#yes I know the wind bag is after the war but let's pretend

[aludraslytherin]

Unfortunately, I must leave Ithaca (my house) as well as my Penelope (my bed) and Telemachus (my cat) for war (to work) for what is prophesized to be a decade (14 hours), as I try to keep my eyes open so the wind bag doesn't get open (so I don't miss my bus stop)

[anthemxix]

I had an angsty interesting idea and thought you’d maybe like to hear it (since you’re a fan of Wars and Time bonding)

Time and Warriors get separated from the group and are fighting a big ol’ horde of monsters when Time gets hit hard. Like, he-needs-a-fairy-NOW hard. And Wars knows he can’t protect Time while fighting off all these monsters, he’s horribly outnumbered without him, he needs help, he needs more power-

Then he remembers the Fierce Diety mask.

anon, thank you for thinking of me!! i do adore these two bonding! <3 hope you enjoy this little thing i wrote~ uwu

The realization that this ragtag monster horde was capable of implementing a coordinated battle plan carries myriad unsettling implications, but Warriors puts all that aside for later consideration. Right now, he’s rather more preoccupied with his other realization: he and Time are kind of fucked.

Separated from the other heroes by the latest portal (and maybe that was all part of the enemies’ strategy, too?), Time and Warriors are severely outnumbered, two to two dozen. The only reason they haven't lost already is because they've managed to stay back-to-back, fighting together fluidly, watching each other's blind spots. Everything they're doing is purely defensive, purely reactionary, and their stamina is quickly getting whittled away by endless waves of brutal attacks.

And maybe their draining stamina is why there's a slip-up. Warriors hopes that's why there's a slip-up, because he can't bear the idea that his carelessness caused whatever just happened behind him to make Time shout in agony.

Warriors whirls around just as Time crumples to his knees. He steps in front of the Old Man in time to block the heavy stroke of a darknut's broadsword. The blunt impact forces him back half a foot. He grits his teeth and smashes his shield into the darknut's helmet as it winds up for another strike. Armor rattling, the monster stumbles back, briefly stunned.

Swinging around, Warriors throws out his shield against the thrust of a lizalfos' spear, but both weapon and shield collide instead with a translucent blue wall that materializes between them. Sapphire-colored and diamond-shaped, the sudden barrier surprises Warriors for a second before he remembers a child casting the same spell on battlefields some years ago.

"Can't hold it for long," Time says, voice strained, as he presses one hand against his side. Warriors drops down next to him, ignoring the sounds of baffled and angry monsters pounding on the barrier encasing them, and pulls Time's hand away to reveal a terribly deep gash.

Time coughs, and a trail of blood mars his chin. Cursing, Warriors carelessly rips a swatch from his scarf and stuffs it into the wound in the hopes of slowing the bleeding.

"Give it to me," he blurts before he knows what he's saying. His conscious mind takes a moment to catch up to his mouth, but then he feels it. Beneath the clean, blessed magic that Time exudes beats the pulse of something darker, something that wormed into Warriors’ mind without him even noticing.

Suddenly, Warriors knows with certainty how this fight is going to end. He reaches for Time's satchel without awaiting an answer. The Old Man clamps a surprisingly firm hand onto Warriors' wrist.

"No," he says, the tremble in his voice belying the sternness of his tone. "I won't allow it."

The magic, which feels like frenzy barely contained, wraps more securely around Warriors' heart. He wonders how it leaked into him without his consent, how it made him its pawn before he even considered using the mask.

"It's our only choice." Warriors drapes his other hand on top of Time's. The barrier around them flickers, disappearing for half an instant.

Time retrieves the mask from his bag without looking, like he knows exactly where it is. In the open, the mask's alluring magic is more potent. It feels like chaos masquerading as calm, like a threat camouflaged as salvation.

"I could do it," Time weakly offers, even as more blood beads on his lips, as more color drains from his wan face, as resignation clouds his eye.

When Warriors' fingers graze the mask's smooth wood, a shock runs along his spine, prickles the hair on his arms and the back of his neck. The faded red and blue lines that mirror Time's remind him that dabbling with something this powerful has irreversible consequences. In an odd moment of detached lucidity, Warriors recognizes that after he puts on this mask, his life is never going to be the same.

But as he takes the cursed object, he looks down at Time's weeping gash, poorly plugged by blood-drenched scraps of scarf, and feels at peace with his decision.

"I'll be fine, Sprite," he says. "Just promise me you'll be fine, too."

As Time's spell withers and the blue diamond barrier shatters, Warriors puts on the mask.

He's dropped into an abyss that somehow feels both bottomless and claustrophobic. He can't see or hear or touch any more, can't feel his body or what he's doing; he's confined to his mind, condemned to an inky, oceanic emptiness that is filling up with poisonous magic. The deity's overwhelming presence invades more and more of Warriors' mental space, grappling for control.

And it hurts. It's agonizing, the way the subjugating magic bleeds into his every crevice, sunders him at his seams. Peels him apart layer by layer. Breaks him down to his basest pieces. Divides. Consumes.

Rational thought disappears; his darkness is lit only by instinct now, and his instinct tells him to fight. So Warriors resists. As puny and piteous a creature as he is compared to the deity's wrath, he resists, struggling to retain a foothold in his own mind.

And just as abruptly as this hellish internal fight begins, it ends. Full consciousness slams back into Warriors with merciless force. The world seems like a hazy mess of colors and light that he can't decipher. His body feels foreign, and he can't distinguish, spatially, where he is, what he's doing. He thinks he's standing--no, he's falling--

Warriors tumbles back into something solid. Someone solid, who secures their arms around his middle and lowers him to the ground. Dizzy and muddled, he squints up at the concerned face hovering above him. Twilight. The Rancher's mouth is moving, but the words are distant and incomprehensible.

Simply holding his head up is a strain, and Warriors lets himself go limp in Twilight's arms. Through blurry vision, he can see the signs of a massacre: the decimated remains of all those monsters, strewn around the battlefield. He vaguely registers Twilight's fingers on his neck, checking for a pulse, and Twilight's hands running along his limbs, his torso, feeling for injuries.

There's a swirl of red and pink in his periphery. Legend, not bothering to conceal his concern, appears on one side of him. He's speaking, too, and though the words sound a bit clearer than before, Warriors still doesn't understand. Exhausted, he doesn't worry about it, and lets his eyes slip closed.

Twilight and Legend's conversation drones over his head as comforting white noise, and the Rancher's steady breaths begin to lull him to sleep. Then something tugs at his hand, and he pries his eyes open, annoyed, to see Legend trying to take the mask from him.

Warriors blinks down at the cursed item, surprised to see it still clasped in his fist, his unyielding fingers coiled through the eye holes.

"Let go of this damn thing, Pretty Boy," Legend says when he sees Warriors' eyes are open. The Captain can't decide if Legend's voice is actually quiet or if it still sounds weirdly far away. Regardless, he loosens his hold and watches Legend take the mask, grimace at it with a mix of revulsion and anger, and artlessly toss it out of view.

"Captain?"

Turning his heavy head, Warriors finds Wind kneeling at his other side. His expression is all unrefined concern, the watery eyes and exaggerated compassion of a child. Warriors wants to comfort him, but he can hardly move at the moment. He supposes speaking is out of the question, too.

"Are you okay?" the Sailor asks, taking up Warriors' hand in both his own.

Getting no reply, Wind glances between Twilight and Legend. "Why isn't he saying anything? He's okay, isn't he?"

"I'm sure he's fine," Twilight replies. It's a stilted, rote response that holds little conviction. Warriors thinks that should bother him, but he's too tired to care.

"What about those?" Wind says, nodding towards Warriors.

On reflex, Twilight brushes his fingers against the Captain's cheek, looking sadly at whatever is there. "The magic imprinted on him, but he wasn't changed for long. The marks will fade."

Marks? Warriors tunes out the rest of the conversation, trying to deduce what marks they're referring to--until he pictures the red and blue lines tattooed onto--

Time. Warriors twitches, wanting to sit up, wanting to ask after the Old Man. Legend puts a steadying hand on his shoulder, instructs him not to move. Still, he swivels his head around, trying to squint through the still-indistinct mass of shapes and lights that make up the world beyond his little sphere.

Finally, he sees, past Wind, the rest of their troupe. As Warriors is with Twilight, Time is reclined against Sky, with Four and Wild on either side of him. Hyrule is bent over him, hands aglow with golden healing magic that surges into the dangerous wound on Time's side.

Warriors tries to focus on the Old Man's face, and his eyes finally adjust enough that he can see Time, grim and weary, looking straight back at him. He looks sad, Warriors thinks. Sympathetic. Pitying.

It's off-putting, and Warriors looks away. He closes his eyes again and sinks back into Twilight, deciding for now that he'll pretend this is a nightmare, and soon, he'll wake up somewhere else with his soul and mind intact. Yes, he thinks, he’ll let himself pretend for a little while.

[jamilelucato]

Popcorn Taste [F.W]

Pairing: Fred Weasley x reader

Summary: It’s a bit awkward spending Christmas in the Burrow after what happened between you and Fred.

Warning: there’s a drunk scene, but the characters are not underage; fluffy;

A/N: of course I’m participating in my own challenge, why not? So this is Day 7- Making A Popcorn Garland for the A Very Harry Potter Christmas with @whack-ed​

Harry Potter Masterlist ||  Musical Hogwarts Series

Generally, being invited to spend the holidays with the Weasley was all you could’ve wished. This year, however, staying in that small house locked with tons of red-heads was not your first goal.

Nevertheless, when the letter arrived, there was nothing you could do but sigh and reply with “thanks for the invite; yes, I’m coming; no, I’m not bringing someone with me.”

Mrs and Mr Weasley had a special place in your heart — for all the days they allowed you to stay with them, particularly during the dark times of war, and after it, when you were alone. You had no choice but to show up and, fair enough, it wasn’t all that bad. You liked the older couple; you always laughed around Bill; Charlie had unique stories to tell, and even Percy remained quite pleasant and able to communicate when you were around.

It was the next son in line that worried your guts and caused the butterflies in your stomach to fly around.

You took one last look at your flat before holding tight to your luggage before Apparating to the Burrow. It was one week before Christmas, but it was the exact day — and time — that Mrs Weasley had written for you to show up.

CRACK!

The loud sound (of what probably used to be) a vase breaking echoed in the house, and you involuntarily ducked, even though there was no one in the living room to see you.

“[y/n]? Is that you?” Molly’s voice found its way to where you were still scared to move and break something else.

“It’s me, Molly,”— she would never allow you to call her Mrs Weasley in front of her — “and I think I broke something.”

She found her way to the living room, carefully stepping away from the broken pieces and reaching for you with her hands, firstly cupping your face and squeezing your cheeks before pulling you in a proper hug.

“It’s okay, dear! I’m so happy you came,” she whispered in your ear, before pulling you away and reaching for your luggage, not even asking if you wanted help.

“She’s been talking about you all week.”

At first, the voice seemed familiar, and it made you shiver until Molly stepped out of your sight and revealed the real speaker, standing near the door sill — and although he looked a lot like who you thought he was, he still wasn’t him.

“Hi, George,” you smiled sympathetically, slowly moving towards the younger twin, paying attention not to step on the broken vase.

He received you with a quick but tight hug. When you pulled away, your eyes searched for the other half of that pair, but you didn’t find the other identical face.

“Fred’s coming later,” George explained the question that you didn’t ask aloud.

“I wasn’t looking for him,” you denied with some charm, more out of fear of Molly listening and having second thoughts than fear of George finding out what was going on in the dark corners of your mind.

After all, you were pretty sure that George already knew.

When you surreptitiously looked back, however, Molly and her bags were no longer in the room.

“Since Mum’s taking care of your accommodation, come help me with de-gnoming the yard,” George suggested, putting one of his long arms over your shoulders and pulling you close.

“I thought this job was Ron’s,” you said, having a vague memory of a Christmas years ago, “and Potter’s.”

George smiled. “Ronniekins and Harriekins are only coming later in the night,” he explained, guiding you out of the Burrow. “But I think you’ll like to see who’s helping me out in the yard.”

As soon as he opened the door to the back, your eyes scanned the place, soon finding red hair in the wind, too long to belong to any other Weasley but: “Bill!!” you shouted, running towards him.

Bill smiled when he turned and saw you, and greeted you with a warm hug, as he always did when you spent days at the Burrow and felt left out.

“Hi, little one,” he stroked your hair before putting you back on the ground. “I think we have a lot of catching up to do.”

“Tell me about it! You’ll never know...” Bill let you vent until you saw the platinum blond woman coming towards the three of you, and she had a hand positioned at the end of her belly as if it was too heavy to carry. “Oh, my Merlin!!!”

Bill chuckled at your reaction at his pregnant wife.

You rushed to get closer to Fleur, afraid she was too slow because of the child she carried in her womb, but you slowed down when you got close, scared you could hurt her.

“Fleur! I can’t believe it! Can I...?” you looked down at where her hands were placed.

“Sure,” she said with her French accent still very strong. She smiled at you while you delicately pressed your hands on her belly, trying to feel the life growing on her. 

“How long...?”

“Four months,” Bill answered from behind you. “We wanted to be sure before telling the family.”

“And you were right in doing so,” you said between gasps of surprise — you were still very much fascinated with it. “Hey, George, when are you and Angelina....”

“Don’t even start!” he interrupted you in a protest and soon everybody was laughing, just like old times.

--

You weren’t surprised when, after a long two hours of de-gnoming the backyard and a well-deserved hot bath, you found your suitcase in the twins’ room.

Molly had installed you there for two reasons. The first was that gradually over the day, the rest of the Weasley siblings were arriving, and so the rooms filled up.

Bill and his wife stayed in his room; Percy and his wife switched places with Ginny in search of a larger one, so Ginny and Hermione were cramped in Percy’s old small room. Ron and Harry would share Ron’s room upstairs, and Charlie had his room to himself, as it was also a tiny room.

Therefore, the only room large enough to accommodate an extra mattress was the twins’.

The second reason was that you had been used to sleeping there since you were fifteen when on the hottest summer nights you ran away from Ginny’s room and were welcomed next to Fred and George. When you were a teen, you believed you did a great job being discreet, but now at 21, you reconsidered that maybe Molly always knew, but pretended not to see.

You quickly changed, afraid the boys could come in at any moment. You had heard Fred’s voice — Merlin, you’d recognize it at any distance — when you were getting out of the bathroom, so you were extra nervous when you left the room and headed to the kitchen, where the majority of the family was. Except for Fleur who needed to rest and Percy, his wife and Charlie that were in the living room.

“Here, she is!” Fred’s voice greeted you in that heartwarming way that only he had, and with just a couple of steps he reached you and held you in a tight hug, slightly taking your feet off the ground. 

“Hi, Freddie,” you whispered in his ear with a chuckle while he put you back on the floor. You saw his cheeks turning red because of the nickname and thought it was the cutest thing ever.

“Hope you’re hungry,” said George from behind Fred, but you couldn’t see him — Fred was your only view at that moment.

“Always am, Weasley,” you replied, placing your hands in the back pockets of your jeans and walking towards the smell of warm food. You had no idea what it was — you always sucked with scents — but it looked good. Fred turned in the direction you were walking, watching you.

Like you, he was scared to death that you both would be startled the next time you saw each other, but as soon as his eyes met yours, he couldn’t contain the joy and desire to at least embrace you.

The thing was, last time you two had seen each other was on a party in the twins flat, and, after a couple of drinks, you ended up kissing Fred in a bathroom. It actually happened like this:

“What are you doing here?” Fred asked when you stepped in the small bathroom of his room. He wasn’t angry, just surprised. Besides, he wasn’t naked or something — he had already done whatever he needed to do in the bathroom, but he needed to wash his hands before leaving.

“I know you said for us to use the guest bathroom, but whoever is in there hasn’t left since,” you sighed, staring at him slowly, taking your time to appreciate the view, “and I need to pee.”

“Oh, I’ll leave.”

“Please, don’t,” you said, a bit too fast. Even drunk, you noticed that you didn’t even hesitate. “It’s just... I’ll get lost in here alone.”

Fred looked around. He was drunk too, but he still had a clear idea that his flat wasn’t at all that big.

“Okay,” he agreed slowly, unsure of what else to say. He then turned to face the door, allowing you to do whatever you needed to do with some privacy.

Deep down, he loved the idea of being in a small room with you. It’s just, he was drunk, so it wasn’t the first scenario he had in mind.

“You can turn now,” you said; your voice followed by the sound of the flush. You stepped closer to the sink — there really wasn’t much space there — and after washing your hands, you were left to confront your darkest fears.

Fred stared down at you, his head above yours just like always, only this time, he was so close that it was almost terrifying. It made you weak in the knees. And you were so drunk...

“Kiss me.”

“Huh?” Fred shocked his head. He had heard you, he just wasn’t sure you wanted to make his wildest dreams come true.

“Kiss me, Freddie,” oh, the nickname — it was his weak spot, and he was so close now. Your hands cupped his cheekbone.

“You are drunk,” he stated, noticing that at any other circumstances, you wouldn’t have the balls.

“So are you,” you smiled, leaning closer to him and finally ending the last millimetres that were in your way.

Both of you remembered the kiss, even though the approach seemed to be like it never happened. It didn’t last much — someone knocked on the door, asking for Fred, saying they needed to say good-bye, and so he left you alone in that bathroom with just your thoughts and his smell all over you.

It had been two months since the kiss, and you two ignored each other since. Some nights, you wish you could’ve forgotten it, but how could you when every time you closed your eyes your brain replayed the moment?

--

“Lost in thoughts?” asked Molly as she placed some food in your plate during dinner.

You stared at her — truly lost in thoughts. She smiled, forcing you to smile back, but the corner of your mind was still thinking about Fred and the fact that in a couple of hours you’d be sleeping in his room. With him.

Dinner went well, and even the late hours by the fire — even though Ginny and Ron left you to sit on the floor. It was easy to distract yourself from Fred when he had like, a ton of other siblings to talk to. And unfortunately, that’s what you did — avoided talking to only him the whole night.

When you finally gathered enough courage, you went to the bedroom, already in your pyjamas. You came across a snoring George (how easy it was for him to sleep, it was a mystery), but Fred’s bed was still empty.

As you entered the room trying to make as little noise as possible, you realized that there was already a body on your mattress on the floor.

“Fred?”

Red hair fluttered, and in the dim light of the only candle in the room, you saw Fred’s eyes shine when they met you.

“What are you doing on my mattress?”

“Yours?” he asked in a voice not as low as yours. Perhaps he knew the limits of his brother’s hearing better than you. “You didn’t think I was going to let you sleep on the floor, did you?”

“Fred, please, it wouldn’t be a bother...”

“[y/n], just accept my bed for today. ’M already very well settled here to leave,” he debated, gesturing with his neck towards himself, where he really looked comfortable under a thick blanket.

You sighed, knowing very well, after years of being Fred and George’s best friend that there was no point with arguing. So you jumped on his old bed, trying to find a position, but already knowing it’d take you at least a couple of hours to finally sleep.

In a quick and not calculated movement, your head ended up turned on the pillow, making your breathing more limited, thus having to breathe through it.

It was a bad idea because, without warning, Fred’s scent invaded your nostrils. It wasn’t a bad smell, quite the contrary — it was very much inviting and, knowing that Fred was only less than a meter from you and remembering the taste of his kiss, sleeping was suddenly impossible that night.

You sighed, but could not move, paralyzed in that position — it was as if your body was addicted to his scent, and you wanted more and more. When you finally fell asleep, the dream that invaded your subconscious was not much different than what you imagined before you went to sleep.

--

“Popcorn duty?” asked Fred, catching up to you with just a couple of large steps.

“Yeah,” you sighed, trying not to sound so disappointed. Of course, spending time with Fred was marvellous, but since you kissed him and he never mentioned it again, it kinda seemed fair to you not want to be alone with him.

Fred didn’t notice something off with your tone, so he kept walking next to you towards the kitchen, where Molly had told you the popcorn was.

Placing yourselves next to each other, you were left responsible for holding the fishing wire, and Fred was in charge of the popcorn. You handed the point of the wire for him, who sought advice with his eyes.

You helped him with your hands — this time, you were the one to blush with the touch. You did not expect his hands to be so warm in the middle of winter.

“Do you reckon Mum would mind if we ate one?” he asked, raising a single popcorn up. “Or two?”

You chuckled at his worries, looking down at the bowl filled with old popcorn. You had no idea why he thought that was delicious. It still smelled like good popcorn, but you knew that, for these types of garlands, it needed to be ready, like, at least, one week earlier.

“They don’t look very appetizing to me,” you commented, tilting your head towards him, holding tightly to the wire since Fred seemed reckless with the thing.

“Ah,” Fred sighed, using the popcorn that he was about to eat to place in the garland. He seemed to be getting the hang of it by now. “Well, I’m just hungry,” he shrugged innocently.

“I bet. It’s not like you just ate breakfast, right?” you chuckled, and Fred joined, looking at you with the same sparkly eyes that captured your heart when you were just a kid. He had no idea that you have been liking him for so long.

“I’ll tell you what, before we go to bed, we can watch a movie and I’ll make you new popcorn,” you offered after a moment of silence. Fred wasn’t the quiet type of guy, so when the room was filled with it, something was definitely wrong.

He smiled with the opportunity you gave him. “Asking me on a date, [y/n]?”

You elbowed him, laughing nervous first, but when you realized that he was just teasing you, your laugh became more real. It was so easy to have fun with Fred.

After a few years of romantically craving him so strongly, you had forgotten that he was also a great friend.

“You wish, Weasley,” you chuckled.

Charlie walked in the kitchen, followed by Ron, and both of the brothers stared at you two for a while before getting back to what they planned on doing.

“Having fun?” asked Charlie with the cutest British mixed with Romanian accent ever.

You exchanged looks with Fred.

“No, he’s pretty boring,” you shrugged, before dropping your act and laughing out loud. 

“[y/n] won’t let me eat the popcorn,” Fred said, getting on board with your joke.

“That’s not what I said,” you raised a brow. Ron was about to roll his eyes, very much tired of your thing with Fred. He remembered you two back in school and how annoying and oblivious you two were. He was just like that with Hermione, but you were never the one to point it out. 

“I said that this popcorn is old,” you reached for one yourself, “and disgusting.”

“Are you complaining about Mum’s food?” Fred asked, dropping the wire over the table and crossing his arms, trying to look intimidating.

“She didn’t make it for us to eat it,” you pointed out. 

Charlie was leaned in the sink counter, watching the scene with a glass of water in his hands, trying hard not to laugh at the fact that you two were acting like an old couple. It kinda reminded him of when he was younger, and Arthur and Molly couldn’t stop arguing about what to do with the too-big-to-enter-the-house Christmas Tree.

“Let’s go, Charlie,” Ron called his older brother. “The ball ornaments won’t paint themselves.”

“You guys are painting the ornaments?” you expression suddenly turned blue. Fred looked down at you, feeling worried. “Oh, I wish I was painting.”

Fred bit his lip before suggesting “Why don’t you go with them? I think I can finish this myself.”

You looked from the bowl of popcorn still full with it to Fred, who had the cutest of faces. 

“Nah, you need me,” you said and then gulped at the double meaning of your words. “I mean, need me to finish this.”

Charlie and Ron exchanged suspicious looks while Fred stared at you, smiling with his eyes.

“Should we...?” Ron whispered to Charlie, who just placed his hands in the youngest’s back and pushed it.

“Just go,” Charlie whispered back, leaving you and Fred to get back to your own rhythm with things, distracted with each other.

--

When the popcorn garlands where ready, the tree was already inside the house — job done by Arthur and Bill. They had picked a beautiful tree (and to Charlie’s relief, this one fit the house).

Ginny and Hermione were the two focusing on placing the decorations on the right places, following the orders of Molly and Fleur (although the girls seemed to be paying attention only to Molly’s suggestions).

You were about to sit in the middle of Fred and George in the couch when Ron, Charlie, Percy and his wife walked in the house, holding a big transparent box filled with painted balls.

“Ow, let me see them!” you rushed next to Charlie and deepened your hands inside. “Are they still fresh?”

“No,” Charlie replied, noticing you were scared of ruining the ornaments.

The first one your hands touched you brought up, noticing it had two different names on it. In one side, [y/n] was written, but the other had Fred on it.

“Why two names?” you really wanted to ask why it was yours and Fred’s, but there were too many people on the room.

Ron and Charlie gulped, while Percy and his wife exchanged happy side looks.

“Mum wanted two names in each because she felt like our names were too short,” said Ron, but his explanation didn’t please anyone on the room, “or something,” he added a second later.

You placed the ball in your hands back in the box, and Charlie offered you a sympathetic smile.

You headed back to the couch, watching the girls finish placing the ornaments. Molly walked in, with a lot of bags on her hand, so Bill and George got up to help, leaving you and Fred on the couch alone.

“So... our date’s still up?”

You turned your face to him, at first confused, but then giggling.

“It’s not a date.”

“Did you invite anyone else?” he asked, leaning closer to you involuntarily.

“No,” you said as if it was clear.

“Then it is a date,” he smirked. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you asked me out.”

“Oh, shove off, Weasley,” you pushed him slightly, both of you laughing. Oh, how you wanted it to be a real date.

But sure it wasn’t. It couldn’t be, right? you wondered, staring at him from the corner of your eye.

--

“Okay, they’re gone,” Fred said, calling you from the stairs. You left his room on tiptoes, scared of waking the house up and reached him at the bottom of the staircase.

You two waited for everyone to leave the living room — where the only TV in the house could be found — and pretended to go to bed as well. When Fred’s watch pointed to one in the morning, he shook your arm slightly (waking you up but you’d never confess you had slept) and you both left for your adventure.

“So what movie did you get us?”

He turned to face you, who was sitting in the couch, bringing the blanket you had taken with yourself closer to your chin.

“While You Were Sleeping,” he answered. “Seemed to be the youngest Mum had around.”

“It’s a romance,” you pointed out, tilting your head provocatively.

“It’s not a...” Fred looked up to the TV where Sandra Bullock started walking around the streets. “It’s a romance,” he sighed, defeated.

You chuckled. “I like it. But do you?”

“Ahn,” he seemed lost in thought. “It doesn’t matter.”

You had no idea what that meant, but you gave him some room to sit next to you in the couch and for him to get under the covers, while the popcorn in your lap kept you two moving your mouths.

The movie seemed quite pleasant, but it was hard to pay attention when Fred’s smell was all over you once again, the only smell your body had no problem identifying.

You gulped in the dark. “Are you enjoying it?” you asked, sure that romantic movies could not possibly be Fred’s favourite genre.

“Yep,” he answered a bit too fast. Suspicious, you thought.

“Who’s your favourite character?” you decided to test him.

“The girl.”

“Why’s that?” his answers seemed too generic so when replied this last question you made, you were surprised.

“She likes the guy, but she’s afraid to give up what she idealized. She’s scared of the new,” he said, and although the answer appeared accurate to the movie, something told you he was not talking about Sandra Bullock’s character.

You turned to face him, noticing that he was way closer to you then you thought. Perhaps all the warm did not come from only the blanket. Fred gulped when he saw you staring at him.

“I think she has a valid reason for that.”

The corners of his lips raised just a little. “What’s that?”

“The guy hasn’t been very clear about what he wants either.”

Fred gulped, feeling his cheeks burn. You were right — he wasn’t talking about the movie character.

“Kiss me.”

Oh, the sentence that has been hunting both of you down this time was voiced by Fred Weasley and that could have not left you more speechless.

So you knew what you had to do, after all, the guy was being very clear about what he wanted.

Your lips met his, this time with no rush. It was like when a hummingbird meets a flower — delicate, even though deep down very much desperate.

At this moment, you two were alone, and you had time, and you weren’t drunk. This time was going to be perfect, and Merlin, how it was! Fred had this unique way of touching you softly but fervently, and each time his hands changed position, your body twisted, wanting more, wanting him to kiss you everywhere, hoping he wouldn’t go away.

When you two finally parted, after several attempts to do so, but neither wanting to stop kissing yet, he smirked down at you, leaving your body in his embrace.

“You taste like popcorn,” he said, breaking the silence of the living room since the movie had ended and neither of you had noticed.

“I hope it’s the good one,” you smiled too, feeling surrendered to his charms.

It was good to have him around you, his body twisted with yours, and it was even best to know that he wanted you as much or even more than you craved him.

“It’s the best one,” he said, before kissing you again.

[gryffindors-weasley]

Enamored

Ron Weasley x Reader

Summary: The day Ron tells you he loves you.

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: loss of a home, Fred is alive, mild angst, fluff, requited love, kissing

A/N: This fic is inspired by Pretty Boy by The Neighbourhood!

The last traces of summer had rapidly faded as the season changed to autumn, the once warm weather now chilled and brisk. It had been a whirlwind of a year thus far, one that was exceedingly more undesirable than most with the war having transpired. It brought with it a myriad of losses and misfortune for all that had been involved to fight against the Dark Lord.

The most noticeable loss for the Weasley family was the destruction of their family home. It was near ash and ruins but a few months ago, devastating and left in tatters as it no longer stood tall lopsidedly wonderful. While it was life altering and an act of complete and utter cruelty, they remained grateful that each and every member of their tight knit family remained alive and well. That’s what always mattered most to them, what will always matter.

Now that fall has rolled around after three months of hard work and effort put in from you and the beloved family, the Burrow was officially rebuilt. It didn’t house the same memories as it once had, it couldn’t have, but it stood tall and beautifully imperfect once more. It was a home that could only possibly be held up by magic otherwise it just might topple over with the number of floors it had. The pots and pans had scrubbed themselves once more, the chimney puffed out smoke yet again, the home was now bustling with a familiar boisterous energy once again in a way only they could manage to create.

Spending that time with them was time you were grateful to have, though you found yourself to be with Ron more so than anyone else. No matter what the instance may have been, you always seem to seek each other out as if it were a subconscious act. It was a wordless fact seemingly known to just about everyone but the very two people who’d been doing it, but that didn’t come as a surprise to anyone at all.

It’d been three years in the making of watching their lovestruck brother and equally lovestruck best friend pine for each other, of watching you both be so oblivious it was almost painful. Three years of catching him gaze at you with the softest of smiles when you weren’t looking, one so adoring Molly nearly cries every time, and of you doing just the same when his attentions were focused elsewhere. Three years of watching you two brush hands when you walk side by side followed by the promise of blushing cheeks when you realized the electrifying encounter. It had been frustrating years in the making of watching two people they loved so dearly be so blissfully unaware of just how in love they truly were with each other.

They were ready to take matters into their own hands and make it known themselves.

Currently, Mrs. Weasley has assigned both you and Ron the task of stopping by the bakery in town. She’d wanted an assortment of pastries as a part of a way to celebrate the finishing of their new home. She had made more than enough of her own in her newly remodeled kitchen of course, but she had her mind set on blueberry muffins and chocolate chip cookies made from none other than Hazel’s Bakery.

She most certainly did not send the two of you in particular in an effort to get you to spend some alone time. No, definitely not.

“Are you warm enough?” Ron asks as you leave through the front door, stepping out into the brisk weather.

You nod, cheeks staining a soft pink at the gentle caring he had for you, the question falling from his lips like it’d been second nature. Caring for you, being protective of you, it was second nature by that point. He doesn’t believe he could help it even if he tried, but he doesn’t want to. Despite the fluttering of your heart you couldn’t help your teasing smile. “Yes. But I suppose it’d be far warmer if we drove there.”

He caught onto your teasing and rolled his eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth nonetheless. “Are you ever going to stop teasing me for that, Y/n/n?”

You pretend to give his question some serious thought, puckering your lips as you squint your gaze and tap your finger against your cheek. His laughter broke you from your actions. “No, I don’t think I will, Ronnie.”

Your own laughter was immediate at the scrunch of his nose upon hearing the nickname he loathed so much, more so at the playful narrowing of his blue stare. Maybe he didn’t hate it when it fell from your lips. However, you quickly appeased his obvious displeasure of the name as you brushed the pad of your thumb over his chin, his blushing smile soon to return as he looked at his feet to steady his racing heart. He knew his cheeks had to have matched the leaves on the trees by now. They always had been when in your presence.

You shook your head with a smile as you focused your attention on anywhere but him to avoid worsening the heat in your cheeks. Rather, you focused on the graying of the sky and the way the grass rippled beneath the wind. You listened to the leaves crunching under both your footfalls and the sound they made as the breeze washed over them. For lack of a better word, this time of year had been the most magical, and it seemed as though Ron fit right in with the hues of his hair and equally his attire. Equally his flushed cheeks.

A single wildflower had caught your stare, standing tall amongst the fading green grass. You slowed your stride to bend down and pluck it from the ground, turning to look at Ron who’d now stood paces from you with a curious brow raised.

“What is it?”

You held up the yellow flower, the stem pinched between your fingers as you beamed. In a matter of seconds you ran to him the short distance he was from you, his smile now apparent.

“What are you doing?” He asks with a laugh, one to stave off the way his breath hitched as you leaned up to tuck it within the red hair just above his ear.

It appeared golden amongst the rosy ginger shade and he smiled down at you fondly for a brief moment before shaking his head, not making a move to take it out. You smiled up at him, biting the inside of your cheek to hide just how giddy he’d made you feel in that very moment. You suppose there wasn’t even a reason to feel as such, but that hadn’t mattered; the feeling occurred whenever it so pleased, and it was more often than not it seemed.

You reached the end of the long driveway and took his hand without a second thought, sharing a smile before apparating from the property.

In mere dizzying seconds you had appeared in the ever familiar and unfrequented alleyway, taking a moment to adjust before stepping into foot traffic along with everyone else in the town. It wasn’t as busy as some days it could be, but regardless it was always a fun trip to walk about, it was cozy.

Almost in the very same moment did the two of you realize you’d still been holding hands, releasing the other as you looked your separate ways for just a second. He’d wanted to reach out and hold it once more, to interlock his fingers with yours. He hadn’t really wanted to let go. You risked a glance and he risked his and it wasn’t hard to tell when Ron Weasley has been fighting a smile. Perhaps what was more obvious was the little yellow flower that somehow still remained in his hair. You decided then and there not to mention it.

The denim of your jacket proved to be far less warm than you had thought it to be, or maybe it’d just gotten colder. Either way, as you walked down that sidewalk, you weren’t ready to let Ron know he’d been right in telling you to wear something heavier before you left the house. He always seemed to be right about those kinds of things.

Ron grabbed your wrist to keep you from walking past the bakery, his grin teasing as he held open the green painted door. You were far too distracted by him for your own good.

The smell of coffee and sweets had been instant upon entering, a little bell overhead signaling your entrance into the small yet cozy shop. The showcase had been filled with fresh pastries and baked goods, the line not yet as lengthy it surely would be now that Hazel had switched the sign to ‘open’.

The kind older woman had greeted you as warmly as she did each and every time she’d seen you, making a point to pinch Ron’s cheeks much like his own mother had.

“Hazel! We’ve talked about this,” Ron whines, rubbing his newly reddened cheeks.

“Oh hush, my dear boy,” she says, turning to you. “How do you put up with him?”

You laugh at that, shrugging your shoulders. “I must admit, it is but a wonder indeed, Hazel.”

You look to Ron who’d furrowed his brows at you, lips pursed in faux offense as you smile beamingly up at him. One that dissolved any look to displeasure. One that caused the woman behind the counter to nearly gush about what a wonderful couple you’d be, something that was also very much like his mother.

You placed your order and asked for extra, knowing if you hadn’t that surely Ron would have eaten far too many for Molly not to notice. Though you knew for a fact she’d be able to tell either way. She talked you into staying for just a little bit longer, the promise of hot cocoa far too enticing to turn down as you still felt the shivering effects of the chilly fall weather.

—

“You really thought I’d eat three muffins?” Ron scoffs, mouth full as a few crumbs fall past his lips.

You roll your eyes and shake your head as you walk down the cracked sidewalk, the steaming paper bag clutched in your hand. “You’ve eaten two already.”

“Did I?” He asks, brows furrowed as he halts momentarily to recall it. The genuine shock and confusion painted on his expression had you laughing as you grabbed his hand, tugging him along the walkway before any more passers by all but run into you with looks of annoyance.

“Yes, you did,” you giggle, releasing his hand to link your arm with his once more.

“Well, they’re really good,” he defends as you continue walking. “Really good.”

You look up at him then, a soft smile on your lips as you do so. His cheeks were stained a soft pink from the chilly weather, accentuating the freckles dancing across them and the very bridge of his nose. At the curve of his smile and the dimples that formed when he did just that. Or perhaps it was the near unruly ginger hair that dipped over his forehead and covered his ears; he had yet to get a haircut much to his mother’s dismay. He was starting to resemble his fourth year self, a hair length he’d claimed he hated so very much but you were beginning to think otherwise.

“Are you staring?” He asks a short while later, a more than knowing grin on his lips that sent your stomach into a fit of butterflies and knots.

“You’ve got food on your face, how could I not?” You counter, though the scarlet in your cheeks is far too obvious. It was true, there were crumbs in the corner of his mouth that needed to be swept away, but you were not ready in the slightest to admit your admiring. “Plus you’ve still got that flower in your hair.”

His hand is quick to fly up and pluck it out, looking at the delicate little thing as his cheeks burned once more. So that was what Hazel was talking about. He smiles then with a soft laugh, stopping your stride once more to tuck it behind your ear.

“There, looks much better on you,” he mumbles, smile soft and adoring, one that lingered long after he’d looked away.

“I beg to differ.”

You’d noticed just how gloomy the sky had been, clouds puffy and gray as the breeze intensified just the slightest bit. It wasn’t something you minded, for it was rather scenic amongst the rapidly dwindling buildings the closer you got to the Burrow. You both had decided a walk back would be best given the bag of sweets you now have, not to mention the hot chocolates you each had provided just enough warmth for you to do so.

A sigh left your lips, one of contentment as you walked back in a comfortable silence and you rest your head on his shoulder. Your arm still hooked with his as he slowed his pace for you to keep up with him, and he’d since taken the bag from your hand so you wouldn’t have to carry it. It was the little things that you noticed that others might not; the little things that meant the most to you, that made your heart flutter. Like the way he will always wait for you when something catches your eye in a shop, not an ounce of impatience in him like he may have had with his siblings. Or how he’d save a plate of breakfast for you when you stay at his home because you’d woken up later than his brothers. It left your heart full.

He hadn’t been aware that you’d noticed those kinds of things; he finds he isn’t even aware of it sometimes. Living you had become second nature at this point, it was expressed in nearly everything he did. You were woven into his very heart and hadn’t even known as such. He doesn’t know how he made it quite this far without going absolutely mad, without his heart bursting in his chest every time you look at him the way you do. Every time you smile at him the way you do. It was his hopes that you’d reserved those kinds of looks, those kinds of smiles for just him. It had been his hope that somehow, someway, you had felt the same way.

He knew with all the certainty in the world that he needed to tell you. He doesn’t think he can go another day without telling you as such. He knows he can’t; he loved you from afar for nearly four years. If you don’t feel the same, if it’s all over after his confession, he can take this moment with him. Of your head on his shoulder, of the way you held his hand that day, of the way you looked at him. It needed to be spoken no matter how much it made his hands shake. He almost lost you in that war and he decided he couldn’t risk not telling you.

You reached the familiar stretch of trees lining the vacant road, the breeze having intensified more noticeably. The walk had been quiet save for the chirping of the birds and the crinkle if the bag Ron held, or the crunch of leaves and gravel under your feet. You couldn’t have asked for a better way to spend your afternoon, especially with the knowledge of the warm meal Molly had been preparing for dinner that night. The whole Weasley family would be there, Harry would be there, Hermione would be there. It was plans that made your stomach flip with excitement.

It wasn’t until then, at the very opening of the near dauntingly long dirt driveway that the rain had started to drizzle steadily. You suppose you expected it at that point, with the puffy gray clouds that rapidly blew over any and all sunlight, it had become more than evident that that would be the case.

You gasped upon the weathers sudden change in plans regardless, the icy downpour taking you by surprise. A jovial laugh soon sounded from your lips as you threw your hands up, looking around as it came down and rolled off the tri-colored leaves. They too fluttered down in a flurry of reds and oranges, and you were certain you’d never seen something quite so beautiful, quite so enchanting.

Spotting a nearby shelter beneath the branches of one of the large trees, you grabbed Ron’s hand, ready to pull him along with you though you quickly noticed he hasn’t budged any more than just a few steps. You turned to him then, rather confused in that moment and the more you stood exposed to the sudden storm the less useful it became to seek shelter from it. None of it seemed to matter as he stood there and gazed at you, ginger hair darkened a few shades as it stuck to his forehead and flushed cheeks. The smile on his face was quite possibly the softest you’d ever seen it be, and it held something different, remarkably different and you couldn’t put your finger on what it was. Though it seemed to be far too much as he looked away from you momentarily as if to gather himself, a soft laugh leaving his lips.

Everything felt that much more intense in that moment, and he felt as though his breath was caught in his throat as he stood before you. You were confused, that much was clear. You were still holding his hand in yours, still smiling at him with that smile. That had also been very clear. You were doused in the downpour and his heart beat wildly with each passing second, and if he opened and closed his mouth one more time he felt as though he just might look like an absolute fool.

“What are you doing?” You asked, taking a step closer as you look at him quizzically, “We’re just about soaked and you hate the rain—”

“I love you.”

The three words were spoken then, almost unheard against the heavy rain. They were soft and they were true, how could you not have heard them? Yet even though they clearly were, very clearly, it still hadn’t quite registered to you just exactly what he had just said. You couldn’t believe what you had heard.

“What?” You ask, a soft laugh leaving your lips. Not one of mocking, more of giddy surprise.

“I said I love you,” He repeats louder as he swallowed thickly, accompanied by a nervous laugh of his own as he wipes the wet strands of his hair out of his eyes.

The more time that had gone by, no matter how fleeting it made have been, the butterflies in his stomach were relentless. By this point the rain was of no importance, trying to stay dry was of no importance anymore. What was important was the way you grasped his flannel jacket and leaned on your toes, and the way you pressed your lips on his. Or the way you smiled against his lips as he pulled you close to him, as close as possible, dropping the soaked paper bag of pastries to the ground in favor of settling his hand on your cheek and tangling his fingertips in your hair.

You couldn’t help the quiet giggle that was threatening to break your moment; maybe it was the sheer loving intensity of it, or the fact that this was real and this was happening. But the way he kissed you, the way your heart beat so loudly you thought he could hear it, that’s what had kept you in that very real moment.

When you parted you hadn’t strayed more than a few inches as you looked up at him, beamed, his smile equally so as the two of you laughed softly. It was one of giddy love, of an unexpected moment of bliss. The feeling that the person you loved so wholly loved you back just as much. It was that kind of laugh.

“I love you,” you say, laughing once more as your foreheads touched in the fond moment. The tip of his nose had been flushed from the cold nipping at his skin, his smile brilliant and adoring and entirely telling of his love. “I love you.”

You kiss him again, soft and quick as you grabbed his hand before you spoke up after a short while to relish in your moment. “We’d better go inside!”

“Yeah,” he laughs, nodding in agreement even if he was perfectly content to stay there and kiss you. “I think we better.”

You pulled him along the muddy path as he laughed behind you at your antics. The two of you were breathless and soaked and still in a daze from the kiss you’d just shared mere moments ago as you rushed through the door. The look on Molly’s face changed from startled to quizzical as she took note of the sheer nothingness in either of your hands, her lips pursing and her arms crossing.

“Just where are the muffins? And the cookies?”

Ron looks to you with a smile and you the same, laughing softly amongst yourselves at the realization of just where they had been. The sight of your kiss swollen lips and flushed cheeks was telling enough of the reasoning such a blunder occurred. Not to mention the way the tips of his fingers still grasped yours. She knew. “We must’ve forgotten.”

He hadn’t broken his gaze from you quite yet as he spoke, far too lovestruck to do so. Far too enamored.

—

Tags: @anchoeritic @ch0colatefr0gs @vogueweasley @amourtentiaa @hahee154hq @snitches-at-dawn @dracosathenaeum @awritingtree @lupinsclassroom @harrysweasleys @theweasleysredhair @writeroutoftime

[scrumptiouslittlesimp]

hey!! can i ask for a scenario where xiao maybe has a sister and they don't get along well because she likes humans and their emotions and he is rather yeah, yk, against it because of his duties?♡ as long as you feel comfortable with it of course! ty in advance and have a good day/night!♡♡

Heyyo there! I’m gonna try my best to fulfill your request, but please do know that this is my first request so I’m kinda like kshSJFH panicking and that I made the sibling y/n, you can pretend it’s like a new random character or you can make it you yourself, you didn’t specify so I tried to make it customizable

•~~~•

genre: fluffy angst

word count: 933 words

pairing: xiao x sibling!reader (platonic)

warning: siblings fighting, mentions of a ruin hunter (yes that itself deserves a warning.)

Summary: although he was against you being with mortals, maybe he can set aside your differences, just for you, that’s what siblings are for, right?

note: I’ve never written something for siblings so I hope I didn’t mess it up too bad.

Walking in the roads of Liyue and conversing with everyone you see was your favorite pass time, and being an adepti, you had a lot of free time when you weren’t slaughtering monsters to protect the city with your brother. Yes, adepti’s can have siblings, and luckily yours was still alive after the archon war.

His name is Xiao, hes cold and distant, but you knew that it was because of all the things he had been through. You had been through the same but you didn’t let it change you, when Morax took you both under his wing, you started to be more optimistic, you had more hope and thought that life could be better.

It was hard to cope but you managed. He didn’t like it when you spoke with mortals. He thought it was useless, what was the point of talking to someone who would sooner or later die much sooner than you? You tried to explain it to him countless times, that talking to mortals isn’t just a useless past time, but he never listened, too stubborn to change his views.

y/n’s pov

The cold wind passes by and I shiver, pulling closer to Xiao so that he will protect me from the wind. “Can we visit Barbados and ask him to make the wind a little calmer please,” I jokingly said to Xiao. He let’s out an unamused sigh as I smile, I know for a fact he was smiling on the inside.

We were casually walking around Luhua Pool, I somehow managed to drag my brother out to take a walk, taking him away from his precious time alone. As we walk, the water shines brightly as the moonlight shone on the clear liquid. The silence was cut short as we hear a loud scream.

We hurriedly went to where the scream was come from and there was a ruin hunter shooting missiles down on a man. I quickly activated my geo elemental skill to create a shield to protect me and the man. Xiao activates his skill and uses his polearm to stab right where its ‘eye’ was.

The missiles stopped and I deactivated my skill as Xiao takes his mask off. “Are you okay? Were you hit anywhere?” I quickly asked, if there were any fatal wounds we would need to bring him to a healer as soon as you could.

“I-I’m alright, I sprained my ankle but it will heal by itself,” He says, still trying to calm down from the near-death experience that he went through. I sling his arm around my shoulder and bring him up to stand.

“What are you doing?” Xiao asks as he watches me support the man and pass the man’s bag to him. “I’m helping him get home, mind accompanying me?” I said, I know it was a bad idea, Xiao hated it when I interact with humans more than I needed to.

His eyes turned sharp but since it would be rude to deny at this point he quietly grabbed the bag and the man showed us the way to get to him home.

We arrived at his house and we dropped him off, wishing him a fast recovery. “What was that?” Xiao asks me, aggression clear with his tone. "I was trying to help a human, that's what I was doing," I retorted back, annoyed that he had to even ask.

"Why did you even bother trying to help him when he was able to go home alone?" He asks, at this point we might have a full blown fight again. "I was trying to be a good person Xiao, even if he could have gone home alone, he would have been in pain," I closed my eyes, scared that I would look more aggressive then I actually was.

"Don't you remember what we had to do before morax took us under his wing? We had to eat their dreams and kill them, if they knew that we had done those things, do you think they will still believe in us?" He said, his aura turning into the aggressive dark green. He was right, if they knew all of the evil deeds that we did, they would most likely never believe in us again.

"I'm trying to atone for what I've done Xiao… we have been adepti's for so long and we still have a long time to go so I'm trying to atone for the evil deads that I have done," I explained, my voice getting a lot softer. Xiao however, wasn't backing down, "we have been protecting the people of liyue for centuries, don't you think it's enough to atone for our sins?" He exclaimed, his brows furrowing.

It was rare to see Xiao aggravated and annoyed, he was usually constantly neutral and in control, but I suppose since I am his sister after all, he would be a little more emotional than usual. "To me the contract with morax is us paying him back for all he has done for us, me helping the civilians one by one is my way of atoning the lives that I have taken and all the dreams that I have eaten," I explained, sitting down on the grass as I played with the silk flowers that I plucked from the bush beside me.

Xiao shakes his head, showing that he still didn't understand me, "I still don't understand you," he starts, sitting down next to me and pushed my head so that my head would be leaning on his shoulder, "but although I don't understand, for you my dear sister, I'll try,"

[lemonlushff-iy]

War Bride

Knight Kagome

Mad Scientist

Bakery Inu/Kag (different from Petits Délices)

DT Holiday

Mail Order Husband

Virus

oh! Please! 1, 2, and 6. Can you tell us more?

@kawaiichan67​ I SWEAR I HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN!!! I was just waiting to get off work and then also get onto my computer again so I could answer this the way it deserved to be answered!!

Thank you SO SO SO much for the ask!!

In order:

1: War Bride is a fic where Inuyasha is a soldier from America in WWII, and once it’s over...he’s one of the ones occupying Japan. There, he falls in love with Kagome, and marries her, bringing her back to the states as his “war bride”. It was a very common occurrence for these men, and laws were actually made to help expedite things to make it so that soldiers could, in fact, bring these war brides home. I’ve read a few articles on it while doing research for “Not for All the Tea in China”, and I am FASCINATED by it, and really want to try my hand at that once. 

TEASER:

Inuyasha’s breath puffed out before him in the cold, December air. His joints ached as he slowly moved through the cemetery, the stone grave markers lined forming neat, tight rows. It had been a week since he had been here last. He always tried to visit once a week. 

The thought of her here alone…

He spotted his late wife’s marker and smiled. The pang in his heart was still as fresh as the day he had lost her. It still tightened painfully in his chest. His breath still hitched in his clogged throat. They said time healed all wounds…

Time couldn’t dull this pain, however. 

He set up the folding chair on her small polt as he arrived, bending down to rub the marker endearingly. The sun had warmed the stone slightly in the chill of the air, and if he closed his eyes...he could pretend that the hardness he felt under his wrinkled, weathered fingers was her soft, pliable skin. He could pretend that he cupped her cheek as she laid in their bed beside him, the way he had thousands of times before. 

“Merry Christmas, Koishii,” he greeted lovingly, his deep voice rough with age and emotion. 

The wind picked up around him - just a gentle breeze, really - but he chose to believe that she was reaching out to him too. 

“Merry Christmas, Inuyasha…” 

He longed to hear those words from her. 

“Moroha is coming by later,” he began chipperly, shoving his frail hands into his jacket pockets. “She’s bringing the boy and the kids too.”

He still “lovingly” referred to his son in law as “the boy”. It was more of a tease now - something said with a twinkle in his eye. Inuyasha might not have liked the man when he first showed up...but...Moroha was their only child. His special princess. It was something Kagome would tell him to not do, but he and “the boy” had a bit of an understanding now. 

He had seen the look in the man’s eyes when he looked at his little girl. 

It was the same one he had once had in his eye when he had first seen Kagome, back in Japan after the end of World War II. 

“Do you remember the day we met, Kagome?” he pondered aloud, knowing that he wouldn’t receive a response. Still, he asked all the same. 

He liked talking to her, even if he would never again receive a response. 

“You were working at that department store…” he began, closing his eyes, and he was transported to a different time and place. 

2: Knight Kagome is just...me toying with a concept. Inuyasha is the unwanted child of a duke Touga. Kagome is a powerful knight. He marries Inuyasha off to her (for a reason I haven’t decided on...something battley related) and the pair slowly falls in love. 

This is actually all I have for that one...

TEASER:

She was beautiful. 

He couldn’t help but sneak glances at her from under his lashes at the altar. Her wedding dress. The braids in her black hair. If her stormy blue eyes hadn’t been downtrodden, he might have believed for a moment that the smile on her face was real. 

That she actually wanted to marry him. 

But. Then again. Who would ever want to marry him. Inuyasha. Bastard half-breed son of the great duke toga Takahashi, and a maid who had caught his eye. He’s only had to rut her a few times before she’s been whelped. 

He’d never even met her. She died as he was born. She hadn’t even had the strength to look upon his face as he drew his first breath. 

The priest continued to drone on before them, and he found himself stealing another glance at her. 

So beautiful. So powerful. How the hell had his father twisted her arm into wedding him. He hadn’t heard the details. He only knew that Kagome would become his wife, and then, shortly after, she would take their place on the battlefield. As a knight and a magician, she was powerful. She hadn’t earned any titles yet, but that was sure to follow. 

He could feel the power radiating off of her, even now. Her strength. Her magic. 

He shifted his golden gaze away from her as she tilted her head ever so slightly to look at him. His breath caught in his throat and he silently tried to calm himself. 

6: Mail Order Husband...Oh. My. God. I have had this idea since HIGH SCHOOL. Kagome doesn’t have time for love. She’s lonely...but her job is her world and nothing will stand in her way of her dreams of becoming a top exec at a fashion magazine. She thinks she has it all. The looks. The apartment. The friends...but...one night after a long day of work, there’s a knock on her door...and when she answers it, she’s swept into the arms of a stranger who proceeds to kiss her. 

And tell her he’s her husband. 

Maybe she doesn’t have the friends she thought she did. 

...Or does she?

TEASER: 

Kagome sighed as she toed off her high heels, gently scooting them to the side with her foot, next to her island. She peeled out of her blazer as she walked further into her apartment, ditching it onto the closest arm chair, rubbing the back of her neck. 

God she was exhausted. And she wasn’t looking forward to tomorrow, but...that was a “future her” issue. She didn’t want to mull over work anymore right now. All she wanted was her grubhub to arrive so she could have some sushi, pour some wine, and watch the real housewives of atlanta. 

Their shit was always worlds better than her own. Their drama made her forget about her drama...and she fucking hated drama. When she was involved, of course. 

She still wanted to know 200% of it. 

Just leave her out of it. 

She meandered over to her bathroom and pulled her hair up into a loose ponytail at the top of her head, removing her jewelry. She would have completely changed, but...frankly...she knew that dinner would be arriving soon and she’d rather open the door with her bra on. 

That didn’t mean that she couldn’t get a little more comfortable first though. Try and wipe away some of the traces of her hellish day at work. 

That fucking magazine…

It was her blood. Her life. And they made her bleed for it. The deadlines were crazy, the stress insane, and her bosses even more so. Yet...she wouldn’t trade her life for anything. It was her dream job, and she had sacrificed a lot to get here. 

A social life, at times. Definitely love. 

This was what the trade off was for working at one of the most in demand, read, and famous fashion magazines in the world. 

She rolled her shoulders, before washing her face, drying it with a towel behind her. It was a bit better, but she didn’t feel refreshed. She felt exhausted, and now that the makeup was gone, she could see the bags under her blue eyes. She loved her eyes...was that conceited to say?

She didn’t know anymore after working for them. 

But she did.

They were large and round...had heard from many men before that it was like looking into the depths of an ocean and...frankly...she had to agree. They were one of her most striking features, next to her delicate features. Nose, cheekbone...brows...If she didn’t enjoy food, she had been told that she could have been a model. As it were, however, that wasn’t a path she wanted for herself anyways. 

She exited the bathroom, flicking off the light as she made her way back into her kitchen, opening the fridge door and taking out a new bottle of wine. Chardonnay. She had picked it up a few days ago, and nothing like her hell day to make her want to dip into it. 

She grabbed the corkscrew and began working it into the bottle as a knock came from her door, and she sighed in relief. 

“Sushi,” she grinned, placing the bottle onto her counter as she strode towards the door. “You have good timing!” she called out, placing her hand on the knob, turning it. “I’m famished!”

What greeted her on the other side of the door didn’t look like a grubhub man. 

Afterall. 

Grubhub brought you food.

Not suitcases. 

“Hello?” she greeted, raising her brow at the man before her. Long silver hair, nervous yet excited golden eyes...His smile was shy but endearing. 

“Kagome?” he whispered, almost as if he couldn’t believe it. 

“Yes?” she replied slowly - hesitantly. Who the hell was he and how the hell did he even know her name?

“Kagome,” he grinned widely, sweeping her into his arms, his lips planting themselves firmly on her lips. 

She squealed as he began kissing her, his hands winding into her hair, his hand gently moving to lovingly caress the small of her back. She had no idea who the hell this man was...or why the fuck he was kissing her, but she didn’t like it!

Well…

She did…

But it was creepy as fuck and she didn’t like it!

She wormed her hands between their bodies and gave him a firm push, staggering backwards into her apartment. 

“What the fuck!” she demanded, running the back of her hand against her lips, and he looked absolutely crushed. 

“W-what?”

“Who the hell are you and why the hell did you just kiss me!”

“W-who...K-kagome…”

She darted over towards the butcher block on her counter holding her knives and grabbed one as he entered  her apartment. 

“Kagome! It’s me! Inuyasha!”

“You say that like it should mean something to me,” she growled lowly, keeping her knife pointed at him. She wasn’t letting him get any closer to her if she could help it. 

If only she were closer to her phone...Then she could maybe call for help. 

“I...We’re getting married,” he breathed, his face confused. Saddened. 

“What?!” she shrieked. This guy had to have a few marbles loose. 

“Do you...Kagome Higurashi?”

“That’s my name,” she nodded. “But I’m definitely not getting married, buddy…”

“I don’t understand…” he whispered. He looked like he was on the verge of crying, and her heart softened a little. This man...Inuyasha...whoever he was...Seemed completely and totally baffled. 

“L-look. Maybe there’s another Kagome Higurashi that’s out there that you’re supposed to get married to. What...why don’t you...Shit,” she sighed. He looked so sad. He didn’t seem like a threat. He seemed as confused and befuddled as she did. She wasn’t going to put down the knife, but maybe she should take a few deep breaths and try and figure out what the hell was going on. Maybe ask him why the hell he had two large suitcases outside her apartment. 

“Why don’t you grab those and come inside,” she began again, trying to keep her words soft. They had gotten off on the wrong foot, but she was willing to start over and try and help him out. He just looked so lost...Like...A puppy. 

She could see him worrying the inside of his cheek, as he thought over her words before nodding and stepping outside to grab his suitcases. 

Why the hell did he need suitcases?

He moved to close the door but she stopped him. She would rather leave it open in case her judgement was inpaired. Frankly, it wouldn’t surprise her if it was. What was she thinking anyways?

...That there was a strange lost man who needed help...who looked absolutely devastated...and she was going to help him out. Because she was a good person. 

Fuck. 

“Why don’t you leave that open,” she voiced, and he glanced back up at her in confusion, before understanding flooded his eyes. “I have dinner on the way,” she explained, but he didn’t look like he completely believed that. 

It was true though!

God...There went her relaxing night of sushi and wine and reality tv...She could already feel it as she removed her blazer from the chair, gesturing for him to sit down. He jerkily nodded, and slumped down, trying to find the words to explain his sudden appearance. 

Her standing probably wasn’t helping to ease him much...So she reluctantly decided to sit on the couch across from him, making sure they had plenty of distance - and a coffee table - between them. 

“Why don’t you tell me who you are, and why you’re here?” she prompted softly, and he nodded his head. She watched his fingers as they began to nervously pick at his nails, and she had to bite her tongue to tell him to stop. 

“My name is Inuyasha Takahashi,” he began slowly. “And I’m here to marry a woman named Kagome Higurashi. We met online six month ago...And...I’m sorry, I just...You even look like her…” he sighed, closing his eyes. “I can’t believe this is happening…”

He leaned forward, propping his head up on his knees as the heels of his hands pressed into his eyes. 

“I should have known better,” he chuckled dryly to himself. “Twelve hours on a plan and you...she...wouldn’t even come and pick me up from the airport?”

“W-what?” she sputtered. “Who the hell is this woman?”

“You! I thought!” he replied in exasperation. “I...Do you have a computer?” he swallowed. “Maybe it will be easier if I just...Can I show you? Please…”

“Yeah. Sure! Of-of course. Hold on,” she nodded, picking up the knife and packing out of the room, keeping her front to him as she made her way into her bedroom. She had left it on her nightstand last night, and now would be the perfect time to grave her phone too. 

Just in case. 

She had left it in the bathroom when she was washing her face, and when she grabbed it off the white and black marbled counter, she was surprised to see a littony of missed phone calls from her friends. Eri, Yuka, Yumi...What the hell did they want?

She shook her head and decided to table that for another time. 

She was already having a hell of a night. She really didn’t want to add their issues to it too. 

She left her bedroom, laptop, phone and knife in hand, and found he hadn’t left his spot. His eyes were red, and glossy, and it made her heart ache for him a little. He seemed so sweet and genuine…

“Here,” she offered, handing him her computer. 

He mumbled out his thanks, opening it and scrolling and typing away. When he was done, he handed the computer back to her, and she was flabbergasted. 

He had taken her to...what appeared to be...A website for mail order husbands?! She didn’t even know that was a thing!

“Kagome and I met about six months ago and it was…” he smiled wistfully. “I felt a connection to her almost instantly. You can...read through everything,” he blushed sweetly, and she absently found herself thinking how precious he looked. “I asked her a few months back if she...would like to move forward with an agreement, and she accepted. We were supposed to be getting married this week,” he whispered, looking down at his hands clasped between his knees. 

“Inuyasha...I…”

“Please,” he insisted. “There are photos that we exchanged,” he blushed. “And she...she looked just like you.”

She swallowed and nodded, her fingers scrolling through the exchange of messages...and she was stunned. 

Everything he had told her appeared to be true. He had been in touch with a Kagome Higurashi...He had agreed to come to New York to be with her...And the bitch had stolen photos of her. 

“Oh my God,” she breathed, and he winced. “I...I know when all of these photos were taken...My brother’s birthday...Pool party with Eri...Weekend away with Yuka…”

Wait. 

No. 

No.

Her heart was racing as an absolutely absurd idea struck her. 

Her friends wouldn’t have...Couldn’t have…

She scrolled up further and found a picture of the four of them at her birthday. 

The pictures. The missed phone calls. 

Please. 

Dear god let her be wrong…

Her phone started ringing again, startling them both. 

Eri...

[pendragyn]

Ask Not For Whom The Bell Tolls (It Tolls For They)

an excerpt of my fic set during/after the church scene...

[...]

“Little demonic miracle of my own. Lift home?” Crowley had to make themself walk away after the jolt they’d felt from their hands brushing. They didn’t let themself look back, stalking away and wondering if Aziraphale would accept the offer. Almost hoped the angel wouldn’t, knowing they themself didn’t have the willpower to stay away, not when the angel looked at them the way they had as they’d accepted the books. As though it was a real courting gift, as though something lasting could come of it. As though Aziraphale had ever felt as Crowley had and still did.

Aziraphale looked down at the bag and up at Crowley’s retreating back, and inwardly at their own jumble of feelings and those that had come through with their first physical contact in centuries. Love. Their heart soared with terror and hope. They love me. They love me! As much as I love them! The euphoria was gone in an instant. In love, with a demon. A demon strong enough to walk on consecrated ground. How can this be anything but a trap? Aziraphale’s eyes drifted back down to the books, at war with themself, but called out, “Wait!”

Crowley stopped at the verge of the church’s property, at war with themself, but turned to face Aziraphale as they scrambled cautiously over the wreckage. “Their car should be around here somewhere.”

“Oh, I, I suppose so,” Aziraphale agreed, putting their hat back on and falling into step with Crowley. “It’s not that far to walk. Did it on the way here.”

“Might be another pass tonight. Might be they had friends. Rather be able to get out fast,” said Crowley, relieved to spot an undamaged car down the road a ways. Crowley snarled silently at the lingering scent of demon in the vehicle, but it was too faint to identify. “To the bookstore? I mean, if you’re still in the same building,” they covered when Aziraphale gave them a startled look.

“I am,” Aziraphale admitted, sitting stiffly in the passenger seat, clinging desperately to the books as Crowley started the engine and zoomed away. They wondered, at how much Crowley might have forgotten in the years they had been apart. Did they remember anything of their friendship before the fall, or just their infrequent times together after? It was probably too much to hope they’d bothered to remember much, after removing themself so completely from Aziraphale’s life, but, but, for Aziraphale to be able to sense their love, after so long apart… It had to be more than just nostalgia, more than just a fondness for an old friend, didn’t it?

It was a blessedly short trip and when Crowley stopped at the darkened book store, Aziraphale found themself saying, “Would you like a drink? I owe you at least that.”

Crowley stared at them for a long moment, still fighting themself over doing what was best and doing what they so desperately wanted, and finally gave a mute nod of agreement, following Aziraphale inside. It was dusty, in a way that surprised Crowley, with the books stacked haphazardly and covered in cobwebs, and a faint smell of mildew and rot that was too real to be an illusion. “Let it go a bit,” Crowley blurted, following Aziraphale into the back where their little apartment was set up. It wasn’t much, a little kitchenette, a table with a few chairs piled high with books, a dusty wardrobe in a corner and a couch that had seen better days. It had all seen better days and when Aziraphale cautiously lit a little oil lamp by the stove Crowley realized that even the angel was looking the worse for wear around the edges.

“Oh, yes, some,” said Aziraphale, carefully pulling the books from the bag and returning them to their spots on the only shelf that had been dusted with any regularity. “Didn’t seem much point in opening since the war started.” They frowned to see Crowley still standing and hastily shuffled books off the table and chairs.

“No, I suppose not,” Crowley murmured, taking a seat. It was bittersweet being back there, the first time since Paris, remembering Aziraphale’s excitement as they talked about how they were going to organize the shop and what they were going to do to keep customers to a minimum.

Aziraphale also sat but bounced back up, twisting their ring nervously as they chattered and went to dig out something to drink. “I, er, I made a deal with a farmer, for them to keep my more valuable things on their farm so I’m afraid the best I can offer you is cider—”

“It’s fine, angel,” Crowley soothed, reaching out but quickly withdrawing before Aziraphale could notice the gesture. “You don’t have to give me anything in return. For old time’s sake.”

“I’ll never drink it alone,” Aziraphale told the cabinet truthfully, afraid to turn around and see pity on Crowley’s face. Drinking alone made them remember, made them think of all the things they’d lost. Who they’d lost. “Be a favor to me, really, if you help me get rid of it.”

Crowley knew they should go, but Aziraphale had been their friend, had been their only friend, their best friend, for years on end, and they couldn’t leave, not without a little more stolen time in their company. Not hearing that desperately lonely note in their voice that they could feel like a stab to the heart and knew they’d hear in their own voice if they let it. Maybe there’d be a chance to make them laugh at some silly joke, a chance to once more see the laugh lines crinkle around their eyes as they pretended to scold for some thing or another. “Well, be a shame to let it go to waste.”

∞

What was at first hesitant and stilted conversation eventually eased as they kept to safe topics, mostly complaining about their bosses, which soon eased even further into shared memories of days long gone. The night wore on and as the supply of very strong, specially made and definitely not blessed, more like the opposite of blessed cider diminished, so did their inhibitions and higher thought processes.

The demon was on a rambling monologue about spies and double agents that Aziraphale had zoned out of an hour earlier, and they were instead just watching Crowley as they got up to pour themself another drink; taking in every movement and gesture, the curve of their cheek, the gleam of lamplight on their fiery hair. When they turned and looked over the top of their glasses to give Aziraphale an inviting grin, the angel lost their breath at the emotions that seized around their heart like a fist. I love them. I love them so much.

Aziraphale couldn’t hear anything but their heart pounding in their ears as they sank back onto the couch and unfurled their wings and their auras just so, a plea and an offering, holding out their hands, their throat too full of emotion to say anything but, “Crowley.”

Crowley’s empty glass slipped from their fingers and bounced away, and their glasses soon followed as they were drawn across the space by the absolutely radiant love pouring from Aziraphale’s eyes. “Aziraphale,” they breathed, unfurling their own wings, gasping as their outer auras met and meshed, and then their lips were on Aziraphale’s and their hands were sinking into blond curls and shimmering feathers, holding on for dear life as Aziraphale kissed them back. “Aziraphale!” It was an oath and a prayer as their inner auras brushed, and mingled and meshed and they moaned against each other’s lips. “Yes!”

“Yes!” A mindlessly jubilant euphoria blazed within Aziraphale like a wildfire at the contact, searing away all caution. They didn’t even consider the superficial, and therefore safe, unions afforded by physical or auraic touch, instead surrendering to the soul-deep yearning that had simmered unacknowledged for millennia, murmuring, “For you, Crowley, anything for you—”

Crowley was seized by a senselessly fierce exultant joy that jolted through them like lightning when the angel said those words, and they threw caution to the wind when the radiance of Aziraphale’s firmament brushed their outer aura, bringing them only a thought away from reciprocating when a bell, a church-bell, deep and sonorous and painfully loud rang out and continued to ring with a sense of desperation.

Crowley wretched themself out of Aziraphale’s embrace, pressing their hands over their ears, gasping for breath, horrified at what they’d almost done. They’d been a heartbeat away from turning their best friend into a demon, from dragging Aziraphale down to hell by selfishly taking advantage of their generous and caring nature. Had been moments from destroying the one thing in the entire universe they cared about more than life itself. Saved them from a betrayal only to be the one to almost cause their fall instead. What kind of monster does that? Unforgivable.

“Crowley?” What had just a moment earlier been euphoria crashed and burned beneath the disgust in Crowley’s eyes and the reality of what they had almost done. Crowley had put themself in harm’s way to help a friend, and their so-called friend had almost doomed them in return with their pathetic neediness. What kind of pathetic fool mistakes physical desire for a courting overture? If Crowley hadn’t recoiled, the mingling of their firmaments would have marked Crowley as a traitor to hell and they would have been destroyed for it, and it would have been entirely Aziraphale’s fault. “Crowley, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, please—”

“No, no,” Crowley murmured as they backed away and when Aziraphale reached out, they fled. And worse than the still ringing church bell was the sound of Aziraphale’s pleading sobs echoing in Crowley’s mind, begging the unforgivable for forgiveness.

∞

Read the entire tragic fic on AO3

[kookie-doughs]

Y/N L/N AND THE HALFBLOODS

Percy Jackson X Reader

-Y/N L/N met Percy Jackson and everything was now ruined.

CHAPTER 13: I Have Trust Issues But Okay

We spent two days on the Amtrak train, heading west through hills, over rivers, past amber waves of grain. We weren't attacked once, but I didn't relax. I felt that we were traveling around in a display case, being watched from above and maybe from below, that something was waiting for the right opportunity. We tried to keep a low profile because Percy and I's name and picture were splattered over the front pages of several East Coast newspapers. It seemed like when they saw me with Percy they realized me and my family are gone. The Trenton Register-News showed a photo taken by a tourist as we got off the Greyhound bus. Percy had a wild look in my eyes. His sword was a metallic blur in his hands. It might've been a baseball bat or a lacrosse stick. I was holding his hand with my knife on the other hand. The picture's caption read: Twelve-year-old Percy Jackson, wanted for questioning in the Long Island disappearance of his mother two weeks ago, is shown here fleeing from the bus where he accosted several elderly female passengers. The bus exploded on an east New Jersey roadside shortly after Jackson fled the scene. Based on eyewitness accounts, police believe the boy may be traveling with three teenage accomplices. It has been found out one of which is Y/N L/N, a twelve-year-old girl who went missing with her family during a trip. Percy Jackson's stepfather, Gabe Ugliano, has offered a cash reward for information leading to his capture.

"Don't worry," Annabeth told Percy. "Mortal police could never find us." But she didn't sound so sure. The rest of the day we spent alternately pacing the length of the train (because I had a really hard time sitting still) or looking out the windows. Calm Once, I spotted a family of centaurs galloping across a wheat field, bows at the ready, as they hunted lunch. The little boy centaur, who was the size of a second-grader on a pony, caught my eye and waved. I looked around the passenger car, the adult riders all had their faces buried in laptop computers or magazines, Percy and I saw an amazed look. Another time, toward evening, Percy said he saw something huge moving through the woods. He swore it was a lion, except that lions don't live wild in America, and it was the size of a Hummer, then it leaped through the trees and was gone. I told him he might have been seeing things and Annabeth agreed. Our reward money for returning Gladiola the poodle had only been enough to purchase tickets as far as Denver. We couldn't get berths in the sleeper car, so we dozed in our seats. My neck got stiff. I sat between Percy and Annabeth. Grover kept snoring and bleating and waking Percy up. Once, he shuffled around and his fake foot fell off. Annabeth and I had to stick it back on before any of the other passengers noticed. "So," Annabeth asked me, once we'd gotten Grover's sneaker readjusted. "Who wants Percy's help?" "What do you mean?" "You heard it too didn't you? When he was asleep just now, he mumbled, 'I won't help you.' Has he told you what he's dreaming about?" "Gossiping about me?" Percy yawned. "Pretty much everyone is. So I think we'll join." I said. "Annabeth wants to know about your dream. I could tell he was reluctant to say anything. It was the second time he'd dreamed about it. Then he finally told her. Annabeth was quiet for a long time. "If you think it's Hades, that doesn't sound like Hades. He always appears on a black throne, and he never laughs." She pointed out. "He offered my mother in trade. Who else could do that?" We could. If you bring us together we could trade. "What?" Percy and Annabeth looked at me in worry. "Something on my face? Is there something close?" "Y/N, you did it again." Percy said. "Did what?" "You... Talked. Differently. Like weirdly." "Your definition of weird doesn't describe me. I did nothing wrong. I haven't even given an in put on your topic. Which we should get back on." I don't know why I had no idea what they meant by me talking weirdly, but I felt like I should stay away from that topic. "I guess ... if he meant, 'Help me rise from the Underworld.' If he wants war with the Olympians. But why ask you to bring him the master bolt if he already has it?" She explained looking at me as if I was the one that needed convincing. I shook my head, wishing I knew the answer. I thought about what Grover had told me, that the Furies on the bus seemed to have been looking for something. Where is it? Where? Maybe Grover sensed my emotions. He snorted in his sleep, muttered something about vegetables, and turned his head. Percy readjusted Grover's cap so it covered his horns. "Percy, you can't barter with Hades. You know that, right? He's deceitful, heartless, and greedy. I don't care if his Kindly Ones weren't as aggressive this time-" "This time?" I asked. "You mean you've run into them before?" Her hand crept up to her necklace. She fingered a glazed white bead painted with the image of a pine tree, one of her clay end-of-summer tokens. "Let's just say I've got no love for the Lord of the Dead. You can't be tempted to make a deal for your mom." "What would you do if it was your dad?" "That's easy," she said. "I'd leave him to rot." "You're not serious?" Annabeth's gray eyes fixed on me. She wore the same expression she'd worn in the woods at camp, the moment she drew her sword against the hellhound. "My dad's resented me since the day I was born," she said. "He never wanted a baby. When he got me, he asked Athena to take me back and raise me on Olympus because he was too busy with his work. She wasn't happy about that. She told him heroes had to be raised by their mortal parent." "But how ... I mean, I guess you weren't born in a hospital...." "I appeared on my father's doorstep, in a golden cradle, carried down from Olympus by Zephyr the West Wind. You'd think my dad would remember that as a miracle, right? Like, maybe he'd take some digital photos or something. But he always talked about my arrival as if it were the most inconvenient thing that had ever happened to him. When I was five he got married and totally forgot about Athena. He got a 'regular' mortal wife, and had two 'regular' mortal kids, and tried to pretend I didn't exist." I stared out the train window. The lights of a sleeping town were drifting by. I wanted to make Annabeth feel better. I don't know but the only way I could think of was a hug. So I wrapped and arm around her shoulders. She stiffened unsure of what I'd done. "My parents, they loved me all the same. The closet I got to talking about Gods was when they thought me. Not a single hint was dropped about me being a halfblood. I mean if you count my grandma Hestia. Which I think is just named after the goddess. I mean yeah, you had a not so wonderful life... But at least you're who you are now." I smiled at her. Eying Percy I gave him a nod towards Annabeth telling him to comfort her since he'd started it anyway. "My mom married a really awful guy," he told her. "Grover said she did it to protect me, to hide me in the scent of a human family. Maybe that's what your dad was thinking." Annabeth kept worrying at her necklace. She was pinching the gold college ring that hung with the beads. It occurred to me that the ring must be her father's. I wondered why she wore it if she hated him so much. "He doesn't care about me," she said. "His wife-my stepmom-treated me like a freak. She wouldn't let me play with her children. My dad went along with her. Whenever something dangerous happened-you know, something with monsters-they would both look at me resentfully, like, 'How dare you put our family at risk.' Finally, I took the hint. I wasn't wanted. I ran away." "How old were you?" "Same age as when I started camp. Seven." "But ... you couldn't have gotten all the way to Half-Blood Hill by yourself." "Not alone, no. Athena watched over me, guided me toward help. I made a couple of unexpected friends who took care of me, for a short time, anyway." I wanted to ask what happened, but Annabeth seemed lost in sad memories. Luke had already told me some of these part where he went here with Annabeth and Thalia. So I gazed out the train windows as the dark fields of Ohio raced by. Toward the end of our second day on the train, June 13, eight days before the summer solstice, we passed through some golden hills and over the Mississippi River into St. Louis. Annabeth craned her neck to see the Gateway Arch, which looked to me like a huge shopping bag handle stuck on the city. "I want to do that," she sighed. "What?" I asked. "Build something like that. You ever see the Parthenon, Y/N?" "Only in pictures." "Someday, I'm going to see it in person. I'm going to build the greatest monument to the gods, ever. Something that'll last a thousand years." Percy laughed. "You? An architect?" Her cheeks flushed. "Yes, an architect. Athena expects her children to create things, not just tear them down, like a certain god of earthquakes I could mention." "Percy! I think she'll be incredible." I pinched his arm. We watched the churning brown water of the Mississippi below. I took Percy's hand in fear that the water would just grab me and drag me down. "Sorry," Annabeth said. "That was mean." I nudged Percy to apologize as well, "I didn't mean to make fun of you. I'm sorry." "Can't you two work together a little?" I pleaded. "I mean, didn't Athena and Poseidon ever cooperate?" Annabeth had to think about it. "I guess ... the chariot," she said tentatively. "My mom invented it, but Poseidon created horses out of the crests of waves. So they had to work together to make it complete." "Then you two can cooperate, too. Right?" We rode into the city, Annabeth watching as the Arch disappeared behind a hotel. "I suppose," she said at last. We pulled into the Amtrak station downtown. The intercom told us we'd have a three-hour layover before departing for Denver. Grover stretched. Before he was even fully awake, he said, "Food." "Come on, goat boy," Annabeth said. "Sightseeing." "Sightseeing?" "The Gateway Arch," she said. "This may be my only chance to ride to the top. Are you coming or not?" Grover, Percy and I exchanged looks. I wanted to say no, but seeing the stars in Annabeth's as she watched, she was too adorable to say no to. Grover shrugged. "As long as there's a snack bar without monsters." The Arch was about a mile from the train station. Late in the day the lines to get in weren't that long. We threaded our way through the underground museum, looking at covered wagons and other junk from the 1800s. It wasn't all that thrilling, but Annabeth kept telling us interesting facts about how the Arch was built, and Grover kept passing me jelly beans, so I was okay. I kept looking around, though, at the other people in line. "You smell anything?" Percy murmured to Grover. He took his nose out of the jelly-bean bag long enough to sniff. "Underground," he said distastefully. "Underground air always smells like monsters. Probably doesn't mean anything." I took a peek at my knife and saw there was a very weak glow, or maybe a sunlight reflection. Somewhere in between. "Guys," I said. "You know the gods' symbols of power?" Annabeth had been in the middle of reading about the construction equipment used to build the Arch, but she looked over. "Yeah?" "Well, Hade-" Grover cleared his throat. "We're in a public place.... You mean, our friend downstairs?" "Um, right," I said. "Our friend way downstairs. Doesn't he have a hat like Annabeth's?" "You mean the Helm of Darkness," Annabeth said. "Yeah, that's his symbol of power. I saw it next to his seat during the winter solstice council meeting." "He was there?" Percy asked. She nodded. "It's the only time he's allowed to visit Olympus-the darkest day of the year. But his helm is a lot more powerful than my invisibility hat, if what I've heard is true...." "It allows him to become darkness," Grover confirmed. "He can melt into shadow or pass through walls. He can't be touched, or seen, or heard. And he can radiate fear so intense it can drive you insane or stop your heart. Why do you think all rational creatures fear the dark?" "But then ... how do we know he's not here right now, watching us?" I asked. Annabeth and Grover exchanged looks. "We don't," Grover said. "Thanks, that makes me feel a lot better," Percy said. "Got any blue jelly beans left?" Someone else could be watching. Hades isn't the only one to blend in the shadow young vessel. But worry not, all in the darkness, shall be your ally. So Hades will also be my ally? As air and water refuse, land and all there is shall be your ally. Can't I be allies with all? Hades, Zeus, Poseidon. Everyone. The three of them looked at me in surprise. "Don't say their name!" Grover whispered loudly. "Whose name? I haven't said a name!" I could talk through you young vessel. Is this the first time this happened? How can you forget about our conversation? Talk through me? Who are you? I am one of which that'll make sure you become one with yourself. "Y/N!!" Percy yelled. "What? Geez, you're too loud." "We've been calling your name for three minutes." Annabeth said. "Are you... Okay?" "Yeah why wouldn't I be?" When the tiny elevator car came. We got shoehorned into the car with this big fat lady and her dog, a Chihuahua with a rhinestone collar. I figured maybe the dog was a seeing-eye Chihuahua, because none of the guards said a word about it. We started going up, inside the Arch. I'd never been in an elevator that went in a curve, and my stomach wasn't too happy about it. "No parents?" the fat lady asked us. She had beady eyes; pointy, coffee-stained teeth; a floppy denim hat, and a denim dress that bulged so much, she looked like a blue-jean blimp. "They're below," Annabeth told her. "Scared of heights." "Oh, the poor darlings." The Chihuahua growled. The woman said, "Now, now, sonny. Behave." The dog had beady eyes like its owner, intelligent and vicious. I said, "Sonny. Is that his name?" "No," the lady told me. She smiled, as if that cleared everything up. At the top of the Arch, the observation deck reminded me of a tin can with carpeting. Rows of tiny windows looked out over the city on one side and the river on the other. The view was okay, but if there's anything I like less than a confined space, it's a confined space six hundred feet in the air. I was ready to go pretty quick. I could see Percy was too. So I took his hand and gave him a reassuring squeeze to calm him down despite my breakdown. Annabeth kept talking about structural supports, and how she would've made the windows bigger, and designed a see-through floor. She probably could've stayed up there for hours, but the park ranger announced that the observation deck would be closing in a few minutes. I steered Annabeth while Percy with Grover, toward the exit, loaded them into the elevator, and we were about to get in myself when I realized there were already two other tourists inside. No room for me. The park ranger said, "Next car, sir." "We'll get out," Annabeth said. "We'll wait with you two." But that was going to mess everybody up and take even more time, so I said, "Naw, it's okay. We'll see you guys at the bottom. I'll keep an eye on him." Grover and Annabeth both looked nervous, but they let the elevator door slide shut. Their car disappeared down the ramp. Now the only people left on the observation deck were me, a little boy with his parents, the park ranger, and the fat lady with her Chihuahua. Percy and I smiled uneasily at the fat lady. She smiled back, her forked tongue flickering between her teeth. Wait a minute. Forked tongue? Before I could decide if I'd really seen that, her Chihuahua jumped down and started yapping at Percy. "Now, now, sonny," the lady said. "Does this look like a good time? We have all these nice people here." "Doggie!" said the little boy. "Look, a doggie!" His parents pulled him back. The Chihuahua bared his teeth at me, foam dripping from his black lips. "Well, son," the fat lady sighed. "If you insist." Ice started forming in my stomach. "Urn, did you just call that Chihuahua your son?" "Chimera, dear," the fat lady corrected. "Not a Chihuahua. It's an easy mistake to make." She rolled up her denim sleeves, revealing that the skin of her arms was scaly and green. When she smiled, I saw that her teeth were fangs. The pupils of her eyes were sideways slits, like a reptile's. The Chihuahua barked louder, and with each bark, it grew. First to the size of a Doberman, then to a lion. The bark became a roar. The little boy screamed. His parents pulled him back toward the exit, straight into the park ranger, who stood, paralyzed, gaping at the monster. The Chimera was now so tall its back rubbed against the roof. It had the head of a lion with a blood-caked mane, the body and hooves of a giant goat, and a serpent for a tail, a ten-foot-long diamondback growing right out of its shaggy behind. The rhinestone dog collar still hung around its neck, and the plate-sized dog tag was now easy to read: CHIMERA-RABID, FIRE-BREATHING, POISONOUS-IF FOUND, PLEASE CALL TARTARUS-EXT. 954. I immediately pulled out my knife. And waited for the moment to jump in front of Percy who was ten feet away from the Chimera's bloody maw, and I knew that as soon as I moved, the creature would lunge. The snake lady made a hissing noise that might've been laughter. "Be honored, Percy Jackson and Y/N L/N. Lord Zeus rarely allows me to test a hero with one of my brood. For I am the Mother of Monsters, the terrible Echidna!" Percy and I stared at each other for a second stared at her. All he could think to say was: "Isn't that a kind of anteater?" She howled, her reptilian face turning brown and green with rage. "I hate it when people say that! I hate Australia! Naming that ridiculous animal after me. For that, Percy Jackson, my son shall destroy you!" The Chimera charged, its lion teeth gnashing. I managed to take Percy's arm to pull him aside and dodge the bite. We ended up next to the family and the park ranger, who were all screaming now, trying to pry open the emergency exit doors. I couldn't let them get hurt. I positioned myself able to parry any oncoming attack. Percy uncapped his sword, ran to the other side of the deck, and yelled, "Hey, Chihuahua!" The Chimera turned faster than I would've thought possible. Before he could swing my sword, it opened its mouth, emitting a stench like the world's largest barbecue pit, and shot a column of flame straight at him. Percy dove through the explosion. The carpet burst into flames; the heat was so intense, I could feel it where I stand and it was like I was in a sauna. Where Percy had been standing a moment before was a ragged hole in the side of the Arch, with melted metal steaming around the edges. Great, I thought. We just blowtorched a national monument. As the Chimera turned, Percy slashed at its neck. That was a fatal mistake. The blade sparked harmlessly off the dog collar. I saw the serpent tail lifted it whipped around and with all I could I ran and raised my knife to block it. Percy tried to jab Riptide into the Chimera's mouth, but the serpent tail wrapped around his ankles and pulled him off balance, and my blade flew out of my hand, spinning out of the hole in the Arch and down toward the Mississippi River. I pulled a weaponless Percy behind me and raised my small one. We backed into the hole in the wall. The Chimera advanced, growling, smoke curling from its lips. The snake lady, Echidna, cackled. "They don't make heroes like they used to, eh, son?" The monster growled. It seemed in no hurry to finish us off now that we were beaten. I glanced at the park ranger and the family. The little boy was hiding behind his father's legs. I had to protect these people. I couldn't just ... die. I was facing a massive, fire-breathing monster and its mother. And I was scared. There was no place else to go, so I stepped to the edge of the hole. Trust our hero. Jump with him. He had sworn to save us. Far, far below, the river glittered. Percy and I shared a reluctant and fearful look. If we died, would the monsters go away? Would they leave the humans alone? "If you are the son of Poseidon," Echidna hissed, "you would not fear water. Jump, Percy Jackson. Show me that water will not harm you. Jump and retrieve your sword. Prove your bloodline. Maybe your small friend could survive with you." We both knew the water hated me. But I trusted Percy. I'd jump if he told me. The Chimera's mouth glowed red, heating up for another blast. "Either you have no faith," Echidna told me. "You do not trust the gods. I cannot blame you, little cowards. Better you die now. The gods are faithless." Percy took my hand and backed up, he looked down at the water. Percy looked at me and smiled. I knew what he wanted. Holding his hand tighter, I got closer to him. "Die, faithless one," Echidna rasped, and the Chimera sent a column of flame toward our faces. "Father, please," I heard Percy say. "Don't hurt her. Help us." We turned and jumped. Our clothes on fire, we plummeted toward the river.

Previous |Masterlist | Next

Taglist?

@gayer-than-the-gayest-gay @the-natureofme @booknerd-3000

[calebdumes]

fake dating/relationship prompt fill for the lovely @pretchatta

I may have let this one get away from me

fandom: star wars rebels

relationship: kanan jarrus/hera syndulla

rating: m (not explicit) 

word count: 2.7k

~

"Why can't your contact just meet us on the Ghost when he gets into town?" Kanan asked for the millionth time as they navigated the winding streets of Neshorino. Hera resisted the urge to roll her eyes and adjusted the bag on her shoulder.

"Because," she replied in an even tone that didn't reflect her growing irritation with the man. "My contact left explicit instructions to meet him at Neeli's Inn." 

"Yeah but your contact also said he was at least three rotations out. So I don't know why we can't just wait for him there."

"He's already paid for our room Kanan." Hera squinted at him, the sun dancing brightly off of the colored spires that dotted the city. "It would be rude to reject his hospitality."

That and her contact was overtly cautious about this meet up. That’s why they left the Ghost two cities over and had to take a shuttle to the Capital. The Ghost wasn’t tagged by the Imperials and it’s signature modulator made a world of difference on jobs like these but her contact had insisted and Hera obliged. 

Kanan grumbled something under his breath but continued on beside her. He had been antsy ever since he stepped off the Ghost, on edge and starting to get on her last nerves. If she didn't already know that this was a two person job, she would have left him behind with Chopper but then again, her contact had been extremely specific, two people were needed. 

In all honestly, Hera would have thought Kanan would be all about this job, three days on a beautiful planet with all expenses more or less paid for. This was right up his alley. Well, except for the mission part of it. He still wasn't fully on board with the cause, she doubted he ever would be but he was slowly warming up to Hera's rebel activity. Heavy emphasis on slowly. 

"It will be fine." she tried to assure him, stepping out of the way as a group of school aged Abednedo children rushed by. "Think of it as a vacation, three days to relax while we wait on my contact."

"If we want a vacation, we should go to Spira." He looked around at the curious city carved into the mountain side with a perplexed expression. "Or some place less crowded."

This time, Hera did roll her eyes. "Duly noted." she said before turning down a wide side street that led directly to the side of the mountain. 

The rust colored rock of the mountain side that made up the façade of the inn, was ornately carved with flowering vines, the arched windows that dotted the surface were thrown open to emit the high breeze, vibrantly colored curtains spilling out like banners.

She followed the path leading to Neeli's Inn, the sun warming her face and lekku. She didn't know what Kanan's problem was, this place was far better than some of the other planets they had visited. Before she pushed over the heavy wooden door to the inn she turned to face her partner, grabbing onto his arm to stop his movement. 

"My contact said the owner is a bit of a traditionalist." she warned.

Kanan arched a heavy brow at that. "A traditionalist of what?"

"He didn't say, so just be cautious."

"Aye, aye captain." he gave her a jaunty little salute in response. 

Sometimes Kanan was insufferable. 

The foyer glowed orange and yellow from the glowstones trapped in ornate diamond shaped lights, giving the wide space in a warm and inviting feel. The woman manning the front desk however, not so much. 

"Can I help you?" the weathered looking Abednedo woman snapped as they walked up. Her long greying hair was tied back into a single braid that she looped over her shoulders like a scarf. She eyed them with a faint trace of disgust, her mouth tentacles curling.  

"We have a reservation, under Starbird." Hera supplied, ignoring how Kanan was glowering beside her. 

The woman tapped on her datapad before asking bluntly. "You're married?"  

Hera balked. "I'm sorry, what?"

"No unmarried couples are allowed to share living quarters." she glanced at them. "and you only have a reservation for one room."

Hera felt her chest tighten with anxiety. Her contact could have let her know that little rule before setting them up for a three night stay. She was formulating a response when Kanan's arms snaked out and linked with hers, pulling her up against his side.

"We’ve been married one year tomorrow if you can believe it." he said giving Hera an adoring smile that made her knees go weak. "Right dear?"

"What?" she said again, her mind suddenly refusing to think beyond married, Kanan, and the warmth of his body pressed up against hers. He gave her a little nudge, his smile taking on a desperate edge. "Oh right. Yes." she nodded with a wooden smile. "Tomorrow's our anniversary." The words came out stilted and unsure but just about everything in her mind was shot circuiting at the moment. 

The Abednedo woman looked unconvinced as she handed over their room key. "Room 406." she clipped out. "Breakfast is over at 9 so don't be late."

"If it's as good as we heard, we wouldn't miss it for the world." Kanan said with a wink before dragging Hera up the stone steps behind the desk. He didn't let go of her until they were well out of the Abednedo's view, right when Hera's mind decided to come back online.

"What was that?" she hissed, stepping away from him, smoothing her hands down the front of her flight suit.  

"Improvising."

"By saying we were married?"

"Hey," he pointed his finger at her. "You're the one who said it would be rude to reject your contact's hospitality. Besides, what happened to thinking of this mission as a vacation?"

"Yeah well now we're going to have to pretend that we're married so we don’t get kicked out!" she rushed out, her voice a little higher than normal. “Or worse!”

Kanan stopped by the door marked 406 and leaned slightly into her space, enough to make her breath catch at the sudden closeness. "Would that be such a hard thing to do?" he said in a low voice. 

Hera swallowed. It was getting difficult to think again. Kanan was right there, those green blue eyes locked on her, his lips just inches from hers. Close enough to kiss, to taste. Her heart skipped a beat in her chest, her mouth going dry. But then Kanan took a step back, his face impassive. "Or we could just go back and wait on the Ghost."

"N-no." she choked out before clearing her throat. "No, it's fine. It's just three days right?"

Kanan smirked and swiped the key through the door control. "Right, three days on a beautiful planet with good company. What could go wrong?" 

Hera let her breath out in a long push, following Kanan into the room and subsequently running right into the solid muscle of his back. 

"Oh you gotta be kriffing me." he said in a low groan. Hera darted around him and took in the room. It was bright and airy, the doors leading to a wide balcony thrown open to let in the clean sunlight. Ruby red drapes fluttered in the constant breeze, contrasting with the thick stripes of dusky purple in the etched stone walls. But the thing that had caught Kanan's attention wasn't the beauty of the room. It was the bed. 

The one, single canopy bed pushed up against the wall draped with gossamer white silk.

Hera groaned. "You gotta be kriffing me."

"I'll sleep on the floor." Kanan said, dropping his bag down at his feet. 

"No you don't have to do that." She rubbed at the base of her lekku. "We can share right? It's fine with me if it's okay with you."

"Whatever you want to do, Captain." 

She nodded. "It's okay. Everything is going to be okay."

Everything was decidedly not going to be okay. 

The first night Hera hardly slept, stiff as a board while Kanan breathed lightly beside her. A mountain of pillows sat between them, demarcating their sides of the bed. She closed her eyes and tried to force herself to sleep but it was impossible knowing that Kanan was right there. 

When morning came, the sky a brilliant wash of colors outside their room, her eyes were puffy and dry from lack of sleep. Kanan looked just as bad, his hair adorably mussed and a frown heavy on his lips. Hera slipped from the bed and locked herself in the ‘fresher to dress, her brown slacks and light purple tunic a far cry from the safety and comfort of her flight suit.

Breakfast had been another challenge. The dinning hall was practically empty when they arrived. Only Neeli sat at a table, looking up at the with a pointed look. Kanan’s arm snaked around her waist, holding her close as he loaded up a plate of food.

“This is ridiculous.” Hera said picking at a slice of melioorun. Kanan had pushed their chairs close together at the table, his feet resting against hers. It made Hera’s stomach clench uncomfortably. 

He hummed in agreement before tossing back the rest of his caf and saying, “Why don’t we get out of here?” he whispered it close to her ear cone. 

“And go where?” 

“See the city.” he breath ghosting over her skin. “Leave our chaperone here to worry about some other poor couple.”

“We’re not a couple.” she said with force. Kanan sat back and Hera instantly missed his warmth. 

“C’mon, just for a few hours. It’ll be fun.”

Hera sighed, giving in with a nod and letting him pull her to her feet. He took her hand in his as they passed by the proprietress and didn’t bother letting go long after they left the inn. She could feel his fingers against her skin. They were surprisingly soft for someone who liked to take on rough and demanding work. He held her hand gently, loose enough that she could slip free anytime she wanted. But the truth was, she couldn’t even if she tried. 

She let him drag her all over the brightly colored city, stopping at nearly every bustling market he could find. Neshorino was a beautiful place but Hera hardly remembered any of it. She was too preoccupied by Kanan. 

Hera wasn't stupid. She knew Kanan had feelings for her, he made that fact pretty clear on Gorse. And while his flirtations hadn't necessarily stopped over the past few months since joining her crew, they had become were few and far between. He knew how she felt about relationships. He knew her priorities. 

But the thing was, Hera found herself missing them, that sly smile and wicked glint in his eyes. Kanan was handsome, a bit reckless but good and kind. He fit into her life like he was always meant to be there, like fate or destiny was somehow pulling the strings, weaving them together. And somewhere between one breath and another, Hera was falling for him.

No, she suspected she had fallen for him not long after she met him. This was much more than that.

She was in love with him.

The realization hit her as she took a bite of her ryshcate, the gooey spiced nuts and flaky pastry sticking to the back of her throat making her cough.

Kanan’s eyes grew wide as she struggled to breathe. She reached for his cup of Jawa Juice and taking a gulp. 

“You okay?” he asked in a voice that was laced with concern. Other beings sitting near them at the café were watching them closely. Hera felt herself blush.

“I’m fine.” she gasped, her eyes watering. “Just went down the wrong way.”

Kanan looked unconvinced, the hallows of his cheeks sharp in the orange glow of sunset. “Why don’t we head back to the room?”

Hera nodded and let him lead her back to the inn hand in hand. As they crossed over the threshold, she rested her head against his shoulder, letting herself believe for a moment what it would be like if they were actually together. 

She pushed the thought aside. There was no use getting lost in daydreams. 

Back in their room, she stripped out of her day clothes and pulled on her black thermal pants, tugging her white shirt over her lekku. Kanan was already under the covers, the sheets tucked under his bare arms as he stared at the white canopy overhead. 

Hera flicked off the light and padded softly over to the bed, curling up under the covers. Her heart panged deep in her chest. She loved him. So what was stopping her from having him?

The mission? No, that was an excuse and she knew it. So what was it?

Fear. 

Fear that he’d throw her aside once he had gotten what he wanted. That he didn’t really love her. That it would ruining the friendship that they had built. That he would break her heart. That she would break his. 

Hera fisted her hands against her stomach and squeezed her eyes shut. So much could go wrong if she let herself have this. There was too much at stake, too much to loose if things turned sour. Hera didn’t know if she could handle that pain. 

“Hera.” Kanan’s voice said. Her eyes flew open to see his face looking over at her from the pillow wall. “What’s wrong?’

“Nothing.”

He frowned. “I can sleep on the floor if this makes you uncomfortable.”

Her hands unclenched as she sat up. “It’s not that.”

“Then what?” he asked, crossing his legs under him. 

Hera bit her lip, looking down at the sheets pooled around her feet. 

“Hera, tell me what’s going on.”

She shook her head. Damn her fears. Damn the consequences. She wanted him. 

Hera leaned across the pillow blockade and kissed him, softy but with desperation. Kanan froze beneath her and for one heart stopping moment, she feared the worst but then he was kissing her back, his hands coming to rest on her hips. She let herself get lost in the sensation of his lips on her, the heat of his hands where he held her. 

When they broke apart she was breathless, her cheeks molten with heat. Kanan looked just as wrecked as she felt. 

“I love you.” she said. “I love you Kanan Jarrus and I want you.”

Kanan kissed her. She fell onto her back as he kissed along her jaw and down her neck, his admission of love seared into her skin. Her hands traced down his bare chest, feeling his muscles shift as he moved. He pulled off her shirt as she shimmied out of her pants, chuckling when her shirt got caught on her lekku.

He mouthed at her collarbone, the tops of her breasts, her navel, then lower.

“I love you too.” He said as they lay together fully sated and breathless in a tangle of sheets, the pillows scattered on the floor. “In case I didn’t make that clear.”

Hera smiled and kissed his cheek. “You might have to show me again love.”

Kanan grind at her wickedly. “It would be my absolute pleasure dear.”

The next morning at breakfast, they sat side by side, pressed up against each other as her contact, a middle aged Abednedo man with a thick beard on either side of his mouth tentacles explained the mission. 

“There are two refugees that I need you to smuggle out of the system.” He explained, his eyes darting around the dinning hall. “Their names are Immel and Chuli, their parents were arrested for treason and the Empire is hunting them. I need you to deliver them to their Aunt on Batuu.”

“Sounds easy enough.” Kanan said, his pinky finger curled around hers. “Where are they now?”

“You can find them in the House of Strangers. In the lower city.”

Hera frowned. “You said this was a two person job?”

The contact wrung his hands nervously. “Yes,” he looked between them and then down at the table before mumbling, “You will have to pretend to be a couple to take them from the House. It was the only way I could convince their caretake to let you take them from here. Is that going to be a problem?”

Hera smiled up at Kanan. “No that won’t be a problem.” she responded. “Not at all.”

[cheri-translates]

Watermelon (a translated one-shot)

I translated this fluffy and mildly suggestive one-shot originally written by 八重垂樱 on Weibo, with permission

Contains references to four e-mails from Gavin’s 100 Days Event. They don’t spoil anything about the main storyline, but don’t continue if you’re averse to anything CN-related!

“Eli took a trip to the countryside and returned with several watermelons. He left us one each...”

“And then?”

Expressionless, your arms are folded across your chest as you look Gavin up and down, noting the sheen of sweat on his forehead. Seeing the way you’re glaring at him, the tips of his ears are tinged with a red hue, and he starts tripping up on his words.

“You know that the fridge at my place isn’t very large, so it can’t hold two watermelons... and watermelons spoil easily when left out. So why not eat it while it’s still fresh? So... so I specially rushed over to bring it to you...”

As he says this, his eyes flit upwards to meet yours. He seems to be pleading for sympathy, and it makes you feel infuriated yet tempted to laugh at the same time.

You deliberately maintain a cold expression on your face and accept the watermelon. “Got it. I’ll take the watermelon, and please thank Eli on my behalf. You can leave now.”

“Ahem. I...”

Gavin freezes, then holds onto the door frame, afraid you’d shut the door on him. With this sight before you, you no longer suppress the laughter bubbling to the surface, and you chuckle. 

“Come in, blockhead.”

You stuff the watermelon back into his arms, then pull him into the apartment, letting the door shut behind you.

--

The cold war began a few days ago. Officer Gavin, who had promised you ten thousand times that he’d take care of himself, led a fleet of men into the midst of out-of-control Evolvers for the ten thousand and one time.

The worst part was that he tried hiding his injuries from you. Upon leaving the hospital after getting his wounds bandaged, he pretended that nothing had happened, accompanying you to Loveland High to visit Mr Keller.

If your suspicions weren’t raised when he kept refusing the glass of wine from Mr Keller’s wife during the meal, he would have hid it from you forever!

Your mind was preoccupied for the rest of the meal. After finding an excuse to leave, you said goodbye to Mr Keller and dragged Gavin back to his apartment. Then, you forced him to take off his clothes to let you check for injuries. 

After confirming that his injuries were not life-threatening, you gave him a harsh glare. Without waiting for the man - who now knew that he was in the wrong - to stop you, you grabbed your bag and slammed the door.

Just like that, the two of you entered a cold war.

On the first day of the cold war, Commander Gavin sent a message:

“Thorny hasn’t had much energy recently. I think you might need to visit him.”

You replied: Maybe it’s grieving over Greenie, who didn’t know how to take care of itself properly.

On the second day of the cold war, Commander Gavin sent a message:

“Minor recommended a gift. After checking its reviews on shopping websites, I think he’s not reliable.”

You replied: Minor also recommended a new flavour of cup noodles. Commander, please enjoy it by yourself.

On the third day of the cold war, Commander Gavin sent a message:

“The wind says that you’re always staying in the office. It can’t feel you, so it misses you a little.”

You replied: Please tell the wind that I'm grateful for its concern. And also get it to remind a certain bad egg who goes back on his word to keep his promises to me.

Actually, your anger had already vanished very early on. You found yourself thinking - about eight hundred times a day - about whether Gavin’s wounds were healing properly. And whether he returned to eating cup noodles since there wasn’t a canteen in STF, and without your handmade bento boxes.

But if you were to forgive him so easily, this fellow would hide his injuries from you again!

Mm, a longer punishment is necessary.

--

“Are we eating the watermelon?”

His voice pulls you back to the present. 

Gavin is at a loss as he stands in the middle of your living room, hugging the watermelon to himself. Not knowing if you’re still angry with him, he tests the waters with the question, carefully gauging your reaction. 

To the Commander of STF who fears nothing on earth, there is nothing more frightening than his girl giving him the cold shoulder.

Instead of giving him an answer, you fire a question.

“How are your wounds?”

“They were fine since a long time ago. They weren’t anything serious to begin with. In the previous mission...” When Gavin sees your expression, he cuts himself off sharply. “Don’t worry, I’m really okay.”

“’Okay’? ‘Wasn’t anything serious’?! Mr Gavin, are you sure?”

Your volume spikes. Why is this guy always like this? He calls it nothing serious when there’s clearly a deep gash on his shoulder?!

“How serious do you want your injuries to be? Like the time Eli had to carry you straight to the hospital? Gavin, could you please place more importance on your life! I already told you, you aren’t alone anymore! If you continue treating yourself like this, I... I will...”

Gavin frantically sets down the watermelon and embraces you. 

“All right, all right, don’t be mad. It’s my fault, it’s all my fault.”

Furious, you struggle in his arms for a second or two before remembering that there are wounds on his body. In the end, you surrender and lean into his arms obediently.

“I’ll vow on Thorny’s life that I won’t do it again!”

“What’s the use of vowing on Thorny’s life? Didn’t you say it was already lacking vitality! Maybe after a few days, you would enrage it to death!”

“Then... Pearly? Or Flyer? Mini Thorny?”

“Gavin!”

“All right...” Gavin tightens his hold, caging you in his arms. He lowers his head and draws nearer to your face, his warm breaths brushing your ear, leaving a numbing sensation in their wake. “Silly. I understand everything you want to say. No matter how dangerous a mission is, and no matter how far I have to go, I know that I always have a home with its lights turned on for me, and a girl waiting behind the door...

“For her, I’ll remember to take good care of myself, and come back safe and sound.”

“Because I’m no longer alone...”

As the voice grows soft, his searing lips gradually meet yours...

In the midst of being kissed dizzy, the only rational thought that drifts to your mind is - 

Does this even count as a lesson to him?

Whatever. Since we’re already here... we’ll talk about the rest later.

---

You feast on the watermelon in Gavin’s arms, and a droplet of bright red juice pelts onto his bare chest. Feeling mischievous, you lean over and lick it off directly, successfully re-igniting the flames in the eyes of the man before you.

“Don’t move. We haven’t finished our earlier discussion.”

Swatting away his hand before it comes an inch closer, you lift your chin and look at him teasingly. “So who is the one who misses me? Thorny? Sparky? The wind?”

“Cough.”

“Tell me quickly, or else...”

Pretending to bare your fangs and brandish your claws, you lunge onto him, but accidentally press the remote control in the process. The television on the wall switches on, displaying the news. 

The person who is having an interview just happens to be the one who gave the two of you watermelons - Eli. 

“Most of the employees in STF are amiable and approachable, especially the aunties in the canteen - they would always pile on more dishes for relatively skinny-looking members...” Eli dons his best smile as he tells the public more about STF, with absolutely no idea about the tragic fate awaiting him the next day.

[Important Context] The official MLQC Weibo account posted fun facts of Loveland City in celebration of the game’s 1000-day anniversary (which I translated here). One of the facts concerns STF, which is basically what Eli is saying above

However, in “Go See Him”, Gavin has a line where he says: “There isn’t a canteen in STF, but the nearby eateries aren’t bad.”

In another line, he says: “My colleagues would sometimes bring handmade bentos...”

So... is this a genuine mistake on Papergames’ part, or has Gavin been lying so MC would make him bentos LOL

"Yes, there has always been a canteen in STF ever since it was built. Apart from the Commander, other team members can also have their meals there.”

“What does the Commander eat? That’s a secret for you to find out the next time you interview him directly hahaha.”

...

"G A V I N.”

You boil with rage, whipping your head around to glare at the “Serial Liar”. Before waiting for you to continue, he acts first, flipping you over and pinning you underneath him.

“Give me a proper explanation about the canteen!”

“All right. But... we’ll talk after getting our fill.”

The sweet fragrance of watermelon permeates the air. 

On this late summer evening, it seems like this man will need a very, very long time to be satiated...

-

[ Permission to Translate ]

八重垂樱: Sure, thank you for liking it

[el-cadejos]

Erase & Rewind [Fic]

Fandom: Saint Seiya

Characters: Wyvern Radamanthys, OCs

Description: Radamanthys and his son go to London after Christmas to spend some time with granpa.

Also available in AO3.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

London was cold. The cold wind tugged at the matching purple scarfs, stealing their frozen breaths away with each step. Christmas had already flown by, but the thought was what mattered, right?

Gawain peered through every available window, skipping around the worn-down concrete every few steps to pretend the airplane model in his hands was really flying. It was never too cold for him, but he would always complain about the wind. After finally reaching their destination, though, something else troubled him. “It smells like old wardrobe.”

“Not entirely sure that’s a thing. Please pull down your scarf,” Radamanthys said, knocking on the heavy wooden door. It creaked a little bit when an old man peered outside. His short brown hair was salted with white and a familiar looking unibrow frown welcomed them. He stared at the child with a slight curiosity before fully opening the door and letting them in. The boy did so almost immediately, leaving the two adults behind.

There was an awkward silence between them, the older man looking around at all times. “No missus?” he finally asked.

“Busy with work. She sends her most heartfelt regards.”

“Bring’er ‘round next time, will ye? She’s a good lass.”

He nodded in agreement before following him inside, where the boy was already struggling to get the scarf off himself. They sat down in the smallest living room he had seen, in silence. At least now he understood why his Dad was such a quiet man. “Merry Christmas, Grandfather Arthur. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Happy Chrimble, boy. Ye’ve grown quite a bit since last time I saw ye,” the man groaned back in a husky voice. “Ye were a small thing back then, aye. Angry one, too.”

Gawain frowned at his reply and nudged his father’s leg for further information. Radamanthys side-eyed him. “When you were very young, we came to visit for a few days, since someone refused to go to Germany…”

“I’m too old fer traveling, ye know that.”

“Yer a lazy bastard, that’s what ye are.”

“Watch yer language in front of the boy, ye bloody…!” old Arthur barked, but dropped it when he felt the child’s attentive eyes (and ears) on him. The smile on Radamanthys’ face annoyed him even more. “Who ye got’er, boy?”

Gawain momentarily stared at the pilot of his aircraft model. “Rey. She can also pilot the Millen…” he squinted a little. “Do you even know what ‘Star Wars’ is?”

The old man pondered a bit, massaging his chin. “Rings a bell. Is’at with Nuke Skywonker and Chewbarnacles flyin’ around on space saucers?”

“Luke Skywalker, Chewbacca and a number of other characters, yes,” Gawain corrected patiently. “Have you watched those movies?”

“I rememba the first one, aye. Lad right here wouldn’t get off ma back until I took’im to watch it. Came out sayin’ it was the dog’s bullocks, he did. That he wanted to fly now, real planes and all,” Arthur answered, gesturing towards Radamanthys with stale annoyance on his face.

“I have no memory of that,” his son replied in no particular tone.

Gawain had a shadow of a smile on him before he heard those words. He could tell his Dad was not lying. Not that he ever did, but with the Evil Star, many memories had been… sacrificed for the Dark Emperor’s sake.

“’No memory’? We watched it four bloody times!” Arthur emphasized with this fingers. “No pennies left fo’ butter after that.”

An awkward silence settled in the room and Gawain, being too used to those at home, spoke up. “Did you watch the rest of the movies, Grandfather?”

“Nay. Didn’ catch me eye then, didn’ have who to bugger me to watch’em after.” That unforgiven melancholy was tough water to navigate.

“I can tell you how the story goes, if you like,” he said, sticking his hand in the bag Radamanthys had carried all the way there and taking out about a dozen small figurines.

“I know that bloke,” old Arthur said, pointing to the figure clad in black. “Dark Flamer or som’thn’.”

“That’s Dad. Darth Vader, the Sith Lord who ruled the galaxy along with his Master. He used to be called Anakin Skywalker. This is me, Luke, his son. He inherited the Force from him, and many hard-earned lessons as well.”

“And who am I?”

Gawain ruffled through the figures until he found the one he was looking for. A small blue and white robot. “You are this one.”

“Wot?! A rollin’ trashcan?!”

“It’s a droid, and its name is R2-D2, Grandfather Ar-thur,” he replied with a cheeky smile.

His elder groaned, annoyed. “I hate puns!”

A few hours went by while Gawain re-enacted all the scenes he deemed important about the Star Wars Saga, voices and gags included. Radamanthys did not intervene at all, and was often looking out the window instead of at the other two. He eventually stepped out for a bit, and returned with groceries to cook dinner with. Arthur told Gawain how to manipulate the television before going into the kitchen.

“Go sit’own with the boy. I’ll cook.”

“Bugger off, already started making fish n’ chips.”

They agreed to cook together in silence, with Arthur’s pale amber eyes fixed on his son’s back. He had grown tall and strong, but not chatty. Never had been, never would be. And it took one to know one.

“Ye can stay the night if ye want. Yer room is as ye left it, and the couch ain’t bad company to an old chap like me. It’ll be like ol’ times, aye?”

Radamanthys did not turn. “Nay, never like ol’ times, but we will stay for supper. It’s nice to eat homemade fish n’ chips.”

The old man ruffled a bit, still staring at his son. “I thought ye were dead, ye know. Roamin’ Europe is good an’ all, but ye never came back. No Aranja, no lil’ Rod, and soon enough, no Arthur either.”

Radamanthys remained impassive, staring at the cooking pan. “Life takes funny turns, ye know that. Out of love, ye moved to Faroes with Ma, and out of love, Ma agreed to come to London. And when that love ran out, she moved back, and we saw little of her after that.” He gave the pan a jerk to make sure nothing got stuck to the bottom. “Out of… devotion, one might say, I stayed in Germany, and never looked back.”

Arthur prepared the table while Radamanthys served dinner on the plates. “I kind envy the missus. Ye were never home much and yet she made ye stay in one place fer a long time. Still like her, though,” he mumbled right away. “She gave ye some purpose, whatever it was or is.”

“Da, yer awfully chatty today. Feels like ye fear going mute,” Radamanthys spoke in a low voice. “…But I can see this solitude has opened a void in yer soul, and ye want all that has been buried in it to finally escape.”

In an awkward movement, he placed his hand on his father’s shoulder. A pair of younger amber eyes was peering into the kitchen, undetected as of yet. “I’ve always known ye loved me, ye just never liked me. I don’t blame ye for much, you raised a bloody idiot as best as a bloody idiot could, punches up the bracket an’ all.”

“Wot? I-”

“Don’t push it. Ma was the emotional link between ye an’ me. She spoke what we could not say, and then she left. I accepted yer flaws, as ye accepted mine and that’s that. Gawain, stop eavesdropping and come to eat your supper.”

The boy sat down with a slight frown on his face, embarrassed he failed at stealth. Both adults did exactly the same thing and for a moment, nothing moved in the tiny little kitchen. He put a chip in his mouth and deemed it good enough. “So, Grandpa R2, why did you name Dad ‘Radamanthys’?”

“That’s wot ye gonna call me know? Bloody hell…” he sounded dissatisfied. “That was yer Granny. Said she dreamed of a black angel, and he told’er that if she named her first born that, he would be merciful when the time came.”

And merciful He was indeed, Radamanthys thought to himself. Fell of a horse and snapped her neck instantly. Didn’t even know what hit her, but that was a truth he, and he alone, would ever know about.

“Why did they named ye ‘Gawain’, boy?” Arthur asked, watching the child panic for a moment or two before nudging his father under the table.

“I dreamed of a dark hawk flying over a plain with a dead mouse in its beak.”

“Wot?”

“Wot?” Radamanthys replied, impassive as ever.

“How does that explain it?”

“It doesn’t. I just told ye about a dream I had.”

“Bugger off!”

Supper was concluded with no further argument, though some complementary explanations about Star Wars were required. Specially the name pronunciation, as Gawain refused to accept “Napkin Skywonker” as a proper way to address the Sith Lord. After the plates were clear, Arthur took out two glasses and poured some eggnog. “How old are ye, boy?”

“Eight.”

“Old enough,” he replied, pulling out a third glass and pouring a little bit for him too. “Happy Chrimble, lads.”

Dishes were washed, figures put away, and scarfs wrapped around once more. The sky was dark, and the wind had stopped, but London remained cold. Radamanthys gave Arthur a soft punch on the shoulder on his way out, while Gawain stopped in the middle of the doorway. “Oh, before I forget. Do you know why I said you are R2-D2, Grandpa?”

He groaned. “Because my name is Arthur.”

“Because Anakin and R2 cared for each other very much, no matter how terrible the situation was, and even though they were separated for a long time, and they sort of forgot about the other due to circumstances, they still found it in themselves to care for Luke, each in their own way. And Luke was grateful for it.”

He walked up to his father, turned around and took his hand. “Cheerio, Grandpa.”

“Aye, lads. Cheerio,” Arthur replied, watching them disappear into the night and pressing the blue and white droid tight to his chest.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Notes: Gawain is a shared OC. Arthur is my OC. I’m neither an English native speaker nor located in the UK, so I apologize if it is inaccurate. Originally written in 2016.

[joonsdiary]

worth fighting for (08)

pairing: jungkook x reader genre/warning: royalty au, historical au // humour, fluff, angst / tw: mentions of character death, alcohol consumption, playful!general jeon and over-thinker!reader is back, this chapter is me trying to juggle scene vs. plot, even more yearning, slowburn word count: 6,775

summary: fresh out of the perils of war, jungkook didn’t think that his task as the newly appointed general would be to look after you.

                                                                      EIGHT.

Dawn arrives without sunlight, carrying along with it the crispness of the air that signals the finality of summer. It’s unusual for you to feel such coldness so early in the year, but that only means that you’re much closer up north than you are in the capital. Your home. The mere thought of residing within the safety of the palace seems foreign and unfamiliar; remembering specific details feels as if you’re looking into someone else’s mind instead of your own.

Home now resides in the carriage you sleep in for much of your travels, or whichever dense forest you decide to stop over and rest for a few days. Home is the warmth of the quilt Jimin lends you; it’s the food he and Miyoung whip up in a pinch when ingredients are scarce, yet manage to taste delicious. Home is embodied in the way Jungkook’s eyes linger far longer than he intends to, thinking you haven’t noticed; it’s his noticeable hesitance around you, always teetering on the ledge between familiarity and professionalism.

Home is in the callousness of his stern voice when he instructs you to move in a particular way as you struggle to carry the long sword with both of your hands. It hadn’t been anything like the one he had lent you previously; the current one is much heavier, evident by the way your arms work strenuously just to be able to hold it properly.

The grass blade’s morning dew permeates into your shoe-less feet and you wobble from your position as he kicks your left leg further backwards.

“Like this?” you ask, unsure of your position. It feels awkward and unfamiliar; the weapon does nothing but makes your arms quiver in pain. Jungkook clicks his tongue as he uses his index finger to lift your elbow slightly higher than previously. You grit your teeth as you hold back the uncomfortable throbbing of your shoulders.

He finally nods in approval and you relent, groaning in frustration as you drop the hefty metal on the ground. It hasn’t been an hour since he woke you from your slumber to practice, and yet your forehead is already beaded with sweat. It’s hard to resist laying on the ground when the soft gust of wind tempts you to do so. Jungkook watches, eyes filled with curiosity as you yield to your whims and press yourself against the cold grass.

“That was intense. I didn’t think you’d make me hold the sword up for that long. If I didn’t know any better,” you pause to gaze suspiciously up at him, “I’d think this was some sort of punishment.”

“I thought you wanted something intense,” he shrugs nonchalantly, but the action comes across as a terrible attempt at hiding the roguish grin crawling on upwards on the corner of his lips. Smug bastard, what little remains of your dignity as a royalty prevents you from speaking the thought aloud.

“Yes, but I didn’t think you’d lend me the blade you use. Whatever happened to the wooden swords?” you whine, watching as he picks up the weapon with ease.

“It’s not too heavy,” he examines the sword before offering it back to you. “And you need to build up your strength—your arms are too weak.”

You simply stare at him impassively, hating that he has a point.

“It’s unfair. You’ve had twelve years of a head start, so you can’t say things like: It’s easy, Your Highness,” your tone is childish. But he stays impassive, undeterred by your mockery of him.

A few days ago after your full recovery, he met you in the middle with a compromise, promptly suggesting the idea himself that you should get back to practice if you were still willing to learn. Of course, you said yes in a heartbeat. It seems Jungkook’s mood is dictated by the moon and you know better than to simmer on a decision for long since the tides might turn against you in an instant.

You hadn’t known at the time of agreement how serious he would take the whole ordeal, jumpstarting you far off from where you left last time. At first, you took the challenge head-on but after three days of gruelling lessons and drills, fatigue is beginning to settle nicely deep within your bones.

“All the more reason why you should keep training.”

“You are cruel,” you finally take the weapon from his willing hands as you push yourself up with a groan. “One day, I will snap and drive this blade straight into your heart. Please be aware that all responsibility falls onto you for any such actions hereafter.”

His expression morphs into a lopsided grin; the kind that steals precious oxygen right out of your lungs. The absence of the morning sun’s warmth is scarcely felt when he’s practically bursting at the seams with radiance.

“I’d actually like to see you try.”

“I’m serious, General Jeon.”

“So am I.”

The palpable challenge in his eyes vexes you enough to accept, doing so by wordlessly picking up right where you left off. You stand, but not without much difficulty, before bending your knees into position. It takes all your remaining strength to ignore the ache in your muscles that soon follows. Taking a deep breath, you step forward with one foot as you sling the weapon with all the energy you have left. It undoubtedly fails as your unstable hands drop the sword once again.

You groan as you land on the ground for the second time. You appreciate that he’s fostering your growth towards improvement, but a little part of you is still convinced that he’s doing this solely out of spite.

For what, exactly, you’ve yet to coax the answer out of him.

“Aw, is the princess giving up?”

Especially when he says the right words to rile you up.

“No,” you roll your eyes. It’s hard not to act silly when he invites such reactions from you. “General Jeon is just being spiteful. But I suppose that’s nothing new.”

“I’m merely following direct orders from you, Your Highness,” he extends his hand in an effort to help you up, but you brush it away with a scoff. “Your stubborn streak continues, I see.”

You prepare yourself for a barrage of snide remarks, or perhaps even a lecture about your feeble attempt to learn sword fighting when you shouldn’t. Much to your surprise, he sits across from you instead, tucking his legs neatly underneath him. He slouches forward, resting his elbow on his thighs as he places his chin on top of his palm.

“Um, what are you doing?”

“It’s unfair if you’re the only one who gets to rest,” he says as he mindlessly plucks several pieces of grass at once before opening his palms to let the wind take them. “Barking orders at royalty turns out to be an exhausting task. Who knew?”

You grin in lieu of a verbal answer, and he returns the favour with a soft smile. There’s a pause, and when you don’t say anything further, the lids of his eyes flutter slowly before closing shut. There is no question that he seems to lack proper sleep, evident by the dark circles and heavy bags under his eyes. You’re beginning to suspect that staying up well after dusk has settled in order to stand guard is beginning to catch up to him — certainly now more than ever if he’s cutting hours of slumber just to train you.

Your pulse hums unabated at the thought, and you have to quickly remind yourself that he’s doing this not due to his own volition, but because you ordered him to.

“Jungkook,” you make an effort to whisper as quietly as you can. You didn’t mind that he hadn’t heard you, you’d simply pretend you hadn’t called him out in the first place. His breathing stays even, and you smile to yourself; if there is one thing you’ll never grow weary of, it has to be seeing him simply be at peace. It’s maddeningly frightening how one person has the capability of banishing all your worries away, no matter how trivial they might seem.

If you weren’t in trouble then, you certainly are now.

Like a moth to a flame, your gaze lands on his lips, reminding you of the kiss you had so boldly initiated with him. What seemed like seconds at that moment feels like a lifetime when it’s embedded deep in the crevices of your memory. It appeared to be a good idea then, a quick way to dispel an itching curiosity.

Curiosities like: Would your attraction for him dissipate in thin air if you kissed him? Would he even try to kiss you back? Would it progress your relationship further? Did you want it to progress? Do you even have time to be thinking about all these things?

(The answers are: No, no he didn’t, no it doesn’t seem like it, maybe so, and perhaps not.)

Now that your concerns have been partially satiated, only regret remains. That very same foolish curiosity only brought an insurmountable amount of consequences you’d preferably avoid. You’re grateful Jungkook hasn’t asked anything yet; you hope it stays that way, for the sake of your well-being. It’s reached a point where it seems as if he’d much rather avoid than confront the topic, as well.

(But would it have hurt for him to care in the slightest? His non-reaction makes your stomach coil uncomfortably more than it should.)

“I hate you,” slips out of your lips unprompted.

“So you keep saying,” he mumbles, and you flinch back at his unexpected response.

You know the consequence of him catching you is nothing serious, but that doesn’t stop your heart from knocking steadily against your ribcage. “I thought you were asleep.”

“Me? Never,” he cracks one eyelid open as if to wink. With a sly grin, he says, “I’m always watching.”

“In any other context that would sound extremely repulsive,” he laughs at your displeased expression before he stretches both his hands up with a yawn. “Thank you, regardless.”

He shrugs in good nature as his arms fall back down, shoulders slackened. You thought you’d learned to ignore that part of you that tugs painfully at your heartstrings every time he smiles, but apparently, that’s not the case.

“It’s what I’m here for, right?”

That’s right, Jungkook’s not here due to his discretion. He’s here for a specific reason, tasked by the king to look after you and ensure your safe deliverance to the hands of somebody you’ve yet to meet. You’ve not forgotten the mere fact, but the almost month-long voyage only reminds you of how delusional you were to think that mulling your feelings for Jungkook would end anywhere but devastation. You even went as far as to put him in utter discomfort by giving into your foolish desire and kissing him, with a lack of remorse as to how he would feel afterwards.

“What’s wrong?” your attention collapses back to Jungkook, who’s now staring at you with confusion. “I feel like you’re always having some sort of crisis every time we’re conversing.”

You want nothing more than to grab him by the shoulders, shake him out of his boots and say, “That’s because it’s you. You’re the cause of my woes.”

“I feel like I owe you an apology,” is what you tell him instead. You’re unsure of how to begin when his attention is fully focused on you, and instead wish he were still half asleep. Perhaps then you’ll find the right words. “It wasn’t my intention to—”

“I knew it,” he crosses his arms and straightens his back with a newfound sense of confidence. Your eyes widen in surprise; have the not-so-subtle hints of your proclamation of affection been made known to him?

“You were the one who ate the remaining piece of red bean rice cake last night. Jimin told me it was him, but I had an inkling he was covering for you.”

Of course not.

“What?” you gape at him, trying to blink your anger away at his sudden accusation. “No, it wasn’t me!”

“Mhm, sure,” his nose wrinkles in discontent. “You were well on your way to apologizing but now you’re denying it altogether. Tsk.”

“I wasn’t talking about that!”

“I’m hurt, Your Highness. You know that’s my favourite dessert.”

You did know. That’s why you didn’t even bother eating a piece of it after seeing how much he prefers them.

“I was going to apologize for the unwarranted kiss I gave you, but now I’m not so sure,” you mutter. He must have heard what you said regardless of the quietness of your voice because he visibly deflates, back slouching forward and eyes seemingly bugging out of their sockets.

“W-what?”

You resist the urge to smirk despite your embarrassment at his change in demeanour; all his arrogance is chased out with a mention of one word. Although you’re unsure if you should act with such haughtiness in the first place. Your own heart, after all, feels as though it’s about to erupt from delight. So you continue, making sure to tread forward cautiously.

“I don’t know if it was right of me to do such a thing without your permission.”

For days you’ve been battling with yourself for the right words to say. You’re still unsure, feeling as though everything that comes out of your mouth consists of the wrong words to say. Yet at the same time, holding on to it doesn’t seem feasible. Telling him outright is the best option, for better or for worse.

You study Jungkook’s expression, or lack thereof, as he stares into the distance with an impassive gaze, mouth agape and evidently unresponsive.

“General Jeon?” you wave your hand in his line of sight. Nothing. “Jungkook?”

His gaze finally meets yours, but only for a brief second, before his eyes scan the vast surrounding. He clears his throat before idly rubbing the nape of his neck. You can gauge his struggle with what to say by the way his mouth opens without uttering a word, then quickly closing.

“Apologizing is not necessary. I mean…” he trails off, and you hang onto every syllable he says. Your expectations soar to unattainable heights. “You weren’t feeling well, to begin with, so I’m aware you might not have fully realized your...um, actions at that time.”

Your mood quickly spirals, bringing along with it your hopes. And your poor, poor heart, always bearing the brunt of your misfortunes.

In essence, you should have seen that type of response coming. There’s nothing Jungkook did, or said, which would have made you misinterpret his intentions. This has always been a one-sided charade from the beginning, fueled by nothing else but your disillusion. Recalling the way you had acted so wantonly before him weeks ago even before the kiss occurred feels silly and juvenile. If you’re ever given means and the power to reverse time back to that situation once more, you would, only if it means saving your past self from your present heartache.

“I wasn’t apologizing because I was half asleep and didn’t realize what I was doing,” you mutter under your breath with a frown. You’re apologizing for the lack of consent, not because you think you made a mistake as he interpreted it. The fact that he even thinks it’s a mere slip-up says all you need to know.

“Hm?” with his furrowed brows he leans forward, encouraging you to repeat what you’ve said.

“I said it’s good we finally cleared that up,” you heaved a sigh as you noticed a movement from the corner of your eyes.

“I had a feeling you two would be slacking off,” Jimin offers his hand, which you gladly take. He pulls you towards him and with a bright grin, you mumble a quiet thank you. Jungkook mumbles something but you give your outpouring attention to Jimin instead.

“I’ll have you know I’ve been hard at work for the past few days,” you cross your arms with a pout. Jimin grins as he gently pats the top of your head.

“I know, Your Highness. That’s why I’ve come to save you; General Jeon asked if I could provide a less brute lesson. I couldn’t say no,” he angles closer to whisper, “or else he’ll have my neck below a guillotine.”

“Hey, there was no intimidation of sorts!” Jungkook protests.

“Jimin, your new dancing master, at your service,” he bows. When he straightens his back, he tosses you a wooden sword, which you catch with ease.

“We’re going back to these?” you inspect the material, brows furrowed in confusion. Wasn’t Jungkook preaching to you just moments ago about having to build resilience towards brandishing broader swords? You glance towards the general in question and catch his gaze momentarily but he looks away while scratching the back of his head. You glance back at Jimin instead. “Also, you never told me you were skilled.”

“You never asked, and I never thought to share,” he grins, slipping one hand behind his back as he holds the weapon with another. “I’m teaching you a different method than the general did, so yes, we’re using these again. But only for a little while.”

You grip the object with both your hands and Jimin shakes his head.

“One hand,” he instructs sternly, and you chew your lower lip in hesitance. You relent, however, and point the sword towards him with your right hand. Its heaviness is magnified by the soreness of your muscles, but you grit your teeth instead of complaining.

“I suppose he grew tired of teaching me, since he asked you,” Jimin strikes swiftly above your head and you parried, albeit clumsily. Jungkook laughs somewhere behind you.

“He practically begged me to let him take over.”

Your eyes trail back towards Jungkook briefly, allowing Jimin to jab you on your torso. You push his sword off with yours as you frown, but he merely grins with glee.

“Eyes to me, Your Grace,” Jimin catches your attention with another stab on your lower shoulder. “You just died.”

Jungkook clicks his tongue as he folds his hands above his chest. The way he mockingly shakes his head puts you in a foul mood. “You’re always unfocused. I thought we’d gone over this before.”

“That’s because you’re the one distracting her, General,” Jimin says pointedly, and you nod in agreement before you realize what he said.

“Exactly! Thank you, Ji— wait, no.”

“I highly doubt that.”

You and Jungkook speak over each other, prompting you to face him with a scowl. Jimin merely watches with a bemused expression. “Miyoung was right, this is going to be entertaining.”

//

The following morning, it’s Jimin who wakes you before daybreak. He explains that it might be the last proper training you’ll have before you embark once more. It’s not like you’ll decline otherwise, so you do your best to rub the tiredness out of your eyes. You work to move with as little noise as possible so you don’t wake Miyoung, who’s still sound asleep, as you slip in a pair of unworn trousers lent by Jungkook previously. Because according to him it seems tough to move in a billowy skirt, which is something you both agree on without any argument (for once, it seems). The fabric is large, undoubtedly, but they weigh less than your dress; movement is not much of an issue as it had been.

Much to your surprise, it’s Jungkook you see outside of your tent, however, who continues to sport fatigued, sunken eyes.

“I thought the point of Jimin taking over was so that you can catch up on sleep,” you greet him with a soft nudge to his arm.

“I don’t remember that being the reason,” he replies with a lazy grin before running his hands through his dark hair. You belatedly remember that you hadn’t exactly pointed it out to him the day previous.

“Well, it should be. You’re in dire need of rest, General Jeon.”

“I’ll catch up on sleep when I’m dead.”

You know he means it in jest, as evident by the playful lilt in his tone, but there’s nothing amusing about imagining his demise. The thought of losing him, now more than ever, sends your stomach spiralling into intricate knots.

He frowns when you stay unresponsive, and inches closer before reaching up to pinch your cheeks. “Good thing I work for you as a general and not a royal jester. Or else the frown on your face would get me thrown in the dungeons.”

“I don’t recall permitting you to touch me,” you glower, but no effort is placed into moving away even an inch.

He stares at you in disbelief. “Who was the one that decided, completely unprompted, to put their lips on mine—”

You’re swift to place your palm on Jungkook’s mouth to silence him when you spot Jimin emerging from his tent.

“Did I interrupt something?” he looks between the two of you as he approaches. You free yourself from Jungkook and he doesn’t protest when you pull away.

“I was just telling General Jeon that he didn’t have to come with us so he could rest,” you give Jimin a strained smile before giving Jungkook a pointed look.

“Alright, as you wish,” it still surprises you, however, when he relents without much protest. “I shall not be a distraction, as you so-kindly point out I was being, for you this time around.”

He winks at you and gestures a salute towards Jimin before walking towards his sleeping quarters.

“Does he always do that?” Jimin asks as you both watch his figure disappear behind the tent.

“Do what?”

“Pretend to be all smug. I’m only speculating, but his ears were practically bleeding scarlet.”

You bite your lower lip to prevent a grin from spilling, but they curl upwards nonetheless. No matter how direct his words may seem or how rough he wants to appear, he still gets shy, after all.

It doesn’t take long for you to realize why Jimin refers to himself as a dance master, despite the name baffling you the first time you heard it. The man moves with such poise and grace that you would never expect in someone teaching sword fighting. It’s a skill no one possesses but him, and him alone.

When the afternoon arrives, you forgo resting altogether and push Jimin to use the sabre he brought along with him.

“Right,” he announces just as you deflect his oncoming blade with yours. “Right. Right. Left. Low. Left. Right,” he’s relentless in his attacks, not letting you breathe even just for a moment as he steps forward with each command. You move back, but meet each blow with calmness as you keep your left hand training behind you.

“Heads up,” he thrusts forward as you sidestep, swiping his sword with yours and subsequently disarming him. You point the blade, barely touching his neck as you huff with satisfaction.

“I win this round,” you announce with excitement, as you lower the weapon. Jimin claps in the wake of your triumph and you make the effort to amuse him with a bow.

“After losing seven in a row,” Jungkook points out. You wrinkle your nose in annoyance but choose to ignore his snide remarks; so far, your attempts to combat his presence as a distraction have been working. Hours prior, he arrived to convince you to take a break, but you refused when Jimin admitted he wasn’t tired yet, so Jungkook opted to stay on the sidelines and watch, instead. “You are picking this up faster than I thought.”

You finally turn to him, chin high with pride. “It’s easier since it’s lighter than your sword. And I actually don’t mind having to carry it with one hand as much anymore.”

Pain clambers from your back shoulder all the way to your right arm as you boast, but you repress the affliction with the grit of your teeth. You hope none of them noticed the slight change in your demeanour as you turn to Jimin.

“Thank you for being patient with me.”

“It’s an honour to be able to share my knowledge with you, Your Highness,” Jimin bows, but you’re quick to push his shoulders and straighten his posture back up.

“No need to be so formal. I should be the one who’s honoured. I feel quite embarrassed to not have known you possess such talent.”

His cheeks turn ruddy as he looks away. “Ah, well…”

“Yeah, we could have used your expertise weeks ago when we were attacked. Maybe I wouldn’t have been injured, then,” Jungkook adds, slinging an arm around Jimin. The latter huffs as he crosses his arms defensively.

“To be fair, I thought you had that handled, General,” he deadpans. “Thank heavens the princess was there to save us.”

The statement must have rubbed Jungkook the wrong way as he moved to place Jimin in an uncomfortable headlock. Despite the obvious disadvantage he’s in, Jimin giggles, whining about how Jungkook should learn to respect his elders. Jungkook relents with a chuckle and Jimin sulks, gently rubbing the nape of his neck.

“I knew I should’ve shared sooner, but I honestly thought you’d be insulted by it,” your brows knit in confusion at Jimin’s words, but you let him continue. “A lot of people don’t prefer this style of combat because it’s slower and often a defensive method. There’s a lot of waiting and anticipating the enemy’s moves. General Jeon’s style is more straightforward; you’re taught to attack, which is the usual training for our infantry. Also, the blade isn’t as impressive.”

You examine the steel in your hands — it’s merely a little more than the size of your fingers. You offer to return the weapon to him, and he takes it. “It’s much easier to wield, nevertheless.”

“That’s what made me reluctant, to begin with. I wasn’t sure if you were going to take offence simply because it might seem easier.”

You profusely shake your head in disagreement. “I can only hope to be half as skilled as you while emulating your poise.”

“I swear my ego is always being fed every time we talk, Your Highness.”

“If anything, you deserve all the praise in the world for being such a gifted mentor,” you hear Jungkook clear his throat beside you.

“It’s really the least I could do. After seeing you dedicate yourself, I couldn’t just stand by and watch idly, twiddling my thumbs.”

You grin shyly at his words, unsure of what to say next. It’s Jungkook who breaks the silence as he nods towards the direction of your campsite. “If you two are done flirting, I think Miyoung is trying to call Jimin.”

He quickly sheathes the sword and turns to wave back at her. “I almost forgot I was going to help her pack up before we embark tomorrow,” his attention returns to you momentarily, his smile mischievous. “It turns out you carry a lot of items with you, Your Highness.”

“H-hey, most of the items were bought along the way. I didn’t,” you pause when he runs off. “I’m demoting him from dance master back to a stable boy. I swear.”

“I highly doubt that. You can barely resist the man,” Jungkook mumbles impassively, and you chuckled in agreement.

“That I can’t deny.” You turn to follow after Jimin, but before you could take one step, Jungkook grabs your wrist tightly causing you to hiss in pain.

“You’re injured,” he murmurs, forehead creasing with worry.

“It’s fine,” you twist your arm to free yourself from his hold, but it only brings you more discomfort. You bite your lower lip to prevent a moan from revealing your true condition. You watch as he rolls your sleeve up. “I’m fine, General Jeon, I don’t need you—ack!”

This time, Jungkook allows you to pull your hand back, and you cradle it against your chest protectively. “Please don’t do that.”

“I barely pressed your skin.” He gently tugs on your arm and despite your early protests, you relent and let him examine your hand. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It’s not a big deal,” you mumble as he drags your sleeve further up, revealing a newly formed mark on your forearm. Jungkook turns to you, eyes thinning to slits in an obvious look of disapproval. “It’s not! I’ll be fine.”

He grows quiet as his grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go of your arm completely. Gaze downcast, his thumb runs gently across the bruise, as if doing so would ease the pain.

(It does. Because for the briefest moment your attention is shifted away from your burning muscles and onto the singular point where his skin meets yours.)

“I’m not a fragile porcelain made simply for display, Jungkook.”

“Says the person who almost got swept away by the river.”

“That was one time.”

“One time is still too many, if you ask me,” his bottom lip juts into a pout. It took quite a lot of self-control not to giggle at his defeated state.

“As you said, that’s what I have you for,” your free hand finds its way up the top of his head to ruffle his hair. You feel his body go rigid upon your touch. “I’ll try not to get killed to make your life easier, don’t worry. That’s why I want to become stronger.”

Jungkook hesitates, before inhaling sharply. “You know that you don’t have to prove yourself to me, or anybody for that matter,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. The sudden seriousness in his tone almost gives you whiplash.

“What do you mean? I’m not doing this to prove anything,” you intend to keep your voice level to let him know you took no malice in his words.

His forehead creased in confusion, nonetheless, eyes searching yours. “Then what?”

Prior conversations with him play in your mind, persistent and foreboding. One wrong word could send Jungkook spiralling into the limbo between a stranger and someone seemingly only there because he’s bound by the duty to serve his country. The thought of laying down parameters for you to walk around each other is terrifying.

Therefore, you believe there’s no use in being privy to your fears anymore; not when you’re about to enter the lion’s den. “The same reason as before. I just want to be able to protect myself, and everyone for that matter, including you. That isn’t to say that I don’t trust you, but I want to be of use if there comes a time when—” you pause, unsure of how to continue. Jungkook’s worried gaze is unnerving, but he allows you to finish your train of thought. “Hearing your horror stories about the dangers that might be waiting for us when we cross that border…”

“I’m not saying everyone who lives there has evil intentions by default. I’m just relaying whatever information I’ve been told by the others.”

His statement makes you wonder even more why your father decided to ship off his only heir if they weren’t the kindest people, to begin with. Surely, he was aware of their reputation despite how diplomatic he thought the matrimony would be.

Jungkook continues. “I’m sure Min Yoongi is reasonable. I heard he refused to let his men get killed in battle, so they yielded. He probably agreed to this deal because he’s a pacifist, unlike his father.”

No matter how reassuring his words are on the surface, there’s still an underlying tone of uncertainty in his voice. It’s understandable because neither he nor you know what type of danger lies when you step foot beyond the safety of your kingdom. You couldn’t bring yourself to muster even a smile as a response.

Jungkook must have sensed your distress as his fingers slid down to clasp his hand in yours. The gesture might not be anything other than a mere consolation, but it’s enough to keep your nerves buzzing with intensity.

“I won’t let harm come to you. I promise,” the gentle breeze seems to heave a sigh, ruffling the fringes of his hair ever so softly.

You hold the weight of his words gently between the warmth of his palm against yours. In reality, no matter how much you try to shield yourself by swimming away, you’re caught by the hooks and reeled right back into him, always. The space he occupies within the confines of your heart grows infinitely larger each day that passes by, and you’re unsure if you should feel elated or terrified.

*  *  *

Min Yoongi reckons he has a great sense of proclivity for fortune without ever having to work for it; all according to hearsay, that is. He never quite understood where such sentiment roots from. The last time he checked, the inheritance rightfully belongs to him so any notion that he has to “work” for anything is moot. However, being within close reach of the throne does come at a costly price; one that is paid with people’s lives as currency. It seems that when one barters with Fate, Death comes tagging along.

The first victim is his younger brother.

During the tail-end of the recent war that passed, he catches wind of the crown prince’s demise and immediately orders his men to withdraw from their position of defence to return safely behind enemy lines. Retreating at the first whiff of danger is not his proudest moment, admittedly, but at the time he decided he wanted to be alive to see another sunset rather than being buried six feet below the ground to become a feast for maggots. As much as he’s a man of pride, he still values his life to a certain extent; at least enough to get himself out of peril.

It seems to be a backwards decision to the people of Tuo, but he is to assume the crown prince’s responsibility, therefore assuming the position to control what little remains of their infantry. The subsequent and constant deterioration of his father from an unmistakably paralyzing disease no one in the kingdom knew the cure of only brought about his hurried ascension to the throne. Yet, instead of being elated in the position he finds himself in, he’s inclined to feel otherwise.

And rightfully so, because the provision to him being a ruler includes marriage to a certain princess who heralds from the land which they sought war in order to stake a claim on.

His father, unbeknownst to Yoongi during the genesis of the agreement, promptly carried out a deal with the so-called scums of the South to unite the two countries together through matrimony. The inclination to roll his eyes is strong with such a clichéd premise.

“Even on your deathbed, you manage to make life a living hell for me. I commend you for that, I suppose,” he mutters under his breath, tightly clutching the neck of the ceramic vial that holds his rice wine. He’s well aware that his father couldn’t hear him from a safe distance. He isn’t even sure the king is alive at this point—for all he knows, the queen could be playing it up to prevent Yoongi from fulfilling the role of the king.

His father lays peacefully, bed surrounded by a thin, almost see-through muslin fabric. The canopy serves both as a barrier and a warning; unless you’re an experienced physician or the unfortunate chambermaid who has to look out for him, you should not pass through.

“You despised that your favoured son to inherit the throne died, making me the next in line. That’s why you’re doing this, am I right?” he raises his voice, unconcerned with the fact that servants and guards just outside the room can possibly hear him. “A matrimony I never agreed to.”

He’s unsure whether it’s a well-known truth among the nobles and anybody else living inside the palace walls, but it does raise questions in their minds as to why Yoongi hadn’t been the second in line to the throne after his father. But then again, nobody questions anything the Mad King did or said, not when he raised hell against his enemies in the South, and certainly not when he declared his second-born son as his successor.

Except for Death, of course, who’s seemingly the only true entity that’s able to cripple the king in his tracks. He likes to think Death is on his side and took away the bane of his existence, the stain in his claim to the throne. But then again Death also took the only person that matters in his miserable life, so Yoongi concludes one simply cannot have everything they covet. Perhaps he is lucky after all, and fortune will willingly land on his lap if he so wishes.

Too bad it’s not what he truly desires.  

Yoongi takes a swig of his makgeolli wine, taking pleasure in the way the fiery water washes down the undesirable lump in his throat. He chugs and chugs, ignoring the excess liquid that spills from the corners of his mouth, as he desperately wishes for the goddamn ache in his chest to disappear. Once the ceramic decanter runs dry, he tosses it across the room and the chambermaid yelps in surprise when it shatters into tiny pieces.

A low chuckle emits from within his chest as his legs buckle from underneath him, bringing his knees down on the wooden floors with a thud.

“Do you really expect me to roll over like an injured beast and be receptive to whatever it is that you’ve planned for me?”

He didn’t think the people who they called enemies merely a few months ago would easily submit to such a fallacy for the sake of maintaining “peace”. But they immediately sent out the only heir to their throne, and without so much as a mere palace guard as a form of protection! Yoongi partially believes they’re more foolish than any palace jester he’s met, but the failure of the men he hired makes him conservative against such prejudice.

Perhaps dealing with their princess will be quite entertaining, after all.

“It’s a damn shame you won’t be alive to see what will become of this kingdom and its people whom you failed,” he hollers in between his unhinged laughter as he clutches his stomach. He swipes the spill on his chin using the sleeves of his golden speckled black robe. “Don’t worry, my only aim is to uphold your vilified reputation. It’s not like I’ll be doing anything sacrilegious, certainly not one that you haven’t already attempted in the slightest. After what you did to her, it’s the least I could do in return—”

“Sorry to bother, Your Majesty, but the queen has arrived for her visit,” the eunuch’s voice pierces through the closed doors, interrupting him. Yoongi hisses in indignation as he staggers to get up from his position. “Do you need a bit more time?”

“I’ll be right out, for fuck’s sake,” he manages to get to the door without stumbling over. The door slides open to reveal the eunuch in question, as well as the queen herself, in all her youth and glory, and the now noticeable bump on her belly. Yoongi doesn’t know how she managed to procure such a thing from his father, at that state, not to mention at her uncertain age to bear another child, but he digresses.

“Queen Dowager,” he slurs, choosing the name for no particular reason other than to draw ire from her. She finally shows her maturity when her forehead wrinkles in displeasure, showing certain lines that cannot be hidden by the flaked lead she generously patted on her face.

“What an abhorrent name to greet your mother,” she seethes and Yoongi couldn’t hold back his scoff. “Especially when the king is very much still alive.”

“Is he, though?” he points behind him with his chin mockingly, before his grin widens. “I’ll leave you to it then, Mother. Be careful though, he just won’t shut up. I could barely get a word in.”

Yoongi collapses on the floor when he takes another step, prompting the eunuch and some court ladies to rush to his aid. He waves them off with a mumble and a hand gesture, before pushing himself up using the wall.

“Sober up, will you,” the queen calls out from behind him. “Our guests should arrive tomorrow.”

The corner of Yoongi’s mouth curls up in delight as he locks gazes with the eunuch, whose face blanches with fright.

“Finally.”

— previous ; next ; series masterlist

note (edit): now that i don’t want to claw my eyes out from being sleepy, i just want to give credit to “game of thrones” (book one) for bearing inspiration to this chapter. again i hope you enjoyed reading ♡

taglist: @apurpledheart @koochiekoo @fan-ati--c @grandqueen1533 @awsome-small-k @novusluna @yodakoo14 @politically-acurate @bangtandongsaeng @taevkimchi @ausjeons​ @zxlummxxd​

[sweetestlamb]

Too Little Too Late

Summary: Mun-yeong doesn't forgive Gang-tae after their heated kiss.

Author's note: As promised, here is grovel GT fic it's going to be shorter expositions, I wrote this on my work commute lol 😂 I'll update as I can. This will be a slow burn and he will really have to win over our girl, as always enjoy! (I know I said that last story, might be my last story for a while but inspiration struck what can I say?...um surprise!)

Image by @vivavorever I just thought this picture was perfect! I had to steal borrow it 😊😊

Let's talk.

Instinctively she feels her hormones ramp up at those seemingly innocent words, memories of his body pressed against hers saturating her senses. But this time the phrase appears to have no encrypted interpretation as he leads her down the winding staircase and to her broad mahogany table.

And then he's talking.

Finally opening up to her and sharing the darker corners of his complicated history, tales of homicide and heartbreaks and her chest is tight watching the raw hurt that pours from his eyes.

Heart aches for Sang-tae who was forced to witness such a heinous act that still tortures him to this day.

Shattered by the thought of two young boys whose innocence was snatched away so viciously at such an early age, forced to grown up and raise themselves because of the evil act of another.

If she ever encountered that butterfly she would rip it to pieces, slowly. Make it squirm and suffer the way they had.

....and I need you.

With those words her revengeful thoughts dissapate, furling away in a puff of smoke as he utters the words she has longed to hear, her ears have been starved to receive.

She waits to feel elated. For her heart to curl back up reattaching all the pieces his story shattered into jagged egdes. Waits and waits. Instead anger and frustration manifest like twin demons unleashed from a caged prison.

He hadn't needed her at the beach when he'd ripped her heart out and left the bleeding organ on the grainy expanse of the beach, the heat from her heart enough to morph the particle into glass.

She had clearly been expendable when it came down to preserving the farce that he and his brother were living, like a ship in a bottle contained and pristine but lacking any true semblance of life. At their first obstacle he'd thrown her to the wolves instead of fighting with her, fighting for her. Despite his declarations and doe eyes now, that was the reality that snapped her from her dream.

"Are you finished?" She whispers, fingers clasped on the surface of the table, heart in her throat.

He blinks at her, openly disgruntled by her words. Mouth gaped in wonder.

It's so devastatingly evident what his expectations were and she wonders when exactly she become so weak, so brittle that he believed she would simply accept him back without even a smidgen of remorse for the sharpened words he'd stabbed into her chest.

"Was that all you wanted to say?" She repeats herself, stare growing frostier with his continued silence.

Finally he snaps out of his stagnation, sputtering, "I..- Yes. I just wanted you to know I.. I'm.... Um."

For a moment she's hopeful, disgustingly so. Eager for him to realize what she requires without any assistance. Because that will ensure that he too understands his wrongs and he's proactively restoring their battered relationship. She waits for him to complete his sentence, heart on her tongue.

"I'm.... going to do better. You just need to win Sang-tae, over and then we can move back in and all be together." He finishes and her anger and frustration melt away instantaneously, blown away with a gasp falls from her lips.

Another test. It's never enough. She'll always be an outsider clawing to be in their word, this elusive love that she's been searching for her whole life will always be just out of her reach, on the cusp where she cannot roam.

She's not enough. Not good enough. Not kind enough. Not worthy of love. Simply not, enough.

He was supposed to be different, the one who saw through her facade, to everyone else she exuded nothing but confidence and impassive cockiness but hadn't he seen her broken enough to know that she wasn't strong? Was so tired of pretending to be strong while the world crushed her to a pulp. He wasn't supposed to see her as an emotionless princess or an empty can.

Yet his words and actions made it clear that he did. She was expected to move on now because he had deigned that their spat was over and done with. She was expected to grovel and plead with his brother for a spot in their life, once again Gang-tae would merely be a moderator and not an offensive player in this game. A coveted toy for them to tussle over, some distorted version of tug of war.

She was so tired.

She didn't have the strength or desire to tug any longer.

She was letting go.

"Thank you for sharing that with me." She sat up straighter, bracing herself for her next words. It wouldn't be easy for her to say them, a small part of her wanted to just curl up and cry, take the crumbs that he threw her way and thank him for his graciousness.

But today a larger part, that sounded eerily like Jeung-Sae, told her that "it was pathetic to wait around for some guy, if he wanted you he would come get you." Sang-in had slapped a hand over her mouth as he repeatedly apologized and at the moment her rage had burned so deep that she stormed out of the room, flipping the green and yellow bags on the ground contemptuously. Her vision flushed in vibrant red.

Today she lets that advice wash over her, a cooling balm.

Gang-tae smiled at her, expectant look on his dastardly handsome face. Wasn't it said that the devil would come with a beautiful face? She was sure of it now, she was staring right at him.

"I'll speak to Sang-tae, to apologize for leaving him out. I'll be a better best friend to him from now on."

He blinked at her words, doing little to hide his emotions today, it was just too little too late in the end.

"Oh. Okay good, if you convince him then we--"

She cut him off with a raised hand, "No. That has nothing to do with you or us. That's between me and him."

She watched him jolt in his seat, his eyes now wavering as he searched for answers on her face, for once that wouldn't be necessary she was prepared to voice her ideas.

"I don't want you to move back in."

"What? Why!? I thought you wanted us to...."

She almost laughed at the absurdity of him, unable to say aloud what he believed that she wanted, as if it was exclusively something she yearned for.

And maybe it was. She had always been the driving force and creator, bending them into something that resembled a normal functioning relationship whilst he ran and spat poison at every turn.

"I'm tired." She stands up, turning away before her heart betrays her and clings to him.

His hand on her wrist halts her movement, she pauses eyes watering, tears dangerously close to falling but her jaw tightens in resolve.

"Mun-yeong, I don't understand...?"

She sighs, dragging her hand away, "That's because all you can see is your pain."

She's tempted to hurl his own poisonous words back at him, but she reconsiders, they've hurt each other enough. She'll break this vicious cycle.

"Leave Gang-tae, I need time away from you."

She walks away, hand desperately clutching at the railing, her body is heavy as all her strength evaporates leaving her an empty husk.

There is silence. And then the front door opens. And there is more pained quiet.

And then the ocean pours into her living room as she falls to her knees.

He leaves without a fight.

How tragically expected.

[lunetheaveragefan]

one day...

Hi, y’all! Sorry there’s been such a delay for Chapter 2. I’ve been super busy with school and dance and other activities and all that. Also, I decided about halfway through my original Chapter 2 that I was going to alternate between Virgil and Roman’s perspectives so I had to start a new chapter from scratch. But that means that now-Chapter 3 has already been started, so hopefully I’ll have it done by Friday this week!

A Sander Sides high school AU

Pairing: Prinxiety and some background Logicality

Summary: Virgil is used to being alone. He only has one friend, Logan. But when Logan makes a new friend, things begin to change as two more join their group. Roman, a boisterous theater kid, seems determined to destroy Virgil’s lonely, average life. How much will Virgil’s life change?

Warnings: Some cursing and quick mentions of a possible fight/hospital. If you notice anything else, let me know!

Word Count: 1,919

anyway, here it is!

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

CHAPTER TWO

Roman Princeford is absolutely, completely, terribly humiliated. 

He can’t stop blushing in embarrassment, and it only makes it worse when the classes are boring and he can't stop his mind from drifting to that morning. Like now, for example. 

Stupid, stupid Roman, he chastises himself. Why didn’t you notice him there, you oblivious dumbass? 

He groans and buries his head in his hands. 

“Is something wrong, Roman?” the math teacher asks. “Do you need help?” Yes, but not the help you can give me, Roman thinks. He takes a breath and fixes a dazzling smile on. 

“No, Mrs. Perry, I’m doing fine! Thank you for your offer of assistance, however!” he exclaims in his usual lyrical way. Roman always makes an effort to seem like he’s reading off a script, especially one where there’s a heroic prince he can play. It always makes him feel better when he plays a part. Then, Roman can imagine that he is the character. The same qualities, traits, life, everything. 

He can ignore how stupid he is and pretend he’s a brave, dashing prince. The princes in stories would never have the problems Roman’s been having. 

Mrs. Perry walks off, rolling her eyes, not without fondness, and Roman turns back to his math. Shoving his mind out of fantasy, he tries to solve the problems. It seems like he’s gotten nowhere by the time the bell rings. Throwing his paper into his bag, he hurries out of the room. 

“Heya, Roman!” Patton Hart, his best friend, calls through the throng of people. Roman slows down so Patton can catch up. “How ya doing?”

“Uhh, Patton, I am a disaster!” Roman proclaims. “You’ll never guess what happened this morning!”

“Oh no! What did you do this time?” Patton asks jokingly as they enter the classroom. History is one of the few classes they have together, so they always walk from fifth period there. 

“I was telling a story, a great one, mind you, and knocked over a poor, innocent student!” Roman throws down his bag next to his seat and plops into the hard plastic chair. “I didn’t mean to, I swear. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was who I hit!” Pausing for dramatic effect, Roman finishes, “It was Virgil! I knocked over Virgil Tempest!”

Patton’s mouth forms a small ‘o’. He starts to laugh, but after seeing how embarrassed Roman is, he stops and places a hand on his shoulder. “What did he say?”

“Nothing much. Just some mumble-jumble. But now I can’t stop thinking about him! I didn’t get a single thing done in math! It’s terrible, Patton. My entire life is all going to go downhill from here! I’ll become ineligible for the play because I’m failing all my classes! I won’t be able to graduate, and then I’ll have to work.” He shudders. “That’s it! I’m done for. I��ll never accomplish anything!” He collapses back against the chair for dramatic effect. He knows he’s being very extra, but honestly, what else does anyone expect at this point? He’s Roman Princeford, after all. 

If only I were the brave, loud, daring person the whole school thinks I am.

“Woah, woah, woah there buddy!” Patton comforts. “I’m sure you’ll do fine. You aren’t going to fail high school. You just gotta tell him how you feel! Then you won’t have to worry about it anymore!”

Roman looks at Patton in shock.

“Tell him how I feel?” Patton nods, encouraging. Roman sits back up. “And make a fool of myself yet again? No thank you! He hates me, you know that! I’d be better off flunking high school! How could I look into those beautiful brown eyes in that beautiful face and tell him I had a crush on him! Impossible, I say! Impossible!” He throws out his hands, but then remembers that the exact same movement started this whole thing. Quickly, his hands fall back to his sides.

Patton chuckles. “It’s not as hard as you think, Ro-ro! You’ll do great. And I’m sure he doesn’t hate you.” Roman sighs. “Hey, why don’t you—”

“Boys in the back,” the history teacher says, shooting a look at Roman and Patton, “it’s time for class. Pay attention please.” They both nod at turn away from each other and towards the board. 

Roman doesn’t pay attention to a single word of the lecture. All he can think about is Virgil’s freckles and his eyes and his lips and his laugh, which Roman had only heard briefly while walking past him but loved nonetheless. How come I’ve never noticed that Virgil had freckles before? he wonders. Goddammit, is that boy just going to keep getting more and more amazing? 

Roman chuckles to himself, thinking, Oh my god, I’m so gay. Deciding he should probably start listening to what the teacher is saying, he shoves any and all thoughts of Virgil from his mind and fills the gaps with information about the buildup to World War 1.  

After class, Patton rushes up to him. He pulls Roman to the side of the hallway in a little nook where the row of lockers end. 

“After school, you should come with me to this coffee shop,” Patton says, a little smile on his face. Roman knows that smile. He’s up to no good. 

“Why?” His voice rises with suspicion at the end of the word. 

“My lab partner, Logan Wise, you know him, said that we should meet up to work on our project after school.” A blush rises to Patton’s cheeks causing Roman to smirk as he figures it out. 

“Someone’s got a cru-ush,” Roman teases, voice sing-songy and laughing. 

“That’s not the point,” Patton says, blushing even harder. 

“Fine.” Roman lowers his voice to a whisper. “But you can’t hide it from me. I’m the love whisperer, remember?” Throughout their years of high school, Roman had been responsible for setting up many couples. It’s gotten to a point where almost every day, he has someone walk up to him, asking him to help set them up with whoever their crush happens to be. 

“Well, maybe I have a crush, but so do you. And you do know who Logan’s best friend is, right?” Patton responds, that same mischievous smile. Roman chuckles, looking around in a fond mix of exasperation and amusement. 

“Virgil,” he finally says. Patton’s smile grows wider. “Look, I told you. I can’t talk to him. I’ll just make a fool of myself!”

“Fine,” Patton says. “Suit yourself.” He pats Roman on the shoulder and starts to walk away. Before he’s completely out of sight, he turns and yells, “Just think about it, okay?” Roman rolls his eyes at his friend’s shameless attempts to set him up and heads to choir. 

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

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Roman shuts his locker with a bang. He joins the flood of people heading towards the front doors. He spills out of the school and heads towards his car. Once he’s only a few yards away, he unlocks the doors and dumps his things inside the passenger door. After waving to a few other kids on their way out that he knows, he gets into the driver’s side.

Alone, finally, Roman allows himself to drop the fake smile. Ugh, you goddamn idiot. How did you not notice him there? Now he hates you even more. Good going, Roman! Love whisperer, yeah right.

If only I could just talk to him…

Shoving his embarrassment and frustration aside, he starts the car and pulls out of the school, heading home. His route home winds its way through the downtown streets. Roman is so used to driving the same streets, he’s startled to notice something unordinary. 

A few cars ahead of him is Patton’s silver car. What is he doing over here? Patton lives on the opposite side of downtown as Roman, and while the town is relatively small, it’s still strange. Roman is sure he’s never seen Patton drive this way home before. 

Turning onto 4th Street, Roman watches Patton, now directly ahead of him, park in an open spot in front of one of the little shops lining the street. The sign above says “The Sanders Cafe” in swirly cursive lettering. A decal of a little cupcake sitting next to a cup of coffee accompanies it. 

Oh, right, Roman remembers. Patton and Logan were meeting up to work on their chemistry thingy. 

And Virgil is probably going to be there. No matter how much he tries to block the thought, it still shows up. Roman has tried to get Virgil out of his mind, but it never works. He always pops up when Roman least expects it. Frankly, Roman finds it quite frustrating. 

Lost in thought, Roman turns one intersection too early. “I guess I’ll just go around the block,” he sighs. It had been a long day, and he was looking forward to crashing when he got home. The detour would only cost about 5 minutes but still. Annoying.

Roman’s phone buzzes in the center console while he’s waiting to turn back onto 4th Street, the one with the cafe on it. One quick glance down at it tells Roman it’s from Patton. Checking the road to make sure he has the time, he looks back to read what it says. 

“Patton…” he groans. 

“I think you should come to the cafe with me. I’m waiting outside. Just give it a chance, kiddo!” reads the text message. However much Roman would like to deny it, he does want to go with Patton. On impulse, he finds a parking spot and pulls in. Patton is parked a few spots down, still sitting in his car. He hasn’t noticed Roman yet, and Roman’s glad for that. 

“Come on, Roman,” he says, trying to give himself a pep talk. “Think about what a prince would do. He’d charge in there without a second thought. It wouldn’t matter what would happen because it would be in the name of love. You got this. What’s the worst that could happen, besides Virgil hating the sight of you so much he instantly fights you the second he sees you and you lose and have to go to the hospital and become the laughing stock of the school because while under anesthesia you admit your feelings for Virgil and now everyone knows and—”

A knock on the driver’s side window cuts Roman’s worrying off. When Roman looks up, he sees Patton’s grinning face. The other boy waves enthusiastically and gives him a thumbs up. 

You got this. Be a prince, Roman. It’s in your name, after all. Taking a deep breath and clenching his fists in determination, Roman grabs his phone off the console and double checks to make sure he has his wallet. 

Patton practically assaults him the moment he steps outside the car, talking in a rapid stream of words, but Roman can’t hear anything over the ever-increasing beating of his heart. They walk up to the front door, Patton ahead of Roman, still rambling about something from foods class. 

The moment they walk in, the little silver bell dinging above them, Roman forgets all his worries because there Virgil is, sitting in a booth with another boy, — Logan, probably — his hair falling in front of his face, teeth gnawing on his lip in concentration and Oh god, that boy is beautiful. 

And then Virgil looks up at them, and Roman swears he can feel his heart drop all the way to the ground.

[samnatandsteve]

Nat gets Amnesia

 so @mockinghawk-romanogers asked for a fic of this based off a post of mine. it took a lot longer to get to than I planned thanks to university and life, and it’s not really the same as the of post but that’s okay. I like both of them. 

This is the post in question by the way: 

[Steve and the Bucky are in central Asia following a lead on a terrorist organization after Civil War][Nat and Sam are following other leads in central America, Nat got hurt and can't keep things straight in her mind]

Nat : *gets a long and well written love letter from Steve*Nat : awwww

Nat : *writes back* "you have a crush on me? That's embarrassing :P"

[A week later]

Steve : *calls Nat on burner phone only for emergencies* Nat, we're litterly married!

Nat : is that how I got your dog tags with your mom's ring on it?

Steve : yes! Don't you remember?

Nat : not really... did I look nice?

Steve : ....of course you did, can I talk to Sam?

Nat : why?

Steve : I need him to check something for me

Nat : what is it? I can do it

*Sam walks in, sees the phone, panicks, and grabs the phone*

Nat : hey!! What gives?

Sam : *trying to act nonchalant while shooting Nat away* hey man, what's up?

Steve : why doesn't my wife remember she's my wife?

Sam : whaaattttt? that's crazy!

Steve : is Nat hurt?

Sam : Not a cut

Nat : *in the background* tell the pizza man I want extra banana peppers on mine

Sam : *to Nat* sure thing

Steve : Sam what happened?

Sam : what do you mean?

Steve : what happen-

Sam : woops well look at that, times up, got to go! Tasha, say bye

Nat : why do I have to say goodbye to the pizza man?

Sam : because he likes you

Nat : likes likes?Sam : ohhh yeah

Steve : wait a minute Sa-

*Sam hangs up*

I can do the whole pizza man part in another one if you guys want me to. But this is the oneshot I whipped up today because I finally had the time and motivation :) 

-

They were on a mission in Brazil that of course brought them to the Amazon Rainforest and not only there but at a Hydra base right on the banks of the river itself. Hydra and their fucking cliches. Sam and Natasha went down there to do some snooping around - “Recon” as Tasha put it. Which of course quickly turned into “innocent intel gathering” as she put it in the middle of the night. Then one trip wire (fucking cliches) got them into a “good old fashion shoot out” as she so cheekly put it as she put a bullet in a Hydra goon’s head. Which may or may not have made Sam question Steve’s sanity for marrying such a scary woman. And they just in Brazil that morning, barely had any lunch and Sam’s stomach is really pissed at him. 

   But back to the point! Hydra, Amazon River, terrifying  woman for a partner, kicking Hydra goon ass all in the very humid and very yuckie air of the Amazon. Just one other reason to add to the list of “why I hate Jimmy”, Sam should've gone with scissors that last round, at least then he would be in Central  Asia and just  be dealing with the heat. 

They managed to get outside where they could get the upper hand,  mainly thanks to Tasha’s kick ass assassin skills. Now he was providing air support and Redwing was being awesome and finishing up the intel theft. 

So Tasha was on the ground kicking ass like only Sam could dream of doing, Sam was playing snipper and taking out stragglers and thinning them out for Tasha when suddenly Tasha was in the river face down and Sam was fighting to right himself midair with his ears ringing painfully.

Cold sweat ran down Sam’s back as the biting air rushed in his ears and brought tears to his eyes. He’s going to blame it on the wind if any of those Hydra idiots brought it up, because Sam Wilson does not cry for his friends, he was a stone cold certified bad bitch (by Tasha the queen of bad bitches herself) thank you very much. His stomach twists painfully making him want to throw up and he does and it’s just acid and it burns his throat and he hates today. 

In just another example of classical Hydra cliche, they blew up their little super secret base and bebrie hit Tasha, sending her into the river. His mind registers the fact that Redwing’s still connected to the goggles’ computer and online. Sam thanks the beings that be as he takes a swan dive to Tasha. One thing is for sure, Sam thought as he pulled Natasha out of the river, Steve will kill him if he finds out about this. 

“Redwing buddy tell me I didn’t just let cap become a widow.” The electronic drone bird chirps as they run away- make a strategic withdrawal into the night sky to their hotel room. Sam breathed a sigh of relief as her vitals popped up and he saw her steady heart beat. “Thank god! He still can’t know about this though!” Redwing chirps again as Sam readjusts the spy in his arms. “Well if she snitches we just have to go into hiding.” Another chirp. “Can you stop pointing out faults in my plan?” Silence. “Thank you.”  

Natalie grones as the light hits her eyes causing a pounding headache to erupt across her head. “What the fuck happened last night?” Her cold hand helped a bit when she held it against her forehead. A black man walked out of the bathroom with a hesitant smile on his face.

“Heyyy girl, how’re you feeling?” She  grunted in reply and she threw her bare legs over the side of the bed. Pausing, she looked down and raised an eyebrow, she had her underwear and tank top on. 

“Why the hell am I half naked with a hell of a hangover? Did we sleep together? You better have used protection!” She jabed her left index finger at the man who was still standing on the other side of the room by the desk. Her eyes caught the gold of her wedding band. “You better be my husband too, I am no cheat!” The man’s mouth went slack as his eyes went wide. 

“I broke her- Hydra broke her and I let them.” He started to ramble to himself, rubbing his hands over his head. Natalie pauses again, what the hell does a Nazi subdivison have to do with this? 

“I thought Captain America took care of those guys.” The man stopped and she could practically see the dread set in as she watched his back. Something in a bag on his side of the room chirped and he snapped at it to shut up. 

After a slew of questions the man, Sam, tells her she had memory loss and thinks she’s one of her covers for her job; A history teacher named Natalie Rushmen when she was really an intelligence agent named Natasha Rogers. They were on a mission in Brazil when she got hurt and they will not be leaving until she gets her memory because “Your husband will kill me if he finds out about this and as my friend you would be obliged to kill him and the whole thing would go down into history books and I don’t want to be in history books like that.” 

They stared into each other's eyes for a while, sweat running down Sam’s face as a smirk played on Natasha’s. She hummed, putting her head in her hand, finger tapping her chin,  pretending to mull it over. 

“Hmmm? What do you mean hmmm??” 

“He is my husband, and I like to think we-” 

“Then don’t think! Trust me, you love to pull shit over him, it's your favorite pastime!” 

“Okay” She got up and left him to get dressed “But i think my other favorite is to keep you on your toes.” She calls from the other side of the closed bathroom door. He flops onto the bed, rubbing his face. Thank god the mission was originally planned for a week and radio silent. 

_

A day later the front office stopped Natasha and gave her an envelope. Said envelope found its way into her purse quicker than a snitch in those Harry Potter books she was working through for the eleventh time according to Sam.   

 When she found the room to be empty and void of said man, she plopped onto her bed and opened the letter. A love letter from a guy trying to be mysterious by going by S - how sweet! But she was married and the most faithful wife-who-can’t-even-remember-her-spouse’s-face there ever was!  But she wasn’t a mean woman either, plus it was so nicely written, clearly S loved her a lot. And she was going to love breaking that big heart of his, gotta set her foot down. 

 So she got to writing her own letter complete with a lipstick kiss on the letter’s bottom corner next to her N.

“Dear S, 

Fuck you, I’m married. 

With nothing but love, 

      N <3” 

Short and to the point, just how she liked it. Smiling to herself with a bounce in her step, she hands her response to the young girl at the front desk, thanked her and went back into the room to watch some Brazilian dramas. The letter from S tucked away in her bag, she was going to ask Sam about it  later when he got back with dinner. 

But dinner came and went and the letter was left forgotten under one of her bras. That was until two days later when Sam got a call on a flip phone. Well the phone in his bag did and like always he way out, so she did the friendly thing of answering it when she saw the unsaved number thinking it was spam. 

“Hello, this is Cathrine from Bed Baths and Beyond, how can I help you on this wonderful day?” 

The midwestern American accent came easily to her as she played with her hair with the phone held in place with her shoulder and cheek 

“Nat what’s going on?” She doesn’t know how she knows but that was Mysterious Mr. S on the other end of the line. 

“Who the fuck do you take me for mr S?? I am married and I’ll bet twenty bucks you’re not even half the man my husband is!” She fished the letter out of her bag “I mean seriously! ‘Words cannot even begin to describe how beautiful you are, Aphrodite cannot even hope to compare.’ “ She reads the line in a high pitched mocking town. “Did you read that from ‘Pickup lines so used and abused even their mothers won’t recognize them’? I wouldn’t be caught dead with a man who thinks that’s the hot shit.” 

  There was a pause and Natasha had to check that he didn’t hang up. 

“What - I’m your husband! Me! Steve Rogers am your spouse!” 

“Yeah okay buddy nice try.” 

“Where’s Sam?” 

“Who’s Sam?” 

“Natasha please don’t, where’s Sam?” 

“He’s at work, doing accountant stuff with the numbers and shit.” 

“Sam barely passed algebra, he hates math.” 

Just  as about to call him a staker, Sam the man walked in with food. 

“Got you some waffles!” He did his best Donkey impression at the word waffles as he closed the door behind him. When he turned back he dropped the food and basically tackled her like a linebacker or something to get to the phone. - Point is it hurt her bruised and battered body.  “Give that to me woman!” 

“No!” 

“What’s going on with you two??” -Steve 

“Yes!” 

“I don’t wanna!” 

“I’ll buy you ice cream!” 

They pause in their battle for the phone. 

“Chocolate?” 

“I’m not a heathen like your husband.” 

“I heard that!” - Steve 

She let go, hand up and palms out in surrender. Sam put the phone to his ear.

“Heyyy Steve, whatsup man?” Sam shoved his unused hand into his armpit as he started to walk the length of the room. Nodding to the food to tell Natasha to start eating, which she does. So she watched him talk while eating her waffles far more entertained than she would be watching a Brazilan show. 

“Why doesn’t my wife remember me?” 

“You have a wife? Wow, congrats man! Who’s the lucky lady?” 

“The one you let get amnesia apparently.” 

“Amnesia-what?” 

Steve sighed on the other end.

“She hurt in any other way?” 

Sam shared a glance with Natasha who had booth cheeks stuffed with waffles. 

“Not a scratch.” 

“You sit on a throne of lies.” Natasha hisses. “I have three broken ribs Mr. S!” 

“What! Thre-!” Steve is sooo going to kill Sam. 

“Oh wow don’t you look at that! Time’s out, gotta go! Bye Steve!” And with a snap of the phone, the yelling voice of an angry husband is cut off. Sam joined Natasha at the table and started to eat his waffles. 

“Is that really my husband?” She pointed her fork at the phone laying on one of the twin beds. Sam nods as he poured syrup over his waffles. “What was I thinking?” 

“To this day I still can’t figure it out.” 

[smol-and-grumpy]

Something Just Like This - CH05

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: Dean Winchester, mobster boss. He’s a little cocky, a lot ruthless and more often than not, short tempered. But he’s also, Dean Winchester, a war veteran and hero who suffers under a shit ton of PTS. He met her in a bar and thinks it’s fate that brought her to him. Little does he know why she’s really here.

Warnings: Angst, doubt, sadness a little. But also fucking fluff.

WC: 3575

SERIES MASTERLIST

“Winchester! You got a cigarette?” Milligan’s voice was clear in his ear. “Please, I need one.”

“No, man.” Dean shook his head. “But hold on, Milligan. You’re going to be alright. We will get you out of here.”

    *

Dean blinks. 

He’s back. 

He’s still driving. A single tear streaks down his face and he jerks himself more awake from his daydream. His hand comes up to brush the tear away from his cheek.

Dean thinks about calling Charlie as he drives towards the bunker. He needs to make a pitstop and clean himself from the dirt of having killed a man, and needs to shower off the guilt. It usually doesn’t work. It never did. But at least there will be no blood of a dead man on any part of him or on his clothes left.

When he kills people, he doesn’t think about them as humans. He can’t let himself go there. Dean can’t say that he enjoys it either though, can’t say that he’s not dying a little on the inside every time he takes out someone. Even if they are the lowest sort of scumbags.

He never could take it lightly. 

Not when he was at war, where killing enemies was demanded from him.

Not now, when he does it to protect his business, his family, his pride.

He’ll never get used to it and honestly, he’d rather not do the dirty work but also he doesn’t want anyone to have to bear the burden. At least not someone he’s close to, like Cas or Sam. Cas did kill people for him, but mostly it was also for Cas himself. But Sam? Nah, Dean would rather die than let Sammy do that kind of dirty work. 

Sometimes, when he’s plagued by subsequent nightmares and has a hard time to even take his mind off them in the times he’s awake, Dean often finds himself asking if this was all worth it. If the life he chose to live was worth the effort, worth the sleepless nights, worth the sacrifices, the blood, the sweat and the tears.

But the answer was always yes . Because Sam’s in it. Because Sam’s gonna open up a law firm. Because Sam’s going to get out of this life. Because Sammy deserves everything good, even if it meant that Dean has to give everything he has in order for Sam to be happy. And Dean is ready to do that for Sammy, always had, always will.

And who knows? Maybe, if Dean’s lucky, his whole plan will work out after all.

He didn’t tell Sam yet — in fact, he didn’t tell anyone about his plan. Dean sometimes wishes for nothing more than to go legal. Maybe go into shipping and trading. Not narcotic substances, not illegal arms. Legal things, like a normal person, a normal business owner of a fucking family business. Do something he doesn’t have to break the law for. It’s just a dream, though. He knows that there’s no escape from reality. Not for someone in his position. Because who would he be then? They’d think that he’s weak. A wimp. A goddamn failure. Nobody walks out of here, especially not after what his father went through to keep the organization going and growing.

Before Dean went to Afghanistan, he actually quite enjoyed the life he had. Fast cars, frisky women, being respected. He had everything. He was cocky and narcissistic back then, thought that he could have it all and so much more. He signed up to be deployed because he thought that he has got something to prove. Proving to himself that nothing could bring him down. Proving to all the others, that he can come back unscattered and reign over them. He thought that once he’s back, people would respect him more because back then, they thought that he would never be able to take over. 

Life changed drastically after a couple of days at COP Keating. He was being the one to get shot at and not the other way around. He was the one to take orders and not the other way around. He didn’t get along with his mates, didn’t want to join in and distanced himself. He never really had any friends because they all thought that he was stuck up. They weren’t really wrong, he guesses. 

Dean never thought he’d get to come back with all his limbs still attached to him — let alone coming back alive.

War changed him. Changed his view of life and he often asked himself what he did it for, sometimes wished that he was the one dead and not his friends. But when he got out of the plane as they arrived back, he saw Sam waiting with a bright smile on his face and waving at him, Dean knew that he did it all for Sam. And yes, it was all worth it. Sam wailed like a baby when the President placed the medal around his neck, which Dean still thinks that he didn’t deserve at all. He just did his duty, really. 

So yeah, this life sucks you in and will spit you out when you’re dead. Sometimes the dead part happens sooner rather than later. You never know. 

Dean knows that he probably — most definitely — can’t win in this life. Maybe in the next. 

He dials Charlie’s number and waits.

Charlie picks up at the second ring. 

“Hey, my favorite Winchester,” She says and Dean smiles at the sound of Charlie’s voice. She’s always so cheerful.

“I bet you say that to Sammy, too.” Dean chuckles lightly.

“Me? Naaaah,” Charlie laughs now, loud and bright.

“I don’t believe you,” 

“Yeah, yeah. You saw it?” She’s changing the subject quickly, knowing that Dean called her up to ask about the things he asked her to pick up for him.

“I haven’t been to the bunker yet. Just wanna ask if you did get it.”

“Got everything. How did you get the shoe size?” 

“Ash,” Dean breathes out.

“Oh my god, I don’t even wanna know,” Charlie groans.

“Nope, I don’t wanna know either.” Dean feels second hand embarrassment when he thinks of it. Knowing Ash, he probably didn’t ask for it smoothly.

“Anyway, it’s in the bunker. Let me know if it fits.”

“I will. Thanks, Charlie.”

“You’re welcome, big guy.”

Dean hangs up and pushes his phone back into his pants pocket. He flips his wrist to be able to look at his watch. It’s not yet 10PM. If he hurries, he could make it there before her shift ends.

       Y/N taps a beer when strong hands grab at her arm and pull her away swiftly, but the pressure on her arm is still gentle, which is weird and she didn’t spill a single drop.

She turns to look who it is, thinks about throwing the beer in the face of whoever thought that pulling her away from her work would be such a good idea when she can club them over the head with a full pint.

Her eyes meet a chest. She looks up from the neat dress shirt, trails her eyes past the scruff, almost freezes at the plump lips that’s widened by a smirk, but she wills herself to go on because she has a great idea who it is. Her eyes meet his green ones and the crinkles around them are deep and — not going to lie —  mesmerizing.

“Hi,” It rumbles from his chest and she could literally feel the bass of his voice vibrating in her bones. It was loud in the bar but she could hear him clearly.

“Hi,” Y/N says, shy all of a sudden. Thinks that she’s blushing, but how could she not.

He leans down, the tip of his nose brushes against her temple and it makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up while goosebumps spread on her arm. “Think you can take a break?”

She looks at the line of people surrounding the bar, shakes her head no,  “I don’t think so,”

Dean chuckles before he produces a bag which he probably had hidden behind his back. Y/N doesn’t know, but she can’t explain how a bag materializes in front of him. “Don’t worry, me and Ash will take over. You go back and see if this is alright.”

“What?”

“You remember the opening party?” He raises an eyebrow, and she sees the doubt in his eyes.

She pretends to think hard, the creases on her forehead deepening. She let the clock tick, thinks of stretching the moment out, just for good measure, before she answers. “Yeah?”

He relaxes, and she thinks it’s funny how she could wind him up.

“It’s in two days. Got you something.”

“You did what? I didn’t even ask Ellen yet if I could get the night off,” Y/N begins to say, because it’s true. She didn’t expect it to be so soon. He just asked her what? Two days ago? And said that they’re still figuring out the date?

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll talk to Ellen.” He’s still holding out the bag for her to take. 

She looks at the people who are still waiting on being served. “But—”

“—Jesus, Y/N, just go, alright? I asked Ash. You can use his room.” He points his chin towards the back door and she sees Ash walking behind the bar too now, with a stupid grin on his face. 

“Oh, okay.” Y/N nods, and places the pint onto the counter top before taking the bag from Dean’s hand. Their fingers brush for a brief moment and there’s a flutter in her chest.

Damn her chest. It has no business to be fluttering right now.

She searches for Dean’s eyes before she goes, as if she needs reassurance. He winks at her as he takes off his suit jacket, folding the sleeves of his dress shirt back. “Go! Trust us. You can take your time.” 

Y/N can already see Ash taking orders before she nods again and slips through the door.

  *

 Y/N closes the door to Ash’s room. Locking it up, just in case. She takes a look around before she drops the bag on the floor and walks over to Ash’s laptop. She can’t make it too obvious, doesn’t want to try to type in a password, fearing Ash has some tracking device on his laptop and would notice someone logging in when he’s not around. 

She opts to take out her phone instead, taking pictures of Ash’s room, especially his desk, and of the many scribbles of loose sheets of paper scattered around. That way she won’t be gone too long too, and she won’t raise any suspicions. It’s not her job to decipher or to dig too deep anyway, they have great people in the bureau. Her job is to deliver new intel while their job is to dig deeper from the bits and pieces she sends them.

After she’s done her other ‘work’, she takes the bag and peeks in. There are two more bags in the big one and she reaches for the first one. She takes it out and smiles when she sees what it is. 

Y/N takes the item out and holds it up in front of her. It’s a red sleeveless couture cocktail dress, with mesh worked into it, a little see through but covered by red flower patterns. She holds it to her chest, and walks to the mirror, lets her hand skim over the fabric. She’s never seen a dress more beautiful and that’s not even a lie.

It’s red. Red. Y/N never wore red. Doesn’t think that red suits her at all. Red is for someone who likes to make a bold statement. Someone who likes to be noticed and seen and if anything, she’s the contrary. In fact, she doesn’t own a piece of clothing in red. She always opted for black, grey, white or navy, something not eye catching. She never felt comfortable being the center of attention.

She smiles to herself through the mirror because she never knew that red would suit her. Nonetheless, she can’t help but wonder how expensive the dress must be. She probably wouldn’t be able to afford it. What the fuck was Dean thinking? She can’t possibly take the dress. Can’t possibly wear it because it’s out of her fucking league. 

There’s a note fluttering to the floor. It probably was laid out on the dress and she missed it as she took it out.

Y/N bends down to pick it up. 

“I hope it fits. I thought red would look great on you. There are some shoes at the bottom of the bag. If you feel confident enough you could let me see? If not, it’s okay too. — Dean”

She bites on her bottom lip before they spread into a grin. 

Y/N shimmies herself out of her jeans and takes off her shirt. The bra too, since it’s see through. She needs to find some nude strapless bra, makes a mental note to go shopping tomorrow before she meets with Linda. 

She’s glad she shaved her legs today, that would have been really embarrassing. Not that she should care. Or should she?

She really doesn’t know but decides not to dwell on that super weird feeling in her guts. Instead, she laughs to herself as she pulls the dress over her head and looks into her mirror image. 

Wow.

She rubs along the dress, flattens it on her body, still mesmerized and amazed at how great and beautiful it feels on her skin. 

It fits her like a glove. How could he know her size? 

She stands on her tiptoes, twists and turns, inspecting herself from every possible angle. 

Shoes. The notes said something about shoes , she thinks and takes a couple of steps to reach into the bag. Y/N pulls out the other bag and opens up the box.

Red heels, the same color as her dress. Not just a similar color. The exact fucking same. 

How?

She places one hand on the desk to keep her balance as she slips into the heels. Her legs feel wobbly in them, she rarely wears heels and these are super high.

Y/N takes a step closer to the mirror, turning herself in front of it. She bites on her bottom lip, suddenly very anxious of wearing it anywhere at all. 

She takes a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm herself down. 

In and out. 

In and out.

“Okay,” she sighs, “okay.” 

It’s more a way to reassure herself because Dean asked if he could see it, and a part of her really wants to show him. It's just that the part that doesn’t want to show him really, really needs convincing. 

She closes her eyes, her heart beating fast at the thought of walking out into the bar.

“Here goes nothing,” She murmurs and unlocks the door to Ash’s room.

   Dean’s having a conversation going on with one of the patrons and pours himself another whiskey, laughing when the dude told him something funny. He didn’t even notice that the bar went silent, only notices it when all he could hear is some murmuring and his own laughter next to the usual songs playing in the background from the jukebox, and there’s someone whistling.

He looks around, wondering what’s going on and then he sees it.

He sees her.

Standing by the door, the red dress clings to her frame and Dean’s speechless for a moment. 

The prettiest fucking thing he ever did see. There’s no other way to describe her.

Not that he didn’t think that she wasn’t cute before but Jesus, she’s beautiful and it’s a pity she doesn’t even know how lovely she is.

She looks around, all flustered and shy like a deer caught in the headlight and Dean almost feels guilty for wanting to have a taste of it. Almost feels guilty for wanting to corrupt her, wanting to feel her legs wrap around him, wants to fucking mark her as his, wonders sometimes, if she blushes as sweetly when he eats her out and makes her come on his cock alone.

Someone was yelling from the back, “Hey, baby, you wanna take a ride—”

“—Shut up!” Dean’s deep voice cuts the dude off and he throws in a malicious look, for good measure.

The one guy at the bar is still whistling and then he licks his lips, “Baby, are you a drill sergeant? Because you have my privates standing at attention.”

The bar erupts with laughter and she looks down to her shoes.

Dean didn’t hesitate to drive his fist into the man’s face. He hears a crack, grins because the dude deserved it. 

“Anyone else?” Dean asks and looks around the room before he turns his attention to her.

He walks over, sees her blushing a little, “Come on, let’s go to the back.”

The guy who’s standing next to her opens his mouth to say something. Dean thinks the guy probably has a death wish or way too much to drink because he doesn’t know when to stop, “Those clothes would look great in a crumpled heap on my bedroom floor, baby.”

Dean’s about to strike out when she places her hand on his arm. 

“I got this.” She whispers with a smirk and then she does. Y/N takes a step towards the guy and drives her elbow into the man’s jaw.

The guy drops to the floor, wincing and spitting blood. 

“Anybody else wants to try their pick up line on me?” She asks the now silent bar and Dean has a really hard time to hold back the laugh that wants to burst out of him. 

“No? Good. Because they all suck.” She says and just stands there and waits and Dean thinks she’s ready for anyone who would want to come forward with a stupid remark. When the bar stays silent, she turns around and storms through the door in the back.

Dean only shrugs at the people who were still speechless, before he follows her.

“Winchester’s whipped.” Ash could be heard under his breath before the door closes completely.

“I heard that.” Dean shouts back.

“Good.” Came loudly from the other side, followed by laughter. 

Normally, Dean would go out there and probably rip Ash a new hole but she’s walking swiftly down the corridor and he follows, almost bumping into her when she turns around abruptly to face him, her hands are braced on her hips.

“How much was all this?” Y/N asks, gestures with her hands up and down her body.

“Don’t worry about it.” 

“No, really, Dean. How much? I’ll pay you back.” She says, and Dean knows that she means it. Had known from the start when she wouldn’t even take the tip he wanted to leave for her.

“I don’t know.” Dean says and it’s the truth. 

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Her forehead creases. 

“I really don’t know, alright?” Dean chuckles, brushing a hand through the scruff on his jaw. “I just went into the store and told them what I want. They said they needed time to get the right shoes and I had someone pick it up for me. I never asked how much it was, because I didn’t really care!” He runs his hand through his hair.

Dean sees her face softening, there’s even a smirk that’s tugging away at her lips. 

“You actually went into a store for this?” She’s grinning now and Dean thinks it’s fucking adorable.

“Yeah?” 

“You went into a store.” Y/N’s chuckling, “A women’s store. And bought a dress?” 

“Yes?” His eyebrow raises on his forehead.

She laughs. Loud, clear. It’s a beautiful sound.

“Were you embarrassed?”

“Uh,” He’s laughing too, tries to search for the right word, “It was awkward. But it was worth it. You look beautiful, Y/N.”

“Thanks.” Her face flushes, and she quickly turns away. “Alright, I guess it fits. Do I look decent enough for you to take me to the opening like this?”

She walks the couple of steps to Ash’s room, stalling at the door and turns to look back to him.

“I’d take you anywhere, Y/N. Even if you’re dressed in your normal clothes, or a trash bag.” He says truthfully, and now it’s his turn to feel his cheeks heating up. 

He doesn’t know why he said it. Doesn’t really know what’s up with him because he feels like he just poured his heart out to her by saying it. Thinks, that if she knew who he really was, how he really was, she wouldn’t let him take her anywhere at all, and he wouldn’t blame her one bit.

“Not— not saying that you’re a bag of trash or anything,” He squints because he’s an idiot and would love to smash his head against the wall right now. Dean clears his throat, “Alright, I need to go help Ash. You take your time.”

“Alright.” She smiles and takes a step into Ash’s room, stops to look back at him. “Thank you, Dean.”

He nods and smiles back, bright and wide, before he turns around and walks through the door to the front.

CH06