#you say the vowel with a falling tone and then a rising tone in quick succession

[donuts4evry1]

Not to point out other Vietnamese words that people tend to mispronounce, but I often hear “Banh Mi” (Pronounced something like “Bahn Me”) pronounced “bon me”

I know people are trying their best because Viet is a terrible, terrible language but it does always surprise me a little bit lol

[gloomwitchwrites]

Captain John Price x Female Reader Dark Romance

Chapter Specific Warnings: explicit sexual content, explicit language, multiple creampie, punishment, unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), oral sex (female & male receiving), breeding undertones, missionary, cowgirl, face fucking, table sex, light gagging, light spanking, light biting, brief edging, praise

Word Count: 5.1k

A/N: Finale of Dangerous Pursuit (for @glitterypirateduck)

You submit to Price at the safehouse. Price finds out what Makarov is up to.

Chapter Nine

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // dangerous pursuit masterlist

Between your ribs is a drumbeat.

The drumbeat is your heart. Pounding. Pounding. Pounding.

Warm water falls upon your body, droplets rolling over skin to land on the floor where it rushes to the drain.

Price’s hands are on you. Seeking. Touching.

It is just the two of you standing under the cascading water, steam rising to the rafters to unfurl in gently dispersing clouds. Price’s hand is between your legs, those thick, calloused fingers of his pressing and teasing your clit. One finds your entrance, and it easily slips inside, revealing to Price just how goddamn needful you are.

“Fuck, love,” he groans. “Fuck.” Price elongates the vowel, drawing it out until it’s dripping from his lips.

His earlier words return, spiraling and twisting until they become tangled ribbons in your head.

Do you miss him?

Did Obolensky ever fuck you like I did?

Did he kiss you better? Taste you better?

No.

The answer is always no.

Price is the only one for you. You know this down to your marrow.

 “I will fuck you,” he groans, emphasizing his words with a light thrust of his finger. It is a promise, one that tells you exactly how this encounter will go.

Price licks his lips. Exhales. And you know what comes next.

 “But there’s a punishment to be dealt.”

There is indeed.

The chase. The mud. Price tossing you over his shoulder to bring you back to the safehouse. You have brought this on yourself. You ran from him. Ran from safety. Why? Because it’s what you do. Survival is all you know, and a small part of you insisted, and you gave in like a dog staring at unattended food on the counter.

The very idea of what Price plans on doing to you sends a gentle quiver to your thighs. Your breath shakes slightly with coiled anticipation at Price’s idea of punishment. Against your skin, and falling down around you, the water starts to cool, more lukewarm than hot.

Price’s finger thrusts again and then slips out, retreating from between your legs. The loss is immediate, and you long to reach out to draw him back. You need him. You crave him. It is an unrelenting pull that rages behind your eyes and stirs in your head.

“Give me your hand,” he says, and it’s almost a growl.

Your body snaps into action at the primal quality of his tone, presenting your hand without hesitation. The quickness in which you respond to him is almost frightening. It is an electrifying sensation that tingles throughout your limbs.

Price’s head dips, the line of his nose pressing against your temple, his hot breath a caress against your cheek. It stands in contrast to the cooling water. Reaching between your bodies, he clasps your wrist, guiding your hand to his cock. Your fingers instinctually wrap around him.

In your palm, Price is heavy, thick, throbbing. Holding him like this feels a bit powerful, as if you’re in control in this moment and not him. When your fingers fully wrap around the shaft, Price groans, his hand around your throat tightening slightly as the edges of your nails lightly graze over his skin.

Price does not remove his hold on your wrist. His grip is strong, and with that strength, Price begins to rock his hips, his length languidly moving back and forth in your encased hand. You cannot look away, and you certainly cannot let go. You don’t want to.

Your gaze is fixated on his cock and how he fucks your hand. The desire to explore and touch is adamant, and all you have is the hand at your side. It rises, and comes to rest against one muscled pectoral. Price is nothing but heat, your palm warming at the contact.

Price nuzzles closer, pressing you harder against the shower wall. But your gaze is still on Price’s cock and your hand. You are mesmerized by the languid roll of his hips, and how he uses you for his pleasure.

Did you ever get a good look at him? Not that you can recall. Now, you have a completely unobstructed view of Price’s dick, and the only urge you have is to sink onto your knees and take him into your mouth, to know what he tastes like, and how much you can make him squirm.

But you’re unable to move. He has you pinned, but you still want to play, even though this is supposed to be your punishment for fleeing like a gentle doe.

Wrist and palm flexing, you go to stroke him, but Price squeezes, halting all movement. “Don’t move,” he growls. Everything in you freezes. Becoming silent like an undisturbed pool of water. “Hold still,” he says more gently, his grip on your wrist releasing to fall against the swell of your hip.

You don’t dare move that hand, only clinging to him by the one on his chest. Fingertips curling into his muscled skin, you remain utterly unmoving, too focused on how his pace starts to increase or how Price’s breathing hitches at the end only to melt into gentle groans.

This man is rugged and gorgeous, with power behind every movement. You know this to be true. His hand around your throat could easily cut off your air supply or snap your neck. But Price is all control. He flaunts that strength and it is a sinful thing.

And it doesn’t scare you. If anything, it makes you feel safe. He’d never turn it on you, would never harm you. Price has proved that to you time and time again.

With your back pressed against the shower wall, and Price caging you in, you are the one possessed. He is claiming you for himself. Marking you as his. Deep in your core, you know he’ll have more than just your hand. By the end, the two of you will be tangled, sparking wires, completely inseparable without cutters.

Price’s hand around your throat shifts, turning your face into his. His lips find yours, and there is nothing soft about it. It is rough, completely primal, and when you open for him, his tongue dips inside for a taste.

He pulls away from your lips, the corners of his mouth turning upward into a hint of a smile. “You asked for this by running away from me.” Price’s voice is slightly hoarse. A little raspy like he’s just awoken from sleep. Price presses his forehead against yours, hips stuttering against your hand.

He’s close, coming to an end. You can feel it in the way his cock throbs, nearly pulsing with need.

“Fuck,” he mutters, hand falling away from your throat to grasp the underside of your thigh.

In one fluid movement, Price lifts your leg off the ground and wraps it around his hip. Surprised, your hand releases his cock, going for the back of his neck to hold on, thinking that he’s about to completely lift you off the floor.

Instead, Price guides your hips forward, finding purchase, the swollen head of his cock pressing to your entrance. He eases in, the intrusion already a stretch, but he does not sheath himself entirely. Your head falls back against the shower wall, exposing your throat. Price keeps himself partially inside of you. Staying there, his mouth comes down on your throat to nip and suck at your skin.

You inhale sharply, pussy clamping down around what he has given you. Your own pleasure is a seeking beast. It has you wanting to slide all the way down on him, to fill you like he did all those years ago at Thirst. But Price keeps your hips still, warding off the creature that wants to show its teeth.

With his one free hand, Price reaches between your bodies and strokes himself. Every pass of his hand pulls a little shiver from him, and the very image of Price falling apart is sweet like syrup. You savor it, and then smile as he empties himself inside you.

That is what he said he’d do after all. Give you just the tip. Fill you with his cum first before he fucks it all into you. Right now, it doesn’t feel like punishment at all. Just foreplay. Just a bit of fun.

“John,” you murmur, and the sound he makes in response goes straight to your pussy.

He lightly shakes his head, hands squeezing tighter on your hips. “We’re not fucking done, love. Far from it.”

Of course he’s not. You already know what he plans. And you are eager for all of it. You want to drown in him.

Price’s gaze roams over your face. Several emotions pass over his features but they come and go so quickly you cannot catch them all. But you know the last. Lust. It’s all over him, and you want him to take it all out on you in whatever way he wants.

Gently, Price releases your leg, bringing it to the ground. He reaches to the left, turning off the now cold water. It shuts off, and all that’s left are the droplets dripping from your hair. Price grabs you by the waist, pulling you away from the shower wall, taking three steps back.

“Get on your knees,” he commands, voice low and husky.

You drop instantly, the heat of his cum threatening to slip out. Price has one hand wrapped around the base of his cock, pumping slowly. Already, he’s back to hardness. The man has stamina, and that alone is a tease. You desire to test it out, to see how far it goes.

Price’s other hand reaches out, tracing your bottom lip in a gentle caress as if he’s assessing your mouth.

“Let me see that mouth.” You promptly part your lips and Price slides his thumb over your tongue before retreating. “Good girl.”

Price shifts forward, one hand going to the back of your head to draw you close. He runs his thumb over your cheekbone, but does not indicating that he wants your mouth on him. Instead, he inhales deeply, as if steadying himself, like he’s moments from losing control.

“Keep me inside you,” he says, and Price does not need to elaborate. You understand.

Reaching between your legs, your press three fingers to your pussy, stopping his cum from escaping. The smug smile that spreads across his face only stirs heat in your belly. You’re not running from him or pushing back like you’ve always done. You are submitting, giving in to him.

That makes him happy, and it makes you happy.

Every part of you is singing, skin tingling in all sorts of places. It is a gentle buzz just beneath and between the bone as if you are made of carnal desire and that desire flares only for Price.

Gently, Price takes your arm, sliding to your hand, bringing it to rest against his muscled thigh. He steps closer. “Hold on to me. Signal if it’s too much.”

This is punishment, but Price won’t take you past your limits. He is still thinking of you even as he only seeks his own pleasure.

Price’s hands smooth back your wet hair, only to twist the soaked strands in his fist. He tugs, pulling you up, the backs of your thighs straining slightly at the position. Drawing you closer, your tongue darts out to run along the slit, swiping up the pearly bead blooming there. Price inhales sharply, fist twisting tighter.

“Be good,” he rasps, and you have to force down the little purr that wants to crawl up your throat. “Wider.”

You comply, and then Price is sliding the head past your lips and over your tongue. He slowly gives you more until he hits the back of your throat and your gag reflex triggers. Price pulls back slightly as your lips suction around him and your nostrils flare.

“Relax,” he coos, and you do.

Price has both hands on your head. One tangled in your hair at the top, and the other grasping the back of your neck. He shifts position, and he nods, hinting at what comes next.

Price tests with a roll of his hips, and then he’s holding on, keeping your head still as he fucks your mouth like he did your hand. This too is a possession, marking you as his. Your body belongs to him, and that is perfectly fine. You’re eager for it, and for him.

He is all sharp grunts as you hold onto his thigh. Price has a salty bite to him, one that has your pussy clenching, your fingers pressing harder against your sex knowing that more will go there soon.

“This is how you learn,” he says between thrusts, each word ending on a slight burst of air. “That you’re mine.”

You want to respond, to tell Price that you’re his completely, but you can’t with his cock down your throat. Instead, you slide your hand over his thigh and between his legs, gently cupping him.

Price’s hips stutters. He hisses between his teeth, head falling back slightly in pleasure. You’re not supposed to be in control, but does he entirely care? Not really. Because when Price gazes down at you, all you see is an intensity that squeezes your chest.

Price’s hands move to the sides of your face. With every roll of his hips, he brings you down on him repeatedly. Each one threatens to illicit a gag but you breathe through your nose, keeping your throat relaxed even as your eyes begin to water.

He is using you for himself, and it’s fucking delicious.

A punishment you’ll happily take.

When you do finally gag, Price drags you off his cock. It is coated with your saliva, glossy and shiny. You cough once, and then Price is reaching down to lift you by the arms. Clinging to him, Price walks you backward until your ass hits a nearby table. With a growl, Price hauls you up by your thighs, setting you down on the smooth tabletop. His hand presses against your chest, and then you’re on your back.

Within seconds, Price is dragging you to the edge of the table, pushing your legs wide. His hand is around his cock, pumping, and then he does it all again. Just the head and his warm release filling your pussy.

He holds there a moment, chest heaving. Yours is moving just as deeply.

You haven’t gotten off, but Price has. Twice.

Slowly, he eases out, and sighs with contentment. “Look at that. See how I drip from you.” Price hands stroke up and down your inner thighs before he steps to the side.

The mirror in the bathroom alcove is right there, and your reflection is clear as day. Between your spread thighs, you watch his cum bloom there. There is a pause. A stretch of breath. Then it starts to roll out slowly.

Price allows you only a few seconds before his fingers return to your pussy, drawing up is cum to press it all back inside. “That stays.”

Blocking your view of the mirror, Price slots himself between your legs again. His fingers drop away from your pussy, and then he’s wrapping his arms under your thighs, making sure you’re on the very edge of the table.

His hardness rests against the space between your sex and your thigh. “One last lesson,” he says.

Lifting one of leg, Price rests your ankle on his shoulder. His hand curls over your shin, and then he’s leaning in, his other hand pressing your other thigh to the table.

“John,” you whimper, as the head of his cock pushes in.

The stretch is perfect. Delicious. Is this how he felt at Thirst? He probably did but you vaguely remember. You only remember how he made you feel during that solitary hour.

Rocking his hips back and forth, Price gives you a bit more each time until he’s completely home. You’re so full it’s nearly painful, but it evaporates almost instantly when Price gently rocks his hips against you.

“Oh, love,” he purrs, his gaze darkening. “Let’s make a fucking mess.”

Price retreats, and comes forward in a sharp thrust.

You cry out, one hand clawing at him while the other latches on to the edge of the table. Price is relentless, fucking you in near desperation. Droplets of water fall from his hair to land on your skin. Some rain down across his bare chest and the urge to lick them up flares within you unbidden.

All you can do is hold on, head falling back against the table as Price gives you everything he has. It is rough, nearly brutal, but fuck is it good. Price was rough with you at Thirst but this is different. He was almost reserved then. This is unleashed need.

Price’s hand on your thigh travels, moves upward only for his thumb to press against your clit. The touch is a shock, one that sends your pussy fluttering around him. Price grunts, stills, keeps toying with your clit until your thighs quiver and everything in you begins to clench down. Then it all disappears as Price pulls his thumb away and resumes thrusting.

You push up on your elbows in disbelief as Price smirks. “Think you deserve an orgasm?”

He’s teasing. Toying with you.

“Yes,” you reply sharply, chest hot with both irritation and arousal.

Price laughs, and grinds against you, pulling forth a moan you’ve never made before. His hand that was previously on your thigh now grabs the nape of your neck, pulling your upper body off the table.

He stares into your eyes when he speaks. “Promise me,” he begins. “You won’t run.”

“I promise,” you gasp, fingers slipping against the slick wood.

“You promise what?” he prompts.

You shake your head as best you can. “I won’t run.”

His brow softens, tone smoothing into something delicate and syrupy like honey. “Are you mine?”

This one is easy. “I’m yours.”

Price sighs and gently returns your body back to the table. He adjusts his grip and then he’s pumping into you, his thumb rubbing quick little circles over your clit. Everything that tightened earlier rebounds in full force, flaring white and hot and bold beneath the skin.

“Come for me,” he grunts between thrusts.

Nails dig into wood. Your back arches. Slams down into the table. Hips twitching, trying to move away from his deft fingers, your orgasm crawls to life, digging its way from out of a grave, wanting to consume. Price does not let up. His thumb works and works, swirling circles mixed with your slickness and his cum.

It is too much too quickly. You’re falling then. Fast. Unable to cling to the dangling rope. You cry out his name, and it is strained.

“That’s it,” he groans as your pussy clenches around him. “So good for me.”

Price’s own thrusts stutter out, and then he’s grinding forward. Your name on his lips is distant. You hardly hear it. Your body trembles. Aching.

“Come here.”

That is what you hear. Price’s voice coaxing you from the lust-laced fog clinging to the edges of your consciousness.

Price guides your ankle off his shoulder and brings your leg back to the table. Then he lifts you into his arms, bringing you over the queen bed that’s shoved against the wall. You cling to him, feeling heavy, like you’d fall into a void if you didn’t.

When Price gently eases you to the bed, all you feel are his hands caressing your skin. They move up and down your body. This softness is strange. Price has been plenty soft with you in the past but this is different. It’s a comfort.

You hum with pleasure, eyes closed in bliss, and Price’s low, rough rumble of a chuckle reaches your ears. You are on your back. And then you’re not.

Price turns you over onto your stomach.

Confused, you whimper in protest, reaching back for him even as you start to scoot forward, eyelids open now but heavy. Price’s hand stroke up and down the backs of your thighs before landing on your hips, drawing them up.

You are on your knees, face pressed into the bed.

Anticipation coils in your belly, and you grin against the sheets.

Gently, Price’s hands slide between your thighs and spread them. Again, Price strokes the backs of your thighs, and then his mouth is on you, placing little kisses there, moving upward. His lips brushes against the curve of your ass, and then he bites. Not hard, just takes a bit of soft skin between his teeth, sucking.

You whimper, and you’re rewarded with a sharp slap.

You twist as best you can, shooting him a look over your shoulder.

Price grins against your skin, kissing the spot he just spanked. He rises slightly, and you feel the flush roll up your neck and to your cheeks. You quickly glance away, staring down at the off-brown of the bedsheets.

It’s such a strange thing, to be wanted like this. You feel equally used and worshipped.

Price makes a sound in his throat that sounds like pleasure and you immediately forget this line of thinking. The bed sinks behind you, and then Price’s mouth is on your clit, swirling and teasing. He doesn’t seem to care that you’re full of his cum, because Price sucks and licks your clit like a man starved, like it’s all he wants in the world.

Pressing your forehead into the bed, you moan loudly, everything in you stuttering and shaking. One knee slips, your body unable to keep you aloft. But Price is right there, gripping your hips, licking your perfectly until the orgasm roils up and bursts on impact, spreading out to every limb.

Your next cry is choked. Closed off.

But Price is unsatisfied with his.

“One more,” he groans against your pussy. “For me.”

Price returns to your clit, and the orgasm you just had staggers on. Unending until Price allows it.

And he does. Eventually.

Price is rolling you onto your back, hands soft as he settles between your legs.

Gently, he takes your wrists, guiding them above your head with one hand, pinning your arms there. His head dips and your mouths meet. You taste yourself and him but you hardly care.

This is good. This is sweet.

Already, Price is aligning himself to your entrance, sliding home, filling you up perfectly. You are pinned by his pelvis and his hand. There are no formalities, just carnal need and consuming pleasure. Price’s thrusts are deliberate, his entire weight behind each forward momentum. You are fucked into the bed, thighs gripping Price’s hips in desperation.

Price’s lips keep brushing against yours but it’s not a kiss. It’s just an exchanging of breath.

“What are you?” he asks, a slight growl on the end.

“Yours,” you answer. “I’m yours.”

Price purrs with contentment, closing the distance, lips crashing into yours. He thrusts once. Twice. And then stills, hips pressed roughly against yours. He groans into your mouth, hand gently wrapping around your throat to keep you from breaking the kiss.

But you wouldn’t. Never.

“That’s it, love. Like that.”

Price’s head sinks into the pillow beneath him. His hands are on your waist, his gaze focused on the spot where your bodies meet. You are on top, riding him. Your hands are on his chest as an anchor. You rock back, fucking yourself on him. Price is unmoving except his hands. You are taking what you want.

There is a lazy smile on his lips you long to kiss, but you’re too focused on moving atop him, grinding and rocking in the way you need to. You are chasing your pleasure this time.

You moan loudly as Price’s hand slides up your stomach to between your breasts. That moan, which is lust-laced, is broken by a rapid beeping.

You and Price pause, that lazy smile of his morphing into confusing. Glancing around, you don’t locate the sound until your gaze falls on a little green flashing light.

Next to the bed is an old looking radio. At least, that’s what you think it is. It is large and bulky. It has been silent this whole time. Until now. The beeping is coming from a tiny speaker.

“Fuck,” groans Price, his hands dropping to your thighs. His head tilts in the direction of the noise.

“What it is?” you ask.

“Probably Simon,” mutters Price, sighing heavily.

“Well,” you sigh, rolling your hips. “Answer it.”

Price shoots you a knowing look. “Don’t fucking stop,” he growls. “You keep riding me no matter what. You understand?”

You nod, smiling victoriously as you lightly grind down on him.

Price squeezes your thigh and gives it a light smack. “Behave,” he says, reaching out with the other hand.

It is then that you realize it’s a communication device. The piece that Price removes it attached by a looped wire. It looks just like the comm Price has on his gear.

“Bravo Six,” he answers, releasing your thigh to grab the headset.

You press your hands against Price’s firm chest. Using it as leverage, you thrust back on him. Price glances at you, eyebrows raised. Fixing the headset between his shoulder and ear, Price grabs onto your waist.

He squeezes. A warning.

You ignore it.

“I’m listening,” growls Price into the microphone as you come up and then back down on him. You shift onto your elbows and then your forearms.

“Good,” he says, but he’s not speaking to you.

Your head dips, and then your mouth presses against Price’s chest. You graze over his skin, teasing one nipple with the tip of your tongue even as your hips lightly bounce up and down his cock. Price chokes back a groan.

“Heard,” he snaps. “I’ll be there.”

The moment the call his done, Price is tossing the headset and microphone aside.

Price’s hands return to gripping your waist, bouncing you on him as he meets you with each thrust of his hips. Your fingers dig in, and then Price is rolling you onto your back, pounding you into the bed. All you can do is cling to him, smiling against his shoulder as Price takes what he needs.

After, the two of you are tangled and sweaty, skin and against skin in the low light.

“You have to leave,” you say into the air.

“I do,” he replies softly.

You push up on your elbow to look down at him. Price’s mouth is turned down in a slight frown. He reaches up, running his thumb across your cheek.

“Is it because of—” You lick you lips and swallow down the temporary moment of pause. “Alex?”

Price’s frown deepens. “Partially,” he answers. “It’s…complicated.”

This time you frown. “You don’t want to tell me.”

“I do,” he says. “But your safety is more important.”

“I want you to talk to me. Please, John.”

Price sighs, glances away, and then glances back. “We’re closing in on Obolensky’s business. The father’s business.”

You lean back a bit. “How can I help?”

“No,” replies Price automatically. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

Price’s eyebrows rise slightly. “After everything, you want to help?”

You look away, blood-laced images coming forth. Price must know your unease because he wraps his arms around you, pulling down against his chest.

“You’re staying here. I’ll come back for you.”

“Will you?”

“Always.”

Price stands behind a smooth mahogany desk. It has real gold accents. Simple. Rich. Quiet extravagance

This is a rich man’s desk. Not new money but old. Deep pockets and deep connections.

Price’s gloved hands click away at the keyboard in front of him. The computer holds a history, and he is extracting every fucking piece.

In front of the desk are two men in perfectly tailored designer suits. They are bound. Gagged. On their knees. One is Alexandr Obolensky. The other is his father, Damir Obolensky, the patriarch of the family. He is owner of the family’s consulting company.

“Consulting” is just a fancy word to cover up what is really happening. Price truly doesn’t give a fuck about Damir or Alexandr. Not anymore. They are just a means to an end. A means to an answer.

There is anger on their faces but Price completely ignores them. Gaz and Soap stand behind the men, guns in a relaxed positioned but their fingers still hovering over the trigger. They know that these men aren’t active threats, but they could become one rather quickly.

Damir might be old, but he’s a big brute of a man. Alexandr is fucking psychotic. He loves dealing out the violence himself. Expect of course when it came to you. Then he couldn’t do it, and Price is fucking thankful for that.

Simon comes into view and Price withdraws the external drive, depositing it into the behemoth’s hands.

“Alpha and Delta teams just arrived, Captain,” says Simon in his gruff voice.

Price nods. “Send them out.”

Simon reaches up and starts speaking into his comm. The main doors to Damir’s office open, a team of tactical glad men entering. Soap and Gaz turn, nodding toward them, stepping back. Alexandr and Damir are dragged to their feet. Damir tries to fight, to throw his weight to unbalance the man gripping him, but he’s knocked in the back of the head, halting all resistance.

This entire extraction confirmed every suspicion. Makarov is working to get out of prison. Those loyal to him are shifting, moving in the dark, waiting for the perfect moment to release their leader.

Which means Price needs to make some goddamn phone calls.

But that isn’t all he found. Your name is buried in their records. On the surface, the spreadsheet appeared nothing more than a simple list of clients. But nearly everyone on the list is dead or missing. Even your name is marked as killed, which means that Alexandr lied to his family. Which means the fucker did care about you on some level.

But that information is gone. Price made it so.

Soap and Gaz follow Delta squad out of the room, Simon right on their heels, still speaking into his comm. Price comes around the desk, following the large group at a short distance.

There is a little cottage in the Scottish Highlands that has his name on it. When he returns to you, he’ll take you there first. After? He’ll go wherever you want.

But you’re his now.

And that is all Price needs.

taglist:

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[bisayawa]

pearl of the orient sea ; alejandro vargas/filo! reader

― fluff

desc: filo! reader headcanons (moreso on scenarios bc i'm not a pro at this headcanon thing but shh)

note: something self-indulgent for me & the peenoise out there, but just to clear, i am from cebu so bisaya/cebuano comes more naturally to me. (if you're feeling particularly left out, don't be afraid to comment some of your own hcs of your province!!)

first & foremost, before everything else i think he'd be interested in the language, most especially the words. he'd catch one or two in the middle of the sentence so he'd only have the faintest idea of the conversation but hey, that's better than nothing.

he knew it was at the start of your relationship where he noticed that your native tongue & his overlapped in some ways. upon closer inspection, he can pinpoint it somewhere in the fourth date.

your phone was ringing & despite numrous attempts to quiet it down & go on with the conversation, the phone won. you needed to take this call.

you excused yourself as courteously as you could, distancing yourself away. you gave him a sorry smile & asked for forgiveness (he'd forgive you, cariño, don't worry) but even still, alejandro heard bits & pieces of the conversation ― turns out it was with your mother.

he was all wide eyes & stares when you answered the phone with harsh vowels & tough tones. he heard similar words ― silla, aparador, toalla, zapatos, medias.

the vowels were open, the consonants were clipped ― almost strict in your pronunciation. he doesn't recall you ever talking to anyone like this, so curt & quick.

he wasn't paying to the conversation, just the sound of your voice, the rise & fall of tempo.

when you finished, he had to collect himself before attempting conversation again.

"what was that language you were speaking?" he chuckles. "you sounded angry."

you laughed with him. there was a dimple on your cheek & another near the corner of your lips. he could look at you forever.

"that was cebuano, my native language. well ―" you looked up, trying to recollect some faraway knowledge. "philippines ― the official language is filipino but they really mean to say tagalog & it's mostly spoken on the northern islands and... you know what, this needs a visual aid, hold on."

and so the date went, with an enthusiastic lesson about your homeland, the differences of each island & region, the multitude of languages all inside one country.

at times he just stared. you were so energetic about this, so excited to share information possibly stewing inside you, most especially when you take into account that you've had to move to las almas, a different country with different cultures.

he learned much from that day with you and, funnily enough, recalls the numerous times your spelling got a bit finicky whenever you texted.

manzanas became mansanas, azucar became asukar (or hell, asukal), zapatos were sapatos, prutas, kutsilyo, baso, even baño was misspelled... & now he finally knew why.

some afternoons were spent with that topic in mind.

your head was on his chest. hands mindlessly wandering the expanse of his torso, the sides of his stomach, the veins on his forearm.

"cariño," he asks. "what's your word for monday?"

"lunes."

hardly paying attention to your words, you see bones in his wrist. you want to hold it.

he chuckles & you feel it under your cheek.

"so they match? how about sunday?"

"domingo." the vein looks blue on his skin.

"¿viernes?"

"uh, biyernes." another match.

"¿jueves?"

"huwebes." match

"hmm, let's see." one of his hands is in your hair. you grow sleepy. "zapatos, sombrero, regalo ―"

"bumbero, basura, libro, sabado," you list with him.

he laughs at that ― a big hearty one, with his teeth bared & the smile reaching his eyes. he had a freckle on one side of his jaw. you crane up to kiss it.

in turn, he cranes to kiss your forehead.

"hmm," he says. "what's your word for january?"

some weekends were spent running around las almas, trying to find local ingredients for food. (cue several questions/arguments happening)

"i could make tortang talong?"

"talong?"

"talong means eggplant, langga."

"torta...? eggplant sandwich?"

"wh ―"

― - -

"what do you mean torta means omelet?!"

"eggplant sandwich?!"

― ― ―

"we have something called, uh, puto?"

"...excuse me?"

― ― ―

"amor, you also have menudo in the philippines?"

"yEAH ―"

some days are spent pinching his cheek & cooing like a lola :)

you squinch his cheek.

"sus, ikaw ba, ikaw ba! ka gwapoooo sa akong palangga."

guapo, his mind helpfully supplies. he preens under the praise.

"ang karnero nga gamay, ka kulot sa iyang buhok!"

"hey, what does that mean?"

"it means i like you & i like your face."

you kiss the squinched cheek.

langga/palangga = darling

sus, ikaw ba. ka gwapo sa akong palangga = oh, you! my darling is so handsome

ang karnero nga gamay, ka kulot sa iyang buhok = the little sheep, how curly is his hair

note: this was a bit short! i'll make more if/when something sparks me, bye

[philliamwrites]

The Dawn Will Come [Chpt.2]

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Pairing: Dimitri x Reader, Claude x Reader, Edelgard x Reader, Yuri x Reader, Edelgard x Byleth, lots of minor pairings

Tags: #gn reader, # platonic love byleth & reader, #reader is a tactical unit, #angst, #slow burn, #subplots, #unreliable narrator, #pining, #remporary amnesia, #reluctant herp, #canon divergence, #lost twin au, #many chapters, #original content

Words: 6.7k

Summary: Waking up in a forest without any knowledge of your past and who you are, you join the house leaders of the Officers Academy to search for a way to return your memories. Unfortunately, the church has different plans for you, and Fate places you in the centre of a cruel game with deadly stakes. It certainly doesn’t help to fall in love with a house leader who is doomed to be your demise.

Notes: Chapter 1 | Chapter 3

Chapter 02: The Herald of Dawn

Hold me, O Night, with motherly affection, While the wan earth wakes with a misty yawn. By my blood will be born the Dawn and from my fleeting dream—the undying sun!

[Gabriele D’Annunzio]

    Hushed whispers wake you from the dark. The crackling of fire sweeps away the last remains of weary unconsciousness, and you blink at a tent's ceiling. Someone draped heavy blankets over you, and with every breath you exhale, puffy white clouds rise up. The shadows of a fire dance across the walls, their blurry movements flush another wave of dizziness over you, and as you sit up, you notice a tight feeling around your head. When you raise a hand to your forehead, there is a bandage sitting tightly wrapped around your head, covering your right eye. The pain has finally stopped, but it still feels dully raw, like an injury that hasn’t healed properly and serves now as a reminder of anguish.

    The memories from the battle rush back to you, the sound of metal hitting metal and heavy bodies dropping to the ground echo in your mind. Death was nothing new to the soldiers and mercenaries, so how come you don’t feel particularly sorry for the fallen? You’re no soldier, at least that’s what every fibre of your body tells you, so normalising killing isn’t right. You rebuild your surety of that, one shaky brick at a time.

    Once on your feet, you make your way outside, drawn in by the smell of cooked meat and quiet chatter. The sight of a small camp greets you: more tents build a row on this side of the camp, and in the centre, solders sit around a small fire, their voices barely audible. They lean over a steaming kettle, their weapons at their feet or beside tree trunks—laid down for the night but still within reach.

    “Heey, you’re finally back with us!” Claude’s voice rings through the camp, and several heads turn in your direction. As he waves for you to join him, you duck your head and move quickly to his side, wishing you could just merge with the ground and disappear from everyone’s attention. “Little one, you got us worried there,” he says. On his knees, he’s balancing a steaming wooden bowl, and the sight and smell reminds you how hungry you are. Your stomach agrees by providing a low growl.

    “How long have I been out?” You barely recognise your own voice, the sound rough from exhaustion. Claude hums in thought and gestures with one hand to a soldier to bring you food, while his other pats the ground beside him for you to sit down. “We managed to march a couple of hours after cleaning up the mess from the battle. Right now we’re near the edge of the forest. There should be only one more day of marching until we reach the monastery.”

    “And you guys are sure they can help me up there?” you wonder, watching the first group of soldiers get ready for the night watch. They’re frighteningly young, jostling and bumping into each other, laughing and stamping their feet against the cold snap that still lingers, the last gasp of winter before spring begins in earnest.

    “If not there, I’m not sure there’s anyone out there who can help you.”

    You glare at Claude. “Surely you must be the voice of confidence in this merry bunch, right?”

    He laughs. “I’m the closest you’ll get to an optimist around here.”

    “That’s reassuring.”

    “Reassuring is my second name.”

    “No, you said it’s von,” you mumble. Claude stares at you for a long minute, then bursts out laughing, the sound dark and rich. “No, that’s a noble prefix. You don’t even remember that?”

    You open your mouth, and close it like a fish, feeling your cheeks raise in temperature. He shouldn’t make you feel guilty for forgetting something like that, and yet the shame settles in your bones and you want to smack your head against something to help your brain remember.

    “Ah, but pardon my rudeness,” Claude purrs and gives you a mock bow. “I can tell you everything you want to know about nobility and how overrated it is. In fact, I might as well convince you to join the Alliance before Their Highnesses steal you to their side.”

    “I’m not going to be on anyone’s side,” you mumble, and steal Claude’s blanket as payback, relishing in his offended expression. “It has nothing to do with me.”

    Claude raises an eyebrow. “Ehh, I’m not so sure it’s that easy.”

    “It is,” you insist, unable to hide the sulk from your voice. “Because I say so.”

    Claude raises both eyebrows. “That’s not how it works.”

    “Watch me.”

    Something like a shadow flashes across his emerald eyes, but it disappears quickly enough for you to think it’s only the light from the campfire playing a trick on you. “We’ll see about that.” He scrapes the remaining contents from his bowl and lets out a satisfying yawn when he’s finished, stretching his long limbs like a cat getting comfortable. “Sooo,” he starts, unnecessarily dragging out the vowel and the sound of it locks up your shoulders into one tense muscle in preparation of what he’s going to say next. “Care to explain what happened back there?”

    You take a deep breath. “You mean when it felt like my eye was going to fall out of its socket?”

    “Actually I meant when you tripped over that one root after we found you.” He gives you a crooked grin. “But that’s interesting too, please go on.”

    “I thought no one saw that,” you mumble, and avoid his gaze as you remember that stupid root that nearly broke your neck. Well, Claude surely knows a thing or two about tricking someone into talking about exactly what he wants to hear.

    You thank the mercenary that brings you food, and notice it’s the one from the battle with the crooked nose. He gives you a just as crooked grin and limps back to his comrades. The stew warms your chilled bones, the rich flavour of meat and vegetables lifting your spirits and filling you with energy. As you eat, you drag out the minutes but Claude doesn’t even squirm as you let him wait, and starts whistling an off-key tune until you start to feel uncomfortable.

    “Well, if I knew, I wouldn’t be afraid that it might happen again,” you admit begrudgingly. “Because that was scary.”

    “Yeah, it didn’t really look like fun,” Claude agrees. “But what was it in the first place?”

    “I don’t know.” You start to become weary of those words. “But it hurt.”

    Claude gives you a sympathetic look, and goes silent, allowing you to eat, but you can’t shake off the feeling his mind is still trying to figure out what’s the deal with you. He can, for all you care. And once he’s done, he can write a report and hand it right to you so you’ll understand as well.

    Out of the corner of your eye you notice someone moving towards you. Dimitri approaches you with caution like you’re a small animal he might scare off with hasty movements. But the look he gives Claude is that of a disappointed father, and he shakes his head once he’s standing in front of him. “Claude, we were supposed to not disturb our guest,” Dimitri says sternly, then bows his head in your direction. “Apologies. We should let you rest.”

    “No, it’s okay,” you admit, and shuffle a little to the side to make room. “Please stay.”

    Both boys exchange a quick look, but then Dimitri sits down, minding a polite distance unlike Claude who only needs to stretch his legs for his feet touch your knee.

    “We were worried,” Dimitri starts. Just like Claude, he’s taken off most of his armour, and nothing about him stands out as a member of the royalty. He looks just like any other boy, and you’d never admit it out loud, but you already miss the blue tones on his uniform, the colour making his remarkably ice-blue eye stand out even more. “Luckily we could dispose of all bandits and return to a safe area. Byleth carried you here all by herself.”

    “Yeah, remind me not get on her bad side, okay?” Claude laughs, but you think you hear a slight nervous tremble in his voice. “She looks like she can decapitate me with a butter knife.”

    “She doesn’t look like it. She very certainly will behead you with a butter knife,” Dimitri provides with a pleasant smile as if he’s talking about the weather.

    “See, and that’s why she fits best in the Alliance,” Claude says, winking at you. “We’re always full of surprises.”

    Dimitri rolls his eyes and crosses his arms in front of his broad chest. “You might try it. I personally plan to convince her to join the Kingdom.”

    “I think you’re both too late for that,” you say as you look to the other side of the camp where Byleth and Edelgard are currently engaged in a deep conversation, their heads leaning close to each other. Claude groans miserably, but quickly recovers as he turns to you, his eyes brightening up with excitement. “It’s okay, because once my disarming charm has wrapped you around my little finger, I’ll have an impressive tactician on my side.”

    You almost choke on your next spoon of stew. “Tactician? I wouldn’t go that far.”

    Beside you, Dimitri clears his throat. “Though I have to question Claude’s way of persuasion, I must admit he isn’t wrong about the latter. What you did back there was impressive.”

    “I really didn’t do anything special,” you mumble at the same time Claude raises both hands leisurely and says, “Hey, it’s not my problem you think you’re immune to it, Your Princeliness.”

    Dimitri grumbles something in a foreign language under his breath. Grinning smugly, Claude turns to you, and nudges your side. “Have confidence, little one. They’ll teach you everything you need to know up there.” He points up towards a mountain where you’ll apparently be heading tomorrow. If you squint, you think you can make out lights in the horizon brightening the night sky.

    “That monastery,” you say, trying to ignore how Claude’s body radiates heat. “What exactly is that place? I’ve never heard of a monastery that holds a school. I think,” you quickly add, unsure what thoughts provided by your hazy mind are facts.

    “The Officers Academy is a facility where students learn the arts of warfare, magic, and leadership,” Dimitri explains. He’s very obviously trying not to look at Claude, which in return has Claude’s grin widening even more. “The lessons provide us with everything we need as upcoming heads of our families. Swordsmanship, sorcery, authority, the history of our continent. There is much to learn for everyone attending the classes.”

    “So it’s a death factory,” you translate, the sudden bitter taste in your mouth overshadowing the taste of the stew. “How can they just teach that stuff like it’s normal?”

    “You saw it yourself, didn’t you.” Claude stretches his long limbs and leans back until he props his body up on his elbows. “Bandits and thieves everywhere.”

    “And most students come from a noble house,” Dimitri adds. “They need to be taught how to take command, and about the responsibilities coming with leadership.”

    You blow a strand of hair away from your face, mood dropped now that you know where you’ll be from tomorrow on. “This doesn’t sound right.” Though you can’t really say how a school is supposed to be instead. This is a world with different rules, and you aren’t sure if it’ll be easy to accommodate to them.

    While the boys bicker how good the plot of the tale mentioned earlier really is, you see Byleth approaching. A bruise is forming on her left cheek, and she holds her arm as if bearing the pain from a wound. But nothing of that is portrayed on her face, as if her brain hasn’t registered she’s wounded yet and hence doesn’t need to express it.

    “How are you?” she asks, sending the boys a quick look. Dimitri and Claude climb to their feet and wish their good nights with a quick bow. They hurry to Edelgard and gang up on heir, probably interrogating her about the conversation she's had with Byleth.

    “I’m better,” you say, a little surprised you actually mean it. You feel refreshed and nourished, ready for another day of walking. Byleth sits down and watches the camp for a moment in silence. The chaos from before has settled into a quiet hum. Men and women sit together in little circles and tell their glorious battle stories with boisterous laughter, selling the illusion of a victorious life. But that might easily end the next day because of a hasty recklessness. No one thinks of that. Everyone is just celebrating, reaching for flasks and living in the moment. It’s a beautiful sight.

    As the buzzing sound of people chatting subsides and the first turn in for the night, Byleth turns towards you, her voice lowered. “What you did back there,” she starts, and for whatever reason remains silent as if she decided talking about it isn’t a good idea. Shadows from the weakened fire dance across her face, and again you’re flooded with the unfathomable feeling of familiarity. It’s in the sharp lines of her face, the way her eyes move and settle on something as she observes her surroundings. It’s almost a painful sense of nostalgia. Something about this woman just brings you an unusual amount of ease, like it doesn’t really matter who you are, and rather that you’re here that makes the difference.

    Before you can stop your brain, you’re already asking, “Do we know each other by chance?”

    Byleth looks at you for a long minute, then slowly shakes her head, and you try not to show your disappointment too much. “I’ve travelled a lot with my father,” she says. “We’ve come through many lands and villages. You may have seen me at some point, but we’ve never exchanged a word until yesterday.”

    You nod at the plausible explanation, but the feeling that this isn’t the right answer curls like a hook into your heart. “And your father hasn’t said anything about me as well?”

    “No.” Byleth’s eyes follow your hands as they set down the empty bowl. Seeing that you’ve finished everything, she nods in approval. “And he doesn’t forget a face.”

    “How do you all just … trust me,” you wonder, looking to where Jeralt is miserably leaning against a tree trunk as Alois keeps talking and talking. He looks like he wishes someone would take him down with an arrow.

    “He doesn’t,” Byleth says. “And he calls me a little whippersnapper for that. He hasn’t called me that in the five years.” At the sound of the smile in her voice you snap your head in Byleth’s direction, but when you look, she wears the same bland expression like before.

    “But you do,” you start carefully, not trusting your ears again, so you settle on staring at her until she gives another emotion. “Care to explain why?”

    “For now, you haven’t given me any reason not to,” she states as if it really were that simple. It couldn’t be. Up until now Byleth has been your only anchor that your meeting wasn’t purely coincidental—that the reason shrouding your memories would dissipate like the night once dawn breaks if you just stick to her side, and everything will be revealed in time. But now without anything to hold on to, you feel like you’re slipping deeper and deeper into an abyss from which you can’t ascend. This feeling is terror fizzing in your blood like poison, and you shudder at the thought that you’ll forever remain adrift.

    “Your powers,” Byleth continues, unaware of your mental breakdown right next to her. “They’re unusual, and if you learn to use them right, very dangerous.” Spoken by everyone else, this might sound like a threat, but Byleth says it like a simple statement, a fact, unaware how much she tilts your world with it. “What do you plan to do with them?”

    You don’t have to think long about it. “I won’t do anything. Whatever it was, it’s over,” you say and gesture at your bandaged eye. It’s true. Since you woke up, your eye has remained calm, no red veil or eery proclamation someone might step into the campfire and burn alive. The pounding has stopped, and the normalcy of it is like a soothing balm.

    Byleth studies you. You really wish she could give you more than her vacant expression. “You don’t know yet … your eye.” She takes your spoon and with the end of it, she draws a symbol on the ground. “Do you know what that is?”

    You look at it, but nothing comes to your mind. It’s just a four pointed star with two lines crossing the right and left tips. “No, I’ve never seen it.”

    Byleth holds your gaze as if she hopes to find a lie written between your eyes, and this time you don’t look away until she relents with a barely audible sigh.

    “Why do you ask?”

    “Because before you passed out, it appeared here.” She taps a finger against her closed, right eye, then points at you. Your body goes rigid. Immediately, your hands fly up to tear off the bandage, but Byleth catches your wrists and holds them down. “Not yet.”

    “I want to see it.” Your breath catches in your lungs. It sounds like you need air because you’re drowning. “I want it off. Take it off!”

    “I can’t show you, there are no mirrors,” Byleth says quietly, and throws a quick glance around the camp to see if your panic has alarmed anyone. You want to point out that you could use the reflection of her sword, but maybe Byleth has considered the same and thought it a bad idea, because she doesn’t know what else you might do with a weapon in your current state. Seeing that fighting against the vice grip she has on your hands is futile, you slump down, your arms falling slack back to your side. “Just what… what is happening. What is that?”

    “Edelgard said it might be a Crest, but none she or the others have seen before,” Byleth explains. “They told me there is a teacher at the monastery who studies Crests.” She gives your arms a barely noticeable squeeze before she lets go. “So it’s going to be okay.”

    “How can you say that?” you nearly sob, and wish you could hold onto her longer as she stands up and brushes dirt off her uniform. “How can you be so sure?”

    “I’m not,” Byleth says, giving you one last look. You want to tell yourself it’s something like worry you see in her eyes, but her expression remains blank, like a board that’s been wiped clean. “I can only hope.”

    The next morning, Jeralt and Alois set an unforgiving pace, determined to reach the monastery shortly after dawn broke. While everyone else couldn’t wait to reach their home as fast as possible, you feel worry grow with every step up the hill towards the walls and towers. The monastery looms like a stronghold, a building so tall and intimidating, built to make people feel small.

    You were allowed to take off the bandage, and there was nothing worse than knowing something was on your eye but you couldn’t see it. Unlike everyone else. They kept staring at you, mumbling to each other in quiet whispers, and more than once you considered telling them that just because your eye was different it didn’t mean you were blind. It was reason enough for you to put the bandage back on and stay away from the soldiers and mercenaries, leaving them to their superstitious rumours. Who could have thought that you’d grab someone else’s attention entirely with that revelation.

    Even before the first sunbeams broke through the budding branches, the wind carrying the smell of spring and new life, Edelgard stuck to you like a tick. It wasn’t hard to find out she was more interested in your Crest than you as a person, and every question you couldn’t answer fuelled her irritation. Still she was nothing but determined to squeeze the tiniest information out of you, and even though you tried to avoid her by either marching way too fast or way too slow, Edelgard didn’t relent and remained by your side. Fear is a little exaggerated to describe what you feel towards her, but it's close. Whenever her sharp eyes focus on you, unease takes hold of your brain and the words leave your mouth as nervous stammers. It certainly doesn’t help that you know she can easily hack off a grown man’s arm without so much as blinking. Or that the corners of her mouth curl up into the sweetest, rare smile.

    Once you’re on the trade road up to the monastery, pebble makes way to smooth cobblestone. Giant iron doors stand wide open, and as your group enters, a merchant’s cart rolls past you and greets the returning knights. After the first entrance point, the second waits in the form of a portcullis and more knights standing on guard. Past the second ring of walls, you enter a small forecourt. On both sides are stalls and booths with merchants screaming their prices and the sound of metal hammered into the right shape at the blacksmith’s. At the foot of wide stairs leading up into the first building, a man dressed in dark blue robes awaits you, his strong arms crossed behind his back.

    “Welcome back,” he greets Alois and the students. “Your messenger bird has reached us yesterday late into the evening, and preparations have been made.” To Jeralt, he says, “My name is Seteth. I am an adviser to the archbishop. Lady Rhea awaits you.” Jeralt nods but he looks a lot more cautious since you’ve entered the monastery grounds. At the mention of that name, his posture visibly tenses, but he gestures to Byleth and you to follow him nonetheless.

    “We shall return to our respectable classes for now and make known we are unscathed,” Dimitri says. “Please, Byleth, and you too, if things have calmed down, meet the other students as well, won’t you?”

    “Ohh, good idea. You have to go around and introduce yourself as our great saviours.” Claude winks at you with both thumbs up. Edelgard slaps his hands back down.

    “We’ll be standing here until evening if we don’t get going," she says. "Please give Lady Rhea our regards. We’ll report to her once everything is sorted out about you.” She eyes you sideways, then ushers the boys down another hall like a mother hen. You exchange a quick look with Byleth who already looks very exasperated with the student’s antics.

    Seteth leads you into the Audience Chamber, a rectangular room with statues decorating the walls, and asks for you to wait. The moment he leaves the room, you turn towards Jeralt and Byleth and ask, “Who is this Lady Rhea?”

    “I’m aware Byleth doesn’t know much about her, I haven’t taught her he teachings of Seiros, but you—” He stops mid sentence seeing the way you look at him, and clears his throat. “Lady Rhea is the archbishop of the Church of Seiros. She’s commanding the knights and sees that the people don’t do anything stupid in the name of Seiros.”

    “Seiros?” you ask, turning the name in your head. Nope, nothing.

    “You know, the one who defeated the King of Liberation and founded the Church of Seiros?” When you just shrug, Jeralt scratches his beard and hums in thought. “Well, I sure won’t be the one preaching what you should know or not. But maybe don’t make it all too obvious you aren’t a follower.”

    Or what, you want to ask, but Seteth returns and he isn’t alone. The woman walking ahead of him looks like she belongs on the portrait of a saint. It isn’t much that she walks towards you, but rather strides in grateful steps to the middle of the room, her chin raised high and shoulders squared. And yet when she looks at your little assembly, her eyes are soft and kind, her expression open and friendly.

    “I welcome you into these sacred halls,” she says, her voice like soothing velvet on your skin. “Alois informed me of what happened, and I thank every one of you for saving the students.” Lady Rhea smiles at you all separately. Her eyes linger on you, and she titles her head slightly. “I've also heard about the wondrous things that happened to you. Please, be so kind and remove the bandage. Let me take a look at this Crest.”

    You hesitate, your fingers playing with the hem of your shirt. But Rhea waits patiently and raises a delicate hand when her advisor Seteth flinches to repeat her request. Slowly, you take the bandage off, barely able to imagine how the symbol or Crest as they call it looks upon your eye. When you meet Rhea's gaze again, her smile freezes, and her eyes widen in surprise. Her lips part slightly, then stretch into an ecstatic smile. Beside her, Seteth inhales sharply. “This is impossible,” he breathes, growing pale. You start to panic.

    “Why, what's wrong with me? What is impossible?”

    “Nothing, nothing is wrong,” Rhea quickly reassures you, but it's hard to believe when Seteth looks like he's seen a ghost. “A fortunate day indeed. Not only does one of the strongest knights to have ever walked these halls return, but it also seems that a new chapter of history dawns upon us.”

    All eyes land on her, one more puzzled than the other. Even Seteth doesn’t look like he fully comprehends what’s happening. “Lady Rhea?” he asks cautiously at the same time as Jeralt demands, “What are you talking about?”

    The archbishop ignores them both, and the longer she gives you that pleasant smile, the more unsettled you feel. “When Alois wrote about a Crest appearing on your body, I was not sure what to think of it. But now, I cannot hide my joy at the return of a Crest that we thought was lost to history.”

    “I—I don’t know why I have it,” you quickly say, feeling you have to defend yourself before they accuse you of stealing it. Can Crests be stolen in the first place? “I don’t remember why I have it.”

    Lady Rhea nods, her solemn expression making way to worry. “Of that Alois informed me as well. You may stay here until your memories return. Allow me for now to tell you about the Crest. Maybe that will dissipate some of the darkness shrouding your mind.”

    You nod, and brace yourself for whatever she’ll reveal. It certainly helps that Byleth stands close to you, her mere presence a standing stone you can hold onto for now without drifting away.

    “It is a Crest most uncommon,” Lady Rhea explains, her hands gracefully crossed in front of her. “For there was only one person who bore it. This Crest belonged to the very one who served our Lady Seiros against the evil powers that threatened Fódlan thousands of years ago. He was known as Seiros’ Champion. The Herald of Dawn.”

    She allows those words to sink into you, and how deep they sink. Now that they’re out here, you feel like they pull you down, deeper down into a dark sea from which you can’t surface. The only result is drowning.

    “Herald of … you don’t think. You can’t think—” Your thoughts move way too fast, you can’t grasp any to sort them.

    “What I think means nothing in light of what has transpired and therefore is reality. You are chosen by the Goddess herself to bring hope to the people of Fódlan. You are the Herald of Dawn.”

    You feel sick. It may be phantom pain, but you could swear your right eye starts hurting again, as if the Crest is reacting to the revelation, the call of its true nature. You dig your trembling fingers into the fabric of your jacket, considering for the tiniest second to gouge your eye out. Can’t be anyone’s champion or Herald without the Crest, right? “So, you’re saying … am I the one from back then? This Champion?” If you were really the same person, how were you still alive after a thousands of years? The prospect of finally having an identity is great, but you aren’t sure you’re ready to pay the price that comes with it. And this one seems to carry a very heavy price.

    “That seems quite impossible.” This time Seteth speaks up. He looks just as unnerved by this revelation as you feel. “The Herald appeared when Saint Seiros was in dire need, and once his duty was fulfilled, he vanished. ”

    “But now, another Herald has come, and with you the promise of suffering and hardships,” Rhea explains, her expression now strict and foreboding. “The task of giving hope is the most difficult to ask of a person. But that is the path the Goddess has chosen for you.”

    “No, no, you’re wrong. I’m no Herald … and certainly no Champion of anyone. I can’t give people hope, I don’t even know what to give them hope for!” Your voice borders on hysteric, but you’ve never been more determined to plead your case. “I’m not the right person. I’m really not.”

    “Then how come you bear the Crest of Seiros’ Champion, my child?” Lady Rhea asks, and you notice the tiny shift in her voice. The kindness grows thiner and thiner, and in its place austerity and even coldness settle—the voice of authority and undeniable command. “It is Our Goddess’ will. The Church of Seiros needs you. The people of Fódlan need you. You cannot turn away from your Fate.”

    You want to argue that yes, you can; you’ll turn around and leave this place filled with crazy people and their fanatic beliefs. One look from Byleth stops your thoughts. Lady Rhea interprets this silence as compliance, and nods, visibly pleased. “We have waited for this opportunity for so long,” she continues, now smiling again. “There shall be festivities today. As a welcome to our Herald, and the return of Blade Breaker Jeralt. For you, his daughter, we have also thought of a task that will greatly help Garreg Mach.”

    Jeralt grunts, clearly unhappy, but Byleth only cocks her head to one side. You’re astonished that after everything, she’s still awfully calm and collected.

    “A teaching position has become free as of yesterday,” Lady Rhea explains to Byleth. “By Alois' recommendation, you are to take that position and teach one of the Houses here at the Officers Academy. Your colleagues will provide you with further information. As for you,” and you flinch when she turns to you, afraid what else she has in store, “you too shall teach the students the course of leadership and command. Seiros’ Champion was a great tactician. He honed Saint Macuil’s abilities. I would not be surprised if you too show an unparallelled gift for strategy.”

    “Well,” you start, but the hesitation is clear, and Lady Rhea smiles like she knows what you can do once the Crest is activated. “Whereas you are to choose one house,” she tells Byleth, “the Herald will hold seminars. As a servant of the Church, you cannot call in favourites.”

    “I don’t even know what to teach,” you mumble weakly. “How to teach.”

    “Me neither,” Byleth says, the first time she’s spoken since entering the Audience Chamber. The amusement glinting in Lady Rhea’s eyes is like the sun reflected on a purling river. “Do not worry,” she says. “You will learn in time. And we are here to help you as well.”

    On your lips lie the words that they certainly didn’t help you. You came here so they could help to search for a way to return your memory.

    Instead, they made everything worse.

    The ceremonial robes hang heavy over your shoulders. The feast hasn’t started yet, but you’re already sweating and panting with the weight of the golden embroidery and the head piece decorating your forehead. When Seteth brought everything in a couple of hours ago, he was grumbling something unintelligible under his breath, at his side a little girl who, unlike him, was happy to meet you and to see that you’d take on the role as the Herald. You wanted to tell Flayn there was a difference between want and have to, but she was already focused on helping you dress and prepare for the festivities. Servants handled the remaining tasks of making you presentable, and now you’re standing in front of a giant mirror, observing yourself.

    It was scary how things changed so fast. Not even 24 hours ago, you were a nobody, a nameless figure roaming the woods, and now there is a name that isn’t your own—no, not a name. A title. A title that will all but replace your name. History won’t remember you as a person, they will remember the deeds that you’ve done, the mistakes that you’ll commit. Lady Rhea spoke of honour like it’s a crown on your head, but you see the noose that it really is around your throat. The head piece feels too heavy, and the golden necklace sitting on your neck reminds you more of a dog collar.

    There’s a knock on your door. Seteth said that someone would get you before everything starts, and you don’t even try to hide the relieved sob when Byleth enters the room. She examines you from head to toes, and leans her head to the side, one finger on her chin. “You look … different,” she says.

    “You mean ridiculous.” You move your arms, demonstrating how the wide sleeves flap uselessly at your side. “I wish we could do this all without me looking like a sack of potatoes.”

    “I had to think of cabbages, but you aren’t wrong either.” She crosses the room and looks outside the window. You can already hear the masses as they enter the Cathedral, and it does nothing to calm your haywire nerves. Byleth seems to notice as much. She turns to you, and asks, “How are you holding up?”

    “Do you want the real answer or the one I prepared for Lady Rhea?”

    Byleth raises a brow.

    “Not good. I’m just … how could this happen?” You throw up your hands in frustration, and the robes give a dangerous tearing sound. Your arms fall immediately down, the thought of damaging a hundreds of years old ceremonial robe the last thing you need today. “Of all the things, how could I suddenly become some figure of the Church.”

    “Is it so hard to believe that the Goddess of Fódlan has lead you to this path?” Byleth crosses her ams and leans against the wall next to the window, eyeing you curiously.

    “I don’t even believe in this Goddess,” you groan, flopping on your bed. The chambers chosen for you overlook the bridge leading to the Cathedral where people swarm inside like little ants returning to their anthill. It was a small room equipped with all necessities for comfort but no additional expenses on luxury. A bed, a dresser, a simple table and chair, a mirror, and a shelf take up all the space. Not that you could have brought anything with you.

    You look up at Byleth and dread the next question. “Do you believe in it?” you ask. “That I’m someone chosen?”

    “Hmm.” Byleth casts one last glance outside, then pushes off the wall, gesturing you to follow her. You sigh, and mentally prepare yourself for what will happen in the Cathedral. Before you leave the room, Byleth rests her hand on the door handle and looks back at you over her shoulder. “I don’t know. Where I’m from, belief doesn’t save you from the sword of a thief. Only deeds and actions. It’s the reason my father and I are still alive.” She considers you for a moment, and when you blink you imagine you see the tiniest smile on her face. “What you did yesterday was very much real to me. Maybe a Goddess guided you, maybe it was just lucky instinct. But you saved my life, and that certainly is something I can rely on.”

    She doesn’t wait for an answer, and swings the door open. You quickly follow, your steps feeling a lot lighter than before. “I guess I’m just frustrated,” you admit, carefully paying attention your voice isn’t too loud. “That they think there’s someone who can just decide how my life is going to be. Like this herald business suddenly defies who I am.”

    “As long as you don’t forget who you are, does it matter?” Byleth wonders aloud, turning down another corridor that ends in stairs leading down. “As long as there is just one person who doesn’t forget, does it really matter?”

    Maybe not to her, but for some inexplicable reason, it means a great deal to you. So you answer with a grumble, and Byleth hums like she knows she’s right. To change the subject, you ask, “What about you? How can you just follow along with being a teacher here?”

    “Truth be told, I’m not happy,” Byleth says, nodding to the knights standing on guard in the first floor that leads outside. “But at the same time I can see Lady Rhea’s reasoning. Those students need someone who teaches them not to be stupid on the real battlefield. Especially when they are to be future rulers of Fódlan. If I’m the one shaping those little whippersnappers, I can rest at ease.”

    You follow her down the hallways, staying silent until, “Whippersnapper is such a weird word,” you say.

    Byleth gives a huff of air that barely passes as a chuckle. “It is.”

    Together you leave the living quarters and enter the Cathedral at the backside where everything is closed off for the rest of the people. Lady Rhea and Seteth are already waiting for you, both dressed in equally complicated robes as you.

    “Thank you, Professor.” Lady Rhea nods towards Byleth, who nods back and joins the other teachers. “And now, Herald, it is time to meet the sheep you shall shepherd from today on. Please, follow me.”

    She doesn’t give you time to prepare for the crowd waiting for you, and glancing at Seteth for help doesn’t do anything either as he just crudely nods towards Lady Rhea, telling you to go along. You square your shoulders and hope for the best.

    The Cathedral has been decorated with candles and tapestry showing the banner of the Church of Seiros and above it the Crest of the Herald. A platform has been built for your entrance, and stepping on it, your gaze roams over all the assembled students, clergy, and knights. Seeing them, you feel terror seize your body, locking up all muscles. The masses look at you with hunger in their eyes, ready to devour you like you’re the last piece of bread on the table. “Herald, Herald! ” they cry, and each time they open their mouths, the noose tightens around your neck. Saint and Martyr vaguely dance at the edges of your mind, beyond your grasp, mocking how you know them but don’t understand their very being. This is bigger than you. This is far bigger than you can manage, and you want to run away and hide from their greedy eyes.

    Scanning the crowd, you notice the house leaders in the far back. Edelgard looks unpleased, her mouth set into a grim line, while Dimitri claps politely with the rest, and Claude raises a golden cup in mocking salute. You really want to break down and cry. The only solid point is Byleth, has always been Byleth up until now, at the other end of the room, holding your gaze steadfast like a pillow of strength in troubled waters.

[mintyfrosty]

A Prince’s Guide To Reading

"Right?"

Ah, his name.

At least the one he preferred people to use for him.

The guard of the Toppat prince turned his gaze up from the door he had his eyes pinned on, studying the engravings of the wood to try and pass the time. He had to admit, being the prince's guard could be dull, since said prince seemed to take much gratitude in working within a quiet environment. Right didn't mind, of course. Then again, the commoner didn't exactly have a choice either way with what he thought or not. As if he had a choice. He didn't; that was the truth. It had been like that for the month he had found himself being the prince's care. Er, at least he thought it had been a month? Time was a bit weird in the castle. Every day seemed the same.

That wasn't to say he found it unpleasant, however.

Their eyes connected, the guard's gaze quickly descending straight after, since it was discourteous for a royal and a commoner to share a glimpse of their eyes. Well, he wasn't sure on that, but Prince Reginald had acquainted him of such. And he trusted him; a terrifying amount. And Right didn't want to get a stern talking from the king about this, that and something else. Despite clearing his throat before he spoke, Right's voice came up as hoarse and uneven like it always did. "Yes, yer 'ighness?"

Allowing his hand to rest, the royal put the quill in his hand down to table, slightly rubbing it as the chains of writing broke free. Putting his hand through so much work was unhealthy to his muscles and bones. However, much like the commoner, the prince didn't have a choice. Not since 20 years ago when the Toppat Kingdom fell under Terrence's rule. Not the time to think about, he scolded himself, bringing both of his hands down to his lap. He could at least say, however, it was flattering on how the guard put so much effort into trying to learn the mannerism that seemed impossible to understand.

"I wanted to ask you..." Started the prince, bringing himself to standing and tucking his chair into the table that sat peacefully in the halls of the library. "Do you-- know how to read and write?"

...

That came off as slightly insulting. But, unfortunately, forgivable to ask.

Crimson rose to the peasant's ears, gaze crunching as he examined the tile grooving on the floor, trying to, pathetically, hide his embarrassment. The prince was entitled to ask such a question; he was the prince for God's sake. It wasn't uncommon for a commoner such as himself to be illiterate. Many didn't have the money to claim the opportunity to educate themselves. It wouldn't be embarrassing if he said 'no', would it? Because, well, he just didn't.

He was a peasant.

A filthy one at that.

"Nah-- I mean-- No. No, I don't." Forced words of respect came out of the guard, slightly gritting his teeth with frustration as he let his accent slip his words into slang. Ugh. He hated trying to keep up with these stupid mannerisms. It was all so confusing. How the hell was he supposed to remember how to use three forks at a dinner table, wait to speak until spoken to AND not let himself slip into his comfortable language of slang? And that wasn't even the full list. "Er-- w'y do ya ask?"

"Well..." Without finishing the answer, the prince's feet waltzed over to one of the hundred books that decorated the library walls. Gloved hands met the cover a soft covered book; a light read. From where he was standing, Reginald waved an inviting hand towards the guard, taking a seat on the couch that was adjacent to the fireplace which crackled calmly. Swallowing the anxiety lodged in his throat, Right's brash footsteps pounded towards the prince, boots sounded like a wrecking ball hitting concrete. Maybe that was due to his mass. He didn't have a mind to care. With the guard now near him, the royal patted the seat lightly next to him, a smile meeting his face. "...if you can't, I'd like to teach you how to read!"

...

Wh-What?

The crimson turned a shade of magenta, spreading like a virus across his cheek and nose. Teach him? Teach him how to read? But why? Didn't the prince already have his hands full? His gaze fell over to the task assigned to Reginald, surprised to see a perfectly piled stack of scrolls. Was he finished? Wow, that was fast then. Incredibly fast. Eventually, however, the guard let his gaze fall back to the prince, eyes focused on the book in his hands rather than the blue sapphires that dotted his pupils. Awkwardly, he cleared his throat, pulling on his collar to let more airflow through his clothing.

In all fairness, he didn't believe he deserved such a privilege.

Being literate was seen as such an honour; only the noblemen and royalty got the joy of being able to read and write. And that same offer to him? Definitely out of the question. He, well, he didn't believe he was worthy of such a gift. However, he most certainly didn't want to make the prince upset over the matter; maybe he could blame it on something. Something like: "Er-- I...Would we 'ave the time? With supper happening soon?"

"Oh, nonsense! We've got a few hours! Two! That's enough, I'm sure of it! You're a quick learner, you know!" It only occurred to Reginald that there was a big difference between the prince wanting to teach him how to read and Right actually wanting to learn how to perform such an act. A quick sound of hesitation came from the prince, excitement in his tone dying as his shoulders fell to his sides. "Of course...only if you'd allow me."

Oh, God. He couldn't refuse now.

Because yes, despite reading being hard to master, Right couldn't be more excited about the offer, yet nothing on his face implied so. Lost on the prince's words, the guard nodded with certainty, holding his hands up and shaking them slightly. "Na- No-- I'd be t' rilled ta learn, ya majesty--"

Dammit, he was committed to it now. No going back. Just be on high alert.

Although the guard took a hesitant seat on his side, the prince couldn't be more excited, a large grin dotted his face gently. Reginald opened the book to the first page, their shoulders touching as he held the left side of the cover, gesturing for Right to take the opposing side. Trapped by anxiety, the guard's breath wouldn't come out of his throat, numbly grabbed ahold with his right hand to open the book. Foreign symbols came into his vision when it was a simple text of English. Jesus, how was going to learn this? He didn't understand any of it. He couldn't learn how to read-- this was dumb-- this was stupid. "Alright...let's start at the beginning..."

Gently, the prince's voice hit his ears, voice brimming with excitement.

...Sigh.

Guess he didn't have a choice.

But, at least, this was better than staring at the door engravement all damn day, waiting for something that would never happen.

The story Reginald had picked out was something about a girl from a village. An oddball herself; she knew how to read. How ironic. Then one day her father got kidnapped at an old castle that belonged to a cursed prince that had turned into a beast. And to save her father's life, traded herself to be the beast's prisoner. But, interestingly, the two fell in love and the curse on the prince was broken.

Huh.

What an odd tale. Granted, probably one of the first that Right had ever heard of but...still so odd.

The prince went slow with the words from the text, running his finger under words and pronouncing them slowly, teaching him what letters made what sounds. Vowels were undoubtedly the hardest; some words could have two of the same vowel yet make different sounds. Of course, he'd been speaking the language his whole life but...now it was different. He could physically see how goddamn confusing the English language was. By the time they got to Chapter 3, an hour had passed, the prince looking up to the guard brightly. "Alright, your turn!"

Right blinked.

...

"...you know...your turn to read!"

...

H-Huh? "Eh?" He couldn't. "I can't--"

"Of course, you can!" Cheered Reginald, the prince moving his gloved hand to underneath the first word, written beautifully in ink. Calligraphy made it hard to discern which letter was which. Gaining his breath back from swallowing the anxiety lodged in his throat, the guard gritting his teeth, a crimson colour rising to his ears slightly out of embarrassment.

"Er-- I still don't get a lot of it--"

"That's okay! I'll help you along the way! It'll be fine, just watch!" No matter how much he tried to stop himself, he couldn't help that redness from his ears spreading to his face in a blush. Dammit. The prince's excitement was contagious; spreading and capturing his heart like some sort of plague. It made him want to try and complete this mission he was destined to fail at. He'd been learning to read for no less than an hour, and now he was going to read on his own? Seemed impossible. But that darn smile was enough to make him want to. Want to try. Want to learn.

Okay. He could try.

Hopefully.

"Er-- alright--"

It was slow.  Painfully slow.

The commoner needed more help from the prince than he could read words on his own. Nevertheless, successful. Very slow, but steady, gently drifting his voice across the paper to bring meaning to the written dialogue. Even if he made mistakes and made a fool of himself, he was still having fun. The prince was encouraging, giving him compliments and words of pride at when he could read a full sentence on his own. It was...touching, dramatically so. Crimson on his face turned to a soft, pastel magenta, taking comfort in the royal's presence instead of being on edge. Yes, it was technically not allowed for the two to be so close, despite having their shoulders touching, but the commoner didn't care.

The king and noblemen of the kingdom were still ignorant of the idea that Right had met the prince before the assassin outbreak. Heh; funny that the commoner was just coming for a visit but ended up being roped to be his guard. All because he saved the royal's life in an alleyway.

How curious...

However, it led to one problem; his guard was down. He got too complacent.

Find their shoulders sitting side by side was getting a little too uncomfortable, the commoner raised his, moving closer, then wrapping it around the prince's shoulders. There. Nice and comfy. If the feeling of the royal's muscles tense up hadn't occurred, he would've stayed there and continued. But, of course, life wasn't kind to anyone. Dread settled in his heart, abruptly stopping mid-sentence and pushing himself away and standing. Why did he do that? WHY did he do that!? WHYDIDHEDOTHAT?!

"I-I'm so sorry-- I don't know wot came o'er me!" Stamped the commoner, raising his hands and shaking them as if it were some kind of defence. God-- the king would have his head for this. What was he thinking!? Just, ya know, causally wrap your filthy, peasant arm around the shoulders of the prince of the Toppat Kingdom! No stress! Not one ounce of it! Dammit- Dammit- DAMMIT--

"I-t won't 'appen again-- I was just-- I-- I just--"

"Woah-- Woah! Hey, it's okay, Right!" Exclaimed the prince, quickly rising out of his seat and taking a firm grasp of his hand. Right, still scrambling to find something to say, looked down at their hands, caramel eyes finally connecting with the azure blue pupils that belonged to the prince's eyes. They were holding hands--

This was wrong. Everything about this was wrong.

A commoner shouldn't have been that close to a prince; let alone even within one meter of him. But to wrap his ARMS around his shoulder!? What was he thinking!? What was he doing?!

Shakily, he exhaled, not making any movement to return the grasp to his hand.

"Jesus-- I'm sorry I-- I just--" Stuck on his sentence, the guard brought his free hand to his face to try and conceal the growing magenta colour that lingered there.

"Just-- this 'ole thin' 'f not knowin' ya. And 'avin' to act like I ain't got a clue who you are or 'o you are aside from all the duties ya got stacked up--- it's kind of-- it's so frustratin'. 'Cause, yer know, ya funny and ya kind-- and ya got this presence about ya. And 've gotta act all manners and other bullshit-- I can't even just sit by ya witho't worryin' that 'm gonna get my head chopped off or you worryin' about 'dis stupid code-- JUST--" The commoner let out a grunt, bringing the hand on his face to his hair, tugging it slightly.

"It-It's just-- I wanna han' out wit' ya-- but-- we just can't. And it drives me bonkers."

A deadly silence filled the room as the commoner let weeks worth of venting material, catching the prince by an immense surprise. Of course, a faint colour of rose pink painted over his cheeks at the brief compliments, but nothing could stop or control the sudden frown forming on his face. In a way, the prince was dreading this. The lack of personal freedom for the guard was probably doing his head in, and the fact that he and the commoner knew each other beforehand probably made the situation much much worse for him. Even if Reginald had nothing to do with it (even though he had everything to do with it), he couldn't help but feel pity. He hadn't had freedom his whole life and, whilst he'd grown used to it, it was terrible in the beginning. Difficult, in other words.

Sympathetically, Reginald raised his free hand toward Right's that clutched against his hair, pulling it down from his face.

"Right...I'm okay-- I should be sorry I'm--" The prince let out a muffled sigh. "Y-Yes...I understand. This whole matter is aggravating. And I do want to spend time with you too! Believe me, I do. Heh, kind of why I asked to teach you to read. It's just-- I'm sorry I...I'm not used to this whole...' being close to someone' thing if you get what I mean? I've never met a commoner before you. And even then, there's all these rules and orders. And yet, you seem so nice and friendly compared to what I've been told what commoners are like. What I'm trying to say is...I'm sorry for my reaction with your arm-- I'm just-- following what I've been told to do."

...

An apology?

Jesus--

Reginald had to be the pure heartiest prince he had ever met if HE was apologising for a reaction that Right caused. In a way, it made his blood completely fire, bringing a low scowl to his face. It made the whole situation worse when you considered how the prince was treated by the king. Like garbage, that's what. And even then, Reginald put himself second to Right, considering his comfort to be more important than his own. Dammit-- that colour was rising back to his face, stifling a cough that rose to his throat.

The guard let out some sort of chuckle. "Heh-- we're both tryna follow rules 'ere-- Ehehe--"

Right didn't laugh a lot, but when Reginald heard it, it filled his heart up. A small smile itself met his lips, sharing his laughter. And only for an impossibly short amount of time, the prince's eyes shot purple, but far too quick for anyone to take note of it. They were both kind of messes; wanting to talk and laugh and NOT do something royalty related. The prince held up a hand. "Okay-- Okay. How about this. If I finish tomorrow and we have enough spare time, do you...want to spend that time finishing this book with me? To 'hang out', as you called it. We'll go out to the gardens; where no one can find us."

...

A smile met the guard's lips, putting a hand to his chest and bowing slightly.

"It would be ma greatest 'onour, my prince." ~~~XxX~~~ MEDIEVAL AU FLUFF BOYSSS!!

Thank you so much for reading this fanfic!!

For those wondering, this takes place in the transitional period between Right’s arrival and Galeforce’s arrival x3 

Also, yes I know that Beauty and The Beast didn’t exist yet but shh its cute

Oki have doodle!

[yeojaa]

( TO THE MOON AND BACK. )

You use your one brain cell for love.  It doesn’t always end well.

pairing.  kth x (named) f!reader.  jjk x (named) f!reader.

genre +  rating.   non-idol!au.  there’s some fluff and there’s definitely some angst.  general.    

tags / warnings.  none, except for a lot of emotion. 😐😐

wc.  4.9k

beta reader(s).  @hobi-gif​ as per usual (i owe you my life) and @yeoldontknow​ for tolerating me when i came crying into our messages.

author note.  this was a commission for the endlessly lovely @1088x1088​.  thank you so, so much for loving this series enough to support it.  it was a ton of fun to write (even though this chapter did really hurt).  finding my voice again was a bit of a struggle, but i hope you enjoy it!  i’m sorry this was late! 

chapter 12. 

You can feel the difference in the air the moment you step out of the building and into the arms of your bouncing, bubbly boyfriend.  There’s something about him today - an intensity that radiates out of him, refracts off his edges like an aureate coin.  He’s got the biggest grin on his face - so wide and unabashed you think he doesn’t even need the umbrella he’s brought along - that the sheer power of his joy might be enough to push the rain clouds back.  It stretches wide, brighter than the summer sun, and spills light into darkness, chasing away all the spiders.  It warms you from your toes through to the tips of your fingers, filling your veins with lovely golden thread, dust that settles in shades of yellow. 

“Did you win the lottery or something?”  The question is paired with a sweet kiss to his cheek, your entire body sagging comfortably against his as he wraps his free arm tightly around your shoulders and mirrors the gesture.  Your cheek tingles where his lips land.  You think he might be a wizard, magicking away all the hardships of your day.

“No, even better.”  The excitement is nearly bursting out of him, seeping out at the seams that hardly hold him together.  How he hasn’t simply told you yet is beyond you but you know Taehyung’s a bit dramatic - loves the build up as much as the climax - so you wait patiently, linking your hand through his elbow when you move onto the sidewalk.  It’s easy to fall into this routine:  the one you’ve perfected over the last few months.  It never feels stagnant, never anything less than a warm hug on a cold day.  You find comfort in that.

The sun sits low on the horizon, casting long shadows over the street.  They throw shapes across Taehyung’s face, bathing his features in darkness when you step beneath an awning and out of the downpour.  His eyes never stop twinkling - like stars against the night sky, lighting up even the places where the rays can’t reach. 

“We’re hosting an exhibit for local artists.”  He’s trying to be careful, hold himself together.  Still, you can hear the way he speaks a little too fast, too quick to be nonchalant.  Bite back a laugh when the words tumble into each other, failing under their restraints.  “The director asked me to curate it.”

He stops and looks at you then, hopeful and bright and so brilliant you imagine the sun’s disappeared behind the clouds and found a new home in his smile.  You know how much this means to him - how long he’s worked for this, how it’s cost him his parents’ affection and long hours that he’ll never get back.  It goes without saying he deserves this, this incredible opportunity. 

It doesn’t do it justice, but you offer your congratulations regardless, slipping support seamlessly between syllables.  Blending the words with a squeeze of his arm, a delighted little giggle that spirals into the air like a Christmas orange, tart and sweet.  “That’s amazing, Tae!”  

He’s a million miles over the moon, eyes waning, lost to a flood of emotion as he beams down at you.  

“I did all the research and she was happy with it and—”  A twinkling laugh breaks up the excitement, steeping it heavily in the sound as he exhales a big breath that seems to steal a little bit more of his coherence.  “I just—it’s huge.  It’s next month but the director’s given me the go-ahead.  Me!”  

You decide you’d really like to bottle this moment forever, to keep it on a shelf in your thoughts.  You think it’d be the best cure for a bad day, better than any chocolate, more comforting than an afternoon nap.

“Of course you, Tae.”  You’re matching his smile, cradling his jaw in the small of your palms.  Thumbs brush over the seam of his bottom lip, the freckle that dots the edge of his nose.  “I’m so, so proud of you.  You’ve worked so hard for this.”  You know the words aren’t possibly enough but you gift them anyway because it’s still nice to hear.  Everyone deserves that recognition, kindness to hold you up like ribbons, to keep your head held high. 

“Thank you, jagi.”  He sighs a soft sound, all rounded edges and a deep, abiding satisfaction that fills every inch of his expression.  It’s still there when he begins walking again, guiding you back to his favourite place with you at his side.  You fit exactly as you should, tucked under his arm, the tips of his fingers brushing over the teddy bear fabric of your coat.  

“Have you told the others yet?”  

“No, I’m going to tell them at dinner.”  The pride that colours his tone is shades of yellow - marigolds sprouting between vowels, sunflowers encapsulating consonants.  “I want Jungkookie to show his work in it.”  

He must not feel the way you stiffen at his side, how the blood runs cold in your veins and sticks you to the spot like an icicle.  You play it off well enough, tripping over your own two feet and righting yourself as if it were all just a matter of misplaced steps.  

(In truth, you could’ve sworn your heart had plummeted through your feet, all the way to the molten core.  You can feel it burning to a crisp, setting every nerve aflame at the mere thought.)

“I don’t want him to feel like… it’s a handout though.”  

“He won’t,”  you reassure around the strange, familiarly silhouetted lump in your throat.  You are intimately familiar with Jungkook’s work - what spreads over canvas in lovely lilac shapes, stark ink bringing relief to watercolour.  You know who inspires the evening skylines, the immaculate and yet effortless scenes he brings to life with strokes of pen, paint, charcoal. (Or, rather, you knew.  Things could be different now.)  Who graces - had graced - the rolls of film, painted in sepia tones until brought to life by a careful hand.

(You have a feeling they aren’t - that they’re just as they’ve always been.  Too much the same to be safe.  It’d be impossible to miss, even with blinders on.  You and Jungkook would always be complicated.) 

“He’s worked really hard.”  Taehyung’s more or less speaking to himself, carrying a one-sided conversation as you duck back beneath sheets of rain, droplets rolling off the umbrella he carries and splashing all over your toes.  Suddenly, the torrential downpour feels fitting, as if the skies have opened up to soothe the burn beneath your skin.  “It’d be nice if he just caught a break, you know?  Something to give him more confidence.”

He, as well as you, knows just how much of himself the youngest puts into his work.  How every canvas, every roll of film, represents a corner of his heart.  Offers a glimpse into his thoughts.  

You, possibly more than anyone.  But Taehyung doesn’t know that and it certainly isn’t your place to say, so you simply nod along, humming in agreement as you wander the quiet Seoul street.  (It’ll be busy soon, once you pass from the residential area into the bustle of nighttime and exploration.  Not even the rain can keep people away, everyone far too eager to catch up amidst a crowd of smoke and drinking games.  You’re used to it though - used to being dragged out by the ragtag group for their impromptu yet regular weekly dinner dates.) 

“I’m sure he’ll say yes.”  It’s all you can offer as your boyfriend rambles on, lost in his own world

“Really?” 

The amount of hope - strung up on fairy lights, dim and yet somehow so full - rings crystal clear in Jungkook’s voice, tearing your thoughts from the piece of pork belly you’re carefully grilling.  You do your best not to jerk your head up, already all too aware of the topic.  You remind yourself it’s not your place and you flip the slab, gaze trained on the fat that renders out and slides over the metal grill.

It’s hard to do but you weather the storm, quietly observant as the excitement level at the table turns to eleven.  With a group of four it’d be boisterous;  with a table of nine, it’s a cacophony of sound, rising above the din of the bustling restaurant.  It kicks above the chorus of cheers and clattering utensils, as if this moment means so much more.  (It does.)

“You think I’d joke about something like this?”  Taehyung’s doing his best to play it cool, to convey something suave and reassured, but there’s the tell-tale wobble of his words, the way his knee bounces beside yours, nervous energy thrumming through his frame like a livewire.  It practically pours from his fingertips, shooting out past his teeth as his mouth shapes into that familiar boxy grin that belies his delight.

Not that Jungkook’s any better.  

On your other side, his hand’s tensing and relaxing over the tabletop, lips pulling and pursing around thoughts he hasn’t fully formulated.  He’d always been someone who had to be moving - tapping his toes, shaking his leg, simply shimmying in his seat - but this is something else.  It’s as if he’s on the precipice of a realisation, of diving headfirst into his lifelong dream.

(Which, you suppose he is.  He’s wanted this forever, just like Taehyung.  The break he so wholly deserved.  It warms your heart even as it stills it, stutters it uncomfortably in the small of your chest.)

“I’m just—”  Speechless seems to be the appropriate word, because Jungkook simply trails off, wonder in his eyes, his expression that of a child on Christmas.  “Thanks, hyung.”  It’s a rare occurrence, usually offered with that sly bunny smile of his, but it’s dressed in gratitude now, year’s worth of tenderness occupying the spaces between each syllable.

“Don’t thank me.”  It comes, dismissive and yet still just as soft.  Rounded by an awareness that exists only within this group, a tenderness that blooms and blooms and never withers.  “Just make me look good.”

A teasing comment echoes from across the table - that’s impossible from someone who looks and sounds suspiciously like Kim Seokjin - and your group dissolves into a puddle of laughter, the chorus of amusement dissolving above your heads.  

This is too good an opportunity, not the time for your selfish concern.  You swallow your worry with a dab of ssam and a crunch of lettuce.

You miss the look Jungkook shoots you.

He has two weeks.  

Two weeks to select five pieces he thinks will showcase the best parts of himself, the depth of his dedication, the quality of his passion.  Two weeks to go through his extensive portfolio, to rummage through harddrives and pick through his canvases.  Two weeks to determine what home means to him.

It’s certainly not the hardest thing in the world - Jungkook imagines it starts with the words Jeon and ends with a certain group of six idiots - but it still leaves him stumped, sitting at his desk for three long hours as he pours through folders, thankful he’d had the wherewithal to name things properly.  (None of the Aug17uuuuuuughfuck.raw files of his college days.)

It lightens his load, keeps him from upending his entire setup and throwing it out the window in frustration.  Not that he doesn’t still want to.  He very much does.

But perhaps it isn’t the hundreds of images that’s the issue.  Maybe it’s just one - the same one he’s been staring at for the better part of the evening, unable to move on even when he wants to, tapping over his mouse yet never actuating enough to pull him onto the next slide.

It sits front and centre on his screen and he can’t look away;  drinks his fill of it like a man drowning at sea;  savours it like a king at his final feast.  A photo developed with an accidental light leak and how fitting that is, as if all the sunshine has been captured in the single click, trapped behind the shutter for him and him only. 

You’ve always been that to him, though.  Crystalline and beautiful, with light catching off your edges, refracting from every angle to spell something like I love you; with fireflies at the tips of your fingers, guiding him home in the dark;  with the summer sun strung between your teeth, filling him with warmth.  

Could he use this?  Would it be too much?  

More importantly, how would you react?  Had your story ended, chapters of friendship folded between flat pages and tucked within a shelf to accumulate dust?  To sit among the tomes long forgotten, never reached for, barely worthy of a second read? 

Was this meant to disappear, just like you had?  What did that mean for him - for his future?  Were you meant to take all the possibilities with you, tucking them alongside your cotton candy laughter, the sly turn of your smile?  Were they lost to the tangle of your hair, braided into a knot he’d never been able to unravel?

Jungkook hates feeling like this - all the uncertainty swallowing him whole and spitting him out;  leaving him black and blue and bruised all over;  dressing him in shades of grey that only seem to fade with each pass through the wringer. 

A part of him wonders whether he should just ask.  Surely you’d answer the phone, sound so pretty carried over the airwaves he’d probably forget himself.  

Could he find the words?  Would you laugh in his face?

He stares at the photo and wishes it held all the answers, that the light would offer something more than beauty, more than memories that feel more like nightmares.  

Half your face glares back at him, a silhouette of the girl he’d been helplessly in love with.  Rays balance across your cheekbone and cut through him like a knife.  When he blinks, you’re still there but his heart’s all the worse for it, riddled with nicks and tears.

He’ll choose another, he decides. 

Finally, he finds the strength, skips to the next preview - and regrets it almost as much as the first.

(This was his fault, of course.  Jungkook had spent so long living in a world with you, saddled at your side, two pieces inexplicably interwoven.  Of course there’d be thread still, a red string of fate coiled all the way around his heart, hanging uselessly at his side, snipped by hands that weren’t his own, now gone to tatters.)

It wouldn’t matter so much if it were someone else, if the bits of you weren’t so stark, holding his attention like a star in the sky, endlessly bright and unrelenting.  Maybe if he could pretend it was someone else, his hands wouldn’t shake, a tremor in his chest from the way his heart bounces about, demands to be let out, to lay alongside yours.  

As it stands, it is you - brought to life by his hands, overlaid in watercolour and black and a blanket of regret.  The shapes are impossible to miss:  the curve of your hip, rounded and warm, peeking beneath a wash of colour;  the river of your hair, the wayward strands that curl across your cheek and tickle the stack of silver that lines your ear;  the peek of your tattoo, embossed across your ribs, hidden beneath thin layers of paint. 

The longer he looks, the worse it feels.  A white pith of a lemon, bitter on his tongue, stinging all the cuts he’s never taken the time to seal up.  That cry out now, echo the same sadness he’s felt for the last year.  

Was there anything you hadn’t touched?  Something that didn’t carry you in its hands?

He imagines there has to be.

And yet, as he goes along, clicks through image after image, he’s only left with reminders.  Figments of you with blood-stained teeth and scarred flesh, sharks that patrol his thoughts and bite chunks when he ventures too close.  He hadn’t meant to dive this deep - lost somewhere amongst the shipwreck of your friendship, a once beautiful thing now rotten and rusted, devoured by darkness.  The empty hulls aren’t where he wants to be, caught on broken anchors and torn flags, sinking deeper and deeper.

He doesn’t know how to get out. 

It’s absolutely perfect, because of course it is.  Taehyung has put every waking hour into this, coordinating with vendors and artists and hardly sleeping a wink.  The walls are painted, artistry strung up for all to see, picturesque beneath an array of lights.  There’s not a thing out of place, each piece given their due, framed neatly with thoughtful text painstakingly written by your boyfriend.

There are dozens of people in attendance - the turnout the gallery had hoped for and yet still has Taehyung giddy, eyes wide like a child’s, wonderment written into every lovely facet of his expression.

You’re delighted for him, completely over the moon with how happy he is, pride rolling off him in waves that you’d gladly sink beneath.  You whisper words of affection - pride, support - purring them into the warmth of his palms when he sandwiches your face between them and laughs so loudly you swear there’s no other sound in the world.

“Can you believe it?”  This boy before you isn’t the Taehyung you know, carefully composed.  He’s a comet through the night sky, illuminating, fluorescent, lit from the inside out.  Glowing so bright it hurts your eyes, makes you blink once, then twice, then another time just to capture the moment against the backs of your eyelids.  (You wish you had your camera with you - something to allow you to remember this moment forever, process it and store it in your pocket for rainy days.)  

Your laughter comes in tandem, overjoyed for your love, for all he’s worked for and all he’s now achieved.  It spills forth in bell chimes, silver in your ears, and you catch his hands in your own, fingers caught together.  “Of course I can.”  The distance between you becomes nothing, barely a breath passing as you press your lips to his, offering as much affection as you can in the tiny gesture.  “I knew you could do it.”

“Really?”  He doesn’t doubt you.  Doesn’t even really doubt himself.  But he asks anyways and you don’t mind giving, folding your support into another kiss, another squeeze of his hand.  

“You can do anything, Kim Taehyung.”

He animates, a coin-operated boy whose sole currency is your words of affirmation.  Springs to life with adoration in his step, a giddy smile that eats up everything else and wanes his eyes into crescents.  Peaks like the sun above the clouds, endlessly bright - a supernova.  “I love you.”

“I know,”  you answer with your heart in your hands - in his - when they drop to his sides, fingers still intertwined.  

He stares at you expectantly, unabashedly, waiting for the words he wants to hear.  (A man with the world at his feet, whose heart still flutters for you.)  “And?”

“And?”  You parrot, cheeks round, a well of teasing growing in the dimple of your left cheek.  It spills forth when his mouth pouts, turns this way and that before settling into an expression that’s utterly undeniable, the perfect blend of endearing and infuriating.  When you relent, it’s with further laughter, a nudge of your hip against his as he pulls you close, cementing you to his side.  “I love you too.”

You’d been prepared for the people (the professionals, the journalists, all the friends and family, anyone who was anyone gathered to attend) and the chaos (your friends - all of them running amok while simultaneously on their best behaviour, biting back laughter, echoing words of encouragement). 

What you hadn’t been prepared for?  

This.

Standing before a painted portrait of yourself, blown up ten feet and hung in the centre of the gallery for all to see.  Full-lipped and grinning, with hands hiding half your face, dark hair piled atop your head and a bandana knotted below your ear.  A picture that you can hear - your laughter sounding off the page, reminiscent of that night so many months ago, standing at the edge of the water, the ocean calling you out to sea.  The sky streaked in colours you could never hope to replicate, hues that blend and bleed and build into something glorious, beautiful, ephemeral.  An arm that reaches for whoever has taken the photo, light reflecting off the sheen of silver, of gold, of the gems on your nails.  

You recognise it in a heartbeat - one that feels like it goes too long, as if it’s skipped not one, not two, but three beats - that thunders loudly in your ears the moment everything snaps into place.

(And oh, how it does.  A hundred memories that shudder into a single image and tell the story of an entire summer.

Afternoons at Jagalchi, amid the smell of fish and flesh, eating to the point of gluttony.  On the shores with sunshine at your fingertips and a hand in yours, endless possibilities stretching as far as the eye could see.  Staring up into the sky night after night, admiring the stars packed against the dark and yet always drawn back to the brightest one at your side, a heavenly body hidden within the silhouette of your closest friend.

Your head on his shoulder during the train ride there and back, the quiet offered by his presence, the comfort found in his form.  All the little pieces of himself that had somehow found their way to you:  your pinkies intertwined, his dark hair spilling over yours, his breath that came low and slow, condensing between you and turning your cheeks ruddy.

What had felt like a lifetime away - seven hundred galaxies apart, never to be found again, engulfed by a black hole of your own creation.  

What now feels like it’s right at your feet, so close you might touch it.  That echoes in your chest, a spectre living within your bones come back to haunt you.)

“Pretty, huh?”  Hums the voice at your side, filled with too much pride - for himself and his friend, for all they’ve accomplished.  Taehyung has no idea, blissfully unaware, heartbreakingly handsome as he studies the image alongside you, lets his stare rove across the contours of the woman’s cheekbones, the shape of her mouth, pulled wide in a smile that might as well carry the world in it.

There’s something familiar about the girl in the painting, something that calls to him, draws him in and keeps him anchored.  He wonders what it is, makes a note to ask once Jungkook arrives.  

Your answer comes belated, disconnected and strange, a voice too far away to be picked up clearly.  (You don’t mean it to - try to swallow down the emotion that crests and crests like a terrifying wave above your head.)  “Very.”

“Kook mentioned a girl a few years ago, so I think it’s her.”  How he speaks is thoughtful, as if he isn’t sure how much to say.  Doesn’t want to overstep even as he offers these tiny bits of information - things he thinks you have no idea about, that’s the same thing that lives within your bones, settled like bedrock that cannot be eroded.  (Guilt gnaws at you, turns its teeth cruel and unrelenting and licks the salt from your wounds like the back of a spoon.  You swallow it down, listen quietly, quietly, quietly and try to slow the discomfort growing like weeds, the blooming of tiger lilies in the small of your chest.)  

“Really?”  

“Yeah.”  Taehyung’s conversational, adoring, indulgent.  He hooks his arm around your shoulders and holds you close, unaware of the turmoil that turns your insides to ash.  He holds you like you’re precious - a sunbeam caught in his hands, just for him.  

If only he knew.

“Do you want to see the rest?”  There’s an eagerness that spills forth, tacks his words to one another and turns them into a single breath.  He inhales all the bad and dresses you in nothing but good, pins stars into your hair when he fixes you with that smile and pulls you along, further into the gallery with a hop in his step.

You should say no;  you can’t find the words.

So you follow him to his next destination - to another version of you.  Another photo, grainy and overexposed, intimate in its detail.  A faceless blur, made alive by light, artificial and too white, casting long shadows where there should be none.  It’s easier to imagine this is someone else - a girl worthy of this love, of all the emotion captured within the single image.  (Someone who could carry the weight of Jungkook’s affection without dropping it, whose hands would be a suitable home for the heart he’s now offered up, laid out ripe for the picking.  Sugar sweet and saccharine, held aloft by a branch that threatens to give away.)

The truth is in the details, though, and you see them for all they are.  The dainty thread that loops your wrist - mirrored within the frame before you.  It sits evident in the freckles on your arms, the wayward beauty marks sprinkled upon your skin, constellations that should have names - do have names, whispered by the boy at your side. 

“He’s really got a good eye, right?”  There’s that pride again, full-bodied, like a parent with macaroni art stuck to the fridge.  It’s sticky and honeyed, bright with affection, lemon tart and yellow - sunshine streaming past like the warmest day in July.  It further cements the relationship he has - that they all have - one built upon years of friendship, of togetherness you cannot begin to fathom.

The guilt rears its head again, roars like an angry beast.  You bite it back, catch its tail between your teeth and nod along, unfocus your eyes as best you can.  The longer you look, the more it grows, spiny and angry and demanding of attention.

“He really does.”

Taehyung’s satisfied with that, too caught up in his own delight to notice the stillness, the quiet.  It’s a silence he overlooks, sweeps past without a backwards glance.  “There’s one more I want to show you.” The joy is unbridled, eating up every part of him, and your heart thumps feebly in your chest, kicked around by two pairs of feet.  “I saw it and it made me think of you.”

You’re surprised this time - because it isn’t you.  It’s not the shape of your shoulders or the turn of your wrist.  It’s not a half-hidden smile, the dozens of tell-tale signs that would give you away.  It’s something far worse, that sticks to your lungs and makes it hard to breathe, wet paper towels plastered over your airways like papier-mâché. 

It pains you when you step forward to drink in the colours, the texture that lays everything in nostalgia.  An image you recognise because you have the same one in your home, hung upon your wall, taken by your own hand.  

Jungkook in an infinity room, bathed in a million little lights.  

Except this is a painting, painstakingly recreated, with shadows deepened and white ink spread throughout.  One of your most precious memories laid in gouache.

“I swear I’ve seen it before.”  It’s a throwaway thought, more for himself than for you, but it breaks you apart, crumbles the foundation you’ve been carefully laying.  It kicks your knees right out from beneath you and you swear you’d fall if not for the comfort of his side, the way he holds you up and inspects you curiously.  “Are you okay?”

He looks at you with nothing but tenderness in his eyes;  you unwind beneath his stare, sinew and bone unfurling, realigning, forming into someone worthy of his love.  You tell yourself nothing else matters, that all the what ifs pale in comparison to this - how he looks at you as if you’d hung the stars in the sky;  as if you’re more than just a girl who has his heart;  as if you hold all the answers to the universe.   

“Fine,”  you answer, even as you aren’t, as the ground beneath your feet threatens to give way and send you to an early grave.  Even as you cannot tear your eyes from the painting, terrified and awestruck, too many emotions turning your senses to nonsense.

You wonder if Taehyung can hear the tremble of your breath, feel it all the way through into the centre of his own chest.  You wonder what he reads into it, whether he worries for you.  You wonder if he can love a monster like you, who has kept these secrets under lock and key, tucked away into a far corner riddled with cobwebs and spiders and a fine layer of dust. 

You wonder and wonder and then you have your answer when he speaks again, something in his voice that steals your attention, pins it directly behind the light in his eyes.

“Don’t you have this in your house?”

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @codeinebelle​

[flamehairedwritings]

The Fiancé: Chapter Three

Characters: Steve Rogers x Female Plus-Size Reader

Rating: The whole series will be E, 18+ Only

Summary: A lie about your best friend at a Christmas party spirals into world news, but a previously unknown threat leaves you having to now live the lie of Steve Rogers being your fiancé.

Originally based on the prompt ‘Character A’s ex will be at the Christmas Party A is attending. Character B poses as A’s fiancé,’ by @alloftheprompts.

A/N: The whole series will include swearing, alcohol, threat, violence, protected sex, and more tags to be added!

The Fiancé Masterlist

All Works Masterlist

Read on AO3

Please don’t copy or steal my work, and please don’t post it on any other sites; credit does not count.

You, Me, and The World

“Right...”

She’s looking at you, you’re looking at her.

“I didn’t tell anyone else,” she whispers after a few, silent moments.

“I believe you, Dolly, it’s all right.”

You’re internally panicking, externally, actually, too, probably, from the way she’s looking at you. You open your mouth, then close it, then open it again after taking a breath.

“Right. If you could just tell her that... I’m in a meeting right now... but that I will call... her back.”

Dolly nods slowly. “Okay... All right...” She nods again, and then closes the door and you watch her run towards her desk.

You sit back and stare at your computer screen. The article is still up, and you can’t stop yourself from continuing to read it.

Update! The lucky, lucky lady of Cap’s dreams is Y/N, Head of Marketing at June & Mayflower Publishing! A regular old person, we’re glad Cap is so down-to-earth! Our sources say they’ll be announcing the date of the wedding within the next couple of days, and we’re so excited!

Along with the update is a picture of you, taken from your Instagram account. You’re smiling into the camera, mid-laughter, a cocktail in your hand.

Oh my God...

You feel your phone buzzing in your bag and jerk forward, fumbling as you try to unzip it quickly. Grabbing your phone, it’s a number you don’t recognise. Expecting a call from a new client today, you answer it without thinking.

“Hello, Y/N speaking?”

“Hi, Y/N! I’m calling from Stars Today, congratulations on your engagement! I was just wondering if I could have a quick—”

You hang up, dropping your phone onto the desk and put your head in your hands as you groan, your eyes closed.

This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening...

How did they get your phone number? How did this even get out? Joe? Gwen? Someone else who had overheard your huge, stupid lie? You wonder how Steve is—

Your eyes snap open.

Steve.

Oh my fucking God.

You grab your phone again and unlock it, tapping and swiping quickly to find his number. Dialling, you hold it to your ear, biting at your lower lip. It rings, and rings, and rings... and goes to voicemail.

Shit, he probably can’t hear it while he’s jogging, or he has it on silent, or whatever, oh my God, this is insane...

Hanging up and locking your phone, you sit back, your gaze lifting to the window. The office has filled slightly, more and more people arriving and, yes, they’re all glancing in, murmuring to each other. They’re smiling, they’re all happy and delighted, but you just feel your heart sink lower and lower.

No, right, none of that, just clear it all up now, just go out there and say it was a lie, suck it up and feel humiliated for ten years, it’ll be fine.

Pushing your chair back, you clear your throat as you move around your desk, clutching your phone in one hand. Opening the door, you step out and people are already looking at you. Clearing your throat again, you inhale a breath and smile as they instantly go quiet.

“Hi, everyone, uhm...” You shift your stance as your gaze sweeps the room, everyone silent. “I’m sure you’ve all heard what has been said in the tabloids and I just wanted to—”

“You bitch!”

Any other time you would have been offended, but now you just want to curl up and die because of how overjoyed the voice is.

Bridget Sanderson, your closest friend in the office, and D.C besides Steve, marches through the door, pushes through the small group and grins at you, their mouth open.

“You engaged bitch! I knew something had to be going on! How could you not tell me?!”

You exhale a faint, and you feel like you’re about to faint, laugh and shake your head. “Oh, well, actually, Bridge’, and, uhm, everyone, you see the thing is—”

“So you’re giving the Monday morning pep-talks now, huh?”

Oh my God, will everyone please stop turning up to work on time.

CEO of June & Mayflower Publishing, and your boss, Yvette Adebayo arches an eyebrow at you as the group parts for her, removing her gloves.

“Oh, no, I was just—”

“Can I see you in my office?”

“Yep, absolutely.” You smile as she nods and heads for her own office. You follow after her, somewhat meekly.

Yvette is no-nonsense, hates a fuss, a scene, is the classiest woman you’ve ever met, and you hate disappointing her. That’s not to say she’s mean or cold or anything that the world labels assertive women in leadership roles as, you just bloody love her. As much as you love yourself, God, you want to be her.

Closing the door to her office as she removes her coat and hangs it up, you clasp your hands together, trying not to play with them nervously. Sitting down, she looks at you, folding her arms.

“So.”

“So...” you parrot, stretching the vowel out.

She arches an eyebrow.

Sighing, you drop your hands. “Oh, Yvette, this is a fucking nightmare, I’m not—”

“I know, I can see that it is, I’m not here to chastise you for not telling me or anything like that—”

“Yvette.”

She pauses, her eyebrows raising slightly as you’ve not once in your three years of working together interrupted her or used an exasperated tone. You probably look as helpless as you feel, too.

“Yvette, I’m... I’m not engaged.”

Her eyebrows rise higher. “... You’re not?”

“No.” You feel your face warming in embarrassment as you launch into your explanation, “It was just a stupid lie I told at the party to make Joe jealous.”

“Joe was there?” she frowns.

It’s not the most pressing of matters to address right now, but then you remember she hadn’t attended the party, knowing her employees wouldn’t fully relax with the big boss there.

God, she’s amazing.

“Yeah, he said Adam invited him as a plus-one. I suppose he’s back for the holidays to see his family, too.” You shake your head slightly, embarrassment returning. “And I just... whenever I see him or think about him I get so mad, he was such a pretentious asshole even when we were going out, I was actually working myself up to break up with him when he put in for the transfer which was a blessing in disguise and—”

“So, you wanted to get one over on him,” Yvette cuts you off from your rambling.

“Yeah, well...” You pull a slight face. “That kind of makes it sound like I used Steve... which I did...” You pull a face again before closing your eyes and pressing the heels of your palms to them, groaning. “Oh, God, I’m such an awful person...”

“No, you’re not, Y/N,” Yvette insists. “Joe was always an ass, thinking he was better than everyone, so I can completely understand why you would want to have a moment of superiority.” 

“That still doesn’t make it okay, at all.” You fold your arms, blowing out a breath. “He just... He looked at me like it wasn’t possible. Like I couldn’t have Steve Rogers fall in love with me, or someone like him, and I hated that. Even when I was dating him there was always something about him that just... Made me feel like he was doing me a favour. That he was so amazing and a complete catch. So just once, for one second, I wanted him to think, ‘God, I missed out... She is worthy, she is incredible’.”

“Y/N.” You gaze meets Yvette’s as she leans forward. “You are worthy. Period. No matter what. Whoever you decide to be with, they’ll be damn lucky and they’ll know it.”

“I know, I know, I tell myself that and believe it most days, but...” You sigh heavily. “I used Steve. I did what everyone else does and put him on a pedestal and used his status and his iconography to just get back at my stupid ex when I’m supposed to be his friend. Sure, he’s a super-soldier and a, you know, super-hero but first and foremost, to me, he’s my friend and a human being. And I dismissed all that for one tiny, stupid moment of wanting to feel smug.” You can feel tears starting to fill your eyes.

Wiping at them quickly, you blow out another, slightly shaky breath.

“Y/N,” Yvette says gently, “It was a dumb thing that you did, but a human thing. You made a mistake, and we can rectify it.” You watch her as she turns her computer on and straightens her back. “We’ll write a press-statement that we can release, it doesn’t need to give specifics, just that there’s been a misunderstanding, and then you can tell everyone you actually know as little or as much as you want.”

God, you are actually about to cry, she’s just the absolute bloody best.

A smile pulling at your lips, you wipe your eyes again. “Thank you, Yvette. I mean it, you really are—”

“You fucking bitch!”

God, I wish Bridge’ would stop calling me that— 

As Yvette’s eyes widen, though, and you turn to look out of her window to the office floor, you realise it’s not Bridget. A young woman, sobbing, steps out of the elevator. People stare, frozen to the spot, because this has never happened before, security in your building has always been incredible, and why would someone trespass on your floor? She’s striding across the room, too fast for people to clock on and react, pointing at you.

“You bitch! You don’t deserve him, he’s better than you!” she yells, thoroughly and completely distraught, but all you can do is remain frozen in your spot.

You can hear Yvette shouting into her office phone, demanding where security is, when four of them are suddenly there, shoving people out of the way and one of the men grabs the woman when she’s only a few feet away from the door. She screams as he wraps his arms around her to restrain her, hauling her back and having to lift her slightly. She just kicks her legs out, thrashing and trying to get free.

“You bitch, you bitch, you bitch!” she screams over and over and over, and you’re still frozen.

The security man drags her back towards the elevator, another man accompanying him, and the remaining two, a man and a woman, continue towards you. The woman opens the door, shaking her head as she steps inside.

“We’re so sorry, there’s just so many of them down there, she must have just slipped through. Are you okay?”

You stare at her.

“There’s more?” Yvette asks.

The woman looks to her. “Yeah, they just started turning up, some are fans, some are paparazzi.” Her gaze returns to you. “Again, we’re so sorry, we’re increasing our team for the foreseeable future, it won’t happen again.”

You think you might actually faint now. 

“Okay. Thank you,” you hear yourself saying.

The woman nods and steps out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her.

“Y/N, are you all right?” Yvette asks gently as you turn to her, your lips parted.

“Uhm...”

When you don’t continue after a few moments, she nods and moves around her desk towards you. “Take the day off. Alice and I’ll draft a statement later. Is there someone who can come and pick you up?”

You nod a few times as she squeezes your shoulder gently. “Uh, yeah, there’s someone I can call.”

—

Natasha Romanoff beams when you exit the elevator and approach. Beams. She’s smiled at you before, sure, several times, but this is a beam. And then she opens her mouth.

“Oh my God, I’m so glad you’re telling people now!”

I’m fucking sorry, what?

Before you can mutter that this is actually not something you’re quite ready to joke about yet, she throws her arms around you and hugs you tightly. “Oh, I’m just so happy!”

You just stand there, holding your bag, as she rocks you, having never felt so confused in your life.

“Uh—”

“Right, yeah, no time, let’s get you home, huh?” She’s no longer beaming when she pulls back, instead looking incredibly sympathetic in a way that doesn’t make you feel any better. Patting your arm, she looks behind you and nods at Yvette and the two security guards who have accompanied you down into the private underground garage that belongs to the building. “I’ll take it from here, thank you.”

Dropping her hand, she moves to her black Corvette a few feet away and opens the passenger door, holding it open for you and gesturing for you to get in. Looking over your shoulder at Yvette, you manage to return her smile before heading to the car. Getting in, you place your bag on the floor between your feet as Nat closes the door, and buckle your seatbelt before closing your eyes, exhaling a long breath. You open your eyes when the driver’s door opens and Nat slides into the seat, closing the door.

“Nat, I—”  

“What an exciting day. You must be so over-joyed!”

She’s beaming at you again as she starts the engine after buckling her own seatbelt, but something about her tone tells you she isn’t actually joking around.

“Nat, do you—”

“Oh, I’m sorry, are you okay? It must have been terrifying with that woman getting in.” She looks genuinely concerned this time as she steers the Corvette up a ramp and onto the main street level. 

“Uh, yeah, it was actually, but, uhm, I—”

“It’s all right, we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” She pauses for half a second to check the street as the barrier lifts before she turns onto it and, fuck, you forgot how fast she drives. “We’ll just get you home, then you can relax and we’ll do what we can, okay?”

“Yeah, right, okay, but—”

She turns the radio on, turning the volume up a few numbers, and taps her fingertips against the steering wheel. “Have you spoken to Steve?”

Your heart sinks at the reminder of him and how this must all be affecting him because of you. “No, not yet,” you murmur, playing with your hands in your lap. “Have you?”

“Yeah, he can’t wait to see you.”

He must be fucking desperate with how fast you’re going.

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, he’s at your place, popping open a bottle of champagne I should think.” She glances at you, beaming again, and you just frown.

What the hell is going on.

Something tells you, though, to not broach the subject again, so you lean your head back and mutter, “Yeah, I’m gonna need a fucking drink.”

It doesn’t take long for Nat to reach your apartment, and you still don’t understand how someone can be a fast and safe driver. You’re about to say as much, because you can’t do a single journey with her and not, when she parks in front of the building. Right in front of it. You pause in unbuckling the seatbelt you had been gripping, frowning at her, because she never does this as your building also has its own underground garage, and she loves her car.

“Nat, what about the garage?”

She unbuckles her seat belt and reaches over you to the glove compartment. “Oh, I won’t be staying long.” She pulls a box out of the compartment, closes it and sits back, opening the box. She opens the box to reveal sunglasses and puts them on. Sunglasses.

Leaving the box on the dashboard, she smiles at you and pushes her door open, stepping out. Grabbing your bag and doing the same, you watch her as she closes her door and looks up and down the street. Then, she looks to you as you close your door, her smile lingering.

“Come on, let’s get that drink, shall we.”

You reach the front doors of your apartment building first, and unzip your bag, searching for your keys. As you pull them out, Nat takes your bag from you, her smile still there.

“Here, I’ll hold this for you.”

“Okay.” Deciding to just go along with whatever is happening until you’re in your apartment, you turn and unlock the door. Faint Christmas music plays over a small speaker on a wall, and the building guard, Aaron, who you’d say you’re quite friendly with, looks at you from his place by the mailboxes as you enter and you nod at him. He nods, then gives you a thumbs up as he grins.

Oh, God.

“Way to go, Y/N! I had no idea!”

“Yep, okay, Aaron,” you murmur as your face heats and you stride towards the elevator. Nat is close behind you and you press the button to herald the elevator as she stops beside you. Then, you glance at her, frowning.

She’s searching through your bag, opening pockets and unzipping compartments.

“What are you doing?” you murmur, raising your eyebrows as she takes the spare pens you always keep in your bag out before slotting them back into their compartment.

“Nothing,” she says without even looking up at you.

Right.

Your jaw moves as the elevator ‘ding’s and the doors slide open. Incredibly grateful to find no one inside, you step in and turn to the buttons, pressing the button for your floor as Nat also steps in.

The moment the doors close, you turn to her, your hands going to your waist, your keys digging in to you even through your coat. “What the hell is going on, Nat?”

She doesn’t say anything, continuing to search through your bag. Your eyebrows raise as you release a scoff of disbelief because she’s ignoring you.

“Nat?”

Finally, she zips your bag back up and lifts her head, holding it out to you. You can’t tell if she’s satisfied or unsatisfied, and she’s silent, her gaze holding yours. Taking your bag, you shoulder it and press your lips together. You’re angry, confused, definitely dissociating somewhat, but something else is starting to creep up now. Fear.

The ‘ding’ of the elevator makes you jump slightly. Nat’s through the doors first this time, beckoning you to follow. You do, gripping the strap of your bag tightly. Your keys are biting into your skin as you shift them in your hand as you walk, and you find the key to your front door, Nat pausing by it. You unlock it, glancing at her. Her eyes are on the hall behind you, her features expressionless. Your heart pounding, you push your door open. Stepping in, you lift your head and pause, finding Sam Wilson stood in your living room area.

He turns and grins, holding his arms out wide.

“Y/N! Congratulations!” he laughs as he moves towards you, and your bag falls from your shoulder as you hear Nat close the door behind you.

As his arms go around you in a hug you would usually be delighted to return, you just stand there, again, feeling tears of irritation start to prick at your eyes because what the hell is happening. 

You’re speaking before you even realise. “Can someone please tell me what in the absolute fuck is—”

“All right, the place is clear.”

Steve appears from your bathroom, making you break off, your eyes darting up to him. Sam releases you then, holding your shoulders gently, his smile gone. “Y/N, are you all right?”

You look from him to Steve, your lips parted. “No, I’m not. What the hell is going on?”

Nat moves around you and pushes her sunglasses onto her head as Sam drops his hands. “Sorry about all that, Y/N. We’ll explain in a moment.” She raises her eyebrows at Sam slightly, gesturing him over to the large window that looks down onto the front street of the building. “Sam?”

Giving you a reassuring smile, though you absolutely don’t feel reassured, Sam follows her, leaving you standing there, looking at Steve. His arms are by his sides, and he exhales a breath as he moves towards you, an expression you can’t describe on his features.

“Y/N—”

“Oh, Steve,” you quickly interrupt, unable to bear whatever he’s about to say, good or bad or disappointed, because no matter what, this is your fault. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”

He shakes his head, his hands replacing where Sam’s had been, warm and light. “Y/N, are you okay? Nat messaged about what happened at the office, I’m glad you called her.”

You look at him in disbelief, your hands having found his chest at some point. “Yeah, I’m fine, are you okay?”

A corner of his mouth lifts, softening his features instantly as his thumbs stroke your shoulders. “I’m fine, Y/N, I—”

“Really? You can say if you’re not, I would absolutely understand, actually you should be pissed off with me, Steve—”

“Y/N, Y/N, it’s all right,” he says gently, having heard, as you’d tried not to, the slight cracking in your voice. He draws you closer, his arms going around you in a warm embrace.

You realise, in that moment, that neither of you hug very much. You see each other so often that all you greet each other with is a hello, or you just high five when something exciting happens. Hugs are reserved for when you’re thanking each other for a present or when... You can’t really think of any other time. Even when you have a cry, you’ll both sit down and he’ll pat and rub your back, and you’ve never seen him cry at anything more than a movie, so.

God, we should hug more, this is nice. 

“So...” Sam’s voice has you pulling back, Steve’s arms falling from you as you turn to him, a smile tugging at his lips. “How did this happen, or do I just not have my RSVP yet?”

You tilt your head, your lips pressing together. Yeah, you’re definitely not ready to joke about it yet. You might not ever. 

“Well...” Moving to the couch, you take a seat as you blow out a breath, your face already warming again. 

Here we go, my now permanent state of embarrassment continues.

They’re all looking at you, Sam leaning against the wall, glancing out of the window every now and then, Nat sat on the arm of the couch opposite you, Steve standing between you and Nat, his hands in his pockets.

Clearing your throat, your hands on your knees, you lick your lips. “So... When Steve and I were at my work party last Saturday, my ex-boyfriend was there and I told him that...” You take a short breath, glancing at Steve before deciding to settle your gaze on the coffee table. “... Steve was my fiancé, because...” You just can’t bring yourself to say it. “... Well, I don’t know why, really.” You move on quickly. “So, when I got to work today, Dolly said Gwen from work overheard me saying it to Joe, so she could have spread it, or Joe could have, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking—” 

“Joe is the ex-boyfriend?”

You gaze darts from where you had been looking at Steve to apologise to Nat.

“Yeah. He lives in Chicago but he’s back for the holidays, I’m assuming.”

“How long were you two together?”

“Only a few months—”

“Did he ever meet Steve?”

You frown lightly at her. “Only at the party, why?”

Her hands are clasped together, her eyes fixed on you. “What’s his last name?”

“Havers. Joe Havers. Why?”

“When did he start working at your place? When did you start seeing each other?”

You look at Sam, who’s looking out of the window, then to Steve, who’s looking at the ground, then back to Nat. “About a year ago. We started dating a month after, and then he broke up with me when he transferred to the Chicago branch the August that’s just gone. Why—”

“Did he ask you out? Pursue you?”

You release a breath, your frown returning. “Yeah, and I guess, but, like, in the way you would when you want to date someone—”

“Did you ever meet his family? Friends?” She’s unrelenting, expressionless.

“Well, no, but he never met Steve during that time, either—”

“Did he ask to?”

“No.” You exhale in frustration, your jaw moving. “Look, what’s going on, Nat? You’d said you’d tell me.”

She lifts her hands slightly. “We just have to look at every option, Y/N.”

Your frown returns as you look at them. “Option for what? Who spread it?”

There’s silence. Your eyebrows raise. Sam meets your gaze for a second before looking back out the window, Steve’s still looking at the floor, and so Nat, once again, is your only option. Your eyebrows rise higher as she tilts her head.

“Y/N... We need you to continue being Steve’s fiancé.”

You stare at her, your lips parted. “... I’m sorry... What? Why?”

As slight as it is, it’s the first time you’ve seen Nat look uncomfortable. “You’ve already encountered a rather... over-zealous fan, and, we’ve got intel that suggests some... unsavoury characters are using the chatrooms and blogs that they operate to track Steve’s whereabouts.”

 You arch an eyebrow, releasing a breath and not quite knowing what to address first. Irritation blends with anger and you focus on that because you don’t want to feel anymore afraid than you already are. “’Unsavoury characters’? I’m a big girl, Nat, you don’t have to sugarcoat whatever this is.”

She glances at Steve for a fraction of a second. “All right, terrorists. Terrorists are using chatrooms to plan to assassinate Steve.”

Your mood shifts instantly. A coldness sweeps over you and fear envelops you as you look at Steve, who is finally looking at you, your eyes wide. “Why the fuck would they want to do that?”

Steve opens his mouth but Nat gets there first.

“Steve is America’s greatest living symbol. Can you imagine what kind of message it would send from any group should Steve be killed?”

You look between them all, your mouth open. Nat continues after a moment, not liking the idea of that statement hanging in the air.

“We need you to spend this week doing what happily engaged couples do. Cake tasting, wedding dress shopping, visit venues, hold hands, look completely in love, all of that so that we can see who turns up and who follows him.”

You close your eyes for a moment, your brow furrowing, before you release a breath and look at her. “So, I’m... I’m, we’re bait?”

Nat’s features soften. “Y/N, you and Steve couldn’t be safer, I promise. We’re going to move you both to a new apartment with proper security, the place’ll be watched around the clock and it’s only until Saturday evening.”

“Why Saturday?”

She rests her hands either side of herself on the arm of the couch. “We’ve been hearing chatter that that’s when they’re planning to attack, at the party with the world watching. So we need to identify who they are before then. Obviously.”

“Right.” You stare at her for a few moments before your gaze drops to the table. You haven’t quite been able to get a handle on your breathing for the last hour, but now it really is difficult. Your hands are gripping your knees, and you have to swallow hard to stop the bile rising in your throat.

“Y/N, you don’t have to.” Your eyes lift at Steve’s quiet tone. Then you realise what the expression is; regret.

You release another breath. “Are you kidding me, your life is in danger, why didn’t you tell me this?”

His mouth lifts a fraction. “It’s not exactly what I want to race home and tell you about.”

Your chest tightens. You make your mind up instantly. You look at Nat.

“I’ll do it.”

She nods, giving you a small smile. “You can’t tell anyone it’s not real, and be careful when you’re speaking on the phone, they could tap it.”

Ah, so that’s why Nat had checked your bag and Steve and Sam had been checking your place, and probably why Steve hadn’t answered your—

Oh, shit, wait...

Your shoulders drop slightly. “Oh, my boss knows.”

“Yvette?” Nat slides her phone out of her pocket as she looks at you.

“Yeah, I spoke to her earlier, before the... fan, and she asked me how I was and I told her.”

“Right.” Nat arches an eyebrow, tapping something into her phone. “Can she keep a secret?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Nat smiles at your fierce certainty, locking her phone and keeping ahold of it. “We’ll need to speak with her, anyway, let her understand the severity of the situation so she won’t trust anyone. That’s good actually ‘cause you’re gonna need to take the week off work.”

Your heart sinks. “What, why?”

“You need to spend every moment with Steve, and I think this would be a natural thing to do. We can have a press release put out saying you don’t want your work bombarded like earlier, you won’t be able to concentrate—”

You raise your hand, pointing a finger. “Hang on, I can multi-task and work under any conditions.”

Nat’s lips twitch. “We know that, Y/N, I’m not discrediting how good of a worker you are, we just need the rest of the world to think that.”

You bristle slightly as you press your lips together, your shoulders dropping again.

Her amusement vanishes, her features softening. “It’s just until Sunday, then we can let everyone know the truth. This is a great chance for us to find these guys, Y/N. We wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important or useful, but you can still say no.”

There’s a long pause. You glance at Steve, he’s still got that same expression, almost pained. You could say no; you think it would almost relieve him if you did. You know him well enough by now that he’s probably full of regret for putting you in this position by being your friend.

Well, Steve, I get the guilt card on this one, it was me who put us in this position.

You've always known the risks of being associated with him and being his friend. You’ve never spoken about it with each other but you’ve just always known, it’s how his world operates. But he wanted to be your friend and you wanted to be his, so why the fuck shouldn’t you be. Something that had come up in one of your first, long, late-night conversations is the sense of loneliness you both feel. Sure, you have friends, both of you, and you both work in very people-orientated careers, but... Loneliness just seems to linger, uninvited. You’ve never felt that loneliness with Steve.

And now some fuckers wanted to kill him.

You look at Nat. “Yeah, I want to do it.”

She gives you another smile, nodding. “All right.” Rising to her feet, she folds her arms. “I guess we got some packing to do, then.”

You’re about to look at Steve, hoping to reassure him that you really do want to do this, when Sam lets out a low whistle.

“Well, Nat... Think there’s gonna be some scratches on your fancy car.”

Pushing yourself up from the couch, you move to the window as Nat tuts under her breath, and join Sam. Your stomach flips as you gaze down and see the crowd of people on the street, surrounding her car and staring up at the building or at the entrance. There’s a couple of news vans, too, reporters and their cameras hovering by them, gripping their microphones and glancing up every few seconds, waiting.

Oh my God... There’s gonna be three people in this so-called relationship; me, him and the world.

—

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[qvid-pro-qvo]

Omg 16 from the prompt list pls!!

16 - knows your schedule from the back of their heads (and gets shocked when there is a sudden change in your routine).

aaron hotchner x gender neutral reader.

Your runs are your time. Early in the mornings, when the world is barely waking up. You like watching the sun rise, listening to a song that makes you want to hum, or listening to the birds chirp while you climb that incline.

It’s when you can focus on you, instead of focusing on anyone else. No students at 5:30 AM. No other professors, not usually. Not many take your route. No disgruntled bosses. Just you and the world and waking up with it.

So when your parents call from their vacation across the ocean, you don’t want to take it. It’s your you time. Unfortunately, the guilt overwhelms you, and so you answer, voice perky, smile wide.

And then, before you know it, an hour passes. And by the time you realize an hour has passed, it’s an hour and one minute, and you’re scrambling to hang up, shower, get ready for a start to this week of classes. Your commute is already a nightmare, and now it’s destined to be worse as rush hour catches at the tail end of it.

The rest of the day is a mess. By the end of grading twenty of the forty-five laboratory assignments, your head is splitting, and you know you’re going to hit rush hour on the way home. It’s a nightmare, and when you escape campus it’s with one thing in mind.

You need a run. And bad.

The frustration pushes you to get dressed. It’ll suck, two runs in less than twelve hours, but it’ll keep you on your schedule, and you need that release. It’s what keeps you sane through the next ten lab reports, what keeps your eyes open on the road.

By the time you get home you’re thrumming with it, so excited for the chance to get your feet on the damn asphalt that you don’t even notice the missed calls from your boyfriend, not even hearing your ringer until you’ve got your headphones in.

“Hey, Aaron,” you greet, and push out your door, locking it behind you. You’re strapped, you’re ready, and you start your pace even as you’re hearing his voice on the phone. “Sorry I missed your calls, I didn’t hear my phone buzz earlier.”

“Just glad I got a hold of you,” he tells you. His voice is smooth, a little loud against the din you can hear in the background. “Just wanted to let you know we’re about to take off for a case. Didn’t want to worry you in case I didn’t get to you before you went to bed.”

You smile at that, and take a moment to adjust your speed, turning a corner in the neighborhood. “I just got my shoes on the pavement, don’t worry. I’ll probably catch you when you land, at this rate.”

“You’re running?”

The way he says it almost makes you stumble, and you can almost see his face – eyes narrowed, brow pinched.

“Yeah,” you say, as if telling him duh. Of course, you’re running. “I always run.”

He pauses, before answering. You’re panting into the microphone, you know, and that’s all that fills the silence until he speaks. “No, I know, just. You run in the mornings.” His confusion bleeds into concern, and you can hear his voice soften, as if to keep someone from overhearing on his end. Are you all right? Did something happen?”

For some reason that makes your chest warm. You smile at his tone, the concern, the affection, and you find yourself coming to a stop, blinking at it.

He has to say your name to bring you back, and when you are you’re dazed. “Oh, no, I’m fine, really. Just a long day, I got a call from my parents right as I was about to leave, felt the guilt. By the time I realized we’d been talking for a while…”

“No run.”

That’s what makes you breathless. Not the running, but the understanding from him, the smooth roll of his vowels. It makes you smile, and you start back up again, moving from a quick walk back up to your jog. “Right. So. Evening. It was kind of a shitty day, but. It’s good to hear from you. Makes it better.”

“I’m glad I can help. But be careful,” he tells you. “Get home before dark, okay?” It’s his job that makes him say that, and you can’t help the way your legs speed up just a little.  

“Not a problem,” you tell him, and you know he’s smiling, even from miles away. “And be safe, for me.”

“Of course. I’ll see you when I get back?”

“Yeah. Dinner, if we can, but if not I expect a postcard.”

He laughs at that, and you smile, turning another corner, reaching up to nudge your earbud a little farther into your ears, just to hear it loud and clear.

“Okay. See you soon.”

“See ya, Aaron.”

The rest of the run and the day is uneventful, but that warm feeling doesn’t leave you, and you fall asleep thinking about the sound of his chuckle in your ears, playing it on a loop to drift you off to sleep.

-

currently taking prompts from this list here!

tag list: @quillvine // @ssaic-jareau // @mooneylupinblack // @rachelxwayne // @greenie128 // @dilaudidwinchester

[tuff-and-fluff-archives]

A Quiet Morning

Word Count: 1151

Warnings: None

Could it be, a sweet and fluffy fic that serves no other purpose than making me happy? It’s more likely than you think. This is set decently early into my relationship with Jamie, maybe about a month or two in. We weren’t living together yet, so in between him going off on bank heists and me keeping busy as a reporter, we were desperate to spend as much time together as possible, so these lovely quiet mornings were a rare treat that we savored. Please enjoy!

Ruby held her hand over her mouth and yawned as she put her toothbrush back into its holster on the bathroom counter. It was a quiet Monday morning, and she had asked for the day off so she could spend some time unwinding at home. Well, that was what she had told her boss, and while it wasn’t entirely a lie, she certainly wouldn’t be spending her time alone.

As she exited the bathroom and walked towards the kitchen, she glanced through the open door of her bedroom and grinned at the sight of Junkrat lying face-down next to the empty spot where she had been, his shirtless back gently rising and falling as he slept peacefully. It wasn’t too often that she was up before him, but she knew her boyfriend would start getting restless now that she wasn’t by his side, and it wouldn’t be long before he was up too. She could already see him stirring a bit, searching for her by aimlessly groping at where she would be in bed. She giggled a bit, finding his unconscious efforts to hold onto her adorable, and walked into the kitchen to find something to make for breakfast. 

She instinctively started to prepare her coffeemaker when she realized that she wouldn’t need it today; she had made it her day off, after all, and she wasn’t planning on doing a thing. Instead, she got two mugs- a purple one and a yellow one- from the cupboard, placed them next to the sink, and took two packets of instant hot cocoa mix from another cupboard. As she set the packets aside and opened the fridge, she could hear Junkrat getting out of bed and walking down the hall, the sound of his foot and pegleg hitting the wooden floor creating a familiar off-beat rhythm as he grew closer, until she could tell he was standing right outside the doorway, hidden from view. 

Ruby heard him giggling to himself and smiled; she could tell that he was up to something, as usual. She took the milk out of the fridge and brought it to where she had set the other items down, and out of the corner of her eye she could see Junkrat peeking around the edge of the doorway. His wide amber eyes briefly met with hers before he hid behind the wall again, and Ruby let out a quiet chuckle as she turned her attention back to preparing the hot chocolate, deliberately turning her body away from him so that she wouldn’t be able to see him.

From behind her, she heard Junkrat start to talk in a pseudo-hushed voice, purposefully still loud enough for her to hear.

“Here, we observe a young female going about her daily morning ritual,” he spoke with a formal twist to his tone, as if he were narrating a nature special. Ruby giggled a bit at his antics as she continued preparing the hot cocoa, eager to hear what he had to say next. “This particular female is quite the rare one, though, as she’s remarkably smaller, rounder, and cuter than any other of her kind.”

She couldn’t help but blush and grin like an idiot at his comments about her, but she played along with his narration by keeping her back turned to the doorway, pretending to ignore him. 

“However, her lovely stand-out features make her an easy target. Absorbed in her routine, she’s completely unaware of the vicious predator creeping up behind her,” Junkrat continued as he began to sneak towards her. It was more than obvious to Ruby what he was planning, but she firmly faced the counter, continuing to act blissfully unaware as his voice gradually grew louder behind her. “This handsome beast sports quick reflexes and a powerful grip, so the sweet young sheila doesn’t have much chance of escape before..!" 

Suddenly, Ruby felt two arms wrap around her waist and pull her away from the counter, lifting her off the floor. She started to giggle as Junkrat twirled her around in a circle, and he wasted no time joining in, filling the apartment with the sound of their laughter. The two of them were still in hysterics by the time he set her back down, still keeping his arms around her waist to hold her flush against his chest as he nuzzled his face into her hair. She brought a hand up to his face and turned to press a kiss against his cheek before leaning her head against his, and as their giggles slowly faded away, he spun her around to face him and pressed his lips to hers as he held her tightly to his body.

Ruby let out a content hum as their lips gently mingled, and she tangled a hand into Junkrat’s messy blonde hair, her other hand resting on the back of his neck to hold him there and let their tender kiss last just a bit longer. As she pulled away, he cupped her face in his hands and peppered kisses all over her soft cheeks, turning her head to the left and then the right so that he didn’t miss an inch of her skin before he went back in for her lips, kissing her with an overdramatic mmmwah~ to get another precious giggle out of her.

“Well,” she cooed with a smile as she looked up into his eyes, “good morning to you too, Jamie.”

He chuckled and lovingly rubbed his nose against hers before turning his attention to the counter. “Ooh, y’got some hot chokkie startin’ for us? You really are too good ta me, Roobs.”

“No such thing as too good for you, baby,” she said as she left his embrace and moved back to the counter. “Now go brush those teeth while I finish up.”

“How d’ya know I didn’t already, huh?” He protested as he walked up next to her and propped his elbows on the counter.

“Jamie, please. I could smell your nasty breath through every one of those kisses. Now go on.”

“Fine,” he huffed as he leaned forward to put his face right in front of hers. “But only because I loooove you, sweets,” he sighed, stretching out the vowels to exhale his rank breath onto her face. 

She grimaced and pushed a hand over his face as she covered her nose. “Eww, Jamie! Get outta here!” She grabbed a dish towel within arm’s reach and playfully slapped him with it, chasing him into the bathroom as he ran from her and laughed maniacally. She stood in the bathroom doorway for a second to watch him and make sure that he was doing what he was supposed to before walking back into the kitchen, shaking her head and chuckling under her breath. 

Yes indeed, she thought as a smile spread across her face, these quiet mornings are what I live for.

[echoise]

Super vague fictional illness made up for angst is the way this trope works right?? Well it does now. It’s Keith if you squint but I couldn’t bear to namedrop him. Also didn’t wanna namedrop the trope in text but the spirit is there!

Bad Things Happen Bingo #4: Definitely Just a Cold

it hurts, but maybe he was just made this way. (vague steelstep? m!sidestep. warning: spoilers.) 1,318 words

The first time it happens, he’s alone.

He wakes up on the cold warehouse floor, head pounding, body aching. Mouth tasting like metal and week-old coffee. Hazy memories and nightmares clinging to him like a wet cape.

He drags himself to the bathroom, vertigo threatening to topple him over again. He clings to the sink as he forces himself to look in the mirror: at the tired blue eyes, the pale face. The messy black hair slick with sweat, sticking to his forehead. Shit, he looks like he hasn’t slept for a week. Even more so than usual. Like he’s...

He wipes at his mouth and his hand comes away rust brown.

*

It happens again. And again. Usually when he’s alone. Usually when he can contain it, contain the damage: where no one can see the moments of weakness. But they keep coming, becoming more frequent. 

Well, he’s nothing if not a good actor.

The first time anyone notices - that anyone catches him, anyway - is three months after the first one. He wakes up on cold tiles: unfamiliar bathroom floor. Clean though, not disgusting, so probably not public. Aching, shivering, sweaty. No blood this time, that he can see. 

It takes him ten minutes to drag himself out of the stupor, remember where he is, what he’s supposed to be. Get off the floor, lean on the sink, wash his face. Try to get some color back to his pallid cheeks, put his hair in order, straighten his sweater. Pretend it’s alright. Pretend he’s alright.

He’s not prepared to run into Chen waiting right outside the door.

He flinches and evades backwards, almost losing his balance because no matter how good his act is, no matter how well he pretends, the lingering vertigo is there and almost knocks him out again. Chen notices, because of course he does, and there’s an arm around his waist, holding him up, keeping him from falling.

“Talk to me,“ is the only thing Chen says. He shakes his head and slips out of the grip, heading for the kitchen. Chen follows. “Please.“

“Nothing’s wrong,“ he snaps, voice too brittle, tone too sharp. Words too quick because that’s not what was asked and he walked right into that. Shit.

“I never said it was,“ Chen says, predictably. Folding his arms and leaning on the door frame, watching him wobble in and get coffee from the machine. Not even brewing a new pot, just get an instant, because he obviously needs to further broadcast how very much not okay he is.

“Well, I’m still fine.“ He gets defensive, because it’s the only thing he can do. Nausea churning in his stomach and he slams the paper cup on the table, spilling it, cursing as it splashes over his fingers. It’s too much. He can’t drink it. He stalks back to Chen, peering up at him, hoping he looks more annoyed than miserable. “And you’d do well to keep out of it.“

He slips out before Chen can answer, before another wave of dizziness can claim him.

*

Chen keeps a close watch on him after that.

He can feel the dark eyes drilling into the back of his head, feels his skin crawl the way it always does when he’s being watched. It becomes a game between them: Chen chasing, trying to reach him, and him avoiding, sidestepping. It’s nostalgic somehow, though it’s not something that ever happened between them. Just with him, with someone else, in another time. Another life.

And in the end, he loses. Like he always does.

He wakes up in Chen’s office, laid down on the small couch, a pillow under his head. Chen sitting in his chair behind the desk, sorting out papers and typing on a laptop.

He sits up. Infinitely less sore than waking up on cold floor, but no less miserable. He wonders how he collapsed. If Chen caught him before he hit the floor. If anyone else saw.

“You should see a doctor.“ Chen is looking at him over his work, expression pensive. Concerned. He closes his mind to shield against any onslaught.

“No.“ He grimaces, attempting to stand up. At least his legs hold. At least there isn’t blood on his shirt. “No hospitals.“

“I didn’t say that.“ Chen stands up as well, hovering as if to assist, but holding back. Knowing he would just be pushed back. “There are discreet doctors.“

“And what, you can give a referral?“ He scoffs, giving a warning glance to stop the hovering. It does nothing, but at least Chen doesn’t get closer. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not human anyway.“

“Yes you are, physiologically.“ Chen’s voice is tense, vowels short and consonants hard like every time he starts losing his patience. Which is always with him. It took him weeks to realize it wasn’t just a weird accent.

“I’m fine,“ he deflects, not even trying to sound convincing. Ending up tired and hopeless. The tone conveying the thoughts he won’t admit: that maybe this is better. Maybe he was just designed this way.

Maybe he deserves this.

Chen lets him go, against all expectations. He elects to just ignore the unspoken words between them, leaves them in the room and shuts the door behind him.

This isn’t over.

*

“Does Ortega know?“ Chen asks.

He’s on the sofa again, an arm slung over his eyes, willing the rising bile to stay in his stomach. Colorful fireworks dance in the darkness behind his eyes. “Of course not. And you’re not gonna tell him.“

“No, but you should.“ Chen’s mouth is set in a thin line of disapproval, watching him sprawled out on his back. Mind radiating concern and annoyance and about a dozen other things he really doesn’t need assaulting his shields now, brittle as they are. The attacks are getting worse.

“Screw that.“ He’s so tired. Too tired. It takes him a moment to realize Chen has reached out and is resting the back of his hand on his forehead. He can’t even be bothered to shake it off.

“You have a fever.“

There it is again, the concern. He jerks up into a sitting position, the world spinning and his eyes hurting from the sudden light. “Just mind your own business, Steel.“

“You’re making this my business.“ The annoyance surges over the others. That he can deal with.

He crosses his arms andswings his legs over the edge, putting his feet on the ground. “No, you’re making it your business, sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.“

Chen gets up after him, bristling. “Now listen here--“

“Bye, Chen,“ he snaps, slamming the door behind him and hoping it hits Chen in the face.

Of course it doesn’t, but he was never anything if not too hopeful.

*

He’s curled up on the bathroom floor of his shitty apartment, tasting blood and bile and crying because of the pain. The phone next to him rings quietly, more vibration than sound. It’s a decision made in a moment of madness, hazy in the chill of the bathroom. It’s a mistake, a weakness, a delusion brought on by pain and fear, emotions he’s not even supposed to feel.

It’s a piece of reality that he doesn’t want, but needs. Desperately.

The ringing stops as the line picks up. He can’t hear the words spoken, can’t bring himself to hit the speaker button, but he leans in close to the microphone to have his voice heard.

“Help...“

There’s a solid three seconds of silence before the phone crackles again. “Where are you?“

He sobs in relief, pressing his forehead against the cold tiles. No questions asked. No accusations. Not yet. He manages to gasp out the address, pain overriding caution. Overriding self-preservation, the secrecy, the carefully cultivated paranoia and years of honed instincts. Letting the future him worry about keeping his cover.

If he’s still alive then.

[goddesslyfics]

Tipsy (Asra x MC/Reader)

This is my first ‘reader’ fic, so I apologize for any awkwardity and I hope you enjoy! 

Tags: Alcohol, Mild Suggestive themes

           It’s a quarter past midnight when he arrives on your doorstep, soaked to the bone with rain, Faust hanging as limply from his shoulders as his sodden cloak. They both seem to perk up when golden candlelight pours into the streets from around your ankles, swirling in yellow motes as you usher the drenched pair inside. Asra’s eyes don’t leave you as you bustle through the shop, long closed for the night, to your personal living quarters behind. In the time it takes him to blink, suspending his fixed gaze, you have added an armful of tinder to the low burning fire in the grate and set a pot on to boil, after having fetched some spare blankets from a chest at the end of the hall.

You’re speaking, he realizes. He’d been watching the shape of your lips for some time before realizing. “Gone for weeks,” You continue unawares. “Before deciding to show up in the worst storm I’ve seen in ages. My master’s timing is impeccable, quite.” You flash a grin at him over your shoulder, relief fluttering in your chest mingled with a sense of unease. You always did fear he’d show up on the stoop in a much worse state. His hands are shaking from the cold, but it could be worse. Much worse, you tell yourself.

“The Soothsayer I spoke with this morning said nothing of rain.” He returns lightly, as Faust slithers from his arm to be closer to the fire. You nearly trip over her as you head to the cupboard in search of something that will warm him up. There. A bottle of mulled wine, still sealed. Should help with getting the blood flowing, you think, withdrawing from the cupboard with the bottle and two glasses in hand.

“What are we celebrating?” Asra asks, pitching a brow in question.

“It’ll warm you.” You reply, filling both glasses to the brim. Asra accepts his gratefully, carefully, as to not spill any drops on the papers spread out across the oaken table, your scribbled words curled around his among various runes and incantations. Most all of your notes were like this, an addition that makes a completed work feel only more so.  

Conversation flows from the red waters coursing down your throat. You ask him where he’s gone before this, he asks you what you’ve been up to at the shop. It’s a diversionary dance, half truths that you cannot feel inclined to push, however deeply you wish to know, well, everything. Where he’s been, who he’s been with, who, if anyone, might lay awake at night thinking of him, as you’ve found yourself doing of late.

Your head begins to feel foggy before you’ve finished your first glass. It’s the reason you keep little alcohol in the house; senses were too quickly smothered, experiences elapsed before sunrise. Asra doesn’t seem to notice, recalling a safe enough tale, more so an anecdote, about haggling with a shopkeeper, the favor swaying from his own until the keep saw Faust curled in Asra’s sleeve, asleep and innocent, yet enough to win her master a monster of a bargain.

Draining his glass, Asra sinks back in his chair, the wood sighing softly in a familiar tune. He certainly appears warmer, limber and relaxed. You lower your voice before speaking, as though not to disturb his peace. “And how long will you be staying?”

Asra leans forward in the chair, clears his throat. He picks up his glass as though he’s forgotten he only just emptied it. He raises his head and locks eyes with your own. A droplet of rain, shaken from his hair, runs down his forehead into the shallows beneath his eyes, stilling there like tears.

“I’m staying. For good, this time.” Blush rises to the tips of his ears after he speaks. A touch impetuous, he thinks. “Rather, as long as you’ll have me.”

You blink. It’s a strain to keep a Cheshire grin from curling your lips, a chore to keep your eyes leveled on the table before you as you take up the bottle of wine and top off both of your glasses. “Well, now I can think of something worth celebrating.” You say, raising your glass in a toast as your gaze locks to his own. His eyes flicker in bright surprise, though he’s smiling, and you no longer see the need to hide it, allowing your own grin to unfurl like a flag over a banister to announce a war that’s been won.

Still smiling, you turn back to the fire to the soup you set to heat from the previous night, filling two bowls and bringing them back to the table. Your hands slide over Asra’s as you pass the bowl into his hands, causing you to start.

“You’re still cold.” You murmur worriedly, trailing your hands along his forearms, which are pricked with gooseflesh. The rain must have gotten to his bones. “Come with me.” You say, keeping your fingers interlocked as your guide him up the narrow staircase, your feet echoing on the hardwood like the rain pelting the roof. You stumble against each other, shoulder to shoulder, and your foot catches on the last step, a steep drop to the bottom hadn’t Asra caught you around the waist beforehand and wobbily helped you upright. You trail giggles down the hallway on the way to your bedroom, spilling past the frame into the cozy attic space. There’s no bed frame, rather, a mattress tucked into the alcove of the street-facing window, which casts blurry moonlight over the scattered pillows and heaped blankets. You drop to your knees and grab the closest quilt to drape around his shoulders, like a cape. “Perfect,” Your murmur, drawing out the vowels over the fog of drink that lingers in your mind as you smooth your hands over his shoulders.

Before you pull away, Asra’s hands capture your wrists, holding you to him. You blink, not before realizing how close the two of your are. You can see the droplets of rain captured still in his hair, the specks of white in his eyelashes, fluttering as his eyes dart up and down your face, lastly lingering on your lips.You aren’t sure if he moves forward first, or if you pulled him towards you, or, if like magnets, you were simply bound to come together this way. Yet, before your mouths connect, he tilts his face to the side, your lips only grazing at the corners. “Will you still want me in the morning?” He murmurs, though not lowly enough that you can’t hear the tremor in his voice. You raise your hand to cup his face, running your thumb over his cheek until his eyes raise to meet your own. He’s never seen you stumble on the stairs or slur your speech. He cannot know if you are speaking from the bottom of your heart or a bottle.

“Before I do this, I need you to know that I have always loved you.” You whisper, without a slur or stutter, before tilting his face to yours, reveling in the full weight of his lips sealed to your own. Soft, slow to yield, he’s reliant on you to make the first move, the second, the third, as you take in each other’s lips from all angles. Until the moment clicks, and from there you slide together doubtlessly, warmed by the moment and sweetened by the wine as quick stuttered breaths pass between.

Asra’s hands slide from his lap to your jaw, stilling your frenzied movements as he takes your lips with more firmness, holding to their seal. His other hand smooths down the column of your spine, curving delicately around the notches of your vertebrae. You are aware, more acutely than ever now, that there is but a single layer of your tunic separating skin from skin. You can still feel him, the heat spreading from his fingertips to be absorbed by you, and you can’t stop thinking about what heat would come from Asra touching you directly. You draw back from the kiss with a shudder, feeling the hot clouds of his breath against your neck.

“Was that … acceptable?” He asks after a pause, his hands hovering over their previous caresses. He’s breathed hard, and there’s a wary hitch to his tone, as though he’s expecting you to push him away, waking him from a dream.

There are no words for this moment. So in response, you wind your fingers into his snowy curls to slant his mouth across yours once more. After a moment’s hesitation you allow your tongue to drag across his lower lip, soon to be met with his own, searching, wanting. A moan escapes you before you can think to stop it.

Asra shifts beside you, reclining against the pillows and drawing you flush against him. “Do that again.” He mutters hoarsely, trailing kisses along the column of your throat, as if to drink up the sounds that arise from it. “I’ve been terrified that I’d forget the sound of your voice. But I can’t forget. I won’t.” It isn’t difficult to elicit more noises; his lips pass over your neck with clear intent. He noses the loose collar of your tunic to plant open mouthed kisses on the exposed skin above your breasts.

The storm continues to rage in an encroaching smoulder, pushing against the window panes with force, punctuating each drop of rain that drilled into the outside walls. Thunder crackles in the distance as intermittent bolts of lightning illuminate the room, Asra’s eyes, the glint of your teeth, for but one second at a time. Asra draws back slightly, curling his hands on the bed frame above your head, boxing in the space where exists only the two of you. A perfect paradise, close enough to touch, close enough to kiss.  

“I love you as the rain falls. Ceaselessly.” He breathes, wistful yet unwavering, locking eyes with your own.

You duck your head to hide the flaming scarlet creeping into your cheeks, burying your face into his chest. His clothes are still damp, the skin beneath burning against the chill that clings to the garment. Feverish. You’re feeling flushed yourself, but the heat emanating from him sends off sirens though the heady fog in your mind. “You should take these off.” You murmur, and hear his breath catch in reply.

Your words only seem to catch up to you after he’s pulled off his tunic, revealing the tanned planes of his abdomen, rising and falling with his deepened breaths. “S-so they can dry. Here, cover yourself with this.” You supply, pulling a sheet from the heap of multicolored blankets surrounding you, scrambling to your feet and focusing on the curled woodgrain of the bedroom doors as the shifting sounds of his undressing fight for your forefront attention.

“Here,” He says behind you, placing the bundle of clothes in your waiting arms. He's draped the sheet over himself like a toga. His dove white hair completes the picture. Aside from a head dress of golden laurels, he’s the picture of a god. And he wants me, you think, raising a hand to your lips. He seems to read your thoughts as a smirk curls the corners of his mouth, taking a step back as he settles against the cushions, allowing the sheet to drop from his chest, exposing his abdomen up to the dip of his hipbones. If there weren’t a pile of soaked clothes in your hands to ground you to the moment, the world could have fallen away just then.

Stuttering down the staircase into the kitchen, you set his clothes by the fire to dry. Turning around, your gaze falls on the table where the two of you sat earlier in the evening. It’s a striking image, the two glasses sitting across from each other in intimate conversation. You had gotten used to dining alone.

You can’t help but wonder if he means it, when he said he was going to stay.

Your footsteps are much more careful heading back up the stairs, though the cloud of wine lingers less now. Back in your bedroom, Asra’s splayed across the bed, chest rising softly in sleep as his eyelashes dust the crest of his cheekbones. You sink into the space behind him and raise your hand to stroke the damp tendrils of hair from his forehead.

“‘m not asleep,” He mumbles, turning over on his side to gather you in his arms, blinking his eyes open. He regards you for a moment before raising his head to kiss the hollow of your throat, working upwards towards your lips. This kiss is slower than before, sinuous and lovely.

Asra draws away with a soft groan. “That was-”

“Enough for tonight, I think.” You whisper back.

He pulls away, sliding his fingertips along your jaw to turn your face towards him, out of the shadows. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m afraid I’ll forget this.” You confess, making a fist in the sheet covering his chest. The fabric remains wrinkled when he picks up your hand and twines your fingers together. A mournful look crosses his face, a pang that remembers the past.

“I will make you remember.” He promises, pressing a light kiss to the back of your hand.

“How?” You say, tightening your hand around his.

“I told you,” He whispers back hotly, bringing your forehead to rest against his own. His eyes hold fire. It’s not raining outside anymore. “I’m not going anywhere.”

[thetwomeatmeal]

If you’ve ever seen Vietnamese writing around and wondered how to pronounce it, here’s my quick and dirty guide.

These are tones:

ma, mà, mã, mả, má, mạ.

In order, medium-pitch level, low falling, high falling-then-rising with a bit of a glottal stop in the middle, low falling-then-rising, high rising, low and clipped. In the southern dialect, mã sounds the same as mả. I’ll point you to Annie if you want to know more.

These are different vowels:

a, ă, â; e, ê; i; o, ô, ơ; u, ư; y.

Confusingly, ô and ê make the IPA /o/ and /e/ sounds, while o and e are respectively /ɔ/ (the vowel in RP “bought”) and /ɛ ~ æ/ (the vowel in “cat”). a, i, and u are what you’d expect, and y sounds like i. ơ is the vowel /ʌ/ in “but”. ư is a high, mid-back, unrounded vowel -- say a /u/ without rounding your lips. ă and â are respectively short versions of a and ơ.

This: đ makes a d sound. This: d makes a z sound if you’re from the north, or a /j/ (the sound at the beginning of “yet”) if you’re from the south.

Gi sounds the same as the Vietnamese d. If you want to put a g sound at the beginning of the word whose vowel starts with i, you need to write gh.

This: x makes an s sound. This: s is a retroflex s -- make an r shape with your tongue, then say s.

Th is an aspirated t -- otherwise, initial voiceless stops are unaspirated. Ph is an f sound. Kh is /x/ -- the sound at the end of Scottish “loch” or German “Bach”.

Ng and nh are both nasals -- the velar nasal in the middle of “singing”, and the palatal nasal in the middle of “canyon”. Unlike in English, they can occur at the beginnings of words.

Also, Vietnamese is usually written with spaces between the syllables. However, this doesn’t mean that words are one syllable long -- in fact, most nouns are two syllables long, with the stress falling on the second syllable.

There’s more to it, but if you follow your intuitions from this point, you won’t be far off. You can thank a sixteenth-century Portuguese Jesuit just doing what felt right.

Here are some Vietnamese names and words you might’ve heard before: phở, bánh mì, Việt Nam, Saì Gòn, Hà Nội, Hồ Chí Minh, Ngô Đình Diệm, Thích Quảng Đức, Nguyễn Xuân Phúc (the current Prime Minister).

[loveinthebones]

can’t you see i’m falling apart, love (want to fall together?)

Word Count: ~7,247 (I actually don’t know since I’m getting a different number on my document. Weird.)

Chapter Summary: He was not expecting the florist with the tricolored eyes but he can't say that he's not taken with him.

Read it on AO3

Check out the art and the artist for this!

Also our lovely beta.

Part Two: Anger (Dan)

“Oh my god.” The high-pitched cadence of disgust made him stir, curling into a curved ‘C’ against the warmth radiating from his right side. “Dan. Your breath reeks.” There were feather-light touches fluttering across the top of his head and he turned his head to trap the hand under his cheek.

“Wha’ time ‘s it?” Dan’s words slurred as his still foggy brain fought against the weight of grogginess threatening to drag him under, but he forced his body to uncurl. “Ruthie?”

“It’s only six-thirty in the morning,” Ruth answered with a suppressed giggle, burying her face into the juncture between his shoulder and neck. “You still have time to sleep, babe.” The mint of her toothpaste and the light, airy perfume she wore wafted around him and Dan grabbed her gently to nuzzle her cheek aggressively as she squealed.

“Dan! I have an audition!” She admonished, but she made no move to pull away from his embrace. “We all can’t sleep until noon, Mr. YouTuber.” Dan merely snuffled exaggeratedly into her ear and grinned as she screeched, wiggling finally.

“Hey, hey,” Dan teased, voice deep and gravelly. “We can’t all be adorable turnips. I can’t rely on my good looks.”

“Of course not,” Ruth parried easily, and he could practically see the circular motion of her eyes, still hidden in her preferred spot. “You got there on talent and not these--” She pulled away to poke at where his cheek caved in, making him smile wider, and deepening his dimple as if to prove her point. “Absolutely adorable-- just- fuck your dimples.”

Dan shook his head before giving Ruth a small peck on her lips, brushing away choppy bright ginger locks from her cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, but you’re going to make me late!” Ruth grumbled good naturedly, leaning forward to brush her lips against his in a series of playful, quick pecks. “You can go back to bed but don’t forget Peej needed you for something today.”

Dan hummed in agreement, eyes already heavy and sliding shut but he made sure to murmur:

“I love you.”

“I love you,” Ruth echoed as he felt the bed shift and heard the muted thumps of footsteps across the carpet. “Don’t get into too much trouble.”

-

The next time Dan was pulled from dreamland was infinitely less pleasant.

He squished his face into his black-and-grey checkered pillow forcefully, determinedly ignoring the shrill, incessant loud notes of his mobile’s ringtone. He willed his brain to cling to the fuzzy haziness of sleep as their bedroom went blissfully silent, shifting to cradle his pillow between his arms since he was on his stomach.

That’s better.

He had stayed up until four a.m. attempting to film a video. He had drug the tripod to the office (nearly breaking the domed hallway light in the process) and sat to fiddle with the camera listlessly, fumbling over the miniature screen that showed himself. He had done numerous takes but the script hadn’t been flowing as well as he hoped- and he kept his volume as quiet as possible since Ruth had gone to bed early to be rested for her audition.

Dan should remember to get the foam tiles for the wall…

He jolted as his phone rang again before grabbing it to wedge it between his ear and the fluff of his pillow reluctantly.

“Hello?” Dan hissed, words muffled and distorted but still tinged with his annoyance.

“Hey!” PJ’s greeting was playful and warm with affection, but Dan squinted as there was also a hint of mischief hidden in the single phrase. “Get up!”

“I hate you,” Dan said simply before flopping onto his back, blinking to rid his eyelids of the gritty feeling that was making his nerves frazzle before he had even set foot out of bed. “Why am I getting up?” Even as he whined slightly, he swung his legs so he could stand, rolling his neck carefully so he didn’t accidentally disconnect the call.

“Dan, you’re the one who pleaded with me to help you,” PJ reminded him, and Dan could hear the vocal eyeroll as his friend continued, “As a matter of fact, your exact words were--”

“I am shit at romance,” Dan deadpanned, raising his eyes to the ceiling and letting his eyes take in the blank expanse of white for a bit before his shoulders slumped. “I really am, Peej and I want…”

“So you are going to propose, then?” PJ pried lightly and Dan heard the scratch of the phone being shuffled before a whoosh of breath crashed through the receiver.

“I…” Dan sighed, letting his eyes drift away from the ceiling finally, as he sat on the edge of his mattress. He didn’t know how to even begin to explain what was going through his mind as it was a jumble of different tendrils of thoughts twisting and tangling with each other- some realistic and cautious and others hopeful and bright and still others that were better left in the recesses of his consciousness. “I mean- we have only been together a year but we just- click, Peej. We are able to exist together and move around each other without it feeling like it is hindering our own activities. Ruth is so lovely…” Dan trailed off, his lips turned up in the corners before they fell. “And I’m not getting any younger.”

“You’re only twenty-two, Dan,” PJ assured him, and Dan felt a pang of gratitude for the man on the other end of the phone call. “I’d hardly call that old.”

“I’m almost a quarter way to death,” Dan joked, running a hand through the fringe that had been pushed off his forehead and wincing as his fingers snagged in the slight curls.

“That reminds me!” PJ gasped and Dan raised an eyebrow.

What could his morbid joke have jogged in his friend’s brain that had him sounding like a mix between an excited puppy and an older sibling scolding their younger counterpart?

“I heard there was a convention? In the States?” PJ was guessing- Dan could tell by the slight drag of the vowels on the last words of each statement- but it didn’t deter him from hitting Dan with two more questions that left him a bit off-kilter. “Why didn’t you go? Isn’t it a big deal?”

“Er…”

So eloquent.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go but he also hadn’t been inclined to go either. It was always a rush to meet his subscribers and place faces with the more positive comments on his videos but sometimes…

Sometimes, he rubbed them the wrong way in person. Playfully biting and jabbing teases flowed from his lips easily and while most would merely laugh or (if they were quick on their feet) fire a light jab back... some would curl into themselves and not say a thing, which would leave him fumbling awkwardly with their phone or stuttering out apologies.  

Some would stare at him blankly.

That was worse.

Not to mention…

“Where’s Ruth?”

“Is she okay?”

“Are you guys still together?”

“You’re thinking of VidCon,” Dan corrected absentmindedly before filling his lungs with a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “I didn’t go because...well…”

Ruth was resting on her side, chest rising and falling rapidly as she watched him with half-lidded eyes. Sweat was shining on her skin and Dan’s fingers slid through the moisture at the small of her back.

“You should really tie the condom. It’ll leak and we really don’t want to find a laundromat.”

Dan grunted in acknowledgement, tracing spirals contentedly as he watched the way Ruth’s eyelashes fluttered in the soft lamplight and the way she nudged his hip lazily.

“Or sleep in cum.”

Dan was still watching her face- the way her azure eyes roamed his face, lips quirked up in the little permanent half-smile she wore even when it was just them, and the freckles spread across her nose- so he jumped as he felt her hands on him again, taking off the latex shield as gently as she could manage.

A zap went through his chest as he watched her tie the knot and get up on shaky legs to throw away the barrier.

He loves her. Holy fuck.

“Make a video with me.” His brain had disconnected from his mouth and the words were out before he could call them back, but Ruth peered over her shoulder, hair wild and untamed, and eyes so, so soft. He could barely breathe as they flashed with a brightness that he had come to recognize, and even as the flippant tone met his ears, he was still gasping for what little oxygen he could get.

“A sex tape? Not a chance. But-” Ruth was blinding as she faced him, open. “I’ll make a vlog with you, sure.”

“I wanted to wait until I could bring Ruth,” Dan confessed, scrunching his toes in the carpet and letting the heat rise to his cheeks without a fuss. “We’ve been making videos and the fans are curious. Ruth doesn’t mind sharing but…”

“I get it,” PJ affirmed genuinely but with a note of inattentiveness. Dan thought that Peej was picturing Sophie, and it was cemented as PJ lowered the volume of his voice so that Dan could barely hear. “Soph hasn’t been on one of my sets yet but we’ve been talking. It’s a big step. Sharing your relationship with the world.”

“Yeah.”

Both of them drifted into silence, and Dan was picturing Ruth with her legs crossed, sitting on a sinking couch cushion on a stage, or Ruth opening her arms to hug fans or the sometimes fleeting look she got when a comment didn’t quite rub her the right way and Dan couldn’t help but wonder if they should be sharing the little they did.

“But, seriously,” PJ was talking again, and his inflection rose with his previous joviality and trouble-making undertone. “Get up. This florist has amazing flowers and don’t get Ruth geraniums!”

“Why not?!” Dan yelped, crossing his arms across his chest with a scowl. “They are pretty!”

“You’re basically calling Ruth stupid,” PJ snickered, and Dan let his arms fall to his sides as his mouth dropped.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. You need to meet this guy. He seems like he could really help you.”

-

“This is a horrible idea,” Dan muttered as he followed a step behind PJ on the trail, fidgeting with the zip on the left shoulder of his shirt. “A stupid, terrible idea.”

“You still haven’t gotten used to being recognized,” PJ sounded tired. He leaned his neck to one side before rolling it to the other. He rammed his palm into Dan’s upper arm, watching as the other stumbled, before shaking his head slowly. “It’ll get better.”

“If you say so.” Dan wasn’t entirely convinced but he let it go as the “It’s so yellow, Dan. It’s practically neon!” van came into view and raised an eyebrow at Peej, lips pressed together and gathered in one corner to say, “What gives?” without opening his mouth.

The van was, indeed, very bright, and the aqua screen cover had been pulled out. Dan had to admit that it was very...cute. There were various wooden shelves scattered about in close proximity to the van with a few carefully positioned tables but they were completely empty.

The only plant that Dan could spy was the long, slim leaves sticking out the window of the van and he rushed to press his hand to his mouth but it was too late. He brayed with laughter- raw, unbridled hiccuping hyena snorts- as he leaned forward, supporting himself on his knees.

PJ cast his eyes heavenward, fighting a smile as Dan lost his composure before running a hand through his hair.

“Are you done yet?”

“No!--I-” Dan was trying to pull air into his lungs but he couldn’t. “You said--and there’s no--I-”

“Oh! You came back.” A chirpy northern twang interrupted Dan’s unexpected laughing fit and he immediately sank his teeth into his bottom lip to quiet himself, flushing. He shoved against his knees to stand straighter, ruffling his fringe with a quick swipe of his fingers, keeping his gaze on his black shoes. The friendly voice continued, “PJ, right?”

“Yup!” PJ trilled, clapping Dan on the shoulder roughly. “This is my friend! He needs some flower advice but it seems like you aren’t open yet?”

What am I missing?

Dan blinked as he finally lifted his eyes to the other, and he was breathless once more but not from laughing too hard.

The man had his hip propped on the tail light of his van as his pink glove covered hands cradled the wide pot in his hands. His black fringe was pushed up from his forehead by a worn purple and gold sweatband, strands sticking out at awkward angles in some places.

Dan’s tongue seemed to take up too much room in his mouth as the man’s radioactive eyes settled on him a moment before he flashed a charming grin at PJ.

What did PJ say?!

Dan realized that he had no idea but he wasn’t too concerned, tracking the man’s movement as he ambled on unsteady legs to place the pot of different bright stalks of flowers on a light wood table, a sharp breath escaping him as he set it down with care.

“I just had a late start this morning.” The man with the startling eyes spoke, rubbing his hand across his cheek. Dan caught sight of the lace trimming along the cuffs of the gloves.

“Is that lace?” Dan wondered, realizing with a jolt that he had spoken aloud as the man flexed his wrist with an amused quirk of pale pink lips.

They look so smooth. I wonder if he uses lip balm regularly?

Stop it. Stop it.  

“Yes, it is actually,” He hummed, tugging on the dirt stained ruffles lightly. “My friend, Chris, bought it for me as a joke a while back.” Dan’s heart stuttered as the other’s lips pulled back and his tongue pressed between his teeth as he grinned. “He told me, ‘Phil! It’s just your color!’ and Louise almost had a fit because she loved them, and Aiden was just laughing like an idiot and…”

His name is Phil.

Dan watched as Phil’s hands moved as he rambled, taking note of the slightly glazed sheen over his eyes. PJ was listening as well, giggling quietly.

Phil seemed to come back to himself and quieted immediately before clearing his throat in apparent embarrassment.

“Sorry,” He apologized, and Dan frowned at the lower, subdued cadence that was reaching his ears. “I got a bit carried away.” Phil kneeled to nudge a lopsided flower stalk to encourage it to sit a bit more center before patting the blooms with a single finger. “Long story short, I wear them to spite him. It works.”

Phil smiled again but his eyes seemed...lackluster and lost.

Dan didn’t like it.

“As long as he knows he’s a right twat,” Dan intoned, stuffing his hands in his pockets with a tiny shrug.

“Dan!” PJ groaned, placing his whole hand over his face.

Dan wasn’t paying attention to his friend but to Phil whose eyes had widened, and he nibbled his lip uncertainly. The slight knot in his chest eased as Phil’s eyes twinkled.

Better.

Dan didn’t want to even begin to consider the thoughts that were crossing his mind so he just let them come and drift away.

“He does. Believe me.” Phil squinted at Dan, studying his face with a warm but critical eye. Dan met his stare without flinching, even as his heartbeat started to flutter at being the center of Phil’s attention. “H...have we met before?”

Oh. I think I would remember meeting you, Mr. Pretty Eyes.

Dan tilted his head at the question, and felt PJ edge closer to his side.  

It had been like this since the two of them started gaining popularity in their separate spheres. Dan and PJ had made a late night pact after a particularly distressing encounter with some pushy fans that whenever they went out together, they would help each other escape from curious eyes if need be. It was a good system that had kept PJ sane when the constant attention became too much, and it had helped Dan when trying to film in his dorm at Uni when his friend came to visit.

“I don’t think so,” Dan answered honestly, shaking his head as a response to both Phil’s question and PJ’s silent precautionary advancement. “I don’t get out much.”

“Oh,” Phil sighed, raising his fingers to drum against his mouth. “You look familiar. I just thought I might have seen you somewhere.”

“You might have,” Dan conceded reluctantly, digging the toe of his shoe into the loose dirt as his heart jumped into his throat. He wasn’t sure if it was the stupid impulse to impress the man he had just met- Seriously, brain. What the hell?- or uncertainty that Phil was trying to play him that was fueling his next statement. “I mean...I make videos on the internet for a living--” Dan snapped his mouth shut and clenched his teeth together, cringing.

Oh my god.

He’s going to think I’m a fucking cam boy or something!

PJ’s jaw had dropped, mouth slightly agape. Dan sent a caustic glare toward his friend, mouthing, “You are no help!” to which PJ merely swept his hand out to the side.

“That didn’t come out the way I wanted,” Dan tacked on in a mumble, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Phil didn’t seem put out by his poor wording at all- no raised eyebrow, surprise jerk of any muscles, or scowl.

“Are you a YouTuber, then?”

“How did you--” Dan marveled, cutting himself off to nod. “Yes, I am.”

“Right,” Phil said more to himself and he raised his hands, palms out, at Dan’s arched eyebrow. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way! I just meant you’re pretty enough to be a YouTuber.” Phil’s cheeks immediately started to redden and he lowered his hands to turn back to his van.

The crinkles around Dan’s eyes softened as Phil took quick long loping strides away from him. PJ elbowed him in the side with barely contained impishness, even and glistening white teeth bared.

“Say anything, I will deck you,” Dan threatened in a whisper and PJ’s grin widened before he inclined his head in the direction of Phil.

“You are pretty, Daniel,” PJ singsonged in a near inaudible volume before he placed his hands on his hips. He kept his voice to its soundless pitch. “Seriously. It could be worse- he’s a handsome lad.”

Dan couldn’t deny that. Phil had swung his leg up to lean on his knee as he slid pots with different flowers away from him to angle himself over the short plants. His arse looked fabulous in his tight black skinny jeans and were his pants…

Don’t look!

Dan’s face was on fire as he snapped his attention back to Peej.

He was taken by surprise when PJ flung his arm around his neck to drag him into a loose headlock, cackling. Phil peered over his shoulder for a moment at the two of them before he returned with a pot of geraniums cradled against his chest and a yellow legal pad in his right hand.

“If I remember correctly,” Phil set the container down on the table beside the only pot he had managed to set up, tossing the pad carelessly on the table. “You were looking at the geraniums, yeah?”

“Yeah,” PJ managed, shaking with the effort to keep his bubbling mirth under control. “It was Dan’s idea but when I heard the meaning…”

Dan shrugged PJ’s arm off peevishly as his eyes shot daggers at his friend. “They are pretty!”

“They are.” Phil reached out to Dan before seeming to think better of it, popping out a knee so he was leaning slightly to the left, as he brought his hand back to pet the geraniums on the table between them. “In the Victorian Era, though, they meant stupidity. There are other meanings but that is the most common that is still accepted today.”

“I didn’t know that.” Dan kept his reply as gentle as he could as Phil continued to caress the flowers like a doting owner would stroke their lazy cat who was lounging in the sunlight. “What would you recommend for a progressing relationship?”

“It depends. As in a transition from friends to lovers?”

“No. Just a step into deeper commitment.” Dan watched Phil’s eye drift upwards for a moment before pulling the paper he had brought with him earlier.

“Let’s try this…what’s your favorite color?” Phil asked, gazing up at Dan through his fringe.

“What? Why?” Dan blurted out in confusion and yelped as he staggered forward, planting his palms on the table’s edge from PJ’s shove.

“Let the man work his magic, Dan!”

Dan was about to retort when he realized that he was tipped forward into Phil’s space and that those eyes were raised to his, the darkness of his pupils seemingly larger. Dan’s words died in his throat, taking in the sunlight reflecting in slight blue streaks of Phil’s hair and how his pale skin was flushed lightly. How his eyes seemed to be a supernova- tendrils of yellow lightning snaking through the blue and flecks of green scattered in the space- and…

You’re being horribly poetic.

“You look pretty enough to be a faerie,” Dan pointed out softly, fingers releasing the edge he had started gripping for dear life (when did that happen?) to curl under his palms. Phil blinked harshly at his words while Dan leaned back, straightening his spine. “I mean…” Dan crossed his arms across his chest tightly.

Stupid, stupid, stupid...

“An elf.” Phil’s words were light and Dan caught sight of the twitching corners of his mouth as he focused on his paper, scratching the nub of his pen in an idle pattern as he spoke. “If you must associate me with something that is tied to plants, then I’m an elf.” Phil looked up then to pin him with a small secretive simper and Dan took a step back reflexively. “Because reasons.”

“...What even is this conversation?” Dan breathed, rubbing his sweaty palm on his jeans without a thought as a high, shaky laugh escaped his lips.

“I was wondering the same thing…” PJ’s eyes skimmed over Dan and then Phil, raising his thumb and pointer finger to curl around his chin with a thoughtful hum.

Dan shuffled further away from the florist. Phil bowed his head over the papers, reaching to push his fringe up slightly. His fingers brushed the headband.

“You didn’t answer my question.” Phil remarked quietly. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Oh, um, I don’t really have one favorite?”

It was true. He liked a couple of different colors despite Ruth’s insisting that black was his favorite because it spanned most of his wardrobe. There was something about the brightness of white that drew him...the cleanness of a hue that seemed unblemished, something to be filled with whatever you chose but warm earthy tones reminded him of fall and sinking into large sweaters without worrying about what other onlookers would think and being able to bundle his always chilly fingers.

“That’s okay,” Phil’s words broke through his reverie. “You can say more than one.”

Gold was striking to him and it wasn’t helping that Phil’s eyes had a bit mixed in that flashed brightly when the sunlight was at this angle. Purple was lovely and reminded him of Ruth, of the three month period that there was bright orchid along the last three inches of her hair and all over the tiles of the shower.

(There were still stains but they had faded.)

Dan didn’t realize he was smiling as he began listing: “White, gold, earthy colors...and purple. Purple is cool.”

Phil’s pen stopped moving and he tapped the list with his pointer finger. “I can work with this list. If you want to come back in a couple of hours, I’ll have a bouquet. Or tomorrow, if that fits your schedule better…” Phil trailed off before he carried on in a more polite tone. “Sir.”

“Dan. I’m Dan,” Dan immediately corrected with a relaxed smile. “We’ve called each other pretty. I think you can call me by my first name.”

“Phil.” Phil extended his hand and Dan took it, feeling a tiny current tingling along his skin. Phil tilted his head with a small smile. “Nice to meet you.”

-

“Dan!” Ruth dropped her large gray purse on the ground as she walked through their door, making a beeline for him and flinging herself into his arms. Dan flinched before laying his arms across her back, pulling her to him tightly, and curling his six-foot three frame around her much smaller five foot four body.

Ruth nudged his knees with her hip to situate herself more comfortably between them, bringing both her hands to card through his hair.

“How was your audition, babe?” Dan asked, raising his chin from where it had settled on the top of Ruth’s head. He noticed the way her lipstick had travelled slightly upwards, just a bit above the top of her heart-shaped lips and brought a hand to cradle her cheek. “That bad, huh?”

“Yeah…” Ruth sighed, exposing the lipstick that clung to the bottom of her front two teeth.

So, she had been biting her lip.

Dan pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Their loss. They missed out on an acting genius.”

Ruth didn’t say a word, still stroking his hair, before she broke into an immense euphoric grin. Dan couldn’t help the way his mouth parted slightly as he furrowed his brows in confusion.

“What?”

“They didn’t.” Ruth tightened her hold on the strands in her grasp gently.

“They didn’t...what?”

“They didn’t lose an acting genius…”

The words registered in his sluggish mind before his own lips stretched into a smile, letting his arms fall lower, encircling Ruth’s waist.

“Oh?” He feigned cluelessness, playing along. She hadn’t been biting her lip as a show of her anxiety then but because she was terrible at not blurting out news as soon as she walked in the door.

“Because they liked me so much that I’m getting a minor role! In multiple episodes!” Ruth exploded happily, muscles twitching with excitement. She squirmed as he sprang from the armchair to swing her upwards.

“Daniel!” Ruth shrieked as the points of her heels dangled above the carpet. “You need to be careful or--”

The carpet beneath his feet seemed to sway. He watched the walls jerk to the side and heard his girlfriend cry out before he was pressed against the soft springiness of the carpet, groaning. He couldn’t breathe so he wrenched his head to the side, closing his eyes.

There was only darkness in his vision but he could still feel the world spinning under him.

Ruth toed off her heels from where she had been dropped before crawling over to Dan, rubbing a palm between his shoulder blades slowly.

“You got up too fast.” The words were familiar on Ruth’s tongue and dripping with fondness as she scooted even closer on her bum, crossing her legs. “Do you want to lay your head on my lap or are you still dizzy?”

“Dizzy.” Dan puffed and adding: “I feel like a fucking logged tree.”

“Yay Orthostatic Hypotension.” Ruth chimed in with a perky sardonic lilt. She had ceased the sliding motion of her hand but her fingers tapped a random pattern in the space between Dan’s scapulas. “How long have you been in the chair?”

Dan grunted in response. Ruth took it as the “I lost track of time.” it most likely meant and giggled.

“You jumped when I hugged you. You looked like you were thinking…” Dan focused on the gentle pitter patter against his skin as she spoke, forcing himself to inhale slowly through his nose. He choked on his own spit as she continued: “You’re not having another crisis, are you? Should I be worried?”

Dan wasn’t sure how to respond. He didn’t want to say, “Yes.”  because this wasn’t his normal spiralling into a series of questions concerning the value of his life in the grand scheme of the eternal timeline of humanity that turned into questioning whether humankind was important at all. This wasn’t him pacing restlessly at an odd hour. This wasn’t him climbing into bed to clutch at a sleep-warmed Ruth, breathing in stuttering heaves.

This was something else entirely but it was a something that wouldn’t let the word, “No.” spill from his vocal cords.

This was sitting in silence, beside himself and analyzing his reactions. This was picturing Phil’s tricolored eyes and feeling phantom fingers skimming along his spine that made him shiver. This was feeling the tickle of butterfly wings in his tummy and they were angry. This was seeing Phil’s pupils open as he looked at him and catching a flash of something before a dark weight of something melancholy overpowered it.

It was hearing PJ’s disbelieving but cautious tone.

“If I didn’t know you, Dan, I would think you have a crush.”

Dan hadn’t said a word to his friend but after sitting down for a while to think about what this was, he came to a startling conclusion.

He was attracted to Phil.

Dan opened his eyes, turning on his side to make sure that the room was stationary before swinging his body so he could lay his head in Ruth’s lap. She peered at him with a tenderness that had his chest clenching and he reached up to hold both of her cheeks between his hands. Her hair tickled him but he didn’t mind, relaxing at the unconcealed affection.

“I met a boy today,” He murmured and the devilishness that never fully left her lips quirked the corners higher. “While I was out with Peej.”

“Yeah?” She hummed, leaning down so she was invading his space even more. “He must be special if you’re telling me. Is he a subscriber?”

“I don’t think so,” Dan mused, thumbs starting to drag in small circles over the freckles splashed under them. “He’s seen my videos, though.”

“So what’s with this boy then? It is not everyday that Daniel Howell ventures out and meets someone!”

Dan had to laugh at that. His breath crashed through his nose, causing him to snort obnoxiously. His hands fell from Ruth’s cheeks as she joined in his laughter.

“I meet people!” Dan tried as he wheezed. At Ruth’s lifted brow, he squeaked. “Occasionally!”

“Conceded.” Ruth nodded, swooping down to brush her lips against his. She pulled back slightly. “So you met this boy who has watched your videos and?”

“His name is Phil,” Dan supplied, licking his lips and tasting the waxy tartness of the lipstick left behind. “I don’t know, Ruthie. Sometimes you meet someone and they are just…” His hands lifted to rotate through the air as he searched for a suitable word. “Bright.”

“Phil has a nice aura, then.” Ruth pecked the tip of his nose and smirked when he wrinkled it.

“Yeah, but he just seems…” Dan reminisces the way Phil had reached to brush away his fringe, the way his eyes dimmed at times with a heavy fog. “Sad. Lost. I don’t know.”

“You sound taken with him.” Ruth straightened her spine, making a contented noise as it popped. She leaned her weight on her arms, letting herself recline. “Why not ask him to be your friend? It wouldn’t hurt. I mean…” She seemed to consider something, scraping her teeth against her bottom lip- leaving stripes of her natural pigment behind. “If you don’t think he’s trying to be your friend because of your videos.”

“He’s not,” Dan soothed confidently, clasping his fingers on his stomach. “He reminds me of you.” He confesses before continuing a rush: “Genuine. Open. Kind.”

Beautiful.

“Then be his friend! Visit him tomorrow after your meeting,” Ruth encouraged, jerking her knee upwards so he scoffed as his shoulder was lifted unexpectedly. “C’mon, Dan! You’re heavy! And we need to celebrate!”

“For you!” Dan agreed, making sure to smile as big as he could to make his dimple prominent as he stayed where he was lounging. Ruth was always cozy with heat and she had all the tension draining from him, leaving him a contented puddle.

“And you making a new friend! It’s a miracle!” Ruth teased before jamming her blunt fingernail into his cheek. “Uh uh. Don’t dimple at me, you knob. Off.”

Dan groaned as she uncrossed her legs and scooted away, letting his head crash against the carpet.

“What are we getting, you leprechaun?”

Ruth glowered at his words for a moment, digging her toes painfully into his side. “Don’t make me hurt you,” She warned before tapping him much softer with her big toe. “Pizza?”

-

His feet slid in the gravel as he trudged in the direction of Phil’s van.

His eyelids fluttered shut before snapping open even as he put one foot in front of the other. Dan threw his shoulders back, fussing lowly in muttered snippets only audible to himself. He should have gone to bed sooner but Ruthie had been adamant about getting his script in order because he had promised his viewers that he would have a video up by the end of the week...which meant that she had bounced on their bed as he sat with his back against the frame, reading it.

It wasn’t an unusual occurrence but paired with Peej waking him up at an earlier hour, his mind buzzing with his new found crush, and Ruth bubbling with unspent energy…

He wasn’t a fully functional human on this particular day- at all- and for whatever reason he had been seated next to Chris Kendall for the meeting. The guy was a character- quick witted, spunky, humorous- but there was an intensity to him that had Dan squirming in his seat.

Especially when it was directed at him.

“You’re danisnotonfire?” Chris turned to him, using the packet of papers they had received as a makeshift fan.

“I’m Dan. Yes,” Dan replied, shifting in the cushion he was sitting on as another YouTuber with bleached hair and rose tips frowned in their direction. “We’ve met before.”

“Yes, we have,” Chris agreed with a lascivious smirk. “You are a charmer. Gorgeous smile. Sexy face. Marketable.” Dan watched as he laid the papers on the table to roll them into a loose tube.

“Pardon?” Dan coughed.

“But-” Chris singsonged before pointing the cylinder at Dan. “I don’t know what to make of you, Dan.”

“What?”

“I don’t know what to make of you. You seem cool but are you really?”

“Er…” Dan was at a loss for words and Chris’ smile widened. An image of the Cheshire cat sprung to Dan’s mind and he drummed his fingers in a show of nerves.

“I’m harmless.” Chris giggled at the display as he leaned back. “Relax.”

There was a hint of something...defensive swimming in the light hearted words that made Dan’s shoulders rise even higher before (thankfully- Jesus fucking Christ) the meeting was resumed.

It was safe to say that he was worn out.

He blinked at the scene before him.

Flowers were everywhere. The tables that had been bare when he and Peej had come yesterday were jammed with pots and blooms in every shade of every coloration. The shelves held twisting vines and Dan caught sight of the flat, skinny leaves of the corn cane that had been peeking from the window. It slanted to the right comically and he couldn’t help but chuckle.

Phil was motioning towards a pot with white orchids dotted with magenta speckles, excitedly, as he talked with a girl with short and wispy pale pink hair. A camera was slung around her neck and she was focused on Phil, posture slack.

Dan ground his teeth at the quiet self-assuredness surrounding her and he quickened his pace.

She doesn’t even look bothered. How can she not be a mess in front of Phil?

The girl adjusted her glasses as she smiled at Phil sweetly. Dan’s jaw clenched even tighter as she spoke,

“You’re very sweet. It just looks like a pile of cotton candy on my head.” She motioned to her hair for emphasis and Dan watched Phil giggle, teeth squeezing his tongue.

“No!” Phil disagreed amicably, shaking his head before he clapped his hands together. “Ah! I have an idea. One moment, please.” Phil zoomed towards a wooden shelf to his right, fingers dancing over the pots, bouncing on his tiptoes.

Dan couldn’t help but let out an amused breath as discreetly as possible but it stopped dead when Phil turned around with a single orchid in his hand. He was making his way back to the girl.

The girl who had the lovely pink hair.

Dan pressed his lips into a thin line as Phil handed the flower to her and motioned to put it behind her ear. She eyed Phil with a bit of uncertainty but obliged, giggling lowly as she slid the delicate stem behind her ear.

Phil was positively luminescent with satisfaction- shallow lines around his eyes deepening, that damn tongue trapped where it had been every time Dan saw him smile, and a liveliness twinkling in his eyes.

“See- it almost matches your hair!” Phil told the girl before pursing his lips, bringing his fist under his chin. “Your hair does look like cotton candy, though. Very delicious.”

WHAT. Did he just…

“Hello!” Dan broke in, keeping his steps at a leisured pace as he came to stand beside the girl. “How’s it going, Phil?” He flicked his wrist in a brisk wave before he gave a brief, slightly exasperated laugh.

“I’m just talking with Kate.” Phil nodded toward the girl he had come to stand beside. “She comes by every once in awhile after her photography course.”

That explains the camera.

Dan knew that he really shouldn’t be feeling as riled as he did. He carried a camera with him, now and again, when he decided to film a rare vlog but he couldn’t help the accusatory flick of his eyes toward the equipment before he met Kate’s shocked gaze.

“I knew Louise came here sometimes but,” Kate ran her nails over the camera lens as she gaped at Phil. “I didn’t know you knew Dan Howell! Do you know everybody?” The question was light hearted and Dan had to admit that he was taken aback by not being ambushed by someone who recognized him.

“Maybe I do.” Phil concurred before he chuckled. “I don’t, not really. It does seem like I am a magnet for YouTubers!” He wiggled his brows at Kate who laughed before he stood a bit straighter. “I have an idea! You needed a photo for your project, right? Something about intentional photo mistakes?”

“Yeah.” Kate drug out the word as she rocked on the balls of her feet with a slight frown.

“It’s just a shot or two?” Phil fished and Dan adjusted his own feet as he was suddenly pinned under those glittering eyes.

“Yes?” Kate’s answer sounded more like a question. Phil’s lips stretched even wider.

“Dan!” Phil clapped and Dan jumped.

“What?”

“Will you help Kate with her project?” Phil dipped his head to gaze at Dan from beneath his dark hair and…

He couldn’t be responsible for his actions when he was faced with that.

It’s only two photos, right? I’ll be fine. I take pictures with subscribers regularly. It’s no different.

Then, Phil turned to Kate and winked. Dan took in a sharp breath before flipping his fringe out of his eyes, putting on a small polite smile.

“I can’t.” Dan’s words were contrite and gentle as he shook his head. “I was actually on my way to a meeting.”

He caught the way Phil’s eyes narrowed but the florist didn’t say anything. Kate dropped the camera so it dangled from the strap with a quiet breath.

“That’s okay.” She flicked a piece of her hair away from her face before she bit her lip. “Can I have a hug?”

“Absolutely,” Dan responded, opening his arms. Kate shuffled towards him and he gave her a friendly squeeze, resting his chin on her head. “I’m sure you’ll do fine on your project,” He promised sincerely before he released her. “Have a good day. I have to be off.”

“Thank you,” Kate murmured and he gave her his signature two finger salute before nodding at Phil.

“I’ll stop by again sometime, Phil.”

He turned toward the trail and strolled away with a repressed sigh.

“Jealousy will be your downfall one day, Dan.” Ruth’s partly delighted, slight exasperated quip entered his thoughts, and Dan laughed to himself, pushing his hair up into a quiff before flattening it once more.

I’m not jealous.

Yeah. Right. You just sat through a meeting and now you’re off to another imaginary one.

At least, I can take a nap now.

“Dan!” Phil’s high yell broke through his inner monologue and Dan stopped, turning to see Phil making his way toward him with a single red flower with a darkened center. “Wait!”

A disbelieving laugh escaped Dan, and he caught sight of Phil’s pleased expression, lips twitching.

“Here.” Phil held out his little tag along to Dan who took it from him, fingers brushing against pale and smooth skin.

“What’s this?” Dan questioned, turning the flower in his grasp with deliberate care.

“A petunia.”

“Why are you giving it to me?”

Phil paused for a moment and Dan felt the air saturate with that dense sadness that Phil had lurking around him at times.

“I promised you a bouquet,” Phil started, pinching the hem of his shirt between his fingers as he caught and held Dan’s eye. “But, since you’re leaving... I figured a petunia would do- for now.”

“I can just get your number,” Dan pointed out brashly before the telltale rose hue of his embarrassment stained his cheeks. “It would let me know when you had it ready…”

“Or you could just come back since the YouTube meeting was held earlier,” Phil mused with sass sprinkled through the words before he sniggered. “Of course. That means you’ll have to tell Kate that you’re a dirty liar, Daniel.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Dan deflected, clearing his throat as his voice squeaked in the middle of his statement.

“Sure you don’t,” Phil drawled before he spun to face his van. Dan’s fingers tightened slightly around his petunia as the other started to wander away. Phil stopped once more to shoot over his shoulder.

“And I don’t know my number.”

Dan must have been quite a sight- holding his petunia away from his body while he was doubled over, howling with laughter. He could feel his eyes stinging with tears and was almost one hundred percent sure his cheeks were crimson but he couldn’t bring himself to care in that moment.

Phil was a cheeky little shit and Dan couldn’t deny that he was delighted.

(And perhaps more than a little fucked but he would ignore that little tidbit for now.)

-

Previous Part: Denial / Next Part: Anger, second act

[owls-whimsical-city]

Yellow Robes

What happens when someone substitutes his or her lost alchemic ichor with abyssal essence? What effect would it have them? Or perhaps deamonic power is simply for the desperate and daring? Sometimes taking a walk on the dark side unearths secrets the old generation hid.

In a canyon of blue flowers lit by a pale red and purple sky were the signs of sustained conflict, earth thrown about and vegetation uprooted. Two figures stood opposite of each other, one of pale skin and dark glowing eyes and the other a tanned, green eyed Valkyrie shrouded in gold light. Both bore the marks of bloody injuries, and both were heaving quite visibly. Raising her sword, the Valkyrie screamed “Calamity lord Singe! I will kill you here and end your descent into corruption!” In response, a cold, calm and tired voice retorts, tone matter of fact “Heh, would you look at that, another fool sent to their death. The flowers will be your grave here.” The calamity lord raised his pale blue great sword and clashed with the Valkyrie’s gold illuminated long sword and buckler, sparks flying in all directions burning anything in their path.

To a time before the title of calamity lord, Singe was a student at the Bliss Arcanium University. There he led a pretty normal life pursing his theoretical degree in a five-year program. Coming up the steps to the main building, two males dressed casual clothing walked up the steps. “Hey, will you be coming to the club meeting tonight? I think May got a new book again.” In a neutral voice, he responded back “Is that so… sigh… alright, I will come by later tonight.” The other male added, “I can’t stay for long though.” when they reached the top stairs. The two parted ways. For the winter semester Singe had taken advanced mathematics, ichor theory and arcanium brewing. He was majoring in arcana theory and minoring in alchemy. It was the middle of the semester, and the midterm for all three courses had been administered early in the fall, and thus there was a little cool down right now. Of course, many would say that it was foolish to take both advanced mathematics and ichor theory at the same time due to the amount of work required.

 When morning courses were over the two met again for lunch, along with two other friends. Walking up to Singe Markoff and Lixen Ziker was Ellie Walker and May Weatherford. “Hey guys, are you looking forward to tonight’s club gathering? I just got a new book and guess what, it’s written in the Crelick language.” In response, Ellie retorted back with an “I hope you can read that May.” Out of nowhere, Lixen started to complain with “Damn, I hate having magic theory in the morning. They always make you summarize at least three chapters a week for reading.” This time it was May’s turn to speak, “What, you can’t handle three chapters?” “Not when it’s three chapters from Arcana Theory: Elements & Faith, Magic Handling: Arcanium Shaping and Domain of Power: Chemistry & Magic. Do you know how much work that is Ellie? It’s a lot.” Ellie admonished him with her words in a playful tone, “Sheesh, quit complaining already.”

 Finally it was the last course of the day for everyone. Ellie was the first out, next Lixen and Singe, followed by May. Ellie would meet the three at the old weeping willow in front of the mixed sex dorms. When May finally arrived, she noticeably excited. “Great, everyone is here now. Now we can head off to our fun zone!” Her expression was that of unbridled excitement, almost like a child given a new toy. Both Ellie and Singe thought just from her face that she must have really wanted to dig into her new book tonight. May promised to meet up again and left to bring the book from her room while the others continued on to the underground section of the dorm, towards a hidden, unused room.

 The room must been really old and quite unused for some centuries because when Lixen and May first found it hidden beneath the dorm building, it was dusty with cobwebs and old, rotten wooden furniture filled the room. The air was musty with time, and any that was found in the room was rusted beyond repair. It took time, but the two cleared out the room and spruced up with a bookcase and various old and new texts and scrolls, with several shelves littered a wide variety of ritual materials in glass jars, plastic bottles and herbs bags. Lixen and May kept the room hidden, and one day Singe came across it by mistake due to following the two at night skulking off together. It didn’t long for him to find their little secret, and, while somewhat furious at first, Singe invited, followed by Ellie at a later date. The four became friends not long after.

 Singe, Lixen and Ellie arrived before May popped into the room. Her face was alight with curiosity. In her hand was a leather book, showing signs of age. “Huh, you sure that isn’t going turn to dust the moment we open it?~” Lixen teased her upon sighting the ragged book May had in her hand. “Now now, it’s fine. You don’t need worry your pretty little head.” May placed the text on the table. “Now, lets see the splendour of this text!” May and Ellie were the first to examine it. It was old, and state of the ink fading showed it. Fortunately, the written Crelick language was still readable, but the language itself wasn’t easy to understand either, as it shared characteristics with Latin and early Kufic script. Specifically, the placement of the vowels and lettering was of critical importance as it could have many meanings if not read correctly. After awhile, May and Ellie deciphered enough a section to read the chapter title and get a basic understanding of the text. The section roughly focused on spirits, fay, deamons and the like; spiritual entities for the most part. Several names were mentioned in the passages of the chapter, some of them were pronounceable, but others were not. It would take more time to decode those names. May finely settled on the name Razel the Guide. The name was accompanied by an image of a human figure with four wings and two sets of eight inch back sweeping horns. Most of the colour was faded, aside from a few patches of yellow pigment. “Ummm… May, will this take any longer? If so, I’m going to skip out on this night.” Singe was standing by the bookcase leafing through the various books. May merely responded in happy tone. “You’re staying silly because I have chosen Razel the Guide.” She walked over to the bookcase, and stood in front of Singe. “Besides, I promise it will be ffffuuuuunnnn~. So please Stay.” May had pleading facial expression. Singe eventually gave in with a weak nod of the head.

 Now, the first step to protecting yourself was to ensure that you received no backlash effect if the spell was unstable. Spells had a chance of becoming unstable due to improper mixing of energy and alchemic ichor. It was especially so with summoning rituals. Sulphur and blue chalk were required for the outer protection circle, aluminum and sand for the inner circle, and salt for the inner most details. The ritual reagents themselves were placed in six small brass bowls that were arranged around a six-pointed star. “Alright, does that cover everything for the reagents we need? May?” Taking a quick glance back at the book page, May said, “Yes… I think so.” “That sounds confident.” Lixen’s voice had a hint of sarcasm. “Oh, we also require crushed Wolfs Bane and Dead Sea salt. My bad.”

 With the all the components gathered, all four started to chant. The reagents were lit ablaze and the Crelick words were spoken aloud. Time passed… the chanting continued for a bit… and nothing. “What… that was… disappointing, nothing came out.” May’s emotions easily showed on her face, while Lixen was indifferent to the result and Ellie was stoic but determined to know why it failed. Singe was the only one who looked tired. “… All right, nothing showed up. I’m dead tired.” Singe headed towards the table. “We better start cleaning, unless you wish to fool around some more for whatever reason, May.” She had gotten over the disappointment. “ We’re keeping up the protection circles at least, just in case.” “Alright, then I will head out early. I will help out next time.” Lixen casually said, “Yeah, We can handle it.” After an exchange of goodnights, May, Ellie and Lixen stayed behind, while Singe to go sleep.

 On his way to his dorm, Singe felt like he was being watched. The air was slightly cold in the dorm hallway. A small ray of light spilled across the hall from an open door, lighting up only a narrow band of the darkness. From the looks of it, he hazarded that most people were either in their rooms or out. Those that were in their rooms were most likely sleeping, hopefully. There was one more flight of stairs to go before the fifth floor. Upon reaching his shared sleeping quarters, his roommate met him at the door. “Singe, that you?” “Yeah, it’s me Coleman. No need to be scared.” “Well then, get in and close the door already. It’s already 20:45, and it’s cold out here.” “Yeah, will do.” With that darkness returned to the hallway, like it never left.  After closing the door behind him, Singe commented on his roommate’s choice of sleepwear. “Hmm, you’re lucky I got used to you sleeping naked because I don’t anyone else would put up with you.” “Maybe you’re right. Glad I have you as my roommate then.”

 Singe was faced with a black desert with bright green monolithic structures rising out of the sand. The ocean was a shade of red akin to a cherry. The shadows seemed to shift in a haze to darker shades at random. Larger shadows moved on the horizon. In the distance was an approaching figure that wore an open black and yellow threaded robe with black pants. They would almost perfectly bend in if it weren’t for the yellow of the robe. The figure had four horns and wings, glowing blue eyes and pale white skin. “Hello Singe, you seem to be doing well. You haven’t got lost I see in this mess.” The figure spoke in a soft, hushed voice that was clear as day. “Wha… Who are you and where I’m I?” “Who am I?” The figure furrowed his brows, the blue pinpoint irises disappearing for a moment. “I’m Razel, and as for where you are, you’re dreaming. This is a very strange dream. Have you ever been here before?” Now that he mentioned it, it was a strange dreamscape. “Do you dream of alien structures and black deserts?” “… No, not really. Why?” “… Just curious.” Keeping his distance, Singe started speaking again, “So it worked… did we actually summon you Razel?” “No, you did.” “Me?” “Yes, you were the only one that looked interesting.” Razel’s form, while clearly defined, was almost plain if not for the horns and wings.

 At first the feeling was minor, like a faint itch. However, as the conversation went on, Singe started to notice said sensation much more strongly, a feeling of peacefulness and attraction? He was going to ask, but Razel interrupted him before he could say anything. “Ah, so you have finally noticed the affect.” “Wha… what affect?” “The feeling of calm, and maybe an attraction towards me?” The robed figure seemed like it was faintly smiling Singe’s realization, and it now spoke with a playful, kind voice. “Do you find it strange?” “Yes I do. I find it very strange. Ca… do you want to explain?” “When I touch the minds of humans, some are indifferent, but others aren’t. Of those few, even fewer are attracted to me, and I do like to sometimes indulge those feelings.” Without realizing it, the distance between two was shortened. Somehow Razel got closer seemingly without moving. With the increased closeness, the sensations only got stronger.

 Without saying a word, Razel reached out their left hand, caressing Singe’s Jaw lightly. The touch was faint but soft like his voice. Why didn’t he jump back in shock? Perhaps it was because their touch felt like fine silk, soft but electric. The sensation felt good, and soon Singe closed his eyes. “I see, so you do enjoy my touch. I thought so. Normally people would not allow me to get so close, nor touch them for that matter. Yet you have. Why is that?” While pondering the question of why, Razel stroking became stronger, rubbing Singe’s check with his thumb and caressing his hair the other fingers. “Is it perhaps that you enjoy my company and touch that much?” Their palm was now resting on their jaw. It felt so pleasant like he was melting. Before long, the conversation fell into silence, with Razel warping both of their arms around Singe and cuddling with him.

After awhile, Singe opened his eyes, realized that he got swept up with the soft, electric touch. He found his muscles fully relaxed under the care of Razel, who only giggled at it. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you. I won’t do anything unless you want me to do that is.” “Rea… really?” “Yes, I’m not forceful. For example, this must feel good.” The situation was still confusing, but the soft touch of Razel’s skin was very reassuring until their hand lightly brush Singes tented pants. A soft, low moan escaped his lips “Hmm, do you want to come with me since you’re so into this? I promise to bring you back if that is what you desire. How’s that?” Singe was like a cat enjoying it’s patting, especially when he murmured his approval. And with that darkness slowly crept inwards from the corner of his vision as Razel held him, all the while they lightly rubbed his dick though the tented fabric. Soon the inky blackness tinted everything.