#this is more than seven sentences again but ah well!

[lavellenchanted]

Seven Sentence Sunday

I was tagged by my meme bestie @theawkwardterrier 💛

I've been in a bit of a creative drought and haven't worked that much on any of my WIPs recently, but here is a snippet from my Edwina fic that I don't think I've posted before:

The Queen's support might have kept it from erupting into a true scandal or their being shunned, but even she couldn't prevent people from gossiping. Edwina had caught snatches, traded behind fans at that last ball of the Season. Do you think there is something wrong with her? Some sort of defect? Well, there must be, mustn't there? It seems she was a poor choice for both the Queen and Lord Bridgerton. Staring down at the bright fabrics arrayed before her, Edwina could all but hear what people would say if she started wearing them now: that she was trying to be like her sister, the one that had actually managed to snare the Viscount where the Diamond had failed.  Not that that was, precisely, what had happened, but truth rarely got a look in when there was a more scandalous interpretation to be shared. But although she had braced herself for sidelong glances and curious, pitying smiles, she could not help wondering whether, if she chose these colours, the whispers would be right. Maybe she would just be trying to be a pale imitation of Kate.

I'm tagging @minim236, @wheremermaidsdwell, @emilykaldwen, @beachy--head and anyone else with a WIP they want to share!

[waynes-multiverse]

Can I put in the request for Ben to “support the fine arts?” 🤣

A/N: Hahaha you may! Hope you have fun with this! Based on this drabble and this little ask 😝

Pairing: Soldier Boy x F!Reader

Warnings: +18/NSFW, smut (oral m), degrading, dirty talk, weird jealousy on both side, SB being a manipulative asshole

Word Count: 2.5k

Main Masterlist || Dirty Drabbles Masterlist

He Comes In Colors

The chatter in the classroom quiets down as your teacher, Mrs. Fournier, enters. You and your friends finish your sentences in hush and take your seats in front of your respective easels, not wanting to upset the strict, older lady again.

But instead of her usual cantankerous and bitter features, she sports an unusually bright smile and pinkly flushed cheeks today, still giggling like a schoolgirl over a crush and looking in the direction of the hallway as she walks to her desk.

Bashfully, she clears her throat and fights to regain her composure. “Class, we have a change of plans. I know we were supposed to devote our attention to the intricacies of nature today, but an opportunity presented itself we simply cannot pass up on. We have a very special guest this beautiful afternoon, who so graciously volunteered to be our model for this class.”

Your chest tightens slightly at her words, encumbered with a dark forewarning that settles in your gut. And as you catch a flicker of an all too familiar sage green kimono by the door, the bad omen in your belly only grows.

He wouldn’t dare, you think. Would he?

But you don’t have to answer your own question. Deep down you already know.

Of course, he would.

“Ladies and gentlemen, meet our model for today – the one and only Soldier Boy,” Mrs. Fournier introduces, and you watch with parted lips as your stupid boyfriend strides into the classroom with an even stupider grin.

Mrs. Fournier claps with vivid adoration, expecting the class to follow her lead, but you can’t bring yourself to give him more than an annoyed slow clap. You shoot him a glare, and the smirk directed at you tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing. He aims to get on your nerves. He wants you to be mad.

Now, you’re sure you’ve done something in the last couple of days to upset him, and this is his way to enact his revenge instead of talking to you like an emotionally intelligent human being. Because Ben’s a fucking petty child, and this is how he deals with his feelings.

Ben offers his most charming red-carpet smile. “Pleasure to be here and support the fine arts, Mrs.–”

“Fournier,” your teacher provides all too helpfully.

“Ah, like fornicate. I can remember that,” Ben quips with a flirtatious smirk, while you suppress the sudden urge to stab him with the sharp end of your paintbrush.

You half expect the French woman to be appalled by the dirty joke. But to your big surprise, your over-sixty teacher only giggles in response like a high school freshman when the quarterback winks at her in the hallway.

“It is such an honor to have you here in my classroom, Soldier Boy,” Mrs. Fournier raves with a blush haunting her cheeks. “You have been my favorite superhero ever since I was a little girl.”

“Oh, so only ten years, huh?” Ben flirts shamelessly, all the while sending you little glances that let you know that this is your punishment.

Do you have a clue yet what you did? Nope! And you suppose you will never find out. You just have to get through this.

“Well, let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”

Soldier Boy devilishly rubs his palms together as he struts into the middle of the room, and with one flawless swing, he drops the robe and stands before you (and your classmates) in all his god-given glory. And boy, did God give – not only with two hands but probably with six or seven.

Mrs. Fournier gasps unabashedly with a palm on her weak heart and goddamn drool in your mouth, causing your frown only to deepen.

“Marvelous! Simply marvelous,” she rhapsodizes and is close to fainting. Of course, your boyfriend enjoys all this attention greatly. “It’s like staring at the statue of David!”

“Oh, please…” you mutter with a miffed scoff and roll your eyes back, but that only earns you a scolding glare from your teacher. You know then that showing your displeasure with the situation will only secure you a failing grade.

Ben then props his foot up on a little stool right in front of you, his cock hanging heavy and long between his muscular bow legs. And no, it’s not inflated to its full size but still as impressive and formidable as a lion king during a safari.

His gaze only sweeps across you before it lingers on your friend Alexander. There’s a cocky and yet threatening glint in your boyfriend’s eyes as he assesses the male next to you.

“Remarkable, isn’t it?” Soldier Boy prompts daringly. Only your boyfriend could talk about his dick like that and not even feel an ounce of shame. “Don’t worry, squirt. I’m sure yours is just fine,” he adds, but you know he doesn’t mean it.

And then, suddenly, it dawns on you – why he has decided to infiltrate your art class.

Two nights ago, you went out with Alexander and a few other friends from class for drinks and didn’t invite Ben. Mostly because Ben is obnoxious when he meets new people and is a little too “old-school values” for your hipster friends. It would take ages alone to even explain all their different sexualities and pronouns to your last-century boyfriend. You just wanted one night for yourself, and you knew now that hurt his feelings.

You even felt a tiny bit bad and guilty but by far not enough to accept this current shit show he was delivering.

“Oh my, I don’t want to be too forward but may I–” Your teacher doesn’t finish her sentence, but her reaching hand is suggestion enough.

Soldier Boy chuckles amusedly. “Oh, you may,” he says but smirks at you as you gape at him in utter indignation. “What kind of hero would I be, if I said no? After all, this body belongs to every American citizen.”

And as Mrs. Fournier’s greedy palm stretches for your boyfriend’s perky buttcheek, something inside you snaps. You jump up from your seat, all wild and fuming, before you realize everyone is staring at you with wide eyes and confused brows. No one knows you’re dating him, so your upset seems completely unwarranted to everyone else in the room. Only Ben’s lips rise triumphantly.

“Be-… Soldier Boy,” you correct yourself and clear your throat, forcing a tight-lipped smile on your face. “A word, please?”

“Y/N, we’re in the middle of a class. Show our guest some respect,” your teacher demands chidingly.

But Ben soothes her anger with another charming smile. “Oh, absolutely no problem, beautiful,” he says and causes Mrs. Fournier to blush once more. “Y/N here is clearly an adoring fan, and I always have time for my fans.”

“Yes, I’m a huge fan. I’ve never met a real celebrity before. My grandma will be so thrilled when I tell her all about it,” you lie as dryly as possible. Honestly, you’re so pissed you can’t get yourself to act remotely convincing.

“We’ll be right back,” Ben excuses with a tight smile.

He quickly throws his robe back on and grabs your upper arm, ushering you outside. You want to stop in the hallway, but he drags you further and shoves you into a supply closet, closing the door a little too roughly.

“You know the rules: no fucking drama in public. It’s not good for my image,” he reminds you sternly, and you try not to scoff.

“How dare you say that after waltzing into my goddamn class? Ben, my education is serious. You don’t mess with that,” you point out angrily and fold your arms over your tits. “I don’t have time for your petty revenge.”

“Yeah, you never have fucking time,” he huffs scornfully.

“Is this because I didn’t invite you for drinks with my friends?” You cock an eyebrow, shooting him a knowing look.

“No, this is because you went out with that fucking empty nutsack in there,” he bites and points an angry finger at you. “And by the way, you’d be fucking lucky to show me off. I’m a fucking catch! Have you seen how those bitches fawned over me in there?”

“Who? Mrs. Fournier? That old hag hasn’t seen any action since the French Revolution. She’d fawn over a fucking trash bag,” you retort and watch Ben purse his lips dejectedly. You smirk a little at your win.

But you don’t want to antagonize him more. You can tell that you hurt his fragile ego with your rejection, and while he fucking annoys you and drives you incredibly mad sometimes, you’re still deeply in love with the idiot in front of you. He does have his sweet moments every once in a while. He comes in many colors, a whole palette of different shades.

“Look, uhm, I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. I didn’t mean to, okay? I don’t want you to be jealous. You have no reason to be, alright? I love you, asshole,” you tell him with a small smile.

“Fine, maybe I was a little jealous,” he admits after a beat. “But not of that scrawny twinkie in there.”

“Alright, maybe I was a little jealous, too,” you remark to make him feel better. “But not of that old French whore in there.” Ben snorts at that, chuckling. “So, do you forgive me and get the fuck outta my class now?”

Ben muses slyly and then grins. “I don’t think that apology was good enough.” Your brow draws into a deep frown at his words. Whatever has gotten into his mind now can’t be good. “They do say an apology is only worthy if it’s said on someone’s knees.”

You glare at him, your hands balling into furious fists by your side. “You gotta be kidding me…” you mutter and hiss through your teeth, “Ben, I’m not fucking blowing you in the supply closet of my school!”

Ben only shrugs carelessly. “Alright, guess I’ll have to ask Mrs. French Whore and see if she takes me up on my offer.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” you grit.

“Oh, we both know I would, but I do prefer your beautiful and warm mouth, doll,” Ben smirks, letting each word roll off his tongue as his thumb pad reaches out and seductively traces your pink lips.

Instinctively, you suck his thumb into your mouth and massage it with your tongue, only widening his brash smile. As your eyes flicker down, you notice his rock-hard cock push through the fabric of the kimono and salute you. Your legs grow wobbly at the sight, your knees giving in with the urge to bend.

“Down,” he mouths, and you oblige without another protest, sinking to your knees in front of him.

You part your lips and stick your tongue out, ready to welcome his swollen tip. He fists his length and jerks his palm up and down a few times. He likes it to be as big as possible. He loves to see you struggle as you desperately try to fit all of him inside your tiny mouth.

His free hand lifts your chin, forces your eyes to find his as he guides his cock to your waiting mouth. He plops it on your tongue, heavy and thick, and lets it rest there for a second, gauging your reaction with a knowing smirk. You seal your lips around his weeping tip without question, your tongue swirling around it and dipping into the slit. You lick the salty precum with moans of pleasure, your hums sending vibrations up and down his length as your head begins to bob.

With each swallow you get closer to his pelvic bone, but Ben’s impatient and fists his hand into your hair. He roughly tugs and pulls you all the way down till your nose disappears in the little tuft of hair and tears stream down your cheeks as you cough for air.

“Yeah, that’s it, baby girl. Choke on my cock, you little slut,” he growls. His hips rock and find a rhythm as he thrusts inside you, hitting the back of your throat each time. “Fuck, that’ll teach you a lesson, won’t it? Who do you fucking belong to?”

He pulls you off his spit-drenched cock for the sole reason of replying. You look up at him as he expectantly meets your gaze with an arched eyebrow.

“You, daddy,” you reply on command.

He smirks in satisfaction and praises you, “There’s my good girl.” He tightens his grip on your hair and pushes back inside you. “Gonna send you back in with my cum all over you. Show those little pricks they can’t fucking touch what’s mine.”

As his hips gain speed, you hollow your cheeks and suck harder, feeling him swell on your tongue. Your jaw begins to ache, barely fitting his girth while his massive length drills relentlessly into your throat. Drool dribbles out from the sides of your mouth and mixes with your tears. Your mascara is nonexistent at this point and smeared all over your face.

And you know damn well, as soon as you walk back into class, everyone will know what you did.

“Such a good little whore for me,” Ben groans and pistons deeper once more, squeezing his eyes shut. You know it’s his telltale sign that he's close. “You’re such a fucking mess. Shit, gonna blow…”

He grunts as his hips stutter and his cock throbs in your mouth. He shoots hot ropes of cum down your throat, pulling out in the midst to paint your face with the rest. God knows he would never miss an opportunity to mark you. And when he’s done with his piece of sublime artwork, he smirks down at you, all self-satisfied and proud.

But then a bit of sweetness returns as he holds out his hands and helps you back on your feet. He gently tucks and brushes your hair back into place before snatching a roll of paper towels from the rack of art supplies behind you. He thoroughly cleans your face, removing any evidence of his deed, and kisses your hairline like you’re his most prized possession when he’s finished.

“There, all done, doll.” Ben’s smile makes you blush as he cups your cheeks. “No one will be the fucking wiser.”

As the two of you saunter back inside, no one seems to suspect anything. You get back to your original seat, while Ben invents some silly excuse to get out of his naked commitment.

But then Alexander tilts his head at you with a furrowed brow and narrowed eyes, his finger pointing at his own cheek. “Y/N, uhm, I think you have something there. Oh, uhm, is that…”

He doesn’t finish as your eyes widen and your cheeks redden in embarrassment. Your shocked gaze darts to your boyfriend as he lingers by the door. With one last cunning smirk, he winks at you and heads out.

Yes, your boyfriend surely comes in many colors – and most of them are dark.

And yes, you bet your ass Ben was crushing hard on Mrs. Fournier 😂 Hope you enjoyed this!

PUT YOUR DIRTY THOUGHTS HERE

TAGS:

Everything Jensen: @alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey @deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies @agalliasi @hobby27 @globetrotter28 @mxltifxnd0m @lacilou @feyresqueen @suckitands33

[theotherbuckley]

A very late (More than) Seven Sentence Sunday Monday

Tagged over the weekend by: @pirrusstuff @honestlydarkprincess @dangerpronebuddie @smilingbuckley @actualalligator @loveyouanyway @daffi-990 @wikiangela @giddyupbuck @evanbegins @underwater-ninja-13 @diazsdimples @your-catfish-friend @tizniz @jesuisici33 @hippolotamus @disasterbuckdiaz @cal-daisies-and-briars I won't tag anyone cause its Monday(for me) and most people have done it already but if you want to share then please do <3

Ah this is very late but i wrote this from my chronic pain!buck fic yesterday so I thought I'd share. Having a shitty week, or well idk I'm being dumb and sad but oh well here's Eddie comforting Buck which we all need.

He burrows further into the comfort of Eddie’s neck, sniffling. “There’s so much to do,” he says.

“Nothing that can’t be done tomorrow,” Eddie says, rubbing soothing circles across Buck’s back with one hand, the other wrapped softly behind Buck’s neck, holding him gently. 

“I already—already put it off for so long.” 

Eddie pulls Buck away from himself, noticing the way Buck naturally tries to move back towards him. “Hey, look at me,” Eddie says, holding Buck’s face in his hands.

Buck looks up at him, eyes glossy with unshed tears. 

“I have these big arms,” he says, pointing to his arms as he tenses them. “I can do any heavy lifting you need. That includes washing dishes if you so desire.”

Buck huffs out a laugh, but it’s short-lived, his face falling flat as the ache in his leg grows again. He wants the floor to swallow him up and take away every drop of pain from his body. Right now he’d be happy if the floor could just snatch up his leg so he doesn’t have to deal with it. He’s just hurting, and it’s not fair. 

[blitheringbongus]

Cold Hands

(This is my first ever fic btw, also not to be an ao3 writer, but English isn’t my first language so if you see spelling errors or sentences seem shit then blame it on that because I refuse to admit to myself that that is just an honest mistake, also I wrote this all in one go at a Christmas party-)

Scar can’t stand the Nether.

He never has, especially not after the incident in season 7.

But nonetheless, he agreed to go gather resources in it with Mumbo.

The Builder was actually quite surprised when Mumbo first asked, „Whu- me?“ Scar pointed at himself, staring wide-eyed at the taller Redstoner before him.

Said Redstoner shifted his eyes, „Well- yes, you.“ Scar laughed, „You’re aware of who you’re talking to?“ Mumbo nodded, „Mumbo you know the Nether isn’t Scar-safe! I thought you’re smarter than this!“ Scar snickered, the taller shrugged, scratching the back of his neck, „That I do,“ „Then- why? I mean I’m happy to be spending time with you but- for this?“

Mumbo only shrugged again, before sighing, „Do you want to come along or not?“ Scar knew he wouldn’t get an answer, Mumbo’s been doing this a lot lately: invite him to random things and refuse to explain why.

Not that Scars complaining.

So the brunette simply grinned at the Spoon, „Of course I do,“

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shortly after their little adventure started, Scar came to remember why he rarely visits the nether, aside from the creepy hogs and overall dangerous environment, the heat of it was monstrous.

He already shed his jacket, having wrapped it around his waist, rolling his sleeves up. He debated just completely shedding the shirt but the thought of doing that around Mumbo made him nervous, he doesn’t know why, he’s completely fine with doing it around literally anybody else, so why not him? Best not ponder it, that’s what Scars best at doing. (Aside from dying)

They went deep into the nether, digging tunnels and blowing up TnT in order to find ancient debree, they’d split half, Mumbo decided early on.

They talked about their builds and memories, past seasons and shared moments. They talked about pets and the nether, nature and flowers they enjoy. At some point the conversation shifted into a comfortable silence, both too tired and dehydrated from the scorching heat of the Nether, to talk about much else.

Scar eventually broke the silence, „I think we’re done for today,“ he wiped the sweat off his brow, only for more to form. „Yeah,“ Mumbo heaved, dusting his hands off on his suit pants before walking towards Scar, „Let’s go,“ „how much debree do you have?“ „Six pieces so far,“ „Sick,“ Scar put on that all too well known smug face of his, Mumbo sighed, huffing out a laugh, „Alright, alright, how much have you got then?“ „Seven,“ He said it almost in a whisper, grinning from ear to ear, mischief pinching at the corners of his eyes.

Mumbo delighted in Scars silly fey giggle, it was quieter than usual, but the circumstances explain themselves.

He huffed out a played out annoyed sound, lightly bumping Scars shoulder with his closed fist.

Scar kept giggling, just letting himself be led away by the former CEO of Boatem.

Lava lakes came and went. They passed raided fortresses, more lava lakes, more caves, more rocks, a soot biome, and even a warped forest! Scar insisted on getting some wood before they left, it’s always great for projects. Mumbo agreed, needing more himself.

After some time of venturing through the Nether, Mumbo came to a stop, looking around, suddenly confused,

Scar looked up at him, they were at the edge of another soot biome, „What’s up?“

Mumbo nervously laughed, „Aha, uhm- it appears that we’ve ah-„ he looked around, turning his body in the process, „-we might’ve lost our way, Scar-„

Scar just looked at Mumbo, and the soot splotches smeared on the mans forehead and right cheek, „Well that’s not good-„. Mumbo made a pained agreeing noise, „It sure isn’t!“

The brunette went up to the raven haired man, patting his shoulder, „it’s fineeeee-„ he drew out, worry bubbling in his own chest, he couldn’t spend another few hours in this heat, he’d surely have a heat stroke!

„We can ask for coordinates?“ Scar suggested, „Of the portal, I mean,“. The Redstoners eyes practically lit up, he grabbed Scars face excitedly, „Oh Scar you’re a genius! Why didn’t I think of that?“ he looked to the side thoughtfully, before taking his hands off of Scar and pulling out his communicator, typing away.

The moment Mumbos cold dead hands made contact with Scars scorching face, Scar was in heaven. He knew Mumbo was known to have cold hands, but that they stay cold? Under these conditions?

As soon as Mumbo put the communicator back in his pocket, Scar snatched the mans hands back, placing one long, elegant hand on his own forehead, and the other on the side of his own face, „Mumbo why didn’t you tell me about these miracle hands!“ He said, his words being slightly muffled by the man pushing Mumbos hand further against his cheek, squishing his lips vertically.

Mumbo stilled, wide-eyed and flabberghasted for a good amount of moments, before spluttering, „wh- huh- what?“ He didn’t make an attempt to move his hands.

„Your hands Mumby, how are they still so cold?“ Scar practically rubbed his face against the hands, they felt amazing in this heat,

Mumbo could only stare, „I- because-„ he opened and closed his mouth, knowing what to say but not sure if he should let Scar know.

Said Scar looked up at him, making a questioning face.

Mumbo pulled out his communicator, „Iskall answered,“ he began, telling Scar the coordinates, gently plucking his own hands off of Scars face, moving in the direction they need to go.

Scar whined and complained about being 'too hot' for approximately two minutes before Mumbo let him do whatever he wanted with his right hand.

They only had a few casualties, but made it home alive.

[wildlife4life]

Seven (+) Sentence Sunday

Tagged by the very lovely @rainbow-nerdss, @fortheloveofbuddie @wikiangela @evanbegins and @daffi-990. Thank you! Can't wait for all your upcoming works!

In honor of the NFL regular season coming to an end today and the beginning of the playoffs, I'm sharing a part of a fan favorite. That's right ya'll, its an NFL Buck snippet! WOOOOO! (And I know this wayyyyy more than seven sentences, but are ya'll going to complain about extra NFL Buck?)

Eddie wasn't lying when he told Chimney he loved football. He just didn't say how much. When Chim invited the newest member of the 118 and his son to a kid friendly sports bar to watch the Rams play the Colts in Indy, he was expecting to be turned down. Hen encouraged it, "He needs friends that enjoy what he does. And I really can't listen to another rant about football stats or how Dustin Watson isn't taking the Texans to the tournament." "Deshaun Watson." Bobby corrected from the kitchen, "And its the playoffs." Hen rolls her eyes, "Whatever. You both have Sunday free and Buckley is playing, Christopher's favorite player." "How do you know the Ram's quarterback is playing, but not the name of the man who got Buckley kicked out of Texas?" Chim teased. "Denny." His friend answers simply, "You know he likes all things LA Rams." "Then why aren't you inviting Eddie and Christopher to your place to watch the game with Denny?" "Because Howard," Hen remarks a little sharply, "I'm not off Sunday and Karen has yet to meet Eddie, so it would be uncomfortable for everyone to have him in our home without me. Why are you arguing about this? You were just complaining about how Eddie and I are all buddy-buddy the other day." "You two have a lot more in common and somehow I always seem to stick my foot in my mouth whenever I talk to the guy. I freaking outed the dude!" Chimney reminds them. Bobby steps away from the stove and joins the two paramedics at the marble island, "Eddie wasn't making it easy for any of us to get to know him. Hen was just braver than most to actually approach him. Now its your turn and football is a good jumping point." Chimney opens his mouth to try objecting again, "And it will help in making up for the whole outing incident and interrogating his kid."

Cap had him there "And you'll pay." Hen demands and when Chimney arches a brow of slight disagreement she just shrugs and states, "It'll help dispel some of the notion of being his boyfriend's sugar baby and his birthday is the same week, making this an easy gift." And Hen made the kill shot. So Chimney awkwardly approached Eddie in the locker room at the end of their shift and invited him and Christopher to watch the game. He was happily surprised when Eddie said yes and brought an equally ecstatic Christopher with him without hesitation. Chim was additionally surprised with Eddie's total enrapture of the game, even more so with his undivided attention to the Ram's new quarterback, Evan Buckley. Every play the man made, Eddie was on his feet making some sort of comment. Good plays came with shouts of, "Good boy Buckley!" and "Great throw man!". Poor plays, interceptions, or missed opportunities, were met with, "Shake it off Buckley!" and "You got this Evan!" And any missed or bad calls from the refs... well Chimney knew foul language when he heard it, no matter what language. "We have a swear jar at home. It gets donated to Evan's charity at the end of the season." Christopher explains when he catches Chimney's questioning side glance after his father's latest f-bomb. Ah well, at least there's some sort of consequence to cursing in front of a child. "I have to pay up too if I say anything like my dad does, but I've never come close to his number." Chris adds on with a giggle and Chimney joins him with a low chuckle of his own. A niggle of curiosity has him asking, "And what about Buck?" The younger Diaz gives all his attention to what remains of his fries and shrugs with one shoulder, "Um... well I've never watched a game with Buck, but he does always double the jars total when we donate it." Chimney really wants to push on the whole matter of Eddie's partner of 10 years never once watching a game with the kid, but he knows interrigating Chris (again) about Buck (who is off limits unless otherwise brought up) would probably put an end to Eddie and Chim's burgeoning friendship. So he goes for a joke, "He must live with soap in his mouth if your dad is to go by." Earning a full belly laugh from the teen and Chimney counts it as a major win when Eddie glances back with bright grin.

I feel like Eddie and Chim have the whole, I'm friends with you because of a Buckley and because we work together thing. So take away the Buckley and its a bit of an awkward friendship, which I wanted to highlight and improve. Hope you all enjoyed!!!! More NFL Buck can be found here.

Tagging (no pressure): @disasterbuckdiaz @elvensorceress @devirnis @lover-of-mine @exhuastedpigeon @jesuisici33 @jamespearce9-1-1 @giddyupbuck @malewifediaz @hippolotamus @thewolvesof1998 @jeeyuns @911onabc @911-on-abc @bekkachaos @loserdiaz @hoodie-buck @try-set-me-on-fire @spotsandsocks @theotherbuckley @ladydorian05 @bigfootsmom @watchyourbuck @eddiebabygirldiaz @spaceprincessem @thekristen999 @spagheddiediaz @monsterrae1 @rogerzsteven @eowon @honestlydarkprincess @eddiescowboy @vampbuckley @bitchfacediaz @buck-coded @housewifebuck @arthursdent @glorious-spoon @buddierights @athenagranted @prosperdemeter2 @gayedmundodiaz

[powderblueblood]

For the old Hollywood AU - dealer’s choice & this quote: “And they'll know - everyone will fucking know that they could never control one goddamn fucking thing."

😘

BABYLON SENTENCE MEME

set in the frenetic grimy screwball universe of BURN LIKE NITRATE, the old hollywood au an: this is 3k words because i am soooo normal about all this. no majorly explicit warnings, just fluff and angst and coarse language and a slight allusion to steve's drinking problem

LOS ANGELES, 1927

Seven frantic knocks on your bedroom door awaken you with a skin-jumping start, and you realize you've fallen asleep with your needlework in hand. Again.

"Oof," you breathe, a hand brushing across your brow as you set the embroidery hoop down on your rickety bedside table. That'll be Pidge or one of the other girls at the door, eye-rolling and telling you it's lights out-- as is the routine racket come ten at night, every night. Bunny Lamelle's boarding house kept strict rules, and they included lights out at ten, no boozing, and no shoes or men past the first floor.

Little do you know, you're about to shatter all three of those sacrosanct commandments.

You barely bother to smooth your nightgown before you crack open your bedroom door-- and regret it immediately.

"Mr Harrington?"

Bleary-eyed and wearing a grin that would knock a nun clean out, Steven Harrington stands in the frame of your bedroom door.

Well, stands is generous. His knees look fit to buckle under the weight of whatever's in that flask he's carrying.

"Evening, Beadie."

"Get inside, quickly! Please!" You yank him in by the crook of his arm, and immediate thrill sparks in you. You'd never think to do that ordinarily! Gosh, you're afraid to even touch the fabric that you drape over the man's frame in a professional setting, and you're his darn costume fitter.

As a precaution, you poke your head out into the hallway, neck swiveling left and right. Clear? Clear. You gently close the door.

"How ever did you get up here?" you question as Steve, as he keeps insisting you call him (but you only ever do in your head-- manners are a girl's best friend!), stumbles a touch before flopping down on your bed.

Your bed. Oh, dear.

"I'm no stranger to the facilities here at Bunny Lamelle's, I'll have you know!" he proclaims, hitching himself up on his elbows. The light in here is terrifically bright, too bright for his liking, and your bed is terrifically soft, but that's just right. "It's no Hollywood Studio Club, but it's not a complete pigsty they keep you girls in--"

The pitch of his voice keeps rising and rising, and you know very well that the walls are thin and the eponymous Bunny can hear everything. Steve is familiar with Bunny Lamelle, having been chased down the stairs of this very boarding house more times than he could count. His early years in Los Angeles were nothing if not, ah, eventful. He knows he ought to be quiet, but he feels mournful tonight. Feeling mournful always leads him down the path to goading, because being sad is a fucking sap's game.

You make a motion, pleading with him to shush-- and sold on the look on your face alone, Steve's voice drops to a stage whisper.

"The back door has a loose lock."

"I know," you whisper back. "I taught Pidge how to jimmy that lock open when we both moved in here."

"That little bearcat lives here too? What a pair you two make."

Steve looks surprised, same as Pidge had looked surprised. A little church girl like you, knowing how to pick a lock. Imagine that. He swears, every time you deign open your mouth, which has become more and more frequent during your little fittings, you threaten to knock the knees from under him. Some turn of phrase, some thread of history he never guessed would be woven into your coat.

You feel a blush flaring at your cheeks, Steve's half-focused eyes resting on you a moment too long.

You force yourself to clear your throat, though breaking the spell of his stare feels like a betrayal.

"What are you doing here, Mr--"

"Bea-die. I insist. I'm in your chambers, for Chrissake."

"Steve." You put a nice fine point on it, finer than your needlework. If he insists.

Ah, yes. The reason for the season. As if punching the air in victory, Steve's right arm thrusts into the air. His movements are like those of a marionette filled with whiskey.

"It appears I have torn a button."

Indeed. A button hangs from a thread, dangling from the cuff of Steve's impeccable satin shirt, part in parcel of his whole satin getup. An outfit designed to make him look the consummate ideal of the American picture star, an image you're positive they couldn't have illustrated without the reference of his good looks and charm.

But now the suit is creased and rumpled and reeking of liquor, and the man inside it, the man you now know to be wondrous and interesting outside of the fascination he inspires onscreen, looks despondent.

This is all getting a little on-the-nose.

"You came over here to... to ask me to mend a button?" You don't mean to let that twinge of disappointment escape your voice.

Steve's mouth gapes and shuts again. He can't tell if it's the whiskey or what, but that feels like flimsy reasoning all of a sudden. "I suppose I did."

You can feel your blood pressure rising. He risked getting you evicted from the only place in Los Angeles you can afford to stay because of some silly button? Well, I never! The gall, the nerve, the-- the vanity! You take a deep, steadying breath and cross the room to the bathroom that you and Pidge share, adjoining both your bedrooms.

"If you'll excuse me."

He starts to speak, but you click the door closed behind you, softly as you can manage. When safely inside, you stuff the shower curtain into your mouth and let out a silent, frustrated scream. So, you'll do the only thing you know to do. You'll consult your most trusted source of a second opinion.

Pidge, how do I go about not murdering the entitled movie star that's currently sitting on my bed?

As if she'd heard you summoning, Pidge comes crashing through her bathroom door, hair mussed and face flushed. Giggling. Until she sees you, that is, and her face drops. She slams the door behind her, and you swear you can hear a muffled, "Ow!"

Louder than is necessary, she says, "Hello, Beadie!"

"Pidge..." Something's off in the body language of the script girl.

At a normal volume, "Hello, Beadie." A beat, as she takes you in. "Is everything alright?"

Oh, forget whatever madness Pidge has indulged herself in now! You're having an honest-to-god emergency!

"No!" you flutter, arms flapping, "No, it is not because Steven Harrington is sitting in my bedroom!"

Pidge's eyes flare for about half a second, which is just the amount of surprise she doles out for any occasion. You could tell her that Victrola records were shrinking to half their size and all she'd do is give you the ol' wide eyes and move onto more logical matters.

"The way you're talking makes me think he oughtn't be."

"Of course he oughtn't be!"

"Why oughtn't he be?"

"Well, other than the obvious, Pidge! He-- he's Steven Harrington!" Most recently seen on the arm of the latest WAMPAS Baby, Steven Harrington. Box office darling, Steven Harrington. Object of many a rabid fan letter, Steven Harrington. "And get this, he risked life and limb sneaking up here so I could sew a button back on for him!"

"That's what they're calling it now? Cad," Pidge says, eyes narrowing. Then they flare again. "Oh, hold the line..."

Your breath stitched up in your throat. "What?"

"Harrington's got a premiere tonight. Seven Slow Dances. It ought to be," Pidge checks her watch and you notice her lipstick is smudged. Hm. "Well, gosh, it'll be over by now. After party at The Roosevelt, natch. Warner Jr will have his guts for garters if he doesn't show his mug."

Your bottom lip trembles a tad, hands flapping with the sheer current of nerves and anger and excitement and dread coursing through you.

"Pidge, Pidge, Pidge, what am I to do?!"

Your roommate and friend grabs you by the shoulders and gives you a good, hefty shake.

"Beadie, snap out of it. You know exactly what you're to do. You're to mend that button and you're to send him on his way." She gives you this stare that's kind of wavering at the corners.

That throat of yours is suddenly drier than Glendale. You swallow, roughly. You dare to ask, "And what if... he tries any funny business?"

Pidge doesn't miss a beat. "Well, I have a revolver in my delicates."

This response makes you abandon the followup question of what if I'd like him to try some funny business. You nod, resolute and terrified, grabbing your sewing box from the commode. Pidge stands stock still stationary in the bathroom, arms crossed and eyes bright with curiosity.

You wonder what you'd just caught her in the middle of.

But the door clicks shut behind you and you find Steve lying flat on his back, his head dangling off the edge of your modest single bed.

"Told half of Hollywood I'm here already, huh?" His tone is languid, but not scornful. Playful, even. Like he could really expect such a thing from you. Wide-eyed, innocent you.

A nervous chuckle bubbles from you, Steve dousing the flame of your irritation as soon as he'd lit it. You edge closer to the bed, suddenly very conscious of the way your nightgown is fitting.

"Certainly not. Just, I knocked into Pidge in the bathroom. It happens, sharing and all. I didn't--"

But before you can lie, "Hello, Pigeon!" Steve calls, and you lurch for him-- too loud! He emits something close to a giggle. "She's quite the hard boiled tomato. How is it you two became so close?"

You shrug. That was a story, but not one you were about to regale Steve Harrington with. He needed to be sewn up, given his marching orders. That's that. "Every lady needs her foil, I suppose."

"Good god, don't sell yourself so short," Steve says, and there's a real edge to his voice. He's truly admonishing you. You can't truly see yourself that way, can you? Playing second fiddle to some studio drone workaholic like poor Pidge, when you and your delicate hands and your brilliant mind had the gall and grace to exist on this earth?

Christ, is he drunk.

Though, you can't help it sometimes. You love Pidge, love her true, but can't help but think she stacks up so much higher compared to you; in experience, in nerve, in dealing with men like him.

"You're the genuine article, Beadie."

Steve says this to you. Steven Harrington says this to you. Even if he's corked and ready to pour, he says this to you.

You have to give yourself an even moment to remember the act of taking a human breath and how it works.

When you recover, your voice is tiny. "Sit up, please."

He does as is told, the same as when you tell him so in the fitting rooms. It's the one time that Steve doesn't mind being told what to do; you go about it gentle, careful not to prick him with your little pins. He trusts that you never will. And, you always asks things like, "Well, how does that feel, Mr Harrington?" and then add that adorable shy addendum, "I mean, to move in?"

You settle next to him on the bed, sewing kit in your lap. Steve presents his sleeve to you and you finger the darling little pearlescent button. Feels too violent for your nature to snap it off of its lingering thread-- and yet you do it. And he can't explain it, but it thrills him.

Steve watches you thread your needle with an intensity that does not go unnoticed by you. Your entire head feels hot.

"You're aware I had a premiere tonight, Beadie."

"Oh, of course I am," and you did, having faithfully followed this man's work for years, "Seven Slow Dances, wasn't it?"

Steve swallows, feeling the paparazzi light bulbs crack behind his eyes. The tense silence in the theater that just kept getting tenser and stickier as the preview of the picture droned on.

"It's set to be my biggest picture to date," he tells you, a slur creeping into his voice, "A thoroughly modern romp, catapulting me to as-yet-unforeseen notoriety. Have you heard this?"

A small smile wafts over your lips, daring to break your focus. "Why, that sounds wonderful."

Steve emits a hearty scoff, and you have to place a hand on his arm to steady it.

"Wonderful? It sounds like bullshit to me. It sounds like the company line," he sniffs, "Do you know why I do all this, Beadie? Why I became an actor? To escape the company line."

You still your needle to an unnecessarily slow speed, taking far longer than you need to with resewing this button. Because he does this, when he's in your hands and you have your points turned towards him. He opens up, to you.

"But it follows you, you know," Steve goes on, voice thickening. That sends a jolt of alarm through you. "Chases you like you've got a target on your back."

You've never heard him sound quite like this before. Cornered.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean..." you murmur, eyes leaving the safe reserve of the needlepoint and button to watch him. Watch his profile. Watch the tears begin to well in his scorched sugar eyes.

"I traded being one kind of stooge for another, do you know that?" he sniffs, bitterness putting a bite in his voice, "I rejected the role that was set out for me, the heir to HH Industries, to become an artist! If you can fucking believe that. Because I thought it meant something. I thought it meant I'd finally have control over my own life."

It strikes you dumb. It's an honesty so blistering, you can't quite believe that it's real, that he's sharing it with you. "I..."

"I don't," have any control, he means, "I'm being prodded around like a prize show pony in front of these cameras, preening to Photoplay and acting like it all means something when it doesn't."

Steve turns to you now, a single, screen-perfect tear cascading down his screen-perfect face. But his vitriol feels ugly and ill-fitting, like he feels in this stupid satin suit.

"And you know what, Beadie? You know what's the killer? The bullet aiming straight for my heart?"

Suspended in shock, your needle held aloft. "No..."

Steve clears his gummed up throat, nodding mirthlessly. Of course. How would you know, you poor, sweet thing?

"Once this shitheap of an Al Jolson picture goes to print, the entire company line is going to change. Sound in the pictures, what a gimmick!" he cackles, "But the public loves a gimmick, and that's who we sacrifice ourselves for. And it'll push me, who has given everything to create something out of nothing, and every other dumb sap like me, right out the door. And they'll know - everyone will fucking know that they could never control one goddamn fucking thing. Our fate, our crushable fate in the hands of those dipshit Warner brothers. The company line. Sundown on Steven Harrington."

It completely befuddles you that he could think this way. Of course, the colony is splintering into two and a dozen camps, each different variants of sound is the death of cinema and talkies are the way of the future. You had heard Pidge's diatribes on it, but hadn't settled on an opinion yourself. Pictures with sound would surely still need costumes, but you hadn't thought for even a moment about how it might effect someone like Steve. How it might... frighten him.

"Oh, Steve. Steve, you know that's not true." That hand of yours that rests on his arm tightens some. His head dips.

"It is true, Beadie," he presses and sniffles, "They'll lose any interest they had in me; for Chrissake, I can't stand up to those booming voiced theater types. I've churned my butter in pantomime! I've wasted my life on something completely null."

His words coax you to near tears. This feels as if he's welcomed you into his cocoon, shown you all the ways he fears he'll fail to metamorphose.

But then, you catch another whiff of the liquor on his breath.

You remember that, despite it all, you need to be careful-- Steve may be sweet to you now, in this moment, but Steven Harrington at large is still a documented rake. He's a mess. He'll do anything, say anything, to get what he wants.

You know this. You love this. And you know that you oughtn't.

You finish the last stitch on his errant button and push an encouraging smile across your face.

"Well. All the more reason to get peeling out to that after party then, isn't it? Make sure they don't forget who you are."

A friendly pat to his arm serves as half an encouragement for him to get up and off your bed.

This is not the reaction he wants. With his head tilted toward you, with all his sparkling tears, this is not the reaction Steve was aiming for. He can't even say he wanted to kiss you in that moment, but he did not expect you to tow that very same company line. Buck up, buddy boy. Put on a good show.

But you're a good girl. Of course you think that's the way things ought to be. He shouldn't be confusing you like this. Sullying your mind against the Warner behemoth.

Steve stands, re-buttoning his mended sleeve. You watch him, eyes gleaming and worried. He's gone all silent and sullen again, like he does. Then again, he may not even remember this in the morning.

"Away I go, then," he murmurs, barely coherent, "into the fray."

"Do be careful," you tell him, chest constricted. "Sneaking back out, I mean."

"Not my first rodeo," he reminds you, and it feels terrifically callous for some reason.

And then Steve is gone, slipping through your bedroom door. As fast and furtively as he appeared, and all that's left behind him is the silver glimmer of his flask folded into the plush of your bed sheets.

[hookedsworks]

Edge(ING) Fitness - Chapter X

oooo first writing post on the new bloggggggg who's excited!!!!!!!!

II check's Vessel's ankle.

wc: 809

ao3

tumblr masterpost

“No, II, I swear I’m fine. You really didn’t have to come back here and check me out,” was the first thing Vessel said to II when he got back into the locker room. The poor guy was pink, leaning against the lockers and was clearly in pain. His lips kept pulling down before he snapped them back up. II sat next to Vessel. 

“Vessel,” II smiled, and waited until Vessel looked up at him. “It’s not a bother. You got hurt at my gym. I have the training to make sure you will be okay. And I’d rather know you’re walking out of here cared for and properly stabilized than walking out of here potentially hurt. I won’t make sure you’re not seriously injured without your permission. But, if you’ll let me, I’d really like to make sure you’re okay,” 

“Um, ah, well, okay,” Vessel broke eye contact. “It’s uh, my left one,” II slid off the bench and onto the floor. He untied Vessel’s shoe and took it off. “Oh, um, uh,” 

“What’s wrong? Does that hurt?” 

“N-no. Just. Worried,” 

“Well, don’t worry too much. I did this for seven or eight years. I just quit about eight months ago,” 

“Oh, no. I don’t doubt your ability. I just.. Uh,” II looked up, locking eyes with Vessel. Vessel trailed off, and his lips parted a little bit. II smiled. Vessel was just so pretty, he really couldn’t help it. After he stared at Vessel for what was likely an uncomfortable amount of time, he shook it off and blinked. 

“Alright, love. I’m going to check your range of motion. Just tell me when it hurts,” II slowly started rolling Vessel’s ankle. About three quarters of the way through II’s manipulation, Vessel hissed. “There?” 

“Y-yeah, there,” Vessel confirmed. 

“How bad is it?” II turned his face back to Vessel’s, mostly to watch for signs of pain. Not because he was cute and sweet and definitely not because that hiss had II’s head spiraling down a path it should not have ever gone down. It was to watch for signs of pain. 

“It.. it’s not bad. I can probably walk on it,” but the edges of Vessel’s eyes were crinkled in a way that was making II think he was trying to play it off as less painful than it was. 

“It’s probably a mild sprain. If you’ll let me, I’ll wrap it,” 

“Uhm,” 

“I don’t have to if you really don’t want me to. But I’d be more comfortable letting you leave if you’d let me wrap it,” Vessel’s teeth were digging into his bottom lip. Oh, what I’d give to be digging my teeth into that lip. II physically jolted when the thought drifted across his mind. Vessel glanced up, making eye contact again. 

“Okay, you can wrap it,” Vessel’s voice had dropped half an octave. 

“Are you in pain, love?” II reached down in his bag to get ibuprofen. When he sat back up, his eyes dragged up Vessel’s body. II realized that Vessel was… excited. There was a very clear imprint showing through his shorts. Vessel was getting hard over something. And that was when II realized what Vessel was seeing. II was kneeling between his legs and continually making eye contact. Vessel audibly swallowed. 

“Y-yeah,” II consciously stopped his eyebrow from raising. He gave Vessel another smile. He assumed that Vessel was getting excited because there was someone between his legs, so he decided to distract Vessel. He didn’t want to embarrass Vessel and have him stop coming to II’s gym. 

“So, uh, how do you take your coffee?” He handed Vessel the bottle of pills and turned to start wrapping his ankle. 

“Black. Sugars. Like. Seven of them,” II laughed. “What?” 

“That’s… an abomination,” he teased. Vessel turned pink again. 

“How! Are you one of those obnoxious coffee snobs who only drinks beans picked on the third of March in the foothills of the Himalayas or something equally ridiculous?” Vessel fired back. It was the longest sentence he had ever said to II, and it made II laugh hard. 

“Oh, yes, absolutely. No, actually, I’ll take anything, so long as it’s iced and comes in a can and is Red Bull,” Vessel was staring at II again. II smiled. “Okay, you’re all set,” II grabbed above Vessel’s knee to haul himself off the floor. Vessel stood at nearly the same time. II could feel his hard, muscular body run up the length of II’s body and suddenly II was battling his own body to not react. Vessel was tall. And pressed right up against II. And II was craning his neck back to look at Vessel. They each tried to move in different directions. Vessel’s lips brushed against II’s cheek. A smile, clearer than any summer sky, burst across Vessel’s face. 

“Thanks, II,”

[rosietrace]

「 You & I ≠ Always 」

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Central Character(s) ; 『 Sumeragi Yuuta, “The Golden Rule” 』 | 『 “Rei-Rei”, “The Secret Silly Symphony 』

Others ; Octavia Fortunato | “Rei-Rei’s” Dad

Mentioned ; Inafuku Kenshō | Jamil Viper

Pairing(s) ; Yuuta & “Rei-Rei” (Platonic) | Yuuta & Octavia (Platonic) | Octavia & Jamil (Implied)

【 This is a short story important to the central character's story; All Ocs belong to their respective owners and will be credited at the end. 】

Synopsis: “Time is an illusion that helps things make sense; It seems unforgiving when a good thing ends; but You and I will always be back then.”

Warning(s): Angst hours, implied child abuse, bullying, the concept of ‘change’, shockingly longer than I thought, kinda projecting on some parts but let's not go into that, I apologize so much for this 😭 (it gets sorta wholesome at the end)

【 IMPORTANT NOTE: The characters of “Rei-Rei” and “Octavia” are by @/jasdiary, and are currently unreleased. Some details will remain vague until their eventual release. 】

[ Apologies for any out of character moments ]

⊱────────────────────⊰

⊱────────────────────⊰

“Alright, you two, times up.”

Having put a stop to a bloodbath of a pillow fight, Yuuta's frown was more akin to a pout; whereas Rei-Rei, still filled with adrenaline and feeling a bit too energetic to go to bed just yet, whined and flopped down on to her stomach on the bed.

Her father smiled, shaking his head and stepping into the room. “C'mon, Lucky Rabbit…” he picked her up in his arms, tucking her and Yuuta into bed.

“But dad!” Rei-Rei exclaimed, her voice righteous and fierce. “Me and Yuu haven't even finished pillow fighting!”

Her father rolled his eyes playfully, stroking her hair. “I know, Rabbit, but it's past your bedtime… and I already extended it for long enough.”

“Please, Mr. Rei-Rei’s Dad?” Yuuta pleaded shyly; he didn't know why, but he always felt more shy around his friend's father— at least, more shy than he already was. That odd sense of familiarity was no doubt strange to then eight year old Yuuta, who kept his then seven years old best friend in the dark about it.

Rei-Rei's father stared at Yuuta, his eyes soft. There it was again, that odd wave of familiarity, of nostalgia, as they locked eyes; even Rei-Rei, oblivious to that odd connection, tilted her head in curiosity.

Her father sighed softly, stroking Yuuta's head as well. “Maybe next time, Mouse… I can't let you two sleep too late.”

Rei-Rei pouted. “But dad-!”

She felt a swift tap of her nose, courtesy of the pad of her father's index finger. “Ah, ah, ah, young lady. Don't complain too much, now, I'll let you two stay up until midnight next time.”

“But next time could be ages!” Rei-Rei groaned, sitting up to stare up at her father with an adorable frown. “Yuuta's mom won't even let me go to his house!”

“Well, Rei, you know Mrs. Kenshō and her husband are very…” Rei-Rei's father trailed from his sentence, trying to find the right words without offending Yuuta's parents; who weren't even in the room with them.

“... Private. They're very private people, Rei.”

At the mention of his adopted mother, Yuuta seemingly sunk deeper into the mattress, obscuring the lower half of his face with a creased forehead.

Inafuku Kenshō wasn't what one would call pleasant. At least, not in the spectrum of raising a child she and her husband found off of the streets; Yuuta's relationship with both his parents was almost completely sterile.

They gave him whatever he wanted, but what good did that bring when the thing he really wanted was to spend time with either of them? And not in the way where he'd end up with handprints on his face, the blood rushing to the area to form an angry red.

No amount of materialism could prevent Yuuta from still feeling that sting, every now and again.

Rei-Rei's father let out a soft breath, shaking whatever thoughts he had away. Literally. He stood from the edge of his daughter's bed, kissing the top of both her and Yuuta's heads.

“I'll wake you two up tomorrow.”

Right before he was about to leave, Rei-Rei asked one more question: “Can you make onigiri for breakfast?”

That surprised a laugh out of her father. A soft, gut-wrenching laugh that made Yuuta think of the unlikely scenario he'd made up in it his head; that it were Rei-Rei's father raising him alongside his daughter and that, instead of bandaging his own wounds, Rei-Rei's father would bandage them himself.

Yuuta liked playing what-if, because of those scenarios. Scenarios that'll never become reality; even if he wished his hardest at the evening stars.

Shutting off the lights, the man smiled down at the two of them one last time, his only response to Rei-Rei's request being a small nod.

Finally, with the close of the door, Rei-Rei's father bid them good night— seemingly anticipating that the two balls of energy wouldn't truly be ‘asleep’; at least, not until their energy had saded.

The very moment her father closed the door, Rei-Rei peaked one eye open, listening closely for the footsteps of her father slowly getting farther and farther away.

She turned, lightly nudging Yuuta. “Psst! Yuuta!”

Yuuta's eyes opened. “Is he gone?”

She took one look back at the door, then at him, and nodded. “I think so!”

They both sat up with their backs against the headboard of Rei-Rei's twin sized bed. Taking a quick second to reach her hand beneath the bed, Rei-Rei took out a bag of potato chips she'd presumably been saving for what was currently past midnight. A post-midnight snack, if you will.

Carefully opening it without potentially waking anyone walking by — whether it be Rei-Rei's mother or father, it didn't matter — the two made the call that eating potato chips while it was way past their expected bedtime to be… a very bad idea.

Which they gladly took upon regardless of the consequences that could occur if they got caught!

They talked for what felt like an eternity, their conversations switching from different topics like clockwork; from theme parks, to junk food, to school life.

With school as their current subject, Rei-Rei began to ask Yuuta, “what do you think it'll be like?”

Puzzled, Yuuta replied with, “what what will be like?”

“Y'know!” Rei-Rei giggled, poking his shoulder with a cheeky smile. “Graduation! A new school!”

Yuuta and Rei-Rei were only eight and seven, respectively. And while that might've implied that they were one school year apart, they were born on the same year, only a few months apart.

With a purse of his lips, Yuuta didn't see much of the point on why his friend could bother with that kind of question. It wasn't like their elementary graduation was anywhere near— they still had a few more years to go before that could happen.

“I… I don't know.” He gave her a small shrug, tossing another potato chip into his mouth and chewing on it as quietly as he could manage.

“But aren't you cu… curi… curious? Curious!” Rei-Rei had the kind of smile that Yuuta would deem, ‘infectuous’. In a good way.

“I mean,”— Yuuta wiped his sour cream powdered hands with his pajamas, then went on to reach out and undo Rei-Rei's braids—“I guess a little.. what would it be like?”

“Dunno!” she flopped her head down on Yuuta's lap, closing her eyes while he undid her braids. Not quite tired, yet not nearly as energized as she was before.

“I just know it's gonna be… different. Would it be a good different?”

“I don't know…”

“Hmm… well, I want it to be a good different.”

As Yuuta laid down beside her, they both wrapped each other's arms into a hug. Rei-Rei let her head rest on Yuuta's shoulder.

“I wanna go to the same junior school as you,” Rei-Rei decreed, her voice soft, on the verge of a yawn.

“You do?” Yuuta had always assumed that he'd see Rei-Rei less and less as time went on, after graduating from elementary; until it would go to a point where he'd never see her at all.

“Mhm..” Rei-Rei snuggled closer, letting out a yawn. “You're my best friend, Yuu.”

Then, came the emotionally wrecking addition to that declaration that almost made a dam of emotion collapse onto Yuuta's being.

“And I don't want that to change.”

⊱───────────────⊰

Yuuta still stood at the entrance of his now, former elementary school. His certificate in one hand, Rei-Rei's hand in the other.

It was Rei-Rei and her parents that accompanied him to the school for graduation; his father was too busy with business investments, and his mother… he didn't know.

As Rei-Rei's mother took her away, thus slipping Rei-Rei's hand away from Yuuta's while she fussed about the current messiness of her daughter's tear-soaked face— her father bent down to Yuuta's level.

“You okay?” Rei-Rei's father asked him, a comforting hand on Yuuta's shoulder.

No, Yuuta answered in his head, I'm not.

Graduating from elementary hit Yuuta harder than he thought it would. All those memories, the teachers he'd grown attached to, many of the friends he made— most of, if not all of those, would end after the ceremony.

And it did. As everyone else had left the school hours ago to celebrate, Yuuta felt insistent on staying for just a moment longer. As if to grasp at straws to all those memories for as long as they could before he'd have to let go.

He sniffled, looking down with a small shake of his head. Even if he didn't voice his reply to Rei-Rei's father, Yuuta knew that the man crouching beside him was a very observant person.

He gave the best advice, Yuuta believed. When his own father wasn't around, Rei-Rei's father would pick Yuuta up to and from school.

Yuuta felt welcome every time he got the chance to visit Rei-Rei's house. He felt safe there in a way he never was in his own home. Like he belonged there, in a way he never felt in his home.

Rei-Rei's father stared at Yuuta, his brows furrowing in worry. He pulled Yuuta into a hug, and that was when Yuuta felt safe enough to cry.

“I'm-” Yuuta didn't like crying; his father always told him crying was only a waste of time. “I'm sorry—”

“Don't be…” Rei-Rei's father pulled him closer, resting his chin on the top of Yuuta's head and rubbing his back in as comforting of a manner as he could.

“You should never be ashamed to cry, Yuuta… it's just a part of being human.”

While her mother fussed about her messy hair, her dirty uniform, and her tear-soaked face, Rei-Rei stared sadly at Yuuta.

She always thought herself as the kind of girl that could fill silences. The kind that could brighten a room no matter the circumstance, and in turn, the people in that room who were having a less than pleasant mood.

But with Yuuta… she never wanted to think about it too much, but she always found it hard to comfort Yuuta.

Words never formed even when she wanted them to. She could only manage bringing Yuuta into a hug and telling him that it'll all work out in the end— it was always him that did the comforting, never her.

All she could do was to only hope for the best. For both her, Yuuta, and their friendship. And that it could last for as long as they lived.

⊱───────────────⊰

Why did it have to turn out like this?

Rei-Rei asked that question over, and over, and over again in her head; her twin-braided hair soaked in dirty water, her body shaking, and every single one of the more recent stitches reopening and bleeding out.

Four people stood in front of her: two twins, both of them boys, one girl, and the one that pained her the most— Yuuta.

He was the one holding the bucket that was dropped over her head. She smelled of dirty school bathroom water, but all she could think about was: Why? What happened?

One of the twins snickered. “Look at her, she's crying!” Rei-Rei didn't realize the tears were flooding out until they were pointed out.

The other twin snickered with their brother. “What else is new? She's the school crybaby.”

The girl took out a pair of scissors, smiling widely — far too widely — at Rei-Rei's hair. She'd been growing it out for the better part of two years since elementary graduation… and she figured that now, it wouldn't be as long as it was for any longer.

Before the girl could even take a step closer, Yuuta stopped her, his hand gripping her wrist.

A ray of hope flashed in Rei-Rei's eyes. A small sliver, pleading with Yuuta before things could escalate with nothing but the eye contact they currently shared.

Yuuta's body was stiff, rigid. His grip tightened around the girl's wrist, making her squeal. “Y-Yuuta-!! Your hand-!”

“Sorry,” Yuuta said with a newfound lack of emotion Rei-Rei had realized, all too late, fit him far too well.

“But we shouldn't cut her hair.”

“Huh??” One twin’s jaw went slightly slack.

The other twin was outright outraged. “What the hell?? But it'd be so funny!!”

“And?” Yuuta shoved the bucket into the younger twin's chest, then locked eyes with Rei-Rei after pulling her hair up.

“She's already so…” his nose crinkled, his teeth bared in disgust. “Y'know what I mean?”

A swift push later, Rei-Rei was back on the ground, drenched in dirty water, her braids flimsy and undone; all her recent stitches reopened.

When she looked up, she hoped — if only for a moment — that she'd see a hint of regret from Yuuta. Any regret, any guilt; anything that could make her forgive him.

But he already turned his back on her, laughing with the rest of his new ‘friends’, before they all ran off to do God knows what.

Weakly, she sat up, looking down at herself. She knew nothing about those kids, not even their names, but she knew one thing. Because of them, her hopes were crushed.

Yuuta's changed. She missed him and who he used to be. But she lost him, too.

⊱───────────────⊰

Yuuta lost her. He lost Rei-Rei, and he was already beginning to slowly forget the details of her face. The color of her eyes.

Her smile.

His grip on the stuffed rabbit tightened unknowingly, his jaw clenched.

Most of everyone in Ramshackle were off on their own devices. Whatever they were doing, it wasn't important to him— not as important as trying to remember for even a moment, a semblance of what he could reminisce about Rei-Rei.

The laughs they shared, the memories they made; the good, the bad. The ones that made him smile in nostalgia, and the ones that made him want to punch through a wall out of sheer regret.

He remembered the day he started noticing her going to school less and less, until she just stopped coming. And once she stopped, it didn't take Yuuta long to finally come to terms with how shitty he'd treated her.

Maybe it was a courtesy, he thought to himself, staring down at the stuffed rabbit in his hands with a dark expression on his face. she's far, far away from me now.

And that's for the bes—

“Yuuta?”

He, very uncharacteristically, yelped, throwing the stuffed rabbit to the side and whipped his head toward the source of the voice.

His eyes narrowed into slits once he processed who called out to him.

“Octavia,” Yuuta crossed his arms, arching a conspicuous brow. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, nothin',” Octavia had a habit of acting very cartoonishly. Almost every single thing she did, or said, reminded Yuuta of all the old cartoon reruns he and Rei-Rei would watch as children.

Octavia herself reminded him far too much of Rei-Rei. The girl she used to be to him, far more than anyone else in Ramshackle.

“It's clearly somethin',” Yuuta drawled, the two of them circling each other in his room like two cowboys preparing to duel at high noon. Ridiculous.

Octavia chortled, batting her eyelashes innocently with clasped hands. “What makes you think that?”

Yuuta found it best not to go along with whatever antics she had planned by continuing that subject. Instead, he switched it by asking, “shouldn't you be with Jamil?”

Damn it. Even the sound of Jamil's name on his tongue irritated Yuuta, almost as much as the thought of Octavia spending time with the guy who was damn near close to killing them during the winter break.

Octavia sighed solemnly, the back of her hand melodramatically placed on her forehead. “He is, apparently, too busy with another party in Scarabia…”

“And that stopped you?”

“Nope!”

This girl, I swear. “And…?”

“I was just wondering if you wanted to… y'know..” he did not seem to, in fact, know. When Octavia realized that, she made a bunch of wild and frustratingly vague gestures with her hands.

Frustrated, Yuuta just said what she wanted to convey. “You want me to come with you?”

“Exactly!” Octavia beamed at him. For some reason, it hit Yuuta, hard.

With a gentle sigh, Yuuta conceded. He didn't say much, or anything at all. He gave her a nod, taking her hand to let her have a quick twirl right before Octavia laughed like an animated madwoman and dragged him to Scarabia at the speed of light.

Octavia wasn't stupid, however. Bubbly, cartoonish, with a heart full of snark? Sure, but not stupid.

Yuuta had the habit of staring at her for extended consecutive periods of time. As if he were remembering a time where things were simpler, and the cruel realities of the world — even in a world like Twisted Wonderland — weren't plaguing them in their thoughts.

Oh, if only he knew. Octavia didn't know if he knew. Maybe he forgot.

But she certainly didn't.

⊱────────────────────⊰

【 Taglist / Credits 】

↳ In order of OC appearances/mentions

“Rei-Rei” — @jasdiary

Octavia Fortunato — @/jasdiary

Sumeragi Yuuta — Me 😈

|| @starry-night-rose || @authoruio || @nem0-nee || @fumikomiyasaki || @sakuramidnight15 || @hallowed-delights / @terrovaniadorm || @twsted-princess || @mystery-skulls-ghost || @absolutelyobsessedkiya / @twistedsongstressofstarz || @valse-a-mille-temps || @shrimpnetwrk ||

[lala3244]

When the protectors are gone Part FOUR

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Hello everyone!

Part Four is here. I don't think there are some warnings maybe some angst in like two sentences. Ah yes, consumption of alcohol

Enjoy!

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A lot of people were there and when we stepped inside everyone turned around and got quiet. I looked at Lord Diavolo, worried and whispered quietly “Why are they looking at us like that?” He laughed “Did you look at yourself?” I shrugged “Of course” He looked down at me “Well? You are just splendid. We make a beautiful couple.” I nudged him discreetly and he chuckled. We walked down the hall where everyone moved to let us pass. I felt really uncomfortable with all the stares on me. Diavolo seemed in his element and he walked proudly towards a huge table at the end of the room. The table was full of presents. The more we approached, the more I could see many notes with my name on it. I turned around and I saw a lot of people that I didn’t know. I couldn’t think of why they were there. “Lord Diavolo? Why are there so many people? I don’t know them?” He smiled “I invited them because I want them to see the nice relationships you have going on with the demons and the angels so they can see it can work.” I frowned “But Lord Diavolo, don’t you…” He cut me off “Please can you go back to calling me Diavolo?” I stared at him while shaking my head “I don’t think I can do that yet, Lord Diavolo.” He lowered his head, a sad expression on his face. “I understand. Hopefully, you’ll change your mind soon. I don’t like it when you call me Lord but I cut you off, please continue what you wanted to say.” I smiled, “Yes, um… sure. I was thinking the relationships I have with you and the brothers are not really the best, are they? I don’t think you should have done that as it is not a good example. It would have been better to show Amelia’s relationships than mine.” I controlled my anger when I said her name. I needed to get to the bottom of it but first I had to get through this party and go to the human realm. He nodded “I guess. But it’s good that they know that human beings are not weak creatures. You are a strong one.” I pouted “I don’t think being saved by another demon is me being strong.” He laughed again “No, but look at you! Fully healed and surrounded by demons with no fear in your eyes, your face nor your stance. Talking brashly to their prince and to the seven Avatars.” 

I relaxed, “That would mean I am disrespectful of you my Lord.” He laughed louder and everyone turned around again to watch us. He calmed down and looked around then leaned down to whisper in my ear so I was the only one who could hear.“Yes, it wouldn’t be good for a human to be disrespectful, would it? But I think I can forgive you for that.” I giggled and blushed. He straightened up and with a booming voice got the attention of everyone in the room. “Good evening everyone. I have invited all of you to come here to celebrate one of the first exchange students of our program. Last month was her birthday, for reasons I won’t mention we haven’t been able to celebrate it so tonight we will make it up to her. From all of us, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” All the demons screamed at the same time “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” Barbatos handed me a glass of what looked like champagne and I happily took it then I drank it in one go. I took another one and this one I took my time to sip. I thanked Diavolo and he told me to stay where I was. He made a sign with his hand and some classical music was playing. He held out his hand “May I have this dance with you?” I nodded and took his hand. He put his free hand on my waist and intertwined his fingers with mine. Everyone moved to give us some space to twirl around and we started dancing. I couldn’t figure out how I could follow his lead and know when he was going to spin me around and catch me again but I could. It made me gleeful. When the song was ending, Lucifer came and I switched with him. It was the same as our date, my body following his every movement and one by one the brothers danced with me. Simeon took over then Solomon. After dancing with the sorcerer, I was tired but I really enjoyed it. I sat down and Diavolo came over “It’s time to open your presents.” I walked towards the table and started to open them while everyone surrounded me to see what I received.

Once the presents were opened, Diavolo stayed by my side while I talked to the people whose names I could memorise from the notes and Lord Diavolo introduced me so I could thank them properly. So that was my evening, I went around talking to people I didn’t know and for a few of them I could feel their hostility towards humans in general. I was so glad Diavolo was there as I guessed they would have eaten me by now or taken me away in their dungeon to do who knows what. I could see in their eyes their dark fantasies and it got me scared. If one of them were to transform I would freak out but hopefully none of them did. They were mostly polite and the evening went smoothly. 

After the last one, I was so tired, I wanted to go home. “Lord Diavolo. Would it be impolite for me to leave?” He looked at the room and most people were leaving or already gone. “Can you wait for a few minutes?” I sighed quietly, “Sure I can.” He smiled broadly, happy. Finally, everyone was gone except the brothers, the angel and the sorcerer. Diavolo said goodbye to all of them and told them to wait for me outside. He pulled a box from his jacket and gave it to me. “I wanted to give you a present to always remind you when you first met all of us. I hope you’ll like it.” I opened it and saw a beautiful bracelet, thin, covered in tiny diamonds and the day of my arrival shaped with tiny red stones. I smiled at him and thanked him with a kiss on the cheek. He blushed, surprised by my action. “Can you help me put it on?” He grabbed the bracelet and clasped it around my wrist. He took my hand and turned it to observe his gift. “I knew it would suit you well.” Still holding my hand, we headed towards the exit and opened the door. Barbatos followed us with my presents in bags and gave them to the brothers. There were a lot… Diavolo turned me around so I could face him, my hand still in his. He looked at me, a tender smile on his face. He leaned closer to my ear “I know it doesn’t make up for what happened but I hope you had a good time. Enjoy your vacation back at home.” I nodded and he kissed me on the cheek. I could hear Mammon, grumbling and walking towards me.

Mammon put his arm around my shoulders and he guided me down the stairs to go to the Hall of Lamentation. “Did ya have fun ?” I shrugged “I would have preferred to spend the evening with you instead of talking all night with strangers but it was okay. I am not used to having all the attention on me.” I heard a scoff after my sentence. I turned my head to the side and saw Amelia walking next to me “What’s that laugh for?” She faced me with her eyes widening “What do you mean?” I frowned, “You just scoffed.” She looked ashamed but still she said, “You say you’re not used to the attention but you’ve been getting it all the time!” I stopped and scowled “Are you seriously telling me ALL this time you’ve been here all the attention was on me?!” She smirked, “Why, of course.” This time, I was the one scoffing. “Well, at least, I didn’t ask some demons to attack me so I could have some attention” I lock eyes with her, my face inches from hers, to let her know that I knew. Her eyes became slowly wider as the realisation of what I was implying hit her. I didn’t move for a few seconds and I smirked, happy with how it played out. I turned back around and started to walk towards the demons who had stopped walking a few metres away. Mammon put his arm back around my shoulders and started to walk while some of the brothers waited for the other human. 

Finally, we were home and I went straight to my room. I saw my cat and gasped. I had forgotten to ask someone to look after him while I was gone! I quickly changed into my pyjamas and ran to Satan’s room. I knocked on his door and waited in front of it then I felt a presence behind me. I turned sharply, surprised but saw the demon I was looking for. I exhaled a breath I was apparently holding, relieved. Satan tilted his head but made no attempt to move. “Do you need something?” He moved closer to me and I had to look up. “Yes, I was wondering if you could look after my cat while I am gone?” His eyes softened but his face still looked serious “Of course, but what do I get in return?” I smiled, “What do you want in return?” He hummed, thinking. “I don’t know yet, I will let you know” I laughed, “Of course, take your time.” I leaned up to kiss him on the cheek “Thank you Satan”. I came back to my room and started to pack my luggage. I went to the bathroom to take the makeup off and brush my teeth. I laid down on my bed and started to fall asleep but then I heard the door opening and closing followed by steps going towards my bed. My mattress dipped, someone was sitting next to me and I heard a whisper “Human? Are ya awake?” I giggled “Yes Mammon, I am.” I scooted over to make some room for the demon. 

He froze for a moment and I laughed, “Do you need something Mammon?” He took a corner of my duvet and moved it so he could get inside it. He covered himself and came closer to me. I could feel him hesitate to do something so I moved closer to him and I wrapped my arms around him. He gasped at the sudden movement but embraced me back. I massaged his scalp while he buried his face in my chest. “Whats’ up Mammon?” His grip tightened and he whispered, “Do ya really need to go?” I kissed him on the top of his head. “Yes, I need a break Mammon. I need to see my family.” He squeezed me tighter “Aren’t we your family? We need ya” I stopped my massage “No, Mammon. You feel guilty if demons can feel that emotion, all of you and that’s why I need to go. I am starting to resent all of you despite how attentive everyone is now.” My eyes started watering. “I don’t want to talk about it yet. I just want to sleep and leave tomorrow morning.” I could feel him nod his head and we fell asleep.

I woke up early, feeling so excited. I felt a dead weight on my body and saw Mammon on top of me, his whole body enveloping me. I couldn’t move but tried anyway. “MAMMON! Wake up! I need to get up!” He grunted but made no movement. I tried to shake my whole body. “MAAAMMMMOOONNN! Come OOOOONNNNN!” He lifted himself on his elbows and brought his face close to mine, frustration in his eyes “Human, shut up! It’s too early and I decided that I will keep ya in ya bedroom so you won’t leave me.” I laughed and succeeded in moving him off me. “I'm leaving for a few days, I promise you I'll come back. I have some unfinished business here. If you let me go, I’ll buy you some gifts.” His head perked up and he nodded excitedly “Okay! But I’ll finish my night in yer bed.” I put my whole body on top of him to hug “Sure, you can!” I got up and got myself ready. 

I went downstairs with my luggage, waiting for Barbatos to transport me to the human realm. After a few minutes, he arrived and we travelled through a portal directly in front of my sister’s house. I had previously called her to tell her about my surprise for our mom and she agreed to drive me over to her flat. Barbatos left discreetly as I blatantly ignored him so excited to finally see my family. I knocked on the door and my sister Ellie greeted me. She let me in and we went to the kitchen to drink some coffee. We talked for a bit then we left to go over to our parents’. 

We arrived at my parents’ building. My sister rang the bell and my dad opened the door. He saw me and hugged me, happy to see me. My mom arrived after and smiled. I went inside and hugged her. “Happy birthday, Maman!” She hugged me back “What are you doing here?!” I pulled away “I wanted to surprise you for your birthday and take a break from where I am.” She hummed “I see, are you sleeping here?” I nodded, “If you don’t mind, otherwise I can stay at Ellie’s house.” She looked at my dad who agreed “Of course you can stay here! You know where your room is but I need to prepare it.” I walked over to the guest room door “Don’t worry! I’ll do it. Today, you aren’t doing anything!” I opened the door and put my luggage inside, I grabbed some sheets and made my bed. “I am going food shopping and we are going to have a picnic at the beach!” So my sister drove me to the supermarket, we went back and got everything ready for a day at the ocean side. Ellie had helped me and contacted some friends and family to join us and they were already there when we arrived. My mom was pleased to see everyone reunited for her. I put down my towel and undressed myself to my swimming suit. I went for a swim in the ocean. It felt so nice to see the sun and to swim freely without being afraid of demons hurting me. 

We all sat around to eat on the sand. We made sandwiches and salads, and we also brought some drinks. I looked at my D.D.D and saw some messages from Mammon that got me a bit worried.

Mammon: Oi, human! Are ya in the human realm?

Mammon: Are ya safe?

Mammon: Why ain’t ya answerin’?

Mammon: Ya need to come back now!

I frowned and tried to call him but he didn’t answer. I texted him back but I got the same result. 

I looked to my left and saw three figures I recognised. I stood up and walked towards them to be sure I was seeing right. Solomon, Simeon and Luke were here, on the beach I was with my family, in the human realm. I ran towards them and hugged them “What are you doing here?!” The three of them had a serious face and Simeon explained, “Lord Diavolo sent us here because he got wind of a group of demons are coming here to hunt you down. We don’t know how they knew you would be here without any protection but they are coming. It will take them a few days to arrive as they are not allowed to teleport here so they are taking the longer way.”

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THE END

It is getting a bit more interesting!

I'll see you soon

Much love to everyone !

NEXT

[myreia]

Divergence of the Heart

CHAPTER SIX: PROMISES KEPT, PROMISES MADE

Chapter Rating: Mature (full story rating is Explicit) Characters: Aureia Malathar (WoL), Aymeric de Borel, Thancred Waters, Hilda Ware Pairings: Aureia/Aymeric, Aureia/Thancred, Thancred/Hilda Chapter Words: 7,625 Notes: Set during the Heavensward patches. Summary: Aureia Malathar may have made a name for herself in Ishgard, but her deeds come with a hefty personal toll. Despite her victories at the Grand Melee she has never felt more unsure of herself. Her relationship with Thancred—the person she thought knew her the best—is strained, yet she cannot abandon him. Aymeric is falling for her harder with each passing day, yet she cannot bring herself to accept it. All may be fair in love and war, but at least war is predictable. Love on the other hand… Chapters: 1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • 6 • 7 • 8 • 9 • 10 • 11 Read on AO3

Aureia sips at her wine, barely cognizant of the smooth, rich flavour flooding her mouth, distracted as she is by Aymeric. Friendship, he proposed, but it is more than that and they both know it. Something better left unnamed for now. She doubts either of them know where this evening will end, but to be frank, she would rather not think on it. She wants nothing more than to enjoy her time here in his company, without distraction or worry.

The food is as good as it smells, featuring dishes she knows and more that she doesn’t. The last time she had a meal this fine Raubahn lost an arm, but she has a feeling the limbs of all attendees to this dinner are safe tonight. She bites her tongue, refraining from making the joke. Even with a glass and a half in her system, she’s not a fool enough to overshadow the evening with memories of the bloody banquet.

Aymeric is more talkative than she has ever seen him. Of course he is habitually loquacious, rivalling only Urianger for the amount of words he can squeeze into a sentence before running out of breath, but the way he relaxes over the course of dinner brings a smile to her face. The politician is always simmering underneath, but the more their conversation wanders, the less present he becomes. So rarely have they had the chance to talk about topics unrelating to war or politics, she knows she is seeing a side of him he rarely shares with others, if at all.

She knows the feeling all too well. Idle chatter about unimportant things isn’t something she’s used to even among friends. Outside of Tataru’s company, that is. Then again, Tataru makes it a point for her to talk about non-world-ending events on pain of death, so maybe that doesn’t count.

This is good. For both of you.

“…would that I could have seen such a momentous event,” he says, his eyes sparkling with interest. “Thank you, truly—”

“Wouldn’t have been a problem if it wasn’t so bloody cold,” she replies with mock sarcasm. “Why is it so cold here? Is it always so cold?”

“Ah.” He pauses, lowering his fork. “It has been this way for some seven years now. Ever since the Calamity overrode the land with frost and fury.”

“Oh.” She flushes, pressing her lips together. She should have known that; or, at the very least, put two and two together. This side of the world was ravaged by horrors she could only imagine from the safety of her post in Ilsabard when Dalamud fell from the sky. “What was it like before?”

A strange expression falls over his face, lost in thought. Whatever memory he is retreading resonates with fondness and loss. “Green valleys and rolling hills, so vibrant in their colours no painting could capture them,” he says quietly. “Lakes clear as glass reflecting skies of pure azure. I remember there were small periwinkle flowers that bloomed in abundance near Whitebrim Font. My mother… the viscountess… She was very fond of them. Now that I come to think of it, I cannot remember their name.”

He pauses and glances across the table at her, the memory subsiding. “I am certain any botanist could tell you the extent of what was lost far more keenly than I,” he continues conversationally. “A whole land irrevocably changed. We cannot return to what we have lost, but perhaps we can look to what we have gained. A new land sprung up beneath our very feet. In time, who knows what will come to call these snowbound highlands home? As destructive as the Calamity was, I would consider it rebirth rather than destruction. For Coerthas was not destroyed. We remain.”

She smiles. “I like that.”

He returns the smile and reaches for the decanter, refilling his glass. “I suspect you will admonish me for this, yet I must admit I have the desire to apologize for our inclement weather, as far outside my control as it is.”

Aureia snorts, unable to hide her laughter. “Don’t,” she says and pushes her glass across the table. Not necessary, perhaps, but why shouldn’t she be indulgent when in the company of friends? “There’s comfort in it. Familiarity. Predictable, if you know what you’re getting into, what to expect, and come prepared. Too many Eorzeans balk at a little snow.”

“Speaking from personal experience, I presume?”

“It’s not exactly a climate the city-states are used to, no. Three years on this continent and I’ve yet to see genuine snowfall outside of Gridania. It’s funny to think I would have had an easier time adjusting had I found my way to Ishgard rather than Ul’dah. Thanalan was unbearable after Ilsabard. I’m used to snow, not heat. The desert was suffocating enough outside the city, but inside? Like being trapped in a hothouse.”

He pauses, gripping the decanter, and a strange look crosses his face. Too late she realizes the implications of what she has said, the conclusion he must have come to. She flinches, mind whirling as she grasps at any explanation that will do, truth be damned. It’s not that she wants to lie to him—of course she doesn’t, she never has, the thought of it makes her sick to her stomach—but that she can’t bring him into her past. It is not a place she is willing to go with him. He doesn’t deserve to suffer in those trenches with her.

“I take it you spent time in northern Ilsabard, then,” he says carefully and tips the decanter, the deep red liquid pouring out in a rush.  

She swallows the lump in her throat, her eyes drawn to his hands. He fills the glass near to the brim and pulls back. A bead of wine bubbles at the lip, clinging to the edge. It falls, the spot splotching the tablecloth. A single crimson spot on a sea of white. Like blood in the snow, Coerthan, Garlean, or otherwise.

Trust him. You have to trust him. If you can’t trust him, you can’t trust anyone.

“I did,” she says finally. “I was there for many years.”

Aymeric sets the decanter down. “The Imperial capital?” he asks.

“Close to it.” Her throat is raw. A lie, of a sorts. Stationed there for a time, but on the outskirts. She never stepped foot in the Imperial palace or the districts that composed the true capital. She may have been born within Garlemald’s borders, but people like her were never considered as such. They would never let a non-native like her, with dangerous magic coursing in her veins, closer than that. “Long enough to adapt. Eorzeans think Garlemald is bitter and unforgiving, but they do not know the half of it. It is far more than the cold and the ice. There is no survival if you are unprepared.”

“I have heard similar when Lucia has seen fit to speak of it. You have all my respect and more, Aureia—” He cuts himself short, laughing awkwardly as he quickly corrects himself. “Of course you always have—I didn’t mean to say that I did not before—but knowing this, even in the smallest capacity, knowing what trials you must have faced on your journey here…”

You don’t know. You have no idea. The bitterness of the thought takes her by surprise and shame flushes her cheeks. How could he know any different? He must be imagining some grand escape by yet another defector with too much good in their heart to endure living in a tyrannical nation. Not an operative with too much blood on her hands, who fled for selfish reasons.

Avoiding his gaze, Aureia reaches for her glass and disappears behind it, taking a long drink. Aymeric exhales a long breath and runs a hand over his chin, lost in thought. If her behaviour is odd to him, he either has not noticed or thinks nothing of it.

“Aureia, may I confess something?” he says after a moment.

She lowers the glass and nods.

“For countless decades Garlemald has been an enemy to all nations upon this star. But oft I have wondered where we would stand had history shown us a gentler hand, one of collaboration and cooperation rather than one of ruthless war. What could we have learned from Garlean expertise had the few not corrupted the many with tyrannical ideals and gluttonous expansionism? What could they have learned from us?”

He leans against the table and holds his gaze to hers, his eyes blazing with passion. How long has he been withholding these thoughts, waiting for the right person to tell? Someone he trusts irrevocably? “Ishgard has its own bloody history, a fanatical fabrication upheld by the very souls charged with her protection while they bled her people dry. As Ishgard recovers, I am left to wonder whether the cycles we have suffered here are not also in play in a land like Garlemald. As our nation has been isolated from the brutality of their war by virtue of being preoccupied by another, I would dare utter this before the Alliance when our coalition is so young and untested. But I believe there is a mirror in our greatest enemy, one that reflects a terrible truth we see in ourselves.”

“I don’t know if many would agree with you,” Aureia replies grimly. “It’s an empire. It’s not a place you can forgive.”

“I do not speak of forgiveness. They have harmed and will continue to harm the world greatly. But to paint every citizen who lives beneath their banners with the same broad stroke does not sit well with me. It would be the height of hypocrisy after what Ishgard herself has partaken in.”

“Perhaps.”

“I am not a faultless man, Aureia, I know this to be true more than anyone. I still have much to learn. But if there is one lesson that has remained with me throughout my time in command, it is that leadership does always speak for the people. Those with power will always have an agenda at play, for good or for ill. I will not condemn civilians for the place of their birth. When they have been shown no other path than one that has led to dogmatic beliefs and unquestioned chauvinism, perhaps they are as much victims of their government’s regime as those who have fallen to Garlemald’s might.”

“And those who are not civilians?” The question is out of her mouth before she can stop herself. “In a future where the Alliance wars with Garlemald and the Empire is brought to its knees, what grace would you extend to those you fought on the battlefield? Would you see them as victims worthy of help or perpetrators deserving of punishment?”

“That is a difficult question. One that has no easy answer.”

What would do you, Aymeric, if you knew? That I was one of those very people.

“I would like to hear it.”

“Then I would say I have none. For war only muddies the waters, never cleanses it. We know all too well how the annals of history are written in the hand of the victor. There are casualties on both sides of any war. If we are to judge our enemies by the harshest laws, then we must look to our own leadership and judge them by the same standards.”

She blinks, uncertain what to say, and looks down, chasing the remnants of her meal across her plate. The evening’s conversation has led them in a direction she didn’t predict. And all from a discussion about the weather…

The again, Aymeric’s sincerity has struck her deeply. She has never known anyone like him, really. His unshaking resolve paired with his unflinching acknowledgement of his own flaws… He has a capacity to see the good in people without excusing terrible actions. What he has told her tonight will stay with her for a long time.

“I apologize.”

His voice interrupts her thoughts. She blinks again, clearing her vision, and finds him staring at her from across the table, concern in his eyes.

“I did not mean to ask you to revisit painful memories,” he continues. “Whatever is in your past you have no obligation to tell me unless you wish to.”

She raises her head and picks up her glass, swirling her wine and fixing him with an arch look. “Did you know you say sorry too much, Aymeric?” she says.

His eyes widen, an embarrassed pink flushing his cheeks. “I—well—perhaps I do, but it is out of respect, is it not? I apologize, I had not realized—” He stops, cutting himself off as he hears the words he has just spoken. Chuckling, he shakes his head at himself and takes his wine in hand. “I am a fool, aren’t I?”

She smiles. “No,” she says, taking a drink. The wine warms her, flushing across her chest. Despite the gravity of their conversation, she feels content. Safe. Happy. “At least, no more than the rest of us.”

“I should strive to do better.”

“You should strive to be no more than yourself.”

Aymeric pauses, once again surprised by her words, and raises his glass to his lips. He drinks deeply, savouring the wine as he regards her from across the table. There’s that look in his face again… The one she can’t place. He seems enchanted and she hasn’t even done anything. Who is she to hold his attention? His friendship? His love? Though she wants to believe differently, she can’t ignore the deep sense of wrong within her. That this is some horrible mistake. That someone like her doesn’t deserve someone like him.  

She drums her fingers against the tabletop, desperately searching for a way out. She thinks back, winding the conversation back to before it slipped into uncomfortable territory. The weather. The snow.

An idea forms.

“You know I don’t mind the cold,” she says, raising her glass to her lips. She nurses her wine, her fingers dancing across the table. She waits, noting how he watches her as she turns her palm upwards. With a breath, she commands the smallest threads of aether, her fingers crackling with frost as ice manifests in her hand. It dances above her palm, reflecting the warm glow of the candlelight in its crystalline heart. “I have a few tricks.”

He smiles and watches enraptured, the remains of his meal forgotten. “Ah, of course,” he replies. “The talents of a black mage are never to be underestimated.”

“Useful in Ul’dah.” She relaxes her fingers as the ice splits into three small shards and rotate in a circle above her palm. Show off. “On scorching days when I could barely think.”

Adrenaline is already coursing through her. Creating ice is a shock to the system, jolting her mana regeneration into overdrive. The font is infinite, regenerative, powerful. To have so much mana flood through her at once makes her head spin, her heart beat faster, every fibre of her being pulsing with untouched power. So simple, yet so addictive.

Aureia exhales and dismisses the ice. It dissipates in a puff of air, snuffing out the nearby candles. “This is more helpful here,” she says, summon a small ball of flame. She splits it into three and lets it play across her fingers. The orb burn brightly and happily, the light warming her skin. Fire-aspected aether is so often deemed the crux of destructive magic, but she knows better. As devastating as its power can be, fire can also soothe. Warm the hearth. Light the way. A spark in the darkness. “I don’t need much when travelling the Coerthan wilds.”

Aymeric watches in rapt silence as she twists her hand and sends the orbs flying, each alighting on a candle’s wick and setting it aflame. “Estinien thought I was quite the idiot last year. Running off into the snows by myself.”

He chuckles. “Estinien has a low opinion of all adventurers. Himself included.”

The pained look on his face does not go unnoticed. “He will return someday, Aymeric,” she says.

“I would like to believe it. But some days I am not so certain.”

“I think he was right to leave—”

“Without informing a soul? Vanishing without a trace? That is true to form. He is gone, and for those who remain, those to whom he extended a rare hand of friendship, are left to only speculate where time and tide will take him. Or how many moons will pass before he sees fit to return.”

She pauses, meeting his eyes. She has never heard him speak in anger about those he holds dear, at least not like this. Estinien was a friend to them both, but Aymeric knows him in a way she never will. Their bond runs deep, one of comradeship and brothers-in-arms. That he gave her no notice before departing doesn’t phase her, nor can she blame him for it. She may have very well done the same thing had she been in his place. But for Aymeric… Forget Ishgard, to walk out on him without a word has stung him.

And of course he is too polite to show much anger.

Without thinking much of it, Aureia reaches across the table and slips her hand into his. “I miss him, too,” she says softly. “Give him the time he needs, he deserves that much. As I said, I think he was right to leave. There can be no recovery in a place that reminds him of everything that was done to him.”

He exhales a long breath and closes his eyes. “You are right, of course. I spoke in haste and ill of a very dear friend who deserves compassion and understanding, not grievance and blame. Forgive me.”

“Aymeric. What did I say about you apologizing too much?”

He chuckles, shaking his head, and opens his eyes. She catches a flash of a smile in the flickering candlelight and he squeezes her hand once before retreating. “What say you to another round, my friend?” he says, raising his cup.

Aureia glances downwards. When did she finish her glass? She can’t remember. “Why not?” she replies and grabs the decanter. Normally she would avoid a third glass except on nights when she’s intent on drinking herself into oblivion, but with Aymeric she feels… Well. It’s not like she has anything to do tomorrow. And he offered.

He rises from his chair as she refills their wine, reaching for the platter of pastries and shifting it down the table. They have yet to taste any of them, distracted by their conversation as they are. He returns to his seat and clears his throat, hovering awkwardly as if he is waiting for her to make the first move.

“You must know we Ishgardians enjoy indulging ourselves,” he says, taking his glass from her. “It would be very poor manners indeed for me to deny you the first taste of dessert. Please, go ahead.”

She pauses, arching an eyebrow. There must be a reason for his hesitance. Why does she have the feeling he is planning something? “All right,” she says suspiciously, reaching outwards. She doesn’t know half the names of the desserts on the plate, but a familiar red pastry catches her eye at once. “Oh gods, tell me you didn’t.”

He chuckles with laughter and takes a long drink of his wine, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I heard whispers that you were fond of such little treats.”

“I was! I am! I—”

“Are you blushing, Aureia?”

“No, I—” She shoots him a dirty look. “It’s just that these are made with snurbleberries. What kind of a name is snurbleberry? The Warrior of Light can’t go around announcing she likes snurbleberry tarts, it would ruin the image—oh don’t look at me like that, you know what I mean.”

“Of course.”

“Oh, I… Fine. Perhaps I should consider this vengeance for all the times I’ve teased you.”

“Perhaps. Though, in the spirit of honest conversation, I would be bereft if you stopped. Your spirited remarks are a reminder that I am not confined to the stoic and stately countenance required to be upheld by the Lord Speaker.”

Warmth floods through her. Or is that the wine? “I used to love these,” she says, plucking a tart from the plate. The red berries stain her fingers. “I haven’t had one since I was exiled from Ul’dah. How did you know?”

“As I said, I heard whispers.”

“Mhm.” She takes a bite. “Whispers. I’m sure.”

“And by that I mean to say that I spoke with Tataru. She was quite keen to spill your most closely guarded secret.”

She laughs, mouth full, and finishes the tart. “She’s a good friend. Knows me better than she lets on. We have been through a lot together. Her, me, and Alphinaud.”

He nods, his smile warm. “You have. It was by terrible circumstances that the three of you sought refuge here, but I am forever gladdened that you did. Our lives would be quite changed had it been different.”

The conversations stills, lulled to comfortable silence by sweets and wine. Aureia sips at her drink, pleasantly full and warm, her gaze passing around the dining room. She can’t remember an evening where she has enjoyed herself so thoroughly and so peacefully. When they are on their own—without the meddling of stuffy butlers—there is something about Aymeric that keeps her grounded. At peace.

She doesn’t want this evening to end. 

“Aureia,” Aymeric’s voice says quietly, interrupting her thoughts.

“Hm?”

She glances across the table to find him risen to his feet, a hand extended. Ever the gentleman.

“Would you join me in the parlour?” he asks with a half-bow.

She arches an eyebrow. “Am I allowed to bring the wine?”

“I don’t believe I could deny you even if I wanted to.”

Glass gripped in one hand, she follows him through the double-doors at the end and across the threshold into the parlour. The room is smaller to the sitting room they occupied before, though similarly decorated in plush furnishings and soft blues. Cozier. More private. Her gaze wanders, taking in the portraits lining the walls and hung above the hearth. Family portraits, hunting scenes, brave knights and fearsome dragoons… Naegling makes an appearance in more than one. These must be the ancestors of House Borel.

Not his family by blood, but his family by choice.

He settles into a couch by the hearth, resting his wine glass idly on the armrest. She joins him and sinks into the cushions, curling her legs beneath her. He looks different here in the comfort of the parlour. Relaxed. More at ease. His proximity sends an excited shiver down her spine. She has seen him countless times, but now she wonders whether she has ever truly seen him. The deep midnight of his hair, the faint flush on his cheeks, the way the light catches his familiar blue and gold earring. The curve of his lips.  

She presses her glass to her mouth, the rich wine heavy on her tongue. She wonders what it would be like to kiss him. She wants to. She imagines it would be nice. He must be good at it. How many lovers has he had, she wonders? He’s so determined, pragmatic, married to his work. It doesn’t seem like he has had the time for that kind of thing. And yet he is far too much of a romantic not to.  

Her stomach twists into a knot. There it is. The familiar embarrassment rushing up within her, the horrid sense of wrong, wrong, wrong. She’s not normal. She knows this. The things that come so easily to others are not easy for her. She hates the judgement, self-inflicted as it is.

Would he think differently of her, if he knew? How incongruent it is—a warrior and a saviour on one hand, capable of striking down primals and stemming the tides of chaos, and a shamefully inexperienced woman on the other, who at over thirty would be considered an unsalvageable old maid by Ishgardian standards. There are girls half her age who are married.  

Not that Aymeric thinks much of Ishgardian standards.

You have got to get over this.  

She hides from the thought by gulping down a mouthful. When she resurfaces, her head feels light and buoyant, buzzing from the drink.

“I think it’s my turn,” Aureia says finally, sinking deeper into the cushions.

Aymeric raises an eyebrow. “For…?”

She nudges him playfully with a foot. “You asked me a personal question. It’s time for me to ask you.”

“Oh?”

“It’s only fair.”

“I won’t argue that. What would like to know?”

She pauses, wetting her lips as she thinks. “Your parents. What were they like?”

He doesn’t answer. The longer they sit in silence, the more her panic grows—perhaps she misspoke, perhaps it was a mistake to go down this path. She told herself she wouldn’t pry into his family history, but her curiosity won out in the end. She wants to know, if only to know him better.  

“My foster parents…” Aymeric speaks quietly, lost in thought. He rests his hands against his knees, his wine glass held loosely in his hands, his eyes lingering on the portraits on the wall, the generations who came before him. “Were I to describe them in a single word, I believe I could choose no other word than resolute. They were elderly when I was born. No heirs. The Borel line would have died with them had they not taken me in.”

She curls up, leaning her head against the back of the couch, and listens with rapt attention. There is as much love in his voice as there is pain.

“They knew there would be talk. That their House’s reputation would be tarnished by adopting a bastard boy. But when it came down to a choice between sacrificing their reputation in the eyes of the nobility or surrendering their house entirely, they chose the former. Too many depended on them. Loyal knights whose fathers served their fathers, and their fathers before them. Servants who had been with the family for generations. They had a right to call this house home as much as my parents did. Had they died without an heir, they would find themself in need of different employment. The knights would be absorbed into the personal guard of rival houses, the servants scattered among the staff of the nobility if they were fortunate or to the Brume if they were not. Benoit and Violette did not wish to condemn those sworn to them and under their care to such instability.”

Aymeric clears his throat and lowers his head. She can barely make out his face in this light. His profile his dark, the lines of his sharp, proud features backlit by the crackling hearth.

“And so they were steadfast in their decision to raise me as their own. The scandal of it haunted them for the rest of their lives, but they cared not. They were upstanding members of high society, the most noble of nobles. For every cruel word spoken about them, they simply smiled and carried on, secure in their decision. And they were happy in their final days. Content to see me grown. Benoit, proud of how I had proven myself in battle and honoured to pass me Naegling, the symbol of his lineage. Violette, proud of the caring and determined soul she believed me to be.”

“How old were you when they passed?”

“Fifteen.”

A lump forms in her throat. Fifteen. So young. Too young. Still a child, though he may not have been considered as such at the time. Ishgard is far from the only nation to send their children off to war, but the unquestioned nature of the status quo does nothing to relieve the pit in her stomach. She was a child once, too. Garlemald crushed it out of her.

Aureia sips slowly, nursing her wine. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs.  

He catches her eye. “They loved each other deeply. Trusted each other beyond measure. Their faith in one another saw them through the course of life, both the good and the hard. Some would say they were blessed by the Fury, to live the full lives that they did, for as long as they did. It is not often that Ishgardians reach their old age, even among the Elezen. War, grief, and illness all take many before their time.”

A pause. There is no discomfort in his voice; she knows without a doubt that he is telling her this because he wants to share it with her. Her fears of prying too far into his history dissipate. “A love like theirs was precious. Perhaps it is idealistic of me, but one day I hope to find the same, unlikely as it is given my position.”

“Aymeric…”

He raises his glass to his lips and drinks. “It is the way of the aristocracy. Family is of the highest importance, second only to our war and our faith. The relationship between noble bloodlines is ancient and complex. Marriage is a joint endeavour, a commitment struck between two households with an heir as the prize. I may be the Lord Commander, but I am also a viscount. I know the expectations set before me.”

“That’s hardly fair.”  

“And yet I understand the truth quite plainly. No, Aureia, as long as I hold Ishgard in my heart of hearts, my duty is to her and her people above all else. Personal sacrifices will be demanded, and they are ones I am content to make for the sake of this fledgling republic.”

“It shouldn’t be that way. Can’t you… I don’t know, change their minds? You are the Lord Speaker, aren’t you?”

He throws his head back and laughs, fixing her with a warm smile. “I can certain rouse discussion between the Lords and Commons and guide them as best I can,” he replies. “But no. Enacting reform within a system of governance is a far cry from changing a culture itself. I cannot expect the high and minor houses to change their views overnight. It will be a slow progress, one that I can only hope will benefit our children’s children and their children after them.”

She nods, rubbing her thumb absently against the side of her glass. This talk of love has brought a flush to her cheeks and she is once again thinking what it would be like to kiss him.

Damn it. Maybe he wouldn’t even want to. As he has said himself, there are expectations placed upon him. He will eventually need to marry. Have children. Where in that is there room for someone like her?

“And this is what your parents wanted for you?” she asks.

He glances at her. “Benoit and Violette wished only for my happiness,” he replies. “That I pursue a life worth living, whatever I believed that entailed. But there was a time when my foster mother did confess to me that she wished for me to leave Ishgard and see the world beyond our borders. And I will freely admit there was a time I yearned for that too, only to set it aside when practicality won out. However…” He trails off and he sets down his glass, shifting on the couch to face her. His fingers brush hers, tentatively taking her hand in his. “Truth be told, visiting those sweeping vistas of the Churning Mists with you at my side has reminded me of those days. I do feel the slight pangs of wanderlust, and I think… Someday, perhaps.”

Aureia meets his gaze. A part of her wants nothing more than to keep staring at him, to listen to his steady voice and fall deeper into his eyes. Another, smaller part is screaming at her to excuse herself and flee, escaping back to her miserable existence in the Forgotten Knight and forget all about him. She knows this will never work, this thing between them. Why set herself up for failure and risk hurting them both?

She swallows the panic and shoves it down. “Someday, yes,” she echoes tentatively. “Aymeric, do you think perhaps—”

A warm rumble resounds in her ears. A cat—large, orange with grey streaks, his fur fluffier than any she has ever seen—steals out from under the couch. He rises up and places his paws on the cushions by her legs, his tail swishing back and forth.

She stares at him. He stares back with large, yellow eyes.

“Sylvaine,” Aymeric chides, his tone somehow both fond and irritated. “What are you doing here?”

“Sylvaine?” Aureia asks.

The cat mews and stretches, his claws digging into the cushions and pulling at the fabric.

“My parents’ cat.” He leans forward and scratches the back of the cat’s head. “An old gentleman by any standard now, though Marcel complains he is far too lively for his age. One could say he is as much a symbol of House Borel as I am.”

The cat yawns, showing sharp teeth.

“Be careful. Majestic though he is, do not underestimate him. He has a mean streak the size of Coerthas for anyone he deems troublesome or dangerous. Or—quite frankly—anyone he thinks has looked at him wrong. Once he has judged you unworthy there is no asking for forgiveness.”

She holds back a smile. “Oh? And what counts as troublesome in his little lordship’s mind?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. It changes day to day, week to week, you see. I would never dare to assume what is happening in my dearest feline friend’s mind. Though I do recall quite vividly the day he cornered the fair Lady Hermine de Gervaise in the corner of the second floor library. As the staff could not catch the dastardly creature, a dragoon was called to assist the good lady in climbing out the window and escaping to the safety of the garden below. So great was her fear of Sylvaine that it far outstripped her fear of heights, you see.”

Aureia snorts with laughter. “Poor Hermine.”

“Indeed. Poor Hermine. She never called on me again, despite her family’s insistence.”

Sylvaine mews and leaps into her lap, curling his tail around him. His weight is warm and pleasant. Friendly. Cautiously, she reaches out a hand and runs it down his back. He offers a content purr in return and snuggles deeper into her lap.

“…and the dragoon?” she asks, petting the cat. She’s not used to being around such creatures, especially household pets. The closest thing she has is Filo and her chocobo is such a notorious biter that the Holy Stables refuse to stable him. “What happened to him?”

“Hm? Oh. The lady thanked him for his service, as I recall. And he made every excuse never to see her again.”

Her eyes narrow. “Please don’t tell me that was Estinien.”

“I have indicated nothing of the sort.”

“Oh, you liar. That absolutely was Estinien, wasn’t it.”

He grins. “Old stories aside, Sylvaine is very dear to me and the staff. His temperament may be ferocious at times, but we could not want for a better guardian.” He scratches the cat fondly, watching the way he curls in her lap with amusement. “I am glad he has taken a shine to you.”

She returns his smile. Finishing off her wine, she reaches over and places the glass on the floor. She has no desire to get up and find a table when there is a cat in her lap. “Aymeric,” she begins softly. Her head is buzzing slightly. It is so comfortable here, sitting on this couch with him. Between the warmth of the hearth, the contentedness of the cat, and his company, she has never felt more at ease. “When you said someday earlier…”

“Yes?”

“You spoke of wanderlust.”

“I did. I have no shared this with many, but I have a fervent wish to see more of this world. The lands beyond Ishgard. Beyond Eorzea. It is a yearning I cannot fully explain. My mother once said I had an insatiable curiosity; perhaps it stems from that. We have turned a blind eye to the world beyond our gates for too many years. I once considered myself well-versed in the ways of the world, but your arrival here has shaken that. Indeed, the vivid accounts of your adventures and our exchanges with both the Alliance and the Scions of the Seventh Dawn have been a firm reminder that there is much I do not know.”

She pauses, careful not to jostle Sylvaine as she moves closer. “Then come with me.”

“To where?”

“Anywhere. Beyond Coerthas. Beyond Ishgard.”

“You have no idea how fervently I wish to accept such an invitation. But I cannot. My duties with the House of Lords demand my undivided attention.”

“They ask too much of you.”

“They ask nothing. It is I who must give it to them freely, for the sake of my nation. I cannot abandon them for my personal desires, no matter how much I wish I could.”

Aureia meets his eyes. “Have you considered that perhaps it is not they who do not have faith in you, but you who do not have faith in them?”

He blinks, so shocked by her statement that he is lost for words. “I… well… I…”

“The situation is perilous, I know. This new republic of yours is young and fragile. There are many in Ishgard—and the world beyond—who believe you are the sole reason why it has not fallen apart. That makes you a target.”

“We both know that all too well.” The gravity of his words is not easily missed.

“But if the Lords and the Commons are indeed so volatile that they will fall apart if you disappear for a day, then it will happen one day with or without you. You speak of trust so often, but I think, perhaps, it is you who do not trust them, rather than the other way around. Show them you have faith in them. They will eventually have to learn to govern without you.”

He sighs and bows his head, a faint flush on his cheeks. “Once again you have seen straight through to the heart of the matter,” he says. “How do you do it?”

“Sometimes you care so much you blind yourself. Or put yourself in your own way. I have a fair bit of experience with that latter one.”

Sylvaine mews and sits up. With a long stretch, he gives a great yawn and leaps down onto the floor, skidding across the rug. He prances away, tail held high, and slinks through the open door into the dining room and out of sight.

Aureia watches him go and shifts closer to Aymeric. A distant part of her mind is startled by her newfound confidence. Perhaps it’s the direction of the conversation or the comfort she feels here—or the wine. Most likely the wine. But she will seize this moment before she loses it. She has to.

“So,” she finishes, slipping her hand into his. It would be too easy to curl up against him, her head on his shoulder. “I’m going to ask again. Would you come with me?”

He squeezes her hand, his eyes unable to leave hers. Thancred would likely say something snide about him looking besotted. Her heart thunders in her chest. Between the wine and the way he’s looking at her, the desire to kiss him is overwhelming. Why shouldn’t she? She may never get another chance.

Aymeric smiles gently. “There is nothing that would make me happier—”

She kisses him.

For the briefest of moments, she feels him freeze in shock and surprise. Then he melts, his mouth warm and gentle as he kisses her in return. She trembles, her mind buzzing, giddy with astonishment at her own boldness. Without giving it much thought, she twines her hands at the back of his neck and pulls herself into his lap, straddling him. His breath catches in his throat and she senses his hesitation, his hands resting gently against the small of her back.

But he does not push her away. For a moment, they are caught in time—seconds passing, indecision mounting, as if they are both too hesitant to make the first move.

And now that she is here in his arms, it terrifies her how scared she is of losing this. Losing him.

Head fuzzy with wine and too lost in the moment to think, she does the only thing that make sense. She presses her mouth to his again and kisses him deeply—

He pulls back. “Aureia, wait,” he says.

“Hm? What for?”

Aymeric exhales a long breath. “I… This… A moment, if you would, please?”

Shame flushes her cheeks. Was she too eager? Did she misunderstand him completely? Did she misread every sign? Maybe his interest in her was simply her imagination. Fuck it, maybe those romance chapbooks really did do a number on her. This is all Tataru’s fault.

Fuck. What the hells do I do now?  

Cursing inwardly at her own stupidity, Aureia disentangles herself from Aymeric and slides off him, shifting to the far edge of the couch. Her face burns with embarrassment and she tugs awkwardly at her coat, readjusting it. It’s difficult to forget the feel of his hands on her back or his mouth on hers. For a moment, brief though it was, she was in a fantasy.

Brushing her hair out of her eyes, she rests her elbows on her knees and stares determinedly at the opposite wall. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean—”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. It was I who—”

“No. It was me—”

“Aureia—”

The door opens.

“Lord Commander, I—”

Aymeric rises to his feet and drops his hands to his sides, standing at attention. “What is it, ser?” he asks, his tone crisp and official. “News from House Fortemps?”

Aureia flushes, doing her best not to fixate on how quickly he has fallen into his professional façade. The messenger is not one she recognizes, but from the shine in his armour and the terseness in his voice, she has a feeling he is one of Artoirel’s men. The Fortemps heir has never liked her much and the distant professional courtesy he extends her has rubbed off on his knights. If he had walked in only a few seconds sooner, he would have caught them in a moment that would no doubt give Artoirel yet more ammunition to disparage her with. Not that he couldn’t put two and two together…

To his credit, the messenger either hasn’t noticed or refuses to acknowledge the empty wine glass on the floor.   

“An urgent message for the Warrior of Light,” he says with a curt bow. “I was instructed to deliver it without delay.”

Well then, spit it out already. She forces a smile on her face and gestures, silently inviting him to continue.

“Master Thancred returned to the manor a short while ago—”

Aureia’s heart drops. Thancred, returned. Thancred, at the manor. She hasn’t given him any thought for a while now. Impressive, considering how difficult it has been to excise him from her mind. So many restless nights of unanswered questions rolling around her head, wondering what went wrong and when, shoving down the hurt of seeing him and Hilda together like that. She was enjoying being free of it.

And now it has coming rushing back.

She would be lying to herself if she said she wasn’t relieved to hear of him. Confirmation that he is safe and sound.

“—bearing an injured maiden.”

Her ears prick up. What’s this?

She exchanges looks with Aymeric. He raises an eyebrow, but she shrugs and spreads her hands. She is as perplexed by the announcement as he is. What maiden? Who could it possibly be? Thancred has a reputation for philandering, but it is, frankly, a farce. This must be something else.

“Master Leveilleur and Mistress Tataru are tending to her wounds, but they do not like her chances. Respectfully, my lord. They have requested the Warrior of Light’s presence immediately.”

Aureia’s eyes widen. If Alphinaud is involved…

It can’t be. Alisaie…?  

His long-lost sister and twin, who diverged from her brother’s path to take matters into her own hands. Aureia doesn’t know her well and has not seen her in years. But if she is back and she is injured, if Thancred saved her… Then she knows where she has to be.

“I will go at once,” Aureia announces and rises from the couch. Blood rushes to her head and she winces, doing her best to keep her expression straight as a headache pulses between her eyes. She is regretting drinking that much wine. She may not be drunk, but from the way she is wobbling she knows she must be tipsy—and it’s going to be a pain to hide it.

Aymeric puts a gentle hand on her elbow, steadying her. Whether it is a gesture of support or to save her from further embarrassment, she doesn’t know. Her stomach twists into a knot. She doesn’t wanted to leave things left open with him like this, but she doesn’t have a choice.  

“And I shall go with you,” he says firmly. “Lead the way, ser. Mistress Malathar and I will follow.”

[thegoldencontracts]

Denial

A quick jamiazu drabble I wrote at 11 PM while trying to sleep. No plot or graphic content, just raw self-indulgence :D However, there is a mention of poisoning, though nothing actually happens.

  Professor Trein's Advanced Placement Microeconomics Class was something that Jamil would have really liked being in, considering that it gave him a rare break from having to hold himself back for Kalim's sake. Keyword: Would. Unfortunately, there was one thing that stopped him from doing so. And that - was one Azul Ashengrotto.

  Every single day, without fail, Azul would pester him about hiding his true self and whatnot, showing an extremely creepy understanding of him in the process.

  "Ah, Jamil, you truly do possess a wonderful level of talent! I truly am blessed to be capable of witnessing it. If only you would give me more chances to witness such beauty," Azul had said one day in his typical, ingratiatingly saccharine tone of voice.

  Jamil had no clue why the man was so dedicated to tormenting him like this. He had a perfectly working charade that made sure that the Asims didn't murder him, and yet Azul was determined to expose him. Did the man want to see him murdered that badly?

  "Careful," he replied, "keep talking like that and I'll begin to think you're actually being sincere."

  "Oh, Jamil," Azul said with an annoying and - very low effort, might he add - mock-pout. "I'm hurt. Are you not aware of my unwavering adoration for you? Why, I may even write an ode to you for the sake of proving it."

  Jamil just rolled his eyes. "You're insufferable. Just- please don't actually try to write an ode to me."

  "I cannot promise anything, my dear Jamil," Azul said. Seven, that man was so annoying.

  Every day without fail, they would have a similar conversation. Azul would approach him about his hidden talents because the seven-forsaken man had basically committed himself to ruining Jamil's perfect good facade that was keeping him alive and off the streets, Jamil would respond with some dry remark, and then Azul would make a somehow even more annoying quip about being hurt or subtly blacking him or whatnot. Honestly, it started to annoy Jamil less and less. He wouldn't go as far as to say he liked talking to Azul or anything. It was just a weird form of exposure therapy, that was all.

  One day, they were having another one of their mid-class conversations, though Jamil was only responding because he was finished with his work and had nothing better to do.

  "Really, Jamil," Azul said, "I cannot understand why you don't showcase your talents more often. This is Night Raven, after all, where no one is tied to their status. "

  How had Azul figured out why he always scored the average? More importantly, why was he shocked that the slimy octopus who knew more about some of his classmates than they themselves did had managed to do that?

  "Pick your words carefully," Jamil said dryly, "keep on trying to figure out my life story and I'll start to suspect you actually like me as a person rather than as a potential extra source of power."

  Usually, Azul would feign hurt, claiming he really did like Jamil, making some melodramatic claim. However, this time, that didn't happen.

  Instead, Azul turned a dark blue, and Jamil was actually a bit concerned. After all, Azul could pass out from some sickness and leave him as the biggest possible cause, and he had no intention of being lambasted by his parents and the Asims for drawing attention to himself.

  "Well, I- er, I think you-" Azul awkwardly gripped the back of his neck, and Jamil could see how hard the fingers were digging in there.

  Incoherent speech was a symptom of a stroke, and of dosage with certain types of poisoning. Combined with the blue face, consumption of poison or malignant potion seemed increasingly likely. Then again, two symptoms weren't enough for him to be sure. He needed to press further.

  "Azul," he said, "Can you try to finish your sentence?"

  Azul turned even more blue at that, and his hand rose to cover his face. "Hmph. There's no need to mock me. I simply wished to explain that I merely respect your talent for the sake of avoiding misunderstanding."

  Well then, Azul was speaking coherently. That was good, because it meant that Jamil didn't have to worry as much. Still, that was rather uncharacteristic, and Azul's face was blue, so-

  Wait. Azul was an Octomer, meaning he was cold-blooded and therefore had blue blood. If his blood was blue instead of red, then that meant him turning blue was the equivalent of a regular human turning red. And that meant-

  No way.

  "You're blushing, aren't you?" He asked incredulously. This was too good to be true. That slimy prick was flailing for once? " You're floundering, trying to act calm."

  "I-I am not 'floundering'! I am merely- merely attempting to-"

  "To hide your face. Because you're embarrassed." Jamil finished for him.

  "I, er- Oh, Jamil, I think we should compare answers." Azul poorly deflected, for once acting like a normal human being instead of the personification of those contracts he loved so much. If only Azul was always like this, maybe Jamil would actually tolerate him.

  "You're just proving my point. You're floundering like you're not in a human form right now."

  It was like Azul had started malfunctioning or something, because he was sputtering out like an overloaded machine.

  "Take your time," Jamil snickered, thoroughly enjoying every moment of this sweet, well-deserved revenge he was getting for all the times that stupid octopus would pester him. "I can wait."

  "You're a rotten man," Azul grumbled, finally regaining some semblance of composure, though his face was still bright blue.

  "I've been trying to tell you the same thing for ages now, Azul." Jamil said.

  Before he could continue getting any more sweet vengeance, the lunch-bell rang.

  "Oh," Azul said. "We'd best be heading our separate ways then. As two classmates, for I have no attachment towards you whatsoever."

  Jamil snickered, "Whatever you say, Azul. Whatever you say."

  It wasn't until way after that talk of theirs, during the evening when Jamil realized:

  Wait, Azul liked him?

[waffledreamwriter]

A choice (Jungkook ff)

Chapter 1

When Jeon Jungkook first met Kim Min-ah, it was a cold winter day just over one week after their first year of high school started. The classroom’s heater wasn’t on so it was pretty cold in there but for now, it didn’t bother him. He was sweating, and he could feel his shirt sticking to his back because he had sprinted to school, having woken up late. Jin was punishing him, there was no other explanation.

"If you don't wake up when I call you the first time, you might as well be responsible for it yourself. I won't be your alarm clock any more," he jokingly had said in his loud voice, and since then there had been neither a knock on the door nor an earth-trembling shout accusing him of ignoring someone older than him. He just had a very hard time waking up when he was such a deep sleeper - it wasn’t his fault. Besides, all seven of his team members had gone to bed really late last night after some heavy dance practice

The class sat quietly looking to the front and waited. The girl appeared shy and calm - perhaps too calm - but her eyes were edged with a certain hardness. Her jet-black hair reached her shoulders, and a pin held back the length of what might have once been a fringe that she had let grow out now. Almost furtively, his gaze wandered over the baby hair on her hairline and how it contrasted starkly with the energy she radiated. It was not negative or scary at all, but it was almost painful to see her standing in front of 15-year-old teenagers while the teacher introduced her. She looked uncomfortable as if she just wanted to get it over with, take her seat, and go unnoticed.

"Nice to meet you, I'm Kim Min-ah," he heard her quiet voice say as she bowed politely and that was it. There was no mention of where she came from or which school she transferred from. He did wonder why she had a late start to the year, but not even their teacher gave them an explanation and seemed fairly disinterested at the moment. 

She was told to sit down in the empty chair next to him. When she got closer, he detected a faint scent of baby powder washing over him. It smelled clean and comforting and it didn't make his nose itch and twitch.

"Hi," he squeaked, immediately feeling like an idiot. His voice was still in puberty, and even at his age, it cracked more often than not, especially at the first words of a sentence. That always earned him some teasing from Jimin,

"Hello," he tried again. Her eyes softened a little, and she pulled up the corners of her mouth into a small smile. And that was all they said because for some reason he felt intimidated as hell. She must have sensed it, because her soft expression soon disappeared and she concentrated on getting her textbook out of the bag she had put on her lap earlier - a bag that looked very worn.

Jungkook, you idiot, what a great first impression you just gave her. He hadn’t even introduced himself properly.

For the next few weeks, they talked only politely. He asked her if he could borrow a pen, a ruler or a blank page from the notebook, but he just couldn't find the courage to take their interaction further, even though he wanted to. He watched as she tried to start a conversation with the other students in the class and get involved, but it was as if they had closed the door on her and shut her out for some reason. It didn't go as far as bullying her, but he could imagine it might come to that at some point. He didn't particularly connect with anyone in his class even though the majority of them were trainees at different entertainment companies themselves in Seoul. It was an elite school focused on performing arts and that was the only reason they were all attending it. Personally, he thought that he would get that additional education in music that would serve him for his goals. And luckily, his parents were well enough off that they could afford the fees.

Jungkook was at an impasse with Min-ah for a long time. She was mirroring his silence and he was mirroring hers, but neither of them took the first step to change the situation. Until one day he spotted her outside of school laughing out loud at something another girl said. Her friend was wearing a different uniform, so she clearly did not go to the same school as Min-ah and him. Her face lit up so much from the laughter that he looked at the sight of her with amazement. She had dimples, and just like that, the intimidation he had felt when they first met was gone. He had imagined it all.

Seeing her so carefree with someone she trusted put her in a very different light. He was so absorbed at the moment that he did not even notice Taehyung trying to get his attention but a strong nudge on his arm finally snapped him out of his trance.

"Jungkook, hey, let's go," his friend and member of their group called out. He looked at his friends standing there watching him curiously. Namjoon, Hobi, Jin, Jimin, Yoongi and Taehyung. They were making their way back to their dorm room 10 minutes away from their company’s building where their practice was held on a daily basis. 

“What are you looking at?” Jimin asked with a chuckle as Jungkook finally took the first step towards them. He couldn't help taking one last look at Min-ah, who was now red in the face, breathless and with tears streaming down her face.

“I just saw someone from school.” 

“Ooh, is it a girl? Where?” Hobi asked and tried to look over Jungkook’s shoulder but he quickly turned his friend around and pushed him forward. “Ah, our little Jungkook is all grown up now. He’s finally starting to find girls interesting.”

“Shut up,” Jungkook protested laughing with everyone out of embarrassment.

“Is it the girl sitting on those steps with the yellow jacket? That’s your school uniform, isn’t it?” Jin asked with a fake air of nonchalance. Everyone one looked around hurriedly trying to spot her even though Jungkook did his best to divert their attention.

“Come on guys we need to go to practice.”

“That’s here? She’s cute. What’s her name?”

“Her name is Min-ah, but it’s not like that. I’ve barely spoken to her. I was just surprised to see her, that’s all.”

“Why didn’t you speak to her? I still don’t get why you’re not trying to make any friends at school. It’s been over a month now and you never talk about it. I thought you staying away from everyone during the entrance ceremony was weird, and we tried so hard to get you to interact with everyone.” Namjoon added.

The teasing went on their way to practice but their conversation did finally make him decide to talk to Min-ah the next day and get rid of the intimidation he felt every time he was around her. What he hadn't counted on was the murmur from his classmates as soon as he entered the room, and he automatically stopped in his tracks when he realised what they were talking about.

"I don't know. Dong-hyun said he saw her walking into that rundown building near Guryong Village on Friday night when he was driven back to his place after piano classes."

“The ugly grey one in the slums?”

"Isn't that too far from here? Maybe she was just visiting someone."

"Impossible, at that hour? That can only mean she lives there. She’s dead poor, that can be the only explanation. Have you seen the bag she brings to school? It has holes in it. I don’t even know why she is here. She definitely has no idol material."

Jungkook saw one of the boys frantically nudging the girl – Bae Da-bin – who spoke, warning her to stop, but it was too late. Min-ah was already under the threshold, ready to enter the classroom. It was clear she heard them talking about her, but after a quick glance around the quiet room, she kept her eyes down and walked to the bench she shared with Jungkook but seemed to have thought twice about it and swiftly walked back up to the girl who spoke last with an air of defiance.

“Yes, I’m not a trainee, never even considered becoming an idol. I’m just here to learn music.”

He noticed how exhausted she actually looked at that moment. If it was true that she lived in Guryong Village, then the journey to school by public transportation would take at least an hour and a half every day. 

Min-ah was met with laughter from the group. 

“Can you even afford an instrument?”

Giving up on it, Min-ah lowered her head and turned to silently head to her seat. Nothing of what was going on sat well with him. He was about to walk up to the group sitting by the door and tell them that they had no right to talk about her. If true, they had no idea what had happened to her to put her in this position and that gossip was not okay, but the way Min-ah froze as she stared down at the desk had his full attention back on her. He aimed to follow her and as he did, Da-bin called out to him making him stop in his tracks.

“Jungkook, I’m having trouble with the art assignment we got. Can you help me out later? You are really good at drawing.” 

He didn’t want to argue with anyone at this point and simply nodded in agreement before worry for Min-ah overtook him once again and he kept on walking.

Having his gaze fixed on her again, he sensed that something was fundamentally wrong. It was as if she had retreated completely in her mind and once he stood in front of her, he understood why.

With a bold black marker, someone had written Gutter-rat on her side of the desk.

The way all the blood left his face was instant and his stomach dropped with a heavy feeling. The slur wasn’t aimed at him, but reading the words made him want to grab something to erase it as quickly as possible so that Min-ah wouldn’t have to look at it anymore. She took matters into her own hands though and quickly threw her worn-out bag onto the table covering up the insult before sitting down in her chair.

After a beat, Jungkook did the same glancing sideways at Min-ah and could see that she was trying hard to keep a stoic expression on her face, staring at the blackboard, waiting for the lesson to begin. Her hands were on her lap under the table, clenched tightly into a fist. Although the conversation had stopped, he felt eyes glancing in their direction and he knew they were measuring Min-ah's reaction – someone even let out a quiet giggle. It had to be uncomfortable to be exposed to that.

And suddenly he understood why she remained so quiet when she was introduced to the class, why it felt like she had a massive wall around her, and even more so when she gave up talking to people when she saw they were not very receptive. She wanted to fly under the radar to avoid exactly this.

"Don't listen to them. They haven't bothered to get to know you," he tried to comfort her, but felt hypocritical, for what had he done to get to know her better?

Just before the teacher entered the classroom, he heard Min-ah say in a low voice, "They never do..."

Hearing those words, his chest contracted. One could say that she also needed to put herself out there more and be more persistent so that people would approach her, but he suspected that there were too many experiences, and not all of them were positive. Why should one close oneself off so much if not because of that?

At the end of the first lesson, he wondered whether he should talk to her today or wait a little longer. By lunchtime, he had come up with a whole new dialogue, different from the one the night before. And at the end of the day, he wondered where Min-ah had gone.

After he finished art class, he was full of determination again and set out to look for her all over the school. He did not have any afternoon classes with her, and he had not thought to check her timetable before he went looking, so he felt like he was looking for a needle in a haystack. He was sure, however, that she had not left yet, because her outdoor shoes were still in her assigned locker at the entrance.

He was on the third floor when he heard distorted guitar chords. No voices could be heard, so the person must have been alone. He quickly approached the room from which he suspected the sound came, and there he found her: sitting alone on a chair by the window, concentrating on the instrument in her lap, trying to play. For a while he stood by the door, peering through the small window, watching her silently. She obviously could not play, and she knew it if the sigh she let out was to be believed.

Then she let go of the neck of the guitar, closed her eyes and began to sing softly. Just as he was mesmerised by her when he saw her carefree and laughing with her friend, he was mesmerised by her singing. It wasn't the usual high-pitched style so common among girls in Korea - it was unique and soulful. She had a raspy voice, and she knew how to distort it. He had not expected her to sound like that after hearing her speak in class.

He wanted to get closer, to have a better view, but he realised too late that the door was not a sliding one and that a gentle push when he leaned against it opened it up wide. He almost fell flat on his face but managed to keep himself upright, only to see Min-ah looking at him in surprise.

"Sorry," he said breathlessly, straightening and then fiddling with the hem of his uniform shirt. "I just heard someone playing, and I wondered who it was."

She lowered her gaze to the instrument, looking a bit embarrassed. "I wasn't sure whether I was allowed in here. I couldn't see any classes scheduled, so I thought it would be fine."

"There are no classes at this time. And you can book the room for yourself if you need it, as long as nothing else is scheduled. You just need to go to the teachers' room and fill out a form; they will then verify it and add it to the rota. They usually post it on the wall there every Monday morning." Jungkook realised that he was rambling a bit, but it turned out that he was nervous himself, which was painfully obvious as soon as silence overcame the both of them.

Something needed to give. He wasn't the best at talking to people, either, but he felt like she needed someone to take the initiative and come up with a topic of conversation. He was ready to do so until she beat him to it. "Did you want to use the room? Sorry, I can leave. I didn't book it."

Min-ah was already getting out of the chair and placing the guitar back on its stand. He became a bit desperate at the realisation that he was losing another opportunity to speak to her yet again. "No!"

The exclamation stopped her in her tracks, and she once again looked at him with surprise. "I mean, I didn't book it," he explained, before letting out a sigh. "Do you want to learn how to play the guitar?" Let's start small, he reasoned, and approached her, taking the nearest chair.

"I do, but I missed the deadline to join the class for beginners since I started late," she explained. He asked whether she had tried asking to join anyway, but her blank face told him she hadn't. "I just didn't think it would be allowed."

"You won't know unless you ask. Let's go tomorrow to the teachers' office before classes start and speak to Mrs. Park, the music teacher."

"Are you sure? I don't want to create any problems."

"Don't be silly. And if they say no, I can teach you."

"You can play?" she asked in surprise. "Would you really teach me?" Her body was now fully facing him in eagerness, the bright smile on her face causing his own to falter. All he saw were dimples. And there he found himself again, mesmerised by how genuine, almost innocent, she looked with those sparkling eyes and shoulder-length hair framing the sides of her face. One of her front teeth was overlapping ever so slightly over the other. It would have gone unnoticed unless you paid attention to it, and he found that it looked adorable on her. His silent nod made her smile brighter if that was even possible, and something in his belly twitched.

Now imagine his disappointment when, the following morning, they found out that Min-ah could still sign up for guitar classes. That disappointment made it clear that he subconsciously wanted to be the one to teach her how to play and spend more time with her in the process. But he soon saw another opening: she didn't have a guitar.

"If you want to practise outside of class, I can bring my guitar, and we can use the classroom." Right after saying so, he realised that he, in fact, had not enough spare time to help her the way he had offered. He wanted to kick himself. She was biting the inside of her cheek, a habit that would show up whenever she was thinking hard about something. He had noticed this throughout the past few weeks while he silently observed her more often than not.

"You don't have to do this, you know?" Her voice lost some of the zeal she'd regained after being allowed to enrol in guitar lessons, she said. "I know people have been talking about me, and if this is your way of trying to make me feel included... don't feel forced to do so."

He stopped shaking his leg at her words, a habit of his that his mother had been trying to get rid of for a while now because it drove her nuts and a reason for Yoongi to call him out every time he did it. He told Min-ah that no, he wasn't forcing himself in any way.

"I pretty much keep to myself. My mother claims that I'm an extroverted introvert, whatever that means, but I wouldn't talk to anyone unless I wanted to. Even less, would I do my best to be friends with them," he said.

“Were you?” Min-ah asked almost as if challenging him. “Were you really doing your best?”

Jungkook sat stunned and quickly looked away. He picked on the skin around one of his fingernails, another nervous habit that he had. Her question made him realise that she wasn’t as submissive as he might have first thought and he wondered whether it was because she felt safe to do so with him. That thought sobered him up, he wanted to think that she felt comfortable with him to show herself just as she was. Not the shy demeanour on that first day she joined his class. He wanted to think that this was her way of testing him to see if she could trust him because she was willing to open up.

“I needed to gather some courage to speak to you…” he mumbled, embarrassed to admit so. 

“Why? Because I’m poor?”

“No!” Jungkook immediately interjected. “I just…” he thought about whether he should really be honest with her in this situation and admit that he simply felt intimidated by her which was childish. He never really could pinpoint why exactly he had felt that way towards her. She didn’t look mean, she wasn’t a bully, and she was always polite even when she was given the cold shoulder by people. “I’m just not good with… I’m just not good with talking to girls.”

“But you speak normally with everyone else in the class.” She was not letting it go and Jungkook broke out in a cold sweat. 

He didn’t miss how stupid he looked right now. So he gathered all that bravery he was supposed to come up with for when he would start performing on stage and quickly mumbled out his answer to avoid everyone else overhearing them.

“What?” Of course, Min-ah hadn’t been able to understand him so in an attempt to make himself clearer, he turned fully towards her, accidentally bumping his leg against her knee and leaning in, ready to tell her that he was nervous because he found her pretty. He had admitted that much to himself, but their teacher decided to arrive as soon as he opened his mouth, and he lost his chance.

It didn't matter, though. Because he would make sure that from that moment on, he would keep talking to Min-ah.

[breitweisergallery]

fic stats meme! 💌

Tagged by @mangacat201 and, speaking of eclectic mixes of fandoms... This will cross as many of my ao3 accounts that I can remember the login info to (which, it turns out, was 6 separate accounts)

rules: give us the links to your fic with the most hits, second most kudos, third most comments, fourth most bookmarks, fifth most words, and fic with the least words.

most hits: imagining the integration of our images - 5777 hits (The Devil Judge)

On the one day that Gaon is late to class, it happens to be the day they’re picking their practicum names. Supposedly, as Soohyun tells him later, they had picked based on their standings in the class. Gaon, at third, would have had nearly any choice in practicum. Instead, he trudges up the steps to the penitentiary with reluctant acceptance of the failure from the course.

It’s his luck, he thinks, to be assigned the singular criminal to not yet answer any of the questions posed to him, whether by professionals or by students trying to loosen him up. “Don’t give him anything, Gaon-ah,” Jungho had said, resting his hand on Gaon’s shoulder with a worried expression. Gaon knew, if it had been up to Jungho, if the practicum wasn’t overseen by the department as a whole, that the man, practically his father, would have found a way to give him anyone but Kang Yohan.

Kang Yohan. The man’s name itself was barely spoken aloud now, six years after he had been sentenced to life in prison. He had been such a rare case, of a smart and ambitious young man snapping. Gaon had stayed up late, reading on the case, well past when he likely should have gone to sleep.

second most kudos: a place to be - 326 kudos (The Devil Judge)

They’re in Switzerland for thirteen months before Yohan glances down at his phone and Elijah recognizes the number as Gaon’s. “Are you seeing him?” Elijah asks, casual and calm, like every other time she’s asked the question. It works, because Yohan freezes and slowly raises his head to stare at her, incredulous.

“What?”

“Are you seeing him?” she repeats and nods her head, as if to say yes, him. Yohan scoffs.

“Don’t be childish.”

third most comments: envious of the musical sounds of my name from your tongue, whispered in the folds of being - 24 comment threads (The Devil Judge)

“Let’s speak honestly,” Kang Yohan says lowly. “You’re covering for one of the other members of your group. Which one is it?” Gaon stares at him, silent. “I’ll be lenient if you tell me,” Yohan prompts. “Who is it? Kim Chanhee? Yoo Joonwoo? Bae Woojin?”

“I’ve admitted to the crimes countless times and I have been sentenced, Judge Kang,” Gaon says steadily. He looks back down and returns to shading his landscape. He doesn’t look down quickly enough to miss the curl of Kang Yohan’s lips into a smile.

“You will work until you are able to pay off an amount of one hundred and thirty seven million won,” Yohan says, tapping his nails against the desk.

“I stole one hundred and twenty seven million won’s worth of items.” Gaon looks up again, frowning.

“And another ten million won for perjury,” Yohan counters. “Good day, Kim Gaon. I’ll see you soon.”

fourth most bookmarks: voices stolen and people borrowed - 81 bookmarks (The Devil Judge)

It’s hard to get back into the groove of writing. The words aren’t quite there like they used to be, and Gaon spends more time staring at empty pages than actually writing. The muscle memory isn’t quite there and the words escape him when he needs them most.

But, like clockwork, there’s a customer who comes in at the same time every night, who gives Gaon a respite from staring at the empty page and hoping that words will come to him.

The customer always comes in with messy hair, in a hoodie and ripped jeans and boots that Gaon only places as brand name after the fourth time he sees the man. He buys an energy drink, a packaged meal, and whatever the brand of fruit snacks in the far left corner of the store are called, as many of the fruit snacks as he can fit into his pocket. He pays in cash and never speaks. Gaon notices, the same time he recognizes the brand of shoe that he wears, that the man has earbuds in, hidden underneath the shagginess of his hair. It takes another week before Gaon catches a glimpse of the man’s phone- the newest model Android- and he realises that the man isn’t listening to music, but rather, an audiobook.

fifth most words: Look Who's Inside Again - 17214 words (TXT, Super Junior)

She's never talked about his father before. All Kang Taehyun knows, is that his father and mother broke up before he was born, before his mother even knew she was pregnant with him, and she hadn't been able to get in contact with him after.

And then he debuted, and his mother finally breaks, finally gave him pictures. Taehyun recognizes the men in the picture immediately- what young idol doesn't know them- and he realizes in a split second that his life has just become infinitely more confusing.

--

Or Kang Taehyun finds out his dad is the leader of Super Junior and they both struggle to find what family means to them, when their homes have always been broken.

fic with the least words: Things that will Disappear are so Beautiful - 549 words (BTS)

The sun forms shades of pink and orange and purple on the horizon, setting in the purest fashion; in silence, disappearing without a trace. The sounds of the city are like ambience, faded against the pounding in his head, behind his eyes, and the itch against his inner lip, and the twitch in his fingers to move, always move. The twitter of birds chirping in the trees and the quiet rush of cars on the street, occasionally broken by the harsh honking of an impatient traveler; some days he misses the silence of the world and the simplicity of the wind against individual blades of grass, flowing like ripples following a single drop in a lake.

Tagging: @stars-after-dark, @godotismissingx, @thedeviljudges, @technitango and @lilacariess, as well as anyone else who wants to!

[kryzobi-wan]

The Sound of Mandalore

Chapter 6/20: "And I'll Sing Once More"

Read on AO3:

<;< Chapter 5

“It really is nice to be back here, Duchess Satine. I had forgotten how lovely it can be,” Merrik was saying as he and the Duchess made their way back to the prison from Sundari Palace.

Satine stopped and glanced around at their surroundings, at the perfectly manicured trees and bushes that grew in the palace gardens. They were practically the only bit of greenery that could be seen.

“The city? Well, if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all,” she said dismissively. Not to say she didn’t love Sundari. It had its own splendor apart from nature that felt like home after all these years. “I certainly do miss Kalevala though at times,” she admitted.

Merrik remained silent, but was suddenly standing much closer to Satine than she had originally thought. He looked at her strangely, expectantly.

“Oh, you mean me?” she spoke, stepping back half a step. “How… kind of you.” She tried to look flattered, she really did, but she was sure her face betrayed her in this moment.

“Is there something wrong with that, Duchess?” Merrik asked, stepping closer again.

“No, I—”

“You know, you’re so busy these days, Satine, it’s no wonder you haven’t visited your home world in so long.”

Someone really ought to teach this man some manners, cutting her off like that. She started their walk again, perhaps at a brisker pace than before.

“A shame, really,” he continued, keeping in step with her, “A woman should be able to enjoy the finer things in life instead of dealing in the nasty business of politics all day long.” He let out a sigh as if these thoughts were some great burden to his mind. “Still, I do appreciate your help with the incident on Kalevala that called you back to me.”

“Yes,” she responded uneasily, glad for the slight change in subject. “I admit I have grown increasingly more concerned by the activities of Death Watch. That was the third attack on a planet in our system in as many weeks.”

Merrik sent what must have been intended as a comforting smile toward Satine. “Don’t you worry too much, my dear,” he said, placing a hand on her arm. “I am sure that very soon they will be of little concern to you.”

-.-.-

“Another slice of uj cake, Mr. Ohnaka?” a young servant asked, holding up a tray of the fruity, nutty dessert.

The pirate grinned from within his cell. “How many have I had?” he asked, holding his hands over his belly.

“Six,” she answered.

“Ah, better make it an even seven.”

As the prison worker passed a sliver of cake through the slot in the door, Senator Merrik and the Duchess approached, shaking their heads at the audacious smuggler who already seemed quite comfortable in his captivity.

“Still eating, I see, Mr. Ohnaka?” Satine’s voice floated through the wide-open chamber as she and Merrik made their way to Hondo’s cell for questioning.

“The service here certainly lives up to what all the other pirates say!” he answered, far happier than any prisoner should look.

Merrik spoke up next. “Hondo, before we officially sentence you for running spice through Kalevala, is there anything else you’d like to state on the record?”

The Weequay sank to his knees, shuffling closer to the cell door. “Just that I am truly, truly sorry,” he said, making a real show of the apology. Crumbs of uj cake fell from his shirt. “I saw the opportunity and couldn’t resist, although I do wish I had been able to procure a team for the competition on Hosnian Prime. Curse my inability to pass up a business opportunity!”

Satine rolled her eyes. “Noted.”

The Duchess and Senator turned to leave, but Hondo, true to character, would not stop talking.

“Perhaps, it does not have to be a total loss, though…” he said, rubbing his hand on his chin in thought. “I do have other business to get back to—all completely legitimate of course.” His words fooled no one. “Maybe we could strike a deal—I borrow your protectors for a week, and when they win the contest, the earnings could be used to, er, settle my bond. What do you say?”

“That would be if they win,” Satine pointed out, as if she would even consider the bargain in the first place.

“A risk I am willing to take! Why do you think I came to Mandalore of all systems? That fighting spirit is in your very bones!”

Satine huffed and spun around, thinking of nothing but her peaceful Mandalore. This pirate would not corrupt what she had worked to build.

As if he knew what she was thinking, Hondo pleaded, “Oh come on, a few decades of peace cannot stamp out millennia of warrior blood! They may not use them anymore, but I know your guards possess exactly the skills I am looking for.”

Merrik, to Satine’s shock, responded, “Perhaps he has a point, Duchess. It could be nice to remind the galaxy that Mandalore is not some defenseless system ripe for the taking.”

The Duchess was not nearly as comfortable with the idea as the Senator seemed to be.

“Besides, it may cost more to feed that pirate for the length of his sentence than he is worth,” Merrik added with a laugh.

Satine hummed, amused despite her negative attitude. “I will consider it,” she answered coolly, turning to walk away. Merrik began to follow.

“That is all I can ask of you, thank you Duchess Kryze,” Hondo finished.

With one final nod, the Duchess left along with some guards, discussing something with them in private. Tal Merrik, however, hung back a moment.

“I did not think a man like yourself would have his eyes on the title of Duke Consort, Senator Merrik,” Hondo spoke, finishing off another bite of uj cake and licking his fingers.

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Merrik answered in his best impression of being caught off guard by the accusation.

Hondo waved his hands, sitting back on his cot. “Nothing, nothing. Who am I to judge whatever exploits you are engaged in? Power, riches, maybe even the chance to enact some changes to Mandalore! I see why you might be interested...”

The Senator sneered, his back still turned. “Indeed.”

-.-.-

When Satine returned to the Palace, she paused at the sight of one of the young Royal Guard cadets, who appeared to be snooping near Korkie’s room in the hall. She watched her for a moment before asking, “What are you doing?”

Her sudden appearance caused the girl to startle.

“Oh! Duchess Satine!” she began, “I was just looking for—” Her sentence trailed off at the sight of the Senator, who had finally caught up with the Duchess. She saluted him, the movement revealing a small Shriek-hawk symbol on her bracer.

Satine eyed her suspiciously. “Can I help you?”

The girl squirmed. “I come bearing a message for Senator Merrik. Prime Minister Almec would like to speak to him.”

Merrik shifted his gaze to Satine before stepping forward to the cadet, accepting the comm from her hand. She looked nervously between the Senator and the Duchess, stuck frozen in place.

“Alright, you’ve delivered your message. Now I must ask you to leave.” Satine’s rigid coolness carefully hid the disdain she felt toward the young woman. As she ran off, the Duchess turned to Merrik and said, “Did you see the symbol on her arm, Senator?”

Merrik looked up, placing the comm carefully in his pocket. “I am sure it is nothing but a sign of the teenage rebelliousness that all youth possess. She’s just a girl, after all.”

“Yes,” Satine pursed her lips. “I’m sure you’re right.” Her eyes remained trained on the cadet as she disappeared down the hall. Despite her words, she shared very little faith in anyone showing the slightest bit of sympathy for Death Watch. Girl or not, Satine was the Duchess after all. Vigilance was the name of the game on a planet prone to self-destruction like Mandalore.

Silence filled the space between them for a moment or two, and Satine made her way to one of the palace’s balconies without another word.

Merrik followed, taking up the space beside her where she leaned on the balcony rail. “Mandalore is committed to neutrality, as am I,” he assured, “A few young Mandalorians who think they understand politics do not pose a threat to our position.”

Satine turned on him. “I do not wish to underestimate a terrorist faction, Senator,” she countered, venom in her words. “You’d do well to ensure that you don’t either.”

Thoroughly chastised, Tal Merrik remained quiet for a while, while Satine allowed the view from the palace to cool her temper. She couldn’t help but think of another young girl who she had lost to Death Watch long ago. Outrage turned to melancholy, and now she wanted nothing more than to be left alone.

“I apologize, Duchess. I did not mean to offend you.” Alas, he was still here. “I simply think there are more important matters to attend to at present. I still wish to discuss a few concerns I have with the Senate.”

Satine did not seem to hear him.

Merrik leaned in closer, studying her features with concern. “You seem a million parsecs away, Satine, I hope you are not too rattled by what was said. What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

Her eyes had glossed over, seeing not the city in front of her, but the one that had existed before it—a people at war. Bloodshed. Families torn apart, even her own. It sent a shiver down her spine.

“I see the world I love, disappearing, I’m afraid…” she responded in a moment of candor.

Merrik placed a firm hand on her shoulder, drawing her eyes to him. “Mandalore will stand strong, Satine. Do not be afraid.”

The pair stood silent for a moment longer, only the sound of distant airspeeders and loud voices filling their ears.

Until, that is, the voices turned into shouts and a cacophony of other sounds, which approached the balcony rapidly. That was when Satine saw it. There, jumping from floating platform to floating platform, was Obi-Wan and the children. They each carried wooden staffs, swinging them wildly as Obi-Wan shouted instructions to them.

“Jump, Lark! Well done! Now watch out for the bottle!” Just then, Greta threw one of many plasteel bottles at Lark from a pile in her arms. Lark batted it away easily.

“Alright, quick, everyone! Get Master Kenobi!” Chas called out, leading the charge with the five oldest kids to start whacking Obi-Wan with their sticks. Giggles filled the air while a grinning Obi-Wan tried to fend them all off with his own stick, to no avail. He was overwhelmed, pushed to the edge of his platform just as he made eye contact with—

“Satine?!”

His exclamation drew the children’s attention to her as well, and their faces lit up with joy. Shouts of “Duchess Satine!” or “Auntie Satine!” erupted around them as they waved to greet her. In the chaos, and with Obi-Wan distracted, Tamra was able to land one final blow just a little too far south of his stomach, sending him reeling backward and over the edge of the platform.

Satine jolted forward with concern for the Jedi before stopping herself. Obi-Wan, having used the Force, pulled himself over the railing of the balcony, looking just a little rattled. His mouth curled in an embarrassed half smile.

Another round of giggles sounded as the kids watched him clumsily find his footing on the ground. They soon followed, leaping down and landing deftly in front of Satine, who looked slightly less than pleased.

One look at her raised brow and folded arms told them all they needed to know. The smiles instantly left their faces, and they lined up obediently, falling completely silent.

Satine shot Obi-Wan a look before turning to the children. “As you may have noticed,” she said, her voice unsettlingly calm, “we have a guest. This is Senator Tal Merrik.” She hid her embarrassment well as she swiveled to address the man from Kalevala. “Senator, these are the children, and of course, my nephew Korkie.”

“Good to meet you all,” he answered with a nod.

Satine’s took in each child’s appearance, sweaty, pink cheeked, and doing a dreadful job of hiding the fact that they were out of breath. “Inside. Get cleaned up,” she ordered. The kids scrambled to move, but she stopped them before they could get too far. “Leave those,” she commanded, referring to the staffs they each held.

One by one, they turned back to drop the wooden sticks into a pile on the ground, sending one last look to Obi-Wan who shifted uncomfortably. He started to follow after them, but was halted by the touch of a hand on his arm. Satine.

Merrik was the one to break the awkward silence, excusing himself to go check in with the palace guard. After he left and it was clear Obi-Wan wouldn’t immediately run off, Satine let her hand fall back to her side, fingers clenched tightly into a fist.

It was to be a standoff, then.

Obi-Wan kept a carefully neutral expression on his face as she stepped closer, surveying him seriously.

“Am I imagining things, Master Kenobi, or were my children just performing death-defying stunts high above the streets of Sundari?”

Pointedly ignoring the fact that she had called them her children, he cleared his throat. “It’s possible.”

“And were they fighting each other with wooden sticks on top of all that?” she dared him to answer.

His response came out more confidently than he felt. “Yes, Duchess.”

Satine took a deep breath to hold back the immediate angry retort that was bubbling in her chest. Once she had steadied herself enough, she spoke in a low voice, “I thought I was clear where the priorities were for their studies, Master Jedi, but perhaps I was not.”

“You were, Satine, however when we finished their required studies, I figured it would not hurt to have a little fun.”

The Duchess barked a mirthless laugh. “Fun, you call it?” she said, quickly getting more heated. “Danger is the word I might choose. Have you lost your mind? Fighting is not supposed to be ‘fun,’ Obi-Wan, that is not what I have worked so hard for all these years.”

Obi-Wan rose to the challenge, stepping closer to her and barely restraining his own temper. “Well, I’m sorry, Duchess, if I wanted to turn some much-needed self-defense training into something a little more pleasant than the imagery of warfare and actual bloodshed.”

“By putting my children in very real danger?!”

“Of course not, Satine, do you really think so little of me? I was watching them carefully, if one fell, I would catch them immediately.”

Satine wanted to tear her hair out. “Apologies if I don’t have complete faith in your ability to sense impending danger around you, Jedi—or perhaps you’ve forgotten the time you dropped me in a swarm of venomites?”

“I think you’ll remember that you were being very distracting at the time!” Obi-Wan defended loudly. He took a breath, calming himself again. “Look, the children wanted to learn, is that so bad?”

“They never wanted to before,” she responded, put out.

“They never felt like they could ask you before!”

At that, she looked up, a sad sort of glint in her eye. Obi-Wan stepped closer, his voice dropping back down to a much gentler tone.

“You look out for them when you are here, Satine, and yes, they have the Protectors to keep watch over them as well… But don’t you want them to know how to stand up for themselves if the need arises?”

Satine sighed. “I don’t want to hear about this right now,” she spoke, wishing to never have to think about those possibilities again.

Or the fact that her kids apparently didn’t feel comfortable sharing their feelings with her.

“Korkie is almost a man, now, Satine,” Obi-Wan continued, “If you hold on too tight, you might wake up one day and realize he’s run off to pursue what he was never allowed to before, and in an uncontrolled environment with no protection. And Lark, did you know she gets Force visions? Nightmares that plague her nearly every night? What about Greta? She tells me her Clan is allied with Death Watch, exposing her to violence already at her young age! You cannot shelter these children from the truth, or from the Force. It flows through them as it does me and you, and they have been given a gift in their ability to harness it.”

“Enough!” Satine shouted, “I will hear no more of this.”

Silence settled over them once more, and she pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose in hopes of relieving the pressure that was building behind her eyes.

“I think you should go,” she spoke quietly, not meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry, but I think you should go back to—”

She froze as a sweeping melody backed by steady drums began to echo through the halls and into the open air of the balcony.

“What is that?” she asked, a faraway look in her eyes. She recognized it.

Obi-Wan did his best to mask the hurt in his voice as he answered quietly, “The children learned the Mandokar to welcome you and Senator Merrik back to Sundari.” He knew he was walking on eggshells now. “It was in one of their history books, I thought it might be a nice way to…”

But Satine was already walking away, drifting airily into the palace halls and following the music into the open throne room. When she arrived, she saw the children swaying steadily to the tune playing on a holorecording, their movements serene and flowing.        

The protectors had lent their metal staffs to the children for their demonstration, and all except the two youngest slowly twirled them in sync. Greta and Tamra simply mirrored their actions with no weapon in their hands, smiling up at their peers.

Satine watched in wonderment, her mind drawn back to a time when she did these same motions with her sister, Bo-Katan. Even further back, to her Father and Mother teaching her the steps, the meaning of the dance, the history. And then to a quiet moment on a lonely planet when she taught a much younger Obi-Wan the dance, an effort to center herself and restore peace to her troubled heart.

Did he remember? Did he know what it meant to perform the Mandokar for someone else, the immense honor it represented?

Was he lying about getting the idea from a history book to save face?

The way he deliberately avoided her gaze made her wonder…

In a sort of daze, she walked to her throne and pulled her own beskar staff out from a hidden place behind it. She bowed and joined the group, easing into the movements without difficulty.

The shock was plain to see on each and every one of the children’s faces, but they did not waver in their actions. Instead, they all performed the Mandokar to perfection, and Obi-Wan’s eyes shone a little at how beautiful she looked. He would never acknowledge such a thing, of course, but still…

The dance sped up as it neared the end, and when the last move was completed, they stood frozen in their final position for a moment. Satine looked close to tears, completely overcome by emotion and memories, and she slowly turned to look at the children with a watery smile on her face.

“That was wonderful, all of you,” she said, crouching slightly to pull them into a giant hug. The children dropped their staffs immediately and rushed to her, grinning from ear to ear.

Obi-Wan—meanwhile—looked away, fighting the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He was glad he had at least connected them in this way before returning to the Temple. Perhaps his work here was done.

“Satine, what a wonderful welcome this is! You didn’t tell me your children are skilled in the martial arts!”

Obi-Wan’s heart dropped at Merrik’s causal use of Satine’s name with no title. But he shouldn’t care about that, should he? No. Bowing his head, he took his leave to give them all some privacy. He’d been told to get packing. Might as well start now.

“I am honored by their gesture,” Merrik was still speaking, bowing deeply to return the favor to the students. Satine, however, wasn’t paying any attention to him. She was still gazing off at where Obi-Wan used to be.

“Don’t go away,” she told the children, smiling once more at them and brushing her hand against Korkie’s cheek.

She rushed to the hall where Obi-Wan disappeared off to, in the direction of his chambers.

“Obi-Wan!” she said to stop him, standing a fair distance away from him. “I—I was unfair to you before… I apologize.”

The Jedi’s eyes met hers, and even from far away he could perceive the sincerity conveyed in them.

“I shouldn’t have gone against your wishes,” he said in apology, “You are a pacifist for good reason, and I should have honored that.”

“But you were right,” Satine admitted. “They are Mandalorians, even the foundlings. And they have the Force. It is only right that they should know how to use what they have to defend themselves in times of trouble.”

Obi-Wan nodded and it fell silent again. For several moments, they just stood there, avoiding each other’s gaze.

Satine’s voice came back in a quiet, wistful tone. “I haven’t done the Mandokar since—since I taught you, all those years ago.” Obi-Wan looked up at that. “I had forgotten…”

She seemed to lose herself in that thought, no more words left to speak. Obi-Wan felt that the longer he stood there, the harder it would be to leave, so he took this as his opportunity to go. He moved to descend the staircase that would lead to the wing where his quarters were, but didn’t get the chance.

“Master Kenobi—” she stopped him again, “Obi-Wan… I want you to stay.”

Those words… Part of him wished she’d said those same words to him years ago, but they meant something different now. He couldn’t think about it. Wouldn’t think about it.

“I—I ask you to stay.”

Fighting back a relieved smile, he finally spoke. “If I can be of any help, Duchess—”

“You already have,” she assured him, her smile genuine. “More than you know.”

-.-.-

Chapter 7 >>

[cevansbrat0007]

The Question

Summary: Your girls ask an innocent question that triggers Andrew’s anxiety and, as a result, your pregnancy hormones.

Warnings: Fluff, Angry Reader, Anxious Andy, Apologetic Andy, Discussions of Puberty, Arguing, Pregnant Reader, Confused Barber Girls, Minors DNI

A/N: I’m going to try to write something else tonight as well. But I figured after the last couple of serious fics, we could use something a little more light-hearted. We all know Andrew doesn’t want to see his baby girls grow up…and we all know he doesn’t handle it well. Please enjoy. Written on my phone. I own all mistakes. Please send feedback if ya feel like it.

___

You and your little family were enjoying a quiet dinner of chicken and rice when the question came up. The meal itself was a simple one, something that your mother used to whip up when she was short on time.

You sautéed some diced celery, carrots, onions, and mushrooms in butter and olive oil. Then you shredded your chicken - she used to like to boil legs - but you’d cheated this time around and used a rotisserie chicken that you’d purchased at the store. After that, you boiled some rice in chicken stock and mixed everything together, before adding a couple cans of cream of mushroom soup.

And then wallah! Instant dinner. Fast and delicious, at least you four seemed to think so.

Bianca is on her second helping when she pauses to ask: “Mama, when are me and sissy gonna get get boobs?”

Andy immediately begins choking on his glass of wine. You roll your eyes as you gently thump his back while he sputters and coughs.

Your husband was a special fucking kind of man.

“Never.” He grits out, still coughing. “It’s never happening.”

“We askin’ Mama.” BiBi reminds him.

“And Daddy answered.” Andy responds, his voice hoarse. “It’s never happening.”

“Andrew…they were talking to me.” You also remind him.

“Asked and answered!” He hisses. “The defense rests.”

Oh dear Lord…

“Ladies, when you’re a little bit older, the three of us will sit down and have a conversation about all of that confusing, and exciting, and complicated stuff. But we’ve got a little bit of time before that happens, alright?” Your husband is literally vibrating next to you.

“But we gonna get ‘em?” Your six-year-old asks.

“You will.” You assure her with a nod.

“You won’t.” Andy answers at the same time.

Frustrated, you pin him with a glare. “Would you stop already? We need to be realistic about this. Our BiBi asked a very important question.”

“I am being realistic about this, Y/N. They’re never growing up, they’re never developing, ah, chests, and they’re never going to find hair in weird places…”

“Weird places? Exactly what weird places are you referring to? Please let me know so I can make sure you never have to gaze upon my weird places ever again.” You huff as you attempt to cross your arms over your very pregnant belly.

Tread lightly, Andrew Stephen Barber. Your life and sleeping arrangements depend upon it.

“Well, uh, what I mean is…your places are fine. I don’t care about, um, that.”

“Uh huh.”

“But see, I have two little girls right here and two more coming…and I can’t. They’re not going to grow up. Between the five of you, I’m going to be fighting people until I’m 100-years-old, baby.”

“Oh, poor you.” You grumble.

Meanwhile, your girls KitCat and BiBi, sit there looking confused.

“But Mama has boobs.” Your younger daughter points out.

Andy pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s because she’s old and -“ His sentence trails off immediately.

“Oh, am I?” You rest your chin on your palm. “I’m old, sweetheart? The mother of your soon-to-be four children, who is younger than you by a good seven years, is an old hag? Is that it?”

“No. Oh no, no. That’s not what I meant at all, baby. What I meant to say was that you’re mature.”

Oh, Andrew. Why don’t you just duct tape the spoon to your hand so you can keep digging your own grave?

“Ah, I see. Like Mother Goose.” You offer him a less than friendly smile.

“Yes.” He shakes his head. “I mean no.”

“Dis’ isn’t good, sissy.” BiBi leans over to whisper to Katrina. “I think Daddy sleepin’ wif’ us tonight.”

“Yeah. Okay.” KitCat whispers back.

“Y/N, baby, I’m sorry.”

“Save it and shove it. Girls, we’re moving to Montana. Prepare yourselves.” You grab your husband’s unfinished plate as he prepares to take another bite.

“You look done.” Is all you say, before you dump the remnants into the garbage can.

“Mon-tan-a?” KitCat repeats as she looks at her sister.

“Is’ dah place where Mama say she goes when Daddy makes her mad.”

“I’ll make sure you get visitation.” You growl as you start aggressively scrubbing everything in sight. “Girls, your bodies are beautiful and magical and one day they are going to start changing and they are never going to stop! It’s something that men, like your loving father, don’t understand. Oh no.”

You keep scrubbing. “We grow, we change, we make life…” You narrow your eyes at your husband. “And then someone with pretty blue eyes and a deep voice and a chiseled jaw comes along, and what do they do? Why, they make you fall in love with them of course!”

“Never even had a chance.” You growl to yourself. “I let you give me stretch marks.”

Angry, you turn to him and point at him with an excessively soapy sponge. “You are so lucky that I can’t sleep without your snores. And you are even luckier that you helped give me those beautiful girls right there, otherwise you’d be sleeping in the backyard!”

“Y/N, honey, I’m sorry. I really am.” His eyes tell you he’s sincere. Too bad you don’t care.

Buttface.

You take a calming breath and put down the sponge.

“BiBi, KitCat, Mama made brownies for dessert. Would you like one?”

“Yeah!” They both squeal.

“Can I have one too?” Your husband asks.

“Nope. Fresh out.”

“Baby,” Andy asks you with a slight grimace. “Can Daddy at least sleep inside tonight?”

You turn to look at Katrina, feeling spiteful. “KitCat, where’s your special blankie?”

END

[peterism]

can’t help falling in love ➴ peter parker

summary : your timing couldn’t be more perfect, peter thought. and he just can’t help but fall in love with you… if not harder.

pairing : tasm!peter parker x reader

warnings : violence and bullying kinda? (flash teases peter and punches him) but other than that just fluff fluff fluff :)

w/c : 1.2k

a/n : welcome to my first fic (a peter one at that)! lmk if you guys want a second part of this and what you wanna see in part 2 cause i think this is a bit incomplete :/ anyway, my requests are currently open now, you can read the guidelines here. all my love <3

peter dodges the other students that he passes by. he always opts to go to school early so that there wouldn’t be that many people when he skates through the hallways. and he wouldn’t tell anyone this but he always takes a walk on the field, admiring you as you seat on the bleachers, the sun shining on you, the morning breeze blowing your hair lightly. that image of you served as his energizer every morning. but today, he was running a bit late as he got caught up in a crime scene the night before.

he gave up on trying to skate through a sea of students and simply walked to his locker. he grumbled, frustrated at the group of people in front of him who were walking in a row, sluggishly, pretty much taking up the entire hallway. and partly because, well, flash was making out with some girl in front of his locker—no, not in front, they were leaning on his locker.

he approaches the pair slowly, trying to open the door of his locker. when the gap was wide enough for him to stick his arm and fish for his biology textbook, the girl rolled onto her side and closed the locker’s door. peter luckily pulled his arm out just fast enough for the metal to scratch the back of his palm. he silently thanked his spidey senses or his arm would be crushed by now.

but when the air hit the scrape on his hand, peter hissed, loud enough for flash and the girl to turn their attention to him. he was sporting a grimace, examining the scrape when he looked at flash, then the girl, his hand, then back to flash. giving them the look that’s saying so what, you’re just gonna stand there?

the girl looked at her with an eyebrow raised while flash scoffed. “the hell do you want, parker?”

“look, man. i just need to get my book so if you and…“ he motions to the girl. “madam here could play smushy-face somewhere else, i’d appreciate it.” peter sighs.

flash chuckles. “you don’t get to tell me what to do,” peter closes his eyes and clenches his jaw, not wanting to deal with this at seven in the morning.

“just step away from the lockers for a moment,” he said, looking at the girl.

flash held his hand up, motioning for the girl to stop. peter looks up at the clock in the middle of the hallway, 11 minutes til class. he groans and lightly pushes flash out of the way.

he was just about to open his locker when he got pinned to it. his body colliding with the metal produced a loud sound which caught the attention of others. great, now we have a crowd. he sighed.

“it isn’t weird,” gwen looked at you incredulously.

you scoffed. “it totally is! he’s your boss and he asked y-“ you were cut mid-sentence by a loud clunking noise.

“oh, again? it’s half past seven and they’re already starting. someone should really put flash in his place, i’m too sleep-deprived to witness stuff like this everyday.” gwen huffs.

you paused and thought about gwen’s words. you then reached to pull a folder from your bag and walked to the scene.

peter, still pinned up against his locker, just blinked up at flash.

“ah, so little petey’s fighting back now, huh? you gonna shove me? huh? what if i punched you in the jaw?”

peter blew air into flash’s face. “please,” he challenged.

he was immediately met with flash’s fist, the back of his head hitting the lockers behind him. his vision was blurry for a second so he closed his eyes but he saw another punch coming. he kept his eyes closed but it didn’t come.

you cleared your throat. peter opened his eyes as flash looked at you.

“here’s your math practice worksheets for this week. i’d prefer if you return them for me to check on or ahead of time. give them to me on or before friday, along with last week’s.” you gave the folder to flash.

he was about to say something when you raised a hand and beat him to it. “look, flash, i don’t really care about the excuses you have. i’ll still get paid no matter what, but if you go around picking on everyone in this school then you won’t have progress.” you looked at him sincerely.

“here’s a deal, you listen to me and do the practice exercises that i give you, do yourself a favor and focus on yourself and your academics for once. in that way, i make money, and you pass eleventh grade.” you look at him as he purses his lips and shifts uncomfortably.

“think about it flash, if you don’t move on to twelfth grade, then me tutoring you was useless. you wouldn’t want your dear daddy’s money going to waste right?” you smiled at him. “well, better start today. you should go to your class now.” letting out a huff, you looked at flash and nodded encouragely.

he sighs in defeat and walks away, sneakily taking peter’s skateboard with him.

you grab the board and waved him off. “i’m grateful for you, y/n,” you weren’t sure if he was being sincere or sarcastic based on his tone but you didn’t think about it that much.

you then turned to peter. “hey, you okay?” you frowned in concern.

he didn’t answer and just stared at you for a while. it worried you so you waved a hand on his face.

he blinked a few times and gave you a dopey smile. “hey,”

“hi, are you alright? should i take you to the nurse?”

he waved a hand. “no, no. it’s fine,”

“what’s your name?” you smiled at him.

he frowned. “you don’t know my name?” he was surprised you didn’t know his name considering you two have some classes together. also because he’s had a huge crush on you since god knows when. sometimes he even thought you might’ve felt the same when he catches you staring at him. yeah right.

you let out a chuckle that sounded music in his ears. “no, i know your name.” you nodded. “i just wanted to know if you know your name.”

he looked at you for a few moments before answering, “peter,”

you raised a brow. “parker. peter parker.” he continued. you smiled and nodded.

“mm, i’d still go to the nurse though,”

he ignored it and instead asked, “you’re y/n right?”

“y/n y/l/n.”

he tilted his head and smiled. “mhm, yeah. we have a few classes together.”

“that’s right,” now you were also smiling.

“yeah uh, biology. biology’s our first period today. you wanna… uh, i don’t know, uh,” he stuttered out of nervousness. you found it cute.

“wanna what?” your smile grew wider.

he laughed and scratched the back of his neck. “uh, i don’t know, maybe uh, you wanna sit together?”

you were silent for a second, admiring his brown eyes and cheeks that were dusted pink.

“yeah. yeah, i’d like that,”

he cleared his throat and quickly opened his locker to fetch his biology textbook. “so uh, should we, uh, walk to the…”

“yes,” you gave him a sweet smile that he mirrored, only he looked quite shy.

you waved at gwen, mouthing i’ll catch you later. she just winked at you and waved her hand, mouthing goodluck back.

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