they all synonyms?

You can find part one of this au here, and two here. Also a quick explanation on who's Gloria here. Mild nsfw mention at the end. Like, super mild.

The grounds of the Goldenloin mansion are always breathtaking, it doesn't matter how many times Ballister's been here as a guest, as an intruder, as a knight, as a lover. The gardens are fantastic, and the structure makes him feel so, so tiny.

Standing here, looking at the dining table made for dozens and dozens of people, Ballister can't help but feel out of place. The maid that guided them here is mimicking their pose, right next to them, and Ballister signals to Ambrosius, tugging on his sleeve. There's no need for her to be here, too. She should be free to leave.

Ambrosius gets the memo and dismisses the poor girl, who leaves quietly and quickly. Ballister's skin itches.

In front of them rests a wonderful feast, colorful and appealing, even if some plates are covered with golden silverware, to protect the food from loosing it's flavor, or whatever. He can't help but wonder how many street kids are hungry right now — can't help but remember what it's like, to be alone and lost and begging for a crumb of bread, a sip of water, a simple plate of food and be denied and-

The echo of someone's steps brings him back to the present, and he stares at the woman as she walks in. Captain Gloria limps as she arrives, her golden hair down in a braid that reaches her lower back. She gleams at them, despite the clear pain that every step delivers to her system. Her eyes aren't quite focused.

Ambrosius suddenly goes still, fixing his posture.

The two of them just accept the silence, live in it, for the next couple of seconds. Gloria finally gets to the table and sits down slowly, hissing when she finally does so, reeking of alcohol and a splendid perfume. She's at the head of the chairs, and Ambrosius rounds up the table to sit right next to her. Ballister tries to follow him.

“Don't” orders the woman, her hand suddenly reaching out to grip Ballister's wrist. She tugs on him, making take a seat, too, at her left. Ambrosius stares at him with a questioning look, and he stares back with an even more questioning look. It's his mom that's acting weird, he should know what's going on.

They don't have to figure it out, though, because she explains it soon enough.

“You are not here as Ambrosius's guest, today. You're a suitor. Act accordingly or get out”

Her voice, cold and demanding, takes both of the boys by surprise. Gloria's and Ballister's relationship has never been a specially warm one, but all in all, he's always seen her as a stressed out woman who doesn't really care about anything but her work and her son. Everytime they've been together she's drunk, hurt, on duty, or in a weird combination of those options. She's never been openly hostile or mean to him, so he's left in unexplored grounds when her blue eyes are suddenly fixed on his face, pinning him to his seat and making his head spin with with dread and doubts.

“Mom, there's no need to-”

Ambrosius tries, he really tries, to reason with her. Gloria, who's whole body moves weirdly and limply, suddenly hits the table with her fist closed, and Ambrosius straightens up in his seat, body reacting before his mind does so, instincts ingrained on him urging him to obey and comply to orders, even the unspoken ones.

Ballister knows the look on Gloria's eyes — he's seen it before, only, not on her face — she's not only intoxicated, not merely wounded. She's full of regret, of fury, of pure and unfiltered anger. As soon as that knowledge hits him, he's filled with a strange sense of security, of comfort. She's mad and she's irrational, but he knows the reason of those feelings. She's merely a mother defending her child, a knight defending her loved ones.

Ballister is trying to do the same, and it's refreshing to see his own feelings of confusion and hatred mirrored into Gloria's face. He knows what her anger means, because his blood burns with the same heat, the same intensity.

“I'm sorry, Captain Gloria” he says, slowly and clearly. The nerves he felt all the way here disappear, leaving only his determination, his devotion. Gloria isn't against him. She's against anything that might hurt jer son, and that's a feeling Ballister not only understands, but shares, “It was awfully inadequate of me to act that way. I beg your forgiveness”

She smiles, woobly and unsteadily, at him. She's pleased with his words, clearly. He tries to remember the hours and hours of ranting that Ambrosius blessed his ears with every so often, complaining about stupid protocol lessons that his mother made him take.

“Very well” she nods at him, and he imitates the gesture. He quickly nods at Ambrosius, too, to try and reassure him. This will be okay. It has to.

Ambrosius's shoulders relax just the slightest bit at that, but he smiles, and talks again,

“I'm incredibly hungry, Mum. Why don't we eat before we discuss this, yeah?”

It's always surprising to Ballister, really, how adaptable Ambrosius is. One minute, he's a big dramatic performer for the Queen. The next, he's merely a child with a pleading voice, asking— no, begging, for some peaceful seconds with his mom.

“Yes, the food. Let's eat and talk business, shall we? That's not really an appropriate thing to do, I suppose, but I can make an exception, seeing as how you've had the guts to ask for my son's hand in marriage, cadet”

She claps, and servants lift the coverings. Some of their faces are recognizable to Ballister. Did they live in the same orphanage? Were they friends, and his mind has forgotten?

This is whst he hates about the Goldenloin mansion. This is what he hates about every single noble event ever. He simply resings himself to his fate, a rejected freak to the nobles and a traitor to the commoners. He tries to keep his eyes on the table, tries not to to think about how some of the people working for Ambrosius, serving him, probably have never even tried the kind of feast he's about to have.

Ballister's never been a religious person, but he prays for forgiveness, even if it's merely for a second. He prays for forgiveness, even if it's undeserved.

The steak in front of him suddenly loses its appeal. The nerves are back, just like that. He hates himself for that, for being so brave a second and then a complete coward in the other.

They simply eat, for some moments. Gloria sips her glass of red wine every so often, and both of the boys chew methodically on their steaks. Food is fuel, Ballister tries to remind himself, tasting guilt and shame in every bite, feeling as if he's chewing his own heart; food is fuel, and he needs fuel for this conversation.

That doesn't make the bitterness of the whole situation go away.

“You said you have a plan” accuses Gloria, after washing down a bit of her salad with wine, “but I'm yet to hear anything about it”

Ballister's first instinct is to roll his eyes, tell her that it's her who's been acting all weird and cranky, but he knows better than to go against an older knight, even if she's drunk and injured. She's also his mother-in-law, and he refuses to feed into the stereotype of in laws not getting along.

“The food just distracted us, mom, that's all. It's really good”

Gloria's face softens a bit, and she offers her son a quick sound of agreement.

“Still. I need to know what you two rascals are up to, don't I?”

As if she didn't just violently smash the table, she laughs a bit at her joke, muttering something about teenagers under her breath.

They do their best to explain themselves without setting her off again, Ambrosius providing Ballister with facial expressions that let him know when to shut up and when to keep going. At the end of it, their food is almost gone, Ballister's guilt is almost forgotten, and Gloria looks almost convinced.

"And what do you win, cadet?"

She looks feral, like a lion ready to chew down on it's prey. Ballister refuses to lose against her, not today.

"I get to see my boyfriend be happy. What else could I possibly want?"

Some of the servants seem too moved by his answer to hide their coos, but he doesn't dare look their way, too scared to find out that perhaps that truly are the kids that grew up on his same street, with his same dreams. He keeps his eyes fixed on Gloria's, blue and brown crashing and figthing.

"Sounds like bullshit to me. No one would do all that just for someone else's happiness or whatever"

She shakes her head in disagreement, and Ballister wants to scream at her, tell her that she doesn't know shit about them, that he would walk barefoot into a burning building if it meant saving Ambrosius. He doesn't.

"I don't need anything else" he says, instead, "I only want to make sure that my boyfriend has a choice and-"

"Okay, say you win" interrupts Gloria, looking bemused with him. He hates the way she stares him down like a mere child, "and the interviewer; because this will be televised, that's a no brainer, asks what do you want. What are you going to tell the kingdom?"

He doesn't even hesitate, before answering:

"I would ask for just enough money to pay back my debth with the house of Elpis and the Goldenloin house. Then, for Ambrosius's political allies to be a matter only he can have the final say on. Not you, or me, or anyone else"

She looks at him some more, as if trying to be intimidating. He doesn't budge.

"That is an honest answer" she finally says, nodding, "That's more believable. That, I can accept. I think"

She makes a show of considering things, tapping her index finger to her chin. They keep quiet, waiting for her verdict.

“It's a decent attempt” she concedes, after some seconds of humming to herself. "It's even a good idea"

They both sigh, relieved. She clicks her tongue, and shakes her head, again, like some sort of wet dog, and they feel not so relieved, now.

“But you two are openly... close to one another, right? Everyone knows. Can't do anything if you win and people question us, can we? About your little, well, romance, and all that”

Gloria never really acknowledges the fact that her son is dating Ballister, even if he did come out and confess the secret to her half a year ago, cracking under the pressure of a specially though new years party. It gives Ambrosius some sort of dumb hope, that perhaps his mom might actually start taking his own free will into account and validating his love for Ballister. Even if she always says that that's something she already does.

“We're still trying to figure out what to do with that, Mum”

She laughs some more, making him feel stupid. Ballister looks as confused as he feels when she merely giggles at their faces, gulping down the rest of her drink. A servant refills it immediately.

“You kids are so slow, nowadays” she flaps her hand, rolling her eyes, “a mere fight will be enough. In a public space, obviously. Be nasty about it. My friends and I used to do it when we wanted to get a rise out of our parents. Neat trick”

And, with that piece of advice, she keeps on drinking.

.

Ambrosius excuses them both out of the table when they're done, leaving Captain Gloria to drunkenly mumble nonsense to herself.

The halls of the mansion are spacious and lonely, so they're able to walk together, holding hands, without a care in the world. Ambrosius has grown up here, was raised here. He knows and trusts the staff to keep a couple of secrets.

“She seems… a bit agitated” Ballister says, softly. Gloria has been a sore spot for their conversations ever since the start of their friendship, and they mostly try to avoid talking about her. But if feels wrong, to be in her house and pretend she doesn't exist.

“She's got a dislocated hip” Ambrosius answers, voice impregnated with pity, “Must hurt a lot. She was distracted with this whole thing and a thief managed to hit her real hard…”

He stares at the floor, but they keep on walking to Ambrosius's bedroom. After lunch, Gloria has practically demanded for them to stay until dinner, arguing that they have already lost most of the day, anyways. Neither one of them dared go against her word.

“I'm happy she's mad. At least I'm not the only one worried about your ass”

“I can assure you, Ballister, your thoughts about my ass are really, really different from her thoughts about it. At least I hope so”

Hip bumping his boyfriend for being an idiot, Ballister blushes a bit. Ambrosius does have a nice body.

“Don't be weird about this, Amber. We're literally talking about you mom”

“No, you are talking about her. I'm talking about people's thoughts on my ass. That's a whole different conversation”

“Not a specially interesting one, I'm sure. Much like your very flat ass”

Ambrosius gasps, offended, just as they reach the doors of his bedroom. He makes a show of dramatically slamming the door, just to open it back again mere seconds later, sticking out his tongue at Ballister before allowing him to come in.

“Keep this treatment up, and I'm actually marrying Todd” he threatens, and Ballister half heartedly pushes him.

“Okay, your ass is not flat. Just… sort of concave. Happy?”

“Not so much. But, alas, I'm not really dating a poet, am I? My heart has chosen you, even with your horrible mistreatments towards my figure”

They laugh at the stupidity of the situation, as if guilt isn't eating Ballister alive, as if Ambrosius isn't worried to death for his mom, as if the world isn't collapsing and burning around them.

They take of their shoes, and get into bed, cuddling with each other almost immediately, used to it after years and years of practice. Ballister rests his cheek on Ambrosius's chest, and they hold hands, tangling their legs. This is incredibly inappropriate to do on Ambrosius's house, with his mom meter away, but everything around them feels so wrong right now that this is the closest they can get to normal.

The events of the last few hours settle in. Panic comes back, alongside with every other emotion that they have been trying to run away from. It's scary, to admit that perhaps they could fail. They could be wrong. Ambrosius understands why his mom seems to be in denial all of the time; it's easier to pretend that something is not happening than to deal with the fact that it is.

The room is quiet. They're just teens.

“I'm nervous”

“Me, too. I'm terrified”

“Yeah. Me, too”

And it's just them, their fears and their breaths, for a second. There's nothing else but them. But reality is always there, waiting, and it comes with paperwork and legalities and many, many other things. It's them against the world, even if they would really, really like to just make peace with everyone and sleep until winter.

To avoid silence — because it comes with too many questions, too many memories, too many reminders — Ballister decides to keep on with their plan, furthering it, and asks, “So, now, we fake fight?”

“I think it's the best choice we have, right? Mom said so”

Ambrosius, always eager to follow Gloria's word, seems to perk up. Ballister feels slightly annoyed, but at least his boyfriend looks a little less like a kicked kitten.

“And what are we figthing about, uh?”

This is scary, too. Yeah, a fake figth. That's something they should be able to manage. But there's some issues, here and there, and perhaps they're just waiting for a chance to come out. This could be that chance. And there's no way they're going to actually live apart from each other, but they have to, right? So it's believable.

“What about something stupid? Like, I don't know, jazz?”

“Ambrosius, you know very well how I feel about-”

To stop his boyfriend from going on yet another campaign of hate against freestyle jazz, Ambrosius gives him a quick kiss on the hair, successfully making him shut up.

“Kay, not jazz. What, then?”

“Let's fight about this. I'll be jealous, you'll scream at me for being jealous, and we'll break up. Call me a selfish insecure asshole, or something”

Ambrosius immediately pants like a wounded animal, frowning. He makes Ballister get up slightly, to make sure he can see his eyes. They're full of love. Pure, solid, love.

“I don't ever want to hurt you, Bal”

Ballister chokes on air, because this isn't fair. Ambrosius is so pretty, resting on the mattress, looking up at him. No one else but him should ever get to see him like this. Specially not some imbecile who thinks figthing for him is enough to get married.

“It's just going to be a play-pretend situation, Amber. I don't wanna hurt you, either, but it's going to be just a couple of days. Then, we're back to normal”

Ambrosius ponders on it, pouting. But he finally nods, agreeing.

“Fine. We're hating each other from now on”

.

The next time Ballister wakes up, they're back at the Institute, half naked, fused together like a pretzel. Perhaps they got a bit too sentimental when they came back, and perhaps they stole a couple of sips from Gloria's wine reserve. A make out session had been the start of their so called hate, and Gloreth, did they suck at this.

“Ambrosius. Ambrosius, wake up. Ambrosius, fucking move”

With a bit more of force than needed, he shakes his boyfriend, trying to get him to open up his eyes. Ambrosius attempts to do so and also get up, miscalculating, and falling face first to the floor.

Shit.

Hurrying up to help him, Ballister trips, too. The wine is still in their systems, apparently, and it makes them laugh like idiots as soon as their gazes cross.

“Shit. We're supposed to be figthing, Amber”

“I'm pretty sure last night counts as a form of combat. Sword figths, one may call it”

“Shut the fuck up, honestly. Just, for once, shut up”

“Only if you kiss me, babe"

Okay, maybe they aren't suited for a divorce yet. Ballister got up, grunting, and Ambrosius followed suit, if only because the floor is way too cold to be laying on it with nothing but a boxer and shorts on. He smiled at the wall when he managed to stand up on his own two feet, still dizzy.

“What now, Bal?”

Ballister struggled to put his shirt back on, trying to remember where the fuck his shoes where. It was early, still. If he hurried up, he could sneak out without anyone seeing him.

“Dont ask me. This whole thing was your plan. Think, Ambrosius; for the first time in your life, think”

Ambrosius threw the nearest object at his ungrateful boyfriend, and rolled his eyes when the comb impacted against the desk. Turns out his aim gets affected by alcohol. Who could've thought?

“What was that for?!” Hisses Ballister, barely managing to get done with his clothes. Ambrosius's loopy smile only grew bigger at the sight, and he looked so much like his mom, for a second. Just a second.

“We're figthing, love. I think this is how figths are supposed to go, right?”

And he threw a hair cream bottle, that impacted on the wall.

Ballister opened up the door, just in time for the notebook Ambrosius threw to go flying through it. Some cadets were already out, curious about the noise. Ambrosius, drunk and ad impulsive as his mother, grinned with pleasure. Yes, a public fight, indeed.

“And get out!” he screamed, remembering the way his mother looked at him yesterday, feeling the tears burning on the very corners of his eyes, hating her stare and wishing she looked at him more often “I don't want to talk to you ever again, you hear me?!”

A pillow was thrown. Ballister fought down the urge to burst out laughing. This felt so much like a cheap soap opera.

“It's not my fault you're a coward!” He screamed back, wine helping him come up with the words, “Go and die for all I care, Golden Boy! Hang yourself from a fucking tower, I don't give a shit!”

More and more people came in to witness the situation. Had he been sober, Ballister probably would've stopped. He wasn't, though.

“You're so jealous!” Screeched Ambrosius, like he meant it, “You're just jealous of my suitors being way better than you, you prick!”

Ballister kneeled down, picked up the fallen pillow, and threw it right back at it's owner. Ambrosius barely contained his cackles.

“I'll enter the fucking tournament just so I can disown you, Ambrosius! You don't deserve all that money!”

They were losing the plot a bit, but it didn't really matter. A figth is a figth, no matter the reasons.

“Do whatever you want, Ballister! You're never winning, never !”

Next, a sweater came in, balled up, flying. This one actually hit Ballister on the eye, and he had to take a step back, surprised. Ouch.

“We'll see about that, you idiot!”

With a final heated stare, Ballister turned around, bitting down his tongue to dissimulate the giggles.

.

As soon as he got into his room and locked his door, Ballister opened up his cellphone, already missing his boyfriend's arms. He found a couple of drunken voicemails Ambrosius had already sent his way, and a couple of pictures that matched the vibe of their last night.

Smiling, he got into his own bed, hiding under the sheets. Perhaps intense figths weren't such a bad idea for their relationship, after all.

[kkumawrites]

cw. none wc. 742

Lunch, to Wonwoo’s pleasant surprise, had been rather nice. As usual, he didn’t talk very much, instead letting Mingyu lead the conversation with you as he listened to both of you ramble on about nothing in particular. Weirdly he had found himself glancing over towards you every so often, watching the animated way you talked. Not that he would ever admit that, he hated how often he caught himself staring a little too long at you. 

You, on the other hand, had just finished lunch, courtesy of Mingyu who provided bentos. You were itching to take a look at the garden, eyes wandering over to the entrance. Both boys could tell you wanted to go have a look. 

“Hey, is it alright with you if I go check out the garden? I promise I won’t be long,” you ask, even though you’re already halfway out of your seat. Mingyu was about to stand up as well but Wonwoo was quicker than him, pulling the taller male back down into his chair. 

“Yeah, it’s no problem. We’ll just hang out here,” He said in his typical deep, even tone. Mingyu has a pout on his face but you don’t even notice, zooming away once you’ve gotten permission. Once you’re out of sight Wonwoo doesn’t waste another moment as he moves and starts to dig through your bag. 

“...Are you sure this is a good idea hyung?” Mingyu asks nervously, fiddling with his fingers as his eyes nervously dart around in case you suddenly popped up again out of nowhere. 

“It’ll be fine,” He says even though he’s not 100% sure about that. Before he can doubt himself any longer he opens your bag and is instantly confused. You’ve got a notebook and a little pencil case, typical for a college student. Yet, you’ve also got about 10 different bottles, all of various sizes, shapes and different colors. “What are these?” Wonwoo wonders, picking up one that’s a light shade of pink in a small vial. 

“I’ve seen her drink a few of these. Like that time when she was stressed about a pop-quiz, she downed one of these and looked energized. Maybe they’re like vitamins or something?”

“Here, drink it then,” The elder puts the pink drink into Mingyu’s hand.

“WHAT” 

“I’m sure it’s fine, like you said you’ve seen her drink one before,” Wonwoo shrugs, urging him to drink it.

“But why me…” He whines but Wonwoo doesn’t give in, continuing to push the strange concoction into his hands.

“To prove to you something is weird with her. Just drink it,” 

Mingyu sighs, looking down at the tiny bottle of an unnatural pink color. He grimaces before undoing the cork and sliding it down his throat. The two stand there for a minute, just staring at each other. 

“It didn’t really taste like anything, vaguely sweet” 

“Do you…feel different?”

“Not really,”

Before either of them can say anything else you come skipping back from the garden, quite happy. 

“WOW, it’s so pretty! You said there’s a gardening club? I should sign up,” You mention as you come back to the two boys who are suddenly frozen with your arrival. You blink, confused at why they’re just staring at you until you notice the bottle that’s clearly empty in Mingyu’s hand. Suddenly you’re pale as a sheet, eyes opening wide. You know the exact potion that was supposed to be inside the glass. 

“You didn’t drink that did you? Did you???” Your question is answered when Mingyu pushes Wonwoo aside, getting on his knees and taking your hands in his.

“YN! Have I ever told you that you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen? Please, please let me take you on a date” He’s looking up at you with glassy eyes, a slight pink haze over them tells you he’s under the potions effect. You groan, trying to pry your fingers out of his grasp but he’s too strong as he continues to beg. 

“What the hell is going on” Wonwoo asks and as he listens to Mingyu compliment you non-stop, watching as you attempt to pry your fingers from his grasp; he realizes perhaps the drink DID do something to Mingyu. He marches up to you, slightly towering over you with a slight glare upon his face. You easily cower under the tall boy, knowing you were definitely not going to get out of this one. 

“Ok, fess up. What are you?”

Charmed! Part Fifteen: the problem with potions ✩ previous | next ✩

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[joels6string]

More Than My Father's Son

Joel Miller x f!OC

Chapter 7 - Hazy Whiskey Nights

Summary: What you thought would be a night to commiserate the 21st Outbreak Day anniversary at Tommy and Maria's has a much more heartbreaking origin.

Rating: E

Word Count: 6k

Content: NSFW, high levels of violence normal to the TLOU world, angst, fluff, miscommunication trope (it’s Joel Miller…), slow burn, Joel’s traumatic childhood, getting together, smut, canon divergence after SLC, fix it fic

How did you help someone manage their grief when it was something you’d never once allowed yourself to feel?

Chapter 6 || Series Masterlist

“Tommy! Cover me!”

“Tommy…”

As gunshots began to echo, you jolted up with a shriek, your eyes immediately jerking over in search of the line of defense between you and the door but finding no one. You’d been trying to remember the events of that day for two weeks now, but still, the blanks stayed blackened and shrouded, but Joel’s face covered in blood at your front door was always the last place you landed. The moonlight breaking in through the slits in your curtains illuminated the old clock hanging on the wall, the familiar sight of 4 AM greeting you as you sighed into the empty, lonely space. That was all the sleep you'd be getting tonight, sweat dripping down your temple and soaking the thin tank top you’d worn to bed despite the autumn chill that had settled over Jackson.

The gardens welcomed you at five after a hasty breakfast, an early start meant more could be done before your afternoon arrangements. While your proficiency with a bow was unmatched, it turned out your thumb might be as green as it was steady. Nothing had died under your care yet and your fingers itched to sink into the dirt more than they did to pull at a bowstring, the gentle needs of the crops requiring a softer touch that forced a more conscious effort as your hands adjusted to their new task. 

Benevolence was something you thought your digits would have long forgotten. They’d nimbly and efficiently killed with guns, knives, bows, and shards of glass, slitting the throats of enemies and prey alike, their very existence a testament to your survival. But here in the plush soils and humid sanctuaries, it was all fond brushes and attentive inspections, the dewy green leaves not too distant a sensation beneath your fingertips from thin, sweat-soaked skin thudding with a rapid pulse. 

“You’re up early,” a voice sounded from behind you, prompting you to quickly turn and whirl to find its source.

“Maria…” you sighed, not missing the fact your hand was now at the empty back waistband of your jeans, “So are you.”

“Well, I was curious who was getting here early and doing half the work before the rest of the team even shows up. I should have known.”

“Sorry…Killing time.”

“Still not sleeping?”

“Better than I was.”

There was no way she could fight that, and surrender settled on her face in a knowing smirk.

“Better than nothing,” she laughed, your growing nerves receding at her ease, “leave something for the rest of them to do.”

“Sure,” you agreed, “Ellie and I are going to the inn this afternoon anyway.”

“You know, I’d offer to send you home if I thought there was any chance you’d actually go.”

“I’m stuck in my ways, what can I say?”

“Hopefully not too stuck.”

When your brow furrowed she took her leave, the wind rattling against the plastic encasing you nothing compared to the fretful chaos ensuing in your mind. The invitation to the Millers’ home for dinner had already been a source of turmoil since you’d gotten the invitation, Ellie was already thrilled at the thought of you joining her and Joel that there was no feasible exit or valid excuse. However, despite her excitement over the event in the days leading up, she was oddly quiet today when she arrived and took her usual place beside you. 

At first, you allowed her the space she was silently requesting, but when the sun hit its highest peak and began to dip into the west and you were cleaning your hands in the icy tap, your concern got the best of you.

“What’s up today?” you asked nonchalantly, “You’re not usually quiet.”

“Oh…” she mused, half dazed and distant, “Just tired.”

“That makes two of us. You ready?”

The heavy sigh that followed wasn’t one of disdain, you knew that even if she tried to mask it as such. Ellie had been over to help the surviving women and still packed into the inn with you, her discomfort in the setting palpable in each visit. Joel, Tommy, and other townspeople had been out diligently searching and coming up empty day after day, every evening the hope fading from their eyes as Joel and Tommy reported back to update them alone. 

“You don’t have to come,” you reminded her, “There’s no shame in it.”

“I do have to come!” she argued, her voice growing louder and more agitated, “That’s…what the fucking world is like. I can’t be hidden forever.”

Hidden. You knew Ellie was frustrated Joel had said no patrols until she was older, a ruling you found entirely fair, but hidden wasn’t entirely the word you’d have used. Not much had been disclosed about Joel and Ellie’s journey prior to them finding you, all you knew was that they’d traveled all the way from Boston, lost a few people along the way, and were headed to find Joel’s brother in Jackson. When they’d picked you up in Utah you’d teased Joel once you’d gotten comfortable about just how off the track he’d been if that had been his destination, but as time wore on you’d become almost certain there was more to their story and it just wasn’t for you to know, and you respected that. 

“Don’t forget, Star Wars tomorrow,” she reminded you, her voice leveled and a sad smile settled onto her freckled face, “You promised.”

“I’ll be there,” you promised, slinging your arm around her shoulders as you took off down the road.

As usual, the survivors were huddled in the lobby as they awaited the return of that day’s search team. Thus far, the only victory had been reuniting Simon’s wife with him and James, a celebration you’d missed after the ordeal at the slaver camp. Indy had assured you of his gratitude and tears of joy and relief from that day, and he’d made a point to stop you at the market earlier this week to let you know himself. All it had done was remind you of all that had transpired there and just how little you remembered.

Lunch was doled out and reassuring words were shared, Ellie following you like a shadow keen to stay in the dark but forcing itself to stretch along the walls in the sunlight pouring in from the windows. She was silent, watching attentively as you put on the mask required of you, something you’d gotten better at since arriving in Jackson. It was a necessary skill. Maria was mingling, Tommy, Joel, and Indy were all part of today’s crew and you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t opted to come here today based only on that. 

It hadn’t even been a week since the fall dance and yet it felt like a lifetime. Joel had been scarce, more so than usual this week, only popping around town when necessary, and his absence even in just the passing moments weighed heavily on your spirits. But here he couldn’t escape you, even for a quick wave, and regardless tonight you’d be at Tommy and Maria’s, although you couldn’t help but wonder why this day was chosen.

Outbreak day. It had been twenty-one years now since the world had ended and been replaced by this boundless hellscape. This year, the date didn’t bring on as many despairing emotions as years past, but still, it was hard to escape the reminder of all that was lost. 

“Hey,” the wrong Texas drawl called from behind you, a sea of hopeful eyes lifting to the source and immediately falling, “We caught a trail but it’s no good goin’ after ‘em in the dark. We’re setting out first thing tomorrow.”

An optimistic murmur erupted in the crowd as your spirits fell, your own gaze searching for a missing mop of gray hair. So focused on seeking what wasn’t there, you missed a familiar face merely inches from your own.

“Earth to Millie,” Indy called, waving her hands theatrically in front of you, “You and Ellie have been reading too many fucking space books.”

“Where’s Joel?” your lack of pleasantries causing her to scoff knowingly. 

“He went straight home.”

So he wasn’t hurt or lost or dead, but still avoiding you as if his life depended on it. Had you been too forceful in dragging him out onto the dance floor? He’d invited you over afterward, but was that just for Ellie’s sake? Maybe he really did want to dance with Francine, but the thought of his arm around the waist of someone else had sent a flush to your cheeks so hot you swore you’d been sweating as your cheeks blazed red. You supposed it shouldn’t have though. Who was he to you? The man that pulled you from the empty building you’d intended to waste away in? No, he was more than that. 

“Still comin’ by tonight?” Tommy asked, pulling you from your thoughts, “I know Joel’ll appreciate it.”

Well, hearing that wasn’t going to help any of the confused feelings you’d been grappling with.

“Yeah,” you assured, “Six, right?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Do I need to bring anything?”

“No, I think Maria’s got it covered. She likes to entertain.”

���I can’t tell if that’s sarcasm or not.”

“Guess you’ll find out.”

Tommy walked off with a laugh and a gentle squeeze of your shoulder, his hair now just long enough to tie back into a little ponytail you knew Joel would be teasing him about if he wasn’t already. You bid Ellie a “see you soon” as you left, needing a shower to make yourself presentable for the first dinner party you’d been to since your teenage years, your options for clothes just as scarce as the jar of green buds Eugene had left with you last week after your episode. Oddly enough, it had been helping, and now you’d have to admit that to Eugene after brushing off his guarantee that it could take your troubles away, just for a little while.

Rolling the weed into the little squares of paper he’d provided returned like muscle memory from college, the familiar skunky smell hitting your tongue and nose simultaneously as you inhaled on your back porch, blowing the smoke out slowly and watching it dissipate into the graying dusk sky. You were ready to go, but something kept you rooted in place as your mind calmed and lightened, the realization that something, somewhere had changed churning like the sea. Pinpointing it was impossible, maybe it had always been there hiding in a corner waiting for the safest moment to come out, or perhaps it had been so slow you’d barely noticed it, time sending the sands to fill your empty, weary vial when your life had been flipped upside down entirely. 

Now you were late, your head in your hands as your feet tapped rapidly on the wooden step they were glued to. The air had grown too cold for your simple flannel button-down to keep you warm, yet you still couldn’t decipher if the goosebumps erupting on your skin were from the chill or anticipation. This had all gone too far. It had reached a point you thought was lost.

It was almost seven when you were knocking on the Millers’ door, Tommy opening it up with a warm, welcoming smile, “Hey, glad you make it. C’mon in.”

Grateful for lack of criticism over your tardiness, you followed Tommy into the house, immediately spotting Joel sitting alone on the couch in silence, a tumbler of whiskey perched in his hand as he stared at the flames licking against the brick of the hearth. The despondent aura surrounding him was palpable, your brow immediately furrowing as your steps slowed, the desire to sit down beside him almost undeniable.

“It’s his birthday,” Ellie murmured as you entered the kitchen, her and Maria were putting the final touches on dinner at the counter.

His birthday. Your stomach went hurtling to the floor as your heart hammered against your ribs. His fucking birthday. You knew what happened. He’d told you about his daughter in a rare moment of vulnerability before you’d made it to those wooden gates. His face had been hazy as he spoke over the flames crackling through the summer air, the pain threaded in his voice proving that time could not heal all wounds. 

“Fuck,” you hissed under your breath, turning to hide the tears pressing at your eyes from onlookers.

This felt almost invasive. That man was still mourning, the one day a year he could be celebrating himself marred by tragedy in every conceivable way. It explained his reclusiveness over the past week, and you felt disgusted that you’d somehow made it about yourself. 

“Just…we just want to let him know that we’re here,” Tommy defended, clearly able to read the horrified look on your face, “We’re not forcin’ him into anything, we just…didn’t want him to be alone. Not this year.”

“Dinner’s ready,” Maria chimed in, bringing each of her prepared dishes to the table one room over. So Tommy hadn’t been being sarcastic.

“I’ll go get him,” you offered, needing a second alone with him, even if it was just a few short steps into another room. What you wanted that time for you weren’t sure, but your heart was screaming after decades of being mute and not one of your well-maintained walls could keep it quiet.

The room that had previously been occupied by the brooding figure of Joel was now empty, the decanter of whiskey that had been set in front of him also gone. You could see the shadow of his slumped shoulders through the front window, and you found him on the lone chair on the porch, decanter in one hand, glass in another, chin to his chest as he stared at the wooden slats.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” he snapped, not even raising his gaze to see who had come out, maybe he knew it was you already.

“I know,” you assured him softly, hopping up to perch on the banister in front of him, the stars twinkling above you brighter than they should be on a night like tonight where it all seemed bleak and hopeless.

As you stared up into the heavens, a nudge on your shin pulled you from mapping your own constellations, the decanter of whiskey still warm from his grip as you pulled it from his hands and took a swig before passing it back. Whatever discomfort you’d been feeling quickly dissipated in the comfortable blanket of silence that wrapped you both up effortlessly, the only sounds being the swish of whiskey against glass and the rhythmic tapping of your heels against the thin wooden rails behind them. 

“I never realized how much I didn’t stop to look at the stars,” you began to ramble, your head was still in the clouds, the effects of Eugene’s medicine the only thing keeping your mood afloat in Joel’s somber storm, “Like, there’s no more light pollution, you know? Look at them up there. There’s so many. Especially after living in New York, just black skies, the stars all drowned out by the skyscrapers and street lights. It’s been like this for 20 years now…”

”I see you’ve gone to the town’s doctor of choice,” he chuckled from his seat, his voice a little higher, less weighed down, and you couldn’t stop the giggles you were trying to hold back from snorting out of your nose, “It suits you. Maybe I should give it a try.”

“You’ve never had it?”

“Course I have. When I was younger you couldn’t keep me away from the stuff. But I’m old now, who knows what it’ll do.”

“Probably put you to sleep.”

“That work for you?”

“Like a charm.”

“It keep those nightmares of yours away?”

If only. The way your eyes averted was enough of an answer for him, the whiskey he offered again burning down your throat. There was nothing that could take those away, no matter how many years you stacked in front of certain choices, they never stopped. A constant reminder of poor choices made in desperation, moments that taken your open heart and sealed it behind iron bars and chains. The same courtesy you’d extended to him he granted you, no nagging questions or attempts to fix what had irreparably shattered, it was just a comfortable quiet where just knowing grief was shared was enough. 

“If you want to come by tonight,” you offered after a few minutes of silence, “just bring that guitar of yours.”

“Appreciate the offer,” he slurred, the alcohol he’d been drowning in finally taking hold, “I’ll be alright.”

With those words he stood, the decanter in his left hand as his right reached out towards you, your palm sliding against his calloused skin before you leapt down, the way his fingertips squeezed against yours before he released you sending a ripple down your spine. 

Maria, Ellie, and Tommy were seated at the table, plates empty in front of them with the dishes Maria had prepared set across the surface, their eyes all shooting up as the front door closed behind Joel. They began an animated conversation that was meant to sound as if they’d been chatting idly for the past thirty minutes but the performance fell short to your ears, and from the way Joel’s nostrils flared as he took the seat across from you and beside his brother, it hadn’t fooled him either. 

As Tommy introduced each dish, you noted the pause as he awaited his brother’s reaction after each one was named. He got none.

“Are these your favorites?” you asked Joel sweetly as his glass filled again before his plate.

“A long time ago,” he grumbled, his presence and sobriety fading quickly.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Tommy snapped, ripping the bottle from his hands as he went to drain the last of it, “Last thing you need.”

“Give me that.”

“No! Now eat somethin’ before you make yourself sick.”

A fist slamming on the table had everyone but Tommy flinching, Ellie’s face falling as Joel stalked off, the house rattling as he slammed the door behind him. 

“You should eat,” you reassured her, “We’ll take him a plate back.”

“Well, that went better than expected,” Tommy announced after a heavy sigh, “Everyone eat up. No reason to let it go to waste.”

Courtesy won out over the unsettled lurching in your stomach, the small servings of everything you’d put on your plate being finished in appreciation of the invitation. Ellie seemingly had the same intention, the both of you feeling almost out of place without Joel’s ever-reassuring presence despite the relationship you’d formed with the rest of his family. Both you and Ellie helped with clean-up, making the task quick and the evening’s failed celebration come to a relieving end. 

When you hugged Ellie good night outside the door of her converted garage, you couldn’t help but drift your gaze to those two plastic chairs on the porch. They were barely visible, the porch light that was usually lit notably black, the usual occupant of the chair on your left absent. The notes that usually plucked through the air floated around you like ghosts, every window in the large 2-story home dark. All you could hope was that he was enjoying halcyon whiskey dreams. 

The shower called to you as soon as you’d passed the threshold of your house, your book nook as Ellie affectionately had named it requesting your attention after you washed the day away. Your hair soaked through the thin black tank top you threw on, the kettle whistling as you prepped a satchel of chamomile tea you’d packed up just this morning from the strings of drying herbs hanging from the rafters on the gardens.

You swore you heard the softest raps on your door, noting the late hour and shaking it off, but when they sounded again just slightly louder as you set your mug onto the small book-covered end table, you spotted the figure lingering on your door through the front window. Concern washed away whatever qualms you had about your attire, the flushed face of Joel greeted you like a melancholic portrait. 

“You brought the guitar,” you noted contentedly, standing aside and allowing him space to enter, “What’s in the bag?”

“Supplies,” he grunted, his feet shuffling more than stepping.

“We going somewhere I don’t know about?”

“No. It’s…it don’t matter. It’s nothin’.”

“Lemme see.”

His reflexes were too waterlogged to stop you from snatching the satchel from his arms, your eyes finding flour, sugar, cinnamon sticks, and a large cube of butter. 

“You want to bake?” you asked, nose wrinkling in delighted confusion. 

“Yeah...” he confessed, his hand nervously shooting back to scratch at the back of his head.

“Okay.”

If he wanted to bake, then you’d bake. You’d be horrible at it because it wasn’t something you ever got right even before you went twenty years without an oven, but as long as you didn’t burn your house down you’d consider it a win. Questions ran rampant through your mind as you watched him intently, even in his inebriated state each measurement was practically scientific. Flour, sugar, cinnamon, and rising agents you weren’t even sure would work all meticulously went into separate bowls, his quiet requests for help finding certain utensils as heart wrenching as they were endearing. 

“When Sarah was real young,” he began, the sound of his daughter’s name took you aback, all your focus going to a story you knew he would be struggling to tell. His hands were gripping the counter, knuckles white, and while his face was turned toward the counter you could see the lines around his eyes were more pronounced, “I’d make these for…for breakfast on hers and mine. Up at four to get it done in time…I’d forgotten the last few years…”

How did you help someone manage their grief when it was something you’d never once allowed yourself to feel? You knew silence wasn’t the answer, despite being frozen in it, and with cautious steps and a shaking hand, you slid your palm across his upper back, gripping his upper arm as you rest your chin atop his shoulder. You expected him to shove you off, but instead he exhaled deeply as if he’d been holding his breath. The sheer size difference had this feeling inadequate, your arm barely taking up space across his broad shoulders, but he seemed content enough. It was the thought that counted, right?

“Okay,” he mumbled, standing upright once again to finish his task, and you pulled your embrace away quickly, still afraid you’d overstepped a boundary that you were never meant to cross. 

“Shit,” he sighed as you heard the brittle cracking of an egg smashing on the floor, his head whipping around in search of a towel and yanking it free off the oven handle. 

As he dropped to his knees, you followed, your noses inches apart as you laid your fingers over his, pulling the rag free, “I got it.”

Proximity to him wasn’t something you weren’t accustomed to, you’d spent weeks clinging to his back through forests and over rivers, but it was never face to face. You noticed his sunspots and scars, all the little fine lines nicked all across his face from years of knife fights and jumping through shattered glass, thorns, and dilapidated buildings. The prominent indentation spread across his crooked nose was deep, the dark color a stark contrast to the light hazel hue of his eyes that was locked with the green of your own. His beard had grayed more since your arrival months ago, his cheeks had filled in, and the sadness in his eyes gave a him a vulnerability that made him look far younger than his difficult 53 years

You cleared your throat as you broke the staring contest you’d been unaware you’d entered, turning to work on mopping up the egg yolk splattered across your floor. The oven blared as it hit the required temperature as you rose, tossing the rag into the trash behind you before the newest ailment that had been plaguing you kicked into gear. A slow ooze from your nose dropped onto the floor, Joel snapped his attention up to you. The back of your hand was pressed against your face, blood already smearing along your skin as he shot up, frantically digging through your kitchen drawers in search of a clean towel. 

“I’m fine,” you groaned, “it’s the weather…”

The taste of copper sat wet on your lips, your cheeks burning in embarrassment as you ran to the sink, rinsing your hands as blood continued to roll down your face. Thick fingers tipped your chin back as you turned straight into a solid chest before pressing a towel beneath your leaking nostrils as his other hand cradled the back of your head, the ceiling coming into view as you went limp in his hold. It was silent, the butterflies in your stomach evolving into vulturous hawks as his fingers scratched soothing against your scalp, your unruly waves catching and tugging enough to keep you from letting yourself drift off to a forbidden sanctuary. 

After what felt like an hour but the clock proved as five minutes, he pulled the pressure away, inspecting for new blood and finding now, wetting the clean edges of the blood-soaked rag in his hands and wiping your face clean. You wanted to stop him, you could handle this, but you didn’t. The water was freezing against your heated skin, his swipes tender and his eyes focused on cleaning the last evidence of your ailment clean. Your nails dug into the skin of your palm as you balled your fists while you mentally thanked yourself for not drinking as much as you’d wanted to, and you considered that the amount he’d allowed himself to have was probably fueling his own motions. 

“I need to change,” you blurted out bluntly, your body searing hot as you pushed passed him and ran up the stairs, slamming your bedroom door behind you.

Squashing the hopes that he’d follow was harder than you’d hoped, your fingers rolling the last of your stash into a thin little cone and sticking it into the pocket of the flannel you donned over the thin tank top you pulled from the drawer. It had to be the exhaustion or the comedown from your first high, or maybe it was the heavy emotional fog that had surrounded him throughout the night, obscuring your view of reality as you’d inspected his frown lines and read the sadness in his eyes as if it was a code written only for you to decipher. He’d ended up here. Yes, you’d offered, but he’d refused. And yet hours after his abrupt departure from Tommy and Maria’s, he’d been on your doorstep, guitar in hand, looking every bit sullen and in need of a place to softly land. And that was here.

“You alright?” his voice traveled up the stairs, a hint of nervousness drifting along with it. You’d been too long.

The smell of cinnamon was strong as you hit the first floor, Joel hunched over the stove as he prepped another tray of dough to go into the oven. The sight had your breath hitching, his fingers looking too large for such a delicate task yet he moved as if he’d mastered it years ago, his brow furrowed in concentration as he plopped each ball onto the metal, his thumb dipping between his lips with a soft smack after he’d placed the last one.

“Hey,” he greeted when he spotted you leaning against the doorframe, “C’mere.”

Through your brazen staring, you’d failed to notice he’d started a pot of boiling water, the steam rising from the bubbling liquid as he flicked the burner off, the plaid shirt that had just been stretched across his broad shoulders surrounding your head as he stood behind you in a gray flannel that hugged every one of his dips and curves, the three buttons beginning at the collar undone to reveal a peak of the dark hair that covered his chest. 

“Head down,” he instructed, the air warm and wet as he tented his shirt around your head, “Breathe that in a bit, it’ll help your nose.”

As you took over the task of holding his flannel that smelled like sawdust and cinnamon, you heard him working around the kitchen. The faucet going off, the clattering of spoons and bowls in the basin of the sink, heavy boot steps, and muttered reminders, it was the first time in your life you’d shared a space with someone like this, domestically, effortlessly. When the timer blared you leapt back in shock, his hands covered in soap as he turned from the sink to steady you first before grabbing one of the old oven mitts Maria had given you to pull out the first batch of snickerdoodle cookies, the other going right in as you watched on in awe yet again.

“Do you want a drink?” you asked, realizing that you had to offer since he’d arrived.

“Think I’ve had enough,” he refused with a lopsided smirk, resetting the timer to twelve minutes, “Unless you’ve got some coffee.”

“I gave that to you.”

“Yeah, that’s gone.”

With a knowing nod you grabbed your last clean towel and joined him at the sink, drying the dishes as he passed them your way and putting them away, the task bringing you to the beep of the final timer. He’d already placed the first dozen on a plate, and after setting the other tray on the stovetop he grabbed the dish in one hand, his guitar in the other, and gestured towards your back door.

“Comin’?” he asked, and without a second thought, you nodded, opening the door up to allow him out first before following.

Chairs were something you hadn’t gotten yet, but he was perfectly content on the top side, his long legs bringing his feet to rest two steps down. You sat facing him, your legs stretching out behind his back to leave enough room for the neck of his guitar, the warm, buttery cookies he made better than you expected as you took your first bite. He laughed quietly as you hummed in approval, shooting you a look that screamed ‘told you so,’ his eyebrows raised mischievously as he pulled the instrument into place.

“Play something for me, Billy Joel,” you crooned, tapping his lower back with your foot, your eyes unable to stay away from the galaxies above.

“Don’t he play piano?” Joel replied with a chuckle, and you shrugged, the familiar notes of the song he always played floating out into the night.

“What was her favorite?” you took a chance in asking, his fingers stopping and resting against the strings.

“Song?” he asked after a pause, the response to your prying gentler than you expected.

“Yeah.”

It was a melody you vaguely remembered, but you could tell he was flubbing some of the notes when his face twisted in frustration and you sat and listened, noting the slowing of his motions and the way his lower lip began to pout out. You hoped it was cathartic, healing, and not something sending him further into the abyss of mourning he’d been caught in. 

“It was from some boy band,” he explained as the song came to an end, “I hated ‘em. Fought tooth and nail when she wanted to put it on in the truck. I’d do anything to find that CD now.”

“We’ll find it,” you assured, the flicking of your lighter piquing his attention as you settled the last joint between your lips and took a drag.

“Lemme try that.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve done worse. Just don’t tell anyone.”

With a laugh you leaned forward, offering the roll to him and expecting him to pull it from your fingers, but instead, he just leaned over, pursing his lips around the end close enough to have them brushing against your skin as he pulled the smoke into his lungs and then promptly pulled away choking. There was no helping your eruption of giggles and snorts as he wheezed and heaved, his head shaking in disgust and embarrassment alike. 

“Do not tell,” he stammered, “a god damn soul.”

“I’ll do my best,” you teased, standing so he’d follow you inside as he shot you a glare, “I promise,” you finally conceded, hands raised in surrender, “Cross my heart hope to die,” you finished, holding your pinky out as you grinned up at him.

“Cute.”

Another snort rumbled from your chest as he rolled his eyes, ignoring your gesture of good faith and retreating to your couch, plopping down on the middle cushion and resting his head back, his eyes drifting closed. You plopped down beside him, knees tucked to your chest, grabbing your TV and DVD player remotes off the small table set in front of you, turning on whatever series you’d been watching. Thankfully, it was The Office yet again, and you were happy it was something he’d at least moderately enjoy, but your concerns about the TV went out the window as his arm looped around your legs and pulled them straight over his lap, his eyes not even bothering to open as he rest forearms almost as thick as your calves over your knees.

Within minutes he was asleep, his deep, easy breathing a sound you’d come to crave as you lay in bed alone in your room. His mouth was slightly open, his face relaxed and the tension from the day melted away. At least you’d been right, it did put him right to sleep. The urge to drift off here in the safety of the presence you longed for was strong enough to have you fighting your eyes to stay open as you debated, his arms still heavy over the top of you. He looked so at peace; would jostling him rob him of the serenity he’d found here? 

It felt wrong to allow him to wake up tangled in you, he was still slightly drunk and now under the effects of Eugene’s hybrid blend, what if tomorrow he woke up mortified with your body so close to his? Carefully, you slipped free of his hold, gently laying him down on the single couch pillow you’d managed to clean well enough to use, the tattered blanket he’d let you keep from your time on the road barely enough to cover him as you draped it over his still-unmoving body. Well, he was at least out cold.

Your own bed felt colder, the room too silent as you tried to forget the source of comfort just one floor below you now instead of blocks away, the knowledge that at least he was safe here in your living room calming enough to let you drift into a light sleep.

The sun was barely up when you woke, gray light filling your room as you woke without a scream still in last night’s clothes. It was silent, your mind reminding you that Joel was on the couch and your feet hit the cold wooden floor quickly in hopes you’d beat him to the morning. But as you turned into the room, the couch was empty, the blanket folded neatly on top of the couch, his guitar gone from where it had been perched against the side. You weren’t surprised, hell, maybe you’d dreamed it. It wasn’t unlike your brain to play cruel tricks on you.

Sighing, you made your way to the kitchen, your mouth dry and your stomach gurgling, a plastic container filled with cookies on the counter the first sight you saw before a single white sheet of notepaper from the pad by your couch caught your eye hanging on the fridge. The simple inscription scribbled in messy penmanship made your eyes roll as your lips ticked up into a knowing grin.

Thanks. -J

Chapter 8