#to a specific one with the death grip required to make this list | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

marky4l · 4 years ago

Text

Step by Step / Mark Lee

step by step / mkl

pairing: Mark Lee x Reader

From an innocent childhood friendship to a juvenile high school rivalry to a forced pairing for a Psychology paper, it seems you and Mark just can’t avoid each other. But something’s a little different now.

genre: fluff, angst (a little bit), suggestive themes, childhood friends (barely mentioned!) to enemies to lovers, college!au

notes: lia yeonjun chan hyuck jeno all make tiny appearances

word count: 17.2k

hi!!! this is my first work nd I’m really excited to put this out I’d looove if you could give it a read :^) hound me on my inbox if u wanna i take anything

“Remember when we were best friends in fifth grade?”

His voice is a little quiet, and there’s a very obvious undertone of boredom, but you hum softly anyway, nodding, as if to question why you would ever forget. Fifth grade was a suburban brew of Star Wars marathons, figuring out the world, and Harry Potter merchandise littering your house. Fifth grade was lemonade and oatmeal, knitted sweaters, and sneaking into your mom’s vanity to swipe her makeup. And fifth grade was Mark—bright eyed, geeky Mark, with his Death Star replica and weird electronica music.

Mark, who had an affinity with Troy from High School Musical and Spiderman, and wanted to be just like them. Mark, who would show up grinning to your front door everyday, pie dish in his nimble grip. He was the one who had opened a lemonade stand at the corner of your block so he could buy you the Gryffindor scarf you’d been nagging your mom about the entire holiday season. He was the one who learned the chords to your favorite Jonas Brothers song and sang it to you each time you requested it.

“Yes, I do,” you answer instead, clearing your throat.

You attempt to push down all the memories that just ran through your head and adjust the grip you have on your pen. “Well,” Mark continues, “that was ages ago. Beats me why it ever happened.”

The timidity is replaced with a tidal wave of teasing, and the annoyance that had disappeared is beginning to crawl all over you. Again. You roll your eyes and pull up the slides your professor had assigned. “Beats me why we even ended up in the same university, let alone the same class,” you jab, “if you thought I forgot about how you outright failed our Spanish classes in high school, I didn’t.”

Your friendship with Mark had reached its unfortunate demise to the hands of middle school, where you had branched out with your interests and began to stick to societal (as societal as school can get) norms. He had joined the geeky, cool kids; you hadn’t joined a specific social circle, but you had a best friend, Lia, and you were generally good with everybody.

Somehow, despite you both being in good graces with everyone, you had a deep-seated dislike for one another that stemmed from an intense academic rivalry. Specifically, the competition to become school council president. That had ended now, seeing as though you were both in college, but the abrasiveness of your banter had never worn off.

“Oh, because you were so good at Physics?” he says, voice even. His brow is raised. “We all have our strong suits, you know. You’re one to talk.” You decide to pay him no mind, instead jotting down the criteria for your final project in Psychology 1—something about the stages of grief. You’re supposed to relate it to a different human process and show how they fit with one another.

It’s absolute fucking bullshit, and the fact that Mark Lee became your partner among a hundred students is beyond you. Absolutely beyond you.

He nears your screen, reading the content of your project, eyes squinted—you’d noticed his lack of decent eyesight years ago, but it seemingly hadn’t improved. “Relate the stages of grief…hold up, what? That’s difficult as hell. What are we supposed to do, lose a loved one?” You roll your eyes, turning to him. “No, Mark. The point is to find another process that happens gradually and relate it to this—denial, bargaining, anger. Get it?”

He stares back at you. “No.”

You groan audibly, turning back to your notebook. “This is impossible. Can we just switch partners so I won’t have to deal with you?” He smirks, kicking his feet up on the library table. Absently, you note how nice his sneakers look. Reclining onto the seat, he shuts his eyes as if to contemplate.

“I heard through the birdvine our professor’s the type to pair up people she thinks would look good together for shits and giggles. Girls and boys, boys and boys, you name it. Johnny”—he’s referring to a guy who’s a year above yours, studying Biology—“tells me over five couples have been born out of this class. Isn’t that nice?” You scoff, scrolling mindlessly through the slides to keep yourself distracted.

“It really is. A shame we won’t be adding to that list, because I can’t fucking stand you.” He laughs loudly, the vibration of it remaining in the deadly silent air. “I can stand fucking you, though,” he says, and then, before you can even blush, “All jokes. Don’t get your hopes up, ‘kay?” He’s quick to get up, just as flustered as you are at the uncharacteristic phrase that just left his mouth. He collects his jacket and jogs out of the library with a small, half-assed bye under his breath.

—

Lia’s eyes bore into yours. “He actually said that? I’m telling you, he’s some weird kinky guy under that whole cool geek persona. High school Mark would never have. Oh my god. He’s a furry—he’s a furry!” She flops back onto your bed, laughing. You poke at her waist in protest.

“It’s because he’s surrounded by too many weird classy fuckboys. You know, those that think that they’re all that because they haven’t roofied a girl.” You’re half-joking, and you’re really only referring to maybe two guys you’ve happened to see Mark with. As if to read your mind, Lia continues. “Hey, I heard some of them are okay. They’re not, like…those ‘nice guys’, if you get me.”

“I do,” you quip. “But I guess I’m just trying to find a way to justify the whole 360 in Mark. I mean, in high school, he was still nerdy—well, you know. Shy. But jump to sophomore year of uni and he’s suddenly some…” You rack your head for a proper term. “Sex god?” your friend asks, holding in a laugh. “Oh, eat shit,” you fire back, “really, eat shit. And while you’re at it, feed me some, too, because I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to turn in at the end of the term. Like, Jes—”

There’s a faint knock at the door, and then. “Lia? It’s—uh, it’s me, Daniel? Er, Daniel Choi.” Your wide eyes can’t possibly match Lia’s as she tugs on a decent-looking pullover and puts it on. As she swings the door open, you manage to sufficiently hide yourself under your duvet and attempt to hear their conversation.

“You know, it’s okay if you leave out the whole…saying your full name at the door part. Trust me…I know you,” she jokes, and you hear him laugh before you detect the crinkling of a plastic bag. “Chinese. Uh, I bought some extra for your best friend, because I’m not gonna pretend I don’t see the sentient blob on the bed.”

You pull the blanket off and smile sheepishly. “Hey, Daniel,” you say, “thanks for the food. I owe you an empty room next time, I swear by it. It’ll be easy, since I’m gonna be”—you heave yourself off the bed and onto the floor, where they’re both sitting—“holed up at the library for the next few weeks.”

Lia nods, chewing her chow mein, and then when she’s done, she explains to Daniel your whole huge Psychology end-of-term paper about stages and grief and whatever, oh also she’s partnered with Mark Lee, this guy that we both know from high school, and she dislikes his guts, oh you know him?

“Wait. You know him?” You repeat, and Daniel nods, ruffling his black mullet. “His room’s, like, three away from mine. He’s studying Theoretical Physics, right? Yeah, he’s always in his room doing school shit, but every weekend he’s out with the upperclassmen. He’s probably out now, ‘cause it’s Friday. How he even charmed them, though, is a mystery.”

Mid-dumpling, you roll your eyes. “Y’know, the hardest part is being partnered with him. But also, even finding what kind of gradual process to relate denial and anger too is weirdly hard. It feels like I could find something, but I haven’t gotten it…quite…” you trail off, your eyes landing on Lia and Daniel across you—they’re smiling softly at each other, and you distinguish their fingers interlocking quietly, as if you wouldn’t notice.

“…yet. Except maybe I have. How would you want to participate in my end-of-term paper?” Their gazes turn to yours, and you nod frantically. “Oh my god, I’m a genius! Seriously! Falling in love! Yes! It’s denial—anger—whatever, whatever! It makes perfect sense. The end is acceptance, too! Oh god, Li, it’s perfect. I will owe you for life if you help me out.”

“Wait, what? You dove straight into it, what—recap, please,” Lia asks, and you compose yourself before explaining giddily.

“Falling in love. It happens gradually, and we can compare it to the stages of grief. Seeing as you and Daniel are headed right there, we can use you as some test subjects. It’s not required to have respondents or subjects, really, it’s just an extensive paper, but it might help get the grade up. This is gonna be great, and if you ever wanna back out, you can, because it’s not mandatory.” Lia and Daniel meet eyes briefly, and then slowly, nod. “Okay, that’s pretty smart,” Daniel says, “I’m up for it. Are you?” Lia nods, slowly and hesitantly, and you smile widely. “You two just saved my Psych grade. I’ll be at Giselle’s tonight. Just…not on my bed.” You grab your keys and phone and bound out of your room, straight into the elevator at the end of the hall.

The elevator door nearly closes when a Converse-clad foot steps in, and your eyes rake up the figure, eventually landing on his face.

“Jesus fuck,” you mumble, “you must be kidding me.”

Mark enters the elevator with a small, teasing smile, hands tucked into his jacket’s pockets. “Hey, dude, what’s up? Was on your floor on my stop down to get some money Lucas owed me,” he says, “this is actually a godsend, because my genius brain found us a project idea. Relate grief to something else gradual? Easy as pie. Falling in lo—”

You cut him off before he can finish, “Falling in love, right. I thought of it first, earlier,” you say profusely, absently noting the pettiness in your tone. He whistles. “No need to get all possessive over an idea the previous classes have used before, man.” You continue, ignoring him. “Whatever. Lucky for our grades, I went the extra mile to get us some test subjects. Do you know the two Chois? Lia and Daniel?”

He nods once, “Yeah, their PDA on Instagram is fucking sickening, but I see your technique, and I like that—we get some extra data from their god awful PDA.” You nod once, and he continues. “It’s nearing 11 on a Friday night. Whose party are you headed to?”

“You’re welcome for the test subjects,” you gripe. “Anyway, I was so giddy about coming up with it, I just left them to…well, fornicate. As a compromise for being lab rats. I texted my…” you realize you’re starting to share too much to a guy you typically dislike talking to, and then there’s a silence in the air that’s painfully awkward.

“You texted your…?” Mark asks. “My friend, but she’ll be home at 1AM, so I’m out to kill time. No parties, just…I dunno.” He nods again, and then the elevator lets out a blissful ding. You step out simultaneously, and then he faces you. “Look, it’s freezing out, you’re in shorts and a puffer coat, and it’s three hours to 1AM, so I doubt you’ll get far.” You scoff at his words despite feeling your legs shake from the breeze outside. “I’ll be fine, dumbass.”

“Just concerned,” he says, in a tone that sounds more blank than annoyed, but he turns and heads toward the door anyway. He swivels back around briefly. “It’s in Johnny’s apartment. Just a couple people, if you get bored freezing.” He jogs outside then, and you inwardly appreciate the small gesture, but again, annoyance returns just as quickly. You linger a bit before heading out yourself, walking briskly to a local Japanese restaurant. You consider this an opportunity to have some me time, some rest after a shitty week in university. Lasting ’til 1AM alone and entertained would not at all be a problem.

You last one ramen bowl and head to Johnny’s apartment.

—

When Johnny Suh answers the door, he’s clad in a makeshift shower curtain gown of sorts, and is flushed and very buzzed all over. He hikes up the top to cover his chest and laughs profusely. “Did Mark invite you?” Behind him is a sizeable group of just about twenty people, which looks like forty in a cramped communal space. You’d been here before—Johnny likes to invite just about anyone to get stoned and listen to Kid Cudi on Fridays, and you had pushed Lia to accompany you before.

You distantly spot the kitchenette, the small living room, and then the two bedroom doors opposing each other. “The rule was to show up wearing something not marketed as clothing, but Mark didn’t follow the rules, so. Anyway, you’re off scot-free, too…” he pauses, “…if you take off the puffer coat. We’ve got heating, anyway. Free booze and weed, too.” You figure being in a flimsy tank top isn’t so bad—you’re sure half the people here are already getting laid or trying to, and nobody would really pay attention to you.

You shrug off the coat as Johnny steps aside to let you in, hugging it close to your body and navigating your way to the kitchen. The granite counters are filled with various bottles of booze, and you also note the cigarettes and blunts lining the island. You peruse the brands before settling on a sealed can of decidedly not-so-cheap-looking beer, and crack it open to take a swig. It’s warm and fucking disgusting, but there’s not much glitz in an “anything but clothing” off-campus college party anyway.

There are several people scattered among the living area, passing around a blunt—another group is playing suck and blow. You make your way over to the cheap couch on the far end of the room, taking a seat on the arm and stretching out your hand to claim the blunt. It’s Jae who passes it to you—Jaehyun Jung, an upperclassman whose infamy (for wearing nothing but toilet paper and running through campus) greatly surpasses him. “Who are you?” he asks, and you holler your name back over the Kanye West song playing in the background. “Mark invited me,” you tack onto the end as compensation.

He nods in understanding, watching you take a drag and pass it back to him. He only hands it back, saying, “It’s nearly done, just finish it,” and getting up to probably get some booze or another blunt.

You scan the area for a better place to cherish your weed, because you’re definitely not going to do it on the arm of a couch housing three couples making out to the high heavens. You spot an open window and a fire escape just beside the kitchen and walk over, ducking into the cool night air. It’s not quiet, it never is, and you treasure the peace that comes with the noise, closing your eyes and trying to milk the last few drags. All that is flushed down the drain when somebody kicks you out of your reverie and your last two drags are falling down, through the grills of the fire escape.

“What the fuck?” You look up to meet, of course, Mark’s gaze, teasing and mischievous.

“That wasn’t fucking funny, asshat. Get away from me.” You get up instantly, ducking back into the house and searching for your coat. It’s (very unfortunately) buried under a couple who have escalated from making out to borderline public indecency.

“Fuck it,” you mumble, swinging the door open and mentally preparing yourself for the cold once you get to the sidewalk, floors down. Mark follows suit, a laugh gracing the atmosphere around the two of you. “You know, I forgot how fun it is to make you pissed off. I did it all the time in eighth grade when I told our teacher you knew the solution to the Physics problems.” You’re fucking pissed. However petty, you’re fucking annoyed that you couldn’t finish the blunt, and you pay no attention to him.

He badgers on anyway. “Hey—it was a mistake, I wanted to say hi to you.” You scoff, finally turning—“Why? Because we’re friends? We’re not. We’re Psych partners, we came from the same high school, we share a couple mutual friends. But you and I are not friends, not objectively, anyway. Please, Mark. I only just re-acquainted myself with you today, but, like, you’re already so annoying!” You’re at the elevator now, and when the doors slide open, you step inside and let them close at once. You barely catch the unreadable look on his face in your annoyance, and you lean against the wall, shutting your eyes and breathing heavily.

How you’d even get to Giselle’s, or how you would wait out the remaining half-hour before she got home, was just up to whichever higher power happened to be witnessing you that night.

—

The door of your professor’s office closes with a saddening click. You stare back at her name, embossed on the wood in bold, in defeat, accepting your fate with a heavy heart. Just fifteen minutes prior, you had entered with a whole spiel prepared on how you just had to swap with somebody from your class so you wouldn’t have to work with Mark. This speech had occurred twice now—with your TA, and then once with your professor. This was your second chance, your redemption: so you prepared notes, you prepared convincing words—you had a point.

But your professor simply shooed you away, muttering how she didn’t have time for you because she was going to be receiving hundreds of papers in a few weeks’ time from a different class and she, quite honestly, couldn’t be bothered. You bite your lip, thinking back to the previous Friday—it was nearing two weeks since your small outburst at Mark. Since then, you’d expected to build a silent rapport of just working, observing Lia and Daniel, and then parting. And that was almost it. You would show up to your so-called “lab rat sessions”, cup of warm caramel latte in hand, and work.

Except Mark would constantly make noise, jeer, swipe your pen, and do other things that got on your nerves.

“You’re going to have to stop trying sometime,” Lia says, backhugging you. She’d been waiting outside. You let your head loll back onto her shoulder and whine. “Do you know when you’re so frustrated you want to cry? Yeah? That’s exactly how it is, Li. I can’t keep up with this for another two, three months. It’s like he’s not even, like, fuck, like he’s not even trying, y’know? We’re building the foundation of a pages-long paper. This isn’t some finals essay he can bullshit in three hours.”

You groan as Lia pulls away from you, whirling you around to face her. “It’ll be fine, I swear to you. I’ll help out, anytime you need it. I promise. If I start hating Daniel, I’ll even pretend like I’m in love with him. Head over heels.” You let yourself laugh and pull out your phone as you two begin to walk towards your dorm.

She tsks. “We’re gonna have a thing tonight, right? Like, a lab rat session?”

You nod, squinting over your calendar app. “Yeah, at around 5:30 to 6. It’ll be quick, but Mark and I are gonna have to stay behind to divide the work for the general paper and then start. Hopefully we can get some outlining done by tonight…so don’t wait up,” you sigh. She smiles apologetically, pinching your waist affectionately.

“Daniel and I will totally help you. He’s a Mark anti now. I told him about the party outburst thing.” You had sent her a slew of texts that night, and like every other story you had told (save for the most private ones), Daniel had caught wind of it. You’re half sure he was capable of blackmailing you at that point. “Good,” you shoot back, “I’m going to need all the anti-Mark force I can get.”

“Why?” You both turn to see Mark standing idly behind you. There’s a beat, and then: “You look like an inane stalker,” you retort, turning to continue walking. Lia follows suit—with the two of you, the vibe of the atmosphere would always come easy. If one was mad, the other would act mad, too.

“Hey,” Mark repeats, falling into step beside you, “why do you need an anti-Mark force? Tell me.” At this point, your nerves are on fire and your blood is boiling, and you’re beginning to envision beating him up on the quad. “Mark, it’s been great, but we’re going to our dorm, and in case you don’t want to catch a restraining order, I suggest you get off at your floor instead of following us like a creep,” you say sweetly, quickening your steps until he’s far behind you, smiling. Fucking asshole.

“I’ll see ya this evening, then,” he teases, and you grumble under your breath.

—

It’s 5:45 when Lia and Daniel leave the library—fifteen minutes early. You and Mark leave ten minutes later, hours before you were supposed to complete your task. You’re fuming, and for once, Mark has the decency to read the room and feel remorse.

The evening had started off well enough, though—Lia and Daniel had showed up, did their thing, described what was happening, and you and Mark had noted it down. And then, well. Mark spilled water all over your planner, which, in hindsight, was definitely unintentional, but in the spur of the moment, you could do nothing but your natural—everybody’s natural—response to getting something precious ruined. You began to cry. “What the fuck,” you sniffled, “is wrong with you?!” You had shaken the majority of water off your planner, but any and all dates had been smudged and bled, and you couldn’t bring yourself to forgive him. “I know I called you annoying, but this is too far,” you had said, watching his face go from teasing to genuinely sorry. “Dude, it was accidenta—”

“I don’t give a fuck—!” You quickly cut yourself off and wipe your tears when you see a young library assistant heading towards your table. Everybody composes themselves—Lia and Daniel straighten out the things on the surface and Mark sits up straight. “Hey,” he says. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but two students already came in with a noise complaint. We’re gonna have to ask you to,” he makes a gesture, “leave for now and come back tomorrow. Also, the puddle on the table…yeah. I’m really sorry.” He leaves, as if to make sure you have no other choice but to just go, and you slump back onto your chair in exhaustion.

“You two can go ahead,” you hear Mark say, “I’m really sorry about this. We’ll clean up and apologize.” Faintly, you hear them get up, and you feel Lia’s hand squeeze yours as she promises a text and food later. You let your eyes remain shut, drinking in the quiet, trying to calm your inner turmoil.

Ten minutes later, when you’re out in the cold November air, Mark finally speaks. You had cleaned up and collected your things in silence. “I’m really sorry,” he says, “it was an accident, for real. I know I tease a lot, but, uh, I’m being serious. I would never have done that on purpose. I see you write shit on that thing a lot, so…I know how much you like it. Treasure it…? I don’t—whatever it is, I’m really sorry. Like, really. T’was an accident. If you need me to pay for it…” You shake your head softly, hugging your damp planner closer to your sweater-clad chest. “It’s okay. Thanks, anyway. For helping. I’ll email you what you have to do. Bye,” you turn and begin walking in the direction of your dorm. The sun is beginning to set, golden orange hues casting a vast array of colors onto the landscape of the city. You sigh softly, heart heavy with annoyance and exhaustion, and speed up before you start having a mini-breakdown.

—

Stage 1: Denial|

Your cursor blinks back at you as you finish typing in your outline for the introduction. It’s early into November, but already, you’ve had to shut your window to shielf yourself from the biting breeze outside. Across you, Lia applies mascara and talks to you. “What are you up to?” she asks, face contorted.

“This godforsaken paper,” you mumble back, “just finished the introduction outline. I’m trying to give a loose definition for each gradual ‘stage.’” Shoving your Macbook off your lap, you get up to stretch. “Which I’ll probably find on Google Scholar, honestly. If you had to give me a definition—what’s denial?”

She hums contemplatively, wand on lash, and then pipes up. “I think it’s just a stage where you can’t face the fact that you’re interested in that person. Like, why them? With Daniel, he wasn’t really my type. So the whole denial was denying I liked him, because…well, yeah. But I think it differs. Some people deny it because they’re shy, or ashamed, or weirded out that they even like them.”

You’ve had your fair share of crushes before, and sure enough, you had denied them all. But that was high school—college, though, had only brought short-lived flings and one night stands; you were an overachiever, much too committed to your own prosperity to pay mind to anybody else for too long. (Except Lia.) So you hadn’t really experienced the whole boyfriend-in-university thing—not that you particularly wanted to, but you were just human; you were curious. Lia had gotten it, and it looked wonderful.

Speaking of—“So, a week without meeting Mark in person, huh? How is that going for you?” You scoff lightly, shaking your head as you pull your hair into a bun. “It’s going just fine. Dandy, actually. We work from our dorms and you and Daniel just update us. It’s a fine arrangement that I regret was not formulated sooner.” Lia nods in understanding, and you watch her pull on a top, mutter I’m out and head outside. For the fifth time this week, you’re alone in the dorm, with nothing but your Alexa playing SZA and your laptop. You pull it onto your lap again, staring at the boldface letters you had typed minutes prior: denial. You had no firsthand experience of being mature and going through denial; not in that way, anyway. You found it stupid that people even denied when it would be less painful to just admit interest.

You blow a raspberry as you research studies related to the term, bored out of your mind.

—

Two days later, you meet Mark again.

You’d also had the pleasure of, for a minute or two, meeting a friend of his, Donghyuck Lee from Economics. He’s loud and amusing and, from your viewpoint, undeserving of somebody as boring as Mark. (That’s from a minute-long intercation.)

At Lia’s insistence (and likely Daniel’s, too), you two met up to properly work and collaborate. In fear of being kicked out again, the four of you had chosen to meet somewhere else—a cafe off-campus affectionately named something along the lines of Saltwater Coffee. Naturally, after Donghyuck leaves, you find yourself sitting idly (awkwardly) beside Mark. “They won’t be long,” he says suddenly, “er, Daniel just texted me. They’re near.” You nod, pursing your lips, eyes trained onto your laptop. “We’re almost done formulating the denial stage and we can start outlining anger and bargaining. This’ll take about a week more—maybe mid to late November? Uh, I know it seems justifiable to slack off with the holidays,” you say, “but I really want us to finish this early. The due date’s in mid-February, so we can pass this on the 14th.” You turn to face him. “Get it? ‘Cause it’s Valentine’s Day.”

He nods. “Okay. No slacking. I get it. The Valentine’s is smart, too.” You nod back in silent understanding, turning back to type frantically into your keyboard.

You hear the door jingle and Lia’s small “hey, guys”, so you look up and offer a smile. “I’m gonna go order everyone some coffee,” Mark says beside you, getting up and shuffling over to the counter. Daniel joins him, and Lia takes a seat across you, her smile knowing and apologetic. “Everything okay?” You blow a raspberry, but smile, anyway. “It’s not so bad. It could be better, but no more banter, just very annoyed auras…? You get it. It’s just been tough trying to divert my focus to this and ignore all the annoyance I feel.”

“Totally, I get that,” she says, “but all the same, I’m glad he’s matured a little bit and lessened all the ribbing.” You smile at that, agreeing, and then the conversation spirals into one about both of your days—“Professor Callahan totally pops a stiffy over Professor Michaelson”, “Daniel tells me Joshua cheated. Yes, on Jess!”, “Mia dropped out the other day and nobody knows why, hope she’s okay”—before Daniel and Mark return, coffee cups in hand. Mark places one next to you, and profusely, you look up at him, who’s just about to sit.

“Thanks, but I don’t drink brewed coff—”

“It’s a caramel latte, the only thing you drink. Heard you say that to Lia once.” He takes a seat and pulls his laptop open.

You stare at him, taking the cup and bringing it to your lips. Sure enough, it’s caramel—thick, and foamy, and sweet. You look up at him again, but he’s busy on Google Scholar, perusing through journals and studies. You shake your head before turning to Lia, who’s already looking at you, expression mirroring yours.

Sweet, she mouths, but you purse your lips and choose not to acknowledge it. “Thanks,” you say quietly, and he hums to say you’re welcome.

Your eyes flicker to him. He’s wearing a knitted sweater, but he’s pulled it up to his elbows. He’s typing quickly, and he can use all his fingers, too (you fail miserably at that), and his brows are furrowed as if he’s stressed, or in a hurry. You’ve never really noticed this much of Mark before. It’s probably, you think absently, because you’re confused. Puzzled at the gesture that you didn’t expect—at all.

After an hour, he angles his laptop to yours. “Nailed the intro. High five?” You open the Google doc on your own browser, and sure enough, the word count has increased monumentally. You can’t deny his knack for writing. “There are a few discrepancies in grammar,” you say instead. “But…okay. This is good.” You ignore his hand, in mid-air, and continue researching.

Lia holds in a giggle, but turns back to Daniel, who, after fifteen minutes, turns to you and Mark. “Lia and I are heading out, guys,” he says, and Lia quickly tacks on. “Hey, if you need me to stay, I can,” she says quickly, but you smile and shake your head.

“This might take a while. Go ahead. See ya at the dorm, Li. Bye, Daniel.” Mark bids his farewells, too, and they leave you alone in the cafe. It’s nearing a three hour crunch when he abruptly gets up to stretch, a low grunt leaving his lips. “I’m exhausted,” he sighs, “but at least we’re nearly done with this whole denial thing.”

“We’re actually only just starting,” you state, “this is going to go through a lot of editing and proofreading.”

He chuckles and walks back to the counter to order something, and you shut your laptop to rest your eyes. Your glasses rest uncomfortably on the bridge of your nose as you breathe deeply. You lose track of time, and you open your eyes ten minutes later, fumbling to get up properly. There’s a panini beside your laptop, wrapped neatly in a tissue and laid on a plate. Mark’s is empty, save for crumbs, and he says nothing.

“Get up,” he remarks teasingly after a while, and you groan in exhaustion. “I am, I’m up,” you mutter, straightening your back and flexing your neck. Inwardly, you wonder if you should thank him for the panini that is obviously yours that you obviously did not buy for yourself.

Then Mark’s hand stretches out to take the panini, and he takes a bite. “Sorry,” he says, “I had to put my second sandwich in your space. This table’s a little small.” You hum back in acknowledgement, nodding once. “It’s, uh…all good,” you respond, voice small as you type into your laptop. Internally, your body fills slowly with humiliation and confusion, but you stay quiet, and that’s how the rest of the night goes: a silent, steady beat of keyboard clicking and the occasional question.

No banter, no nothing—it’s a godsend, yes, it is, but you can’t help but miss the abrasive, playful conversations the two of you had built up over the previous several weeks. But really—had you truly assumed he had bought you a panini? As if a coffee wasn’t enough? You felt at odds with yourself for even expecting such a gesture from the guy whose main habit was to annoy you to the ends of the Earth.

“It’s late,” he says, as if he’s reading your mind and knowing you’re absolutely mortified inside. “Let’s head home.” You nod, deeming the night’s work satisfactory—maybe even beyond, considering the amount of effort you both put into the output. You shove your laptop and charger into your bag and pocket your phone, lingering awkwardly and waiting for Mark to finish packing up. He’s particular with it—he has little sections in his backpack for the wires and chargers, and even his AirPods, and his laptop.

“Very organized,” you find yourself commenting offhandedly, your tone taking on a teasing edge. He glares playfully back at you.

“Sorry I don’t want my wires to break,” he shoots back, eyeing your flimsy tote bag, “unlike some people.” You roll your eyes and, against your strongest wills, a smile appears on your lips, albeit a small one. His eyes linger on your smile for a little bit before he clears his throat and zips up his knapsack. “Let’s, er, go. Thank Jesus we’re in the same building.” When you exit, the air bites at you despite the jacket covering your body, and you quicken your pace. “It’s cold as hell.”

“Ironic,” Mark says. You hide a smile.

—

That’s what November brings you—the next week and a half are composed of just slowly learning to get used to working with Mark again and going home late into the night, crunching to the max.

Your paper begins to take on more and more structure, and two out of the six days you’ve met, Mark has set down a caramel latte for you to arrive to. The acoustic music slowly phases into holiday guitar, and the coat rack at the entrance is weighed down more and more as the days pass, preparing to welcome December.

You and Mark work silently, save for the rare banter and eyeroll, and very gradually, the annoyance that had bubbled up within seconds before had sank down. You’re not friends, per se—it’s just that the frustration and exasperation had lessened considerably.

You were civil. That’s it. You won’t try to deny that you’ve been thinking about this a little too much—about what your “friendship” had become with Mark. You hadn’t snapped at him in days, and he hadn’t tugged at your ballpen in even longer. It wasn’t that you had cowered him into silence by crying over your planner—it may have instigated it, but his behavior was…different.

More calm, more sure. Less childish. He would still tease you, but not as much. It’s nearing mid-November now, and you’ve successfully done much of your introduction and denial, needing less and less of Lia and Daniel’s presence. (Which you’re sure they’re grateful for.) But being left alone with Mark isn’t as bad as you once thought—

“Hello. Earth to you,” you distantly hear, and you whip your head in the direction of the voice as you pace back to your dorm building. Mark stares blankly back at you. “What,” you mumble back. He quirks a brow before continuing. “I was saying, I think I need to take a rain check tomorrow. The, uh”—he clears his throat—“um, yeah.”

You eye him. “Okay…?”

He nods profusely, “Yeah, all good.” The walk continues in silence, the sun finally setting down behind the Manhattan skyline beyond you and the breeze taking on a chillier temperature. You sigh softly, fatigue overtaking you as you stare at the building nearing you. “If you take a rain check, just make sure you write it within the day or after,” you say, half-sternly and half-tiredly. He mumbles a “got it” and you both jog up the steps to the lobby, where you run into, by some weird twist of the day, a small group of anti-abortion protesters.

“Jesus Christ,” Mark mutters under his breath. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.” You rub the bridge of your nose in your fingers, choosing to tune them out and instead maneuver your way through the door. Before you can even take a step, though, they’re all up in your face with pamphlets and brochures and a guitar. “Excuse me,” you grunt, trying to gently push them aside, but they only come on stronger. “A child is a child,” they say. “If you know anybody who’s—”

“Is this your new initiative? Preying on college students on school grounds, unaccounted for?” Mark asks from behind you. You turn to find he’s filming and stifle a laugh. “I’m surprised nobody’s kicked you out. Won’t be long, now,” he adds with a smile.

You tune out nearly everything else—it’s really just them telling Mark to stop recording and him retorting with equally snarky phrases. It’s not until maybe after a solid two minutes of back and forth that one of them, a weird middle-aged woman, pulls out a burgundy gummy bear from a bag and pushes it into Mark’s camera. He takes it from her and examines it, puzzled. “That,” she says matter-of-factly, “is the approximate size of a fetus. It’s big. It’s sentient, alive. What, I beg of you, what would you do?”

Mark squints at it. Then he pops it into his mouth, takes your hand, and runs straight to the elevator across the floor.

“There’s a bunch of anti-abortion people outside, it’s not cool!” He hollers to the receptionist before the doors close with a damning click.

There’s a beat, and then.

Both of you are doubling over in laughter. “Why the hell would y—why would you do that?! You’re insane!” The response is: “Because they’re not cool! They’re fuckin’ annoying! So I ate their baby!” There are tears in your eyes, your laughter so hard it’s nearing silent—Mark’s, though, is loud and annoying sounding, though you seem to not mind so much. The laughter subsides when the ding of your floor sounds and you straighten yourself up. Getting into a different position reminds you of the very there, very obvious brushing of your hand against Mark’s, which he’d taken just moments earlier, post-baby eating.

You freeze and jerk your hand away. “I’ll, um, go now,” you say, “I’ll see you tomorr—no, the day after.” Against your wills, you meet his eyes, and you’re surprised to find that he’s already looking at you, an unreadable expression on his face. “Okay,” he says, his eyes not leaving yours. Your heart beats faster at a very small increment, but you head out and semi-run to your room, swinging it open and leaning against it.

You look up to find Lia and Daniel engaged in a heated Monopoly match. You make no noise, mind (and heart, but you can’t tell why) racing fast. You watch them play for a second before they both look up slowly.

“You’re smiling like a goddamn idiot,” Daniel says. Your face falls immediately. “I’m, um, no I’m not,” you say casually, pacing over to your bed and flopping onto it. Lia laughs loudly.

“That sounded so freaked. Like we’re your mom and you just brought weed home kind of freaked.” Pause.

“Are you hiding something from me?” She rises from her spot to look at you, head in pillow and all, and you let out a muffled “no!”, probably too defensive for your own good.

It’s Daniel’s turn to snort. You look up and glare at him, “You’re getting too comfortable for your own good. You need to humble yourself, Daniel. What’s it again? Oh yeah, Yeonjun, right?” He rolls his eyes at the use of his Korean name and turns back to the Monopoly board.

Lia flops atop you, eliciting a grunt from your lips. “Are you okay? Did somebody flirt with you? Did Mark finally fuck off and leave you alone properly?”

At the mention of Mark, your heart races—you will it to stop, and audibly groan in the process. “What is it, you bitch?” Lia asks, tugging on a section of your hair. “It’s nothing, Li! Nothing, I promise.” She glares at you before walking to Daniel and covering his ears. Instantly, he begins to let out a chorus of Lalala, and deeming the environment safe enough, you let it slip.

“Mark and I held hands. But it—”

“You what?!”

“It really, really doesn’t mean anyth—”

“How can that not mean anything? It’s hand holdi—”

“If you would listen to the backstory you’d know!” She pauses, and then uncovers Daniel’s ears and knees him.

“Okay, get out. Monopoly postponed, Jun,” she says, pushing him out insistently. He barely collects his phone and keys before he’s out, but you swoon silently when you catch him pressing a short goodbye kiss to her forehead before actually leaving. She turns immediately, fire and curiosity awfully evident in her face.

She nears you. “Explain.”

And that’s what sparks the story of the weird protesters, Mark’s power move, and the unintentional hand hold that lasted a few moments too long. She nods the entire time, laughing, and then her face straightens out again. You can almost hear the gears in her head turning as she analyzes the situation, and then she nods once.

“Okay. Perfectly justifiable to freak out.” Another pause. “But why were you smiling?” You stare blankly back at her, head working impossibly quick to formulate a reply. You’ve taken too long now, judging by the way Lia is looking at you with the most shit-eating grin on her fucking face. You groan.

“You like him, you bitch!”

You shake your head, facing her. “I don’t, dude. Trust me. I just…it was a fun experience, so naturally I’d be laughing. And smiling. But I’m just not interested in Mark! I’m not,” you fumble, being completely honest.

You didn’t—not even if you looked in the mirror and asked yourself. But you couldn’t deny the feelings you felt in the ten seconds from the elevator to your room, your heart racing and your fist curling and uncurling. When you look at Lia again, she’s still smiling, flushed. “You like him,” she says into her palm, which she’s slapped over her mouth in disbelief. You stare back at her, your expression baffled. “If I did,” you begin, getting up to discard your shirt, “I’d have told you by now. It’s really not that big of a deal unless you make it out to be.”

After that, you and Mark spend nearly three weeks walking on eggshells around each other. While conversations are no longer avoided, and you could talk without getting exasperated or too embarrassed, finger brushes are frequent, and eye contact only makes you extremely nervous. You had worked until the second stage—anger—already, but you’d still been polishing the denial and introduction. Considering November wasn’t over and the paper was due February, you figured you were moving at an okay pace. Besides, a lot of your friends hadn’t even begun.

—

There are two instances where you rush home, mortified beyond belief.

The first when when you struck up a conversation with the cute, Australian barista. Scrawled in big penmanship on his name tag is Chan. You had brought up, in passing, how often you’re at the cafe and how you probably deserve a free drink. He replied with a low hum, and you dialed down your flirty tone, slightly embarrassed. But not really. You’ve rejected plenty of people before. It’s when you’re already paying for your drink that he replied, handing you your (for a change) iced matcha with a small grin.

“I’d have flirted with you weeks ago if you didn’t have your boyfriend with you all the time. He’s always buying you your drinks.” You spluttered for a good second, staring at him incredulously. “He’s not my boyfriend,” you finally said.

He had shrugged, nonchalant. “He sure as hell looks at you a lot for someone you’re not dating. And you do it just as much, if not more. I’m observant, by the way. Not a stalker.” You had taken your cup and paced over to the other end of the cafe, sat across Mark, cheeks heated.

He looked up, brow raised. You shook your head.

The second time was when Donghyuck graced you both with his presence. You quickly found out that he was a magnetic presence and you both shared similar interests. The energy you both created was both amusing and annoying to Mark.

Although you kept quiet mostly, you enabled Donghyuck’s incessant teasing, which annoyed Mark to the ends of the Earth. “You’re a dork. Isn’t he?” You look up and nod with a smile. Mark rolls his eyes, sending Donghyuck into a laughing frenzy. Mark just grunts and continues typing.

Hyuck had made a joke about how two Physics textbooks discussed why the sad man named Mark owns two of them and didn’t have a life, and you laughed.

You didn’t usually laugh, not around Mark, at least, since it was safe to say you didn’t have any source of entertainment in such a boring guy. But you laughed at the witty joke, and Donghyuck, without thinking much, had said in passing: “Mark, I guess you’re right about everything about her being pretty.”

Mark said nothing, typing. You said nothing. Nobody said anything, not even a sly Donghyuck or, from the counter, an even slyer Chan.

—

When you see Mark next, it’s three days later, and it’s, for the second time, in Johnny’s apartment.

Lia had asked if you wanted to tag along, and you found no harm in going. (“You’re going because Mark is” becomes Lia’s favorite phrase of the night, so much it’s spread to Daniel, who you’d succumbed to and spilled everything to hours prior.) The walk there has something boiling low in your gut and you’re quiet, in fear you might end up vomiting in nerves or saying something stupid. Lia teases you, but her hand clasping yours reassures you, and you squeeze it tightly.

You get there late—it’s past 1AM, and you have a sense of deja vu walking into the cramped space. It’s fuller this time—people are creeping into the bedrooms to smoke in private or do some other things, but suffice to say it’s crowded as fuck.

“Want a drink?” Lia hollers, and you nod over the music. Johnny’s neighbor is another upperclassman named Doyoung, though he’s mainly referred to as Doie by just about everybody around him.

You’ve seen his girlfriend call him bunny a few times, though you’ve long desired to repress that memory.

Judging by the fact that you can faintly hear a different song from the next room, the party has probably extended to Doyoung’s. There’s quite a gathering this week—the rich freshman who you’d befriended once before, Chenle, and his horde of friends are here; from Lia, who hands you a drink, you learn that Kun and Sicheng, two incredibly attractive juniors, are here, too—in Doie’s, though. The party only intensifies, which is hard, because Johnny’s apartment is very tiny.

Eventually, you find yourself in the bathroom, smoking a joint you’d grabbed out of the clammy hands of a tipsy Chenle and kicking a couple out under the guise that you’re Johnny’s cousin. Chenle had protested but eventually given in, pulling a new one out of his pocket.

The bathroom light is white and harsh, but there’s a very funky lamp at the corner. From your place inside the dry (and thankfully clean…looking) bathtub, you eye it. It’s a tall one in the shape of a glass of margarita.

You heave yourself up and find the switch, and then when it’s on, you giggle at the green light emitting from it. You have absolutely no idea why Johnny, Jaehyun, or their roommate Jungwoo (3J, as some call them) have a decorative, margarita-shaped green lamp, and in their bathroom nonetheless, but you shut off the main light and return to smoking your blunt. Deciding your ass aches far too much, you lean against the tile wall and cherish the smoke.

The door opens abruptly, and you curse, pushing it back closed.

“I have explosive diarrhea,” you say robotically, using the same excuse you did for the previous three couples that showed up.

From the other side, you hear a shrill laugh and sound of confusion. When you peer over the other side and see Mark, you groan and laugh. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I saw you come in. Like, twenty minutes ago.”

“I’m cherishing the party privately.”

Mark ushers himself into the dark space and shuts the door. He makes a show of locking it, as if to show you it’s possible to do so. The sound of it locking sends a wave of nerves up your spine.

“I didn’t lock it in case a medical emergency happens and they have to rush inside.”

Mark quirks his brow. “I doubt they would think to go inside the restroom and not panic and call 911, you know.”

You shrug in indifference and take another drag, reluctantly offering it to him.

He takes it, and you pause for a second to observe him. His hair, dark, and which usually covers his entire forehead like a broom or at least parts in the middle slightly, is now styled differently.

He’s in a fitting black shirt and blue jeans, and, upon your closer inspection, silver rings adorn his fingers. You will yourself to look down. It’s dark. “What’s that you’re holding?” You ask instead, trying not to extend your stare at his shoulders.

“Your puffer coat,” he says, tossing it to you. “Left it last time.”

“That time when you annoyed the shit out of me, right,” you retort.

“Yes, exactly that time. That was ages ago. Weeks ago. Look at us now.”

“Us now—what, still disliking each other?”

He laughs humorlessly, but doesn’t entertain you further. He turns to the lamp instead. “Do you know I was there when they moved this in,” he begins, gesturing to it, “Jae got it at some weird, awful flea market, and he had to buy some extra wiring to fix it or whatever. I was doing Physics homework. It was at the start of this school year. And I bet you didn’t know…” he bends down and reaches to the base of the lamp, pressing a button, “that it changes color.”

The room is bathed in red now, and you swallow. “Interesting,” you manage to say, despite the racing in your head. “Very,” he responds, taking a step closer to you. You gaze up at him. He’s tall. You breathe softly. You nod in agreement. You don’t know what to do. You want to punch him and kiss him and leave all at once.

You want to kiss him, oh God, you want to kiss him.

“Oh God,” you say softly, out loud. Oh fuck. Too much weed?

He inches closer, leaving the blunt on the rim of the sink. “Why?” He smiles a little and you smile back, nervous. He’s so close now, and he smells so good—like cologne and laundry and weed. You shake your head. “Nothing,” you mumble back.

He’s even closer now, eyes boring into yours. You adjust your strap, a nervous habit. He takes your hand and does it for you. “I like this song,” he says casually, like he’s not playing with the strap of your dress. “Do you know what it’s called?” It’s vaguely familiar to you, but you shake your head.

“It’s Jhene Aiko,” he replies, and you nod. You gravitate closer.

You stare at him. He stares back. “I’m high,” you say. You giggle. “I had a brownie and that blunt.”

“That’s a lot,” he says. “Don’t finish the blunt, ‘kay?” You nod back, and giggle again. In two seconds, your nervous mechanism has kicked in and you’re laughing like a psycho. “I’m high,” you repeat, and then he kisses you, effectively sobering you up.

Huh. He kisses you, effectively sobering you up. He kisses you.

You kiss back, shocked and relieved, deepening it, trying to get as much of him as possible. His hands are big and wide and warm, traveling all over you. You want him. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, lips molding against yours deliriously.

“Want you,” you say when his hands play with the hem of your dress, teetering closer and closer to your core. “I said, I want you,” you whine, “now.” Mark only laughs, his hands under your dress and playing with the lace waistband of your underwear.

“I like how this feels,” he mumbles. “Wanna take a look.” You whimper, hiking your leg up and nodding. “Please, just…touch me,” you say breathlessly. “Please.”

“I will,” he says, voice calm. “You’re being good.” You can’t deny the noise you make at the praise, breathy and loud. You pull him in again, drunk for more, your hands raking through his hair. It’s dark, the both of you basking in the small red light. Mark hikes your dress up, inching it higher, slowly, until he sees the hem of your white lace underwear. He grunts and pulls at it. “I love this,” he says. “So fuckin’, Jesus.”

You giggle against the smile. He toys with your panties for a bit before finally pulling them down, watching them sink to your ankles. “Hot,” he jokes, and you laugh in disbelief. “Why would you even be joking abou—”

“Mark! Let’s go, it’s 2:30!” Donghyuck’s voice is just as loud and clear as it would be if you weren’t separated by a door. Jolted, you and Mark instinctively break apart and stare at the rattling door. “Maaaark,” he sing-songs, knocking to a beat. You stare at Mark, waiting for him to respond.

“I have explosive diarrhea,” he says. You stifle a guffaw, pulling your panties up.

He pouts, tapping your ass. “Bullshit,” Donghyuck says from outside. “I’m cooomin’ in!”

In the span of a minute, where you realize Donghyuck is not bluffing and in fact has a stolen bathroom key from Jungwoo’s bedside drawer, you manage to shove yourself into the bathtub and hide yourself with the curtain. Mark switches the light back on, much to both of your disappointment, and pretends to smoke the blunt you’d left on the sink fifteen minutes ago. Ergo: pre-kiss.

You find your phone on the bathtub floor and grip it, turning the brightness down. You have a plethora of messages and voicemails from Lia, five calls from Daniel, and an interesting iMessage of Donghyuck’s red, weed-induced eyes from an unknown number. It could be anybody, and that scares you.

The texts are all frantic, and they’re the last things that bring you out of your high and back to reality. Where are u, who u with?, u getting railed??!, Have you seen mark?

“Hyuck, if I actually did have a shitstorm coming out of my ass, you’d be so sorry for breaking in,” you hear Mark say. You sink lower into the bathtub, awaiting Donghyuck’s voice. “You were the one who suggested we go at 2:30, and you’ve been smoking weed for the longest time, dipshit,” he says, “now let’s go. I haven’t seen your Psych girl all night, so you can cry about it at home.” You faintly detect Mark protesting and then, “Let me just freshen up! Just go ahead.”

Reluctantly, you peek out and find Mark alone. You get up and fix your dress.

You’re sober now. The red lights are gone. It’s just you and Mark, plain and simple. Your feelings haven’t gone away, though. You’re fucking fucked. You want him to fuck you. Oh, fuck.

“Go,” you say instead, spluttering. “And I’ll see you. Tuesday.”

You leave first despite yourself, not turning around for even a split second, finding a worried (and then relieved) Lia and taking five consecutive tequila shots to down the nerves and denial bubbling in your system. She raises a brow, but you refuse to even meet her eyes, head and heart pounding impossibly fast. You want to kiss him again. So, so bad. But what the fuck did you just let happen?

—

Stage 2: Anger|

Lia hadn’t pressed, and you were nervous, but it was getting easy to diverge the details of what happened during Johnny’s party. You had instead opted to work alone, too much of a coward to even see Mark’s face. If you were being completely honest with yourself, you feared you might just kiss him if you ever saw him. So you spent days at class working, and then at your dorm working, adjusting your route to avoid, as much as possible, Mark or Hyuck’s buildings and that godforsaken cafe. You did text Mark, though, and the exchanges were brief, not even a “thank you” or “good morning” preceding them. It was awful.

Working alone forced you into a heavy load of retrospection. You would think deeply, like how you are now, spiraling into a series of questions where you studied the play-by-play of what happened in the bathroom, up against the wall. You liked it. A lot. But you couldn’t. You wouldn’t let yourself. Why it even happened…God. You mentally berated yourself for giving into it. Didn’t you hate him? Or at least dislike him? Didn’t you take pleasure in scolding him or fighting with him?

“You’re freaking me out,” Lia says from her bed. She’s been staring at you. “You’ve been lying on your bed staring at the ceiling for twenty straight minutes.” She walks over to you, flopping next to you, her arms winding around your body. “You can tell me anything.”

“I know,” you say, nervous. You gulp.

“Okay. If you’re n—”

“Mark and I kissed.”

She sits up and turns to look at you.

“Made out, more like. We were going to fuck if we didn’t get interrupted.” You’re mortified, refusing to meet her gaze. When you look up, her face is even, but you know she’s bubbling over with giddiness inside. “That is so fucking great, dude,” she replies. “Why are you so embarrassed?”

“Because it’s Mark,” you whine. “He’s not…I don’t know.”

She lies back down. “You’re overthinking this.” You laugh, poking her waist. “I know, but I just…I feel like he might not like me much anymore.” You recount the way you left him hanging, despite the lack of awkward air and the potential to talk and become something. She tsks but justifies it, because she’s so good at that, being a mediator, and you continue with your day quietly.

Your mind is always on it, though, his hands and his lips, and you’ve scoured Spotify for the song playing that he had commented on.

It’s called Pussy Fairy. You cannot make it up. It’s a weird title, but the song is heavenly, and you can’t deny when it’s full blast on your AirPods and your hand is creeping closer and closer there, trying desperately to replicate what you felt in that moment. When you’re not sated, ashamed and sighing, you resort to working on your paper. There are moments where both you and Mark are working at the same time, and you hate yourself for getting all flustered when it happens.

—

It’s a Tuesday, in the early afternoon, when you’re out of class and cleaning out the little litter in your dorm, repasting whatever decorations fell off, et cetera. You have the time, anyway, and it wouldn’t hurt to fix the place up a bit. You’re halfway into re-stringing Lia’s fairy lights when someone knocks on the door, jolting you. You curse under your breath, hopping off her bed to swing the door open and reveal—

“What is up?!” Donghyuck grins back at you. His hand is raised in a high-five invitation, which you hesitantly reciprocate. “Mark tells me you’re meeting today, and that I should come remind you, since it seems like you forgot. He says you haven’t texted all day. Since I was on this floor—do you know Jeno Lee? Do you know it’s so amusing how Mark, Jeno, and I all have the same surname? Anyway. I was here on your floor to remind Jeno about an Econ presentation, and Mark texts me and goes, if you’re with Jeno, then remind you—you as in you, you—to come meet me and work.”

He talks so goddamn fast. “You talk so goddamn fast.”

He just guffaws, high-fiving you again. “Well, you get my point, right? Meet Mark at the cafe and work is all he said to do. If you wanna.” You nod slowly, absorbing his words. “Tell him I’ll be a little late,” you say simply, and as you’re about to shut the door, he talks again, his voice quieter this time. “I know you were hiding behind the curtain.”

You pull the door open again, so fast a minuscule gust of wind washes over both of your faces. “You’re kidding,” you say, “you’re kidding.” You stare at each other for a second before his solem features break into a smile. “I am. Mark spilled everything to me, so I decided to trick you.” Relief and annoyance break over your system as you swat Donghyuck’s shoulder. “You’re a dick,” you spit. “You’re bringing a bad image to Econ majors.”

He merely laughs and closes the door himself, light brown hair fluffing with the severity of his laugh (cackle.) Slightly annoyed, you drag yourself to get dressed, dread building up in your stomach at the prospect of seeing Mark again. Not when your mind conjures up what happened everytime you just see his name. Or the word mark. You’ve been out of it since it happened, not even responding to your usual heated debates with the conservative Trump supporter in class. You suppose the best way to confront it is to simply confront it.

When you get there, though, it’s clear that confrontation would not be an option. Immediately, when you sit, the air shifts into something oddly familiar—the atmosphere between the two of you when you first got partnered up. Except now, Mark won’t even give you a pinch of attention, or banter, instead typing his questions into the document to avoid verbal conversation. (He is a fucking petty bitch, you’ll give him that.)

You stroll over to the counter, pout set on your lips. “Hello,” Chan says politely, and you just smile half-heartedly. “Lover’s quarrel?” He teases, and you roll your eyes. “He’s ignoring me,” you respond, watching him make you a latte. “And we’re not dating. We never were.”

“Mm, right,” he says, finishing and setting your drink in front of you. You laugh a little, taking it. “No. We weren’t. But I’ll update you.”

When you return, Mark’s looking at you, quiet as ever. You break his gaze and continue working, working and working until the sun sets, nestled deep behind the horizon. When you look up again, the sky is already dark, city lights providing solace to the place. You look at Mark quizzically, as if to ask him what time you should both leave, but he just shrugs. “Any time,” he states plainly, and huffing, you get up.

“I’ll go right ahead then,” you say, trying your best to sound annoyed and get your message across. He says nothing, watching you pack up your stuff and sling your bag over your shoulder, and then eventually, leave.

Daniel is the first to see you in your raged, annoyed state—you meet him in the elevator of the lobby, your blood boiling and your fists balled. Knowing you’re headed to the same floor, he presses the button, ruffles his hair, and then lets the silence take over. And then, “What’s going on?” You breathe deeply, turning to him with a tired look on your face. “Mark’s going on,” you mumble, “he was ignoring me the entire time. And to think he was the one who requested my presence! It makes no sense. Why would he ignore me when we can just talk about it?”

“About what?”

It suddenly occurs to you that Daniel knows about your weird feelings for Mark, but not how they culminated. You splutter. “Um, about us. Everything.” Daniel looks amused, but the doors open, and you thank them for the temporary exit from the topic. He stops you right outside, though, and pulls out two ticket, card-looking things. “Wait, um. Listen, Lia and I are going to reach our seven-month…anniversary, I guess, of, y’know, being a thing. I know it seems really small, but I want to give her a little something out of appreciation, so I got us a room at this ski lodge outside the city.”

“That’s so sweet,” you say honestly, “but I must admit, it comes on sort of stalker-y. Like you’re whisking her off out of the city.”

He beams even louder. “That’s why you’re coming. With Mark!”

You gape back at him. “Did you miss the whole I-hate-him thing that happened in there?” You jab your finger towards the closed elevator doors, disbelief written across your face. He laughs. “Sometimes you can’t keep hiding behind”—he begins walking to your room, and you follow suit—“emotions, like anger. When I liked Lia, there was a point where I was just pretending to alienate her so I wouldn’t have to face that I was starting to love her. Like her. And you know, she did it right back.”

“Oh, quit it,” you scoff, insistent. “You’re lecturing me like you’ve been married a decade.”

“That’s what I want,” he says, and you gag. “The first step to that would be ski lodge trip, so you’re coming!”

You’re in front of your room now, and you pinch his wrist as he reaches for the handle, gaining his full attention. “I’ll gladly go,” you whisper, “if Mark’s out.” Daniel just laughs, shaking his head. “No, no. An overnight trip would delay your paper severely. Plus, they have two beds per room.”

“We’ll be staying in the same roo—hey, Li,” you say, quickly cutting your angry rant off when she opens the door, her face confused (to say the least.)

“Mm, hey,” she says, ushering the two of you in. “How long were you two out there?” Daniel shrugs, ruffling his hair and then pressing a kiss on Lia’s forehead. You boo from your place on your bed, buried under your duvet. “You both suck,” you holler, “always sexing it up in a sacred space. AKA my room.” Lia just grins and jumps on top of you, drawing grunts from you both. Daniel seats himself on the floor and busies himself with his phone. “How was Mark,” she whispers into your hair, and you groan.

“Bad,” you respond, “I’m so annoyed. We’re back to square one.” She makes an apologetic noise and gets up with a sigh, adjusting the strings of her pullover and then hugging Daniel. You watch them. You want to kiss Mark again. Life sucks that way.

—

Predictably, Mark turns down the offer of the ski lodge. He’s polite about it, too, especially since he and Daniel have grown a little bit closer since the start of your project. Daniel is, by no means, a “Mark anti”, but he would participate in the ribbing sometimes. Still, he’s insistent on the trip, saying it’s the best way to welcome December and that the forecast predicts a nice, thick layer of snow. It takes a week and two coffees everyday for Mark to give in, under the condition that he buy his own room when you get there.

Which, honestly, really, you have no problem with. Really, you think to yourself as you unceremoniously shove a knitted sweater into your bag. Really. Lia, who had graciously accepted the surprise, watches you abuse your bag, shoving sweater and scarf inside like they want to murder you. “Relax,” she says after a while. You laugh, playing it off (not so) casually.

The drive up there, courtesy of Daniel and a borrowed Prius, is fun, and cramped, but still decent, considering it was just an hour long. You’re in the back with Lia, and Mark is in charge of the AUX, which, of course, comes with its own bout of jokes. You even find the heart to participate and laugh in a few, not daring to meet his eyes. But all his songs are so fucking good. Frank Ocean, Jhene Aiko, SZA, and smaller indie artists flow from the speaker under his phone. The car ride has its share of epic karaoke moments—Mark plays ABBA, and Queen, solely to make sure everybody is belting out to the high heavens.

You get there when the sky’s purple and orange and there are some skiiers scattered around, though, since it’s not the proper holiday period, not too much. You trek over to the main lodge and that’s where Daniel pays for his reservations, and he and Lia retire to their room and promise to get up for dinner. You’re, again, alone with Mark in the lobby as you both stare at each other, willing the other to get up first. He does, to buy his own room like he said he would, and you can faintly hear the exchange from your seat on their nice, fluffy couch.

“I’m sorry, sir. We’re renovating a majority of the rooms for the holidays. That’s why reservations were a prerequisite for staying here.”

Mark sighs. “Okay, right. I’m so sorry. Um”—it’s at this point that you go up next to him, polite smile on your face, ready to take the room key and fuck off—“could we just get an extra blanket, please? For one of the beds.” The receptionist gives a curt smile, handing over the keycard and nodding. “That’ll be one queen-sized warm blanket, then,” she hums, typing away. The receptionist beside her goes to the back, presumably to get the blanket. Mark nods, smiling. “For two queen-sized beds, it must be a big room for both of them to fit comfortably,” he comments offhandedly, fiddling with the card.

The receptionist chuckles. “There is only one bed, sir.”

Oh, God. “Oh, God,” you whisper. “One bed?” She nods with an eye-crinkling smile, like her words have not just rained hell upon the two people across her. “One bed and a sofa,” she corrects herself, reading the information on the computer by the desk. Not wanting to risk your last shred of sanity, you smile profusely, walking quickly towards your room which, thankfully, is on the same floor, at the end of the hall. It’s a small, quaint place that would be honest-to-God perfect if not for the fact that—

“There’s one bed,” Mark sighs, the truth clicking into place. “Daniel is a fucking shithead.” You drop your bag onto the carpeted floor, surveying the room with a scrutinizing gaze. It’s sizable—a bed, a couch, a window. There’s a small wooden desk that looks like its legs can barely hold its weight, and then another door, leading to the bathroom. It’s not bad at all. But you’re exhausted, the sun’s long gone, and your resolve is shredding away as the seconds tick by. “Take the couch,” you say dismissively, “or the carpet.” You make a beeline for the bed, but Mark’s arm wraps around your waist, effectively stopping you.

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod “Shut up and let go of me, dick,” you stutter out. Mark loosens his grip and you shove him off, glaring at him. He gazes back down at you, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “We can’t just make up terms without negotiation,” he says matter-of-factly, and you blow a raspberry. “Fine. Let’s negotiate then. I’m a girl and that puts me above you because chivalry isn’t dead, thus, boom, I get the bed.”

“I was in the uncomfortable passenger seat all day and my lower back hurts,” he counters.

“My legs are wobbly.”

“Bullshit. My back aches.”

“You already said that, it’s invalid.”

The back and forth only intensifies, your arguments growing more and more bizarre, until finally, your volume is so high Lia says she can hear it faintly, four doors down.

“The couch looks comfy,” you try, but Mark stands firm.

“Do you know what? The bed is big. It’s a big bed. And we’re not going to take up much space. If we divide the bed with the sofa pillows…” you pick up the cushions and line them up neatly along the middle, “…then we can sleep beside each other without having to make contact with each other.” He seems convinced, stepping closer to the bed and nodding. “Okay. I get first dibs on the shower.”

“Asshole,” you mutter, but you let him anyway. You’ve unpacked nearly all your things and he isn’t done yet, so you’ve resorted to scrolling mindlessly through Tiktok and laughing at just about everyone that pops up on screen. Mark finally exits after what feels like forever, and you keep your eyes trained on your screen to avoid looking at him. From your peripheral vision, he is very much shirtless. There are no words exchanged, the thickness in the air only building bit by bit.

—

Three hours later, post-dinner, post-abandoning the thought of working on your paper, you’re stumbling into your room after helping the very tipsy couple of the night into theirs. You’re beyond tired now, and you can tell Mark is, too, despite the lack of eye contact or communication between you. You don’t even look at him, brushing your teeth and removing your makeup and clipping your hair up into a bun. It’s when he does the same, and you’re both in bed, using your phones, that he finally breaks the silence.

“I’m not mad,” he says. His voice is even and calm, and you quickly shut your phone off and sit up, peering over the pillow boundary you had created. You look at him expectantly before he sighs and continues. “Why did you leave?”

You stand up, getting out, trying to increase distance. You’ve never really liked confrontation. “I was weirded out,” you spill, “and scared…? I guess with the nearness of being caught, and with all the lights on, I was just shocked back to reality.”

He sits up. “What’s reality?”

“I don’t—know,” you splutter, getting back on the bed. “Not kissing you?”

He laughs, and then it becomes silent. “Right. Let’s sleep, then.” Without another word, he pulls his lamp off, and only the white moonlight is left illuminating the both of you. Shucking yourself under the covers, feeling your heart practically thump out of your chest. You honestly think he can hear it, or at least feel it. Suddenly the boundary doesn’t do much. You turn away from him, nervous, and you can faintly hear his breathing even out. You shut your eyes for a second. When you open them again, he’s looking right at you. “Just checking to see if you’re asleep,” he says quietly. You nod. And then you lean upwards, just a touch, so your lips nearly brush slightly. “Night,” you say, before turning to sleep for real.

You’re not sure when. And how. Sure, you faintly remember digging your legs sleepily through the sheets to find warmth and tangling Mark’s in your own. But still—when you’re up, the pillow fort is at your feet, hanging precariously off the four post bed, and your back is against Mark’s chest. His breath fans lightly over your hair and you blearily register what happened overnight. His arm is slung over your middle, it’s quiet, and oh Christ, he is hard.

It’s fairly late. He’s hard. The antique clock mounted up on the wall tells you it’s around nine, which essentially gave you seven hours of sleep. He’s hard. You bask in the warmth of Mark for a while before your resolve solidifies and you gently push his arm off from its position on your hips. He only comes on stronger, wrapping fully around your waist, mumbling incoherence into your hair. He’s hard. You squeeze your eyes shut, summoning sleep to overcome you quickly, but it never does. Dread overcomes you as you feel your underwear grow damp.

“Mm,” Mark grunts, his hand around your waist loosening. You move away but his head suddenly lolls into the crook of your neck, his lips touching the side of it. You whimper. He’s a fucking asshole, even when he’s asleep. You pinch his arm, jolting him to half-awakeness, and you roll away, despite your body’s protests.

He blinks his eyes open. “Sorry, shit,” he says, voice deep and ridden with sleep. You’re fucked.

“It’s okay,” you splutter instead. “Just go back to sleep.” You faintly register that you sound just as exhausted as he does, and you bury your head back into the covers. Everything, plus the sound of his voice, has you dripping, and you breathe in deeply to poorly disguise a whimper. He chuckles, already half-asleep, from where he is, and it’s quiet for a few minutes before you realize he’s fallen asleep. Knowing Lia and Daniel will be busy for a while, you pull a spare pillow over your head and chant to yourself before falling back asleep, too.

When you awaken, the bed is cold and empty, and the shower’s running. You check the time to find only an hour has passed, but you’re much more awake now, getting up and knocking incessantly on the bathroom door. “Hurry,” you demand hoarsely, “I want to go skiing.” You hear a muffled okay and scurry over to your bag to find the pair of leggings you had packed for this. You also find your parka, and you pull off your shirt to clasp on a bra.

“Not that I don’t mind,” Mark says, eliciting a yelp from you as you tug a sweater on at record speed, “but generally, that kind of thing only goes unnoticed in nudist colonies. I could research some for you, if you’d—ow! I was joking, God!” You bonk him twice over the head with the Bible on the bedside table, your brows furrowed angrily. “You looked, asshat,” you say, collecting your things and locking yourself in the bathroom.

When it becomes increasingly evident that Lia and Daniel have no plans of exiting their room, you grumble and resort to skiing alone. But as you’re shuffling out, bundled up, you spot Mark leaning against the exit waiting for you. He looks up and tsks. “About fucking time,” he says, holding the door open for you. It’s not that cold out—maybe you’re just used to having snow and chilly weather, and so is Mark—so you barely shiver, walking around and looking for a good place to ski.

“Forget skiing,” Mark says after a few rounds. “Let’s go sledding. I have a thing.”

“A toboggan, you mean.”

“A funny word. Really, just say sled.”

You let up, anyway, the bright sky and cold ground sending serotonin right into you. Sure enough, Mark does have a nice, blue sled that he lets you on, and then the two of you are bolting down the hill at breakneck speed, laughing all the way. It’s quite a long ride, and you’re smiling and yelping so much the cloth you’ve used to cover your neck has ridden down, the cold air hitting your face harshly.

You land very ungracefully—the toboggan hits a small tree and sends you and Mark catapulting in the same direction, your hands clawing at the air for expense. You find Mark’s arm and cling onto it in the split second you’re in the air, landing on a clearing of thick snow. The arm you’ve clung onto pulls you closer, Mark grunting “be careful,” and when the whole fiasco’s over, you’re smiling like an idiot, and you’re right on top of Mark.

You’re not straddling him or anything, but you’ve just happened to land with your face a little above his. You can’t stop laughing, your face flushed and red with the cold air hitting your face. So you laugh. Why wouldn’t you laugh? It was a good day. A good ride down the hill. So you keep laughing until they’re reduced to giggles, Mark laughing right along as you pull down the covering of his mouth and tug his beanie off, ruffling your hands in his hair and dipping down to kiss him.

He kisses you right back, his lips cold but quickly growing warm with the friction. You smile into the kiss, your hands roaming all over his pink face. The kiss is giggly and light, your hands all over each other as the sunlight filters in through the thick trees overhead.

You pull away after a while. “I hate you,” you whisper. He presses a kiss to your jawline and lets it linger there. “You think I don’t?”

—

Stage 3: Bargaining, Depression|

You’ve begun to type the structure out when Lia tugs on your pajamas, her tone insistent and curious. “What’s up with you and Mark?” she presses, her cheek pressed to your stomach. You fervently hope she doesnt notice how your breathing quickens, and, keeping your voice even, you answer. “We’re…thinking about things.”

Which—you were thinking about things, to be fair. There were things to be thought and you had to think about them. It was a broad half-truth. It had been two weeks since the ski lodge thing, and you and Mark had decided it was probably best to shut the fuck up about everything you had done. (Everything meaning a few kisses here and there, and maybe a little more under the covers.) You’d hated yourself for hiding it from Lia, but you and Mark were actually feeling hesitant about moving forward with whatever you were. There was a lot of ambiguity and questions, and until you could clear it up yourself, you knew you weren’t ready to tell anybody else. You had talked about it already—clearly, the two of you were beyond jumping straight into a relationship after not liking each other that much and then becoming hesitant friends.

But it was, if you had to admit it to yourself, nice having that little secret.

“I’d want to tell Lia soon,” you tease, walking steadily beside Mark. The afternoon sun is warm on your heads, the snow falling intermittently. He turns with a small smile. “I’d want to tell Hyuck, too.” You scoff, burying your head in his chest. You probably look fucking disgusting. Around you, Washington Square Park is full of natives and tourists, and college students like you, all scurrying around and giving you that very much holiday feel.

He buys you a hot cocoa and hands it to you. “Are you heading home soon?”

You take a sip, your tongue hot. “If my ratty dorm counts as home, then yes.”

“Home is a feeling, not a place. Does your ratty dorm feel like home?”

“Kind of. Lia’s there. And so is the rat infestation in the ceiling.”

Mark nearly chokes on his cocoa. “You’re gross as fuck.”

You let out a loud laugh, your beanie nearly falling off with the bounciness of it. Mark reaches behind you to catch it, pressing a kiss to your lips in the process, soft and light and God, you like it. A lot. “Clumsy,” he remarks, pulling it back on and dragging a generous amount of your hair in front of your eyes as he does it. “It’s gonna be Christmas soon, and thank God we’re nearly done with this paper.”

“It was my genius idea to combine bargaining and depression,” you quip. “That’s my gift to you. Merry Christmas, Mark Lee.” He laughs at that. His laugh, you’ve noticed, is goddamn loud, and it’s a literal cackle, but he always looks so happy when he laughs. And buoyant. “You look stupid,” you say, but the smile on your face is undeniable. He glares playfully at you, taking your hand and walking you both in the direction of your building.

“New York in the snow,” he hums. “Always a great place.”

“It’s full of tourists,” you counter. Always disagreeing.

He chuckles and then, like clockwork—like how you’ve done it for the past six dates—you separate when you’re just shy of a meter away from the lobby entrance. Your fingers curl in search of his, and you jog up the steps, eager to get into the warmth of the building. The lobby’s pretty empty, save for a couple of students. Mark’s ahead of you, already pressing the elevator button and waiting impatiently.

“We’re alone,” he sing-songs, his eyebrows wiggling. The doors open right as you take Mark’s hand, and you look up to meet Daniel’s wide eyes. Then you look to the right to meet Lia’s.

Despite your inner turmoil, you remain nonchalant, pinching Mark’s wrist instead of holding it like you’d planned. “That’s why our professor fucking hates you,” you say, narrowing your eyes. Your heart is beating a mile a minute, but you muster a neutral expression, shoving your hands back into your pockets. Lia knows you, though, and her furrowed eyebrows and parted lips say everything—but you just shrug, playing off what they could have caught you doing. “Hey,” you say, walking into the elevator with Mark. It all blows over.

AKA: Daniel has to drag a curious Lia away from you, with a promise that you would converse later. You and Mark are alone again, in the elevator, your hands barely touching, laughs loud. It’s all blurry after that. You’re high on a laugh and the thought of a kiss—you drag him over to your room, hands in his hair, breathless, loose kisses. You’re both so exhausted, though, that all you manage to extend your energy to is taking your tops off and making out lazily to the songs you’d recommended to each other.

“Mm,” he says when one of your songs starts playing. “It’s a nice song.” You nod with a smile. “I know it is, it’s one of my recommendations. It’s called Softly.” He plays with the strap of your bra. “I’ll give it more of a listen, then. Also, a red bra to school? Whatever will the professors think,” he jokes lightly, pressing insistent, but soft kisses on your shoulder. You laugh, pinching the inner part of his arm and eliciting a swear from him. “I was joking! I know you wore this for me, stupid.” The wind whistles outside, barely audible from the half-open window across the room, overlapping with the music.

This all feels too real, now.

You pout lazily against his bare chest. “Get off before Lia gets in,” you mumble, your heart beginning to race. He does, for what it’s worth, rolling off your bed with a loud thump and tugging his shirt and sweater back on. You watch him (fondly) annoyedly, your hair draping over you as you get up to properly shove him out. “Out, out,” you chant, laughing, and he giggles, turning abruptly to poke at your waist.

“Shut up,” you groan, a smile on your face. There’s a beat, then he pulls you close and kisses you, running outside right after with a literal guffaw. You watch him, wrapping your fleece blanket around your frame as he runs to the elevator, sweater backwards and hair messy.

—

Doubts are normal. This you’re assured of, but your head pounds with the sheer amount of things you’re cramming into it. You squint impossibly harder, trying to get the nail polish into the crook of Lia’s nail. You’ve probably overdone it, judging by the way she jabs her knuckle in between your eyebrows, her face contorted in worry. “Are you…okay?”

You narrow your eyes, the inner debate of telling her raging on and on. The nail polish drips onto her fingernail, rolling onto her pant leg, and she yelps, but her eyes are still on you. “You can tell me anything,” she says, softer this time. You know she’s serious—you know you can. You always have. You told her about every fling, one night stand, pregnancy scare, bad grade, hot professor, and spoiled deli food you’d encountered since you ever became friends. She knew you. And you were so sure she knew what you were about to say.

Except you didn’t know what you wanted to say. Your feelings were a mess, and you wanted one thing as much as you wanted the other. You couldn’t place what you wanted, and if you had to narrow it down, you’d realize that you were scared of what you wanted. You were never really one for commitment, or a relationship, or really anything, for that matter. And the fact that you were so hung up on thinking about what you and Mark would become—Mark? It all seemed so dystopian, almost. Like you’d never expected it. Your friendship was a childhood bubble that popped in the span of your first high school semester, and that was that. But just two days ago you were being kissed all over by the same guy you’d had a cutthroat student council president competition with.

It seemed so absurd? Crazy? Those adjectives were a little over the top. Deep down, if you dug deep enough into the parts you didn’t even tell yourself, you knew what you were. And if anybody else were to know, it would be Lia.

“I’m scared,” you choke out, your voice shaky. “I’m scared and sad, and happy and angry, and I want this but I don’t.” You cover the nail polish, shaking your head. “This is all so new to me. I hate how much I feel, especially because it feels so wrong. You know me—relationships are just not cut out for me. They’re scary and new. And people in relationships turn all gooey. I’m scared that this won’t last, but I’m scared that it will, and I’ll be doomed to an eternity of bland, padlocked relationships. It’s weird. I could be feeling this way for anyone, but it had to be Mark? If only I didn’t hate him, then maybe we could’ve gone off on a better foot. If only this whole thing never fucking happened, right?”

“It’s okay,” Lia cuts in. “Being scared is okay. It’s part of the whole process. And nobody said you had to get along like conjoined twins in a relationship. They just go when they go and end when they end. Not every relationship starts as a high school sweetheart thing and ends with three kids and a picket fence. And I’m so sure Mark would be so understanding if you didn’t like him or if you chose not to continue.”

“You knew?”

She laughs. “Of course I knew. I know a post-sex glow when I see one, and I was blinded that morning at the ski lodge.” You groan, pinching her indignantly, hiding your face in your hands as she laughs out of view. “Okay. Take some time and think about it, but for now, I want to get my nails done, so.”

—

It’ll be a week before you come up with what you want, and the whole time you generally avoid talking about solemn topics with him in person.

It’ll be another few days before you finally talk to him personally—with your paper nearly finished, you suggest a meeting at the library. It’s just two days before Christmas Eve, and you know Mark’s going to be driving to Canada, so you want to snatch him away for your own personal time for just a second. The snow has all but thickened as you meet outside the building, the silence deafening.

“Hi,” he says, smiling. You know he’s probably picked up on your erratic, quieter behavior in the past several days, but you gulp and lead him inside anyways, to your favorite section. “It’s almost Christmas Eve,” he says, watching you stall, surrounded by Philosophy books from just about every century. “I know,” you say, hoping you don’t sound too nervous.

“You sound nervous,” he says.

“Do I?” you ask shakily, your voice taking on an unnaturally high pitch. “I mean, er. I guess I sort of am. I guess I’ve been thinking about everything lately—about you and me and everything that just happened so suddenly. Because—because it did happen so suddenly. I just…needed time? Yeah, time. To think about everything. Because it all happened so quickly, I…” you stutter. “I’m scared of these things. I’m not used to them. Relationships? Things that last longer than a couple weeks? I don’t like these.

I have something bigger I want to focus on and anybody who gets in the way just isn’t worth it. And it’s so weird how it was you out of all people I started thinking about it with. Usually I just have the rare fling and then they’re gone, and I’m not even mad. But you’re different. And I like it.

But I just needed time to find out if I really liked it. If I really wanted to try. I know it’s only been a few weeks, and I probably sound really fucking stupid, but you get me—you get me, right? And that’s how I realized—if it happens, it happens. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t. I don’t know why I overthought it. I mean, it’s a good thing and a bad thing that I did. Like, on one hand, I got to really think about how this would play out, and on the other, I’d just end up spiraling. And it’s just weird. I hope you don’t know I hated you. Hate you? Hated you. I was just—it was all so juvenile. Everything just stemmed from that one awfully dumb high school rivalry. But other than that, you were always a cool…see what I mean? I’m kind of rambling—even if I thought I had planned this out. And. Yeah. I dunno. I fucking…I hate you, stop laughing.”

Mark smiles down at you—you’re busy pretending to read a Sartre book to look unfazed, but your flickering gaze says it all.

“Okay, stupid,” he says, bordering onto a laugh. “If that’s your way of saying you’re willing to give this a try, then I graciously accept. Should I be saying something equally long? I—is that how this works?”

You roll your eyes and kiss him instead, pulling him close, Sartre’s postulates dropping to the floor alongside your tiptoes.

—

Stage 4: Acceptance|

“Acceptance is just that. Just accepting that you love that person after weeks or months of all the other stages. With her, it was. Like. It’s the whole sitting down after silence, having some time for the revelation to set in before you realize you love them. Or like them? Well, love them, I guess. But I don’t know why you would be asking me this.”

You bury your head further into Mark’s shoulder, your eyes strained from how long they’d been trained onto your screen. You smile up at Daniel, thanking him for the input and beginning to type it in, watching Lia doze off on his shoulder. “We’re asking because we’re not quite there yet,” Mark hums, “it’s just February. It’s barely been two months.” You nod, watching Mark type where you left off on the document. Daniel snorts from across you. “You’re just about, I guess.” Mark chuckles, shrugging so your head bounces off his shoulder unceremoniously.

“Like I’d ever fall in love with that shitstorm,” he says pointedly.

“Oh, and I’d fall in love with this dickwad?”

“You’re perfect for each other. Bullying, but we all know Mark brought back gifts from Canada and that you stitched an initial onto his sweater.”

“To practice my embroidery. Also, I stitched Mark’s initial. M. Asshole.”

“Okay,” whistles Daniel, his hand unconsciously coming up to make sure Lia doesn’t fall off his shoulder. “But hey, you’re just about to submit this paper and I’m fondly remembering all the times you despised each other. And when you”—he points at you, devilish grin on his face—“started gushing to Lia about how he”—he then turns to Mark—“kissed you at Johnny’s party.”

“God, it’s not the time for that yet, we’re still a fresh couple,” you groan, burying your head in your hands. “You have so much dirt on me, Choi.” Mark just laughs, though, loudly, bringing the other cafe-goers’ attention to yours. He bites your shoulder to stifle it, eliciting a laugh from you. “I agree, there should be a certain time requirement for pre-relationship embarrassing stories,” Mark says, closing his laptop. Lia gets up at that point, already half-awake from the ruckus (AKA Mark’s laugh), pulling on Daniel’s sleeve. “Alright, and that’s my cue to get this girl some more coffee and then go.”

“Mm, I’ll come with,” you say, “I need a refresher before we leave soon, anyway.”

You walk in between them, your fingers laced in Lia’s as she squeezes them sleepily. They order first and then they’re off with a smile and a polite goodbye, leaving you to order your drink. You gaze up at the menu, and then down at—

“Long time no see,” Chan says with a knowing beam. “How is your not boyfriend boyfriend?”

“Well, he’s my boyfriend now.”

“See, I always know. What do you want?”

“An iced ca—how did you know?” You ask, tempted.

“It’s just…the energy? It was a hit or miss, but I kinda got that feeling that something was going to happen.”

“Hmm,” you hum. “An iced caramel then.”

“And a black coffee for her best friend!” Hollers a new voice that you could never miss, turning slowly towards the entrance to meet Donghyuck’s crazy eyes. He’s in a suit, which isn’t unusual given the sheer amount of presentations he’s had to do since the new year started. You roll your eyes but put in the extra cash anyway, much to Chan’s amusement. Hyuck nears you with a sly grin. “I hear you’ll be submitting your paper soon. I just want my name in there so I’m in your professor’s good graces.”

“She’s not even going to be your professor, Hyuck,” you say, taking your drink and smiling at Chan. You and Donghyuck both walk back to where Mark’s sitting, you beside him and Hyuck across the both of you. “Yes, but it pays to be in somebody’s good graces, I swear. See what happened? I got you two together. I orchestrated your entire love st—”

“Okay, now you’re just lying, Hyuck,” Mark says with a laugh, finishing up the first few paragraphs and closing his laptop. “We’re not even in love.” But his friend lets out a teasing smile, his eyes narrowed, and he gets up with a loud farewell and alibi about “being needed by my better friends.” You assume he’s talking about Jeno.

—

You walk to Mark’s room alongside him, thanks to the promise of his roommate, Jaemin, sleeping at a friend’s. Your fingers are intertwined loosely. The sun’s setting and Mark’s room is sheathed in beautiful shades of orange and pink, a vast array of dusk settling over the space. It happens quietly, but full of laughs, which is how it happens when you’re both tired and/or shitfaced. You do this a lot—a routine of sharing new songs or books you’d picked up over the week and then making out while they play in the background or while one of you read. It’s awfully, horribly, terribly fucking intimate.

“Your bra sucks,” he jokes.

You love it.

“Get better abs and we can talk about it,” you counter, poking his toned stomach. He really, fully guffaws at that, pulling you onto his lap and then tugging his guitar out from where it stands at the corner. You flop back onto his bed, watching him play—and then registering the familiar opening of the Jonas Brothers song you used to request nearly everyday. “Lovebug,” you muse with a smile, singing along to his voice, carried away. You’re sleepy and light, and you know deep down—in that space of yourself where you’re all but honest—that you were going to fall in love with him someday.

Later, when all you’re doing is hugging him as he reads your latest Philosophy requirement to you, he pauses.

“Is this the 21st century idea of love?” He asks idly, unclasping your bra and connecting the moles on your shoulder. You hum.

“It’s the Gen Z idea,” you say, connecting the ones on his bare back. “And this isn’t love.”

“Corny.” he smiles against your collarbones. You kiss his neck. It’s all very gradual.

—

hope you liked it :) drop an ask! I absolutely love all types of feedback

#mark lee #mark lee imagines #mark imagines #mark drabbles

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blossom-hwa · 4 years ago

Text

pirate!ateez |2|

The continuation of the pirate ateez au inspired by pretty much every wonderland stage and the kingdom wonderland performance!! Once again credits to mai @wingkkun for the ideas that sparked san, mingi, and yeosang’s stories!

(Reading part 1 isn’t required to understand what happens here; however, there are spoilers for previous members’ stories!!)

Pairing: Ateez x gender neutral!reader

Word count: 11.9k (total)

Genre: some fluff, mostly angst, pirate!au

Triggers: cursing, blood and death (sometimes semi-graphic) - specific triggers for each section are listed below the header!

Part 1 (Hongjoong, Seonghwa, Yunho, Yeosang) | Part 2 (San, Mingi, Wooyoung, Jongho)

Ateez Masterlist

san (ABS - specialty in swordsmanship)

warnings: cursing

so. san.

poor dude i put him through a lot in hongjoong’s part :/ he didn’t deserve that i’m sorry san

but let’s start from the beginning

unlike some of the others, san has only ever known the streets. he has no memory of real parents, just various random caretakers who ended up causing him more harm than good

there are two singular exceptions to this during san’s childhood: you and an older pirate named jongin

you’ve been there ever since san can remember. even now he’s not entirely sure how or when you two met, he must’ve been very young, but he just knows you’ve been with him for what feels like forever

the two of you wandered the streets together, begging and stealing food whenever you could

it only makes sense that you two would fall in love once you were old enough to understand it (which comes a little later than either of you would’ve liked - you’re probably sixteen or seventeen when you get the guts to press san against a wall and kiss him like person starved as san kisses back with just as much fervor)

when you were still together, it sometimes felt like you were the only reason san could stay alive

you mean the world to each other. the literal world

so that’s you - someone san knows will never abandon him willingly, will always stay by his side as long as they can

now uh moving on to jongin

you two were young when you tried to pickpocket him that one time

immediately it was clear you’d messed with the wrong guy - he noticed you two immediately and you were caught

but surprisingly, all he did was smile and offer to buy you something to eat

and being the hungry children you were (san thinks you were around twelve at the time) you said yes without a second thought

luckily jongin didn’t have any ulterior motives - in fact, he taught you and san to become better pickpockets, how to take advantage of people’s blind spots and your natural talents

so naturally, he became both of your role model

and because jongin was a pirate, you two resolved to become pirates just like him when you grew older, even asking him to take you on his ship whenever he returned to the city to visit.

but every time, jongin refuses. when you’re younger you kind of accept it, but as you and san grow older you start to insist more and more

there’s nothing left for you two here except a life still on the streets, and isn’t being a pirate pretty much the same? stealing and pillaging, just on the ocean instead of on dry land

neither you nor san flinches at blood, and you can both deal with injuries

but jongin still refuses, finally telling you just how far from heroes pirates really are. they kill and steal, often more than they need, not taking just enough money and food to survive or pass out to those less fortunate the way you and san both do

this kills the dream a little for you and san, though you both come to the conclusion that not all pirates have to be horrible - look at jongin

so you still resolve to become pirates, maybe on a crew that isn’t as terrible as the ones jongin has told you two about

this sort of dream goes on for another year or so. you and san figure out your shit and finally kiss, jongin mock claps when he finds out before disappearing again, you and san wander the streets again still with little aim but your interlocked hands are purpose enough

until you get kidnapped.

san literally almost goes insane when he can’t find you after two days. tears around the city like a man possessed, looking everywhere you might be and then everywhere you definitely aren’t on the off chance he’ll find you

but even when jongin arrives back in the city a few weeks later and joins san’s frantic search, you’re never found

it’s all too much. way too much for san - he’s literally lost the one person who keeps him sane - and honestly the last straw is when jongin asks if he wants to join his crew now

deep inside san knows he means it out of the goodness of his heart. jongin isn’t evil and he’s hurting too with your disappearance, he’s just trying to give san a semblance of a new home

but san explodes. none of this would’ve happened if jongin had taken them in earlier, had let them join the crew together, if he’d even taught them more - it’s his fault, it’s his fucking fault

jongin tries to grab san but he just twists away - jongin’s touch feels like fire burning against his skin - and runs

for how long he runs, san genuinely doesn’t know. he just knows that he can’t stay here, can’t stay in this city anymore

so he becomes somewhat of a highway robber? holding travelers at sword point and demanding what they have

the sword he uses was gifted to him by jongin and it makes him feel sick every time he pulls it out, but even though san is sometimes irrational, he’s not stupid - he needs a weapon, and if this is the only one he has, so be it

doesn’t matter if memories of you and an older pirate come flooding back every time he grips the handle.

san makes a name for himself - people whisper about him, tell travelers to avoid the paths he frequents, but the thing is he doesn’t really frequent anywhere. he’s a wanderer too, which makes him so dangerous because he’s so unpredictable

until hongjoong appears and san makes the mistake of challenging him to a fight.

i say mistake but really, it was probably one of the singularly most life-changing events for san except for 1. meeting you, 2. your disappearance, and 3. leaving jongin

because when hongjoong has his sword positioned over san’s neck and san thinks he’s about to die, hongjoong gives him a choice - join his crew or get his throat cut

san just scoffs at first and is like why would you want a highway robber on your crew? don’t you know who i am?

hongjoong does know, of course - he actually tracked san down because he needed a good swordsman to join his crew and thought san would be perfect

san is on the edge of saying no, but hongjoong is one of three people who’ve ever beaten san in a fight (jongin, you, and now joong) so he’s got a little grudging respect for the guy

but even more than that, he remembers you and remembers your pact to find a semi-decent ship and join the crew

it seems like a childish pact now, but for some reason, once he remembers it, he can’t put it out of his mind

(maybe it’s because if you’re dead, which you probably are, san wants to at least fulfill his part of any promises you made so long ago)

so he says yes

for the first few weeks, san really considers jumping ship

seasickness is a bitch, first of all, even if the ship’s doctor is nice enough to give him tips on how to handle it

but the main issue isn’t just him being sick - it’s the people

not all of them. most are fine. but san has a particular problem with wooyoung and his partner, not because they’re assholes or anything, but because they remind him way too much of him and you. childhood friends who grew up together and wouldn’t part for the world, except they’re still joined at the hip while you’re lost

and san just thinks it’s horribly unfair that you had to be torn away from him while others are allowed to stay together

but really, the ship is better than living on the edge on land. besides woo + his partner, the others are nice, and san has found himself a match in sword fighting with hongjoong and yunho

so as time passes, san acclimates to the ship. he gets closer to everyone there and comes out of his shell, even becoming friends with yeosang whom he previously deemed too close to woo + his partner to deal with

and because yeosang is a package deal with the other two, san eventually becomes friends with them too

for the first time in a long time, san thinks he’s happy, even though he still sorely misses you and wishes you were here. but you’re dead or at least long gone, and he’s not going to find you again

so when you turn up on an enemy pirate ship several years later, san nearly has a heart attack when he sees your face (wooyoung actually has to catch him when he stumbles)

from the widening of your eyes, it’s pretty much the same reaction for you

there’s no fight, at least not then. the town your ships have docked in is safe ground for pirates, meaning the villagers will deal with them but won’t tolerate fights

so your crews resupply, all the while studiously ignoring the pirates from the other ship

but san is itching to talk to you - even just see your face one more time

you look so different yet somehow exactly the same and san wants to know what happened to you - how did you get that scar down the side of your face?

you feel the exact same way.

when you were kidnapped, you were taken on a pirate ship that was far less respectable than hongjoong’s. meaning you went through a fucking lot

you tried to escape at least five times but each time you just got caught, so you eventually gave up. so here you are, ignoring the literal love of your life because your ship is shit and happens to have beef with hongjoong’s

meaning you couldn’t escape if you tried.

so you’ve resigned yourself to mere stolen glimpses of san’s face but then your captain gives all of you a mission

he wants a hostage. and he wants you to lure one of them in.

you don’t want this mission. you fucking hate it and you hate your crew and you don’t want anything more than to just run away so you just ignore it and resolve to subtly sabotage your crewmates�� efforts in any way you can

and for the most part it works

but then you’re on deck, helping one of your crewmates put some supplies away

when a crowd comes on board, bruised and bloodied, and drops choi san onto the wooden floor.

the captain is ecstatic - they’ve managed to catch hongjoong’s best swordsman, no doubt they’ll get a hefty ransom for him

but you’re not listening. all you can do is avoid san’s sharp gaze

and think of a way to help him escape.

the ship sets sail within hours, trying to get away from hongjoong as quickly as possible. san lives his days in one of the tiny cells belowdecks, barely fed between questioning sessions during which he says nothing

but he can feel hope slipping away, day by day - even he can’t break through chains, and even if he could, his sword is gone. five or six pirates he could maybe take alone without a weapon, but there are far more on this ship

still, when the ship finally docks, san has resolved to at least attempt an escape. he knows the captain is in negotiations with hongjoong over getting him back so hongjoong has to be in the same port, or at least nearby

so when someone opens the cell again, san literally launches himself at them in an aborted attempt to run

you subdue him quickly - you’re not dehydrated and underfed, after all

san just gapes into your face that’s barely lit by a torch on the wall outside his cell. he has so much he wants to say, the first being how could you do this to him, did none of your time together mean anything -

but then you unlock the chains around his wrists, toss him a bundle of fresh clothes, and tell him to get changed

dressed in the new clothes, he looks like a member of the crew, and you tell him to keep his head down as you bring him up out of the ship and into the village

san’s still kind of dumbfounded so when you tell him to run, he doesn’t understand at first. run where?

hongjoong’s ship is in the next port, you say. on foot, it’ll take a few days to get there, so he needs as much of a head start before people realize he’s missing

therefore - you push back his forehead with a finger - fucking run, choi san. i don’t recall you being stupid before.

when he understands, he tries to tell you to come with him - hongjoong’s a decent captain, he’ll probably understand

but you shake your head. you yourself need to leave. once your captain realizes san has disappeared, it’s only a matter of time before you get found out, considering the number of unconscious and dead bodies you left in your wake, and you need to be long gone and away from san before that happens. you’re not going to bring more harm on him again. the least you could do is maybe divert their attention for a while

san’s heart sinks when he realizes you have no intention of coming with him, no matter how much he tries to convince you

and he almost starts crying again - just when he’s finally gotten you back, fate is forcing you to slip through his fingers yet again

you just hug him and apologize for everything, for getting kidnapped, for not helping him escape until now even though none of that is your fault

san says that and more, apologizes for even thinking you’ve changed - he should’ve known you were still the same person he’d fallen in love with so long ago

but there’s no more time and now you’re pushing him away and telling him he needs to go before it’s too late. in the process, you press a blade into his hand.

for protection.

it’s faintly familiar. and when san looks a little more closely, he realizes it’s the blade that jongin gave you so long ago, a copy of the same one he gave san. only the initials etched into the handle are different.

it makes him feel sick. san had switched his blade out for another sword the second he could, too many memories of you and jongin attached to it. but you never stopped using yours.

that knowledge makes his insides burn with shame and he tries to give it back to you but you force him to take it. i have more weapons than just this. you have nothing. and now you need to go.

he kisses you one last time. you kiss him back with just as much fervor and when you break away, there’s a small smile on your lips

you tell him you’re glad he’s found a kind crew, a crew he’ll be happy to remain with. you’re glad he’s luckier than you

san tries to tell you again to come with him, but you shake your head. hongjoong won’t be happy to take in a member of an enemy crew, and even if he was, that’d only turn your ship’s sights on san’s for a long time. you won’t have that.

so you disappear with a last reminder not to be stupid, a wavering smile on your face

it takes everything san has to return to hongjoong’s ship without chasing after you, and he’s welcomed back with open arms and warm words

but despite being back with his family, san’s heart sinks the farther they get from the harbor, knowing that he’ll probably never find out what happened to you, his original family, after this

wooyoung tries to comfort him, saying not to lose hope - after all, you met once after your separation, you might meet again

however, fate isn’t kind. san knows that very well. twice you’ve met, and twice you were separated

san hopes wooyoung is right, hopes he’ll see you once more

but as the ship cuts through the water into the open ocean and land fades from sight...

deep inside, something tells san he won’t.

mingi (ABS)

warnings: cursing

you look me in the eyes and ask how it is possible for me to write angst for someone like mingi. i tell you i will try my best

that is a threat and a promise

anyway! let’s get on with it

mingi is a pure-hearted orphan who has somehow survived the demoralizing and horrible orphanage system in his hometown

he never knew his parents, all he’s ever known was that shitty little orphanage, it’s a miracle that didn’t break apart his pure personality

it helps that from a young age, mingi was taller and bigger than his peers - people didn’t want to mess with him

also when he’s not smiling, he can look pretty scary

but that left mingi lonelier than he wanted to be, so he resolved to smile whenever he could so that people wouldn’t feel intimidated by his stare

it didn’t win him many friends??? like the kids his age were more just weirded out by him smiling when they lived in a fucking orphanage. but he did get more free handouts from adults when he’d pretend to act like a cute kid, so he just kept doing that

eventually when he grew older, maybe mid-teens, he got a job working at his town’s port

mingi’s pretty smart and more importantly here, he’s very strong - just the type of worker his supervisors were looking for

the job is okay - not horrible, but it’s kind of boring and mingi’s supervisors aren’t always the nicest

but mingi’s always been the type of person to just content himself with the fact that hey, things could be worse

he might not have survived the orphanage

he might not have been born with strength

he might not have gotten a job that comes with a semi-stable roof over his head

so for a couple of years, this goes on, mingi helping ships unload and reload, stuff like that

until hongjoong’s ship pulls into port

it normally wouldn’t mean anything if hongjoong hadn’t been half dead on his feet with his partner and seonghwa pretty much carrying him down the gangplank

most people were just shoving them around, totally ignoring the fact that hongjoong clearly needed help

but even though his supervisor told him to go help one of the bigger ships, mingi saw hongjoong and went off to go help them

recommended a cheap place to get rest and offered to help them with some of the ship repairs so they wouldn’t have to pay so much (because their boat was... a little beaten up to say the least)

after a few days, hongjoong recovers from his sickness (brought on by exhaustion, not eating well, and god knows what else - his partner chewed him the fuck out), and they all thank mingi profusely

they’re about to leave then - the ship has been repaired thanks to mingi’s help and they’re ready to set sail again

but a glint appears in seonghwa’s eye and he suddenly turns around and asks mingi if he’d like to come with them

mingi: wha - you mean me?

seonghwa: is there another guy named mingi around?

mingi: i mean technically yeah, there’s a lee mingi working on the other end of the shipyard -

at first mingi’s like... no i don't think so because he has a stable job here, right? nothing really happens and it’s kind of boring, but being a pirate sounds kind of scary

but another part of him has been aching for something more interesting than the monotony of working at the port day in and day out

besides, hongjoong seems like a much nicer person than his supervisors

so in the end, mingi throws caution to the wind and joins the crew

he kind of questions it at first because he really doesn’t seem to have a knack for swordplay, also he kind of tends to panic/get squeamish when there are fights

but seonghwa keeps faith in him no matter what - he was the one to ask mingi if he wanted to stay, after all

so as time goes on and more people join the crew, mingi adjusts to life as a pirate. he finds his role on the ship in making repairs when they’re in port or even when they’re on board, which makes him happy - mingi likes being useful

he also likes jongho, who joins him as one of the ship’s repairmen when he ends up with the crew

he even becomes a fair swordsman - definitely not the best on the ship, not by a long shot, but after being trained by first hongjoong and then yunho (with san occasionally interjecting when he joins the crew), he definitely has the skills to defend himself and others

emphasis on others. because while mingi might panic during a fight where he’s only defending himself, when those he cares for come into play, mingi is a demon. an absolute demon.

an enemy pirate once got within a hair’s breadth of killing seonghwa once and mingi just unleashed absolute fury. first time he ever killed someone

it haunts him sometimes, but the knowledge that he was protecting seonghwa keeps him from dwelling on it too much. that’s how much mingi cares about his crew

and that comes into play when you enter his story

you’re the child of a couple corrupt aristocrats who have never, not once in their lives, given you the attention you deserved

no matter what you did, they didn’t care

you studied your ass off. you worked so hard on swordplay. you’re literally the golden child in the aristocratic circles of your region and other nobles wish you were their child, but all your parents ever do is give you a passing glance and a fake smile

sure they’ll praise you at parties and things when they talk to other nobles, but it’s all empty - they only barely remember all of your accomplishments. they just don’t care

then one day, hongjoong’s crew pisses off your family - ruins trade at some port or whatever

so your father puts a bounty on his crew’s heads

it’s not exactly a common thing to put bounties on the heads of pirates, but it can happen if a crew fucks around a little too much

and when the bounty goes out for the crew of the aurora (hongjoong’s ship), you seize on it as your last chance to gain your parents’ approval, the approval you’ve been seeking for quite literally your entire life

you’re not dumb - you know it’ll be hard, and you know your family is only going to be completely satisfied if you bring back proof that the captain is dead. not some other random crew member, though that’s a step in the right direction

you decide to go for one of those crew members first, preying on the fact that if one goes missing, the captain will likely be easier to capture

you’ve heard stories about hongjoong, he isn’t heartless. he actually does care about his crew, each of whom plays an integral role on the ship

which means if you can get one of them, you can lure him out - you might not even have to kill off the rest of the crew if you can just take him out

therefore you set your eyes on one song mingi. from the rumors he’s the worst at fighting, but he’s also essential when it comes to ship repairs

the perfect target for your plan

so you set out on your journey. your idea is to try and see if you can befriend mingi somehow, get him to trust you, then take him hostage

and somehow, you get lucky at the first port you visit - hongjoong’s ship is right there, aurora emblazoned on its side

it’s not hard to spot mingi - he’s one of the tallest, and he’s busy tinkering around the side of the ship

it’s even easier to get his attention

because your master plan is simple and dumb as fuck

fall into the water and pretend to drown.

mingi, being the pure-hearted lovely soul he is, jumps in to save you despite you being very able to swim

he’s worrying over you when he pulls you out of the ocean, spitting and choking water

and all you can think is 1. mingi is very handsome but more importantly 2. all of this is genuine. like too genuine

it unnerves you - how can a pirate be so pure of heart?

but you push that thought away. there has to be some hidden side of mingi that he hasn’t shown yet, he’s a pirate after all. you can’t feel guilt for using him - you need to gain your parents’ approval. you need to

so you do your damn best to keep him in port. every night you go out and subtly undo some of the repairs he’s made and create a few new problems as well

the ship ends up staying in port for a few more weeks than expected

and during that time, you find that mingi... is really not hiding anything

at all

you keep trying to prod at him when you invite him to bars for a drink, when you “coincidentally” catch him on the streets, etc.

but there’s nothing to mingi except his very kind personality that sometimes, against your better judgement, sweeps you off your feet

like when that horse-drawn carriage almost hit you and mingi pulled you away just in time

or when you bumped into the wrong person and they pulled a knife on you that mingi was fast enough to deflect

by the time those several weeks are over, you haven’t made any headway in your plan to kidnap mingi

you tell yourself that it’s fine, this mission was always going to take a long time - you could be here for over a year before the right opportunity presents itself after all, and mingi probably doesn’t trust you enough just yet for that to work anyway

mingi ends up sailing off again, and he promises to come back

also makes you promise to stay and wait for him.

you tell yourself another lie, that you’re happy he’s asking you to wait just because it’ll make your plan so much easier - plus, it means he likes you, which is a step towards trust

it’s definitely not because mingi’s smile is as bright as the sun itself.

the next time you see the aurora come into port, you swear to yourself you’ll do it this time. you’ll kidnap mingi, force hongjoong to come out so you can put his head on a silver platter

but it doesn’t happen. and the next time it doesn’t happen, either.

and in the end, you have to accept that the reason you keep sabotaging the ship, trying to keep mingi in port as long as you can, is that you like his smile. way more than you actually should.

some stupidly hopeful part of you tries to convince you that it’ll be fine, you can continue living like this

but another part of you knows lies never last

and a last part of you screams that you’re a disappointment to your family, falling in love with one of the pirates your parents have put a bounty on when that pirate probably doesn’t even love you back

he does, though. he really does

mingi loves the curve of your lips when you smile genuinely, when the clouds in your eyes disappear for a moment of pure, blessed happiness

he’s fallen in love with your mind, with your quick wit and light banter when you speak

for the past two trips on the ocean, mingi has dreamed of little more than holding you close and kissing you and he’d resolved to that, finally, when he came back this time

which is why his heart completely shatters when he finds you by the ship one dark night, carefully undoing some of the repairs he made just this morning

he never suspected it, but as he stands, watching you work, the pieces begin to click together

mingi isn’t stupid, after all - he knows you’re smart, knows you’re good with your hands, and you’ve also been extremely secretive about your past

even more secretive than he is about being a pirate.

you sense his presence when he gets closer before he even says anything and your hands freeze

for a moment, neither of you says anything

then mingi just lets out a cracked why?

you could lie. you consider it for a few frantic moments, mind working to conjure something credible

but it’s mingi. it’s fucking song mingi, the pirate you’ve fallen in love with against every single one of your wishes

so the truth behind all of your lies spills out in one go

in the moonlight, you can see mingi’s eyes turn from confused and betrayed to even more betrayed

but what really drives it home is when you mention hongjoong, and how you were trying to use mingi to lure him out

mingi’s eyes turn angry for the first time since you’ve met him

because like i said, mingi doesn’t take kindly to anyone who tries to hurt those whom he cares about

like yeah, he cares about you, but hongjoong is his captain, the captain who’s saved mingi’s life multiple times, often at risk of his own

that’s when mingi’s eyes narrow and his expression turns cold

a chill runs down your back, a chill you’ve never felt before in his presence

and mingi tells you then and there that he better not see you ever again

because if he does, it won’t end well

you’re in the next town before you allow yourself to process anything that just happened, mainly because you know that if you try you’ll start crying

and that’s exactly what happens in a dark little tavern at the edge of the city

you cry over yourself, over losing mingi, over failing your stupid mission for stupid parents who were never going to accept you anyway

you cry because you hurt someone so pure of heart just for two cold aristocrats who didn’t give a shit

you cry because now you have no purpose in life - you’ve catered your entire existence to your parents, and they don’t even care

what’s the point of anything now?

back on the ship, mingi doesn’t cry. he just stares at the fading town as the aurora draws farther and farther from land

your story plays in his mind over and over again

he sympathizes for you, he really does - mingi isn’t cruel or heartless, he heard the desperation in your voice when you talked about your parents and he’s seen the clouds in your eyes firsthand

but it doesn’t change the fact that you’d sought him out with the intention of hurting his crew beyond repair

he tries to tell himself this as comfort, to reaffirm that he did the right thing by chasing you off

deep inside, though, even if he’s sure he did right

the pain of a broken heart and what could have been, he knows, will never fully go away.

wooyoung (ABS)

warnings: cursing, death, blood

before i start i’d like to preemptively apologize

probably should’ve done that before every other part too idk why i'm only doing it now

maybe it’s because this one is 3.4k long and the second longest is a mere 2.8k (fuck you san)

doesn’t matter i've done it please don’t come for me

wooyoung is a ball of pure sunshine aboard the ship. almost literally

sometimes shines a little too bright (ie he gets annoying), but without him, the crew would fall into darkness

but a light needs a source, doesn’t it? it doesn’t just spontaneously emit out of nowhere - fires need kindling, candles need wax, even the sun burns on fuel

and wooyoung’s fuel is you.

like i mentioned in san’s part, you and wooyoung are childhood friends. probably not quite as long as san and his partner - you met when you were a bit older, maybe just after you turned twelve or something, but that doesn’t mean your bond is any less strong

wooyoung remembers your first meeting very clearly - in fact, it’s one of his favorite memories

some older kids were pushing him around, and wooyoung was just trying to run away

he’d just broken free and was running off when a hand grabbed his wrist, dragging him behind an empty market stall, and another hand slapped over his mouth to muffle his cry of surprise

the older kids ran past, then stopped, looking confused, but when they couldn’t see wooyoung anywhere they just left

you finally let go of wooyoung and he turns around to look at you

and from then on, he swears you’re his savior

seriously, wooyoung thinks you’re literally the greatest fucking thing on this planet. might not act like it all the time because he’s a little shit, but you mean more to him than anything in the world

you don’t plan to get attached to him, not at first - you’re a little more standoffish, you told wooyoung you only helped him because you really hate the group of kids that was messing with him

but wooyoung attaches himself to you like a fucking limpet and as the months pass, you find you don’t mind. not at all.

you’re both street orphans, pickpockets and all that - neither of you are in the orphanage (wooyoung just never ended up there, while you ran away early on) and you’ve both been alone for a long while, so it’s nice to have someone with whom you can trust your back

and as time goes on, you start thinking of wooyoung less as an ally and more as a friend, then less as a friend and more as someone you love

wooyoung, on the other hand, has been head over heels since day one - getting into your space, pressing stupid little kisses onto your dirty face even as you try to bat him away

but he obviously doesn’t make a move at first because he’s like fucking twelve and doesn’t understand what he feels, and when he grows older and figures it out, he refrains from doing too much (like kissing your lips) because you don’t seem to feel the same way

except you are an impatient fuck

so once you figure it out and more importantly, you figure wooyoung out, it takes less than a day for you to have him pressed up against a wall, kissing him with all the strength you can muster

when you pull away, lips swollen and eyes suddenly shy, wooyoung tries to crack a joke like wow, didn’t know i was that irresistible

you just smirk and say you’re the one who’s been staring at my lips day in, day out for the past several years, woo

oh yeah that’s when wooyoung knows you’re the one

(he does ask why the fuck you waited so long if you noticed everything over the past few years)

(the truth is you only really figured it out a few days ago, but you tell him you just wanted him to suffer)

(it cues a lot of angry whining and cute pouts even though he knows it’s a joke so what can you do but kiss him until he shuts up?)

anyway you and wooyoung more or less rule your small section of the streets

master pickpockets and all that, plus you know how to use a knife very well and wooyoung is adept at fighting with whatever the fuck happens to be nearby

you’ve got a good head on your shoulders and though you never truly lie, your reasonable-sounding words always have several layers of meaning, which is very useful in negotiations

meanwhile wooyoung is just really, really good at sliding out of sticky situations - you turn your head the other way for one second and he’s disappeared

people don’t really dare mess with either of you because they know that if one of you get hurt, the other will literally go out for blood

the same goes for yeosang - you met the quiet orphanage boy on one of the rare times he went outside, and everyone knows not to mess with him since he’s under your protection

this reputation precedes you, which is why you and wooyoung are very surprised when a tall, gangly looking dude comes into your little pocket of territory looking very lost

both of you immediately think this is someone good to pickpocket, or at least harangue for news - he’s clearly not from here

too bad mingi has a hongjoong on his side who is very worriedly looking for his tall lost repairman

and in the middle of you two getting up in mingi’s space, hongjoong appears, wielding a very scary-looking sword

both you and wooyoung know this is someone not to be messed with, but curiosity gets the better of you - who is this guy, why is he here, and why doesn’t he know to stay away?

instead of asking, though, you both run away fast enough that hongjoong doesn’t have to deal with you

the next day, though, when you see a familiar face with a familiar sword hanging around the market, you decide to tail him for a bit

turns out he’s a pirate, which is intriguing in and of itself - it also explains the unfamiliarity with the territory

but what’s even more intriguing is how he manages to defend himself against your knives all the while answering your peppered questions in the most evasive manner possible

in the end, hongjoong has you pinned against an alley wall, sword inches from your throat

he clearly expects you to start begging for your life

but you just laugh breathlessly and say - hey, i’ve got two friends who’ve got nothing left here, just like me. do you have an opening for three on your crew?

hongjoong thinks you’re joking but you’re dead serious. there’s nothing in this town, you’re sick and tired of pickpocketing people and protecting your little territory to no end - there’s no point to it all

you know wooyoung feels the same way. he’s so energetic, always looking for something new, and even though he doesn’t say anything, you know he’s itching to get out of here

yeosang might take a little convincing, but if you can prey correctly on his desire to visit the lands he’s only ever marked on maps, he’ll come too

hongjoong asks what you have to offer to his crew. you say a sharp tongue, resourceful fighters, a navigator

and most importantly, a source of light.

(hongjoong doesn’t ask and you don’t elaborate on the last one, even though you can see a hint of confusion in his eyes)

he gives you two days to convince wooyoung and yeosang, if you don’t show up by then he’s setting sail

wooyoung is convinced almost immediately - his only qualm is seasickness, and you tell him he’ll get used to it

yeosang takes a little more effort, but with your persuasion skills, he agrees

and so the three of you join hongjoong’s crew

being a pirate isn’t as glorious as you originally thought it’d be - the first few weeks are just being seasick all the time, and there are fewer fights and less exploring than you’d like, more just running around and maintaining the ship

but the crew makes up for it more than tenfold

you and wooyoung have never really had family - just each other and then yeosang

but now that you’re with the crew, that sense of home you’ve only ever felt with woosang just multiplies

you love it on the ship. so does wooyoung

(he says it’s because there are so many hidden places where you can hide to kiss, but you think it’s because he has seonghwa to annoy now and not just you + yeosang)

both of you are on cloud nine, even with the nonstop work day in and day out

it’s all worth it when you can see the new cities, pilfer a little something in the marketplaces every now and then

life goes on like this - some crew members are lost and others join

you mourn for those gone, especially hongjoong’s partner, and you try to welcome the new members as best you can

(san is a tough nut to crack, but in the end, you and wooyoung are both happy that you kept at it long enough to see the results)

it’s a constant give or take - you know the ocean isn’t kind, know that the life of a pirate isn’t kind, and you’ve learned to live with it even though a piece of your heart breaks away with every crew member who falls

but then yeosang falls. literally.

and wooyoung begins to fade away.

wooyoung feels his emotions deeply, he’s always known that - it’s what binds him so strongly to you and what bound him so strongly to yeosang

so when he fell during that battle, stabbed several times, and could only watch yeosang fall into the ocean from the crow’s nest - essentially yeosang’s home on the ship -

wooyoung cries for hours after the battle, locked in your arms

and for once, even the knowledge that you’re by his side doesn’t seem to be enough to fill the void left by yeosang’s loss

the entire crew is experienced with their own types of loss, loss of partners and friends

but this is the first time wooyoung has felt it so deeply, like a knife carving out a hole in his chest

eventually, though, he recovers

it takes months, but he still has you. he still has san. he still has yeosang’s grieving friend, who might have become his partner had he lived, and he still has all of the crew

and you let him latch onto you whenever the void comes creeping on him again, because though wooyoung might be the light, you’re the source of fuel that keeps his sputtering flame burning

(guilt eats at you, too - you’re the one who convinced yeosang to join the crew, after all. but wooyoung calls it bullshit - you’re not at fault, not at all, yeosang understood what he was risking - and when he latches onto you, you take your own comfort in the warmth of his arms)

life goes on after the battle and yeosang’s death. wooyoung takes a long time to recover from his injuries and you’re by his side the entire way

but then san gets kidnapped and wooyoung almost goes off the deep end again - he can’t lose another friend

thankfully, san returns, so wooyoung doesn’t lose himself completely

but he begins to fear the disappearance or death of one of those whom he loves even more than he used to

as time goes on, he realizes he might not be able to handle the life of a pirate - he cares too deeply, too much, losing the people he cares for is breaking him slowly, bit by bit

you ask him what’s wrong one day and he spills all of this to you, sobbing

the next day you ask hongjoong to leave you and wooyoung at the next port - you can’t be on the crew anymore

hongjoong asks why, but when you explain he doesn’t even hesitate to nod and thanks you for your service

he does say that he’ll miss the source of light on his ship, the light and its kindling, but if this is what you and wooyoung really want, then it’s what he’ll give you

wooyoung feels a guilty sense of relief when you bring him back the news - he’s relieved that you two are going to leave, but there’s also the guilt of taking you away from a life that you enjoy

but you remind him that he’s your life. wooyoung is everything to you, and if he isn’t happy, you’re not going to be happy, no matter what

so it’s settled that you two will split off from the crew at the next port, which you’ll reach after a few weeks of sailing, maybe

you reach the port and are ready to part ways, saying goodbye to the rest of the crew

the aurora is staying in port for a couple of days for repairs, and you and wooyoung decide to stick around for at least the night before you go off

you go on a walk that night with him, darkened streets lit up by evenly spaced torches and lanterns

which is why you see the other ship pull into port with a navy seal on its side. and your blood freezes.

with one look, you and wooyoung are racing off to where you know the crew of the aurora is staying because you have to warn them

hongjoong looks grim. there’s a fight, it’s going to be inevitable, and you can feel wooyoung tensing up next to you

your former captain says you don’t have to fight if you don’t want to, you’re technically not part of the crew anymore

but one look between you and wooyoung settles it. one last battle to help the family that took you in

the battle is in the dark, bloody and brutal and made even worse by the fact that you can’t see the rivers of blood flowing down the streets - it’s all a mess of sticky black that your feet leave tracks in on the roads

you and wooyoung are back to back with san, the three of you fighting to the last

until there’s finally an opening and you manage to escape into a little alley

except the alley ends in a wall. a wall tall enough to climb over, maybe, but wooyoung has a wound in his stomach and san’s bleeding out of his side and you’ve got injuries of your own so you’re wholly, completely fucked

as several naval soldiers appear at the end of the alley, all you can think is how you and wooyoung were supposed to have gone off today, were supposed to have left to find a more stable life together

but at the same time, you know that if you hadn’t stayed for the night, your crew, your family, might not have gotten enough warning to save at least a few of their lives

wooyoung is starting to wheeze behind you. san doesn’t look much better, and you feel like you’re going to collapse

there are four soldiers standing in front of you, and there’s no shred of uncertainty in your mind when you think we’re not going to survive this

except - maybe if you can buy yourselves some time -

your eyes light on one of the torches on the side of the alley and a really dumb plan springs into your mind

you spring forward, ignoring wooyoung’s cry, and snatch up the still-burning torch

with a prayer that the ground is flammable, you hurl the torch in front of you

and thankfully, a flame begins to burn

you turn around and start helping wooyoung boost san over the wall

wooyoung is about to go next, grasping san’s hands - you go to help push him up

but then metal flashes in corner of your eye and you have to whirl away, dropping wooyoung to dodge the sword that came a hair’s breadth within slicing the skin off your cheek

how the soldier got past the fire, you have no idea - it’s still burning

maybe they got over it when it was still low

but then there are two shadows, not just one, both with blades flashing

and you know with a stark certainty that both you and wooyoung are going to die if you don’t get up that wall immediately

the problem is, there isn’t enough time to get both of you up - one is going to be slashed to pieces by the time it’s their turn

but one of you...

you block one of the blades and send the soldier crashing to the ground. the other is farther away and for one split second, you lock eyes with them

there’s enough light to see your smirk

give me a moment here, will you? you say

then you turn around and kiss wooyoung on the mouth.

it’s a brief kiss, barely longer than a second, but it’s all you have time for before you bodily lift wooyoung as much as you can so that san can reach him, arms pulling him up

san acts on reflex - he doesn’t realize what you’re planning just yet and neither does wooyoung

but they sure as hell figure it out when you duck under the second soldier’s swipe and begin fighting, despite the blood streaming from your face and body

in the background, you can hear wooyoung screaming and no doubt he’s thrashing around in san’s grip

but it’s all you can do to focus on the fight at hand - two against one with the one injured isn’t fair, but since when has the navy played fair?

you notice the sword flashing down at your side. you notice it, but you’re not fast enough

white hot pain bursts below your rib cage and you fall to your knees, blades clattering from your hands

another explosion of pain enters your back and you let out a scream of agony, collapsing to the ground

wooyoung watches you fall in the moonlight, red and black blood pooling beneath you

and only then does he stop thrashing in san’s hold

because he’s crying too hard, too hard to see or do anything but let a silently crying san carry him away

san takes him back to the ship where hongjoong manages to set sail in record time, leaving the navy behind

wooyoung doesn’t even move from where san has laid him on the floorboards - the only sign he’s still alive are his eyes, deadened eyes that track the land they’ve left behind, growing smaller and smaller in the distance

the land that holds your body

the body he’ll never see again.

several hours pass. someone’s moved him into the medbay, wooyoung doesn’t know who because all he can see is you collapsing to the ground over and over again, dark blood flowing endlessly from your wounds

tears build up behind his eyes again and he wants to scream, scream how nothing is fair, nothing is fucking fair, he was the one who wanted a new life that wasn’t that of a pirate and you were just going along with it but now he’s still alive and on the same fucking pirate ship he wanted to leave in the first place

and he’s lost both of his childhood friends, first yeosang to the waves and now you to the navy

with this loss, wooyoung is grasping his will to live by a mere thread

and he isn’t even sure he wants to hang on any longer.

there is no sun aboard the aurora anymore, at least not in the form of jung wooyoung

because once a fire’s fuel is gone, it can no longer burn

and wooyoung’s fuel is out.

jongho (ABS)

warnings: cursing, death, blood

ah yes jongho stronk boy

when i listed the best fighters i bet you were expecting me to put him in there too

but what i meant by best fighters is best sword fighters

see, jongho is extremely good at fighting and has the arms to prove it

however, his skills don’t solely lie in swords - hongjoong/yunho/san are better than him there - but he will fight with whatever the fuck else happens to also be around him

mingi sometimes likes to bring up that one time there was an enemy pirate fighting next to him and jongho just picked him up, swung him, and knocked out a second enemy pirate right then and there

so yeah. that’s jongho. well-rounder extraordinaire

no one knows how the fuck he’s so good at everything and at this point most of the crew is afraid to ask

but anyway let’s talk about the back story a little shall we

unlike most of the others, jongho has parents that he remembers and as far as he knows are still alive

however that does not mean he likes them

they weren’t abusive, exactly - they just were never around and when they were, jongho mostly got ignored or ordered around to do stuff like cook dinner or fucking whatever

so that’s what he suffers through for most of his childhood

during that time, he learns how to be pretty self-sufficient - he’s the one who takes care of himself, after all

he learns to cook, clean, etc.

but most importantly he learns to repair things, like the house

he gets really good at it too, to the point that people start hiring him to help them with fixing their shit

which is how hongjoong finds him

well, more accurately, yunho finds him

the aurora has docked in jongho’s town after a long storm and the ship has a lot of damage that’s going to take mingi a lot of time to fix

so yunho sets out to find someone who they can hire to help mingi out

he asks around and everyone recommends jongho, so yunho goes to find him. after losing his partner in that storm, hongjoong is in no shape to leave the ship, san is still recovering from injuries and guilt, and seonghwa’s busy tending to the crew members and making sure they don’t fall apart

when jongho answers the knock on his door, yunho is like ???? at first because what the fuck this guy can’t even be older than him - is he really that good at fixing things??

tbh yunho was expecting some middle aged man with massive muscles or something

but jongho’s staring at him like wtf do you want and yunho remembers he actually has a purpose here plus jongho does have really big muscles even if he isn’t middle aged so he’s like hi i heard you’re jongho can you help us fix our ship we’ll pay you

and what’s jongho gonna do? say no?

so he works with mingi for the best part of a couple of months, fixing up the aurora

and during that time, he meets the rest of the crew, who come and go

jongho gets to know them and he grows to like them - he used to be a pretty solitary person, but it’s really impossible to stay that way after meeting one jung wooyoung and his partner

even after he puts it together that they’re pirates, he still likes them

jongho isn’t stupid, it’s pretty obvious after working with mingi for a couple of weeks - they talk of treasure and travels when they think he doesn’t hear

but really, jongho doesn’t care too much - pay is pay, no matter who it comes from

and really, pirates can’t be much worse than the greedy nobles and aristocrats who run his city, right? their illegal acts are just blatant and out in the open, while the aristocracy try to keep their wrongdoings under wraps

he does ask mingi about it one day - why he decided to join the crew of the aurora

after the initial spluttering of we’re not pirates, cueing jongho’s deadpan expression that has mingi immediately quailing, mingi tells jongho more or less his story of joining the crew

maybe a few embellishments because yknow it’s mingi and we love him for it

and jongho listens carefully. his story is a little similar to mingi’s, actually, even if he knows his parents and was never at an orphanage

they were both alone, they both learned to do repair work...

that night, jongho lies awake in bed in his empty house, thinking about what mingi said

as they continue working, jongho prods mingi for more and more stories about the crew and their adventures, and though he visibly shies away from some topics (major fights and major storms, particularly the one that drove them into this port), mingi tells jongho enough for him to see that hongjoong’s crew isn’t immoral. far from it, really

there’s no explaining away the battles and murder and pillaging, but as far as jongho is concerned, at least they’re upfront about it

nobility does the same shit, they just prefer to call murder “the hanging of criminals” and pillaging “taxes”

and jongho is tired of both

after about a month or a month and a half, he decides to himself that he wants to join the aurora

so he asks mingi one day how hongjoong might feel if jongho wanted to join the crew

he doesn’t know hongjoong, he’s only caught maybe a glimpse or two of the captain because he’s been grieving this whole time, which is why he goes to mingi first

mingi tells him to come back the next day, he’ll see if seonghwa can better answer that question as the second in command since hongjoong is still out

seonghwa takes a liking to jongho almost immediately, and the feeling is mutual

even just minutes after meeting, seonghwa gives jongho the sense that he truly cares for him in a way that jongho really hasn’t felt before, not even from his own parents

so the deal is settled and after the repair job is finished, jongho returns to his small home to pack up his stuff. the next day, he’s sailing into the open ocean without looking back

like almost every other new crew member, jongho gets seasick for the first few weeks he isn’t on land

meaning he stays in the medbay more often than he’d like to

but it’s fine - because that’s where he meets you

you’re the ship’s doctor. relatively new since the last doctor was killed in battle maybe half a year ago, but wooyoung was lucky enough to befriend you, an apothecarist’s apprentice, in one of the towns the aurora docked in

you come from a town that’s a safe zone of sorts for pirates - the locals are friendly if wary, and pirates don’t get into fights on your land

it’s a pretty decent existence if you ignore the fact that royalty/nobles would have all of your heads if they could find definitive proof that your town likes to harbor criminals, but people keep their mouths shut here so it doesn’t happen

however, as decent as this existence is, you got a bit of the short end of the stick

your parents died after you were apprenticed to the apothecarist, leaving you with no nearby relatives or places to stay other than the orphanage or the apothecary

and the orphanage in your town majorly sucks so you just opted to stay at the apothecary

except the apothecarist is not a good human being. major leech. creepy. you hated being around him any more than necessary

which means you learned everything as fast as you could just so you could stay away and look after customers on your own

and when the opportunity to use your skills elsewhere came up, you barely hesitated before telling wooyoung please get me the fuck out of here

only thing that made you balk was the possibility of death on the seas, but you’re young and naive and when you’re at that age, you feel like you’re invincible - therefore you brush it off

plus, everyone dies eventually, right?

you’re the new blood for several months until jongho joins the crew

and because he’s the new guy now, you take it upon yourself to familiarize him with how the ship and the crew work while he’s currently bedridden

it gives him something to focus on other than the rolling sea beneath him

and it’s nice to talk to someone who’s just mildly sick and not bleeding to fucking death

even after jongho gets better, he continues to spend a lot of his free time in the medbay because he likes being around you. your voice is soothing and somewhere in the back of his mind, he probably associates it with care and comfort, given how you treated him during those first few weeks

slowly but surely, you grow closer and closer

you’re the one jongho goes to when he feels a little stifled, too used to independence on land and unfamiliar with the teamwork that comes with being part of a crew

and you like to talk to him when you’re exhausted after treating wound after wound after wound after a harsh storm or bloody battle

it feels like you understand him, no matter what, and jongho does his best to lend you a listening ear as well - it’s the least he can do

you feel comforting, but in a different way from the rest of the crew

like yeah, seonghwa’s comforting in that mother sort of way, hongjoong has that tired dad vibe where jongho knows he can go to him with whatever, and the rest of ateez are like older brothers he knows he can trust

but there’s something different about you

he figures it out, of course, because jongho isn’t dumb or clueless - but he is a little afraid of being so attached to you

because what if he loses you? then what happens?

he tries to go to seonghwa to talk about it because he’s genuinely so scared

but seonghwa’s not in his room and instead, a tired-looking hongjoong catches jongho in the hallway knocking on seonghwa’s door and asks what he needs from hwa

jongho is slightly nervous because he hasn’t spoken that much to joong, or at least not as much as some of the other crew - after all, he joined the crew when hongjoong was still in grieving and has only really been talking to him for a few months

and by now he knows what happened to hongjoong’s partner in the storm - the same storm that wrought the damage on the aurora that jongho helped repair

so he isn’t sure if it’s a good idea to talk to joong about it

but hongjoong presses him a little, saying that hwa is dealing with some other stuff at the moment and that jongho can talk to joong if he wants

so in a fit of recklessness (he’s also been holding it in for kind of a while, he needs to talk), jongho spills it in hongjoong’s office

and hongjoong goes silent.

jongho regrets his entire existence during the few minutes of silence and he’s opening his mouth to apologize and take his leave

but hongjoong talks first

and he says to go for it.

you can’t live your life in fear of what might happen, especially when it comes to love

losing love hurts, but the memories you make are worth the pain

hongjoong’s eyes look haunted, but there’s a faint smile on his face that jongho somehow knows isn’t faked - his words are the truth

and he takes them as comfort when he goes to talk to you later about how he feels

turns out you’ve felt the same way for a while, but you didn’t think the feelings were reciprocated so you didn’t say anything, just kept caring for him in the ways you know best

you talk the entire night about what this means for the two of you, and it ends with you and jongho holding each other on one of the medbay beds, curled into the other’s warmth

it turns out to be a blessing that jongho talked to hongjoong about this and not someone else

mingi/yunho/san don’t have partners on the ship, while wooyoung and his partner have been together for literally forever - getting together was barely a decision for them, more like the only logical path to follow

seonghwa would’ve been good to talk to, probably - he lost his partner (at this point he still thinks they’re dead) and would’ve said something similar to hongjoong

he still wears the ring, after all

but the talk with hongjoong breaks down that last wall between him and jongho, and they grow closer

which is something jongho really appreciates, because hongjoong is as dependable as seonghwa and another figure jongho can now trust

life goes on - it gets better for jongho, actually, what with you and finally growing close to every member of the crew

he loves sword fighting practice and delights in terrorizing his crew members during mock fights by using whatever happens to be nearby, not just his sword

he also loves sitting with you on deck and breaking an apple in half, wordlessly handing one part to you and keeping the other for himself, all the while staring at the clouds during the day or the stars at night

just being near you makes jongho instantly feel not safer, but more comforted

because jongho’s in as much danger as he always was, he knows that

but having you close by makes him feel more able to handle that danger.

at least, until yeosang dies.

jongho watches him being flung off the crow’s nest and into the water, never to resurface

watches his partner race to the railing and scream until their throat goes raw and the screams die to begging wails

the scene replays itself in his head again and again after the battle is over

only instead of it being yeosang flung through the air, it’s you

which doesn’t make sense. you’re the doctor, you stay belowdecks during fights and have never ventured into the crow’s nest as far as he knows

but suddenly jongho is confronted with the very real fear that you could die any second

he knew that before, but like you, he was young and reckless and thought himself invincible

now, though, he knows what could happen

and it worries him. you’re not the worst at fighting on the ship, you can defend yourself pretty well, but you don’t have have as much experience as even mingi because 1. you’ve been on the ship for less time, and 2. you don’t go above decks during fights - you stay in the medbay with someone designated to protect you. a ship’s doctor is valuable, after all

your instincts are to heal, not to destroy, and that terrifies jongho

it gets even worse after wooyoung loses his partner and jongho sees the shell that he’s become

jongho didn’t see it happen, but san tells him and seonghwa several days later, eyes haunted as he tries to describe the sight of wooyoung’s partner jerking under the blades, wooyoung going limp as a rag doll as they fell, san being forced to bring basically a corpse back to the ship - the only reason he knew wooyoung himself wasn’t dead was because of the tears running down his face

the story cuts deep into jongho’s heart - wooyoung’s partner was a very good fighter, far better than you, and even they were lost

what if it was you, not them?

jongho decides it’s better to be paranoid than to do nothing and he trains you harder, asking san/yunho/hongjoong to help

you notice the change in his demeanor but don’t question it - after all, you’re wrestling with similar thoughts to his

you confide to him during long nights with you two curled up together on one of the infirmary beds and jongho talks, too

neither of you wants to end this, and you both agree that ending it won’t do much, anyway - you still live on the same ship together, and breaking apart will only hurt you two more

but jongho wishes there was something he could do about this constant fear that he’s going to lose you

wooyoung is still a shell of his former self - jongho doesn’t know if he’d become the same way if you died, and he doesn’t want to test it out

he tries to ignore the fear, to just enjoy every day with you like it’s his last

pressing his lips to yours always makes him feel a little better, anyway

the fear never goes away, though - it’s almost like something is warning him that he will soon suffer the same fate as wooyoung and his partner

jongho ignores it. prays to every higher being he knows that you’ll be safe and extends his prayers to those he doesn’t even know

but prayers don’t work when fate has already decided its path.

the battle comes quickly, and jongho is thrown into the fray, incapacitating as many navy members as he can

he’s so focused on the fight to see the two navy soldiers going belowdecks

because nobody goes belowdecks. the fight stays on top of the ship, only when the ship is being pillaged after the fight do they go below to see what’s there

but since when have naval officers played fair?

jongho has just stabbed an enemy soldier when he hears the muffled yell through the floorboards

a yell of fear, familiar yet unfamiliar at the same time because he knows the voice, but he’s never heard it so frightened

no one has ever seen jongho move that fast. he crashes through the throng of individual battles, earning himself a scrape in the side and several cut ons his arms, but in the moment, he doesn’t feel any of the stinging pain

he crashes belowdecks and freezes for a second at the sight of a dead crew member on the floor, the crew member who was assigned to guard you during this battle

and in that frozen moment, he realizes that there’s no screaming anymore.

jongho throws himself into the medbay

and the first thing he registers is the blood all over the floor.

grief pulls a desperate cry from his lips

the soldiers turn around

and jongho doesn’t know what happens next.

when his mind catches up to the present, jongho’s throat is raw and two naval officers are dead at his feet, their blood seeping into the floorboards, almost ripped apart

but he can’t even take sick satisfaction in that

because no matter how much navy blood he spills, you will still be gone

dead

your blood staining the medbay floors

jongho falls to his knees - blood soaks into his pants, your blood or the officers’ blood, he doesn't have any fucking clue

all he knows is that you’re dead, gone forever the way he always feared

and no amount of blood he spills will ever bring you back.

If you enjoyed, please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

(1 reblog = 1 prayer for me these parts were so much longer than they should’ve been I think I’m going insane)

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fenristheorem · 3 years ago

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Lance Romantic Headcanons

(Technically part 2)

I’ve had a few of general / romantic headcanons running through my mind for a while now regarding Lance, so as part of my weeks away I decided I wanted to write about this. This isn’t to be confused with my two request writings (part 1 and 2) asking for headcanons of Lance in Guardienne in a relationship, although, the subject is very closely related so it’s probably a bit of a sister series lol.

~ Under the cut ~

I'm going to jump right into this: I think Lance has a dirty secret (many secrets actually, but I’m only sharing this one for now 😉). I theorize he secretly likes sensual dancing; soft yet intimate or intense music playing, and either watching his partner dance around or dancing with her. Being able to grasp her hips gently and sway with her, nuzzling his face into her neck, and pressing her body against his could definitely bewitch him into falling in love with is partner all over again. For this reason, he'd also like when his partner gives him lap dances - if that's something she's interested in doing - especially if she’s being subtly dominant about it. However, this isn't anything that's necessary, more like something that he enjoys when offered due to the intimacy of it. He'd never admit his interest in this, though - except maybe to his partner - and he'd certainly never do any of this in public.

He’s probably into massages - both giving and receiving - as this includes a lot of physical touch, too. Being a warrior and the Chief of Obsidian, Lance probably has a lot of stress on himself and undoubtedly works himself until he bleeds, which means he’s probably tense all the time. Provided his partner can get him to sit or lay down for long enough to give him a good back or shoulder massage, he’ll eventually melt into it until it’s hard to get him back up and moving. Massages can literally make this guy melt. He’ll enjoy giving his partner massages for reasons different than why he enjoys receiving them, though. Being able to lay his partner down and use his strength to sooth her ignites something deep within him, a sort of feral protective instinct, possibly because the act of massaging someone is similar in motion to kneading (like a cat) and providing comfort to your partner is usually pretty nice anyways. This can actually influence him into turning the simplest of massages into a long night of gentle touches where his partner doesn’t need to worry about doing anything except laying beneath him and letting him do all the work. Frankly, saying that he likes massages is an understatement, he probably loves them due to the simplistic intimacy of it.

Lance is definitely into aggressive cuddling as well. He likely has aggressive moments through out the year, almost like how a woman's temperament may change based on her menstrual cycle (yes, I did just say that lol), and it can make him crave his partner's touch more or less in certain moments. Based on his internal time clock, he'll have days where he'll come back to their shared room at night, strip off his armor until he's wearing only his pants, grab his partner - gently - and throw her - gently - onto the bed, and cuddle with her. He'll wrap his arms tightly around her, may possibly lay on top of her - as long as he's sure she's not suffocating under his weight - and he'll refuse to let her up for anything. She can argue him all she wants; he'll either argue back or shut her up with a kiss, which could probably lead off to another type of aggressive cuddling 😉.

He can also be somewhat aggressive during these moments... but not exactly in a distasteful way.

“Hey Lance, can I get up?”

A grunt.

...

“Please?”

Another grunt, and a shifting of his grip to hold her tighter.

“Oh come on! I need to see Karenn about something!”

“You’ve seen her enough this week.”

She can start to struggle against his arms and chest, but he’ll pull her into a death grip and wrap his legs around hers so it’s harder to move.

A frustrated sigh as she relaxes.

...

More struggling. He’ll growl and lightly nip her neck or shoulder, following up with a few gentle kisses if he’s feeling kind. This gets her to stop.

“I promise I’ll come back and then we can continue!”

He’ll raise his head and look at her with a raised eyebrow.

“Is it urgent?”

“...Yes?...”

“No.”

“Why!?”

“That ‘yes’ had ‘no’ written all over it.”

His hand will press her head against his chest again as Lance nuzzles into her hair.

“Is there any way, in any possible world, that I could possibly leave for just a few seconds to tell her something?”

“No.”

Better luck next time, maybe. Once Lance is set on something, it’ll take the sky falling to change his mind... and even then his stubbornness may still prevail.

While we’re on the topic of close contact with Lance; he probably has a very specific scent to him that isn’t even remotely similar to any one else in the guard.

His profession requires heavy manual labor, and although he probably isn’t fighting most of the time - maybe not even training depending on the day - he still has to lug around heavy armor and weaponry, and he probably has a somewhat routine schedule of walking around the guard to check in on how his sentries are doing (was it ever confirmed that there are watchmen stationed on the walls of the guard? Anyways, I headcanon that if it wasn’t already confirmed). Lance probably does a lot of moving around each day; be it training, fighting, working out a bit to keep in shape, embarking on missions, or just patrolling the guard to assure everything is alright. This means he probably does sweat a bit, and of course that hightlights anyone’s natural scent. It’s hard to say exactly what his natural scent may be like, but I image it’s a bit musky with a hint of a lighter chill to it.

Of course, he probably deals with the forge a lot, too, so the scent of the oil, leather, and smoldering steel he works with likely rubs off on him quite a bit. At nearly any time of the day - but especially later in the day - his partner is likely to find him smelling like the heavy musk of leather and heat, mixed with his own faint musk, and a tinge of nipping cold from the soap he showers with.

I’ve noticed that people rarely ever mention Lance’s neck injury... but I think his injury may actually have some impact in his relationship. There’s very little detail known on his injury, but regardless, it’s still a major weak point for him and was probably life-threatening at some point, so I don’t think he takes people being around this injury - or his neck in general - very lightly.

He’s likely very sensitive about his neck, even with his romantic partner. It’s less of a trust thing and more of an instinctual, self-preservation thing. There was a point in time where his life was threatened because someone was inflicting an injury to his neck, and it is known that it’s a weak point for Lance, so it would make sense that he would be very defensive about his neck.

It would take a while for him to open up to his partner about the details, and he may lean away from any touch on his neck for a long time until he learns how to feel comfortable with it, so in that time his partner would need to be understanding and accepting. She can hug him, kiss him, lean against him, anything... but avoid touching his neck.

Lance would likely be startled if she did this without warning, possibly to the point of clearly jumping or immediately backing away from shock. As it is, other’s don’t really touch him in a kind manner, so to have someone - even if it is his partner - touch him without warning, gently, on his neck, will usually come as a surprise. However, this is really only in the beginning of their relationship, and he’ll calm down in time the more he adjusts to physical touch around that area.

In the mean time, his partner would need to get used to his skittishness, but if it’s really a problem for his partner and he agrees, they can start to rehabilitate him to physical touch around his neck, starting by getting him used to touch around his neck and his partner eventually moving her hands closer and closer to his neck until he’s calm enough to let her touch his neck. It would be a slow process, but - provided he trusts her and feels safe when they try it - he’ll slowly relax in time.

This would be unlikely to cause major issues in their relationship unless his partner obviously doesn’t seem to care about his uncomfortable feelings, so as long as she gives him the time he needs to adapt and trust, he’ll calm down. In time he’ll fully enjoy her touch on his neck.

This is relatively short in comparison to the rants I usually go on but I’m glad to have finally written these out. Technically, I had more headcanons I could have added to this, but since they’re a bit more specifically about Lance’s dragon genetics I decided to split those off onto their own post. Fortunately I think these are fine as they are!

Thanks for reading!

Have a request? Ask them here!

But first, please read the rules list for asks!

#Eldarya #eldarya ane #eldarya lance #eldarya lance ane #eldarya lance headcanons #fenristheorem writing

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gwynrielendgame · 4 years ago

Text

Gwyncien part 4

TW: Mentions of SA, violence, and dark thematic elements. This is not any worse than acosf, so if you read that and I’m assuming you did if you’re a gwynriel fan haha, then this fanfic probably won’t bother you.

There will be one more part after this and it’s partially written, so hopefully it’ll be up soon. Thank you for all the support I have received over this. It really motivates me to keep writing.

"Do you see the male with the long dark hair, blue jacket?" Lucien pointed to a window in a tavern. Gwyn followed his line of sight before nodding. "That was the general of the raid. He left soon after the cauldron leg had been retrieved. He still managed to enjoy himself according to rumors, but he left before Azriel even got there."

Gwyn was unsure how Lucien came across this intel. Part of her wanted to question him, but did not think it was appropriate given that she was planning to kill that male nonetheless. She was unsure if she could recognize him or not given the distance. She figured she would not be able to though. Azriel killed all the men directly involved in her trauma, but there were many young priestesses there that day and many of them shared the same fate as her. Some of those soldiers had escaped Azriel's fury. Gwyn made a promise to herself that they would not escape hers. She shifted her stance so that she was kneeling instead of crouching. Leaves rustled under her which earned a cringe from Lucien. They were currently spying on the Hybern general from a forested hill. Apparently, the male frequented this tavern enough for Lucien to find him. Gwyn questioned whether he was solely Tamlin's emissary or if he did a variety of work. He was much better at spying than she initially figured.

"Do you want me to handle this one?" He asked warily. He knew why Gwyn wanted to do this, but he also understood if she would not be able to follow through.

"No." She shook her head while whispering. "I need to do it."

They continued to watch inside the tavern. The male was drinking quite a bit and was being a bit obnoxious from what Gwyn could tell.

"It's time." Lucien interrupted her careful observations. She looked towards him curiously. "At this time every Friday night, he steps outside to smoke his pipe. Supposedly, his wife finds the smell horrendous and requires that he step outside for it. You will be able to catch him alone if you wait by that back door in the alley." She followed his finger to find it pointing at a door to the side of the tavern. She shuddered a little at the fact that this male had a wife. Gwyn wondered if she knew what type of man she had married. She hesitated.

"What if this goes poorly, Lucien? I cannot live through Sangravah again." She sounded desperate and she knew it. Gwyn wanted affirmation that she would never be powerless again.

"It won't." He reminded her. "But I will be watching from here the entire time. I will not allow anything bad to happen. First sign of trouble and I will be by your side before you can blink." He grabbed her hand from where he knelt beside her and squeezed. She looked into his eyes and her nerves began to fall away. That one russet eye, so similar to Catrin's, put her at ease. "Hurry. Or you will miss your chance." He let go of her hand.

Before she left, she placed her invoking stone on her head at Lucien's insistence. It would give her an advantage and she would take all that she could get right now. She started to utter a prayer. It was one that she read in a random book about the rules and rituals of warriors from different cultures. This one originated from the Illyrians.

"For the honor and glory of the Mother, for the safety and freedom of my kingdom, and for the respect and love of my family."

She stood up and slowly began to descend the hill as quietly as possible. It was difficult considering the leaves were still brittle from the cold. She pulled her cloak tighter around her as the icy wind whipped around. Soon enough she was near the door. She plastered herself to the wall, concealing herself in the shadows. It made her miss her mate and his shadows. She remained quiet as the male loudly stumbled out. She spent a few moments observing him. He was tall and physically imposing, similar to Cassian in that way. Gwyn knew that was the only similarity the two males shared though. His hair was longer than hers and tied back out of his face. Sweat collected on his face as he pulled out his pipe.

"Do you remember me?" It was all Gwyn could muster, but it startled the man. He looked towards the shadows she was hiding in. She certainly did not recognize him. There was so much chaos during the raid that her memory only had room to process so much. She was glad she could not remember anything more, could not remember what this specific man did.

"I dunno darling. I can't see you." The disgusting smirk on his face made her decision easier.

He was handsome that much she could tell. It made her feel so much worse for some reason. Perhaps she wished his outsides matched his insides. She quietly pulled her hood down while she stepped into the light, making eye contact with the male. His eyes hardened as they caught on her invoking stone and his stance was no longer relaxed. It was all Gwyn needed to know that Lucien's intel was good. She thought she might feel more fear or maybe more overwhelming anxiety. It was the typical response she had around harmless men, so she expected to feel it even more so now. However, all she felt was disgust. Looking at this male made her skin crawl. She wondered how long his list of unconsenting females was. Her grip tightened on silver majesty as her resolve hardened.

"Came back for round two?" He sneered as he lit his pipe. Clearly deciding she was no threat.

"Actually, I need your help with a decision." She should not toy with him this way, but his comment grated her just enough. She took a step toward him, waiting for the anxiety to bloom. When it did not, she cocked her head to the side as if she was analyzing him. He looked at her in expectation, but did not verbally respond.

"I was planning on killing you tonight. I think it might be more torturous for you though if I let you live without a certain appendage. Thoughts?" She lifted a singular eyebrow while a smirk played at her lips. Her face may have looked amused, but she did not feel that way. Truthfully, she wanted this over with. The statement did not have the desired effect, however. The male began to laugh so deeply that he was bent over, his pipe forgotten. The profuse arrogance provoked her into action.

Before he could react, she slammed her dagger into the side of his thigh- just barely missing an important artery. His scream of pain should not have brought her joy. Gwyn was aware that it was wrong to find pleasure in anyone's pain. This was different though. Her rage began to consume her, engulf her. Suddenly, she was back in Sangravah. She was not helpless this time, though. She could stop this male. She could stop all the males. A sharp pain to her temple brought her back from her flashback. The male had recovered and slapped her away from him. Unfortunately, her dagger was still lodged in his thigh.

"Fucking bitch." Is all he muttered as he launched himself at her.

He mistook her for a meek priestess who shied away from any negative emotion. She would never be that priestess again. Instead, she allowed her anger to consume her. She ducked under his arms and quickly turned around, kicking him in the back in the process. He was slow, poorly trained even for a general, and drunk. Gwyn would continue to toy with him even if it was just to satisfy some sick need for revenge. This death would not be quick for him. He stumbled back to his feet as he ripped her dagger from his thigh. He wiped blood from his nose from crashing into the building face first and waited for Gwyn to make the next move. She could be patient though.

"You never answered. Which do you prefer? Your life or your cock?" That vulgar word had never left her mouth before but she refused to give that away with a blush. He managed a smirk.

"You tell me. Would you prefer your life or my cock? Cause that's the only way you will be leaving here alive."

She saw red. It was like her body went on auto-pilot. She knew what she was doing, but there was no way to stop. She hurled herself at him, knocking her dagger out of his hand. She sent her knee to his crotch which he managed to block somewhat. He still let out a groan. With his face closer in range, she jammed her thumbs into his eyes. Before she could do too much damage though, he was shoving her away. She fell to the ground, but quickly propelled herself back to him. He did not even have time to recover before she was back and this time with her dagger. She shoved Silver Majesty through the center of his palm. His screams and groans were powering her to continue. He deserved this she found herself repeating like a mantra in her head. He caught her off guard with a strong kick to the ribs, but after the initial surprise she was swinging her dagger back at him. Luckily for him, he managed to dodge her swing that was headed for his eye. He grabbed her by her cloak and dragged her to him from behind. His arm wound itself around her neck. She was struggling to breath which is when she slammed the dagger that was still in her hand that lay unguarded by her side into his crotch. He immediately pulled away to grab himself. As he hunched over, sending explicit curse after explicit curse her way, she took a few lungfuls of air. Blood poured from his crotch so she knew she hit her mark. He fell to his knees and continued to scream. Gwyn, suddenly, remembered where she was. Why was no one rushing out to help him? His screams were loud enough for all to hear in the Tavern. Perhaps even his loved ones knew he deserved this. She approached him, grabbing his hair and pulling his head back. She put her dagger to his neck and before she could drag it across, he began to splutter excuses.

"Wait, wait! You can take it. Cut it off, burn it if you must, but I want to live." He pleaded. She turned up her nose in disgust. He had no honor and no shame.

"Sorry. Offer expired." And then she slit his throat. Pulling her hood up and cleaning off her dagger, she quietly trekked her way back to Lucien- attempting to remain unseen.

She thought she might feel sad or anxious or upset with herself. She had killed before- in the blood rite. That had been in the name of self-defense, though. This time she committed pre-meditated murder against a seemingly helpless male, although she knew better. She should be ashamed with herself, but if she was being honest, she felt powerful. She knew that no man would ever have that power and control over her again and this very moment proved that. She could not stop the sly smile that lifted the edges of her mouth. She was a force to be reckoned with and she would let every Hybern soldier involved in that raid know it.

***

Gwyn slid her dagger across his throat once more. Blood poured out and the limp body fell with a thud. Gwyn had been chasing the high of her first kill, but with each new fallen Hybern soldier, Gwyn felt further and further from control. Logically, she knew they deserved to die. She just no longer felt the power she originally possessed after her first kill. She had felt liberated, now she felt trapped by her revenge. It seemed to be an endless cycle. This was only the third Hybern soldier, but Gwyn did not know if she should continue. It felt like a betrayal to the other priestesses from Sangravah. She did not know if this would ever stop otherwise though. There would always be some vile male who deserved death and some beaten female who deserved to be avenged. Gwyn wiped her blade clean on the male's jacket and adjusted her invoking stone that had been knocked askew in the struggle before walking away. She lifted her hood to hide her face as she quietly slipped off to where Lucien was waiting. To his credit, he offered to kill the soldiers himself. The idea became more and more appealing as Gwyn's emotions sucked the life out of her.

"You okay?” Lucien asked once the priestess began to approach him. She pulled her hood away and simply nodded, quietly grabbing his arm. It was her subtle way of tell him she was ready to leave. After one long look, Lucien winnowed them back. Instead of the castle though, they were at a lake. It was beautiful, but definitely presided in the spring court. Gwyn sent a surprised look to the male.

“Should we be here?”

“I have no doubt that you single handedly could take on Tamlin.” Lucien responded with a sly smile. It broke some of the tension hanging in Gwyn’s mind. She plopped down at the edge of the lake to shimmy her boots off. Lucien followed suit and then they were sitting side by side with their feet in the lake. It was beautiful. It made her wish Catrin could see it.

“What troubles you, granddaughter?” He was trying to make her laugh and it worked. A small chuckle left her throat before a heavy sigh. She grabbed his hand and squeezed.

“I thought this might take back some of the control I lost, but it just makes me feel...” she took such a long pause that Lucien had to nudge her to continue. “Like they have won. It is just another part of me they control. As long as I am controlled by the need for revenge, I am controlled by them. Do you know what I mean?” She looked at him to find any sort of understanding in his eyes. He did understand- more than she could ever know. He had also been controlled by his need for revenge at one point in his life.

“I can finish it for you. Just say the word.” He would do it for her because he wanted to. He wanted to protect her when he failed so spectacularly in the past.

“I thought I could not travel a world, escape the library, if men like those Hybern soldiers existed. But those men will always exist. I think I need to accept that rather than killing my way through the problem.” She swished her feet back and forth through the water. The truth is, she was able to leave the library even with those men existing. Lucien had shown her a great many things, including this lake, that made her want to see the whole world despite her fears. Perhaps that was the best revenge anyways.

“Whatever you decide, I will support you no matter what.” He rested his head on her shoulder, drinking up the scene before they would inevitably have to leave again. He had not been here since his time with Feyre and Tamlin, and the experience was bitter sweet. It was beautiful though, and he knew Gwyn would love it.

“Thank you, Lucien.”

***

Azriel had been putting off this conversation for the last 500 years and did not particularly want to bring it up now, but enough is enough. He needed to move on with his life. He did not think he would be able to until this conversation was finished. He eventually found the beautiful blonde immersed in conversation with Emerie at the House of Wind library. A clear of his throat caught both of their attention.

“Hi Az.” Emerie gave a slight smile which he returned before looking at Mor. She looked beautiful in a revealing red dress and curled hair. He wondered where she might be going tonight to be so dressed up. Especially considering Emerie was still wearing her training leathers. Clearly, they did not have plans together for tonight.

"Mor, can we talk?" He turned his slight smile to her. She gave him a brilliant smile back. It did not seem to have the same effect on him as it once did though.

"Of course! I feel like I have not seen you at all recently." She gave Emerie a hug before walking past the Shadowsinger and into the kitchen for more privacy. It was not nearly the amount of privacy he wanted for this conversation, but he would make do. His shadows used this time to abandon him when more than anything he wanted their comfort.

"Why?" Was all he could muster. His cheeks already turning a slight pink. He leaned onto his forearms using the counter from the island for support. Mor stood on the opposite side of the island. She crossed her arms over her chest a bit defensively.

"Why what?" She asked with a frown.

"Why won't you give me a chance? There are times when you seem interested and then there are times when you seem interested in Cassian." He explained further. The look on Mor’s face told him that she wanted this conversation to happen as much as he did. They had avoided it long enough though.

"Az..." she began with a long sigh but trailed off. She refused to look at him now, choosing to stare at the floor instead.

"What?" He did not think it was an unfair question to ask, but apparently she did.

"I don't want to talk about this."

"That's not fair. If there's a real chance for us I want to know. But if you just like having two Illyrians attention rather than just one I'd rather you leave me out of it." It was harsh and a low blow. That did not make it less true. Sometimes he felt that the reason she refused to turn him down outwardly was because she liked the attention. Or she liked having someone stand up for her against Rhysand when he did something she did not like. Azriel was growing tired of their current situation. It needed to change before he started to resent her for it.

"That's not fair either, Az! You're my friend. I don't owe you a relationship." She yelled in outrage. She finally looked up at him and he could see the rage burning there. Guilt began to claw at him.

"You are right, you don't. But you know my feelings on the matter and you continue to lead me on. Or maybe you're confused too. I don't know but that's why I want to talk this through. Just tell me what you're thinking." A long pause ensued after that. The fire burning in her eyes slowly eased away. She moved to sit on top of the island next to him with his stance unchanging.

"Technically, there could be a chance for us. I just don't want to take it. Our friendship means too much to me and..." she muttered while trailing off. Now he was definitely confused. Why wouldn’t she want to take the chance? What was so wrong with him that stopped her from wanting to try a relationship?

"And?" He pushed her to explain further.

"And I think I prefer females. That's why I don't want to take a chance on this. It'll only end badly."

"Oh." He stood up and looked Mor over throughly. She was not dressed up for some party tonight he finally realized. She was trying to impress Emerie. And suddenly, he felt very stupid. He also felt a bit of relief. All this time he was trying to discover what he lacked for her to pass him over for Cassian- what he needed to change to be good enough. Nothing, apparently, given that he could not magically turn into a female.

"Oh?" She gave him a cautious look as though he was some rabid animal who might bite. He realized why she could never have been his mate in that moment. Gwyn had never given Azriel that look.

"Yeah I wish you would have told me sooner. All this time I thought you couldn't decide between Cassian and me." He explained. He could have saved himself so much torment if only he had known. Not that he was blaming her. He was truly blaming himself. He is the spymaster after all, how could he have missed all the stolen glances and longing looks Mor always sent to the females at Rita’s.

"Oh." She repeated what Az had said earlier. She was suddenly very interested in examining her nails.

"Yeah. I am sorry if it seemed that I do not value your friendship. I genuinely thought there was a chance here." He tugged at her chin to make her look at him. He wanted her to see how genuine he was. Mor was one of his oldest friends and he would not let this ruin that.

"I'm sorry I lead you on. If I'm honest, it was partly on purpose. If I keep enough men flaunting after me, It leaves less questions from busybodies." She gave him a sheepish look. Hearing that did not upset him as he thought it might.

"I would do anything to protect you, including lying about a relationship if that's what it took." He would do it now even. It would mean he could not be with Gwyn in the way that he wanted, but he would protect Mor from her father until the end of time.

"I do love you Az. Just perhaps not in the same way." She grabbed his face to look at hers as she said it. He wished she would grab his hands. He let out a long sigh before pulling his face away.

"I love you Mor, but I don't think it's in that way anymore either." She gave him a questioning look that he only shrugged away, moving across the kitchen to put some space between them. He was starting to feel overwhelmed with this heart-to-heart without the comfort of his shadows.

"Really?" She gave him a look that said she did not quite believe him.

"Yeah. I always imagined this moment to be heartbreaking and instead I just feel relieved. Like I finally have the answer to life's question." It was true too. He thought he would never be able to love someone as he had Mor. He realized now that those feelings had been rather superficial. A fantasy he created in his head that felt safe.

"Probably helps that you are mated." She surprised him with that response. He lifted a singular eyebrow as she played with one of the bracelets on her wrist.

"Yes, Az. We all know." She rolled her eyes at this. "But you almost ruined the night courts reputation, risking Lucien's demand of a blood duel, so we figured we might as well let the Elain thing play out on its own." He scoffed at her terrible summary of his actions these past few months.

"I could have used your advice." He replied sarcastically. A single shadow curled around his ear before spotting Mor and disappearing once again. It made him sigh.

"You wouldn't have listened." She insisted. Part of him understood why his family allowed him to hide from his feelings. He was stubborn after all. Sometimes he wished they would push a little harder though. The way that Nesta did. It was why he let her get away with her comments about Rhys- she tried harder with him than any of them did including the high lord.

"I listened to Nesta's." He had already decided that Elain and him could not continue what they were doing after his kiss with Gwyn, but Nesta’s words helped him. Immediately after that conversation he went to talk to Elain, who surprisingly felt the same way.

"Yeah well Nesta and you are two sides of the same coin. Of course you listened to her." He rolled his eyes at that.

"Should I be offended?"

"Yes." They both chuckled. It was quiet for a minute or two before Az spoke up again.

"Thanks for telling me." She nodded before heading back to the library. Azriel finally let out a breathe. His chest no longer tighter with tension. He felt much freer than he had in these past few weeks. It was time to get his girl back.

#gwyncien #gwynriel #gwyneth berdara #azriel #lucien vanserra #acotar #acosf #elain archeron #nesta archeron #cassian

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thekitschdiet · 3 years ago

Text

the kitsch diet part II

part one alr posted!! this chunk is about 3,000~ words long... let me know what u think :-) thank u all for all the luv already!!! looks like I really will hit 31 followers by easter!!!!!!!!

Who is the Kitsch Girl?

I think this is more loosely defined, but The Chic Diet did a truly admirable way of reducing a girl to her YSL bag and her really skinny legs. Now, that implies an archetype, or a population in a specific location. I think kitschness is kind of the niche you fill when you’re not really much of anything else, sort of your own conglomerate of mainstream-specific. One major requirement, though, is being a little too into something somewhat uncool. And the whole illusion falls apart if you have any sort of outward insecurity. See, the Kitsch Girl is somewhat undefinable because she is so much of everything. She exists in multitudes, in a way that is also quite simple to understand; think of a list of axioms, or principles to live by. And now add a section to each one that says “but…” to make a collection of verified exceptions. Say, the kitsch girl will never wear jeans. But she thrifted this pair of vintage flares she just loves. She doesn’t reply to texts efficiently, but sometimes she will within a couple seconds. No mascara, no dinner forks, candles are to be collected not burned; but that was a gift, or something. It’s not personal, of course, those are just the contradictions she exists in. Don’t try to understand it, the enigma is essential to the facade. Or maybe she just lives like this, and her character is so homogenous with her inner world there’s no sense in trying to separate it. You have to have a little bit of an individuality complex about the whole ordeal, which is normally so eugh, but if you’re kitschy enough it works on you. Trust!The Kitsch girl is not someone unlikeable, but amiable and well heeled. I double checked that last one, assuming it meant liked by most, but apparently means affluent. I suppose that is an aspect of the kitsch girl too, having seemingly endless frivolous expenses with no real strain, but that’s not important right now. People that don’t like her think so out of jealousy, or something. Envious that her clothes are all kind of shake-it-up-esque and her highlights desperately need touching up, but she still seems so enthralled with the whole of life… How does she enjoy her own company so much when other people want to know her better? Doesn’t she feel weird about blowing people off to make a joke about reading Kafka in the bath? Why would she document her cluttered, unexciting life on Instagram so delicately, so vibrantly? Of course, no one would say this to her face because they are really baseless claims. She’s nice, generous, and valuable to have as a friend. Trade-offs exist, as they do with anyone. But I like thinking it’s easier to overlook a forgotten birthday when your kitschy best friend gave you a multi strand pearl necklace to celebrate the welcome breeze of June. Or some other made-up holiday. She is so unassuming if you’re not really looking. Girls want in on her inner circle. Or they just don’t care. Nothing wrong with being liked or thought of naught, for the most part. Boys are either enthralled or repulsed by her. Her doctor knows her as something of a hypochondriac, but only minorly. It’s just carpal tunnel, don’t worry… The sales staff at CVS turn a blind eye when she slips an eyeliner pencil into her tote bag. She shoplifts on occasion, just to see if she still knows how. But she is not a shoplifter. $9 here and $6.45 there doesn’t really add up to much. Everywhere she goes, she makes a tertiary friend or two. The term of friend is loosely used here, of course. But it is nice to tell a stranger you like her earrings. Or her phone case is so fun, is it Wildflower? The kitsch girl has an eye for this kind of detail. Simply put, she is sort of unspectacular. But in a way that makes you sort of wish you knew her better.

Phone cases

The phone case is, like, religious for the kitsch girl. Sorry, but there’s just no other accessory as flippant and expensive and single-purpose as a trendy little iPhone case with some semitacky stickers plastered over the design. I used to have an iPhone XS- extrasmall- with like, 18 phone cases. It was kind of a sordid affair. I jest, but really… owning that many phone cases was kind of sick. We get it, you are frivolous and spontaneous and sooo stylish! Stop posting mirror selfies on your Instagram story, your crush isn’t going to see it. Kidding again. Having an extensive collection of phone cases is just so fun because while attainable, most people just simply do not partake in it. That makes you kitschy and unique. I really thought I had more to say about the IDEA of the phone case, but I guess in practice it is all very, very simple. You can slide your driver’s license in the back of a clear case. At what point does it stop being cool to have legal operational control of a vehicle? I don’t display mine because I don’t really like the photo. I look round. In the eyes but also just in general, swollen, unglamorous. Whatever. Not like I drive a Nissan or anything. I drive my *Mom’s* Nissan. Playing Bladee in the car seems sacrilegious. She would hate it.Back to phone cases. Sonix ones are cute but kind of overpriced retail- unless you have like, an iPhone 12 Pro Max or whatever the fuck is new this year, just go to Winner’s. They always have Xs and 11 cases. I had a cherry one for my previous phone, like the exact one Lana Del Rey had? Thank god I sold it before she got outed as a copfucker or whatever. Casetify is for an inadvertent flex. Flexing your lame, lame taste. Sorry, I know you bought it because you liked it, but what you failed to consider is just how un-Kitsch they are. SO common, and they advertise on Instagram. Sorry, I just can’t get into it! Kind of how I just never liked the Brandy Amara tanks. Or lowtop converse. Otterbox is just distressing. Like, if my boyfriend gave me an otterbox phone case I would probably break up with him because somebody clearly isn’t paying attention- one of my favorite, potentially overused joke is how Otterbox cases are the equivalent of orthopedic insoles. Sorry but if you have poor arch support or whatever, but no pain is worth giving up a good pair of Margiela slingback tabi heels. Obviously I couldn’t afford that right now because all loose income goes directly to Wildflower and my cig boy. But like, one day. I hope you want to punch me in the face a little bit after reading that. If Wildflower isn’t your thing, at least have the decency to get a beaded phone strap. But not from String Ting. Pray tell you aren’t keeping score, but they are one of my several parasocial enemies. That should have been ME collaborating with Wildflower! Should have been ME mailing shit to Caroline Calloway (more on her later, but she is the only blue check I follow. I adore her! I was on her patreon for a bit I thinkl!!) …. Side note. Phone cases are cute but there is no way to properly protect your laptop without looking just absurd or colossally lame. The foam sleeves… ick.

Having the shittiest music taste ever

So like, here’s the thing. I’m an Apple Music user, which sort of reinstates my status as an unironic My Bloody Valentine Hyperpop Death Grips kinda gal. Read; volcel. My most recent conquest ended up being a huge L on my part, but also… I totally dodged a bullet. The guy had an iPhone 11 (female trait) and didn’t know who Rei Brown was, which just seemed suspicious given his Niche. I just know he had a “making out playlist” comprising entirely of like, Joji. Which isn’t a bad thing I guess but so unembarrassing it horseshoes back to being humiliating.Like I said. Having the worst music taste. It’s nice how subjective and deeply personal your music taste can be; no one really Needs to know you’re a die hard drainer. But there’s also no point in being a die-hard drainer and Not capitalizing off it somehow. I added it up and I have well over 150 hours of just Bladee and Yung Lean. Which is so yass? The more I write, using myself as a case study, I realize just how desperately jobless I am. And Yogenfruz isn’t even hiring! UGH!I think there is something very kitschy about liking hyperpop in the least ironic, least obnoxious way. Sort of feeds into a “I’m not like other girls” thing, but I mean… That’s kind of the idea of kitsch, isn’t it? Be a little different but also the very same as your lipgloss brethren?!Side note. If you make monthly playlists I am genuinely kind of afraid of you. That is just so organized!! I just make playlists with esoteric titles and then make a new one when I’m sick of the stuff on the last. I have exhausted most genres but I think my favorite is the “I’m wearing f****ng air forces and my teeth are SO white”. Guess what genre it is. Or don’t, but it’s probably what you think is. Okay, moving on….

Curating a scent

I like thinking I smell like mango and peach, Glossier you, whatever citrus is in that Lush shower jelly and mint 5Gum. But of course it is probably less distinct and just kind of generally fruit-floral-mint. Anyway. I think Glossier You is the perfect scent for anyone with a rather elementary understanding of the whole.. Perfume business. Every bottle of intentional fragrance I own was made via aesthetic choices… it really helps that Glossier You is so cute And so universal. Now, Glossier is kind of interesting to me because it really is at the intersection of cheugy and kitsch. Kind of basic, overplayed, unspectacular. But also…. Often popular things are popular because they are good. Glossier has excellent customer suurv, they ship SO fast (and no import duties! W!) and their stuff is just so sweet and nice if not unoriginal, in kind of the same way strawberry ice cream is. Which is still my favorite, of course, especially if there’s a vegan option. I was talking about Glossier. What the hell! It’s really worth trying out. A huge principle of kitsch is just… having as many possible layers and appendages to your composure as possible. And adding a signature scent just really completes that! When curating your own, I say this as a complete amateur, know-nothing; make it something that comes kind of naturally to Your Character. Like, I’m just not a Chanel No 5 kind of girl. Odds are you aren’t either. My bottle (before she asked for it back when I told her I didn’t use it, in exchange for a Nordstrom’s gift card) was from my grandmother. Ummm.. Yeah, I really have no expertise in curating a scent. But it is nice to have a signature. And having a bottle displayed on your dresser next to your aughties McDonald milkshake themed beanie baby and a handful of lip products is just way too fun! This is the kind of girl I am, everyone! Cluttered, but prioritizing pretty-delicate things!

Cheugyism

Cheugy is a relatively new word that has unfortunately wormed into my vocabulary to replace “uncouth”. Which I use to mean graceless or tacky, but if that isn’t what it means…. Don’t tell me. That would hurt more than weighing myself after a “feast” slash pastry binge at my dear Grandmothe’s house. Like I was saying. Cheugy. It’s sort of a fucked up concept to me because it is a critique on consumption, but not the pace or volume or magnitude of it. But rather… the idea of not being “good” enough at engaging in microtrends, or involvement in the fast paced fashion cycle. Don’t get me started on TikTok, or do, but… yeah,. No. That will require a cigarette because I’m so sorry, but writing a thinkpiece on social media is so lowbrow I would need to find about six ways to aesthetically counteract it…. Moving on. I think the idea of cheugy is good, we really do need a word to simply and efficiently define “out of date/uninspired/lame”. But the way it is used to shame others for not liking the same trends or whatever is kind of gross. If you use cheugyism to put other people down and not as a neutral identifier umm… you will become what you fear. Sorry, that’s what happens. Some things that I think are cheugy or embarrassing, or just not part of my stylistic lexicon are… 1. Hooded or zip up clothing, or things with a large graphic on the back. Bingo if it's all three! I just can’t get behind it. Side note, my summer home outfit is brandy sweats and a tube top (Urban Outfitters tank I ripped the straps off) and a large cardigan that should have belonged to a stoner, but probably didn’t. I can dunk on bulky, uninspired clothes because I would honest to God NEVER be caught DEAD out of the house wearing any of it. I’m so serious. Next segment should be about the kitsch girl’s inadvertent affinity for diuretics. Remind me….. One of the ports of my laptop is dead. Not really sure what to do about that.

Eye makeup and what it means to me….

Personally, I am one of those people who never wears foundation and kind of has a complex about it. The kitsch girl wears fluffy eyelashes and owns a plethora of sparkly eyeliner. Or maybe she doesn’t, but she has something distinct and a little ritzy, if not haphazard. We all saw Euphoria and it like, totally imprinted on us. The way glitter sits on your face after a long day is so resplendent. When it’s shining and a little bit melted off from your long, semi-productive day… ugh! Just made for film. Pictures on film. But not the Prequel app. I keep getting fucking ads for it. But it’s so embarrassing. Like, isn’t the whole point of film the authenticity of the moment? The texture of the afternoon? Why would you fabricate that? Prequel is just so cheugy. More on that later. But anyhow. Wearing a ton of eye makeup kind of fits with the idea of film too I think. Like, look at you, in the moment. With your strip lash falling off! It’s all so tres-chic. Plus, for whatever reason, it’s kind of unique or notably dedicated to ~Pull up to the function~ with more eye makeup on than everyone else. Sorry, but it really doesn’t take that long! But yes I will gracefully accept your praise… it’s kind of like the dropshipping of complements if you think about it. Easy to source with little to no effort in the curating. Side note, lashes are like $20 for 40 weeks if you cut them in half and use each pair about 5 times. You could probably do more but I lose track. How the fuck is it almost June? I was trudging through the snow to check the mail for my Online Ceramics shirt just last week, I swear. The trick to cutting your lashes (the way I do it anyway) is pretty simple. Get out two lashes that are symmetrical. Find the middle and cut one slightly to the left and one slightly to the right. This means you have two sets (one set is a little more dramatic than the other but at least they are symmetrical) with longer outer edges. Glue this to the outer corner of your eye and you will look so Composed… obsessed with how this layers with three eyeliner tails (one traditional one pointing up and one pointing down directly below it, sort of like the tail light on a 2019 Lexus UX) and one below your eye, like a clown. Fun, irrelevant fact, is the first time I added this third tail to my eye makeup, my dad had just gotten home from the hospital because he was sure he had like appendicitis or something and it was actually.. Not that. Typical indie hypochondriac. He made me bring him cottage cheese on a plate with a teaspoon that evening. I put black pepper on it for flair, which he hated. Walking up and down stairs with a plate of cottage cheese is much more imprinting than most of the multiplication tables. Don’t forget to use a bright shimmer eyeshadow in your inner corner. It really opens up your eyes. I recommend Too Faced. One time I got a little bit too high and tried to film an “editorial” makeup tutorial. You will never, ever, ever see that video. But I essentially covered my whole eyelid in the ABH shadow “palermo” and smudged out the edges with a tan Tartelette Toasted shade, coupled with my long-expired Milk Makeup holographic stick. Lopsided lashes and near-blinding eyeliner experience aside, it was kind of cool. My point is, you really cannot go wrong with an arsenal of shimmers, taupey mattes and a good eyeliner pen.

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be11atrixthestrange · 4 years ago

Text

Step 12: Asking Her To Marry You

From 12 Fail-Safe Ways To Charm Hermione Granger

(Which is now complete!!)

Check it out on Ao3 or FFN!

————————————

Asking Her To Marry You

At this point in your relationship, you’ll hopefully know her well enough to plan the perfect proposal. But don’t worry too much about perfection— if you’ve followed our advice, she’ll be charmed enough to say yes to an imperfect one too. So alas, this is where our guidance ends, your future together begins. Best of luck!

————————————

Ron chuckled at the book’s irritating, yet unsurprising lack of advice. Annoyingly, the book was right— he no longer needed its guidance. What he needed was sleep, in fact, his body was now begging for it.

He set the book on the table beside him and curled up behind Hermione. With his face in her hair and his arm around her waist, he closed his eyes and was asleep in no time. Any anxiety about the next day was appeased by his dreams, in which his elaborate— maybe slightly exaggerated— plan to propose went off without a hitch.

xxxxx

In his dream, Hermione was the first to rise— as usual, and Ron woke to the sound of the shower. Ron watched himself stumble out of bed and into the steam to join her, where she enthusiastically embraced him, jumped into his arms, and wrapped her legs around his waist. He pinned her to the wall and kissed her lips, her cheeks and her neck before working his way down her body. Dream-Ron moved his mouth between her legs while Hermione gripped his hair and slipped her thigh over his shoulder. Pleased with his own technique, Ron smugly watched on as Hermione unravelled, and he hoped that it wouldn’t be the last time that day Dream-Ron would invoke such an enthusiastic exclamation while down on one knee.

Almost too suddenly, the shower scene morphed and shifted like a memory transition in a pensive. Dream-Ron was in the kitchen, and Hermione was curled up in the living room with a book. Pots and pans sizzled on the stove, and the scent of a hearty breakfast filled the air. The tea-kettle whistled and he poured two cups before piling their plates high with food. They sat cozily on the sofa, eating breakfast and confirming plans for the day.

The walls of their apartment then faded away, rematerializing into what appeared to be a blend of a nearby bookstore and the Hogwarts library. Ron and Hermione were quickly engulfed by the maze of bookshelves. Hermione’s mind was always turning, looking for problems to solve and puzzles to complete, so she didn’t protest when Ron handed her the first book— Wuthering Heights, and told her he’d set up a puzzle for her to solve. In that book he’d dog-eared a page, and circled letters that named the title of the next one. Ron saw a smile spread across her face as she began her hunt, excitedly flipping through each novel until her stack included Wuthering Heights, as well as Iliad, Little Women, Life of Pi, Year of Wonders, Oliver Twist, and Utopia.

Hermione became so engrossed in the scavenger hunt that she didn’t notice Dream-Ron leave the bookshop. She had no problem finding the rest of the books, and was soon holding a stack of blurry titles which Ron knew to be Moby Dick, Alice in Wonderland, Robinson Crusoe, Rabbit Hill, Youngblood Hawke, and Mansfield Park. There was just one more to find— Jane Austen’s ‘Emma’, which happened to be a portkey enchanted to bring her to Grimmauld Place.

It might have seemed like a random assortment of books, but it wasn’t. Ron had spent significant effort locating these exact titles, and he could list them in order by memory, and as a result, they’d been swimming in his dreams for quite some time now. He knew Hermione was clever enough to figure out the pattern, possibly too clever— so much so that she might miss the connection entirely. After all, she frequently overlooked what was right under her nose.

As soon as she laid her hand on Emma, the walls of the Corner Books—Hogwarts Library hybrid started spinning, morphing into the drawing room of Grimmauld Place as if it had taken a long swig of polyjuice potion. Soon enough, Hermione was standing face-to-face with Harry and Ginny.

“Hermione!” Ginny said excitedly. “You made it!”

“Where’s Ron?” she asked excitedly.

Harry answered by handing her another scrawl of paper.

Meet me in the place we first kissed. You’re clever enough to find out how.

Hermione looked up at Harry and Ginny, letting slip a little huff of annoyance. “That would be the room of requirement.”

Ginny shrugged, as tight-lipped as Ron had told her to be.

“The only way to get there is with a house elf—“

“Keep reading,” said Harry.

Hermione glanced back down to the note.

Ps: Remember what I said to earn that kiss!

Hermione scowled at the note.

Harry nodded. “I can summon Kreacher if you want—“

“No!” she said, and Dream-Ron smiled. Just like at the battle of Hogwarts, he would never force house elves to be part of his proposal plan, and he understood her well enough to assume she knew that. “There’s another way.”

Harry smiled and gestured to the rest of the house. “Have fun.”

The world spun around her once again, shifting into another room upstairs. Hermione was suddenly standing in front of one of the Vanishing Cabinets that the Aurors had confiscated from an ex-Death Eater months prior. In his dream, the cabinet was a bit more obvious than in reality. It was tall, colorful, and bursting with energy as though it were alive, unlike the dull, dark, and sinister version that actually existed. Even though the cabinet looked fun and enticing in the dream, Dream-Hermione was still a skeptic, so she stood in front of it with her arms crossed, her face scrunched up as though it had called her a dirty word.

Ron had pulled some serious strings to set the second one up in the Room of Requirement, but luckily, McGonagall was as much of a hopeless romantic as he was. Hermione continued to study the cabinet from a distance, as if checking for dark magic, and he understood her hesitation of course— she had no way of knowing where its sibling was. She gingerly opened the door to find another note scribbled inside.

You found it! See you on the other side.

Hermione beamed, and then to his confusion, dropped her bag to the floor, hastily removing books. When her bag appeared empty, she piled two books back in— Year of Wonders and Emma.

Interesting. Ron wasn’t going to pretend to understand that choice, even in a dream-state.

He shrugged it off, which was easy to do once distracted by the look of pure giddiness on her face as she disappeared inside.

Grimmauld Place faded away, and its place appeared the Room of Requirement. Not that it was recognizable as such— Ron had asked the Room of Requirement to look a very specific way, and of course, it had obliged, exceeding all expectations. Hermione stepped out of the cabinet into what appeared to be a train compartment on the Hogwarts Express, just like the one where he had first met her.

She looked around, and tears filled her eyes as the memories of their first encounter flooded in. On the cabinet door was another note, which she unstuck from the wall with a trembling hand.

This is where we met! It’s also where I first realized how much I valued the opinion of that precocious know-it-all, Hermione Granger. I still check for dirt on my nose everyday.

Hermione shakily laughed, and wiped a tear from her eyes with her free hand. Then the train compartment doors slid open to reveal another room. This time it was a bathroom, much like the one where she nearly lost her life to a rogue troll when they were eleven.

She shuddered at the memory, but grinned when she noticed the writing on the wall.

This is where I learned exactly how desperate I was for your forgiveness, and how far I was willing to go to earn your friendship. Thank you for teaching me how to pronounce Wingardium Leviosa.

Her eyes watered again, blurring her vision so that she nearly missed the door sliding open again to reveal the next room. Patting her sleeve to her eyes, she stepped out of the bathroom and into the Great Hall, which was all dolled up for the Yule Ball. The Weird Sisters playing loudly in the background was a stark contrast to the soft decorations and draping lights which looked exactly as romantic as they did in their fourth year.

This time, however, the lights spelled out a message.

This where I realized I fancied you.

Hermione laughed, clearly not as saddened by the memory as she could have been. Instead, she appeared grateful for the event that made Ron’s daft teenage self realize she was not just any girl.

A pair of doors appeared across the room, and Hermione continued her way through, admiring the decorations with a soft smile on her face. When she exited, she found herself in the Gryffindor Common Room— more specifically— the armchairs and fireplace where they had spent so many nights huddled up close to one another, studying, talking, or simply sitting in comfortable silence.

Her eyes paused on a message plastered on the wall, just above the fire.

This is where I fell irrevocably in love with you.

She looked longingly at those chairs, like she wanted to take a seat by the fire and curl up with a blanket and a book. He could clearly imagine her eyes scanning the pages, her fingers drifting over the words as if touching them would make them real, and her lips forming into a content smile as the day’s stress left her body. It was a beautiful image of her in her default state, a picture that was one hundred percent Hermione. He’d never seen her happier anywhere else.

Dream-Ron had appeared behind her. He cleared his throat, and Hermione turned on her heels to face him, her eyes instantly re-watering at the sight of him.

“Hermione,” he began, his voice shaking with nerves. “I know that you don’t like surprises, so I hope this doesn’t come as one.”

Her lips quivered and she brought a trembling hand to her face to absorb the tears that were now falling freely down her face.

“I even spelled it out for you in the bookstore, so I hope you’ve had time to think of your answer.” She softly laughed and her eyes sparkled when he reached into his pocket and took a step toward her, lowering himself to one knee. With a shaky inhale to prepare, he asked the question. “Hermione Granger, will you marry me?”

Dream-Ron’s voice cracked like he was a teenager asking her to a dance, and he half expected her to look at him in confusion, and ask “what?”

But that’s not what happened. She was lost for words, and answered with her head which bobbed up and down as she ran toward him. He opened his arms to embrace her, but she halted.

“Wait!”

She dug into her bag, and pulled out the two books she had purposefully brought with her, Year of Wonders, and Emma. She handed them to Dream-Ron, who looked them over with an amused grin on his face, while she dove back into her bag. She pulled out a third— one that was not from the bookstore. Pride and Prejudice— her favorite book, the one she always has with her. It all made sense now.

Year of Wonders

Emma

Pride and Prejudice

Holding all three books, Dream-Ron smiled up at her. “Is… this a yes?”

“Well, seeing as I don’t have an S, it’s a ‘Yep’,” she said, before finally diving into his embrace as the books tumbled from his arms like basilisk fangs.

He had forgone all effort to keep from crying, and so had she. He momentarily pulled away from the hug to slide the ring onto her finger. It took a couple tries with their trembling hands, but then she fell heavier into his arms and he tightened his embrace. He lifted her up and carried her to an armchair, and they sat intertwined by the crackling fire, hugging, kissing, and crying into each other’s hair.

Ron half expected the room to shape-shift again, bringing them to the celebration at the Burrow where their families were waiting, but his dream never got that far. Their embrace in the armchairs began to feel even more real, and soon enough, the Gryffindor Common Room was fading to black.

xxxxx

Ron awoke in his own bed, his arms still wrapped solidly around Hermione. The sun was shining through the window, sending a beam of light to the floor where Crookshanks slept, belly up, as if he was trying to photosynthesize. Hermione began to shift restlessly in her sleep, groaning, as the light knocked on her eyelids like an unwelcome solicitor..

Reality set in, and it would have been easy to feel sad upon realizing his perfectly-executed proposal was all a dream. But instead, Ron just felt giddy with excitement. This could very well be the start of the best day of his life.

As long as everything went according to plan.

———————————————

“To Ron and Hermione!” exclaimed Arthur, reaching his champagne glass straight up into the air.

“To Ron and Hermione!” echoed a chorus of Weasleys, Grangers, and a Potter.

Glasses clinked, champagne splashed, and a beaming Ron slipped an arm around Hermione to pull her close to him. She tilted her head up to his, and he leaned in to capture her lips in a kiss. He felt her arms wrap around his middle and vaguely heard a few whistles in the background.

Ron and Hermione. It always had a ring to it.

No time had been wasted before preparing The Burrow for the celebration. CONGRATULATIONS was magically written on the wall in capitalized, tinsel-like lettering that flashed red and gold. Jean and Molly had prepared an impressive spread, which rivaled Hogwarts welcoming feasts. Hugo was already mentoring Arthur in the art of mixology, while Charlie and George eagerly volunteered to taste test each new cocktail. There was a cake shaped like an engagement ring, and it appeared that Ginny had gotten to it, because the words “about fucking time” were scribbled across in icing.

“So, Darling,” said Jean, as she refilled her champagne glass. “Aren’t you going to tell us how he proposed?”

“Yes, dear! Please tell everyone!” echoed Molly.

Hermione, who had just taken an unusually large bite of watermelon, replied with a look of surprise, as if for some reason she hadn’t expected that question. She slowly chewed, buying herself some time, and sent a panicked glance in Ron’s direction. A silent conversation followed.

How much do I tell them?

That’s up to you.

They squinted at each other for a few more moments, finalizing the details of their abridged story. Then Hermione turned back to her mom. “I’d love to tell that story.”

xxxxx

Earlier that day...

“Good morning,” were the first words Ron mumbled at the start of the best day of his life.

“Morning,” she muttered back.

He snaked his arm around her and pulled her close. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she said, sending him a look of slight confusion at his eager confession of love. “I’ll be right back,” she added before hastily untangling himself from her arms, and bolting to the bathroom.

Ron groggily rolled out of bed to get dressed for the day. He opened the drawer of his nightstand to find the small velvet ring-box, and slipped it into his pocket before hobbling into the kitchen to make tea and start breakfast. He filled two mugs and set them aside to cool off while breakfast sizzled on the stove. His stomach twisted in a combination of hunger and nerves as he shuffled eggs around in the pan, planning out how he would introduce today’s activities. Luring her to the bookstore should be easy enough, but he hoped she was feeling up to the rest of the adventure.

He heard the shower starting upstairs, and turned the stove down to low. Remembering the colorful beginning of last night’s dream, he stumbled back into the bedroom, hoping Hermione wouldn’t mind a visitor. He presumptuously pulled off his shirt before cracking open the door to unleash a flume of steam into the bedroom.

Ron froze at the sight of Hermione. The shower was running in the background, but she was crouched on the tile floor, hovering her face over the toilet while she wretched. One hand wrangled her hair behind her head, while the other supported her weight on the floor.

Fuck.

“Hermione,” stammered Ron. “Are… are you ok?” He rushed to her side and knelt down, taking her hair from her hands. He cleared some loose strands away from her face while she gently shook her head.

“No,” she groaned. “Not okay—” her body interrupted her as she heaved again.

“Well, shit, Hermione,” he said softly, hoping his disappointment didn’t sour his words. Hermione rarely threw up. In fact, the last time he recalled had been during a panic attack in Australia before they found her parents. It suddenly occurred to him that this was the first time he’d held her hair on a bathroom floor while she vomited into the toilet. He felt a strange sense of pride, as if they had reached a new relationship milestone.

As his hopes for a smooth-sailing proposal started to fade, there was a part of him that considered asking her right there on the bathroom floor. It would have been the least romantic way to do it, and she’d probably hate him for it, but he doubted she’d say no. Something about seeing her in such a vulnerable state made his heart swell, and he wanted her to know it was that it was her humanity that he fell in love with.

Fuck, he’d marry her on a bathroom floor with vomit on her face, no question about it.

She grimaced and groaned, then leaned over the toilet yet again, and Ron gently held her close and rubbed her back as she suffered through the next wave of nausea.

He could maybe wait a little longer.

Eventually she stood up and wiped her face, revealing an expression of utter embarrassment. “Thank you,” she whispered, pointedly looking away from him. “I’m going to shower now.”

Ron scoured his mind for something to say that might make her feel less awkward. His randy brain landed on, “do you mind if I join you?”

Hermione paused, then laughed. “You want to shower with me?” she asked incredulously. “After that?” she added, motioning toward the bathroom floor.

“Well… always,” shrugged Ron.

“Sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t exactly feel sexy right now.”

He wanted to tell her how wrong she was, and that his attraction to her was unconditional, but worried it would have come off insincere. “Ok. Breakfast is ready in the kitchen—”

“About that,” she interrupted. “It smells wonderful but…” she trailed off, motioning to the toilet where she’d left last night’s meal.

“Right,” said Ron. “Would porridge be better?”

“Yes.”

“Ok then. Porridge it is.”

“Thank you.”

Once in the kitchen, Ron scraped the remaining eggs and veggies into a leftovers box, and stored them in the refrigerator, before getting started on a gentler, blander breakfast.

To contrast the flavorless porridge he was making, Ron’s mind shifted into overdrive, trying to rework his proposal plan to consider Hermione’s nausea. Portkeys could upset even the strongest stomachs, and the Vanishing Cabinet was no walk in the park either. He had planned to floo to the Burrow from Grimmauld Place after returning together in the Vanishing Cabinet, and at the very least, they could always floo to the Burrow early…

Fuck.

Ron tried to keep an open mind about the day ahead. Maybe Hermione would be feeling better after her shower, and a trip to the bookstore would cheer her up. If that didn’t work, maybe his mum would be able to push the celebration back a day, and he could try tomorrow.

Everything was going to be fine.

He doubted that even more when Hermione never returned to the kitchen. Thinking he’d better go check on her, he left breakfast on the counter for the second time, and made his way back to the bedroom.

She had returned to the same place as before, crouched on the bathroom floor, head bowed over the toilet. She looked pale and sullen, and hadn’t bothered to change into day clothes or dry her hair after her shower. Her sopping wet hair stuck firmly to her towel which seemed to absorb enough water to save their neglected houseplants and she sat on the tile with the heaviness of a bag of flour.

“Hermione?” Ron asked tenderly.

She shook her head, and covered her face with her hands.

“You’re not feeling any better,” he said.

Hermione shrugged.

Ron willed himself to emotionally detach from the remaining images of Hermione in a bookstore, the Room of Requirement, and the Burrow and sat down next to her. With a closer look at her face he realized she was crying.

Fuck.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, as he slipped an arm around her. “I’m worried about you. You’re never sick.”

She turned into him and buried her face in his chest, mumbling something incoherent.

“Sorry?” he said, pulling her close to him so he could hear her better.

Lifting her face from his chest for a brief moment, she said, “We haven’t been spending mornings together.”

She was right, their schedules had never lined up enough to enjoy waking up at the same time, and as of late that was even more true. “Hermione,” he whispered. “Has this been happening a lot?”

Hermione nodded and pressed her face back into his chest. She spoke so softly against his shirt that he might not have heard her, but the words demanded his attention. “Ron, I’m pregnant.”

The images that had been dancing in Ron’s mind were still there— Hermione gathering books, searching for the Vanishing Cabinet at Grimmauld Place, wandering through Ron’s memories, and embracing him by the fire in the common room. It almost felt that his mind was expanding so that those images took up less and less space, because they weren’t actually real, and this was.

In all that extra space, his mind cycled through visions of his future, playing memories yet to be made. For the first time since he had decided to ask her to marry him, proposing felt like a simple task because he saw far beyond that now. He wanted to ask her, but then he wanted to hold her hair if she got sick again. He wanted to run out at weird hours of the night to buy the food she craved. He wanted to go to that bookstore, not so she could partake in his scavenger hunt, but so he could buy all the books about pregnancy and parenting.

“Are you serious?” were the words that tumbled out of his mouth, dripping with pure excitement. She nodded affirmatively, and an involuntary smile spread across his face. He reached a hand to her cheek to wipe away a tear, before landing his lips on her forehead.

He felt her grinning under his hand, seemingly pleased at his positive reaction. Her excitement gave her next question a melody. “Well...what do you want to do?” She asked it confidently, like she already knew what he would say.

But she didn't know.

“I want to marry you,” he stated, like it was the most obvious question in the world.

She pulled away and squinted skeptically at him as if he might be joking, but there was nothing but sincerity in his eyes.

He then reached into his pocket, pulled out the ring box, and popped it open to reveal a beautiful solitaire ring— simple, understated, yet timeless, just like Hermione. Then a smile enveloped her face and she didn’t need to say anything at all. She leaned into his embrace, and he felt tears leaking from his eyes, elation on his face, and nothing but happiness.

They sat there intertwined and crying for some time until he realized she’d never actually answered. “So… will you?”

She responded wordlessly, with an enthusiastic nod against his chest, and he slipped the ring onto her finger.

It really felt like the rest of the world had disappeared and they were alone, the only people that mattered. When reality started to filter back, Ron had to chuckle at the sudden realization of what room they were in. It was almost funny how much effort he had put into planning out the perfect day, only to propose to Hermione on a bathroom floor.

“I had a better plan, you know,” he said finally. “To ask you.”

She shook her head and mumbled into his chest. “This was perfect.”

Maybe it was. Their friendship began in a bathroom, as did their relationship nearly eight years later, so it was quite fitting that he proposed in one too. He’d have to save his scavenger hunt for another occasion, but that was ok. He had a lifetime of opportunities ahead.

To outsiders, it might not be the most romantic story. Luckily, Ron didn’t give a fuck what outsiders thought, because he had Hermione.

xxxxx

“We had just woken up and were getting ready for the day. We got to talking, and I asked him what he wanted to do,” she said, wiping a stray tear from her face. “He said ‘I want to marry you.’ I... didn’t see it coming at all.”

Ron was thankful for the fact that his lopsided grin was pretty much stuck to his face, otherwise he might have winced. As he had predicted, Hermione had left out the most important piece of information. Without it, it all sounded rather unremarkable.

“Out of the blue?” asked Molly, her eyebrows raised.

In his peripheral vision, Ron saw Harry and Ginny exchange a knowing glance.

“Out of the blue.” said Hermione, before taking another big bite of her watermelon slice.

“I think that’s so romantic!” Jean had one hand resting on her heart, and her eyes sparkled with tears. “Ron, did you plan it like that?”

Ron inhaled sharply at the sound of his name. “Um, well no, actually,” he said, sending a reassuring look toward Hermione. “I had something more elaborate planned.”

“Then what happened?”

Ron grinned as he watched Hermione show off her ring to Ginny and Angelina who had appeared at her shoulder. “I just couldn’t wait any longer.”

Molly and Jean’s soft smiles and sparkling eyes suggested they were satisfied by that answer.

The celebrations continued into the evening hours, and sometime after dinner, Ron appeared at Hugo and Arthur’s makeshift bar to find that Hugo already had a drink waiting for him.

“Congratulations again, son!” said Arthur, before engulfing him in another hug.

“Thanks Dad,” he said.

“I’m going to check on my future daughter-in-law!” he said excitedly. “I’ll see if she wants a drink.”

Arthur scurried away, leaving Ron alone with Hugo.

“I already made you an Alexander,” Hugo said, sliding the drink across the table to Ron. “Made one for Hermione too.”

Ron felt his ears turning crimson, as if he’d been caught in a lie. Now was not the time to inform Hugo why his daughter wasn’t drinking. He would just have to drink for two today.

However, Hugo was quite observant. In a whisper he added, “there’s no alcohol in hers.”

Ron met Hugo’s unflinching gaze, and the two men stared at each other for an uncomfortable pause. The tension finally broke when Hugo smiled, and Ron felt a wave of relief. “How did you know?”

Hugo chuckled. “I’ve never seen her eat watermelon.” He took a dramatic swig of his own drink before continuing. “But Jean couldn’t get enough of it when she was pregnant with Hermione.”

Ron glanced over at Hermione, who was working her way through yet another slice of watermelon. He tried to remember the last time he’d seen her eating it, but was drawing a blank.

Hugo brought him out of his memories. “I guess our conversation about contraception was for shit.”

If Ron had just met Hugo, he might have put more effort into formulating a diplomatic answer. He might have interpreted his pursed lips as stern disapproval rather than a weak attempt to prevent himself from laughing at his own joke. He definitely would not have burst out laughing and answered the way he did.

“Total shit.”

Encouraged by a few cocktails, Hugo grinned widely and unleashed a hearty laugh. Then he did something surprising. He put down his glass, circled the table, and opened his arms to embrace Ron.

“I’m happy for you, son,” he said softly. “I hope you’re happy too.”

Ron saw no reason to hold back his tears, so he didn’t. He had always assumed his future father-in-law would consider Ron's happiness simply an extension of his daughter’s, but Hugo proved him wrong. This was a man who cared about him deeply, as if he was his own son and Ron could feel it. “I’ve never been happier.”

Hugo pulled him to arms length. Ron noticed a tear on his cheek and felt another wave of connection with the man. With a pat on his shoulder, he turned back to the bar and grabbed both glasses. “Now go have a drink. Have some fun,” he said before adding with a wink, “while you can.”

Ron found Hermione discussing wedding plans in the living room with Ginny and Angelina, and slid into a seat on the armrest of her chair. He pressed the glass into her hand and leaned down to whisper in her ear, “non-alcoholic.”

She looked up at him and mouthed, thank you, before leaning against him while he slipped his arm around her.

Ginny was smiling at them as more Weasleys piled into the living room. Seeing Ron and Hermione together ignited another toast from the group. “To Ron and Hermione.”

“To Ron and Hermione!” echoed the crowd.

Plus one.

He’d never been more excited about anything in his life, and it was clearly evident by his expression. When she clicked her glass against his and looked him right in the eyes, he saw his own elation reflecting back at him, and knew she felt the same way. They had come so far, but their story was only just beginning.

#hp fanfic #ROMIONE #hpromione #romione fanfic #romione fanfiction #romione fluff #ronweasley #ron x hermione #ron and hermione #Hermione Granger #hermionegranger

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concussed-to-pieces · 4 years ago

Text

Her Dove, His Falcon, Their Shield Part Two

Fandom: Game Of Thrones

Pairing: Oberyn/Reader/Ellaria

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Disclaimer for Game Of Thrones writing here! Hello everyone, welcome to the next installment! I hope you're all doing well. Thank you so much for being here. Enjoy!

Tag List: @culturalrebel @huliabitch @absurdthirst @helplessly-nonstop @lackofhonor @the-feckless-wonder @cyaredindjarin @thesadvampire @robin-writes @buckysalefty

Part One

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains allusions to previous abuse, non-graphic mentions of pregnancy/labor and birth, and threesome antics. Stay safe!]

"Again!" Oberyn demanded, wiping the sweat off his brow.

You feinted left, then right, the butt of your pike nearly striking the prince in the ribs before he danced out of the way. You grunted, discouraged by the fact that you still weren't fast enough to catch him. You had been closer that time though…

The prince laughed, the noise in and of itself immensely galling. "Perhaps if you land a blow on me today, my newest daughter will bear your name!" He taunted. "Shieldove Sand has such a ring to it."

You leveled your pike at him. "Save your teasing for your courtiers, Prince Oberyn!" You snarled, "I am in no mood for your damned japery at my expense!"

"Hold." Oberyn ordered sharply.

You slumped a little, your grip on the pike loose now. "I...I apologize, your highness."

"You are concerned about her." It wasn't a question and you well understood that.

"I am." You allowed softly.

Ellaria had gone into labor several hours before and Oberyn had specifically sought you out for some particularly grueling training. His smile was tight-lipped as the two of you squared off in the empty training courtyard. You knew he was worried as well, but you were bordering on frantic.

Oberyn's heavy sigh took you by surprise. "I would give every breath in my body to be there with her, but I am told it is an excessively messy affair. She does not wish for me to see her birth." He said bluntly. "Every time it is like this. Every time I am caged, constantly pacing, driving myself mad with thoughts that grow more and more dark as the hours pass."

You bit your lip and then laid a hand on his shoulder. "I am sorry Oberyn, I didn't mean to imply that...I know I am not the only one who fears for her safety." You apologized timidly.

He covered your hand with his own, thumb rubbing over your knuckles idly. "You called me Oberyn." He mused after a moment. You flinched, but he kept your hand where it was. "I am glad, my falcon. It heartens me to know that you think of her as I do."

"We can do naught but pray for her safety and keep ourselves busy until she requires you once again." You pointed out, desperate to change the subject so he wouldn't dwell on your error of addressing him by his given name. "I must train even harder, for what if the new babe is like your Sand Snake Elia?"

Oberyn burst out laughing, bumping his forehead into yours. "Truly, what if! We will have no choice but to rally the guard at that point. No one will be safe." You couldn't help your smile when he looked at you, his eyes crinkling with mirth. "Thank you for the levity, my falcon."

"I live to serve, your highness."

He sighed heavily, knocking the butt of his spear against the ground. "How many times must I insist you call me Oberyn?" The prince began to back away, his spear twirling easily in his deft hands. You shook your head ruefully and did not reply, your own weapon in a low defensive position. "Prepare yourself, Ser Shieldove! You face the Red Viper of House Martell!" He announced with a grand flourish, charging in afterwards.

You easily parried his first strike, and dodged his second. The third rasped against your chain mail loudly, making the prince grin triumphantly before you brought the haft of your pike up and threw him back a step. "Too cocky, princeling!" You admonished, startling another laugh out of him. "You'll have to do better than that!"

Your pike thrust out and he slipped around it like the snake he was, his own mail clicking with the sharpness of his motions. You scoffed, swinging the shaft instead to finally catch him firmly in the ribs. The prince staggered, but quickly took advantage of your shock as his spear jabbed low, aiming for your legs.

At the pressure of meeting your body, the safety binding around the blade of the spear tore slightly. You felt something catch on the inside of your unarmored thigh when Oberyn snapped his wrist back, his spear singing through the air with the speed of his retreat. You caught his next attack with the palm of your hand around the haft of his spear, halting the blow before it could land. "Mind your blade." You warned, tipping your head to the now-exposed metal at the head of his spear.

Oberyn nodded, then his eyes widened. As he strode forward, your thigh began to sting. You glanced down, startled by the amount of blood that already darkened your hose. Oberyn shoved you back a step with the force of his approach, his fingers tearing at the laced placket on your trews.

"W-What are you doing?!" You protested, your voice pitched abnormally high out of fear as you slapped your hands down over his own to still them. He was too close, why was he-

"I have just slit your leg open and you ask what I'm doing? I should have made you wear your cuisses, I am a fool." He hissed, "Sparring with you while we are both in turmoil was me tempting fate, and now you...have…"

His words faded after he gave up on your placket and simply tore the hole in your hosiery a bit wider, exposing more of your bare thigh. You closed your eyes tightly, not wanting to see his face.

"Ser Shieldove, what are these marks from?" Oberyn queried after a moment, his trembling fingers grazing one of the many silvered scars.

"Pinching, Prince Oberyn." You answered softly.

"Pinching." His voice was flat with disbelief.

"When I would make noise or cry out during, Prince Oberyn."

"Gods, what?" Oberyn breathed.

You shrugged helplessly. "He did much worse to others. I was useful." You were certain he must be staring at you, but you could not bring yourself to meet his eyes.

His arms wrapped around your shoulders and he embraced you, pulling you into his chest and resting his forehead against your temple. "That is...barbarous, monstrous." He seethed. "To so boldly attempt to rob you of any delight you might ever have--I tremble with rage!" His laugh was sardonic, bitter, and he was indeed shaking. "So that you can feel the echoes of his lecherous manhandling, every time you bathe or dress?"

"I do not believe he expected me to escape." You admitted, startled by his rough inhale of breath. "I believe he expected me to perish one of those nights, but I was hardier than his usual playthings."

"No more, falcon." Oberyn whispered. "Please. My heart breaks at the notion of you enduring such heinous treatment." He kissed your forehead and you flushed. This was far removed from his usual lighthearted flirting! He sounded distraught, burying his face in your neck as he continued to hold you.

My heart breaks…

Slowly, hesitantly, you raised your hands to rest on his back. Your fingers fumbled for purchase momentarily on his armor. If he merely sought you out for comfort because Ellaria was indisposed, then comfort him you would. Somehow. "I have survived him, however." You sighed. "And thanks to you, he will not harm anyone ever again."

"It feels like too little in the wake of his reign of terror." Oberyn muttered. "I did it solely for my sister, for the dashed body of my infant nephew and the slaughter of my niece, but had I stopped to think about the debt that man must have wracked up with his nightmarish actions…" He trembled again. "It is as though I was picked by the gods themselves to strike him down. Why me, I wonder?"

His palm covered the wound he had created, pressing down steadily as he helped you hobble to the nearby bench. "You worry too much!" You waved off his concern, peering at the wound. It was deeper than you had anticipated, but it was still hardly a scratch to someone like yourself. "This parchment cut shall not fell me. Unless you've poisoned your blade, Red Viper?"

"Never!" Oberyn protested. "I would not gamble so foolishly on naught but a simple sparring match, Ser Shieldove."

"You do loathe losing." You teased. "You must tell your daughters I died valiantly, cursing your name while choking on my own spittle or something equally as glorious."

"It would be a death for the history books." Oberyn assured you, the furrow of his heavy brow lessening somewhat as he seemed to realize that you would be alright.

A servant skittered around the corner of the hallway leading to the training yard, her gauzy skirts bunched up in her hands so she could run freely. "Prince Oberyn!" She called, gasping for breath.

The prince whirled and you lunged to your feet, your leg forgotten. "Speak, girl!" Oberyn demanded of the servant, who had obviously run quite a fair bit in order to find him.

"Baby--Ellaria wants--come now-" The girl panted, gesturing vaguely behind her.

Oberyn was still for a moment, like he was frozen. You placed a hand on his rear and gave him a gentle shove, saying, "tell her no matter what happens, I am proud of her, Oberyn." The prince nodded hurriedly, shaking off his daze and bolting down the hall.

You grimaced. Hopefully, no one would question the blood that stained his hand and vambrace! You decided your best option would be to retreat to your quarters to dress your wound and wait, on the off chance that the prince or his paramour would deign to summon you.

You had hoped that the sparring would help you expend some of your nervous energy, but it did not seem that luck was on your side. You found yourself endlessly restless, pacing back and forth beside your pallet as the sun slowly sank. The bells for the evening meal rang out, but you ignored them.

You finally lit your lantern and settled down into the chair beside your bed, focusing on the flame that flickered in the glass panes. It was an old exercise, but comforting in its familiarity. You let your mind empty, let everything drift away until all that remained was the candle and yourself.

All I ask is that they are healthy, whole and strong. You were uncertain of who you prayed to in these times of meditation, daring to surmise that you prayed to anyone who might be listening. All I ask is that Ellaria is well, and the baby is well. Your brow furrowed. Please.

You did not know how much time passed while you were in prayerful contemplation, only realizing how sore your back was when the door to your quarters was thrown open. The sudden motion made you flinch in surprise, looking up. It was that same servant, the young girl, her face alight. "The prince and his lady have sent for you, Ser Shieldove!" she chirped.

Thank you, you threw your heartfelt gratitude to whoever might be responsible before snuffing out the candle.

Clad in only light hose and undertunic, you raced through the maze of outer hallways with all the speed and eagerness of a child. As you approached the birthing chambers, however, you attempted to calm your thundering heart and turbulent mind, slowing to an undignified jog.

The guard at the door saluted you stiffly, opening the door after a moment of floundering with his gauntlets. You crept into the room, closing the door gingerly behind you and then turning to survey the scene.

The first thing you noted was Ellaria sound asleep in the lavishly-structured bed, her arms supporting a swaddled, tiny babe hungrily mouthing at her breast. You heaved a sigh of relief, slumping back against the door. The next thing you saw was Oberyn beside the bed, still in his armor, with a second swaddled bundle cradled in his embrace.

The prince looked up at you and you saw that his eyes were glassy with tears. "I have been blessed." He said hoarsely.

"Two?" You whispered, barely able to believe it yourself.

Oberyn nodded, beckoning you closer. "Come see my first son, Ser Shieldove." He implored, his voice breaking. No longer caring if you seemed overeager, you strode across the chamber to the prince's side. Oberyn tugged at the swaddling by the babe's face, allowing you a clear view.

"Oh." You sighed wistfully, reaching out to touch his sweet little nose before you remembered your manners and snatched your hand back. This was a Sand, after all, and the firstborn boy no less!

Oberyn tilted his head towards the washbasin beside the bed. "Wash yourself, and you may hold him."

"A-Are you sure? What if I...gods, he is so small, Prince Oberyn." You whispered. Oberyn just nodded, gesturing to the basin again. You obliged him rapidly but thoroughly, washing yourself to your elbows and then patting your arms dry with the clean towel. You returned and you were confronted with the reality of a slumbering, swaddled babe being deposited into your arms.

"Cradle his neck, rest him upon your breast. The little ones have no real strength to hold themselves up." Oberyn instructed you softly, moving your hands until the baby was secure against your chest. "Look at him, just look." The prince didn't seem to be able to stop marveling at his new son, drawing a whisper-soft finger down the bridge of his wee nose. You were almost worried about the excessive attention he was giving to the boy, when he abruptly turned back to Ellaria. "Now, precious daughter, are you sated?" He cooed. Gods, domesticity suited him, armor and all. "Will you grant your poor mother respite? She has toiled long to bring you to my arms."

"Too long." Ellaria agreed, smiling wearily up at Oberyn. He kissed her forehead, losing the battle with his tears. "Do not cry, lover!" His paramour chided him as he sniffled.

"I am the most blessed man in all of Dorne and you would have me be stoic, woman? This one time, I'm afraid I cannot acquiesce!" Oberyn huffed, carefully scooping his sleeping daughter off of Ellaria's chest. You stifled your own giggles at the prince's petulant behavior, swaying back and forth idly.

Ellaria glanced up at the sound of your snorting, her eyes barely open as she smiled at you. "I am glad you're here, Ser Shieldove. I know my little ones will be safe now." She mumbled, obviously moments from falling back to sleep.

You nodded, chuckling at Oberyn's indignant grumble. The baby in your arms stirred and you began to sing softly, not wanting to disturb Ellaria. "The moon rides sand dunes home to me, she calls me sweetly by name. I am a child, a child of Dorne, the moon she knows my name." You crooned, still swaying to and fro in an attempt to lull the babe back to sleep. "The sun rides sea waves home to me, he calls me proudly by name. I am a child, a child of Dorne, the sun he knows my name." You continued to hum the tune, even as you felt the little one relax against your chest.

"How do you know that song?" Oberyn whispered.

You glanced up, but his expression was guarded. "I heard one of the older knights singing it and I asked him to teach me. He said it was a child's song." You replied, whispering as well. "I simply liked the tune. Should I not sing it?"

"I have not heard that song since I was only knee-high myself. I had all but forgotten it." Oberyn's eyes were thoughtful, the prince studying you closely. "You are full of surprises, my falcon. It gives me a certain joy to know that the first song my babes ever heard was Moon And Sun." His brow furrowed. "I cannot recall the third verse, the one about the stars."

"The stars crown mountains high above, unbowed, unbent, unbroken. We are the stars, the stars of Dorne, the world will know our name." You prompted softly.

"You have a lovely voice, my dove. Perhaps you are a nightingale?" Oberyn teased. "I shall ask you to perform at their naming."

"Your mockery always wounds me so deeply, your highness." You deadpanned. Tiny fingers wrapped around your index and you looked down, but the child's eyes were still closed. "I have been seized, it appears." You said with a smile, laying a careful kiss on the baby's head.

Oberyn cleared his throat suspiciously hard, thumbing away a few stray tears. You chose not to comment, allowing him his moment of paternal weakness.

…

You spread the blanket out on the ground in the blood orange grove, laughing when you caught sight of Dorea clobbering a nearby tree with her child-sized morningstar. "Lady Dorea! I believe you have vanquished that particular foe!" You called.

"Ser Shieldove, there is an orange that I can't reach and it is the best one! I need it for Mama!" She yelled back, bouncing on her toes as she tried to jump for the fruit. You shook your head, making your way through the rows of trees to where she stood.

The fruit was (probably) just within your grasp if you stood on your tiptoes and braced against the trunk of the tree. You stretched out your arm, reaching upwards and-

Someone's hands landed on your sides, pressing into your armor and lifting you with ease. You managed to grab the orange, laughing when you realized that it was Oberyn who had given you your boost. "Your highness! Thank you for your brave effort." You said with a grateful smile, tossing the orange to Dorea. The little girl tore off towards the blanket you had spread, hollering to the approaching Ellaria that she had the perfect orange for her.

You expected Oberyn to release you with some quip, but oddly, he did not. His touch was not particularly uncomfortable. Firm enough that you could feel it through your armor, but loose enough that you knew you could easily twist free should you desire to. In amongst the sheltering branches of the blood orange tree, the prince caged you against the trunk and studied you intently.

"Your highness?" You asked softly. "We should return, the children are-" His mouth on your own halted your words and you went stiff. His kiss tasted of fresh blood orange, tangy with citrus and you found yourself enjoying it a fair bit more than you should have, your chest heaving against his own when he finally pulled away.

"My falcon, my dove, shield of the Red Viper's clutch." Oberyn breathed, his pupils blown in the green-dappled light beneath the tree's foliage. "Forgive my impudence. Seeing you with my children stirs my mind to such wicked thoughts."

"Prince Oberyn!" you protested, your traitorous body still reeling from his kiss. But no, you couldn't, Ellaria-- "Please, you must think of your family." You insisted tremulously. "I will not let you ruin the beautiful life you have built for yourself. This...affection, whatever it is you're feeling for me--" You sucked in a sharp breath. "It is nothing but a misplaced infatuation. It will pass. You must consider your children, your highness, a-and Lady Ellaria."

"You truly believe that?" Oberyn asked, but he didn't sound angry. If anything, he sounded hurt. "You believe that I would seek you out due to something so cheap as infatuation? What, simply to exercise the power I have over you?" You shook your head, not trusting yourself to speak. "Your silence is damning, Ser Shieldove. I would never try to wound Ellaria or my children, just as I would never try to wound you. I thought I had made that clear."

His hand carded delicately through your hair, tucking a few loose locks back into your braids. "I do not believe you would purposely seek to hurt me." You amended finally, your gaze firmly fixed on the toes of your boots. "Many men do not realize the harm they cause, either through their actions or their wandering eyes."

"I am not many men." Oberyn replied softly. "I have lain with both men and women, my falcon. I know well the pain of careless touch and I do not abide by it in my partners." He stepped away from you after a moment, shrugging. "If you are so concerned about my infatuation, mayhaps you ought to ask my paramour what she thinks of inviting you into our bedchambers?" He suggested with a feigned attitude of nonchalance.

"Are you mad? Obe-Prince Oberyn, you are hers. There are certain things that one does not do, even as a prince of Dorne." You snapped, your turmoil adding a sharp edge to your voice.

Oberyn looked startled, then he had the audacity to grin. "I am hers, you say? You insinuate that I ought to receive permission? Then I'll go ask her now-"

"What? No, that's not it at--damn it, Oberyn, take this seriously!" You hissed, wanting to strangle him. "She has borne your children, have some respect for her and don't attempt to stray!"

Oberyn's laughter washed over you and you were torn between the urge to punch him in the gut and the urge to bury yourself alive. "Stray?" He finally sputtered. "Forgive my mirth, my falcon. I am...All I can say is that you really must speak with my paramour. I imagine the two of you will have a highly interesting discussion."

"Oh, of that I am certain." You said icily, stalking past him and heading towards the blanket where Ellaria played with the twins. You bowed stiffly and her eyebrow quirked, as if to ask what's wrong? "I will return to the water gardens, my lady. His highness appears to be in such ferociously high spirits I assume he will be more than up to the task of warding off any attackers."

"Do not leave, Ser Shieldove!" Oberyn boomed directly behind you, making you jump out of your skin. Gods, he could be so quiet! "I will maintain my composure, I give you my word!"

"It is not your composure I worry about." You shot back under your breath, making him struggle vainly to disguise his laughter as a coughing fit.

Ellaria looked back and forth between her lover and you, her eyes dancing like they did when she and Oberyn enjoyed one of their many secret jokes. "I see you both have been sampling the oranges." She commented pointedly, tapping her lower lip while winking at you. "They do stain so beautifully, don't they lover?"

"But Ser Shieldove has not even had any yet!" Loreza said plaintively, the younger Sand's red-stained fingers tugging at Dorea's hand. "We should get her some."

"Aye, how is it that you have blood orange on your mouth and not a mark on your hands?" Oberyn asked playfully, as if he didn't already know, this was all his fault!

You were back to warring between the two urges and the option to punch Oberyn, while absolutely certain to lead to your immediate incarceration, was looking more appealing by the second. You set your jaw, willing away the tears that were trying to build as Loreza set off with Dorea in tow. "I am--I am leaving now." You said thickly, cursing yourself for the sob that blatantly hitched your words.

Ellaria immediately noticed your discomfort, her smile vanishing. "Are you well, my dove?" You hiccupped roughly, nodding. Your performance wouldn't have fooled anyone, but Ellaria seemed to take pity on you and allowed you to dismiss yourself.

You stalked off through the orchard, trying vainly to stem the flow of tears that poured down your face. You finally stopped beneath one of the many trees, sliding down the trunk and wrapping your arms around your knees so you could hide your face as you sobbed. It was incredibly unfair of Oberyn to tease you so maliciously, but what did you expect from a prince? No doubt to him, the common folks' feelings were nothing but toys. Your heart had soared and broken all at once, leaving you feeling bruised and aching.

The summer of being wanted, desired by someone, the winter of knowing that giving in to them would destroy their happiness...

"Ser Shieldove!" You started, looking up. You hadn't noticed Loreza and Dorea returning from their hunt, the two girls arm-in-arm. "What happened? Did you get hurt?" Dorea asked worriedly, making your heart break all over again. "Should we get Mama?"

"Oh, no no!" You tried to assuage their concern, giving the two girls a watery smile while you cast your mind around for a suitable excuse. "I--I saw a bee."

"You're scared of bees?!" Loreza erupted incredulously. "I didn't think you were scared of anything!"

"Not even our papa!" Dorea paused, then added, "but I'm scared of bees too. I got stung once, on my foot. That's why I wear my big boots now." She said importantly, shuffling the aforementioned boots. They did look oversized for her stature. You had never noticed…

An orange was thrust at your face, Loreza blinking solemnly down at you. "We found you a good one. It's ripe, I promise." The two of them plopped down on either side of you like little sentries, Dorea brandishing her tiny morningstar.

You turned the orange over and over in your hands. "You know, where I am from, these are only for royalty." You began suddenly, digging your nails into the peel. "I had never even touched one before I came to Dorne."

"Never?" Loreza gawked, her own cheeks smeared with red from her feast. "I love oranges. Kumquats. Grapefruits."

"Lemons are better than grapefruits. More spicy." Dorea said firmly. "Like dragon peppers."

"I don't like dragon peppers." Loreza retorted sulkily. "They burn my tongue."

The two girls bickered around you while you slowly peeled and ate the fruit, your turbulent thoughts calming under the press of the mundane task. You felt foolish for letting your emotions get the best of you; obviously Oberyn only teased you because he knew he would get a reaction! You pushed away the memory of how gently he had tucked your hair back into its braids. It was probably a force of habit for him, having had so many daughters. It meant nothing.

You tore apart the last two slices of orange and slurped the juice off the heel of your hand, realizing that Dorea and Loreza had gone quiet. A quick look confirmed your suspicions: the two of them were sound asleep.

You exhaled through your nose, then settled back against the tree. You eased Loreza down into your lap, stroking over her hair absently. The little girl yawned, but did not move. Dorea slumped into your arm and you carefully wrapped it around her instead, keeping your hand on her shoulder so she didn't topple over. Your own eyelids grew heavy the longer you sat with the two little girls, though you knew you ought to be vigilant for any dangers that could be lurking. Worn out from your crying jag, you slipped from consciousness yourself.

You were roused what must have been hours later by a cautious touch on your shoulder. You jerked awake, your hand flying to the pommel of your seldom-used sword. "Tis' only me, my dove." Ellaria soothed, her hand resting on your shoulder. "You did not make it back to the water gardens, I see." She nodded downwards at the sleeping child in your lap.

The sun was hanging low and red on the horizon, casting a pink hue over the land. "Seems I didn't." You yawned indecently wide, then carefully hugged Dorea a bit closer. "The little ones found me an orange fit for royalty to eat, and we spoke of important matters."

"Oh?" Ellaria arched a brow.

"Bees, my lady. We spoke of bees."

"Have you found them, my love?" You heard footsteps approaching. "Ah! I should have known." Oberyn continued softly, obviously trying not to wake the twins that slumbered in his own arms. "Safe and sound asleep."

Ellaria roused her daughters, eventually permitting you to get to your feet and work the kinks out of your neck from sitting in such an awkward position for so long. "I believe we should speak." Ellaria murmured, placing her hand on your shoulder once again.

You shook your head violently. "There is naught to speak about, my lady. I assure you, I shall cause you no trouble." You knew that your tone was exceptionally weary, but you hoped she could forgive such indiscretion.

"Listen to Ellaria, Ser Shieldove." Oberyn demanded. "This is a mistake-"

"I'm well aware that what occurred was a mistake." You interrupted him through gritted teeth. "And as I said, Prince Oberyn, I will cause no trouble for you or your lady."

Oberyn opened his mouth to retort but Ellaria gestured for him to be silent. "Tomorrow, then?" She phrased it like a request, but you knew better than to think you could refuse her.

You bowed perfectly, your form ramrod straight when you saluted her and the prince. Your words were dripping with false sincerity as you stated, "Of course, my lady. I live to serve."

…

The dread that you felt permeated your very marrow. You were certain you would be sent away. What else did one do with a member of their household who was untrustworthy, especially if their partner proved they could not or would not stay away from such temptations?

This was surely the end of your proud career under the banner of House Martell. You were a fool for thinking that you could have been happy here.

You packed your few possessions with an air of sorrowful finality. You hadn't acquired much during your time in these lodgings, your living space admittedly Spartan. When you were summoned, the manservant found you sitting patiently on your bed in your armor, your satchel slouched on the floor.

"Ser Shieldove, Ellaria Sand requests your presence." The older man droned, raising an eyebrow at your state of preparedness.

You nodded, trying not to let your apprehension show as you thanked him and proceeded out into the hall. Your boots felt like they were lined with lead and your eyes stung from all the heartsick weeping you had done the night before. Your stomach would not cease feverishly knotting.

All too soon you found yourself at the door to the prince's chambers, raising your hand to knock. You hesitated momentarily, flattening your palm on the door and then resting your forehead against the intricate latticework. Your shoulders heaved with a single, soundless sob before you straightened back up. You would face this trial like all the others in your life, with some bare shred of dignity.

You knocked on the door. Upon hearing Ellaria's voice bidding you to enter, you unhitched the latch and let the door swing open. You ought to have known that Oberyn would be present as well. You weren't sure why seeing him standing on their terrace felt so...final.

"Ser Shieldove, you come dressed for war." Ellaria remarked, sounding surprised. "Please, set your bag and blade by the door."

"I sought to make my dismissal simple, my lady." Your voice rasped in your throat when you spoke. You made no move to come further into the room, nor did you release your hold on your bag. "We do not need to drag this out, especially not from some misguided desire to soften the blow."

Oberyn turned to look at you, his brow furrowed. But you only had eyes for Ellaria, the woman rising from her vanity to pad barefoot across the floor to you. She stood before you, unarmed, unafraid, her hair still loose around her face. "Why do you believe you were brought here for dismissal, my sweet dove?" Ellaria asked. Gods, gods, her tenderness was going to reave your soul from your body.

You swallowed hard. "I...forgive me, my lady. Please, forgive me. I was weak and permitted my emotions to get the better of me. I did not firmly reprimand Prince Oberyn when he kissed me in the orchard. I take full responsibility for my failure." You bowed your head in grief, your dry eyes burning. "I will not bring shame to your family with my indiscretion, so I come willingly to my dismissal."

"She kisses like a virgin, Ellaria." Oberyn murmured, a hand cupping his paramour's hip and tucking her into his side. "She kisses like she has never been kissed. It was divine."

You flushed hotly, certain that he was mocking you. "I cannot believe your cruelty." You muttered incredulously. "To jest about something like that!"

"Is it true, my little dove?" Ellaria purred, her hand stroking your cheek. "Do you kiss like a virgin?" You stared at her, thoroughly confused now. You did not even notice her other hand cupping your face, utterly transfixed by how close she was. She was so near that you could see there were tiny flecks of gold in the brown of her irises.

And then she kissed you.

Your satchel fell off your shoulder, hitting the floor with a muffled thud when you reached out clumsily, gathering the other woman in your arms. She let you, she let you, gods, she was kissing you and that was her tongue teasing your own. You whimpered into her mouth, bewildered and helpless to resist her.

"I think you are right, lover." Ellaria agreed after she took pity on you and allowed you a moment to breathe. "Hot and trembling and yet so, so eager."

"I...do not understand." You said weakly.

"Oberyn and I found long ago that we share certain proclivities, my dove." Ellaria explained, toying with your hair. "Particularly in the bedroom."

You felt like your mind couldn't catch up to your mouth, stammering, "S-So...wait, the both of you…?"

Oberyn, his chin resting on Ellaria's shoulder, gave you a sly wink. "Aye, my love has excellent taste." The man tugged Ellaria's dressing gown to the side, baring her shoulder so he could shower it with kisses. "We have a special affinity for strapping, chivalrous types."

"So I'm not...I wouldn't...the-the both of you would know about me?" You stuttered.

"What do you mean, my falcon?" Oberyn asked curiously.

"Well, I just...I assumed you were seeking me out as a--a secret. Something akin to adultery." Your voice faltered a bit. "B-Behind Lady Ellaria's back." You watched as understanding appeared to dawn on the prince, his brow furrowing darkly.

"Oh no, no no, gentle dove." Ellaria cupped your face with her hands. "We indulge together and we indulge openly. You would not be Oberyn's secret plaything." She assured you sincerely.

"Forgive me, I did not mean to imply that I think so little of you!" You apologized to Oberyn, who still looked somewhat thunderous. "I was distraught and confused, your highness. You know well that I have been wounded before. Please, please forgive me." You wrung your hands fervently. "I would do anything to-"

"Be still, my falcon. You protest overmuch." Oberyn chided, his expression clearing. "If you believe that your simple misunderstanding grieved me, I should hope that you never heard all the terrible, salacious rumors spread about me in King's Landing!" He smirked. "Such imaginative people."

"They certainly had a strange way of slandering you." Ellaria remarked, her lips twitching into a wry smile. "Do you remember what they said about your cock?"

"Oh that one was my favorite." Oberyn, no doubt noticing your horrified look, began to laugh in earnest. "There was a rumor that my cock was the same as a horse's, you understand." He finally managed to explain. "Length, girth, a hearty amount of description went into this tale. I feared I would disappoint, after hearing such an inventive story about myself! Mercifully, none of the lovely women and men in the brothel seemed particularly distressed about me lacking a cock that would outright murder them. One poor girl swooned from relief, timid thing."

"Oh dear." You said faintly. "I mean, the rumors are not wholly unfounded, but perhaps slightly less exaggeration-" You halted abruptly with a sharp squeak of dismay, what had you just said?!

"Flatterer! Always, it's in your blood I'd wager!" Oberyn chuckled, shaking his head. "I believe it is due more to my age, prolific partners and casual promiscuity. No one there could fathom such a thing, though in Dorne we view it as a common practice. That and the unwavering love I had for all my daughters. They claimed I was barking mad. Surely, I ought to be cursing the Seven every time a new girl was born." He scoffed derisively, blowing a raspberry as though he was a child. "Instead of being delighted with a healthy babe to love and spoil, sing songs to and dandle upon my knee. Aye, Prince Oberyn is surely mad."

His hand reached out to cover Ellaria's on your cheek and you closed your eyes, leaning into their joint touch.

"Gods, is she not the loveliest woman you have ever laid eyes on?" Oberyn mused softly.

"Truly. So strong and brave!" Ellaria answered, making you flush with embarrassment and stare downwards. "Do not shy from such ardent words, my dove! They are spoken in truth, I promise you."

"I do not doubt your sincerity, my lady! It is just...it is overwhelming." You replied honestly. "A part of me is still that terrified woman from King's Landing, trying to barter for passage aboard any vessel willing to take me. That I would be rescued by the two of you…I never could have imagined this, even in my wildest dreams."

"It was a lucky chance that my dear Oberyn spotted you."

"I'd surmise more divine providence, but all the same." You smiled. "Thank you. Both of you. I...I know not what to say."

"Join us in our bed, gentle dove." Oberyn requested, his voice deadly serious. "Join us, my falcon." His hand slid beneath your chin, tugging lightly at your gorget and no doubt feeling your rough swallow. "Let us give you something good to think of on lonely nights when duty calls you elsewhere."

"I--I-I would very much like that, your highness." You whispered.

His fingers hitched your chin, tipping it upwards so he could see your eyes. "Oberyn." He said softly.

"Oberyn." You allowed yourself to say his name deliberately and he grinned, tugging at your chin playfully before he released you and stepped back.

Ellaria caught his hand, and then extended her own to you. "Leave your sword, my dove."

"The armor as well." Oberyn added, his smile growing wider by the moment as you began to hurriedly oblige. You were thankful that the leathers slid off over your head, but the chainmail shirt took a bit more twisting and turning for you to emerge safely. "Gods, look at her, my love." Oberyn sighed to Ellaria after you had fought your way free of the mail, "the pride of her, the way she stands. I would happily cultivate such splendor."

"You did, Oberyn." You pointed out, fumbling with your cuisses. "You granted me the opportunity, after all."

"Let me help you, my dove." Ellaria murmured, her hands covering your own. You grimaced uncertainly, glancing to Oberyn. "He told me of your markings. I am no pampered princess, Shieldove." The steel in her gaze was undeniable; she dared you to think she would cringe at the sight of your scars. "I bear many of my own marks. The life of a Sand is better than most, but still fraught with its own hardships."

You nodded jerkily, letting her assist you with removing your cuisses, greaves and sword belt before she ran her hand over the laces at your groin. You swallowed hard. "I do not wish to distress you, my lady."

"Only Ellaria here, my dove. Here and everafter." The woman said, her fingers tugging the laced placket loose.

Oberyn sauntered up beside her as she slid her palm to your hip, fingers spread on the hot skin she found there. "Your consent, my falcon?" He breathed against your jaw, placing a trail of kisses over the area. "I seek your enthusiastic consent. I seek to have you undone and crying out in rapture, but first your consent."

Ellaria's fingers teased at the waistband of your hose and you shut your eyes, gathering your courage. "Yes. Yes, I...I want. I want you both." You managed to say.

"Open your eyes, knight of House Martell." Oberyn ordered and you obeyed meekly. The prince touched his forehead to your own, his brows pulled low. "Your consent, Ser Shieldove. Look at me while you give it. Look at her while you give it. We need to know. We need to hear it from your lips. No hesitation."

"We will stop if you cannot consent, sweet dove." Ellaria assured you.

"N-No! No, I do want this, I swear I do. Gods, my head is spinning from how much I want the two of you." You confessed bluntly. "I am unsure of how to proceed. I do not know what to do. Forgive my inexperience." You held out your hands imploringly. "Show me what to do?"

"Never apologize for not knowing." Oberyn said firmly. "All man should ever apologize for is not being willing to learn." He stroked his fingers over your temple, light as a feather's touch on your skin. "And you are so, so willing." He whispered. "You have sought learning your whole life, my dove. Sought to hone your body, hone your spirit with songs and prayer. You have learned how to wield our weapons and cradle our babes with the same willingness that you approach us with now."

Ellaria enfolded your hands in her own as you processed Oberyn's words, each one saved in your heart like a precious treasure. All man should ever apologize for is not being willing to learn. "Will you…" you hesitated, biting your lip. "Will you help me learn?"

"Gods, I would eagerly kiss the breath from your chest." Ellaria sighed, her smile warming you from head to toe.

"Is it...considered strange that I want the both of you?" You asked warily. "I have never lain with a woman before, b-but I would...I mean, if I could, I would like...I would like to. Attempt to! That is." You fumbled, kissing her knuckles afterwards.

"You wish to drink from the pure springs of my paramour? A bold request. What will you offer me in return for my generosity?" Oberyn's lips brushed your ear and you quivered when he continued, "will you let me touch you as you touch her, my falcon?"

You raised your eyes to meet his, startled by the heat you found there. Did he really feel that strongly about you? You freed one hand from Ellaria and reached out to take hold of his light robe. "If you harm me-" You began to warn him, your voice catching in your throat.

"Sweet dove, he will not." Ellaria assured you, her expression serious. "Neither of us will. I promise you." She cupped your jaw, her thumbs grazing your chin achingly soft. "We of Dorne are known for our passion, but a fire is gentle embers before it is stoked to hungry flame. We will not harm you."

"This incredible, delicious display of vulnerability that you are presenting to us...well, it would be wholly inappropriate to squander such a gift." Oberyn's hand covered yours on his robe, larger fingers lacing easily through your own. "We will bed you, and we will love you, my falcon."

"Do you offer such pleasures to all your knights?" You queried, half in jest as you let him lead you to their sun-drenched bed.

"Only for the ones who break the Mountain's fingers." Oberyn chuckled, leaving you and Ellaria to settle onto the bed while he went to draw the thin curtains over the entrance to the terrace.

Ellaria pulled one end of the laces on your placket, her motions teasingly slow and deliberate. The lacing unwound itself, tugging free of the grommets until your sturdy hose were slouching open. Her hand pushed your tunic up slightly, enough to reveal a sliver of your stomach for her to graze her knuckles against, then her lips. Those fingers curled around the hem of your tunic, continuing to drag it upwards to bunch underneath your breasts.

"Her body looks beautiful like that, my love." Oberyn commented idly from his position at the foot of the bed. "Ser Shieldove, touch her hair, caress her. She loves to be touched while her mouth is occupied."

Your trembling fingers barely grazed Ellaria's luxuriously unbound locks, still smooth from being brushed, and you felt your heartbeat quicken in your chest. "May I…?" Ellaria nodded and you dug your hands greedily into her soft waves, half-sitting so you could press a lock to your lips. "Thank you, Ellaria." You whispered.

"Such chivalry! Perhaps we will consider parting with a few locks for you to carry into battle as a token of our affection." Oberyn kissed the crown of your head. "Regrettably, my curls are a bit shorter than hers."

"Mm, yours would make such delightful paintbrushes." Ellaria teased, continuing to cover the skin of your stomach with tender kisses and nips. She bit down gently on the waistband of your hose, looking up at you in question. You nodded rapidly and Oberyn settled into the bed alongside you, the man yawning wide.

"Watch her now, my falcon." He instructed, his fingers tracing lazy circles on the bare skin of your stomach before this thumb slid beneath your bunched-up tunic. "She is such art, the way she moves. Had I the skill for it, I would write endless poems about the beautiful anticipation she inspires in me." His touch was light, teasing, forefinger and thumb pinched into the fabric of your tunic to ease it off the rest of the way. His other hand shot up to lift and cradle the back of your neck while he divested you of the article of clothing, the inconsequential motion new and gentle to you.

Ellaria rolled the hosiery off down your legs, the light breeches sticking to your heated skin. You were left nearly bare, the only garment still on your body the simple breast binding you used when you were armored. Ellaria hummed in satisfaction, drawing her hands greedily up your trembling form to seize the edge of your bindings. "Be naked for us, gentle dove." She crooned, her sweet voice dissolving your last fear. You placed your hands over her own, helping her to untie the frantically-knotted cloth.

Oberyn hissed out a breath through his teeth when your breasts were finally freed. "Gods, you were made for us." He groaned, "I want to grab handfuls of you and gorge myself on your taste, my falcon."

Ellaria wasted no time flicking her tongue over the stiff peak of your right breast, smiling when you threw your head back in response. Oberyn lapped sloppily over your left breast and then blew gently on the damp trail, forcing you to bite down on the heel of your palm to keep from making a sound.

Oberyn eased your hand away from your mouth however, grimacing when he saw the marks your teeth had left in the skin. His facial hair felt like pinpricks when he kissed your palm, his eyes solemn. "We crave your sounds, my falcon. We welcome them." He murmured. "You can be as loud or as soft as you want, but do not smother them before they can blossom."

Ellaria toyed with your nipple, rolling her index finger back and forth over it and you whimpered pitifully, blinking back the tears that rose and nodding hard. "I will try, Oberyn."

"It will take time, sweet dove." Ellaria's gentle smile pierced your heart, her soft words contrasting so vividly with her devious fingers. "Do not underestimate our patience. You are our knight, our shield, and we will cherish you as you ought to have been cherished."

Part Three

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gayliensav · 4 years ago

Text

Oh, Baby, I am a Wreck When I'm Without You

I need you here to stay.

Post-canon, Adam and Michael get the ending they deserved.

Read on AO3

Staring down at the key in his hand in disbelief, almost with a little bitterness too, Adam Milligan let out a laugh.

“It’s not a joke, Adam!”

Adam looked up at his brother, Sam -his only living brother at this point, apparently- blue eyes swimming with tears, “You think this is funny ?” he snapped, “You think giving me this is going to fix anything?”

Sam took a shaky breath, “I’m not trying to fix anything with you, I know that’s not possible. But I...I can’t stay there, not without Dean, or Cas, o-or Jack. I can’t do this anymore. And...you’re John’s son too, you have just as much of a right to the bunker as we do. You might as well use it.”

Adam stared down at the key again.

“Do you really have anywhere else to go?” Sam asked bluntly.

Adam glared at him, “I would if you idiots didn’t let Michael get killed.”

“Michael let himself get killed by going back to Chuck!” Sam yelled at him, “Get it through your head! The minute you were gone, he went back.”

Adam gripped the key tightly then, shoving it in his pocket, “Thanks,” he snapped, “For the place. But I’m not talking about this with you,” he said, starting to stalk away.

“Adam,” Sam called after him.

Adam stopped, but didn’t turn around.

“For what it’s worth...I’m sorry for your loss,” Sam called to him, “And...for everything else. I know it’s not worth anything, but I am.”

Adam pulled his coat tighter around himself, “Yeah...you too,” he mumbled, hurrying away.

.............

Adam turned the light on in the bunker, listening to the place start up again. A part of him wondered how long it had been off before Sam finally tracked him down, but the other part of him didn’t really care what his brother was doing anymore.

He couldn’t bring myself to care about much anymore.

“What’s happening, Michael?”

“I...I think my father is destroying humanity. Adam, I-“

“It’s getting dark.”

“Adam, I’m so sorry, I love you.”

“Mike-“

“Adam!”

.............

Adam stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. He didn’t look like himself, not anymore. He’d spent the few months before Sam tracked him down just drifting from place to place without any real destination in mind. He didn’t have anything now, at least before he’d always had Michael.

He had dark circles under his eyes and his hair was grown out slightly and it was a mess. Adam swore that his hair lost a little of its brightness without Michael.

A lot of things lost brightness without Michael, actually.

Adam felt his eyes sting with tears again and he gripped the sides of the sink, taking a few shaky breaths to try to stop himself from crying. It was useless though, he found himself crying at least once a day.

He felt so empty, so lost. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do without the archangel who had been with him for what felt like over a thousand years.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. They were supposed to have a life together, out in the woods in a small house away from anyone that could find them. They were supposed to have each other.

Adam felt a sob rip from his chest and he slammed his fist into the mirror.

................

Adam was lying in a bed -alone, per usual- he’d claimed in an empty room in the bunker. He was staring down at his now-stitched and bandaged hand, cursing his sudden humanity that gave him injuries.

That really stung.

So did humanity, really.

Adam closed his eyes, despite knowing that he wouldn’t get more than an hour of sleep.

..............

Adam was unsure of the actual timeline of his relationship with the archangel Michael. They’d talked, on occasion, while they were in the cage. He knew it was probably around the hundred year mark before they actually got more in-depth with their talks, until Michael was more curious about him than Adam was about the archangel.

The two hundred year mark, Michael was falling. He was calling him “love” and “dear” when he spoke to him and they held hands all the time. Holding hands with an archangel’s smaller version of a true form would seem weird to most people, but not to Adam. He clung to the light of the archangel like a lifeline and Michael did the same.

The three hundred year mark, Adam was quite enjoying himself, for it being Hell. At least he got an archangel boyfriend out of his shitty deal with Heaven. He spent most days with his soul wrapped in the warmth of Michael’s Grace, listening to stories about the beginning of everything.

“Your soul is so beautiful, love.”

“When we get out of here, we will be together, dear. It is only a matter of time.”

“I will keep you safe, my love.”

“My Adam.”

“I love you.”

............

Adam’s eyes snapped open and he stared up at the ceiling. He glanced over at the clock and sighed.

Yeah, he was right about that hour of sleep

...........

He ended up in the bunker’s library, surprised about the sheer amount of books in it. He looked at the titles in various different languages, his hand stopping on what he recognized as Enochian.

Being bonded with an archangel for a thousand years at least had some benefits, he had time to learn the language.

Adam pulled the book from the shelf slowly, going over to one of the chairs and cracking it open. The spine cracked as it opened, making Adam think it probably hadn’t been opened in years.

His eyes drifted over the text, absorbing the Men of Letters findings about angels, most importantly the archangels.

It seems archangels require someone descended from Cain and Abel to actually have a vessel able to withstand them. All other reported vessels have deteriorated over the years.

Adam’s breath caught in his throat as he got lower onto the page.

Angels are not sent to Heaven, Hell, or Purgatory after their deaths. It is reported they are sent somewhere else, somewhere Empty. Below is a spell that has worked on many occasions for a vessel to awaken an archangel, specifically. Do not attempt this without knowing what you’ll possibly unleash by doing this and do not attempt this without a proper vessel available.

You’ll need the following: Salt, blood of a nephilim biologically related to the angel you are contacting, your own blood, a cloth, and something to start a fire.

Adam stared down at the page, his hand shaking a little.

“I have a nephew, apparently. His name is Jack.”

“How do you know?”

“I can sense him, that Lucifer had reproduced.”

Jack. Jack had to still be alive, right?

Adam flipped through the pages rapidly, hoping he could find something on summoning a nephilim, but it didn’t give him much other than some details on nephilim.

“Okay,” Adam took a shaky breath, “Okay, fine,” he said before closing his eyes and praying.

“Jack, I...I hope you can hear me. My name is Adam, I was Michael’s vessel. I need your help,” he peeked an eye open, “C’mon, man, Heaven owes me at least that much.”

There was the sound of a rush of wings and Adam opened his eyes to see a teenager standing in front of him.

“That was easier than I thought,” Adam mumbled.

“I...usually keep a line of communication open to Sam, in case he needs anything. I must have accidentally left that line open to any relatives following Dean’s death,” Jack said quietly, “How can I help you, Adam?”

Adam grabbed the book quickly, stumbling a little as he did. He walked over to the table, putting the book down and opening to the page, “I’m going to bring Michael back.”

“I...do not know if that’s a good idea,” Jack said softly.

“He had trauma, Jack, he was abused by his Father for eternity. Please,” Adam choked out, “He made a mistake, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve a chance at life.”

Jack stared at him, tilting his head, “You love him.”

“So much,” Adam whispered, “I genuinely...don’t know what to do without him,” he smiled weakly, “We were going to have a life together, you know. A normal one, with a house just to ourselves,” he felt his eyes fill with tears again, “He’d probably loved to have been able to actually be an uncle to you.”

Jack suddenly waved his hand and conjured up a knife as well as a bowl, “Here,” he said softly. He cut his hand and Adam watched in shock as he dropped the blood into the bowl. The wound closed up after a few moments right before his eyes.

Jack smiled, “Everyone deserves a second chance, Adam Milligan...my uncle included.”

“Thank you,” Adam choked out, “Jack, thank you so much.”

Jack nodded and smiled, “If you ever need anything else, you know how to contact me. Good luck, Adam.”

Then he was gone.

Adam stared down at the bowl for a moment before quickly snatching it along with the book like it would disappear if he left it for too long.

.......

So that’s how he ended up here, making a circle of salt on the floor of his new bedroom on the floor. He was moving carefully, checking back at the book every few moments to make sure he was doing everything perfectly.

Adam set the bowl down then, along with everything else that had been on the list. He kneeled down, glancing over at the book that was sitting beside the circle as he did.

Adam grabbed the knife, wincing as he cut his own palm, watching his own blood drip down into the bowl. He quickly wrapped it in a bandage after to stop the blooding.

He dipped the cloth in the bowl Jack had used before putting the now bloodied cloth into the metal bowl and sitting it down, looking down at it.

“Well,” Adam whispered, lighting the match, “Here goes nothing,” he said before dropping it onto the cloth, watching the bowl light up almost immediately.

He closed his eyes then, starting the spell. It was long, he had to look down at the spell in the book a few times for help and was almost sure his poor pronunciation would ruin the spell.

He took a shaky breath as he finished up the spell, “...qui dormiunt, ad dominum formosum. Nexus noster, restitutus est. Surgas ex abysso, in lumine existas!”

The fire went a little brighter and then a rift opened on the wall, to Adam’s shock, making him fall back a little. The black void opened and light started to glow.

“Michael...Michael, it’s me, it’s Adam,” he said quickly, recognizing the archangel’s true form anywhere.

A misshapen hand, one glowing blue, reached out to him. He almost stumbled to get to him, linking his hand with his form almost immediately.

Nothing happened.

Adam took a shaky breath, “You actually need an official yes again, halo? It’ll always be a yes for you.”

Then Michael’s form slammed into his body and the portal closed. The human stumbled back, falling onto the bed as he felt a familiar warmth go over his entire body. He got dizzy and he knew it was because Michael was so excited.

“Adam...my Adam.”

“I’m here,” Adam breathed out. His vision was sharper again, like he could see the dust particles in the air, and he could hear the lights buzzing, but didn’t mind it. He was used to it, he was used to being a little not human while being Michael’s vessel.

“You’re here,” Michael repeated in his head, his true voice just a little too loud in Adam’s head out of his excitement, reminding Adam of an oversized, overpowered golden retriever.

“I am,” Adam laughed, wetness stinging his eyes again.

“My Adam,” Michael said, curling his Grace tightly around Adam’s soul, trying to get impossibly closer than he already was, protectiveness radiating off of him, “You’re here. You’re alive. ”

Adam pushed back a little with his soul, like he was trying to wrap around Michael’s Grace as well and Adam felt more happiness radiating from the archangel.

“My love,” Michael whispered, “It’s so good to see you again.”

“Never do that again, okay?” Adam asked, “We’re never separating again. Ever.”

“Not for the rest of eternity,” Michael agreed, “And maybe a little after that.”

#midam #shut up sav.txt

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aingealcethlenn · 4 years ago

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Finding Home Chapter 1

Intro

*Flashback Chapter*

1982 I was born in the early parts of 1982 in Russia. My family was indebted to Hydra - or, more specifically, Wolfgang von Strucker. The Leader of Hydra.

Because of this debt, von Strucker took me. He brought me to his home and raised me for the first five years of my life.

Though I didn’t realize it at the time, for obvious reasons, this was when my programming began. It was small, simple, but it was training nonetheless. Learning to recognize multiple languages, speak three by the time I was four years of age. Praising only Hydra and its work, only allowing approved literature inside the home, minor things most would overlook.

1987 Once I reached the age of five, von Strucker passed me off to another one of his agents. A Russian soldier by the name of Ivan Petrovitch.

Ivan had another young girl, only about two years younger than myself, that he was raising.

Natalia Romanova became like a sister to me. I watched over her. I protected her. She may not have known it at the time, but I recognized that we were all we had from very early on.

Petrovitch continued with my training and early education alongside Natalia’s. Before long, I spoke fluently in seven different languages and understood dozens of others through speech and text.

We learned the basics, reading, and writing, but we also learned so much more. Through the years, as we got to certain ages, Ivan made sure that we could wield small weapons. Knives, daggers, I was even taught the proper way to handle and shoot a small nine-millimeter Glock handgun.

I knew there must be something to our form of learning, something different from typical children. Surely it wasn’t common practice for a child under the age of ten to know so much about weapons, language, how to defend themself, or even how to kill another human being - right?

Not only did I have our regular learning throughout the day with Natalia, but I also was taken each night for more, I suppose you would call them classes, at some strange facility run by Hydra. My personalized training focused on more specific things - stealth, marksmanship, hand-to-hand combat. Yes, I was young, but my size and innocence only worked to my advantage in most cases.

1992 At ten years of age, von Strucker informed me that I was going to be starting school.

I was young, not stupid. I knew this wasn’t going to be some ordinary school that normal children attended. Hell, I’d already been going to whatever classes and training he felt I needed to attend for the past four years. There was no denying this school would be no different.

Having heard von Strucker and Petrovitch talking in the past, I knew I would never be an average child. They were grooming me to be something else.

I had it in my head that I was not only going to be whatever they intended me to be, but I was also going to surpass their expectations; I would be better.

1994 For two years, I had been without my sister. Not since the day von Strucker took me from home and dropped me off at the god awful Academy. When Natalia walked through the doors with Petrovitch, I felt a short-lived sense of relief.

I'm not sure what I expected to happen to her while I was gone, don't get me wrong, our 'home' life wasn't rough, not by any means. We were as 'typical' as we could be, even with all the extra training, but still, a part of me hoped for something more for her - something that resembled a 'normal' life.

Throughout the following years, I helped Natalia, working with her any chance I could.

Though our schedules didn’t leave much ‘free time.’ I made sure she knew the importance of the training, the importance of being the best at what we did. We would skip meals on occasion or stay awake after lights out. Though we couldn’t leave our beds, we made do how we could.

Natalia and I were inseparable when the opportunity presented — trying to offer any ounce of normalcy that we could into our lives.

When I wasn’t in classes, I was with Hydra agents in a separate area of the school. Though it was never explicitly explained to me, I knew it was an area designated just for the agents and myself. Strucker told me it was because I needed extra training, training that the Academy didn’t offer.

I didn’t realize that they were conditioning me even further for my future, forming me into what von Strucker wanted most. Implanting trigger words to all but guarantee he got what he sought after.

“Моя прекрасная темнота. Скоро вы будете свободны. (My beautiful darkness. Soon you will be free.)” he used to say to me, though I didn’t understand it at the time.

2000 I was at the top of my class. The best that the Red Room had ever had passed through its doors.

Strucker had a goal in mind, though. I was to be more. Much more. I understood that, then.

Natalia took over my spot at the top of the list. She became the Widow prodigy. I knew then that I no longer had to worry about my best friend, my sister. She could hold her own and take down just about anyone if they crossed her.

After my ‘graduation’ ceremony was complete, von Strucker sent me to a new location.

Siberia.

Little did I know that would be the last time I would see my sister until many years later.

2002 I had been a Winter Soldier for two years. The only other successful soldier created under Hydra. My training was complete. I was the very best that Hydra had.

I was the perfect creation, according to von Strucker. Strength beyond measure. Impeccable eyesight - making the task of being a sniper that much easier.

I surpassed the original Winter Soldier early on and continued to get better as training progressed. There was now no one on the planet better than I.

The Soldier was now my ‘partner’ as it were. We would go on undercover missions together, acting as cover for each other when needed. They knew we would take care of each other. Make sure we both returned unscathed.

2009 Nine years had passed since I became the perfect weapon for Hydra.

Following the Soldier on what I thought was just another mission, Hydra sent us after a scientist.

They never gave a reason, just an expected result required. “Убей ученого. Не оставляйте свидетелей. (Kill the scientist. Do not leave witnesses.)” That was all the instruction we needed.

After shooting out the tires of the vehicle he was in, we watched as it lost control and went over the cliff. The task was never complete until we could confirm the death.

As we were scanning the wreckage, we saw a companion pulling our mission's lifeless body from the vehicle; we realized this would be more difficult than initially imagined. He had help. That was when I saw it was no ordinary companion that was accompanying the man.

Time slowed, the Soldier lined up his shot, ready to pull the trigger to take out both of the people below.

“Солдат! Нет! (Soldier! No!)” I called out. Nudging the weapon enough that he missed the shot he wanted.

I watched as both figures below fell to the ground.

She was doing her job and had been covering the scientist. The shot went straight through her stomach, killing the man she was to protect.

“Почему ты остановил меня? (Why did you stop me?)” He growled, gripping my arm tightly.

“Женщина не была целью. Пожалуйста, пощадите ее. (The woman was not the goal. Please spare her.)” It was a muted demand rather than a question, and that was enough to have him release my arm and walk away silently.

Once he was out of sight, I made my way down to her.

Pulling her close, I put pressure on her stomach to try to do what I could to slow the bleeding.

“У тебя все будет хорошо, Наталья. Я обещаю тебе. (You'll be alright, Natalia. I promise you.)”

Once I had her stable enough that I felt she would live, I used her phone in the mangled car to send a message to whoever sent her.

Despite what Hydra turned me into, I would not allow my sister to die.

2010 Nearly a year later, seeing Natalia alive and sitting alone at a small table outside a local coffee shop in New York was the best feeling in the world at the moment.

I had lost everything. My ‘family’, my life… my home.

Now, here I am, watching my sister from afar. Unaware of how much she knew of my life after the Academy - frankly, I didn’t much care. She was the only one I could count on right now.

I knew she was on the hunt for the Soldier. I knew she’d never find him.

I also knew she was alone. So I cautiously approached her.

We talked. We got caught up on important events that had happened in our lives, and I was proud Nat managed to get out of Hydra by herself.

I was thankful she didn’t know all the details of her ‘accident’ as well. She had no idea of the part I played. She had no idea that I had even been there.

I never told her what happened to me. I never told her the truth about how I knew the Winter Soldier.

When she asked for my help to find him, I didn’t tell her where he was. Though, I told her I could very easily track him.

I wanted to offer my sister my assistance desperately, but I had to protect the Soldier - my Soldier. Sure, he had a new mission, and he was technically back on ice for now, so maybe it wouldn’t hurt to tell her where they kept him? She’d realize he was too far away and give up, right?

No.

I couldn’t risk it. Instead, all I offered her was that she should end her search because he was gone for now.

I couldn’t tell her the truth. Not yet, anyway.

Chapter 2 - Masterlist - Tag List

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socketz · 4 years ago

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All is Pain in Poetry, But, Oh, The Play Goes On; Chapter Two.

A Dead Poets Society Fanfiction Story!

Charlie Dalton x Female!OC

Warnings : Mentions of abuse, mentions of bullying, light name calling (though not really), profanity, mention of death, signs of an eating disorder *though not explicitly mentioned*

Word Count : 12.3K

Summary : It’s the first day of lessons, and the class gets to meet their new - slightly obscure - English teacher: Mr Keating. The day is difficult, and Jane finds something she had long since forgotten - her passion - as they go on to entertain a poorly planned study session, and friendships merely grow.

Authors Note : There was a lot more Charlie content I think! And Pittsie! I love him! I quite liked this chapter, and I feel like you understand Jane a little bit more - you get to know her a little. There was not much Todd, but, then again, there isn’t much Todd in these scenes in the movies, and I felt it would be uncharacteristic to make Jane the only person to talk to Todd, when he is uncomfortable around new people. I also have no clue who the Chemistry teacher is, and I made up a name for him. I should be updating this story once a week, as the chapters are long and take a while to write, or perhaps once every two weeks, if I’m going to start including more imagines and things into my blog. Enjoy!

Chapter Two, Seize The Day, Boys, Make Your Lives Extraordinary.

A thick, invasive, kind of sting eloped within my gaze, and I struggled to see through the blur of my reddened eyes. For although the sunrise had been beautiful - an azure of deep pinks, and of supple yellows - I found myself longing, greatly, for more slumber. I had merely stood among the strewn clothing, and the grave ruckus - the doing of none other than my wondrously divine twin - and I remained stoic, unmoving. I had, rather reluctantly, as I’m sure you may understand, begun to declutter the disorganised sabotage, fluttered around my room; each motion slowed, furtherly gradual, for I were in some kind of daze, a trance - awash with the morning, and despising my lack of sleep.

I had seemed to dissolve among the sweet grasp of slumber, hardly a moment after my head graced the naked pillow, and thus, there I had been, earlier that morning, as the clock licked upon the grace of six-thirty-seven, a.m; disorientated, bleary-eyed, fully-clothed, with crease indents upon my dribble stained cheeks. A true beauty, one could argue.

Oh, how I hated mornings, I thought, a sigh slipping from within my silence.

For as the day had progressed, and the school hours crawled on forward, I found myself perched to the very back of the classroom, tucked away within the furthest corner, and I knew that Chemistry would be no better than the day had solemnly been.

The depth in which my notes had seemed to forlorn had simply thinned, the farther forward in which the lesson progressed, and I found myself doodling, though only something light, amongst the margin of the lined pages. Mr Donovan - His tone, the way in which he spoke, were of something so deafeningly dull - so monotonous, so dreadful - I had discovered myself unable to pay all too much attention, as his words fell, from one ear, and through the other. I retained little, and merely hoped a curt revision session would indeed replenish the necessary information I had not withheld.

There had been three boys, each lanky, each particularly mundane, dispersing the crimson textbooks; all of which I dreaded to receive. “Pick three laboratory experiments from the project list,” Mr Donovan had droned on, as the thick echo of the dropped book fell upon my desk. “and report on them every five weeks.” Solemn glances of silent protests rang through the expressions of those attending, and I, myself, reciprocated a glaze of great annoyance. For although I had not thought it to be particularly difficult, it was a simply tedious, and rather frustrating, task to obtain. “The first twenty questions - at the end of chapter one - are due tomorrow.”

A mumbled groan chorused throughout the room, as he grinned something patronizing, and I heaved a great sigh. From a few rows ahead, furtherly to the right than I, Charlie had caught my gaze, his expression pinched - a mantra of disbelief - with his eyes morosely enlarged. I hardly noticed the way in which my features founded a grin, though upon his reciprocence, and a subtly thrown wink, I found myself all too aware of - not only my smile - but the slight blush, also.

With an internally suppressed scolding, I had turned my gaze away from the boy, and doodled something rather intense among my notebook. Scribbles, flowers, patterns, and such, with not but an ounce of talent, and a flush of grave embarrassment.

The lesson had progressed through, and thus I did not note the necessities down - a brave assumption that Meeks were feeling somewhat generous, that day, and would provide a little helping hand - and then the hour had gone, and Latin was upon us all.

Mr McCallister - a man perhaps not quite as awful as his co-workers, though ever-repetitive, and ever-droning, as he tended to be - had recited the list of wording, pronunciation to roll from upon his tongue, as he paced - to and fro - before the blackboard, scripted with scribbles of Latin vocabulary and dread. “Agricolum,” He recited, tone an echo throughout the space of the classroom.

Once more, I were positioned idly, sat within the very corner, with not but a partner for company - entirely my own desk. “Agricolum,” We chorused, my voice little but a mere mutter among the choir.

“Agricola,” He continued, and - again - as did we.

“Agricola.”

“Agricolae,” He spoke with such dull fatuation, I found it - a recurring pattern, you see - greatly difficult to withhold my attention, and to recall and repeat the way in which he spoke. For, yes, I somewhat strived in Latin, and I needed not such draining practice to pass specific examination, yet I were enforced to participate within lesson - and of such, I held no control.

“Agricolae.” I sighed.

“Argicolarum,”

“Agricolarum.”

“Agricolis,”

“Agricolis.” A curtly breathed pause, and I found my eyes drifting to the bare panes of the window panels, shimmering among the autumn glaze, before Mr McCallister spoke once more, and another sigh fell from my lips.

“Agricolas,” He said.

“Agricolas.” We echoed; like mice to the Pied Piper.

“Agricolis.”

“Again, please.” He uttered, and there we each found ourselves, reciprocating such wording with little to no thought; the words, so familiar yet utterly anew, falling from our tongues, with jagged edges that bled unto our boredom.

And then, as the minutes fluttered by, and my attention found the window once more - captured amongst the bustle of settling birds, their company surely for life, and the way in which the sky hinted a subtle pink, trapped among grey; lost upon clouds. A shame, I had thought, as the lesson had drawn to a close, that such beauty may be abandoned within the miserable weather - it was time to emerge upon mathematical equations, and drown among difficultly executed sums.

“Your study of Trigonometry requires absolute precision.” Dr. Hagar said, his arms to clasp behind his back. He wore a suit to a rather formal attire - of such I had found myself lightly giggling at, upon entering the classroom, though silenced myself (particularly quickly) as I received a glare of grave rottenness. He walked within the isle, somewhat on the thinner side, and glanced over the top of his black-rimmed glasses, and approached the corner to which I perched, pages of scribbled - and hardly legible - notes to occupy my book. “Anyone failing to turn in any homework assignment,” He rambled on, pausing to my desk, a glare dripping in something cold. He began to retreat, hands still in tight clasp upon his lower back. “Will be penalised one point off their final grade.” I suppressed the sigh, as it threatened to slip, and I swallowed it with a heavy inhale, and a slight slump to my shoulders.

Dr. Hagar paused, as though hesitant, and he chewed upon his words. His turn were gradual, threatening, as he said - an unwavering gaze fixated upon I, and upon Charlie, as he perched a mere row in front, and to the left, of myself -: “Let me urge you now, not to test me on this point.” With a kind of stare I felt little passion upon provoking. I merely allowed my gaze to lock with his own, a passage of cold bereftness to flow through, until the class continued on.

Upon the coming of our final lesson - for that day, although I yearned for the safety of Saturday, nonetheless - I found myself bitterly submerged within a scowl, tracing the corridor with a slouch to my stride, weighted by the grip of copious - excessively heavy - textbooks, and notebooks, alike. I was tired - exhausted - and in dire need of a greatly induced nap.

“Ja-ane,” Charlie sang, rested upon the doorway of the final destination. He wore a classically imprinted smirk, arms folded across his chest - though slightly restricted, among the serious stack of books, balanced within his hold. “C’mon,” He grinned, “I know you hate it here, but you gotta make the most out of your youth.” He teased, slinging his arm across my shoulders as I drew myself nearer. “Smile, baby.”

I let out a scoff - a slight snort, also, as I came to realise - and muttered my reply. “Hate it?” I said, “Charlie, I want this faculty burnt to the ground.” I found myself far too… Far too caught up among the frustrations of my thoughts, to even utter a stuttered defence upon the nickname he spewed, so carelessly, so effortlessly.

“Ever the dramatic.” He scoffed, a teasing glint to those dough brown eyes. “Jane, Sweetheart, that’d be arson.”

I rolled my eyes, stumbling beneath his hold, as we wandered through the open doorway. “I don’t care what it is.” I said, “I’m sick of this place.”

“Can’t argue with that.” He mumbled.

The class had seemingly already filled in, not but a glimpse of authority in sight, and the rampant noise, bustling between companions and the teasing amongst friends, perplexed upon the fact that - surely - we would be reprimanded at any given moment. Meeks had perched himself within the front row, opposed the rather large oak desk, and Todd two seats to his left. There was Neil, and Pittsie, smothered in the middle of it all, and Richard before them - Knox to the left of Gerard, and Charlie slumped within the seat behind him. The furthest corner of the room, one could argue, and I found myself shoved within the desk beside him.

My books, heavy in their might, landed with a great thud upon the surface, and a sigh slipped from my lips. Mr Keating: he had seemed a calm man - kind, with gentle eyes - and I simply hoped such observations would be somewhat accurate.

For although I would not release any form of… Waterworks, we shall call them, before the entirety of the class, if I were to be yelled at, or simply humiliated - for whichever reason it could surely be - I were almost certain I’d discover myself crying over such a thing the moment I was alone. I were bitterly exhausted, and I loathed myself for disgruntling an otherwise morally regular sleeping pattern, among the depth of summer’s blue.

I slouched within my seat, and I ignored the rising commotion of immaturity around, simply glaring - undoubtedly carrying hefty bags beneath my eyes - to the stripes among the wood of my desk, a blank nonchalance to coax my gaze.

“Hey,” Someone called, a mere hushed whisper among the commotion, “Jane,” I glanced up, the broadened grin of Pittsie’s own blaring back at me. I subconsciously quivered a smile, as he spoke once more, his tone a continuance of something attemptedly quiet - though, truthfully, not that quiet, at all. “You alright? Lookin’ a little down.”

I nodded softly, “Peachy, Pitts.” I smiled. “How’s your summer, huh? I didn’t see you yesterday.”

He rested his forearms along the lip of my desk, chin resting upon the fold, and said: “Ah, it was alright.” With a shrug. “Nothing special. How you findin’ the first day?” His grin tinted a glimmer of something humorous, for he knew the answer all too well.

“Hell.” I muttered, as he breathed a gentle laugh, and my smile - despite myself - seemed to brighten.

“Well, they don’t call it Hell-ton for nothing-” He began, the simmer of a hushed chuckle to bind between his words, as the sharp express of a whistled tune interrupted him. Pittsie spun around - quickly, with such clumsiness, a book clattered from my desk as he went - and I found a soft snort falling from my mouth. Clown, I thought, and smiled a smile of grave fondness.

Silence engulfed the room, strewn paper balls lying idle upon the ground, as we awaited something - anything - amidst the sudden appearance.

There he was - the man of the hour, it should so seem - in all of his glory. Basked within a suit, shirt loosely tucked, and tie a little childishly tied - a small knot - with a certain glaze to his eyes. Clipboard clasped to his side; he strode. With power, though calm - confidently casual, as I had dared to recognize, before. Lips pursed to a whistle, he sung the notes of 1812, Overture, with a curious accuracy, and he walked - unacknowledging, with a smile to his blue stare - through the gap in the desks; not a word, not a yell, not a pause.

We watched him go, like a moth to a flame, as he tossed a single, half-hearted, look over his shoulder, and exited the complex. I furrowed my eyebrows, shared a glance with Pittsie, his pinched expression a mere reciprocate of mine own confusion, and moved to look at Charlie.

Unbothered, the boy was; doodling upon his notes.

I rolled my eyes; of course, I thought, what a fool I’d be to think he’d even notice. I raised an eyebrow, gazing over the guarding hand of his own, and capturing the inspiration upon such a masterpiece. A scoff left my mouth before I found a chance to reel it back, “Charming.” I mumbled. The corner of his mouth tilted, the quiver of a smirk, and he removed his palms, revealing the true detail of such a crude sketch.

A pair of breasts stared back at me, rather large in themselves.

His eyebrows raised, his lips glimmered a proud kind of twinkle, and I found myself laughing lightly - it were incredibly detailed; good, too, if I were to be honest. “Not bad, Dalton.” I sighed, another breathy chuckle. His grin merely widened, furtherly combusting with a sense of confidence, as his gaze fitted to the entryway of the classroom.

There he was - Mr Keating - with an awkward kind of lean, half within the door, and half not. “Well, come on.” He instructed, voice light as it carried throughout the hue of confused silence.

Gapes of inner conflict flooded the room, every head turned to face the curious man, as he disappeared - once more - behind the wall. The murmur of baffled, breathy, laughs, and questioning bewilderment floated throughout the quiet, and I caught the gaze of Charlie once more. His brows were furrowed, slightly puzzled, as his expression dripped in something addled. He shrugged softly, and I turned away, only to catch Richard - the snobby prude, himself - and a few other boys collecting their things.

The entirety of the class followed, I, myself, included, as I collected the Poetry book, and I stood from the proximity of the uncomfortable chair. No longer did a frown paint upon my brows, for I felt - deep within my bones - that Mr Keating was not an ordinary teacher, and that his lessons - that moment, included - would be far from the normality of conformity we had been trained to abide by. I liked that, I decided, and I liked it a lot.

I stood within the doorway, a subtle glance over my shoulder, and noticed the furrowed expression of Charlie, as he hovered at his desk - the final remainder of all that was left among the class. “Come on, Dalton.” I called, following the collection of shuffling feet, as they formed a slight crowd before the strange man himself.

I lingered to the back, as I had always grown accustomed to doing (in order to be unnoticed, one must first go about being unseen) and waited, the shuffling drawing to a close, as we stood before the - rather small - Mr Keating. Charlie perched behind me, perhaps of something diagonal, though I could not physically see the boy - and I listened acutely to the pause of his muffled feet.

“O’ Captain, My Captain,” Keating began, thin lips crinkled with passion.

O’ Captain, My Captain - Walt Whitman. I smiled, for I could not help it, and I knew - I knew it, with a great sense of welcoming - that this man, this Mr Keating, would grow to be everything we had ever needed. Everything we were never taught - and my yearn for knowledge had never ached quite like it did, then, before.

“Who knows where that comes from?” A patient glance, a rumble of silence; Me. “Anybody?” In order to go unseen, one must go about being unheard.

I am Jane, I thought, and fuck their views upon my distraction. “Walt Whitman.” I mumbled, hardly loud enough to be heard. At least I had said it. A few heads turned to meet me, though I trained my gaze to the ground.

“What was that?” Keating spoke, tone regarding, kind.

“Walt Whitman.” I said, fluttering my attention to meet the somewhat proud - dare I say - grin of the man before us. “A poem - about Abraham Lincoln.”

He smiled, “Excellent,” he said, “Miss Darling, is it?”

“Jane, Sir.” I corrected - for, indeed, I were no longer Miss Darling, I were the becoming of mine own self; I am Jane, I thought, and so I shall be known.

“My apologies, Jane.” He said, and I smiled. It had been a long time, far longer than such I could recall, since I had found myself respected by that of an adult. An adult male, to speak the truth. A slight tap on my shoulder, the gentle thud of a book swatting the joint, caused a light jolt to buck through me. I glanced to Charlie, the boy smirking pridefully, and he shot me a playful wink. I merely widened my smile, for what else was I to do? And I turned back to meet the fluttering gaze of Keating, as he studied the expressions of those before him.

“Now, in this class,” He began once more, “you can either call me Mr Keating,” He offered, a glance to the left, and to the right; a wry kind of grin, that seemed utterly infectious. “Or - if you’re slightly more daring - O’ Captain, My Captain.”

Captain. I tried it on my tongue, a mere whisper beneath the murmur of gentle laughter around, “O’ Captain, My Captain.” I mumbled, and I liked the way it rolled from my lips. A kind man, he surely was, and the type of guidance I had never before known.

“Now, let me dispel a few rumours, so they don’t fester into facts,” The Captain continued, and we listened intently. “Yes, I, too, attended Hell-ton,” A smirk, “And survived.” He uttered, eerie, as a soft shimmer of reciprocated grins flustered from the students around. “And, no - at that time, I was not the mental giant you see before you.” He paused, gauged the reaction, and continued. “I was the intellectual equivalent of a ninety-eight-pound weakling.” A breath of a laugh - I smiled. “I would go to the beach, and people would kick copies of Byron in my face.” A stifled spell of giggles graced the small audience, and I found myself breathing a chuckle.

For the first time, I had gathered, thus far, throughout the day; I was enjoying myself. No, I decided; no, he wasn’t ordinary at all. And there was nothing better than that. “Now,” Captain glanced to his clipboard, “Mr…” He frowned, a curt filter of something amused to furrow his expression, “Pitts?” He said, “That’s a rather unfortunate name.” A collective snicker to run through the class. “Mr Pitts,” Keating continued, “Where are you?”

Pittsie, perhaps the tallest of us all, raised his hand, a glaze of something shy to coax his features, a lightly pink tint upon his dusted cheeks. The Captain looked up, and he pointed briefly to the boy’s Poetry book, “Mr Pitts,” He said, again, as though bemused by the way it felt to say. “Would you open your Hymonel to page five-forty-two?” He gazed upon Pittsie’s stumbling fingers, as he tugged open the pages. “And read the first stanza you find there.”

Muffled shuffling was to be heard, collective maneuvering, as the rest of the boys fiddled with the paper, and scuttled through to the incentive instruction. I fluttered through the clumps of paper, and paused upon page five-forty-two; To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time.

A laugh fell from my lips, and a sudden breath fanned upon my cheek, ridden from behind my shoulder. There Charlie stood, eyes fixated upon the poem I held within my hands; his entirely empty. I rolled my eyes, though grinning something fond (for, oh, what else should I have expected?) holding it up slightly, as to relieve the crane within his neck, and he smiled.

“To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time?” Pittsie read aloud, a light sense of anxiousness to coat his tone. The rumble of laughter stuttered between the boys, and Charlie’s snicker fanned against my ear, a ticklish thing, really, as I itched it with my shoulder.

“Go on,” The Captain urged, a subtle smile to be seen, “Somewhat appropriate, isn’t it?”

The laughter drowned out, replaced by none other than the deep rumble of Pittsie’s monotonous voice. “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,” He read, “Old time is still a-flying; and this same flower that smiles today, tomorrow, will be dying.”

“Thank you, Mr Pitts.” Keating smiled, speaking once more, as he dipped his words, his tone, with such passion; it gleamed like melted sugar. “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.” He repeated, a subtle pace; once to the left, and two to the right. He turned to face us, a supple grin to grace his thin lips, and said; “The Latin term for that sentiment is Carpe Diem.” With a question sure to follow, “Now, who knows what that means?” He asked.

Latin, although I found myself of grave success among my classes, was not my strongest point. No - no - Meeks; he was the genius in categories as such. And, expectedly, his hand shot up, with hardly an ounce of hesitation. Keating pointed to the boy, and his response came fast - intelligence riddled within. “Carpe Diem,” He echoed, “That’s seize the day.”

“Very good,” The Captain grinned, a step towards the red-headed-blonde. “Mr…?”

“Meeks.” He smiled.

“Meeks?” Keating echoed, a previous step retreated, “Another unusual name.” He said, and I grinned, for who else did we know, with a name such as that? “Seize the day,” Captain continued, addressing the clump of students as he did so, “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.” He paused, “Why does the writer use these lines?”

“Because,” Charlie spoke up, chin rested upon the top of my head, “he’s in a hurry.” I snorted, a roll of the eyes, and felt the indent of his grin pressured upon my skull.

Keating pointed to him, “No!” He smiled, “Ding.” And slammed his hand upon a faux bell, “Thank you for playing, anyway.” He said. A spring of laughter coursed throughout the small crowd, once more, - myself included - and I found myself realising, as Neil glanced over, himself smiling something toothy, and the indent of Charlie’s grin continued to press upon my head, that never before had we laughed within a lesson. Not within the company of those authoritative bastards, anyhow. And, with such a thought, I found my smile merely brightening with joy. Perhaps this was the second step, I thought; the second step to freedom. “Because we are food for worms, Lads - and the Lady, Jane.” He said, no longer a smile draped across his face. “Because - believe it or not - each, and every one of us, in this room, is - one day - going to stop breathing, turn cold, and die.”

My eyebrows raised, and a subtle kind of heaviness disbursed among the air. Seize the day, before it’s too late. Carpe Diem.

I thought, a mere moment within the thickening silence, of the summer. Of how closely Death and I had kissed - how awfully lonely such times had been, and how greatly I craved his warm embrace. To romanticize Death were not a thing of intention. Though, as Keating had said himself - each, and every one of us, were going to stop breathing, turn cold, and die - we held no control upon the inevitable; so why bother to fear it? Non-existence seemed so serene, so wonderful, I often craved a taste - a sample, perhaps - to suck upon, when the days would reach their worst.

But now? Now, with my feet beyond the door, two steps progressed, unto the path of freedom - to die so soon seemed something a little less desirable; for what is Death to a girl with dreams?

Carpe Diem, I thought, a gentle smile upon my face; Carpe Diem; Carpe Diem; Carpe Diem.

“I’d like you to step forward, over here.” Keating spoke, a little softer, with more compassion, than passion. He turned to face the display case; an array of old photographs, of faces nobody cared to know, and of awards - achievements - scattered along the shelves. “And peruse some of the faces from the past.” The cloud of boys began to move, to follow such instruction, as Keating continued. “You’ve walked past them many times,” He said, “But I don’t think you’ve really looked at them.”

Only with the subtle push of Charlie's hand, gentle between my shoulder blades, did I flinch into movement. The boys, and I, we crowded in a sparse cluster, observing, though not truly scrutinizing, the morsel of every face we came across. I stood, beside, though not quite touching, Charlie, and Neil, as I gazed upon such display.

“They’re not that different from you, are they?” Keating noted. Well, I thought, I suppose I didn’t truthfully count. “Same haircuts,” He added, “though perhaps a little different, from our Lady Jane.” He offered, and I sighed, for - no - I had once resembled such a cut.

“Unfortunately not, Captain.” I muttered, allowing the soft laughter that fluttered around me.

“Ah, well,” He smiled, “That is the joy of growth, hm?”

I grinned, and I listened - we all did, and it was intently - always intently -- as he continued. “They’re full of hormones, just like you.” He said, a jest of a smile, as his gaze caught that of a few curious students. “Invincible,” He said, and I smirked; for, oh, the passion was back, and yes - yes, we were - we were utterly invincible. “Just like you feel.” We didn’t just feel it - no, no - Carpe Diem; I found it coursing through my veins. “The world is their oyster.” He said, “They believe they’re destined for great things - just like many of you - their eyes are full of hope.” His tone, it fell softer, and so riddled with enthusiasm. “Just like you.” He said; slow, as though to marinate his words.

A beat of silence passed, and I found myself enamoured with my drunken adrenaline, woozy with the passion he bled from every syllable. “Did they wait ‘till it was too late, to make from their lives even one ioda of what they were capable?” He said, though he required no reply, and thus received silence. “Because, you see, Gentlemen - Lady Jane - these boys are now fertilising daffodils.”

Seize the day - Gather ye rosebuds while ye may. I inhaled something deep, something plentiful, and awaited the next strip of gold to fall from between his teeth.

“But, if you listen real close,” He uttered, a stand positioned at the shoulder of Richard’s own, “You can hear them whisper their legacy to you.” A hesitant pause passed us by, and his tone fell to something even quieter, “Go on,” he said, “lean in.” And thus, we did.

We leaned closer toward the glass, as though their picture may utter something truly great, and we waited for something to happen. “Can you hear it?” Keating muttered, and we all tilted that little bit further. “Carpe…” He whispered, a ghostly raunch to his tone. Cameron turned - something slow, with an expression of true annoyance, and I felt a smile crawl its way upon my face. Keating glanced away, feigning innocence, and muttered an almost silent; “Hear it?” As a breathy giggle fell from I. The pair returned their attention back to the cabinet, and there the Captain was, again, breathing the words upon Camerons shoulder. “Carpe… Carpe Diem…” He rasped, surely no louder than the winds of the night, “Seize the day, boys,” He drawled, “make your lives extraordinary.”

The halls were bustling upon dismissal, the bell to ring shrill amongst it’s time, as we strode - clumped together in a manner of silenced astonishment - and chewed upon the words we had been fed. Each carrying his own stack of books, unbothered by their hefty weight, and mine own of something painful - my arms ached, but I simply didn’t care. Carpe Diem, I thought - Seize the day; make your lives extraordinary.

Whether I had noticed it, or not, found little relevance, as a grin crawled upon my features, and I wallowed among the freshly broken quiet. “That was weird.” Pittsie grumbled, sauntered beside Neil, as we exited through the heavily infused door, and spilled upon the courtyard tile.

“But different.” Neil offered, a light sense of welcoming washed between his wording.

“Spooky, if you ask me.” Knox added, a subtle shake of his head.

A pinch found my brows, furrowed in their ways; for was it only I who had discovered something hidden amongst myself? Something locked away, combined with all things passionate? “You guys didn’t like him?” I asked, tone light upon the bustle around.

Knox shrugged softly, “I didn’t hate him.” He said, “He’s just…”

“Different?” Neil repeated.

“Different.” The boy nodded.

“Well, I thought he was great.” I muttered.

Charlie scoffed, a step or two before I, and he uttered - tone of grave teasing - a: “You would, Lady Jane.” With the breath of a laugh to follow. I merely smirked, for I were fond of such a calling - it dripped in power, and it rolled off the tongue - as we all strode together, maneuvering our way through the bustle and commotion.

“You think he’ll test us on that stuff?” Cameron asked, a furrow to his brows.

I rolled my eyes, and muttered something soft beneath my breath. “Jesus Christ.” I mumbled, catching the bemused smirk of the Dalton boy, himself.

Charlie glanced to look upon Richard, frown sinking his expression, “Oh, come on, Cameron,” He scoffed, “Don’t you get anything?” As he turned once more, to face the direction in which he sauntered.

Richard scowled, “What?” he said. The silence remained, and I smirked. “What!” There was a breath of laughter - something mocking, as I came to realise - and Neil spoke once more, interrupting the moment of nothingness that graced us by, as we walked, stride in stride, through the other set of open doors.

“To think - it’s only the first day back,” He sighed, “and we’re already drowning in work.”

I shrugged gently, adjusting the slipping grip upon my books, and said: “I don’t know why you’re surprised.” With a curt pinch to my brows. “They smother us with unmanageable amounts of work, every year, and wonder why we hate it.”

“I’ll second that.” Dalton nodded, “The pretentious fucks don’t know when to stop.”

I laughed lightly, and shook my head. “Yeah.” I mumbled, as Knox offered something quiet.

“God,” He sighed, “the day’s not even over.”

“For you.” I grinned, “Have fun sweating, boys. I’ll be cosied up in bed, catching forty winks before tonight.” Knox glared something playful, and I merely shot a wink in his direction.

“What’s everybody doing, anyway?” Neil asked, a curt glance to be dispersed around, “Soccer? Rowing? Fencing?” A few incoherent mumbles rang about, and I could only roll my eyes, as I spoke something soft.

“Football.” I said, “It’s called Football.”

“Soccer.” They all chorused, a little louder, and accompanied by eyerolls and muttered insults.

“I'm Rowing.” Charlie sighed, “But I’m on the Soccer team, too.” He paused, throwing me a look over his shoulder, and said: “You’re still on, right?”

“The Football team?” I asked, a raised eyebrow, and a supple grin, “I’m not sure. I haven’t asked Nolan.”

Charlie nodded, mumbling a quiet; “Well, you better be.” Before turning back around, and beginning his ascent through the ruckus of the stairwell. The boys were to attend Gym class - their final hour of the day - and thus they had to retrieve their kits, and drop off their numerous textbooks. I, myself, were strictly restricted around the idealism of sporting, and of doing such around boys, especially. Upon the agreement that I were to stay on at Hell-ton, my sporting allowance was dramatically reduced - a mere two hours a week, instead of five - and I were to be fully clothed - entirely dressed in trousers, and in a long-sleeved shirt, or a jumper - or I would simply not participate.

It were true that I was the best goal defence our team had ever seen, and thus - for such reason only, and nothing else but the fact - I was allowed to remain on the Football team, during the final few months of the season, last year. Among Nolan’s sudden knowledge of my… my true identity, he restricted every other sporting access; enforced I be kept on the Football team, and the Football team only. Though, whether he thought quite the same this year, I had not but a clue.

“You coming to dinner, later, Lady Jane?” Charlie asked, as we paused to the mouth of the boys’ hallway. I thought for a moment - about the meal I had missed last night, and the meal I had skipped that morning, and I nodded hesitantly. I were hungry, starved, and I were desiring something fulfilling, though I found myself doubtful I could stomach the dreadful substance that was Hell-ton Hash.

“Yeah, come along.” Neil smiled, “You skipped breakfast, didn’t you?”

“I- uh-” I stuttered, “Yeah.” I said, “I’ll be there.” With a tight lipped grin.

“Great.” Perry said, kindly. “You’ll sit with us, won’t you?”

I furrowed my eyebrows, a shake to the head, and sighed. “Meals are to be eaten alone.” I recited, a roll of the eyes. “I can’t.” I breathed, “It’s one of the rules.”

Meeks, his eyebrows raised, mumbled a: “That’s crazy.” as Pittsie harmonized, with a: “Sounds stupid, to me.” I laughed a breathy laugh and nodded, for it was. Isolation may have been safety during the summer, but amongst the company of the boys - friends, of whom I enjoyed my time with - it seemed utterly ridiculous; unnecessary.

“Here, look,” I mumbled, struggling to balance the rather hefty stack of books with my right hand, as I reached deeply within my inner blazer pocket. I withdrew the crumpled paper, dispelled with the great number of scrawled rules, two sides in depth, and I sighed, offering the folded page to Meeks, as he studied the words before him.

He scoffed, “No perfume?” And I merely shrugged. “What does he think we are, feral?”

“Let me see that thing.” Charlie said, grasping hold of the ever-depressing list, and raking his eyes upon the instructives. “Curfew at eight-thirty? What - are you a child, or something?” He scoffed, orbs wide, and features a frown. “This is ridiculous.” He said. “Seating to be isolated, out of the way, and not distracting?”

“Hair is to be kept up, tied tightly, and not disruptive.” Neil read, leaning up and over Charlie's shoulder as he spoke. “That’s insane,” He said, as he turned his glance to stare at I. “How can hair be disruptive?”

I shrugged, a sigh slipping from between my lips. “Hell, if I know.” I said. It had taken the greater part of thirty minutes, earlier that morning, to retain my curls within a neatened bun, upon the base of my neck; it felt awfully tight - the clasp of such a strong clutch beginning to throb upon my scalp - and I longed for the blissful release.

“Well, at least you get out of Gym class.” Knox sighed.

I shrugged slightly, and uttered my reply. “I liked it.” I said, “It was fun.”

“It’s better than doing nothing.” Meeks added, I found myself nodding in agreement.

“Yeah, I guess so.” Overstreet breathed, “But we’ll be late if we don’t get a move on, Gentlemen.”

A mumbled round of agreement coursed throughout them all, as they uttered their goodbyes and took off down the hallway. “I better see you at that study group, tonight, Lady Jane.” Charlie smirked, blowing a teasing kiss to I, as he disappeared behind his door, and Cameron followed suit. The other boys entered their assigned quarters, and I simply smiled, beginning the journey to that of my own room. I bounded up the stairs - hopping two at a time - and I somewhat jogged throughout the length of the corridor, throwing myself through the door, kicking it shut with a dismissive sense of energy.

I paused, standing stoic within my room, as the cool temperature licked upon my flushed cheeks, with heavy breaths, and lightened silence; an unnoticed continuance of heaviness perched within my slouch.

The Play, I thought, the grace of a sudden realisation to dawn upon my conscience. My Play! A noise of great excitement fell from me, as I ripped open the drawer of the bedside table, its oak a mere squeak to the quiet background, and I shuffled through the papers, the sketches of things unimpressive and potently standard, and through the scraps of ideas, and, finally, I clutched my grip upon the worn leather of my notebook. Of the notebook.

A strip of white paper, glued to the cover, read: A Steady Man’s Grave, in the thickest ink I could have found, as I spent my days writing among the beginning of summer.

It was June; the fresh scent of all things blooming, all things wondrously anew, to flutter amongst the butterflies, and hum between the buzz of the bumble bees. I ached for something good, for something productive - a distraction, worth all things enticing - and I had surely found it. Bound between the thick leather covers; cursive handwriting hardly legible among the scribbles, the corrections, the excitement; I wrote until my fingers bled, and my eyes began to sting. From sunrise, to sundown; I wrote. Obsessed, I surely became, with the adoration I dispelled; mingled between each and every word.

I wrote of war; I wrote of love; of anguish, and of betrayal. I found a passion between bloody fists, and swollen cheeks, and I threw myself within its grasp - drowning until I could no longer breathe. Until the final few weeks of summer crawled to play, and Death came knocking at my door. A dark time, surely true, though an experience I found myself unable to entirely regret.

I peeled back the front cover, and I allowed my eyes to fall upon the very first page. A STEADY MAN’S GRAVE, JANE ELIZABETH DARLING. It read, and a tired smile fluttered upon my face. How passionate I had been, how well I had Seized the Day - how greatly I longed to be her, once again. I could recall that I did not finish it - that although my writing were everything prolific, and utterly animated, I were so clouded, throughout those final few dreadful weeks, that I had placed down my pen, and I had not picked it up again.

There was a terrific crack, as I parted the spine, and the breath of a meaningless laugh fell from my tongue. ACT 1, SCENE 1: The Garden-Way. I traced the ink with my finger, riddled with nostalgia, and I pondered - briefly, and to myself - if this were to be the third step. The third step to freedom - to re-discover my passion, and revive all that it could have been. I liked that, I decided, and I liked it a lot.

I wove my way through the lines, reciting such words a mere mumble beneath my breath, and I found myself smiling subconsciously, as I fluttered through the aged, yellowing, pages. The spill of differentiating ink, sprawled among corrections, lie around the text, and I followed the scene with a great sense of welcome nostalgia. Perseus - a soft fellow, with a heart riddled of Love - picked upon the fruit, nibbling at such, from a garden that was not his. He perched beneath the peach tree, limbs thrown in every-which direction, as he stared to the seeping sun, fluttering among the gently swayed leaves.

A moment of silence were to pass, filled with nothing but the tender breeze, as Jullian stumbled upon the scene. Clothed in weapons - with daggers, with swords - and a glare of something stoic, mean. Perseus; his name were bellowed, a menacing growl, and no longer was he alone. The shards of sun, cutting through the gaps within the shrubbery, seemed to sharpen; to flash, and then to hide, and a certain cloud of grey erupted across the land.

The man sighed, a final bite to his fruit, and he arose to a reclined-seated-state, elbows supporting his weight. “Jullian,” He greeted, a somewhat bitter smile stretched within his teeth. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

A breath of quietened, visible, rage were to reciprocate from him, stance rigid; uneasy. “May your carelessness find you wretched.” Jullian spat, a tight clamp to his clenched jaw; he grinded his teeth. “To lie upon my soil - your ignorance may caress the very roots of my earth, and death shall riddle it true.”

“O’ spare me, sweetest children of God.” Perseus mumbled, “For you’re nothing short of dramatic, dear Julian.” He said, “My company - if nothing but - is mere fulfilling, is it not?”

A scoff ripped from his throat, “You know nothing of fulfillment!” He mocked.

“As I am certain you do?” Perseus grumbled, a raised eyebrow, and a sheen of frustration to glaze upon his expression. For, oh, how foolish he had been to fall in love with such a bastard. “O’ to be drunk on yearning, on the blood of enemies - tell me, Jullian, do you feast on those you bury?” He spoke, a supple smile crawling upon the expression of his toned features.

Jullian scowled, a step strode closer, and he spat, with such grave bite: “I shall bury no man.” And Perseus’ grin found something toothy; teasing.

“No?” He asked.

“Such compassion may drabble me a fool - alas, I know it not!” He scoffed, “I may watch such decomposition with great delight, and I will inquire upon the bloom of growth - merely heightened by the salt of a lover's lonesome tears, to weep upon such dirt.”

“You are a cruel man, Jullian.” Perseus sighed, “Do you hold no respect for those in which do perish, by the hand that is your own?”

Julian smiled - a wry, cruel, smile - and he said: “You shall learn to drink up your compassion. For tonight, thus as every night; we dine on blood, and on atrophy, and we fall in love with the silent cries of bloodied choirs, haunting the ache of summer’s eve.”

My fingers clutched upon the body, and I turned the page delicately, reading on with a subtle glimmer of pride. Eyes a cerulean tinge of something stinging, I found a soft ache to begin loitering behind the sockets. Sleep, my mind seemed to cry, Sleep, Sleep, Sleep. Though, still, I could not seem to tear my eyes away from the yellow-kissed paper, and the slanted handwriting, hardly legible. A glance to my drawer; I grasped upon the thin, round, frame of my brown-rimmed glasses, and I shoved such lenses upon my face, slipping them up the slender bridge of my nose, with a subtle sigh slipping from my lips as I went.

The gentle hue of a headache continued to pulse, be it only slightly, around my conscience, and the idea of slumber were ever-more appealing, as I stumbled upon the same line; once, twice, three times more.

“You are riddled with the violence once forced to attain,” Perseus sighed, “And you are unwilling to know, nor to grow - you wish not to learn to love again.”

I read it again, a heavy breath slipping that of my tired throat, and I wove the tip of my tongue along the breach of my lower lip. A subtle sheen of moisture engulfed my gaze, ruptured with the gradually invasive sting, and a tiresome weight picked the skin of my eyelids, drooped immensely with an unnoticed speed, I knew that the turbulence of sleep deprivation was most certainly upon me. The day had been extensive, draining, and the first dip of exhaustion had long since passed. Sleep beckoned me, a gust of rigidness dissolving throughout my muscles, and my shoulders slouched - furtherly, if possible. A particular scowl descended upon my expression, a slight palpitation to flutter my heart. I did not fear sleep, as such, though the events of such dreams were experiences rather left unknown. I dreaded the vividness, the recollection, that would force me to rise with a pounding ache to my skull, and an expression drenched in tears.

Haunted, often, were the plague of my dreams.

I traced the gauge of my blurred writing, once more, and blinked - once, twice, several times more - in grave attempt to rid of such bleariness, though - upon subtle lack of focus, and whole consumption of exhaustion - as the thump of the book, colliding with the loose space of the crowded drawer below, forced my eyes to peel open, the extended blink an unnoticed occurrence, I understood that to fight the tides of slumber would be impossible. Foolish. And so, as I slumped myself upon the cold mattress, my head tucked to the white pillow, and hands wrapped around my frame, I allowed my conscience to drift upon the waves, bobbing only slightly, viewing the turret of the upcoming storms, brewing along the horizon.

~*~

The common room, tucked away and rather small for such a gathering area, were particularly empty upon my own arrival. I had grasped hardly thirty-minutes of slumber, and thus dictated a course of revision, of studious intention, rather than fighting the thickening sleep deprivation that clawed upon my brain. The headache in which I had previously occupied only marginally, had thundered - copious amounts - worse, and resulted to a kind of hellish fire, engulfing the clutch of my mind, as I clenched my jaw, and I sank within the seat of an emptied table.

My curls, they were wild, free, as they spilled across my shoulders, and hardly an inch below. I placed my digits among the roots, and I massaged - circular motions, with a great deal of softness - upon the scalp; clockwise, anti-clockwise, with such delicacy, and a mere slight relief of all things horrid and pressuring. The glasses, perched timidly upon the bridge of my nose, did little to aid such an ache, and neither did the freedom of my blonde locks. Perhaps it unleashed a subtle amount of pressure, though the pain were still enough to riddle me silent and glassy-eyed.

I had dressed within a rather large - rather loose, as my clothing had seemed to increasingly grow - grey shirt, and some long trousers, of which kind I could think not to name. I had previously decided against Hell-ton Hash, and had skipped the meal - another - as a result. I were hungry, though I felt bitterly ill. Sick to my stomach for the ache that rolled behind my eyes, and clattered within my head.

Not often, I could recall, did I find myself burdened by the fester of a rotten migraine, and they usually left me lying amongst thick darkness, unmoving and aching for days, upon hours; though when they did come knocking, come crawling, they were the worst kind of pain I had ever experienced. As I moved, sluggishly, to extract my Latin book, and I flipped the pages beneath my shaking fingertips, I knew that that night were not a night to wallow in self pity.

“Agricolum, Agricola, Agricolarum, Agricolis, Agricolas, Agricolis.” I uttered, a monotonous whisper beneath my breath. I read the list once more, repetitive and utterly drawling, and turned the page.

CARPE DIEM, I wrote, the ghost of amusement to slip within my scowling eyes, SEIZE THE DAY, MAKE YOUR LIVES EXTRAORDINARY. I layered it, I scribbled unto it, and I lined it beneath, until the paper tore through, and I ripped the page free from it’s binder. I crumpled it up, until the jagged formation of a paper-ball glanced me back, and I threw it, carelessly, with not but an ounce of effort, across the room.

It landed with a bounce, and I paused, watching for a mere moment or so, before a sigh fell from my lips, and I returned to my prior position: hands in hair, massaging the deafening ache with a subtlety about it, and eyes tiresomely scanning the text upon the page, as I read throughout the book, and I simply hoped to be retaining such information.

The chair was uncomfortable, though I didn’t truly mind, and the room were of something cold, as I found a soft shiver to run through me, and a sudden shock to pulse through my skull. I gritted my teeth, for - Oh - I hadn’t experienced a migraine quite the same since… Well, not since the beginning of summer.

The shuffle of feet entering the desolated room caught my attention, though I remained unmoving, eyes fluttered to a scrunched close, and I gripped to the roots of my locks. Boys began to file in, gradual, yet somehow at the same time, and the level in which the volume seemed to progress were something manageable, though greatly uncomfortable. I dropped my head, rested upon the cool surface of the open pages, and I awaited the company of the guys I found myself somewhat familiar with.

“Latin that bad, huh?” A familiar voice - Charlie - called, a teasing glint to his tone, as he withdrew the Latin textbook from beneath my elbows, crowed upon the table, my head bowed between them. My expression collided with the table surface, another shrill ache to erupt within the depth of my brain, and a particularly pained groan fell from my gritted teeth. “Jane?” Charlie called, once more, though somewhat softer this time - concerned. “Hey, you alright?” He mumbled, a gentle hand to caress the back of my head.

I bit back the uprising tears, a sharp gulp, and I begged myself to simply hold it together, nodding something tender, as I sighed a great heave. “Yeah,” I muttered, tone - unfortunately, for I - thick with the moisture of unshed hurt.

“What’s the matter, Sweetheart?” He asked, dropping within the seat to my left, as his digits lightly pawed the roots of my curls. It felt nice, comforting, and thus I allowed my arms to drop upon the table, and another sigh left my lips.

I rested my cheek upon the cool surface of the smooth wood, facing the boy in question, as the soft glimmer of moisture remained blurry to my eyes. His eyebrows; they were furrowed, and his eyes large and round - childish, as they always seemed to be, though suddenly tinted with a darkened concern. “I’m fine.” I smiled, a weak, pathetic, smile. “My head just hurts a little.” I lied, my tone a mere mumble against the bustle all around. For I could not open my mouth any wider, the ache a splitting ferocity if I even tried. I knew that routine all too well, unfortunately, and silence were a true virtue for such times.

His gaze softened further, as he mumbled a short, “Oh,” and I merely shrugged lightly. “Well,” He continued, tone quiet - considerate. “I brought you some bread.” He said, withdrawing a bundled up clump of napkins, and resting them upon the lip of the table, with a small smile to occupy his features. “I figured you’d be hungry.” He added, “And, let’s be honest, I’m bettin’ it’s caused that headache, too.” His eyebrow raised, a playful glint to those eyes, and I merely smiled something wider, raising myself to a slouched sit.

“Thank you.” I muttered, somewhat sheepishly, as I unwrapped the buttered bread, and I took a bite of small desire. I was, in fact, utterly starving, and surely thankful for such a crumb, though I wished not to spew it all up, within a moment’s digestion, for my migraine rung true within the depth of my ears, and my stomach clenched, unclenched, and clenched a heartbeat once more. “Oh,” I maundered, placing the nibbled slice back upon the cloth, as I reached for the leather-backed notebook, and I swallowed my mouthful. “Here, look at this.” I said, spoken quietly, as he furrowed his brows, and he leaned a little bit closer.

I handed the book to his extended hand, and watched as his frown merely deepened upon ingesting the title. “A Steady Man's Grave?” He read, aloud. “What’s this?” His gaze upturned to meet my own, and I found myself smiling something small upon deliverance.

“It’s a play.” I said, “A play script.”

“I’ve never heard of it.” He mumbled, a brief flicker through the pages, “Any good?”

A breathy laugh fell from my tongue, and I shrugged lightly, “I’d hope so.” I said, “Considering I spent most of my summer writing it.”

His eyes returned to mine, eyebrows raised something high, and his orbs greatly enlarged. “You wrote a fucking play?” He echoed, “That’s amazing! Why didn’t you mention it before, Shakespeare?” Another breath of laughter dripped from my tongue, and I ignored the heat that erupted within my scalp, merely shrugging softly.

“It never came up.” I said, “And I’d forgotten all about it, ‘til I went back to my room, today.”

“Well, shit,” He smiled, delicately tracing the leather of the cover he held so gently. “Can I read some?” He asked, glance hopeful and slightly hesitant.

“You can read it all, Dalton.” I chuckled, “Read as much as you want.” Charlie grinned, resting back - with a tilt to his chair - as he swung slightly, and scoped upon the first ounce of text. I were surprised - albeit only that little bit - for his ability to read my writing; it was so scribbled and awful, I felt almost sure he’d be struggling.

He read on through, nonetheless, and the calling of Neil’s tone caught my fixated attention. “Jane,” He smiled, “How are you? You missed dinner.”

“Yeah,” I sighed, a little quieter than he, “I- uh-” I paused, licked my lips, and continued, “I’ve a headache.” I mumbled, “Didn’t feel like eating anything.” And I turned to face him, smiling softly in his own direction.

“Oh.” He said, eyebrows raising momentarily, “Well, have you taken anything for it?” I shook my head, for I disliked the idea of taking drugs - not unless I were greeting Death at my door, of course. “Okay,” He mumbled, a furrow to his expression, “You probably should. I think Charlie brought you some food- Hey, Charlie,” Neil called, gaining the brunette's attention, as his gaze slowly lifted to meet us both. He shot me a small smirk, as though slightly distracted, and focused upon Neil. “Did you give her the food?” He asked.

“It’s right there, dumbass,” Charlie grinned, rolling his eyes something fond, as he motioned toward the nibbled slice of buttered, white, bread. “Leave her be, she’s feelin’ rough.” A little worse than rough, I thought, though I smiled nonetheless.

“Oh, right, yeah.” Neil said, a small grin stretched upon his face, “You don’t have any painkillers, do you?”

“Unless you count PlayBoy Magazines, by the dozen, no, I don’t.” He smirked, a subtle wink thrown our way, as he retreated - again - to the words within my notebook. I rolled my eyes - ever the perverted mind - and returned to Neil.

I had hardly noticed the company of the other boys - Meeks and Pitts (with a kind of device I could hardly make out, though it looked a little like the scraps of a naked radio) perched within close proximity to each other, speaking in hushed whispers as they went, and upon a separate table, though only inches apart from our own. Charlie to my left, and Neil across from me, with Cameron perched to his left. Knox was - Knox. Knox was not there. I frowned deeply, “Where’s Overstreet?” I mumbled, similarly noticing the absence of the dirty blonde - the new boy, Tony - No, no. He was- he was... Todd! Todd Anderson. “And Todd?” I added.

“Knox had dinner someplace else.” Neil said, “Friends of his parents’. And Todd hasn’t left the room - something about History work, I think.” I nodded subtly, jaw clenched upon the grave ache, as it spread throughout my head in a ruckus of great frustration.

I glanced upon the closed textbook, resting beside where my cheek had once lay, and to the several others - Chemistry, Trigonometry, and Latin - and I felt my eyes sting, aching deeply with a thickening sense of moisture, crowding amongst my gaze. The pulse, the pressure, within my skull only seemed to worsen, the harsher I fought to digest my upcoming tears, and I pondered whether it would simply explode. If that would be the end of I, and of the end of the room’s company as they knew it.

“Neil?” Cameron called, his tone loud - God, it was so fucking loud - and nasally. “Neil, what’d you get for- uh-” He paused, “Question two?” I could hardly concentrate upon swallowing such a sharp urge to ball my fucking eyes out - never mind the impending gloom of twenty-unscoped-questions, in advanced Chemistry - all of which I had failed to pay any attention to, during the minutes occupying the lesson.

The boys discussed their answers, babbling about this, and about that, and I tried - I truly tried - to focus my attention purely upon the black mark of ink, displaying something small among the red of my textbook. I couldn’t do it, I decided, I could not finish any kind of assignment. Not with that consistent pressure within my skull, at least.

Perhaps I’d Carpe Diem another day, instead, I thought, and thus, I reached - slowly, with desire to please the ache amongst my mind - back for the bread, and I chewed lazily upon its crust.

I had not but a clue for how long I had been sat, staring blankly into nothingness, with my teeth sinking into, and digesting, lumps of plain white bread, though it were surely long enough. “Hey, Dalton,” Cameron practically sneered. I winced, be it only slight, as his tone vibrated around my head. Thump, thump, thump, it bellowed, thump thump thump. “Pick up your textbook, would you?” He paused, glanced to I - where I sat, having finished my food, with a scowl of greatly pained proportions - and said: “You too, Jane.”

“Can’t you see I’m busy, Cameron?” Charlie bit, waving the parted book within the air, as he rolled his eyes, and returned back to my work.

“You can do that later.” Richard scoffed, shoving the textbook far closer than it were before, as it slid across the smooth polish of the wooden table. “What - are you busy, too, Darling?” He snapped, suddenly fixated on myself.

I rolled my eyes, though only slight, for it riddled me elusive with pain, and I spat a little something back. “It’s Jane, Cameron.” I said, “Lady Jane, if you please.”

“Should you even be here?” He scoffed, a contorted frown to cross his features.

I scowled bitterly, “In case you hadn’t noticed, Bootlicker, you all sat with me. Not the other way ‘round.” I said, tone slightly raised, and somewhat defensive. The grave throbbing within my skull seemed to rush like a wildfire, and I clenched my jaw awfully tight, attempting to remain stoic amongst the great rush of intensely dreadful warmth. “Jesus,” I breathed, “Just leave me alone, would you?”

“Whatever.” He scoffed, once more, as he returned to a frowning Neil, and a challenging gaze - occupied by none other than Dalton, himself - rolling his eyes, and murmuring about a continuance in studious idioms.

Averting my gaze, I stumbled upon the antics of both Pittsie and Meeks, as they told their jokes and threw their insults, neither heartfelt nor aggressive, and laughed somewhat quietly together. They fiddled with the mechanics of the radio, mocking the other upon the realisation of a simple mistake, and they’d breathe a laugh - carefree, they seemed. It was something quite surprising, to say they were so incredibly intelligent. I decided, as I rose gradually from my uncomfortable position, that I was in grave need of… Well, of being cheered up, I suppose. Meeks was excellent for comfort, and Pittsie was dopey, alike - a wonderful form of entertainment, you understand, and I merely assumed I needed the company.

I wandered slowly, a slight saunter to my stride, and I ensured not but a ragged movement were to be made. I slumped gently within the chair beside Steven, a grovelled sigh to slip my lips, and reciprocated the smile I received. “How’s it goin’, Jane?” Pittsie grinned. “You look like hell.”

“Yeah,” Meeks agreed, and I merely scoffed. “What is it? A headache? Nausea?”

I breathed my response; “Migraine, I think.” And I tilted my head to rest upon his shoulder. A sympathetic coo rang through the pair of them, and Meeks wrapped me beneath his arm, tending to the joint of my shoulder with gentle strokes as he went.

“Well,” He said, “Pittsie and I are working on a Hi-Fi system.” He shrugged.

Pittsie grinned, an utterly enthralled and toothy smile, with an enthusiastic nod to follow. I smirked, “A radio?” I asked.

“Yep.” Pittsie grinned, “And it’ll be the best radio you’ve ever seen.”

The breath of a chuckle fell from me, “I don’t doubt that, Pitts.” I said, “I don’t doubt it at all.”

“I mean, it would be,” He grumbled, “But we can’t find a sufficient connection.”

Meeks nodded, holding up a… a… “Meeks, what the hell is that?” I muttered, pointing to the coiled metal, wrapped loosely amongst his grip as he waved it around.

“Anteni.” He smiled, “It’s what we use to find a connection. Catches the radio waves.”

I nodded, following the wire in which it was connected by, and the breath of a giggle fell from me, “Ever think to plug it in?” I smirked. The pair frowned, glancing quickly to observe my comment, and Pittsie grumbled a light-hearted insult, picking up the loose wires, and connecting such with its correct positioning.

“Duh,” He mocked, a scowl flashed to Meeks’ blank surprise, his tongue shoved behind his lower lip, as another laugh fell from me.

I returned my gaze upon the other boys’ - Neil, of whom stared dumbfoundedly to a question of (what I were led to believe) Trigonometry; Charlie, who shared a glare of grave distaste with the red-headed mutt, his textbook open and hardly revised, and Cameron; who seemed just about ready to tear his hair from its roots. “Just replace these numbers, here,” He pointed to them, a hover above Neil’s shoulder, “for ‘x’ and ‘y’.”

“Of course.” Neil muttered, unmoving and quiet in himself.

Charlie, his pen loosely contained among his grip, shifted his gaze to meet mine own - eyes wide, and his eyebrows drawn down; the Dalton Disbelief, as he so often dispelled. “Help.” He mouthed, and I found myself snickering softly.

“Of course?” Cameron echoed, “So what’s the problem?” And thus was greeted by silence.

My laugh came slightly louder, and it flew around my mind in a whirl of great dizziness, of heightened pain, as I winced, and clenched my eyes to a tight close. The flare in which the heat progressed simmered amongst my skull, and I found my teeth gritting subconsciously, a shaky breath falling from my lips. I needed to sleep, it should seem, and await the pain away. Though I found myself unable to rid for the small smile, slewn across my face, as I gazed upon the scene before me.

“Look, I- What’s not to get?” Cameron sighed, a hand to slither down his expression. “I’ve explained the best I can, Neil.”

Perry nodded, and he mumbled a curt, “I know, I know.” and fell among silence once more. There was a beat to pass, of thickly confused quiet, until he spoke up once more, and Cameron simply frowned, his features a clump of awful impatience. “But how does it apply to finding ‘x’?” He asked.

“Or ‘y’.” Charlie mumbled, a whirl of confusion to crown his stare, as he blinked something blank at his work. A moment of nothingness passed - I shared a glance to Richard, and dared to notice he seemed rather teary eyed - and my smile simply widened. Idiots, I thought, every single one of them.

The red-head turned, a gradual movement, to meet that of mine own stare. “Darling, you’re good with this,” He sighed, a particular furrow to his brows, “Lend a hand, would you?”

“Lady Jane, Cameron.” Charlie said, “Her name is Lady Jane.”

A heaved breath fell from him, and my eyebrow rose. “Whatever.” He sighed, “Lady Jane. Would you just do it, please?”

“Oh, but Cameron! You were doing so well.” I smiled, a bitter smile, one could admit, and caught the infamous smirk of the Dalton boy, himself, as he shot me a wink - a continuous pattern I were beginning to grow accustomed to - and awaited Richard’s response.

His gaze hardened, “Why do you have to be so difficult?” He sneered, “God, it’s like working with bricks!”

“Well,” I scoffed, “Building is a noble pursuit. You live in a brick-built house, don’t you, Dick?”

“Very funny, Lady, you really tickled me there.” He all but snarled.

“Glad I could be of service.” I mumbled, something quieter, now. Quieter, for the pulse within my skull had enforced a great deal worse - flashing, almost, with a sharp shock of subliminal pressure. A thick kind of silence engulfed the tables, and not but a word dared to interrupt it as such.

The door swept, opening a slither, and a creak, as the frame of Knox’s bereft expression eloped with the space. He rested back upon the door, allowing it’s closure a click, and tilted his head for the crown to kiss the wood. “How was dinner?” Charlie called, a sudden breach of such silence. The boy remained unmoving, his jacket held over his shoulder - like that of a romantic poet, stricken by such woes of amorous pain. I felt myself smile at the thought, as he turned dazily, and he raised his eyebrows.

“Huh?” He maundered.

“How was dinner?” I echoed, maneuvering myself to sit in that of my original seat, slightly to the right of Charlie. I ushered the wooden frame closer to the boy, shuffling in regard to the little room remaining for Knox, as he muttered his reply.

“Terrible.” He sighed, a mere mumble upon anticipated silence. He strode away, a swing to his jacket, as he draped it upon the spare seat to my right, and he said, a little louder; “Awful.” As though we hadn’t quite gathered such beforehand.

“Why?” Charlie asked, “What happened?”

I frowned, for the boy’s gaze were so solemn - so woven with grave emotion - and I leaned my elbow upon the lip of the table, chin resting within its palm, as he slumped down within the chair. “You okay, Overstreet?” I said, quietly, for the ache had yet to retrieve.

The boy shook his head, a blank stare upon the wooden table, and he breathed a sigh. “Tonight,” He began, the slither of a gentle smirk to caress his face, as he glanced up, just that little bit. “I met,” He drawled, another pause to be known, “The most beautiful girl I have ever seen, in my entire life.” I snorted a scoff, rolling my eyes - charming, I thought - and harmonized my expression at a similar time to Neil.

“Are you crazy, what’s wrong with that?” Perry breathed a laugh, just the same as I muttered my: “Oh, thanks, Knoxious. Glad to know I’m not Loverboy worthy.”

He smiled, something toothy and bright - and his gaze, it lightened - as he turned to face I. “Don’t take it personal, Jane.” He said, “You’re pretty, but man-” He paused, he visibly swooned, and a laugh fell from me. “Oh, you guys should have seen her.”

“Oh, yeah?” I grinned, “What’s with the moping, then, Romeo?”

He sighed, a curt deflate to his shoulders, and his smile seemed to drop. “She’s practically engaged.” He said, a shake to the head, “To Chet,” He paused, gauged the reactions, and finished with; “Danbury.”

A chorus of groans spilled amongst the boys, mumbled protest to be known, as Charlie uttered something bitter. “That guy could eat a football.” He said. I held not but a clue for who Chet Danbury was, nor did I particularly care for such, though it seemed to have riled the boys up, and - Well - I supposed that were enough for me to develop a stained disliking for him.

“Who is he?” I mumbled, not quite loud enough for any other than Charlie to discover.

“Chet used to go here,” He said, “He’d pick on Meeks, and on Pittsie. ‘Til Pitt’s grew, of course.”

“Ah,” I hummed, and I turned back to meet the group. If I had little to no reasoning behind my disdain before, I certainly had one, now.

“That’s too bad,” Pittsie mumbled, a quick glance - as though disappointed for his friend - to the naked radio before him.

“‘Too bad’?” Knox mumbled, utterly dejected, and - unfortunately, though I could not help myself - rather amusing. “It’s worse than too bad, Pittsie, it’s a tragedy.” He paused, and he motioned with his hands. I bit back a laugh. “A girl this beautiful, in love with such a jerk.” He spat his final word, and I found my giggles breaching the barricade of my lips.

A nudge met my shoulder, and I turned to glance upon a smirking Charlie, his eyes alight with amusement, as I merely returned to a smile, shook my head, and spun back around. “All the good ones go for jerks,” Pittsie said, “You know that.”

I scoffed, my tone overlapping with that of Richards own. “Ah, forget her.” He said, as I spoke to my own defence. “We do not.” I said.

“Oh, sure,” Pittsie scoffed, “It’s not like you would know.”

My eyebrows raised - ouch. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“When have you ever gone for a guy? Let alone a jerk.” Meeks said, “You just don’t count, Lady Jane.”

I paused, frowned, and mumbled my reply. “Uncalled for.” I said, and we left it at that.

“Yeah,” Cameron said, utterly unphased by the entire ordeal. “Open your trig book, and try figure out problem fi-”

“I can’t just forget her, Cameron.” Knox scoffed, a riddle of slight annoyance to coax his expression. “And I certainly can’t think about trig.” The group fell into a silenced agreement, and I found myself bemused by my thoughts. Perhaps he would go and write her some poetry, I pondered, maybe compare her to the moon. A breathy giggle fell from me at the thought, and I held no doubt it’d ring true.

The shrill buzz of a static connection erupted from the naked radio, as I winced and clenched my jaw to the ache within my mind. A sharp pulse of things bitter caressed the grit of my teeth, and the light began to sting my eyes. “We got it!” Pittsie exclaimed, a swat to Meeks’ arm, as the two shared glances of elate measures, and they drew the headphones tightly to their ears.

A wafted breeze brushed me by, as the dark oaked door swung open, and the stature of Dr. Hagar’s stern expression greeted us all with a glare of aged disgust. “Alright, Gentlemen,” He cawed, “Five minutes-” His eyes, they caught my own, and his frown merely deepened. “Miss Darling.” He said, “You should have left thirty minutes ago, no?” He turned to gaze upon my company, an eyebrow raised; “And to be situated with the male students, Miss Darling - I’m afraid such breach of the rules will simply not be tolerated.”

“Dr. Hagar, Sir,” Charlie began, “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake.” I turned to face the boy, his expression a reciprocate of great innocence, and his eyes a twinkle of mischief. “See, Jane, here,” He motioned to I, and continued, “was simply lending a helping hand.”

“Yeah.” Neil nodded, “I couldn’t wrap my head around question five.”

Charlie motioned to Perry, a pout to his features, “He just couldn’t do it.” He said, undoubtedly mocking the aged man, as he shared a calculating glance, and moved on.

“Lets go.” He clapped, as though rounding up sheep, and Charlie made the effort to stand, his pencil tucked behind his ear, and a smirk drawled upon his expression. He bent toward Knox, of whom reciprocated a glance of something pained, and said:

“Did you see her naked?” With a wink and a widening smile. A snicker fell from my lips, as I swatted his stomach, and he brushed me by, digits clutched upon the leather that was my own notebook, and Neil let out a breathy giggle at the comment.

“Very funny, Dalton.” Knox uttered, monotonous and faux. The room were engulfed by muffled shuffling, of boys collecting their things and finishing conversations. Pittsie leaned awkwardly, with his elbows rested upon the table, and I dared to notice that the radio was gone.

I furrowed my eyebrows, and Dr. Hagar spoke with that grovelled tone. “That wouldn’t be a- uh- radio, in your lap, would it, Mr Pitts?”

Pittsie glanced down, as the wail of static connection ran through myself with a great shock, and a slight shiver. “No, Sir.” He said, a short pause to follow. “Science experiment.” He lied. I raised my eyebrows momentarily, for it were an excuse well thought of, as he added a curt; “Radar.” And Meeks raised the anteni with an innocent nod.

Hagar hardly believed them, I dared to notice, though he hardly cared, too, spinning upon his heel and exiting the perimeter. “You’ll come to breakfast, tomorrow, won’t you Jane?” Pittsie asked.

“You have to.” Meeks added, “You haven’t eaten for two days.”

I merely nodded - perhaps I could suffer one meal - and said: “Sure.” With a tight lipped smile.

#dead poets society #nuwanda #charlie dalton #fanfiction #fanfic #steven meeks #gerard pitts #pittsie #meeks #neil perry #carpe diem #seize the day #mr keating #o' captain my captain #knox overstreet #chris noel #todd anderson

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elexica · 4 years ago

Text

Second Chance Christmas {{ December 21 }}

Christmas tree shopping, ornament making, and decorating reveal some unresolved feelings...

The rest of the chapter after the break:

The door slammed open, clattering against the wall harshly. Kaiba blinked in the bright light from the hallway, headache blooming at his forehead.

“Atticus wants you to come shopping for a Christmas tree.” Joey announced, slamming a thermos of coffee and a small bottle of Tylenol on the side table. The clattering noise was calibrated to exacerbate Kaiba’s hangover, and from the way his eyes squeezed shut, it worked. “You left some stuff, I stuck it in the guest room closet, so help yourself.”

Joey tried to lower his voice as deeply as possible, make it sound as truly menacing as he could, but the follow up sentence, “Waffles are ready,” just didn’t sound very scary.

For his part, Kaiba just rubbed at his eyes.

When Kaiba rolled into the kitchen forty-five minutes later, he looked completely put together. The picture of a man who could compartmentalize absolutely everything that had ever happened to him.

As he wandered toward the plate of waffles, Joey could feel the ghost of years past. Of Seto wandering over, pecking a kiss to his cheek on his way to the coffee machine.

Instead he watched his ex-husband greet the kids and collect the plate set out for him at the counter. Just the waffle and a bit of butter—no syrup, nothing sweet. Kaiba sliced into the waffle surgically, and swallowed a small bite of it. From the look on his face, he was too hungover and sick to really eat.

“Tell your Oto-san to eat his breakfast,” Joey said, pouring a glass of orange juice on the corner of the counter.

Kaiba sent Joey a death glare as Atticus announced that he had just the song. As Atticus launched into the highly repetitive “Breakfast Song”—an independent composition—Kaiba winced as if he had taken a thousand life points of damage in a shadow game.

The thermos of coffee stayed in Kaiba’s hand as he wove through the driveway. One of his cars had been left at the house—a black Mercedes that he had no real attachment to. Kaiba must have tracked down the spare key from the hooks on the wall of the garage. Kaiba was looking back towards the garage, as if he had a say in the matter.

Joey honked the horn of the minivan, startling his ex-husband and drawing another full body flinch from the man.

“I’m not movin’ Alexis’ car seat! Get in.” Joey shouted out the window. Kaiba revived his glare, only to lose it to a frustrated wince as Joey slammed on the horn again.

Kaiba froze, coffee “I swear,” Kaiba said, his voice menacing. “She’s six, she doesn’t need a car seat.”

“Look, it’s a height thing now. Ya can’t fire me, Kaiba, so unless ya got other plans, get in the car.” He punctuated this demand with another ear-scorching honk.

Grasping at the last threads of his dignity, Kaiba straightened his back, schooled his face with as much focus as he could bear, and strode over to the minivan door.

Kaiba flung it open with a theatrical flair that would be more appropriate on a blimp than a minivan.

Joey opened his mouth to deliver an admittedly tepid comment—he was thinking “look who decided to join us”—but he was silenced by the kids cheering when Kaiba sat down in the car.

“Oto-san, can we listen to the Chipmunks Christmas?!” Atticus pleaded from the backseat.

Joey didn’t bother holding back laughter and Kaiba clenched his jaw and nodded.

. . .

The adventure at the Christmas Tree farm started relatively smooth and uneventful. Atticus and Alexis were good kids, even if Atticus could be a little loud and demanded a lot of attention, and Alexis was a bit shy.

For his part, Kaiba did an excellent job of standing and observing the process. With stoicism, he posed at the back of the family and watched as Joey picked a tree, earned the approval of the kids, and tried to chop it down with the farm-provided axe on his own.

Tree chopping was harder than anticipated, and Joey’s struggles were equal parts frustrating and humiliating.

Kaiba couldn’t hold back a snicker, about 15 minutes into Joey’s battle with the tree. But that was his miscalculation: the perfect opening for Joey to shoot back, “You think yer so strong, pretty boy? Give it a go.” And Joey all but tossed the axe in his ex’s direction. Joey could have used a better, safer and more careful form when he handed his ex-husband the axe, but he was trying to catch his breath, and the haughty bastard had goaded him with that laugh. Kaiba caught it easily anyway.

“Step back,” Seto announced, as if he was about to perform a magic trick. The rest of the family formed a slightly more distant semi-circle.

Kaiba posed, axe high behind his back. He made brief eye-contact with Joey before hefting a massive swing. The arc was long and graceful, and bit into the tree-bark savagely. It took Joey’s four-inch indent and turned it into eight-inches, fully three-quarters of the way through the tree.

Kaiba smiled, pleased with his work.

“Alright,” Joey offered after a few seconds. “Now, you pull it out.” Joey resisted making any further innuendoes in front of the kids.

Kaiba nodded and reached for the axe. It didn’t budge. He adjusted his feet in the snow to gain more purchase—to no avail. He lodged one foot against the tree, and still the leverage was insufficient. It was as if the tree had accepted the axe as a new branch, and wouldn’t let go.

Kaiba pulled out his phone and started tapping.

“You lookin’ up how to get an axe out of a tree?” Joey challenged.

“No.”

“Oh my god are you trying to buy a better axe? And have it air dropped or something?”

Kaiba’s clever, snarky glance up from his phone told Joey exactly everything he didn’t need to know. “Would the children have any interest in owning a Christmas tree farm?”

“No!” Joey jumped over, moving to try and steal back Kaiba’s phone before he could pull whatever insane business move required to buy out the family-owned farm.

Kaiba had been a capable “keep-away” player for decades, and hadn’t seemed to allow his skills to get rusty in the intervening period.

Joey still had some signature moves—and certainly could have brought the taller man to his knees if he had a yo-yo on him.

As it stood, the side tackle that Joey settled on was perfectly effective. They rolled in the snow a bit, Kaiba able to twirl and pass the phone between his hands deftly and Joey ready to brute force the situation. He had no qualms with getting snow in his ex-husband’s hair or up his nose.

What was surprising was when Kaiba stopped fighting. He had been pinned down pretty well, back digging into snow, wrists held by Joey’s determined fingers as if handcuffed over his head, flakes stuck to his eyelashes and drenching his scarf. Joey had one knee jamming Kaiba’s thighs into the ground.

Joey paused with those hands in his vice grip, feeling Kaiba’s muscles relax under his hands. The palms were facing him, and they were empty. The only metal that Joey could see was the one thing he had longed to forget—Kaiba was still wearing his wedding ring.

“Is that?” Joey asked softly.

Kaiba had been baring a smug smile at Joey, confident in his plan to abscond with the phone—even in the compromised position. That smile vanished at Joey’s question.

“I didn’t want to field any questions as to whether we were… I wanted it to be clear that we’re both their dads.” Kaiba should have blushed, but he didn’t. Instead he looked wild and scared, like he had been caught in a terrible lie.

Joey drew a slow breath, processing the information as the ice melted on Kaiba’s face.

“Oto-san! I got the phone!” Atticus cheered, waving the slim black device in the air, instantly breaking the tension.

“Excellent execution,” Kaiba said, moving one powerful thigh to dislodge Joey’s entire hold. He went tumbling back into the snow, and Kaiba stood up and straightened himself. He held out his hand expectantly, and Atticus handed him the phone.

“How attached are you to this specific tree?” Kaiba asked Alexis, with the same intensity he would levy a question at a board meeting.

With the same seriousness that Kaiba had summoned, Alexis responded ,“I have no attachment to this tree.”

“Atticus?”

The boy shrugged. Kaiba nodded. “Then we will acquire another tree by alternative means.” Kaiba tapped at the screen a few times. “Any objections?”

This question was directed at Joey who also shrugged. Joey eyed the axe, buried deep in the trunk of the tree. It was not promising.

“What’s next on the holiday itinerary?” Kaiba asked, as if he was going to complete the Christmas activity list with the same ruthless efficiency he took to the business world.

“Decorating ornaments.”

. . .

It’s not just that it was fun to watch Kaiba struggle with things—though Joey thought it usually was—but his ex-husband, eyes narrowed in concentration, brows strung in frustration, long fingers dripping golden glitter glue…

Joey could have laughed the entire time.

Atticus had nicely decorated a music note. He had diligently written the year and his name and his age on the thin piece of wood, and then doodled colorful lines around it. Alexis had decorated a ballet slipper with surprisingly delicate shading and the same information.

Joey was relatively pleased with his own decoration: a nicely colored-in icon of the Time Wizard, with the same information. He had hesitated to put his age, but it was tradition, and Alexis would surely bust him for breaking the rules.

But Kaiba had to be ambitious. Usually his abilities could keep up with his formidable plans. But this year’s image of the Thousand Dragon had not gone according to plan. He had foolishly done the Blue Eyes White Dragon for the first year, and burned through it’s permutations by the time they finalized the divorce.

The underlying coloring wasn’t terrible—and the silhouette of a dragon was distinct enough that he couldn’t quite make it unrecognizable. But the glitter glue gambit hadn’t paid off. Instead of an extra level of pizazz, the glue had chemically interacted with the ink of the pens underneath.

Like a craft drawer Icarus that had flown too close to the sun, the careful coloring underneath melted into an absolute mess, blurring the relevant information, as well as the face of the dragon. The whole work turned into a muddled, blotchy, glittering thing. Yellows and marigolds combining to look more like a splotchy watercolor, but it lacked intention or grace.

Joey’s smile was wide and his jaw was clenched from the effort of not laughing at Kaiba’s very sad ornament. “You can go back to the craft store and get a new blank one,” Joey managed to eek out, with only minimal giggles spilling into his speech.

“It’s…” Kaiba pushed at the glue with a sticky fingertip, as if he could reset the colors by sheer force of will. “I will… write the information the back.” Kaiba flipped the ugly ornament directly on the disposable plastic table cover, glitter glue oozing out. He wrote his name in Japanese characters, and the date.

“It doesn’t look like a dragon, Oto-san,” Atticus protested. “You have to try again!”

Kaiba nodded, and affixed two googly eyes to the head.

Joey completely lost it at the plain wooden outline of a dragon, wings stretched, blank except for the name, date, and age on it’s belly, glitter glue leaking from under it, as if wounded, and two plastic google eyes quivering as the table shook with his laughter.

Joey thought he spotted a soft smile on Kaiba’s face, but by the time he caught his breath again, it was gone.

. . .

Joey tried to push down the warmth in his chest that swelled when he saw Kaiba wrapped around the tree, diligently stringing holiday lights. True to his word, he had an assistant from Kaiba Corp. USA’s New York branch sent out on an emergency hunt for the perfect tree. Without much thought, by the time the family had made it home from the Upstate adventure and trip to the craft store, a tree was already staged in their house—perfectly conical and even. As flawless as plastic, but full of that distinct pine scent.

Putting lights on the tree had been an intuitively “Kaiba” sort of activity. He was taller, more electrically inclined, and better suited to the less nostalgic Christmas elements. Although Joey had handled the task just fine, Kaiba’s persnickety nature did contribute to him spreading the lights evenly and nicely. It was sort of frustrating for Joey to see the lights look so smooth and flawlessly distributed. Especially when two years ago they had looked so uneven.

The off-year, when Kaiba had the kids for the winter holiday, Joey hadn’t bothered with any of his own decorations. He had just visited his sister’s place, skyped with the kids, and moped. He’d fallen asleep watching “Elf” alone on the couch. It ranked high on his list of worst Christmases ever.

Joey wondered a little, while Seto fought with the fragrant pine-needle branches, whether this would top the list of worst holidays. Somehow, already, it didn’t feel like a bad holiday at all.

Joey held out a warm mug to Seto, once his task was finished. It was one of the older ones, white with that navy-blue KC logo imprinted, but faded over the years.

Kaiba raised his hand to reject the offering. “I’m avoiding processed sugars. Last night was an exception, not the rule.”

Joey rolled his eyes. “Trust me, if you’re going to sit through any of tonight’s concert, you’ll appreciate the… heh… innovation.”

With a skeptical look at the hot chocolate and half-melted marshmallows, Kaiba reluctantly accepted the mug. He took a slow sip, before his eyebrows raised, recognizing the heroic volume of Baileys that had been surreptitiously mixed in. Kaiba nodded in approval. “I stand corrected.”

Indeed, the adulterated cocoa was fully drained over the course of Atticus’s hour long performance of every Christmas song he knew, plus a few piano remixes of various children’s show theme songs, and an original composition which was actually just smashing on the keys and smiling.

Kaiba remained steadfastly bound to the couch while Joey and Alexis actually placed all of the ornaments, whispering about what should go where. A few times, Joey looked over, just to see if Kaiba had left. Instead, he stayed, eyes darkened by some unknowable emotion. When the concert was over, and Joey and Alexis’s task was finally complete, the three stepped back to turn off the overhead lights and bask in the eclectic glory of the tree.

Only then had Kaiba vanished.

. . .

Joey wandered into Kaiba’s study. After the last night’s stunt, he expected to see the decanter open on the coffee table.

Instead, Kaiba was illuminated by his laptop, the rhythm of his typing on the keyboard sounding just a little like music. “What do you want?” Kaiba asked, not looking up from his computer.

“I—” Joey shrugged, flopping down on the chair opposite Kaiba. “I want to talk, I guess.”

“About what?” Kaiba asked, though it didn’t quite come out like a question. There was not a hint of curiosity in his voice.

“Us.” Joey looked over at Kaiba. “You’re wearing the ring, Kaiba.” Kaiba looked down at his own hand, as if he had forgotten that he’d put it on and failed to take it off.

“Yeah. And we were outside: there’s no blizzard anymore, Kaiba. It blew over last night. I’m no meteorologist, but you’re definitely cleared to fly.” Joey placed his hands on his hips, pleased with his own argument.

“The ring was unrelated,” Kaiba said, emotionless, glued to the computer screen. Joey rolled his eyes. “And the children have expressed that they’d like me to stay for the holiday. If you will not allow me to, that is a different matter.”

“Of course you can stay, but we need to talk about us. What’s going on here, Kaiba?”

“You’ve made it clear, enough times, that you don’t want me, not in the way that I want you,” Kaiba added, typing speed not diminished in the slightest. “None of that has changed, like you said. And so I don’t know why you are bothering me, now.”

Jou shifted slightly in his chair, his stomach tuning over. Sitting next to Kaiba hadn’t given him this sort of anxiety for so long, maybe ever. He was used to hot anger, coursing through his veins, pooling in his fists. This uneasy détente felt simultaneously unsustainable and like the exact tar pit they’d been drowning in for the last three years.

“I don’t know that I meant that. I mean, yeah, in the moment, I meant it. But,” Joey leaned back, trying to reposition himself so that he might be more comfortable. There didn’t seem to be any decent way to sit in his own damn chair. “But it doesn’t mean, you really didn’t change at all. A little. Or that you couldn’t change… enough.”

Kaiba’s typing speed finally slowed, acquiescing to the intensity of the conversation. Frankly, as Kaiba drew one hand to seal the lid of his laptop, Joey was willing to call that a change. He hadn’t even had to literally ask Kaiba to stop working. “Jounouchi. Tell me what you want to hear.”

“Fine.” Joey straightened his shoulders. “I want to know what happened when you went back to Domino.”

There was a long pause.

“I stayed on Mokuba’s couch for three months.” Kaiba crossed his arms defensively.

Joey burst out with warm laughter. Kaiba didn’t blush, but he raised an eyebrow, as if to signal his ex-husband was not being the image of social grace. Maybe he’d forgotten to whom he was married.

“And how’d he like that?” Joey said as his breathing steadied.

“He liked it fine. He has always appreciated my cooking. His fiancé did not.”

And like that, Joey was lost in another cacophony of giggles. “Why didn’t you go back to the manor?”

Kaiba looked away, suddenly fascinated by the crystal decanter that had returned to the end table. “It was… uncomfortable, after all this time. After Mokuba’s partner made her opinion clear—”

“God, I can only imagine what the arguments were like,” Joey smiled again, bright as sunshine.

“It was not pleasant. Obviously, my brother and I are still very close, but there were certain problems that arose—”

Joey leaned back in the chair, and balanced his feet on the coffee table. To the untrained observer, it could have been mistaken for casual. But all of the muscles of his legs were tense, the tendons that collided with the table strung like the strong of a bow. “I bet I can guess: you show up at 2 am, you make whatever noise you’re gonna make with no regard for anyone sleeping, you sleep in all day after a couple of all-nighters unpredictably—”

“Yes,” Kaiba said, his voice somewhat soured. “Everything that you hate about me, unsurprisingly was also loathsome to Yui.”

“That’s not… Kaiba its not things I hate about you,” Joey shifted again in the chair, picking at his nailbeds. He looked as if he had been called into the principal’s office again after a fight. “It’s shit that you do, that you choose to do, that’s disrespectful to the people around you. I’m glad to hear that Yui didn’t take it.”

“After a time, you didn’t either, right?” Kaiba responded, the sadness seeping in a little. From the longing glance he shot at the whiskey, the allure of the crystal decanter was strong; the urge to not deal with his ex-husband in this mood, fully sober, was perhaps stronger.

But there was something about Joey’s words that seemed to put up a forcefield around the bottle. “But it doesn’t mean, you really didn’t change at all. A little. Or that you couldn’t change… enough.”

Joey rolled his eyes, pressing fast-forward on the tired argument. “That wasn’t all of it, and we both know that you know better. But just tell me what else happened.”

Kaiba’s sour expression and defensive posture continued. “After that, I got an apartment near the office. I only used the manor in the Summer, when the children came to visit.” Kaiba eyed that bottle once more. “It was disconcerting to be there alone. I thought… that this is what he must have… felt like.”

As if saying his name would have brought him into their life, awakened some other dormant form of him trapped between this world and the Hell he so surely belonged in.

They sat there, soaking in the ghosts of the past a little longer. Joey wasn’t going to say anything to break the silence—he knew from experience that with enough stubbornness, Seto would eventually be forced to say something to change the subject or actually talk about his feelings.

After just a couple of minutes, Joey was proven right.

“Are you really happy working at the daycare?” Kaiba asked.

“How did you—” It was only natural that Kaiba would have Joey at a loss again.

“Yugi is a game developer, you know that he collaborates with Kaiba Corp. We talk… sometimes,” Kaiba said, feigning nonchalance. It was not persuasive. Kaiba’s intensity for everything was too strong. Joey was quite certain he’d never had a casual interest in his entire life.

“Yeah. Things are good,” Joey answered the original question.

Kaiba nodded at the input and reopened the laptop. The glare illuminated the wire framed lenses, hiding any expression within his eyes. “I’m getting back to work.”

Joey considered putting up a fight. But it had been a long enough day. In a move reminiscent of his ex, he rose from his seat wordlessly and went his own way.

#Kaiba Seto #seto kaiba #Jounouchi Katsuya #Joey Wheeler #violetshipping #puppyshipping #yugioh #fanfiction #crossposted on ao3

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