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sleepylixie · 3 years

Text

3.1k words, Angst, Fluff (Romance), Non-idol AU

Kim Hongjoong X fem! Reader

Inspired by Love you Like Me- William Singe ( Playlist here )

Beware of Profanity, Heavy themes of infidelity, implied sexual activity

The studio was loud, bustling with murmurs and movement, lighting being fidgeted with and artists putting in the final touches to the simple, neutral toned set. A shiver traced down your back as you watched people walk this way and that, preparing everything to be perfect just in time, just before the cameras begin rolling and the star of the show settles in front of the camera-

The steady buzz of your phone in your hand interrupted your train of thought. Took him long enough, you thought to yourself as you watched the name flash across the screen. Hongjoong.

Not a couple of months ago, his contact’s name had been ‘loml’ with a red heart- how quickly things change. You knew he would call you before you were to go on-air, a tradition that he had unfailingly kept alive over the last 3 years. This particular call however, was different. Special.

Because it was going to be the last.

You would miss his calls, you mused as you accepted the call. His smooth, lilting tenor always greeting you with-

“Hello, starlet.”

The amused endearment didn’t make you smile like it used to. You used to shy away from it when you had initially started dating Hongjoong. Over the years, however, you had truly grown into a starlet in your own right so the inside joke was now laced with adoring truth.

“Hello, my love.”

Your voice was soft, mellow, the perfect replication of how you would respond to him in better times. Funny how a relationship you’d valued as much as your career had come down to pretence and secrets-

“Are you ready?”

The real question is, are you ready? The response was heavy on your tongue but you swallowed it down, letting a sardonic smile curl up the edge of your lips as you hummed into the phone, a show of contemplation.

“I think so.”

If only he knew what you were talking about.

“I’m sure you are, you spent so much time in the studios with Chris. Trust yourself, darling. You’re going to do amazing.”

There had been a time when his reassurance would’ve given you enough motivation to rule the world- now though, it felt like nothing but a sham. Pretty, deceptive falsities that he kept up only for the sake of his promise to you. A game of make-believe he seemed to be amusing himself with.

He was going to find out soon enough, you convinced yourself. He was going to find out soon enough that you were no game to be trifled with.

The producer caught your eye, motioning to the set – it was time.

“It’s almost time, I need to go.”

What a glorious double entendre this conversation was.

“Good luck, my love. I’ll be watching the live.”

You hummed again before hanging up, coughing into your hands as you made your way to the set. The producer flashed a smile and thumbs up at you as you took your seat on the stool meant for you.

“We’re going to be live in 3 minutes. Ready?”

Between your makeup artist doing some final touches on your face and the sound technician checking the wires and mic-set for your in-ears, you returned the producer’s thumbs up with a confident smile- more confident than you were truly feeling, you were sure.

“Ready.”

All too soon, the 2 minutes had passed and you were sat alone in front of the camera, nothing but a mic in your hand as the producer did a countdown- Rolling in 3,2,1-

The first strains of the backing track flowed through your in-ears, your grip on the mic tightening as the repetitive, building melody washed over you like the tune of a haunted nursery rhyme. With the melody came the memories, a barrage of feelings tinged angry red and melancholy pink.

After all these years, it seemed your love really had to end the way it began- mic in hand, lyrics at your lips and leaden heart in your chest. This time though, he wasn’t the healing balm, he was the twisted knife itself.

Kim fucking Hongjoong.

“He never calls this late at night, no… But I can tell he’s been drinking all night long.”

The studio was pin-drop silent except for the soft, dragging lilt of your voice. The track Chris had made for you could catch a listener’s attention all too easily- the magic your voice brought with it soon afterwards only served to hook the listeners more.

You remembered slipping into the studio one rainy 2 a.m, scrawled sheets of paper feeling heavy and hot in your pocket. Chris had been rightfully concerned with your deceptively put together appearance, knowing exactly what had brought about the torrent of words you had thrown onto the table.

Chris had always been safe, warm comfort for you- from the days of pulling all-nighters before graduation to the sleepless nights spent recording and producing in your shared studio, your friendship had come a long way.

But you’d shaken your head at him, urging him to look at the sheets. The memory of your pen slicing into the sheets was still burnt onto your fingertips, your vision almost blurring with tears as you scrawled every word that came to mind. Fiery, sensual, vengeful words seared onto the paper, a clear reflection of everything that had silently plagued you every night, every sunset, until you broke.

“He sounds upset, I’m asking baby where you at, I called you earlier but you didn’t call me back…”

You met Hongjoong a little more than 4 years ago in a dive bar- him, the tired university student looking for a break and you, the evening’s entertainment. Your set had been entirely covers of moody love songs, reminiscent of your own sentiments- all you wanted to do was write your own music but it seemed all rookies were destined to be stuck with small gigs and other artists’ music.

But for some reason, this one man with electric blue hair that contrasted- clashed, even, with his formal outfit had approached you after you finished your set. Only when he sidled closer to you did you noticed the paint splatters on his cuffs and the tiny earring dangling against his neck. The first thing he told you was that he had fallen in love with your voice and would love to get you a drink so he could hear it more.

Even in the heartbroken haze you were in, you knew there was something about this odd patch-work quilt of a man with a sparkly smile that you couldn’t shake. Conversation had been uncannily easy after that-

Falling in love with Hongjoong however, hadn’t been a cakewalk by any means.

“He’s breaking down, I’m about to lose it… I’m screaming who the fuck were you with…”

Falling for Hongjoong was walking through fire and hail and ice; it was always expecting the worst out of each other but somehow ending up with the best too; to see each other as flawed humans before possible targets of affection. It took a good part of a year for the both of you to acknowledge any sentiment beyond friendship for each other, even more time to consider dating.

He’d been hesitant at first- so had you. But as Hongjoong murmured to you that fateful evening your relationship began, the thought of not knowing how you’d be together was one he could not digest. Sometimes you wish you hadn’t agreed- but to disagree would’ve been a regretful lie.

Over the years, it had always warmed your heart to have known without a shadow of a doubt that he would walk through all the world’s calamities for your hand in his.

Kim Hongjoong was perfect, after all.

The perfect son of a perfect family, the visual arts graduate with a perfect score, the perfect fit for a job as an art gallery’s curator- Surely, his love was tinted with the same shade of perfection as the rest of him?

You were wrong.

“I grab my keys you better tell me where you at… he said he fucked up but there’s no taking it back...”

Kim Hongjoong was fickle as a wayward breeze where the matters of the heart were concerned. It was easier for him to let people love him, feel the adoration for him rolling off people’s eyes and bodies than be the person to love freely. Love was vulnerability to him, but gods, did he make vulnerability look gorgeous.

Maybe the very reason he began to love you at first was because you didn’t care for his perfection.

His words still echoed in your ears sometimes, especially in nights that were woefully sober or afternoons that were hopelessly unproductive. There had been a time when the only things you remembered of the honeyed rasp was from your best dreams, promising you forever in every day-

Not anymore. All you remembered now was the way he had sounded that night, alcohol and regret mixing badly in his veins, voice rough and stilted and broken as he asked you for forgiveness, for space in your heart despite his mistakes.

“I gave everything to you and this is what you turn around and do…”

You wish you’d never driven to him after his teary confessions, hoping against hope he was pranking you and had only drunk too much to cater to common sense. You wish you hadn’t walked yourself to his best friends’ night club and have to witness the look of pity Seonghwa and San cast upon before handing Hongjoong over to you.

You wish you hadn’t put yourself through the utterly tragic ordeal of picking up after him. Especially now, that you know how the future would look after that night.

The memories steeled your voice through the smooth notes, the music rising and falling as the backing track began to build. You’d struggled to record this section of the song- your breath always seemed to catch and hold when you sang the words, your chest feeling too heavy, tongue too leaden to mouth the next lines. But today, the tune was like second nature to your lips, the sentiment almost easy to express.

Surely he was watching now, wherever he was, the lyrics’ meaning sinking into his skin with every word. Some tiny, savage part of your brain hoped he felt the same cold terror and sense of unfairness you felt all this while- you hoped he would drown in it until it consumed him, soul and all.

“Did she have it all, all that you wanted for you to go and break your promise?”

He’d crawled into your bed with you that night, holding you closer than he had ever held you in 3 years. Soothed your tears of pure disappointment and cried way too many of his own, your shoulders shuddering as you pulled each other closer. Murmured apologies a million times, over and over again against your skin as he curled his body around yours, until you fell into a restless sleep.

You still remember the time-dampened images of the nightmare you had that night, the shadows laughing at you for being an inadequate girlfriend, an unfit person, that he probably cheated because you weren’t doing enough for him. You’d awoken a mere couple of hours after the both of you had nodded off, Hongjoong’s grip on your body still tight despite his state of slumber.

Was he worried you’d wake up and walk away?

He would find you in your kitchen in his old shirt when he woke up anyway, tired eyes and tired limbs and enough coffee for 2 in the French press.

“I wanna know, every secret you’ve been hiding…I wanna know just how long have you've been lying…”

A mistake, he’d called it. One-off error in judgement, a single moment in time he had chosen not to listen to his better sensibilities. It had happened once, entirely because of his lapse in judgement, he said. It would never happen again; he swore to you. Promised to you with your hands in his, earnestness in his gaze that you had never been subjected to until now- then again, he’d never given you reason to mistrust him until now.

You’d asked for a promise from Hongjoong that day- a no-closed-doors policy on your relationship. It should’ve been a no-brainer as far as you were concerned, but it seemed that people like Hongjoong needed the reminder that not all people lived the way they did. That love wasn’t reckless free fall to everybody, a spark that burns fast and bright and fizzles out just as quick.

“I wanna know, does she fuck you like I did…I wanna know, and will she love you like I did…”

You wish you’d been less mature about the whole affair.

Singing the words aloud only made you wish you’d thrown the words at him the first time it happened, instead of now, behind the safety of two screens and physical distance. You should’ve allowed yourself the sheer meltdown that the situation warranted, allowed the rage to take over your system even if it was for those few unfiltered seconds.

Hongjoong’s actions hadn’t deserved the maturity you afforded them. But you couldn’t blame yourself- in those fleeting moments, the primary emotions you had felt was that of inadequacy. You should’ve trusted yourself more.

“Boy this ain’t how it’s supposed to be...Dancing between someones else’s sheets…”

After the burning hurt from the fiasco died down, it felt like Hongjoong had taken it upon himself to prove to you how special, how important, how absolutely irreplaceable you were to him. In the haze of it all, you ended up loving it.

The once almost stoic man was now making an effort to be more to you, less of the disappointment he had caused you. He made an effort to talk to you, open up about his frayed relationship with love – hesitant at first and then naturally.

I care about you. I love you; he’d murmured to the ceiling one night. You were silent, body resting against his as he arranged the sheets higher around your bodies. I wanted to know what we’d be like together and I haven’t regretted a second of it. I can’t imagine my days without you around. A soft kiss planted against your hairline that you returned against the crook of his neck as sleep claimed you.

“I can’t believe this is really happening, your guilty conscience is going to be the death of me..”

The next few months were a daily reminder of how much Kim Hongjoong had come to know you over the years of your relationship. Your favourite flowers turned up like clockwork at your desk every Tuesday, accompanying a note in his quick, scratchy handwriting – a new tradition of mid-week dates at experimental restaurants with oddly planned menus. Voice notes of his raspy morning voice sending you sweet affirmations that rung in your ears late into the afternoon.

Even the way he touched you felt softer, more… reverent. Like he’d had a taste of what he stood to lose and never wanted to think of it again. As each day passed, you found yourself resting easy, basking in the attention and adoration and soft romance of it all.

Looking back on it, you should’ve known. What was it they say about a cheat?

They expect you to be loyal to them despite their faithlessness.

“You got so caught up in the moment...But she’ll only love you when she’s lonely…”

The second time it happened, the only thing your heart felt was a wildfire doused in rage and an almost crippling sense of treachery. A fellow artist in the same recording company as you had slipped into the studio late one night, just as you were packing up to head home. She’d pulled you to the couch on the side, holding your hands in hers as she hesitated before asking her questions- Are you sure your boyfriend is faithful? He keeps leaving the club I perform at with other girls?

Your fingers curled tightly around the mic, trying your hardest not to let your other hand clench the fabric covering your legs. You would give the world neither the privilege nor the misfortune of knowing how much truth this song really held. The world didn’t- no, Hongjoong didn’t deserve it. Not anymore.

“This ain’t a game you better tell me where you're at, No boy, you fucked up and there’s no taking it back..”

You’d dropped by Hongjoong’s apartment that night, hands shaking in your coat pockets and head spinning from the rush of emotions. You had a spare key, and it was only a matter of dropping him a quick text before letting yourself in. Betrayal? Rage? Frustration? Disappointment? It was the disgusting cocktail in the pit of your stomach that led you to snoop through his phone while he was in the shower-

You wish you hadn’t but oh, you’d be damned if you weren’t glad you had.

He’d brought girls to his apartment at the end of so-called club hopping nights with Seonghwa. Every Friday. Ever since he’d made his ‘promise’ to you.

Every single Friday.

He’d bedded some random chick from the clubs and then turned up at your doorstep every weekend like nothing had ever happened.

Every. Single. Friday.

“I gave everything to you …and this is what you turn around and do..”

You remember slipping out of Hongjoong’s apartment as quickly as you had turned up, faking an emergency at the studio to dash out the front door. Stubbornly holding your tears at bay as you drove back to your own neighbourhood, out of the car and into your apartment. Collapsing on your couch in a daze just as the breakdown began.

You still don’t know if the tears you shed that night were of anger or sadness- with the urge to destroy everything Hongjoong stood for, the only thing you wanted to do was never see him again.

For a second, you were transported back to that disaster of a night, the studio melting away into the familiar walls of your apartment, closing in on you as the despair and bottomless rage set in. There was an edge to your voice as you sang now, more angry than sad like before. Was he listening? Was he able to hear your farewell in the lyrics?

Was he panicking that you found out? Or worse, did he not care at all?

“Did she have it all, all that you wanted for you to go and break your promise?”

The next morning, you’d woken up with puffy eyes and a heavy heart, but with one clear motive seared into your mind- revenge.

You’d allowed him into your heart, let him build a home there for years and years. You had loved him every way you knew how to- broken at first, unconditionally later. You’d given him trust, a currency you were known to be stingy with- and he turns around and does this to you.

Maybe that was childish of you; maybe a more mature person would’ve broken it off that day, wallowed in heartbreak and made efforts to move on. But no, not you.

If Hongjoong had found it acceptable to take girls home while being in a relationship with you, he would definitely find it acceptable if you aired some of his dirty laundry yourself.

“I wanna know every secret you’ve been hiding…I wanna know just how long have you been lying..”

Chris had been concerned when you walked into the studio, looking almost entirely functional and not worse for wear at all.

It made sense, your best friend’s worry. It had only been 3 days since…since the incident and besides an update message, you had burrowed yourself at home and entirely unreachable. But here you were today, sheets of paper filled with your scrawl covering the table in front of you- lyrics.

Read them, you’d muttered, shoving the pages towards him- your hands shook slightly, the first crack in your façade. They’re a bit of a mess, but they mostly make sense.

Only you would remember being drunk off your mind on whiskey and later, wine the whole time. Alternating between feverish writing and heartbroken sobbing. Pretending to be completely fine to Hongjoong, telling him to not ‘interrupt your creative process’. Staring out into the starrless night skies and wishing that one day soon, Hongjoong would feel the hell you were feeling now. One day, you would look a camera in the eye and sing these lyrics out loud, for the world to hear, for him to hear. And you’ll be damned if that day, Kim Hongjoong didn’t get his final taste of who he’d just lost.

“I wanna know…does she fuck you like I did, I wanna know, will she love you like I did..”

Getting the right feel to the lyrics while recording the song had been all too easy, waving off Hongjoong’s curiosity about your newest project easier so.

It was a surprise for him, you would smile, dropping fleeting kisses against his cheekbones and jaw just the way he liked. He always smiled and dragged your mouth to his own, letting his smile slide against your own, murmuring that he was going to follow you into the studio to take a peek for curiosity’s sake.

Talk often fizzled out at that point, because god, it was so difficult to stay away from each other’s bodies and out of each other’s arms after the long days of being your own people, strong and resourceful and adult and independent. It was easier to let your muscle memories take over, touch and sense and feel every single wretched thing that Hongjoong was so capable of making you feel.

“She won't do you like me, she won't love you like me, baby…she won't touch you like me, she won't love you like me, baby…”

You would be lying if you said you didn’t get a wild sense of pleasure singing those lines, your eyes not leaving the camera pointed at you. Was it revenge well served? A broken heart being healed?

Over the weeks of preparing for the song, you’d realized how true those words were. The burning sense of betrayal and hurt hadn’t faded in the least- you still woke up every morning feeling lesser than, but never again. Never would you let anybody feel like this again.

Nobody would love Hongjoong like you could. It was about time he realized that. Pity, though, that you wouldn’t be around to witness it.

“She won't love you like, she won't love you like me.”

The music fizzled out into silence, the producers counting down as you stayed still- 3,2,1 cut! In pursuit of the feeling of reckless freedom, Hongjoong had lost the one person he claimed made him feel like he belonged. How unfortunate for him, you mused, as the studio erupted in claps, the producers grinning widely and everybody smiling at each other. In the middle of the chaos, the door swung open- His eyes were wide, short blonde hair a windswept mess against his forehead, the single stalk of your favourite flower hanging limp in his hands. Surely there were paint marks on his cuffs, and the tiny earring would jingle prettily when he moved, but as his gaze met your dead ones, you could only think one thing-

She won't love you like, she won't love you like me.

Thank you for reading! Do let me know what you think~ xoxo, Elliana.

Network Tag: @kpopscape

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gryffindors-weasley · 3 years

Text

Distractions

Draco Malfoy x Reader

Summary: A rainy Sunday evening is spent with Draco.

Warnings: minor injury, brief mentions of blood, mentions of the dark mark, fluff

(not my gif)

It was a rather dreary Sunday evening, rain pelting fast to the ground as it had done all day. Although it wasn’t the kind of weather you’d want to be caught outside in, it was perfectly ideal for the place you were headed. The greenhouse.

You followed a pace or two behind Draco, his hand enveloping yours and a book held in your other as you walked in comfortable silence. The trip there could be done blindfolded at this point, the same path down the near unfrequented halls every Saturday and Sunday at five o’clock in the evening. It was a routine that first started halfway through fifth year, though his fondness for it dates back farther than that.

Every weekend Draco can be found tending to every plant that resided in the large glass structure, a responsibility Professor Sprout bestowed upon him without reluctance. Granted, he wasn’t very gentle or mindful of the delicate greenery and herbs in his early years, which is something he regrets looking back at it. But when he showed up unannounced outside her classroom door after hours a few years later, she had a sneaking suspicion the Slytherin wasn’t quite as insufferable as he lets on.

Despite his fondness and growing interest in the vast varieties of magical plants and the potions they can be crafted into, it’s a piece of himself he wants to be kept secret. Not that he’s embarrassed of such things, but as time goes on he finds it better to leave things of sentimental value out of the public eye. That being said, should anyone cast a lingering glance his way on his route, he’s quick to shoot them a defensive glare to stave off prying eyes.

Now, in just under a year and a half, he’s become one of the finest caretakers of her beloved plants she’s ever seen.

The moment you stepped into the greenhouse the downpour became more apparent than before, creating a steady tapping against the old glass. Condensation beaded on every windowpane it could access, and the puffy gray clouds were visible at every angle, creating the perfect ambience to read your book.

Draco set off to work almost immediately, shrugging off his robe and handing it to you with a kiss on the cheek before reading over the checklist Professor Sprout had made for him.

He started off with watering the herbs she’d listed, spraying their leaves first before watering at the base. He quickly found that to be a more effective way of doing things, giving the remaining water to the select few that could use more hydration.

It was a trick he’d seen quite a few gardeners use on his mother’s garden at the Manor, and the meticulously placed flowers and shrubbery seemed to respond well to the technique. That amongst many other things were something he observed in his days spent at home on the summer break. The acres of well manicured landscaping providing ample opportunities to escape and spend his time around something other than the four walls of his bedroom.

Once finished, he moved to clean up around the place, giving you a sweet smile any time he passed by you even if you hadn’t seen it. But the times you did catch his eye, the tips of his ears would burn a pale pink.

He picked up a couple pairs of gardening shears left out and a few brooms that lay knocked over from messy second year students, putting miscellaneous dragon-skin gloves back in their rightful cabinet with the others. Some might consider this to be rather boring, especially on a weekend where there were better things to be spent doing on the short break from schoolwork. But the distraction was something Draco needed and it was one he enjoyed, something he found he could use a bit more of lately.

Repotting mandrakes was last on the very brief list. They weren’t used very often anymore, not like they had been in second year. But if the need arised should anyone be petrified, it was good to have a few on hand for potions.

He undid the buttons on the cuffs of his white dress shirt before shoving the slightly wrinkled sleeves up to rest at his elbows. However, he seemed to have briefly forgotten the mark swirling across the pale skin on his forearm, promptly yanking that sleeve back down before grabbing the ceramic pots and a new bag of soil with a frown. He tried not to let it cloud up his train of thought and sour his mood.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to his inner turmoil you had long since made yourself comfortable perched on a vacant spot on one of the old wooden tables, book cracked open in your hands. It hadn’t taken you very long to become immersed in it, as books usually do to its readers. And you could’ve sworn you might’ve heard Draco’s voice, whether or not it was directed at you, you were unsure.

A minute or two later he finished his preparations and glanced over his shoulder at you, sighing at the sight. The earmuffs he’d asked you to put on just moments ago still sat where he’d set them down on your lap, your eyes fixed on your book as his robe sat wrapped around your shoulders to combat the chilly evening weather. He walked the few feet over to you, picking them up.

“Sometimes I think you choose to tune me out, love,” Draco says, placing your earmuffs on your head gently, smiling when you lifted your head from your book. You offer a smile as your cheeks flush a soft pink.

“Sometimes,” you remark with a soft laugh, gaze returning to find the line you left off at. Truthfully you were beginning to lose focus anyway.

He set off to the task at hand with a smile, making short work of it though there’s only so much those earmuffs can do to filter out the shrill cries of these plants. It was a dreaded detail he hadn’t forgotten in his second year, always wondering how such a small creature could produce such a deafeningly fatal sound.

You decided any quality reading wouldn’t be achievable beyond that point, especially not with the humidity curling and warping the pages you tried to read from. It definitely was not because of the blonde who stood paces away from you, the very same humidity turning his once formally styled hair to mussed waves of platinum. Regardless of the reasons or their importance, you closed your book and made your way over to him.

“Do you need a hand with anything?” You ask, looking over the vast array of greenery before looking up at him. He pondered for a moment as he set the scrap piece of parchment down and rubbed his hands together to rid them of dirt.

“Could you take those extra pots to the storage cupboard?” He asks kindly, pointing to the two spares that sat untouched. You nod, grabbing the set from the table. “Thank you, darling.”

The frequently used name had still managed to make your heart flutter, your flustered distraction having you trip on the leg of the table. The pots in your hand were sent flying unceremoniously to the ground with a clatter, cheeks reddening from your blunder as you instinctively grabbed for them. As your finger ran along a sharp edge you quickly recoil with a surprised gasp, Draco tugging you to your feet in concern of the situation before you could fully hit the ground.

“Careful, Love!” He scolds softly, pulling your arm from your chest gently to see just what kind of accident he was dealing with.

Draco was quick to rush off to a cabinet on the far end of the greenhouse, freshly stocked with medicinal potions, some of which he’d gotten to make himself. He returned shortly with a small glass bottle, and he gently blotted at the fairly superficial cut running along the length of your pointer finger.

“What is that?” You ask softly as he gingerly holds your shaky hand, depositing a few drops over it. It stung a bit unexpectedly and your eyes widen a fraction as you watch it quickly heal as if nothing was ever there, curious gaze bouncing up to Draco. You tried not to pay any mind to the blonde strand that stuck adorablely to his forehead and focus on his words.

“It’s Essence of Dittany. I’ve just made this batch last week and it seems to be quite satisfactory,” he says, a small yet proud smile on his lips as he inspects your newly healed finger.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” you say with a soft laugh.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he quips, earning himself a pointed stare as you raised a questioning brow at him. He laughs as he puts the tiny bottle back where he got it, the shards of terra-cotta easily piecing themselves back together with a simple motion of his hand. “I’m only kidding, my love.”

You settle as he pulls you close by a gentle grip on your hands, releasing one to tuck your newly frizzy hair behind your ear. It was true, you were the only person to know most everything about him. Not one person in his social circle, not even his mother, knew his ins and outs like you and the thought both terrified him and comforted him all the same. But he knew you’d never cast an ounce of judgement his way. Not even for the mark ghosting over his arm that haunted his very thoughts the moment it was formed.

His calloused hand came to rest on your cheek, thumb brushing over flushed skin as his gray eyes took in every feature. The freckles that could only been seen in a close proximity, the curve of your lashes, the natural shade of pink coloring your bare lips. Soon he dipped down and kissed you, unable to refrain from doing so a moment longer. He always finds himself unable to resist it. You seem to enchant him, stronger than any love potion or magical spell could ever manage to evoke. And while true love is a scary thought, he doesn’t have it in him fight the very grip it has on his racing heart.

He parted from you reluctantly upon the sound of unfamiliar footfalls approaching, grabbing your hand with a laugh as the two of you run off towards the other exit hand in hand. The forgotten rain came as an icy shock once you ran out into it, but such inconveniences weren’t important when he pulls you in for another rain soaked kiss.

#draco malfoy #draco malfoy fluff #draco malfoy imagine #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy fic #harry potter fic

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lobakmerahs · 3 years

Text

One: Painting and Its Secrets

Summary: This series is about Levi’s slow burn relationship with the reader who is not only a squad leader but a spy who works under Scouts Regiment.

Warning: mentions of death

A/n: I hope you, whoever you are that will read my series will enjoy it as much as I do when I wrote it. Thanks and have a pleasant reading! :)

~ 🎨

3 weeks before...

A blond platinum wig in a pixie cut, button down shirt in beige, a dark brown suspenders, a pair of pants in olive green with a jacket in the same colour. Last but not least a black fedora on top of the head. You stared at your reflection in the mirror, making sure that you looked completely different from the real you at the same time not wanting the disguise you were wearing would catch unnecessary attention. After you were fully satisfied with your look, you took your steps outside your little home.

It was supposedly your off day and you were strolling at the Stohess District and went to buy a newspaper before taking your seat at an empty bench while facing the river. After a few moments had passed, you glanced at your watch and stood up to head to your destination.

Hans Art Gallery. You were on time when you stood in front of the art shop as the business was just begun and you were the first one to enter.

“Good morning and welcome to Hans Art Gallery. Is there anything that I can help you, Mrs?,” the gentleman asked.

“A bouquet of tulips for the man with the black shoes.” You answered to the gentleman who was not wearing a pair of black shoes but upon hearing your sentence and clearly understood your code, he went to the back of the gallery before returned to you and handed the canvas piece that was neatly wrapped with an oil paper.

You calmly walked to your home and naturally looked around you to make sure no one was tailing before you entered your house and produced a soft click sound as you locked the wooden door behind you. You didn’t go straight to your room, instead you climbed to the attic and yet again locked the door. Slowly you unwrapped the frame and brought out your forceps as well as your scalpels, no need to ask how did you get those. The canvas held a drawing of an evening sky which was rich with every shades of orange colour capturing the beauty of the sunset, it seemed like it could bring calmness to whoever that laid their eyes on it, but what people didn’t know, didn’t have to know as well as didn’t have the right to know was what lied beneath the drawing. Yes, the drawing was undeniably beautiful, it was made by none other than one of your assets in the Wall Sina that disguised as an art dealer among the nobles. The said asset had planted a few layers of documents under his drawing which was the main reason you were about to form a surgery on the work of art. Meticulously, you ran your scalpel on the border of the drawing, next you brushed your thumb along the already cut borders to make the edges curled upwards then you used your forceps to peal the drawing away, revealing layers of papers which were believed to be the documents that were hidden beneath it.

“Hmmh.. hmmm~ yare yare, found ya’.” You whispered to yourself and smiled in relief, taking out the pieces of papers and gave it a read.

The documents contained the Military Police reports of Nicholas Lovof’s crimes that included bribery, kidnapping, murders and any other atrocities that were enough to put someone under justified punishments. Not only that, the documents also included a detailed descriptions as well as names of the people that were in charge to kill Erwin Smith, a good colleague of yours, thanks to Nicholos’s manipulations. The said people were; a young red-haired girl styled in pigtails, another young man with a light-brown hair and persumably the oldest one of the pack,a sharp dull blue eyes man with a black hair styled in an uppercut.

Then, you made a copy of the documents and kept them in a scroll so you could send them to Erwin, where the original copy of them were properly sealed in an envelope for you to send them to none other than Dhalis Zachary.

~🎨

You took a deep breath, inhaling the morning’s crisp while staring at the blue sky. It was always your favorite thing to do, starring at the sky, focusing on the colours that it held. From the wide ranges of blues, to the variety tones of the white from the clouds and sometimes the contrast colours of orange or pink that appears during dusk or dawn.

After you had enough of your morning pill from the sky, you stepped out of your chamber and was greeted by your best friend, Hange with a raised of both your eyebrows. Both of you did not need much words to greet each other most of the times. You were best friends since your Training Corps years. Morning wasn’t the time for you guys to start acting real with each other. So, both of you walked by each other to the mess hall to get your breakfast then attended the assembly Scout Regiment’s concourse.

During the morning assembly, you lined up beside Erwin as you were also a Section Commander and had your comrades under your unit to stand in a line behind you. As you were standing, you could see there were 3 people standing beside Commander Keith Sadis, and were introduced to the whole Scout Regiment as the new Scouts. One of them was a girl with red-brown hair tied into two pigtails, named Isabel Magnolia, the other was a man with dark blond hair named Furlan Church and the last one named Levi, a shorter man with black hair styled in an uppercut. All three of them were assigned into Flagon's unit much to his dismay. You glanced at Erwin by your side and he gave you a knowing look. While others found those new Scouts’ names foreign, both of you were exceptional and for a good reason.

They were surprisingly good during their training, for some people who never had a formal training using the ODM gear, they performed fantastically well but they still needed some polishing for their Titans killing skills, except for Levi. You were always up to offer help to them but they often misunderstood since you usually looked cold and always a bit brutal during your trainings which were a famous fact among the Scout Regiment. Farlan and Isabel often thought that you hated them since they received resentments from severel other Scout cadets and thinking that you were also in the same boat as the other Scouts. Levi was always with his bored expression, you could barely read his expressions let alone his thoughts, unlike the other two. There was a time where Isabel blurted about why you insisted to help training them when you seemed to dislike them.

“It doesn’t matter if I like you guys or not, people train to kill the Titans and to survive. You guys seemed to rush things and hiding something, as if you wanted you to get done with killing Titans then move on to do something else that isn’t Titans related and I’m here trying to help you not to get killed by Titans”, you answered. There was a short silence followed after your answer. You could tell their breaths hitched for a moment but you remained stolid nevertheless.

“Well, we have to move on to do something else as in to focus on the formation right?”, Furlan replied with a hint of nervous.

“Yeah, let’s hope so.” You answered.

~🎨

In life, there were a lot of moments where the air would be tense and the night before expedition was one of them. The night was calm and quiet but you couldn’t ignore the heavy feeling in your heart. Tonight was just another night inside the wall but to some in the Scout Regiment, it would be their last. Tomorrow’s expedition would surely cost some of your comrades’ lives and might even yours, for the sake of humanity.

You took a deep breath. But it still didn’t help to calm your nerves. You had been pacing in your room since dinner. You couldn’t stay still, palms were sweaty and heart was beating unsually fast tonight. Something bad was going to happen tomorrow. You could feel it in your guts. You recognized these telltale because whenever you felt like this, you’ll end up receiving death news be it your favorite neighbour from your hometown, your beloved pets or even the Scouts that you had helped in training. Deciding that sitting in your room wouldn’t help lessen the nerves, you grabbed your pencils and sketch papers then headed outside to gaze at the starry night sky to do some sketches in hope of easing your mind.

As you arrived at you usual spot at tower of the Scout Regiment barracks, you slumped down and took a glance at the sky. The moon hadn’t shown itself yet, and there were thick clouds hanging everywhere. Then, you stared at your paper and pencil. Blank. No idea. No inspiration. Stuck. You sighed, and continued to stare at the night sky hoping to relax your mind for awhile. Then, you heard the sound of clicking boots which meant that there were people not far from you. It was Furlan and Isabel whom just arrived, they walked to a figure that you assumed to be Levi. You remained quiet and peeped them from your location. You could heard Isabel and Furlan trying to convince Levi about them joining tomorrow’s expedition. As you were eavesdropping not that you planned to in the first place, suddenly your hand started to sketch the paper, starting with the clouds and adding the diamonds in the sky, slowly without you realizing it, you were sketching the trio starring at the starry night sky under the moonlight that shone magnificiently.

When you were done with the sketching, you returned to your room as quietly as possible and continued to add colours to your drawing before you got sleepy and finally free from your anxious feeling earlier. Before you headed to your bed, you jotted down the date behind your work which now known as painting, no longer just a sketch.

During the expedition, you and your squad were put around the right flank of the long range formation. There were few Titans appeared throughout the journey, none that your squad could handle. You were beyond grateful that all of your squad were still well and alive at the moment. Then, you received a signal to tighten the formation since the sky started to show sign that it would rain soon and a heavy one at that. You commanded your squad to pull on the hood of their capes and stayed as close as possible with you and each other so that no one would go unnoticed and it would be easier to assist if anything happen.

Despite the heavy downpour, your squad kept moving forward and you efficiently assisted your squad in killing any Titan that came in the way, it was always your promise to make sure everyone under you would return to the wall safe and alive. Then, suddenly you heard a weird noise coming from in front of you, not the usual strange noise that a Titan would make.A load, short but multiple groan as if a Titan was in pain. So, you rushed to the direction of the sound assuming that there might a cadet or a squad that needed your assistance.

You arrived at the same time as Erwin’s and some other squad leaders, surrounded by an Abnormal Titan’s and plenty of your other comrades’ corpses. Then, you noticed Levi standing next to the Titan’s dead body with blood all over him and Isabel’s head in front of him with half of Furlan’s body not far from him as well. Levi seemed to be the only one survived from his squad. His head hanging slightly low, with his hair covering his eyes but the tears streaming down his cheeks didn’t go unnoticed by you. So, this explained the sweaty palm and racing heart you had another night- to see two cadets that you helped with training days ago, only now left with just just head and half of a body. You felt your shoulder fell and knees slightly shaking. You felt like your breath had been taken away.

As the rain started to stop slowly as the sunshine gently peeking from the clouds, you watched how Levi was about to kill Erwin which was stopped by Mike then Erwin explained about the Nicholos Lovof's situation causing Levi to stop his actions and stood silently, digesting the fact that he was caught up in Erwin’s plans.

You did feel bad for Levi, Erwin wasn’t the only who knew about him and his friends’ true intention of joining the Scout Regiment. You knew about it too. It was your assignment to obtain the information about Nicholos Lofov’s crimes and sent it to Erwin as well as finding out the person who was assigned to supposedly kill Erwin. It was just a simple guess as to why those three didn’t refuse so much on joining he Scout Regiment when Erwin offered them to.

You were assigned with that task since you were not only a Section Commander but also a spy under the Scout Regiment as well as the cadets under your wings and some were also assets scattered across the town in disguise as an art dealer in Wall Sina, a commoner who opened a bakery shop or could be anyone in the town that simply invisible to the world but not to you. You needed to sniff around to obtain crucial informations that could contribute to the Scout Regiment strategies, formation and as well as humanity.

~🎨

The barracks became quieter after the expedition ended which was normal due to the lost of lives. You were at your room that night, just checking your report before you could submit them to Erwin the next morning and decided to write some notes in your book. You opened your drawer and saw the painting that you made before the expedition took place. Levi, Isabel and Furlan staring at the sky. Two of the were smiling in admiration to the sky while Levi just being Levi, stoic as ever except his eyes where they were packed with ......hope.

You suddenly felt drenched and decided to go for a glass of water at the kitchen before you headed to sleep. You inserted the sketching into your notebook and brought them with you to the kitchen, it just came across your mind to let Levi had it since you remembered how shattered he looked when he was kneeling in front of Isabel's head. The kitchen was empty when you arrived so you went to grab a cup and filled it with water.

As you took a sip of water from your glass, you saw Levi entering the same room as yours. Both of you were startled for a second yet no words left your mouths before he proceeded to make himself a tea and you with your drink. The room was filled with silence but not an uncomfortable one, at least for you. That was when it slipped your mind that you wanted to give the drawing to Levi. Only if he would accept your drawing. You thought he might wanted it since that drawing was an evidence of a sweet memory that his two friends left him during their short time in the Scout Regiment. Probably something for him to look at when he felt lonely. He was stirring his teaspoon with his back facing you when you called his name. Probably the first time having you calling his name. Probably the first time you would ever interact with him ever since he joined the regiment.

“.....um..Levi,” you called. That’s when your heart skipped a beat. And you felt a bit....just a bit nervous to see him reacting to you. Then, he turned around and faced you, intense dull blue eyes focusing on your eyes, expecting you to continue. You gulped. Man, was his gaze always this tense? You never noticed that before for sure.

“I was at the tower the night before the exhibition, with my sketching utensils because I needed to calm my nerves. Then suddenly you guys came and I made something. I didn’t plan doing it, I just went with the ideas flowing in my head,” you stopped and brought out your painting to his attention. He stayed focus listening to you and eyes never left your face before he took the drawing and examined it. You couldn’t say he was amused but his gaze did soften a little.

“I’m sorry I draw the three of you without your permission.I know I should have asked your consent. And um, you could keep that...... If you want though,” you continued. You felt quite nervous not because you were scared of him, shy probably but not scared. You were nervous because one, you wished your drawing didn’t remind him of his late friends in a bad way and caused him more sadness, two, you didn’t want him to get mad at you for drawing him without his permission and three, um...what if your drawing looked like a toddler’s work? That would suck.

“It’s nice,” Levi finally spoke. His deep monotone voice comforted your ears. You breathed out a relief.

“I want to keep it,” Levi said, hand still holding your drawing, eyes travelling back to yours with a softer gaze and as if asking for your permission.

You nodded, “sure, make it yours, I do hope it’ll help you feel better, if that's even possible”, you replied with a soft chuckle as you slowly stood and got ready to head back to your room.

You saw Levi took a glance at the drawing then looked at you again before he replied you with, “thanks, I’ll treasure it.”

You flashed a small smile before yawning and took off to your room to get your sleep. Feeling light and at ease, knowing your drawing could help lift up someone’s mood.

Little did you know that, back in his chamber, Levi stared at your painting. He indulged himself into the painting that you made, every drop of colour as well as every line and traces left on the paper by you, realized how he missed watching his lost friends’ smiles and thanks to you, he could see his friends’ smiles once again eventhough it was just on a piece of a paper. Not to mention, he finally got to interact with you. You striked a mysterious aura when you first appeared before his eyes which intrigued him to get to know you, yet he never had a chance or a reason to talk to you but you were always there somewhere in the back of his mind. He was utterly grateful with the drawing you made, at least he could carve the smiles of his friends into his mind, their smiles might no longer exist in this world but it would always be in his heart and mind.

Next chapter

#levi ackermann #levi ackermann x reader #levi x reader #levi ackermann imagines #levi ackermann fic #shingeki no kyojin #aot x reader #aot imagines #levi aot #aot fanfic #levi ackermann fanfic #attack on titan #attack on titan fic #shingeki no kyoujin fanfiction #Furlan Church #Isabel Magnolia #hange zöe #Erwin Smith #erwin smith

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starfirette · 3 years

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Chapter Six: Backtalk Is For Losers

Alstroemeria, Chapter Six: A bit of backtalk gets you into trouble with the infamous Lance Corporal Ackerman.

grand masterlist | previous chapter | more levi | join the taglist: inbox | next chapter coming soon!!!!!

a/n: Levi is heeerrreeeeeeeeeee.

There was a pain that you could sense even before you open your mind to the subject of complete consciousness. It trickled down into your right big toe.

You slowly sat up after you opened your eyes to a row of empty cots made with plain white linen and one flat pillow. You rubbed your eyes, looking around to the majority of the room that was, to say the least, depressing. All along the walls were shelves and cupboards made from dark, grainy wood, set with vials and mason jars of who knows what.

You reached for the little nightstand on the side of your bed, set with only a tarnished bell that you pressed with your palm.

Moments later, you could hear shuffling and footsteps coming down the hall. The door opened open, and to your dismay, an unfamiliar woman entered with a glass and a pitcher of something that sloshed with ice.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

You watched with mild shock as she poured you a glass of ice water and held it out. Your dry tongue yearned for the glass, and you took it and gulped it down in a moment.

The woman gave you a refill.

“Who are you?” you asked after one more drink.

“I am the on call surgeon for the survey corps,” she explained, setting the pitcher down on the racketing side table.

“I’m at the survey corps?” you asked. Your brows contorted with confusion. “How long have I been...?”

“About four days,” she explained. “You were badly hurt during the battle of Trost and you lost a lot of blood. Your injury required twenty two stitches, all on your lower back, where you had a five centimeter deep gash after being dropped on a rock fragment.”

You were dumbfounded. “Four days?” Four days for such a minor injury?

“You must have needed the rest,” the surgeon said with a simple shrug. “Your friends attested your long day of hard work.”

“Why am I with the survey corps?” you asked. “Where are the others?” You’d been half tempted to ask for your friends, but you didn’t really have friends. You had people you’d trained and bunked and fought with, but not ‘friends.’

“You are one of the few cadets that seemed to be close to the asset. Captain Ackerman has been waiting for you to wake up so that you can be questioned.”

Questioned? Captain Ackerman? Asset? Though none of that answered your question about the other cadets, it explained why you were at the survey corps hospital.

The surgeon explained Eren as the asset, and Captain Ackerman is the man in charge of anything related to Eren. Captain Ackerman wanted to know about Eren, from every point of view possible.

You drank the rest of your water before crawling out of bed. You could feel the stiff sutures rub against the fabric of your shirt. The ache of the injury stiffened your movements as you paced back and forth across the length of the room like the doctor had asked of you.

She made a note on the parchment pad she held before setting it down and making way to the cabinets that lined the wall. It was filled with syringes made of brass and had foggy glass jars filled with powders and pills capsules.

She leveled four scoops of a thin, white powder and placed it in a small drawstring bag. “That’ll be for the pain,” she says. “Mix one spoonful it into water or tea before bed and again as needed. The survey corps only allows one dosage of painkillers per injury, so you will not be getting any refills. Try not to get addicted.”

You were tempted to toss the bag back towards her. “Addicted?” you said with wary.

The surgeon shrugged.

“What’s your name again?” you asked. She lifted her brows.

“I am Kathie Perrine, head of surgery and chief assistant to Hanji Zoe, the lead on science and medical research here at the corps.” Kathie reached for the glass frames that were tucked into her shirt pocket, unfolding the arms then placing them at the bridge of her nose. “The captain will give you more information on your room detail and other housing matters. You and the other cadets will be given the formal opportunity to choose your branch of desired service after Eren Jaegar’s trial. Captain Ackerman’s office is up the staircase outside the room, at the right hand wall. It’s the very first entrance.”

You clutched your bag of medicine tightly, nodding and trying to soak up all the information you could. It felt like Kathie was trying to get you out of the surgery as soon as possible, even though you didn’t feel ready yet.

“What if I get lost?” you asked before you budged.

Kathie looked lost herself. “Ask for directions. You’ll get it.”

As you walked out the double surgery doors, you felt like Kathie wasn’t too concerned with you getting to the apparently important Captain Ackerman. Maybe you’d get lost in the giant place and die. Maybe you’re stitches would rip open and you’d bleed to death on the stairs.

It felt like it would happen as you climbed the steps, wincing as the tightly closed wound on your back stretched with every movement. It was worse than the sort of stretch you got when your knee was scabbed. It was real.

This was all real. You were at the cadet corps in God knows where, about to meet God knows who.

But you had been assured by Miss Perrine that Captain Ackerman would set you straight with your living details and your new assignments. Then you could get the hell out of here.

The survey corps was not a place you wanted to be.

With every step up the winding staircase, you could remember the agonizing noises of wailing and screaming on the roads of Trost.

You looked at your hands; you flex and clench them, looking at every detail of your skin. You had been scrubbed down. No dirt and blood was jammed underneath your fingernails.

What was that boy’s name?

You suddenly remembered him as you took a stark right, looking at the oak door to Captain Ackerman’s office.

You hesitantly rapped your knuckles against the door.

“Enter,” a stern sounding voice sounded from beyond the oak.

You turned the brass handle and opened the door to a neatly put together office. It was a normal looking one, with a large wooden desk, stacks of yellowish parchment and leather bound books. You were completely stunned to see who must be the one and only Captain Ackerman.

He wasn’t like you’d imagined at all. For one, he wasn’t old. At least, he didn’t look like it. He was older than you, by maybe ten or so years. His hair wasn’t white or gray, but rather a deep shade of black that had undertones of violet in the candlelight.

He was sorting papers, not bothering to look up as he spoke. “Name?”

“Y/n L/n,” you stammered, offering a weak salute. You felt strangely embarrassed by the greeting, wondering if he’d look at you and wonder why on earth you were doing such a pose. It didn’t feel like he was a captain. He felt like something much more intimidating.

His eyes finally met yours, and you felt like you’d been slapped in the face. Sharp and steely as they were, they were darkly beautiful. He had a stern looking expression, one to match his voice, and the finest bone structure you think you’d ever seen.

He did not look like he belonged in the survey corps. He looked like he belonged in the royal courts at the interior, maybe even on the arm of a princess.

“Yes, miss L/n,” he murmured to himself as he searched through his papers. “Have a seat.”

You strained to do so without meeting his gaze as he looked back and forth between files.

“I am Levi Ackerman, a squad leader here. For the time being I’m also taking the lead on the Eren Jaeger case. I’ll be asking some questions about Jaeger and I am expecting your full, honest answers. Now, until you’ve chosen a corps to serve in you’re going to be residing here and answering directly to me.”

He looked at you for confirmation when you did not answer, a thin eyebrow raised high.

You stammered, “Oh, yes sir,” as a pathetic reply.

The captain tutted under his breath. “Room assignment is seven in the girls hallway,” he said then, going through his papers. He didn’t sound like he really wanted to be going over this all with you. “Sauna and showers every morning at seven sharp for the females. Breakfast seven thirty. Lunch is optional, all noon. Dinner eight in the evening. Questions?”

“No, sir,” you quickly said. You could remember all of that. Maybe.

“Let’s talk about Jaeger.”

It was an abrupt topic change, one that you didn’t quite welcome. To be honest, you didn’t want to be here at all. You were in the total dark about everything. Where was Krista and Ymir?

And Armin, and Mikasa, and even Eren?

Reiner?

The last image that you could muster into your brain was clutching Eren’s limp body in your arms. You remember trying to pull him free of the titan corpse and then nothing else.

“Last time you and I met, you had been recently injured,” Levi noted. “How is that?”

You blinked. “I’m sorry,” you muttered, “but I don’t actually remember meeting you.”

The captain impatiently tapped his pencil “The injury?” he repeated.

You felt your face flush with warmth and embarrassment. “Better,” you said quietly, using a hand to feel the medicine in your pocket.

“And was that induced by Jaeger?”

“I don’t think so. No.”

“Do you think, or do you know?” the captain asked. His eyes were a stronghold, trying to force their way into your nerves.

“I-No.”

“So, you know, then?” the captain asked. He leaned back in his chair, using his forefingers to massage his temples. “It’s a simple question.”

“No.” You spoke firmly. “Eren did not hurt me.”

“You do not remember meeting me,” the captain drawled, “but you remember clearly that Eren did not hurt you?”

Floundering was the only way to describe how you were currently feeling. The captain seemed to know every way to make you feel flustered and feverish.

“This feels oddly like an interrogation, captain,” you said before you could stop yourself.

His eyebrows lifted in shock. You could see the age in the crinkles around his eyes as he finally let his face relax. Late twenties, maybe even around thirty, you estimated.

“Let me correct you, cadet,” the captain said slowly. “This is. Did you know Eren Jaegar was a titan?”

Your eyes would have rolled out of your head if you could widen them any wider. “Absolutely not,” you snapped. “I wasn’t under the impression that any human could be a titan.”

“If I were you I would very quickly adjust that attitude, Y/n,” the captain said smoothly. It shook something in your belly when he said it. His dark eyes were unwavering and they peered into you with no remorse.

“I did not know. I don’t know Eren, really. He and I were never friends.”

“Were you close with the Armin boy?” Levi asked as he looked at his pages, making some notes in the margin.

“No.”

“And the girl?”

“Your relative?” you asked for confirmation.

The captain looked surprised again. “Do not begin to assume anything about me, L/n,” the captain said carefully. “Though she and I share the surname, I do not know her. That wasn’t the question. Were you, or are you, close to Mikasa Ackerman?”

“...No,” you said again, feeling the strain of frustration tugging at your jaw, keeping your mouth tense.

“Were you ever threatened by Jaeger?” the captain proceeded to ask.

“Never. I hardly interacted with him.” You crossed your ankles.

“Then why help him?” the captain asked.

You paused. You looked at the captain with a blank expression.

He lifted his eyebrows again, silently repeating the question with what you would have imagined to be a tone of annoyance. “Is there a problem?”

“Is there some reason I shouldn’t have helped him? Does that make me a bad person? An accomplice? I would have liked some support, had it been me. I can’t understand why you don’t understand about-”

“About?” the captain challenged. He wore a strange sort of smirk, as if he were impressed by your impending outburst; it was like he’d been waiting for it all this time.

“About human decency,” you concluded.

The captain had a mask of amusement on his face as he folded his hands overtop his desk. “You’re a stark change from the usual cadets around here.”

“How so?” you asked, feeling your face sizzling with impending embarrassment.

“You’re a much bigger dumbass than most of them. In the two interactions we’ve had together, you’ve proven yourself to be quite stubborn. You refuse to die, and yet you also refuse to comply with human nature. The nature in this compound is that I am your captain and I ask you what I ask you not to humiliate you, but to form a solid basis of what I’m dealing with. Eren Jaeger is not a usual situation. I will not have usual reactions. Despite that, I expect you to behave like a cadet should behave. You’ve made your impression. Those are all the questions I have for you today. Report to your quarters, change into uniform, then report here immediately.”

“For what?” you asked, your voice squeaky with humiliation.

“For janitorial service. Problem with that?”

His challenging tone was just daring you to talk back one more time.

You ground your teeth in a hard clench. “No, sir.”

“You are dismissed,” the captain said with a small wave of his pale, slender hand. You could see the scars and callouses that littered the top of his palm even from your seat across the desk.

Standing to your feet, with your fists clenched at your side, you offered Levi a stiff salute; you didn’t mean it, without a doubt, but you didn’t want to risk getting in even more trouble.

“Dismissed, cadet,” the captain said again. “I expect a swift return.”

You have never felt so completely humiliated. The captain had practically gutted you in there. Your legs trembled by the knees as you stormed out of the office.

You paused in your steps, groaning, then you turned around again, making your way back inside.

“Yes, cadet?” the captain asked, sounding exhausted as he immediately pinched his nose in frustration.

“I forgot my room assignment,” you muttered, avoiding meeting his gaze.

“Room seven, girls’ hallway,” he said. “I can write it down if you’d like.”

“No thank you. Sir,” you added before he could bitch again.

It was a slap in the goddamn face to have to march up to your room while knowing you’d have to march back down and face your first ever corporal punishment.

The girls’ hallway was marked by a little plaque on the door. All the doors were made of the same kind of heavy oak with grains and lines from the aged tree it’d been born. No numbers were put up. You had to count a few times, unsure of how the rooms were meant to be numbered. Down one wall, then back the other? Or alternating?

You hesitated to enter the room you thought would be yours. You knocked a couple of times, while pressing your ear up against the door to hear any answers inside.

The room, though muffled, was undeniably silent. You opened up the sticky door, the door swinging into the room.

It was a plain room, but no doubt better than the group bunks you had at the training academy. One unmade cot was pressed up in the left corner. Your familiar trunk of belongings sat on the bare mattress, alongside a set of sheets, a woven quilt, and two dismal pillows.

There were no windows; rather the light source for the rest of your days here would be the oil lamp or the three large candles sitting on the pathetic looking desk pushed up against the north facing wall.

Wow. You sure got lucky with room number seven, you bitterly think to yourself as you slam the door shut behind you. Stalking forward you could feel the slight pain in your back as you threw open your trunk. You felt relieved to see your belongings packed in it. It must have been brought after the attack.

As you sifted through, looking for your uniform, you felt rage boiling in the pit of your stomach. The prickly, uptight Captain Ackerman had an easy time brushing off your attitude and asking you insensitive questions about Eren. Who knows what Eren’s feeling right now? His experience compared to the others that suffered in Trost is entirely different, but likely just as traumatic. You couldn’t imagine how he was feeling.

Really, you couldn’t imagine how anyone was feeling.

You thought back to Fable, her baby Bree, and that boy who was just around your age, whose name you’d forgotten. You felt nauseous as you imagine the fate that could have befallen them after they left with your horse.

You didn’t want to know the details. You’d rather go on the rest of your life assuming they made it to their little farm in Fairkelt by Stohess.

Just as you didn’t want to know the details of their adventure, you certainly didn’t want to know what happened in Trost after your injury. You feel lucky for not remembering the injury itself, or your apparent first meeting with Captain Levi Asshole-man.

Four days has been long enough to clear out the titans and assemble the dead.

You took your time buttoning up your shirt as you tried to keep the Captain waiting for as long as possible (without getting in even more trouble). Maybe if you just barricade your door, he’ll give up and let you go on your way.

Doubtful.

You shoved your feet into your knee high boots, strapping up the buckles as you eyed your trunk you’d moved to the floor. It was a little bit pitiful to look at the small room and realize you didn’t even have enough belongings to fill it up. There wasn’t even enough clothing to constitute owning a wardrobe.

You kicked the trunk out of the way as you stalked out of the seventh bedroom in the girls’ hallway.

Your back did feel stiff and achy as you sped walked to Captain Ackerman’s office.

As you walked down the stairs, you could see him waiting outside of his office door, leaning against the door frame with a bucket of water and a lame mop.

“Reporting for janitorial duty, sir,” you scowled as you salute him. The captain simply gestured for you to take the mop. “In the future,” he said as you took the handle, “you will be expected to know where the cleaning supplies are, as you will have to get them yourself,”

“Thank you so much, sir,” you scowled again.

“Cadet, your attitude is the reason you’re doing this,” the captain said carefully. “I would suggest keeping that attitude of yours in check for the duration of your stay.”

If you had the balls to do it, you would have made a retort featuring something about his height. It was surprising how short he was. You couldn’t tell by him simply sitting, but on his feet, he didn’t even exceed 5-foot-four.

You chose to keep your mouth shut the way he’d so lovingly suggested.

You dunked the mop head into the water before slapping it against the stone floor. “Happy mopping, cadet. I’ll make sure to leave my office door open if you have any questions. I except the hallway and the staircase to be done after thirty minutes. Then we can review your next cleaning assignment.”

Thirty minutes, you think angrily as the captain turns his back on you to retreat into his stupid office. Just how long would this little punishment last?

You got to work mopping the hallway outside of the captain’s door; his office seemed to be the only one down here, so you didn’t have any luck of running into your acquaintances. While you wanted to ask him about any of them, you had a small feeling he’d be of little help.

You supposed that you couldn’t blame him. If he truly were managing Eren Jaeger’s case, he must have an enormous amount of work he needs to get done. Your testimony, though filled with ‘attitude’ may have helped him some, and he needs to properly log it. How stressful.

Such a job would produce wrinkles in the forehead.

Looking at him as he works, you can see that while he may be older than you, his face is rather smooth. You’d peg him to be in his later twenties.

You were stunned to look from his office to the corridor, and seeing a young woman approaching. You blushed. You didn’t want her to think strangely of you for continually glancing into the Captain’s office.

“Good afternoon, miss cadet,” the woman said kindly. You lamely gathered a salute as you got caught in the warmth of her eyes. She was incredibly beautiful. She had soft hazel eyes, and wavy reddish brown hair that tickled her chin and neck.

“Is Captain Levi available?”

Levi must have heard the woman’s voice. He quickly stood to his feet, pushing down his stack of papers and striding out of the office.

“Petra,” he said smoothly. His voice was noticeably kinder than it had been when he had spoken to you.

“Hello Captain,” Petra replied with a voice so genuinely sweet. “I see you’ve been working hard. Already giving poor cadets janitorial punishments? She’ll never want to join the survey corps now,” she added, throwing a small wink your way.

You would have laughed if you weren’t so flabbergasted by the captain’s change in demeanor.

So he could be nice! You supposed any one would be nice to a young woman as pretty and charming as Petra. So, that’s not you. Not that it matters.

You don’t need the captain to like you, mostly because you have no intention of staying in the survey corps longer than you have to. You’d certainly had enough of death and destruction to last you an entire lifetime. The Garrison unit just made sense.

It’s not as if you had any other options.

You did your best not to eavesdrop on the conversation Levi and Petra were having. You mostly wanted to listen for details on any of your friends, maybe even Reiner or Krista. Any familiar mention of the two would make you feel somewhat better for being trapped here.

“L/n,” the Captain called.

You jolt with a start. You cast your eyes into the office, the sole point you’d been trying to avoid until now. “Yes, captain?” you asked meekly. His gaze combined with Petra’s made you feel strangely sick.

“Finish up with the staircase,” he said dismissively, immediately turning his attention back to Petra, as if he hadn’t just spoken to you. “Then you’ll be escorted to the mess hall for dinner.”

You blinked back tears of absolute ignominy.

Petra noticed how you’d been silently struck by the captain’s curt words, and she tugged his sleeve, whispering something to him with her eyebrows sternly furrowed.

You weren’t sure that you could bare the weight of their eyes any longer, or even the potentially cruel response from the captain.

You strained to pick up your bucket. You knelt down, wincing at the strain it put on your stiches. The flat soles of your boots left imprints on the wet floor as you slowly walked up the stairs of the spiral case.

Water sloshed over the bucket as you struggled to place it somewhere constructive. Rather than listen to Petra and the Captain, you tried to decide how the hell you would go about mopping stairs. It was very compelling as you tried to block out the small laughs that Petra let out downstairs as they discussed the “shitty new batch of cadets.”

You felt slightly unnerved at the thought of the captain shit talking you to Petra. What did you ever do to that man?

You’d done nothing. You couldn’t be expected to not get angry when the captain likes a dickhead. You dunked your mop into the bucket before you sloshed the head of it around on the first step.

As long as Captain Ackerman is apart of this corps, you’d never, ever join. You would rather slap the man in the face then tell him to shoved. Straight up a titan’s-

A slight scream left your mouth as you felt the heel of your boot pushed the bucket of water back. It clunked against the steps, spilling the water across the way and gathering beneath your boots. The flat soles did nothing to save you as you felt the entire world tipping backwards.

You tumbled down the hard set of stairs, shrieking so abruptly at the pain that you bit your tongue hard.

It was a hard thump at the bottom of the steps, your head cracking against the stone floor.

“Oh, m--!”

You could hardly hear the rushing footsteps to your side as Petra’s light feet slapped against the floor.

Her light head of hair appeared over you, her eyes wide as she knelt down to your side.

“Are you alright?”

No. You were not alright. You were laying in a pool of your own blood because your stitches pulled open. You opened your mouth to reply, to maybe even ask for help, but the blood from your tongue seeped out in a mixture of your saliva.

This seemed to truly frighten Petra as she called for the captain.

“No,” you begged her, wiping your mouth as you tried to sit up. “Not the captain.”

“Christ, L/n,” the captain swore as he exited the office. “I only asked you to mop. Is that something to throw yourself down the stairs over?”

He came to your side, just by Petra. He rolled the white sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows as he examined your wounds. “Ah, shit,” he muttered.

You flinched under the captain’s touch. His arm swept underneath your back, pulling you to sit upright. His hand tugged at the blood soaked hem of your shirt. His palm felt warm against your wound. “Shit,” he said again. “Okay, you’re going to the surgery.”

“No,” you said quickly. You used the back of your mouth to wipe the spit from your mouth. “I just came out of there.”

Petra looked horrified at your words. She whirled her head towards the captain. “She just came out of the medical unit,” she gasped. “And you already had her go onto janitorial service?”

Levi looked flabbergasted. He didn’t bother to say anything. Surprisingly, he just kept his mouth shut as he swept his other arm beneath your legs. You tried to push out of his arms as he rose to his feet.

You were slightly shocked at how strong he was, especially considering his height.

“Medical unit,” the captain said sternly. “Now.”

“I can walk there,” you argued, still squirming under the feeling of his strong hand clasped across your wound.

He met your eyes with his own. It was a strange sight. Up close, his eyes were less dark. They were a smoky grey, with little wisps of crystalline blue seemingly fracked into the irises.

“Let me do my job, cadet,” Levi said as he continued to carry you down the hall.

You felt so close to tears as you earned glances of confusion from the wandering soldiers. While the captain didn’t seem to mind, you really did. You hated feeling so exposed and helpless to a person you didn’t even know. You fought in the Trost battle, for Wall’s sake! You could make it to the surgery all on your own.

Shame doused over you as Levi kicked the door of the surgery open, immediately demanding a bed and attention for you. You hated the way he said your name. Cadet Y/n L/n sounded almost like an insult. It didn’t take a genius to know that the captain doesn’t like you very much; perhaps some reason is your own fault. Even so, you felt like you didn’t deserve to be judged based off a first interaction.

Or, second interaction, if you count the captain’s claim that he met you during Trost. You couldn’t remember that no matter how hard you tried, in the same way you couldn’t remember Fable’s friend’s name.

Kathie Perrine stalked towards you and Levi, rolling her eyes practically to the back of her head when she recognized you. “Back for more?” she asked you.

She gestured a thin hand to one of the made beds.

You tried to crawl out of Levi’s hold. He didn’t let you. Instead, he placed you gently on the mattress.

And then he left.

You looked after him, shocked that he had managed to be so nimble and graceful looking even with his hand covered in your blood. You blushed as Kathie approached you, looking not as gentle as Levi had been. “What happened?”

You started to unbutton your shirt as she gestured for you, mumbling in a low voice, “I fell down the stairs.”

“You fell down the stairs?” Kathie said for confirmation. A little part of you was willing to be that she was repeating it to rub it in your face. She sighed. “Well, lay on your stomach girl. I’m going to have to close them up.”

You cringed. “Is there any way for me to be unconscious during this procedure?” You begged.

“Not unless you want me to hit you over the head with a lead pipe,” the doctor said. “I can give you a drink of whiskey, though,” she added hopefully.

You accepted.

You downed the two shots Kathie measured out for you before turning to lay on your stomach. Her hands were cold against the sticky, warm mess of your wounded back. They didn’t feel anything like the captain’s had.

You tried to focus on the captain’s hand as Kathie made the first stitch.

You wonder if he felt bad, at all. You wonder if he’s discussing just how lame and clumsy you are with Petra. Sure, a small part of you knows you slipped on your own accord, but majority of your brain blames the captain. He had to have known you’d just gotten out of the medical unit.

Oh, but maybe that’s just how it works in adult life. Perhaps you’re just used to being coddled by Commander Sadies; it was strange, thinking that Sadies was the nice one in comparison to the 5′3 captain.

“So, what happened?” Kathie asked.

You clutched onto a pillow, trying not to tear the fabric apart and release the feathers. “I fell down the stairs while mopping.”

Kathie snorted a laugh. You didn’t exactly appreciate it.

“Well,” she said, “I suppose you learned your lesson. I’m tempted to put you on bed rest...but, with Eren Jaeger’s trial coming up, you’ll need to attend.”

You strained your neck to look at Kathie. “Why do I need to attend?”

“The captain wants you to. Captain Ackerman, that is. He’s been postponing this trial for days, waiting for you to wake up. You were a key witness, you know. He was adamant that you attend. You’ll have to go in a wheelchair.”

You dropped your face into your pillow. “’Wheelchair?!’” you repeated, sounding (and feeling) mortified.

“Trust me, there’s lots of soldiers here that would kill to be put onto wheelchair rest. You’ll be in it for a week.”

“What about my room?”

“Hmm,” Kathie hummed as she did one last stitch. “I suppose you’ll be sleeping down here. I can send someone for your belongings, if you wish. Don’t worry, I won’t be too mean to you.”

You winced at the feeling of her stitching, taking comfort when she told you all she needed to do now was bandage you.

There was a small levee on the wall, made from a wooden handle that poured water from the embedded spout as she pulled it. Kathie dunked a cloth into the water bucket and grabbed a roll of cloth bandages from one of the taller cabinets on the wall.

You braced yourself for the freezing water, and hissed as Kathie put the cold washcloth to your skin.

“If you didn’t want to be uncomfortable, you shouldn’t have fallen down the stairs,” Kathie said in cool tone.

You turned your neck once to glare. “The captain put me on janitorial punishment,” you explained, your voice sounding just slightly snotty.

Kathie tutted. “So soon? I’ll have a word with the captain. Not the first time he’s overworked my patients.”

The captain has a history of this?

Ugh.

You pulled your pillow closer to your face. You focused on the fabric threads, your eyes going cross eyed, as you mumbled, “I don’t think he likes me very much.”

“Trust me, kid,” Kathie laughed. “He doesn’t like anyone.”

When the bandages were done, Kathie helped you roll over onto your back.

As you nuzzled down into the bed that would be yours for the next week, you had one thought that stood out against the others. Anyone, except for Petra.

“I’ll bring you a tray of dinner tonight, and with that you can take your painkiller. I’m giving you a stronger dose, so it might make your stomach uneasy. I’ll send someone up for your things here soon, alright?” Kathie set a folded, linen shirt on your lap. You were bracing your chest with the blanket from the cot.

“Alright,” you mumbled as you slowly tugged the cloth over your head. It’s not as though you have a choice. “Miss Perrine?” you call before she can leave.

“Yes?”

Your cheeks felt warm and rosy before you could speak. “Did you, by any chance, treat a patient by the name of Krista Lenz?”

Kathie shook her head without any thought. “She a friend of yours?”

“You could say that,” you shrugged. You didn’t want to feel to sad to hear that. It’s good to know that Krista wasn’t hurt.

“I can ask around. I’ll see if she’s stationed here. Do you want me to let you know?”

You carefully leaned back against the propped up pillow you pushed behind your neck. “That would be lovely,” you murmured. “Thank you, Miss Perrine.”

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elen-aranel · 3 years

Text

Down from Uptown

The Engineer’s Adventures

1-1 • 1-2 • 2 • 3 • 4

For @autumnleaves1991-blog Writer Wednesday. Pairing: Captain Christopher Pike x F!Reader (no Y/N) Warnings: Canon-typical violence; off-screen deaths of (young) adults WC: 6k Tag list: this isn’t the story I said I’d tag you for but it is Captain Pike X Reader @jusvibbbin ? does this count?? I can untag you! A/N: Me: it’s a one-shot Me: oh wait I can’t leave it there here’s a sequel @autumnleaves1991-blog: here’s another amazing Writer Wednesday prompt Me: I guess it’s a series of one shots now?? Also this is super long for me having written it in one day. Not sure where all these words came from. Other writers write feelings; come to me for a healthy dose of plot. tl;dr: Elen saw the picture and thought, what if Captain Pike, but driving a speeder?

It is all his fault.

You shouldn’t even have been here in the first place: you are an engineer. Not a diplomat. Sure you had read the briefing the comms team had put together, but maybe if you’d been better at reading alien body language, they wouldn’t have got the jump on you?

Now you’re sitting in what feels like a cellar, no windows, one flickering light panel above you, leaning against the wall feeling sorry for yourself.

Still. You will admit – having checked Chris over and determined, to the best of your knowledge from your limited field medic training, that he was probably fine – that you would rather be here with him than on the Enterprise worrying, powerless.

While you wait for him to wake you take an inventory of what you have, and think back to how you had gotten into this predicament.

“Are you sure, Chris?” He likes when you call him that, even if you’re on duty, so long as you’re alone. “It’s a first contact, and not even with a society that needs help from us. There’s got to be someone better than me?”

“Of course I’m sure. The Eloma value couple bonds; it would be strange not to take you. Unless,” —he peers up at you under his eyelashes, mouth quirking slightly,—”you don’t think you’re up to it? I could bring—”

“No, I’m up to it all right.” You bristle at the obvious manipulation attempt. You may not be as confident over away missions as the crew who go on them regularly, and your minor meltdown in Earth’s past still has you nervous about how you may react if things go wrong off the ship, but the only way to overcome worries like that is to confront them. You know you can do this. “Louvier’s going to be mad, that’s all. I promised him I’d oversee the shuttle upgrades.”

“You let me handle Louvier,” he says with a small smile.

“Well if I end up on gamma for the next two weeks and you don’t see me at all, you only have yourself to blame,” you say with a shrug.

“Being the captain does have its perks, you know. I can change the duty rosters if I wish.” He grins back, blue eyes sparkling and dimples on display, knowing he’s won this one.

The first impression you get of Eloma is calm beauty. You beam down to a roof garden high on a sky-scraper, with Captain Pike at your side, and Lieutenant Spock and Ensign James from security.

The garden is gorgeous. You meet your hosts on a paved area, but there are trees and flowerbeds all around, a few little paths winding between them, and you can see three ornate stone fountains behind your hosts, the largest of which shoots a plume of water into the air as you watch. You think you’d like to sit on one of the benches with a book – you would enjoy being able to hear the sounds of traffic wafting up from below (something between hover cars and shuttles by the sound of the engines), the horns beeping, and the occasional distant peal of laughter – it would be nice to feel part of all that but also separate from it.

You don’t have too long to dwell on your surroundings, however, because the captain is stepping forward to greet your hosts.

There are two native humanoid species who collectively make up the Eloma: the Mraden who are tall, grey haired with skin shades varying from sky through to ultramarine blue, faces humanlike apart from ridges beneath each eye; and the smaller, black haired, ice-white skinned Ginera who could almost pass for human if their skin was warmer in colour and their dark eyes didn’t flash silver at certain angles. A pair of Mraden and a pair of Ginera step forward to meet you, all wearing long white robes. You wonder if this is normal dress or whether it’s ceremonial, and you resist the temptation to smooth down your red jacket. The Mraden guards standing at attention behind your hosts are dressed more like you, though; a more practical black style.

“Greetings Captain, honoured partner,”—the Mraden lady looks at you as she says this, and you nod slightly in acknowledgement—”I am Nera, first lady of Eloma. May I welcome you on behalf of the first and second couples.” She gestures to her partner first, then to the Ginera couple, who bow. “We are delighted to open contact with the esteemed united Federation of planets, contact which I trust will lead to our mutual benefit.”

“Thank you, Nera. Myself, my partner and officers are grateful for your kind hospitality.”

You try to pay attention to the formalities between Nera, the Captain, and Lakir the first man, but you aren’t a diplomat, and beyond trying to keep your expression pleasant and listen out for anyone addressing you directly, your mind wanders a little. You wonder about the vehicles you can hear. You’re on top of a tall building, possibly the tallest you’ve been on, and as you look around past the trees and flowers you can see other buildings of similar heights. You think the gravity here may be a tiny bit lower than Earth standard, but this culture really does seem to use its sky space a lot.

You’re also interested in your hosts; although your briefing said that the Mraden and Ginera were equals on the planet, all the guards are Mraden and you’ve barely heard your Genera host’s voices, never mind their names. You wonder whether they communicate telepathically, or whether first and second couples switch between the species periodically. That’s probably it, you reason, and probably the first couple is responsible for security. You turn your attention to the fountains – the middle one is in the shape of a tree, and you’re marvelling at the individually carved leaves, when Chris takes your hand.

“Still with us?” He murmurs into your ear, as you look up to see your hosts are leading everyone through the garden.

“Of course,” you reply quietly, before raising your voice a little. “It’s just so beautiful.” Nera overhears that and smiles over her shoulder, and Chris squeezes your hand, pleased.

You follow the group past the fountains and to a door you hadn’t noticed before. It appears to lead down to a stairway and some guards go through, followed by the second couple, Spock and Ensign James, the first couple, then you and the captain.

But as you approach the doorway you hear a vehicle get louder, and suddenly the guards grab you. Your combat training kicks in as you see Chris struggling – you lean back and stomp on the guard’s foot, eliciting a stream of profanities as you try to elbow him in the solar plexus. But he’s a lot larger than you and had the benefit of surprise, and his grip doesn’t loosen as someone else stuffs a cloth in front of you and you can’t help breathing in the fumes, and you try to hang on but everything goes dark.

It is all his fault.

But blame will have to wait until later.

You assess yourself – other than a mild headache, probably due to dehydration, and a slightly bruised left hip, you feel fine. And the bruising isn’t going to slow you down if you need to make a run for it.

You go through your pockets. Your pants pockets are empty, but you unzip your uniform jacket and the inner one hasn’t been found – the custom one you modified the standard jacket synthesiser program for, because you always need to carry more than the uniform designers planned on, and you didn’t want delicate tools getting damaged when you shoved a communicator or PADD into your pants pocket.

You always have some tools with you because wherever you go, whether you’re on duty or not, someone will say, “You’re an engineer, right? Can you just have a quick look at...” and you make a show of grumbling but actually part of the reason you became an engineer in the first place is that you like to get things working for people. You’re grateful today that that extends to away missions.

You’re surprised to find your communicator on the floor near you, but as you pick it up you realise why it was left: it’s damaged. It had been in your left pocket, and whatever happened to you happened to it first; the casing is all bent and when you try to raise the Enterprise, you get nothing, not even static.

Figures that this would happen again, you think as you examine your communicator, assessing the damage. The real reason you shouldn’t be taken on away missions is because of your terrible luck. This one isn’t totally fried, you discover as you pry it apart and examine the components, but while it will still function as a translator, the transmitter was crushed. The communicator will work again if you can find a compatible part, but there’s no chance of communicating with the ship, and they can’t even lock on to your signal. You pull out the broken transmitter parts and put the case back together, and as you bend the cover back into shape you hear a groan.

“Captain?” You get up and crouch by him. He is leaning against the wall of your windowless cellar, blue eyes squinting. “How are you feeling?”

“A little sore, but fine. You?” He straightens, focusing on you, reaching out a hand to touch your cheek gently.

“I’m fine. A little bruised.” You lean into his touch, briefly, before sitting back down next to him.

“What happened? I remember following our hosts, then a fight, and now I’m here..?”

“Wherever here is. That’s all I remember too. I hope Spock and James are okay.” Now Chris is awake your brain is allowing itself to worry. You frown. You can’t panic again like last time.

“What’s going on in there?” Chris is looking at you, concerned.

“Just... making a decision. To be strong. It sounds silly when I say it out loud.”

He leans over and places a soft kiss on your lips, and for just a moment you forget where you are – it’s just you and him, and the special thing that you have between you. “That’s a decision we all have to make,” he says as he pulls away, thoughtful. “It becomes... less conscious. With time.”

You nod, and you take a moment to breathe. You’ve got this.

“Seems like they’ve been through our pockets,” Chris says, getting to his feet. “My communicator is gone.” He walks over to the door, which is locked. That was going to be your next project.

“I still have mine but unfortunately it won’t communicate,” you say, standing too. “The transmitter got broken at some point. The translation functions are still operational though and it has power.”

“Can you fix it?”

“I’m good, but not that good,” you say, pulling the pieces of the component out your pocket to show him.

“Ah. Any ideas? Other than waiting?”

“After I failed with the communicator I was going to try to pick the lock,” you say, heading toward the door.

“With what?”

“With this.” You pull out a tool with a hook on it which you use to lever broken components off boards when they’re too small for your fingers.

“How do you–”

Chris’s question is cut off by the door in question opening. You just have time to put your tool in your pants pocket before two Ginera appear, brandishing energy weapons. You raise your hands and back away.

“Sit down,” the lead one says, waving his weapon, and you both comply. The other, also male, steps round him and puts two bottles of water on the floor, and a plate of what looks to be food.

“I’m Captain Christopher Pike, of the United Federation of Planets. I promise if you let us go unharmed my people won’t seek punishment against you, or retribution. If not, though, they will come after us.”

The boy, and he is a boy, you realise, twenty at most, snickers. “We don’t intend to hurt you, but we’re not going to let the best chance the GLG has had to be taken seriously go just like that. Sorry.”

“The GLG?” Chris asks, voice gentle. Unthreatening.

“Ginera Liberation Group. And no, your ship knows we have you, but they’re not going to find you. We called them on your communicator, Captain, and told them we had you, and not to look. We weren’t stupid enough to call from here, either,” he adds, and a little spark of hope in you flares out. “And there are 60 million people in this city alone, they’re not going to be able to resolve the life signs of... whatever you are, among all of us.”

“And what is it that the... Ginera Liberation Group wants?”

“To wake people up. To tell the Mraden”—he spits out the word like it’s a curse—”that we won’t take being treated as second-class citizens anymore. And to give the Ginera hope – that we can take back what’s ours. We don’t need their skyscraper cities, where they force us to live in the dirt. We don’t need their language or their stupid pair bonds. We had our own society before and we can have it again.”

Chris sighs, and leans back, looking up at the boy. “Take it from someone who is old enough to be your dad: taking hostages is not the way. The Federation won’t pay a ransom for us. The Mraden won’t listen to you while you have us. But if you let me go, we can have Federation diplomats come, and—”

“We’ve had enough of diplomacy, Captain. We’re taking matters into our own hands now. Enjoy your food.” He turns abruptly and stalks out, his companion in tow.

Chris examines the food – there are four pre-packaged energy bars. He passes one to you, opening one himself. “Might as well do what the kid says.” He takes a bite, grimacing slightly.

You are not hungry, but you take a bite of yours anyway – you know you need to keep your strength up. You grimace too – the flavour is a weird combination of sweet citrus and something almost cheesy. In general you like salt and sweet but this is not it.

Still you force yourself to finish it; you both need to keep your strength up. Thankfully the drink is just water.

After you’ve finished eating Chris speaks again.

“So how about getting out of here? How do you still have that tool, anyway?”

“I have a pocket in my jacket. I have done for years. It’s reinforced so you don’t see it from the outside – as an ensign my commanding officer cared more about aesthetics than practicality – and that’s where I keep my more delicate tools.”

“Ever the engineer, huh?” Chris’s expression is fond and you smile back, warm inside despite your situation. “Come on.”

He stands, and puts his hand out for you. You grasp hold of it and pull yourself up, appreciating the contact. You go to the door, hook tool in hand, and listen at it first. When you’re sure you don’t hear anything from the other side you gingerly put the tool into the keyhole. It doesn’t shock you, which is a good start, but it still takes a few minutes to work out the structure. Chris is patient while you work, not breathing down your neck. You smile in satisfaction as the lock softly clicks open.

“Well done. I figure we sneak out of here then try to alert local law enforcement. Hopefully they can put us in touch with Nera’s people, who can get us back to the ship.”

“Sounds like a plan,” you say, stepping back to let him take the lead.

You follow him along a little corridor then up a flight of stairs, pausing when he motions you to stop. You can hear voices coming from your left and he eases the door open then gestures you to follow again. You catch a glimpse of the room your captors are in on the way past, but happily they have their back to you, looking at a display screen. Then you’re past them, to the front door. Chris opens it as carefully as he can but the last bolt is stiff and scrapes as it opens. You sense movement behind you but you’re through, slamming the door shut behind you, racing across the street and into an alleyway on the other side before they get out. You keep going behind the building opposite, and then Chris has you double back to face the street you were on. You peep round the edge of the building – your captors are standing in their doorway, the leader berating his companion, although you can’t hear what he’s saying.

You step back into the alley.

“Well, the—” Chris starts to say, but he’s interrupted by a loud bang. An explosion. People are screaming and you smell smoke, see orange light from flames.

You follow Chris back onto the street but the building you were in, small, apparently, just three stories amongst all the giant skyscrapers, is billowing flame and smoke from all its windows, on all floors. There’s a crowd of people standing, staring in disbelief, as the last window shatters, sprinkling glass over the crowd.

You turn to Chris. “We—we were—”

“I know,” he says, reaching for your hand. You take it, hearing sirens getting louder. You walk toward the building, knowing there was no way the boys could have survived. You stand at the edge of the crowd, looking at the smoke billowing out, as the authorities arrive.

First there are some Ginera on what looks like a fire appliance. They begin to set up hoses, faces grim. Then some Mraden swoop down in a vehicle painted white with a green logo on it. The crowd, who you notice is made up mostly of Ginera, back away slightly. Chris tows you forward, toward the Mraden who are wearing the same uniform as the guards were in the garden, who knows how long ago. They’re not the same people; their skin tones are both quite pale, but to your horror as soon as they see you they raise their weapons and fire.

You’re running again, keeping up with Chris who leads you straight into the smoke and through, round the corner of the block, down the street, into an alley, out onto another street, into yet another alley, until he’s certain you’re not being followed.

You breathe heavily, holding your hip – you were able to run, and could again, but it hurts.

“That was... unexpected,” Chris says, deadpan, and suddenly you find you have your arms around him, holding tight.

“Too close for comfort,” you say, pulling away a little, as he pats your back.

“I really did think this mission was going to be normal,” he shrugs a little as you step away. “Definitely not worse than last time.”

“I mean I know in theory that away missions are dangerous, but I—I didn’t expect someone I thought was going to help us to shoot.”

“Yeah.” He shakes his head. “Seems like we were supposed to die in that fire...” he frowns as you both try to make sense of what just happened.

“What if it’s all a trick?” You muse aloud. “What if the Mraden are the ones who want us to die? Then they can blame the Ginera and crack down on them even further. And all they had to do was manipulate some kids...?”

Chris’s blue eyes are serious. “You’re right. That’s the only explanation that makes sense. We need to contact the ship. But we can’t trust anyone, and we need to get away from here.” He eyes you speculatively. “It’s an old-fashioned term, so I hope you’ve heard it before, but how do you feel about grand theft auto?”

“It’s called a speeder,” you say, frowning at the display. It hadn’t taken you long to find and break into a suitable vehicle. It was small, rust coloured and nondescript – not shiny and new, but not banged up either. You popped the doors up and open with ease; not that lock picking was anything you’d tried before today, not really, but you may have broken into a shuttle or two during your academy days.

Chris had got in on the drivers side, leaving you to puzzle out the on-board computer with the help of your communicator.

“I’ve hacked into the admin menu and changed the transceiver code; we need to use it to change lanes and stuff – to move up and down.” You scroll though the options in front of you, displaying in English now, rather than the the native Eloma language. Maybe the native Mraden language, you think wryly, as you find a setting which taps into the city’s store directory.

“There’s a hardware store in a block a couple of miles east of here. I know we can’t trust anyone but I think we may have to try. As far as I can tell it’s quite low down – only on the second level. I think it’s more likely to be Ginera than Mraden.”

Chris pauses from where he’s examining the controls. “We may be better off with the Ginera. I’m willing to bet our captors were a fringe group. I’m sure a lot of the Ginera agree with their goals, but probably not their means. They may be less inclined to report us to the authorities.” He nods. “All right. Strap in. Let’s get this show on the road,” he says, as he presses the ignition.

You look out the windshield at the street around you as Chris gets the speeder moving; with all your running away earlier you hadn’t paid attention to your surroundings beyond wondering whether you could be seen. It’s grey, down here. Drab, even with all the colourful advertising signs. There’s a layer of grime, something dirty in the atmosphere.

You stare out the window as you drive, keeping an eye out for law enforcement, but you don’t see any. As you get further east the traffic gets a little lighter. You eye Chris sidelong; he seems relaxed as he navigates the unfamiliar city.

“Time to go up,” he says, pressing a control and pulling a lever. You see a flashing indicator to see you have permission to change level, and then you’re ascending.

You’ve spent lots of time in shuttles, piloted yourself in an out of orbit more than a few times, but it feels different in a speeder. More immediate, somehow.

Up here the traffic is moving faster, and you see many different speeders, in all colours and all designs. Some of the buildings have balconies with people, mainly Ginera, sitting reading, hanging out washing – a slice of daily life.

You pass a major junction, impressed with how Chris is handling the traffic signals, and the buildings change – the road is a bit wider, and the shops have speeder parks outside.

You wish your briefing notes had mentioned the local currency, not that knowing about it would do you any good.

“I think we’re here,” Chris says, as he slows the speeder down and sets it down in front of a shop. You look at the sign – you can’t read it but it has the same logo as in the store directory. “Will you be okay to go in alone? I think I should stay here...”

“In case we need to make a fast exit? Aye Captain.” You catch his eye and grin, unplugging the communicator and climbing out of the speeder.

Louvier would love this place, you think as you look around the dark interior. The aisles are narrow and full of parts, a few of which you recognise, and most of which you don’t. There are bins with various components like resistors and capacitors, and power supplies, regulator circuitry, almost anything you could want. Except, as far as you can see, the thing you need – a transmitter.

At the back of the store, sitting behind a counter, is an older Ginera female, hair greying a little, screwdriver tucked behind her ear as she focuses on soldering a circuit. You wait for her to put the iron down.

“Excuse me? I’m wondering if you can help.” She looks up and her eyes widen – she can’t see aliens too often, you think.

“You—” she frowns, shakes her head. “You’re from that starship. But the news net said you were dead. Murdered by those GLG kids.”

“You, um... can’t believe everything you see on the net?”

“They said that the legislature was going to be recalled. That your people are going to come and punish us.”

“That’s—that’s not who we are, at all. Even if some kids had killed us the Federation would never retaliate like that. They would try to find us, if they thought we were alive, and it might complicate negotiations between our peoples but there would be no punishment. But... how many did they say died?”

“The two of you who were abducted from the first couple’s garden.”

Spock and James were safe. The fist bit of good news you’d had today.

“I really need to call my ship, let them know that we’re alive. But my communicator is broken. Do you have a micro transmitter? Something like this?”

You lean down over the low counter to show her your broken component.

“I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “Nothing I’ve got here would be able to take the power you’d need for orbital communications. We don’t need things like that down here.”

Your shoulders slump. “Thanks anyway,” you say, straightening up.

“Wait. My cousin works in a shop at the shipyards by the spaceport. He’ll have what you need.” She rummages under the counter and produces a business card. “That will show you the way. His name is Jima. Tell him Asba sent you, he’ll give it to you for free.”

“Thank you, so much,” you say, taking the card and putting it in your pocket. “You don’t know how grateful I am, truly.”

“You’re welcome, love.” She turns her soldering iron on again, and smiles at you before getting back to work. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

“So am I,” you say, as you turn to leave the shop.

“I have good news and bad news,” you say, as you plug the communicator back into the speeder and put the card into a slot that’s clearly designed for such things: a route shows up on the screen.

“Bad news first,” Chris says with a wry smile, easing the speeder back into traffic. “Although I can guess what it is considering we’re not calling for a beam out right now.”

“ I should have said great, good, bad and worse. You’re right about the bad news – she didn’t have the part. The worse news is that she thinks we’re dead and the Federation is going to come and get revenge on the planet.”

“The Federation will what?” Chris almost swerves into another speeder as he takes the turn late, narrowly missing and causing the other speeder to honk its horn angrily. “Sorry about that,” he adds, a little sheepish.

“My fault for not warning you before dropping bombs. But the good news is Asba in the shop gave us the route you’re following to the shop where her cousin works near the spaceport. And the great news is that we were the only ones captured – Spock and James should be fine.”

“Oh thank god,” he says, fervent.

You access the speeder’s admin menu again as he drives and change the transceiver code again, mainly for something to do, but partly in case the driver of the speeder you nearly hit decides to call the authorities. Then you review your route. The shop you’re going to is several levels higher than you are now; you hope your speeder won’t stick out too much up there.

There are plenty of new things to see out the window, though. As you get higher the buildings are cleaner, windows larger. The shops you see have more elaborate displays with fancier goods, there are more Mraden around, and, as the light begins to turn golden, you pass your first park, full of Mraden children playing.

“The GLG had a point,” you say, almost to yourself.

“In what way?”

“The higher you get, the nicer it is, and the more Madren I’m seeing. Obviously their methods are wrong but... I kind of get it.”

“When we get out of here, I’m going to tell the Federation negotiators that we shouldn’t agree to anything without conditions of the Ginera being discussed. It feels a little like letting the bad guys get what they want in a way, but you can’t make an entire culture suffer because a couple of kids make a stupid choice.”

“And they were probably manipulated, too. That doesn’t excuse them, but—” you lock eyes with a Mraden enforcer as you pass a junction. She recognises you, even through the glass, and mutters into a communicator of some kind.

”But?”

“We’ve been spotted. Turn left! Now!”

Chris makes the turn, speeding up as he also changes up a level. He weaves in and out of traffic, trying to shake your tail, while you hold on for dear life, glad that you strapped in.

“Relax,” he says, as he takes another alarming turn, flying away from another chorus of horns. “My first assignment in Starfleet was as a test pilot.”

“That’s... um... good to know,” you say, weakly, as he brings you up another level and slows sharply. He takes the next turn at a much more sedate pace, before spotting an empty lane in front of you and speeding up again.

“Are we nearly there yet?” You ask, getting a laugh.

“Actually we are.” As you look around you realise you’re on the edge of the industrial district. Ahead you can just see some star ships, a large freighter and shuttles flying around it. “And hopefully we lost them.”

You reset the transceiver code for the third time, back to its factory default, as Chris makes a right between two tall buildings. You switch the transceiver off completely before he makes two more turns; hopefully it’s owner will be able to pick up the signal when it came on again and find it.

“I’ll come too this time.” Chris says, opening his door.

“Thank you for not crashing,” you say as you exit the speeder.

“Any time,” he says, and you both laugh as you enter the shop.

Where the last shop was cramped, this one is spacious. You recognise a lot more components here; they’re not Federation but they’re ship components and you understand what they do.

You and Chris find the small bin with the piece you need pretty quickly, but it’s locked, and you look around for help. You feel eyes on your back and you turn to see a Ginera male looking at you curiously.

“Excuse me,” you say, tone polite and not too eager, “do you know Jima? We’re looking for him.”

“I’m Jima,” he says, stepping closer. Chris puts his hand on your back; for your sake or his you can’t say.

“Asba sent us. She said you could help me get a component to fix my communicator?”

“Is this what you need?” He indicates the bin you were looking at. He pitches his voice quiet and you match it.

“Yes. This is the one I need.”

He unlocks the bin, takes a couple of transmitters out, and beckons you to follow, keeping an eye on the only other customer, a Mraden male. You pass between the aisles to the edge of the store, quietly following his lead, and go through a doorway.

“Asba called me, said you’d be coming. She also said to keep you out of sight. You should be safe here, to fix your tech. Call me if you need anything.” He steps back through the doorway as you hear some other customers enter the shop.

You put that out of mind though, as you hand Chris the communicator while you get your tools out. You can feel tension radiating off him as you take it back but you ignore that too. This is fixing things. It’s what you do. You open the cover and slot the component in, bending a couple of pins to fit and adjusting the power output to compensate for the non standard part.

“They were seen in this area. The speeder they stole is just out here.” Even though you’re concentrating, you can’t shut off your ears entirely. The people you thought were customers when they entered? Law enforcement.

You shut the cover again and hand it back to Chris.

“Didn’t I see them with you, Jima? They must be in the overflow storage.”

You hear loud footsteps as Chris says, “Pike to Enterprise! Get us out of here now!”

He reaches for your hand catching hold as the Mraden enforcement officers come through the door, and the gold light takes you, leaving them staring.

You thought you were glad to get back to Enterprise after you were on Earth. But that was nothing to how you feel now. You keep it together, however, in front of Number One, Spock, and the transporter technician.

“They said you were dead,”Number One says in greeting. “They showed us the burning building. They showed us your burnt communicator with the power cell removed. They said that was the only thing that survived.”

“What’s the quote? ‘The rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated’?” Pike shrugs, giving her a half smile.

“ ‘The report of my death was an exaggeration.’ I’m glad you’re okay, Chris, but don’t do that to me again. At least not for another month.”

You shower in your own quarters, having got your bruise treated in sickbay, trying to calm down. Away missions are still a lot. Chris told you to take twenty four before reporting for duty again, and you will, but you get a report written first – you need to make sure that Jima and Asba are safe, and that the ship sends some compensation to the person whose speeder you stole. That done, you check with the computer, change into civvies and join Chris in his quarters.

“Hey,” he says as you walk in, standing from where he was sitting by the window and drawing you into a hug, then a soft kiss. You bring a hand up to his face, running you fingers over the stubble that’s there after a very long day, and kiss him back, heated, your lips moving across his, his tongue licking into your mouth. You pull apart, staring up into his blue eyes.

“You were right,” he says, drawing you across the room to sit next to him on the couch. “There was a Mraden plot. Nera and Lakir have resigned, although they claim they didn’t know what was going on, and Tura and Sama, the Ginera second couple, have taken power until they can hold new elections. It’s going to be a tough road for Eloma, if they’re going to properly confront their problems, but the Federation will help.”

“I’m glad,” you say, leaning into him, enjoying how safe you feel with his arm around you. “I—I hope those boys’ sacrifice turns out to be worth it.”

“Yeah,” he says, kissing your head, and you sit in silence for few minutes.

“Dinner?” He asks eventually.

“Yes if we can have your chilli again. I think we’ve earned it.”

“Oh you definitely did,” he replies, standing to go over to the synthesiser.

“Lieutenant?” It’s two days later and you’re on your way to Engineering from the mess hall. You turn in the corridor, to see Number One standing there, an amused expression on her face.

“Commander?”

“Next time he asks you to go on an away mission, just say no.”

#christopher pike #christopher pike x reader #christopher pike x you #Captain Pike #writings of the girl from outer space #fanfic #fanfiction #star trek discovery #star trek strange new worlds #writer wednesday #The Engineer's Adventures

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yconic · 4 years

Text

"Divorce is a special kind of pain. It's like death without a body, " is what they say when two halves of a whole heart separate.

Tony never understood when he was younger, never extended the notion of two people who gifted each other to eternity in union splitting up beyond 'Just not talking for a bit.'

He looked at it from a small perspective belonging to a small person, as if the people in question were just two good friends who couldn't decide on what game to play, hurt each other, and needed space.

His parents had done it more times than he cared to count. The frigid silences and artificial prompt politeness between the socialite power couple Howard and Maria Stark could last for two days, or two months, depending on how deep the issue picked out that time ran.

Tony sat straight as he watched the clock tick away, dutifully counting the hours that would bring Maria closer to home from whichever elicit travel affair she filled her time with while Howard closes himself into his workshop, stewing in anger and bitterness that leak out from the door he's not permitted to trespass.

He learns to measure the gravity of their squabbles, - If it's a small argument, Maria picks Germany, France, or Spain. She sends a letter stating the duration of her stay. She sends Tony well wishes, with a touch of formality for a mother, and her name is elegantly plastered on the bottom in cursive.

When Howard fucks up, she picked China, Britain, or Italy, and she disappeared from the earth until she emerged at her like. Howard is Howard, - the relationship between him and his son was too cold for Tony to tell how his father was like without the disdain gleaming in his eyes, but the liquor cabinet always needed at least a daily refill after a spectacular drama.

He looks back at those moments and realizes, with a shade of pity coated in something more sour, mellow but active, that divorce was never an option for them, the cycle of co-dependency and maintaining legacy had to be kept no matter how demanding that task was.

He can't bring himself to be angry when he feels so bad for them. All that money, and they couldn't buy a second of peace.

It doesn't take long for him to realize his parents don't love each other.

Tony was young, but he was never a child. He was naive, gullible, innocent, - but he was awake. While he didn't clearly understand what love was, he looked at the unhappy frowns on the miserable faces of the pair and thought: 'If that's how love looks like I want no part in it.'

He doesn't love people for more than one night, - A full week if their company was good enough to distract him from the rich golden color of his whiskey that gradually tastes bitter, and more bitter every time. It's not love, he knows, - He keeps that special for his family. But the kind of feeling he has with strangers, with nobody's with a name, resembles what he knows of love too much for him to change meaning.

He won't know how "love" feels like. He refuses to be the caged bird his mother was, to take form in the monster Howard let himself become.

Then, life gives him Steve.

He nests into Tony's life like a storm with skin, hair kissed by sunshine and eyes filled with an ocean that the brunette longs to sink into. He has a boyish charm to him, an old soul that swoops Tony off his feet. It makes him want to slow down, even if he belongs to the future, to activity, to progress. He wants to sit and listen to the stories Steve has, told in a Brooklyn swird that gives character to every word.

Steve looks at him like Rhodey told him all people should look at him. 'Like they can't see the status, or the money, or the power. Like they just see Tony, and nothing more. Because Tony will always be enough. ' Steve looks at him like he hangs the moon for him.

Tony never stood a chance. He looked at Steve, and thinks: "Oh, shit. He's It for me."

He just knows that this one, this Captain, decorated to the teeth, hiding in awkwardness at this petty mingling, social climbing Gala, lowering himself at the bar because he didn't know anybody, was made for him. And if Steve clings to Tony the whole night, he agrees with the parallel drawing out on his part.

He doesn't leave Tony's side, arm snug and comfortable around his middle like they've known each other for longer than time itself, and Tony loves it more than he has the courage to say.

Steve looks at him when the epilogue of the night strikes, too soon for either of their likings. He's tall, broad-shouldered, strong but has the softest eyes in the world. It hurts Tony to arch his neck to stare, but he doesn't want to miss a thing. "I've... I didn't laugh like that since I was in tour. You made my night, Tony."

"It's nothing, -" Because it really is. Considering the sins to his name, the least he can do to atone some mistakes is make as much people as happy as he can. And Happy is a great look on Steve.

He does learn one thing: When Steve says something, it stays how Steve says it. "No, its everything, Tony. I didn't smile once since coming home, " he croaks, like the confession pains him, and Tony aches alongside him. "Everyone is worried about me, saying that, that I seem upset, or sad, or just, never happy anymore, but how else am I supposed to feel?"

"You can't let others tell you how you feel, " Tony soothes, without thinking, a hand softly brushing against Steve's cheek. A frisson zaps through him at the feeling of the soldier's stubble spiking his skin. Steve leans into his touch like it's the most normal thing in the world. Tony's heart grows. "It's not even in your control, so why should it be in theirs? " He understands how Steve feels. More than the world would care to listen.

"Exactly. So, if it's not too much trouble, " his shyness compliments Tony's smitten. "Would you mind making me smile again?"

Tony is, utterly, indubitably, irrevocably, without a shade of doubt, fucked.

He smiles anyway. "You know, soldier, I think I could pull some strings."

---

Their love is like rain in June. It's mellow and distractingly peaceful, makes their worry and everything that ever went wrong scarce away. They can breathe around each other even when they feel like drowning. For once, Tony feels like it'll be okay.

But Life decides to do what it always does when Tony finds something good. It takes, and it takes, until there's nothing.

Steve tells him about Bucky. About the fallen brother that vanished in the mission that stole everything for Steve. "Only one soldier fell off that train, but two died that day, " God, Tony is so worried when Steve talks like that. "It should've been me. I wanted it to be me."

Tony listens and he pictures Rhodey falling. Steve loved Bucky in ways he couldn't even hope to understand.

It turns out, Death is not something so permanent after all.

It's a lovely night for them when Steve gets that call. He's wrapped around Tony and holds him in his arms as if he'd rather go to war again than let him go and Tony's heart never beat so loud for anyone. He would have never let Steve answer if he knew that phone call was the beginning of their end.

Bucky's alive again, is reborn from snow and war and ashes. Broken, but alive. Held captive by terrorists and is unmade, undid, but still alive. Everything around Steve is lost after that.

Tong gives him space and resources, help, support, he gives everything to Steve like on their wedding day. He gives him his care and gentle hands and soft words and love with a heartbeat. And Steve is just... Too preoccupied looking at Bucky to notice. Tony feels like a selfish bastard for wanting his soldier to look at HIM instead of coddling his friend at every moment notice.

He wants Steve to stop suffocating Bucky when he already looks like he's just inhaling instead of breathing.

He wants his husband back.

That's why he deserves what's coming to him. That's his punishment.

They drift apart slowly, as most terrible pains start.

Steve starts spending more and more time around the mental help facility Bucky asked to be enlisted into after his hasty return that had everyone clutching at their pearls. He wants to do it alone, Tony figures easily, starves for a journey he wants to walk himself, for the kind of autonomy only a man who lost it for too long craves.

His bitterness aside, Tony marvels at how similar they are. Maybe In another life, he and Barnes would've made a handsome pair of kindred souls.

Steve doesn't agree. He looks sickened, struck even, at Tony for having the Gall to suggest maybe Barnes would be more responsive if he talked with someone who had mirroring experiences. "God, Tony, you don't... You're not a soldier. You're just a man. You've been through pain, sure, but not like Bucky. No one went through what he did. I'm honestly speechless you ever thought you could compare."

Steve says that, it's why it hurts so bad. The man who swore he'd walk back into the hellfire of war just to find the people who hurt Tony and tear them apart.

The man who couldn't be moved by anything. No nightmare, no night terror, no panic attack, no argument. Nothing convinced Steve to leave. He stayed through it all.

The man who cried relentlessly when Rhodey walked Tony down the alter because 'He couldn't believe how lucky he was to marry someone so beautiful.'

The man who hasn't written Tony a love letter every morning like he used to do in over a year.

The man who spent more time sleeping in hospital rooms than in their bed.

The man who used to not go even one day without saying "I love you". Tony can't even remember the last time this sentence was spoken between them unless he said it first.

The man who agreed to couple therapy, then acted like it rained the next day.

Tony would will himself to shove this under the rug. To put a blind eye to it, to make it work, to ignore Rhodey's disapproval and Pepper's warm worry, to push away the pain blossoming in his chest, threatening to overspill.

But this man adopted a child with him.

---

"That one" Steve points to a small boy, thin but sturdy-looking even in the hand me downs from the orphanage, short limbs supporting a mess of brown hair that looks impossibly soft. His eyes are big and kind. Tony wants to take him home and feed him. "That one's ours."

His name is Peter, and he got into a fight with older kids when they wanted to stomp on ladybugs. He pushes back, but not unkindly. He's no bully. Instead, he takes the time to teach them why disrespecting and hurting nature is wrong, then takes their hands into his own, playing with the tiny creatures for hours.

Tony falls in love immediately. "Let's bring him home, Cap."

---

He can't do it. Tony can't look into Peter's adoring eyes, wide and brown that feel more like a mirror than anything, and see the fear he had for Howard, or the sadness for Maria. Tony can't handle looking at the love of his life and see another him.

Steve is Peter's role model. His knight in shining armor, his protector, everywhere he goes he sings praise to anyone who cares to listen. About his fearless father, his heroic antics that seem so tall for him. "My daddy's a superhero!" Tony doesn't have the heart to take that away.

And Tony loves Steve too much to see him become Howard.

So when Steve misses their son's 5th birthday party because he had more pressing business in D.C, Tony realizes bitterly, there's no saving this. People labeled him as a mechanic, a futurist, but he feels unworthy of both when he couldn't fix or foresee this.

There's no coming back from this.

Natasha doesn't voice it, but she doesn't need to. She tucks her phone away after a third failed attempt to coax, threaten, and guilt Steve into joining them, with muted movements, and Tony can tell she agrees.

Tony's grin is too wide when he looks down at Peter when he drags him off to paint his face, unaware of his father's turmoil. He laughs. He smiles. He celebrates. He has a nice day with his family.

He pulls Pepper aside and asks her to prepare his lawyers in the same breath.

This is why Tony knew love wasn't made for him.

---

Tony's always been good at hurting himself. The more pain he inflicts on himself, the less it'll hurt when someone else does it. So he unpacks the stash of letters he kept locked away in a seif, because they're prized to him, more than any sleek car or company, and reads them before he burns the bridge.

They feel like warm kisses and goodbyes.

'Left for a grocery jog, ran out of coffee. It's supposed to be cold, so don't you even think about leaving the house without a jacket! I'll know. Take care of yourself, even when I'm not there. '

' I love waking up next to you every morning. I love how you hide from the sun in my chest. I love how grumpy you are when Pepper calls for updates and all you do is cuddle me and whine. I love your messy bed hair and how you fall asleep in the shower.

'I never cared for jewelry before but seeing my ring around your finger never gets old. I still can't believe you said yes, but I'm glad you did. You deserve more, but you settled for someone like me. I can't believe it when you say no one would want you forever, I hate that someone made you think like that, that they let you go, but their biggest mistake is my biggest win. Jokes on them.'

'I can't imagine my life without you. Its all radio silence and broken static. Like an artist with a blank canvas and grey paint. You're the best damn thing that ever happened to me, and the fact that I have you means there really is someone up there looking our for me. I'm never letting you go. I love you, I love you, I love you, '

Tony stains the paper with tears as he listens to the song of heartbreak in his chest.

---

"Nat, " Tony pleads, choosing not to look at the tremor in his hands as he neats the papers he wants to see burn. "There's no need for that, come on. You know I love you, but I'm a big boy. I don't need you to hold my hand for this."

Natasha shrugs. "Indulge me."

"He wouldn't do anything to me."

"I thought there were lots of things he wouldn't do. Like stop loving you, for one, " she doesn't mean to be a jab, but Tony strokes his right arm and lets the hurt wash off. He sometimes forgets how blunt and terrifying Pepper's wife is capable of being. "Being paranoid is worth being safe."

They find Steve in the kitchen, sitting stiff and unfamiliar as if he didn't design the place himself. Tony swallows down the pressure in his throat and forces his eyes to stay dry. He wants to rest his hands on Steve's shoulders and pepper the lines of laughter on his flushed face with kisses.

But they're behind that now.

Steve raises his eyes to look at him. He's tired, run-down, missing the spark Tony marked as one of his favorite traits of the blonde. The life wasted from them, telling Tony that he's surviving, but not living.

Tony looks at him back and his eyes say, 'Me too.'

Steve's mouth twists into an imitation of a smile, tries his luck at mimicking something of the reassurance and ease variety, to hide his emotions with a mask of cracked peace Tony undressed a million times, just as Steve undressed his. He's always been good at reading the man. Or, was.

Steve's eyes fall on the documents Tony's holding with his naked hands, no ring in sight, and Tony watches something die in him.

The room drowns in silence for a while.

Natasha stands as a loyal shadow at his side, silent but sharp, hands folded in front of her crotch like a guard dog waiting to pounce. There's a forced calm into her breathing that puts him even more on edge.

Papers brush smoothly above the marble surface, ear piercing to him. Red hot blazing into white noise. It's the most terrible sound he's ever heard. He prefers his breathless, agonized screams in Afghanistan to this.

Steve recoils away, standing up suddenly and shakily, as if the documents are bombs about to kill him anytime now.

He turns his head, refusing to look at them. Refuses to accept they're real.

"Throw those away, Tony, " he says, voice edged with the kind of suffering that would bring Tony to his knees on other circumstances."Get them the hell away from me and never bring them up again, you hear me? I'm serious.''

Carefully, Natasha chimes in, tone mild and neutral. " Steve. Tony would like to speak with you about something, alright? Let's sit down, and talk like grown-ups, -"

"Where's your ring!?" Steve shouts, tiptoeing at the border of desperate and hysteric. Tony wants back into the cave, wants the water to take him away from all of this. It's hard to kill something that's already dead. "What did you do with it!? Why aren't you wearing it!? You PROMISED me, you promised you'd never take it off you JERK, you lying -"

"And you promised to love me until the day we die, but by the looks of it we both could use a lesson in honesty, " Tony cuts icily, colder than colder. His words are resigned, hollow, at the brim of mechanical. He thinks all the people who say Starks are more machine than men had a point. "I'm the fuck up in this relationship. What's your excuse?"

He thought he'd feel vindication watching Steve taste a fraction of his sorrow, that his destroyed look would make something in Tony retaliate. It does nothing. Tony loves him stronger, fiercer, and there's no win here for anyone.

His mouth tastes like ashes.

He just wants to stop, to sink in his bed and swim in ratty hoodies drenched in cheap but sweet cologne, smudged with paint of all shades, and feel Steve's arms shield him from the world.

He wonders if it'll keep Steve up at night, how it never occurred to him that the danger he wanted to defend Tony from might have his face.

"I'll do better. Tony please," Steve begs him, and Tony wonders if the situation is so low a man with his nature would resort to that. He's shaken by big hands engulfing his own for exactly a moment before Natasha intervenes, pushing the blonde away with a hint of regret. Steve recovers, looks right through her at Tony who wants to wipe his tears away. "I'll do better, I'll- I'll spend less time with Bucky if you want, -"

"Bucky isn't the problem. It's not about HIM, it was never about him, this is US, Steve. We, our marriage, our family, its been here longer than Bucky. I never wanted you to - to erase him from your life, I just wanted my husband. Peter wanted his daddy. Bucky could've been apart of that, but you just, you just pushed us aside,-"

"I won't do that anymore. I, - Do you want me to be at home more often? I can, sweetheart, I can do that no problem. I can be at home, I can make time for dates and-and for activities, I can take Peter to the park and play ball, - Do you remember that? How we used to play until he fell asleep? I don't mind, its no problem, -"

Something in Tony snaps.

"WE'RE NOT YOUR FUCKING CHORES," His voice is more roar than man, ragged, tight, pushed to the last limit. The garden of silent pain, fury, rage, and fear he's been harboring finally blossomed into something that seemed to shake the world. His body shudders. "We're not some,- some pestering tasks that you have to save your precious time to complete! Some fucking pets other people have to force you to care of, or some dirty laundry you decide to wear whenever you feel like washing! We're your damn FAMILY,- " A sob hitches his anger, and by the broken look on Steve's face, it's worse than any rage.

He narrows his eyes in disbelief, as if Steve was some stranger and not someone he gave years of his life to. A laugh is pushed out of his chest, choked, long, and terrible. "I would've ended this sooner if, - God, if I knew how much of a burden we became for you."

"Tony, Tony don't say that, " Steve's face is blotched red, painted in punishing torment. "I love you and Peter more than anything in this life. You're mine, both of you, how can you think I don't love you? I, -"

"Just love Bucky more, " Tony finishes, note flat, accepting, rehearsed. His voice feels as hollow as his chest when Steve flinches. "I'm just... I'm so tired. Steve,I'm tired, and- I can't do it anymore. My son, my baby is not going to be a burden on anybody. I can put up with a lot of shit, but Peter is my limit. I can't and I won't put anyone above him. Not even you."

Horror shines bright and clear on the blue eyes Tony loves so much. He spots Steve's finger tremble at his sides, notices the hesitant movement of his Addams apple.

Natasha was wrong. It's a rare occurrence, but it happened.

Steve never stopped loving him.

It makes signing the papers so much harder.

---

Steve lost Bucky to ice, snow, and time. Tony loses Steve to fire, anger, and distance.

---

Pepper is surprised when she hears Steve ended up signing willingly.

She doesn't want to ruin the calm air that finally settled over the emotion packed atmosphere surrounding the living room, currently stashed with carton boxes filled with Steve's stuff, ready to be delivered tomorrow as Tony wanted, but it's a needed talk.

"What did you say to convince him?" She asks, not demanding an answer but clearly expecting one. "I'd just assume Nat had him in an arm lock until he agreed, but, in all honesty, Steve would probably lose an arm than do what people tell him to. Seriously, I've seen anarchists with more respect for authority than this guy."

Tony laughs, too loving and too fond for this predicament. "I said you'd drag his ass through every courtroom in America and drain him of everything he's worth?"

"Mmm. Try again. I mean, that's a Sunday for me, but he's already heard that talk before." Giggles are shared between the pair on the couch, snuggled under fuzzy blankets with wine glasses that clink slightly. Pepper's face relaxes into something sympathetic, earnest. "Was it something Peter related?"

"No, " he shakes his head. It never crossed his mind once, no matter how hurt he was. It felt too much like what his father would do. " Peter is his son, too. No matter what happens between us. There's no changing that. "

"No one would blame you if it came down to that, you know that, right?"

He hums. Pepper waits.

"I asked him to let me say goodbye to my husband instead of forcing me to stay with Howard."

A sharp intake of breath settles something cold beneath Tony's skin. He closes his eyes, and accepts the wine Pepper pours in his cup, neither commenting on how it spills over the rim.

---

Talking to Peter is the hardest part.

He doesn't understand why suddenly there's only two people there instead of three, why he isn't woken up by two pairs of arms tickling him and kissing his sleepy eyelids every morning, why Tony's laughter isn't echoing through the house as Steve spins and twists him around in the living room dance session they had at least once a week.

Why, apparently, Steve now has a permanent residence in DC and can only see him twice a week as their legal agreement states.

Why he has to live in two different places and split his playtime.

Why Tony bought a new apartment and they had to move away, stretching the distance between them and Steve.

"Is Papa comin' home today?" A hand squeezes Tony's heart painfully tight at the small question. He looks down at his son, smaller than usual and playing with his fingers at his feet. His frail shoulder raise, housing an anxious breath as he awaits an answer.

Tony takes his tiny hand in his own, leaning down to press kisses on the back of his son's palm, apology on his lips. "Yeah, baby. He has to come and pick up his stuff. Maybe you can play a little when he arrives! I'm sure he'll be happy to see you. "

Steve sends Sam to pick up his things and Tony feels guilt bite at him for hissing 'coward' in his mind.

Peter is excited to see his uncle Sam but the disappointment when he hears a truck coming instead of the deep rumble of a motorcycle engine doesn't wash off. He soldiers on, smiles for Sam because as little as he is, he's careful with people and their emotions. His goodness is organic. He takes after Steve like that.

Sam's always been frustratingly talented at deciphering his thoughts, even when his face is emotionless. It's one of the many reasons why Tony thinks him and Rhodey match so well. "He said he's really sorry he couldn't come, but... Okay, his excuse is just sad, because I doubt you'd believe he'd rather attend a Zoomba class than see you and Peter. Truth is, he's scared."

"Of facing me?"

"Of hurting you."

"Yeah, well, he's already got that job done on the to do list, " Tony huffs, petty and aware. He tosses Peter his baseball that lands in the backyard, gently nudging him away from the conversation. They watch the ball of energy squeal in delight as he runs to fetch it, tension momentarily on hold. "Sorry. You don't need my shit. Let's just load this and be done with it."

Sam huffs. "Man, I've been involved with your shit for a while. Appreciate the feeling but it's a bit late for that. Trust me, me and Rhodey have in length discussions about it. I'm neck-deep in white boy drama, but well, sacrifices of the job. Not much you can do."

He's playful, Tony knows this, in the corner of his brain that isn't raided by anxiety, yet fear claws at him, sharp and cruel and unexpected. Coldness spreads inside him like wildfire, almost matching the thoughts racing in his mind. Sam and Rhodey were talking? Were they arguing? Had Tony harmed Rhodey's relationship as if he didn't wreck his own enough?

"Talk?" Tony rasps, pushes the words out of his constricted throat that seems to close more and more, synchronizing with his lungs. Sam's wide, concerned eyes tells him the surface looked as bad as the inside."You... You and Rhodey, you guys- Bad talk? You, you fought about it?"

His mind torments him by showcasing Rhodey yelling in Sam's face and Sam yelling back, both standing their ground like two soldiers on a mission and defending their friends like avenging angels. Rhodey is more brother than friend, he'd take his side, like the devoted friend he always proved himself to be, but he watches with a cut breath as Rhodey locks himself in his room and weeps.

Rhodey sharing his fate is Tony's own horror movie.

"...ony! Tony, deep breaths, come on, " gentle hands guide him away from the void his own psyche trapped him into, speaking in a low voice that plucks him back up little by little. "Come on, in and out. Focus on my voice, that's good. Listen to me, Rhodey and I did not and will not fight about this. We're fine, Tony, promise! We agreed, no side pickers. This isn't war, and we won't get into some life or death fight for your and/or Steve's honor, " he tries for a little grin. ''I mean, I'm not supposed to tell you, but we don't like you guys that much."

Tony laughs, at once, a pathetically small sound, but he's grounded enough to laugh. He basks in the lack of sound around them, like the silence of an after battle, suffocating, but free.

The quiet hangs in the air as they load the truck, too, not oppressing, but welcomed, with a touch of comfort that burns just right. When the last box is secured and road-ready, him and Sam stay just a bit on the porch to stare at the house. Because that's what it is, isn't?

'Is papa comin' home?'

There is no home. Not if Steve's missing.

"Steve said you can keep those, if you want," that sentence made Tony hunch his shoulders, releasing that bitter aftertaste in his mouth again, blending with something sweet, and igniting the warmth that pierced as deep as his very marrow. "Nothing he loves or wants back is in those boxes."

Yes, Tony wants to scream. I want to keep the sketchbooks he has for me. I want to keep the photo albums. I want to keep the paint, the charcoal, the brushes. I want to keep the stuffed animals he won me at the fairs. I want to keep his clothes. I want to keep the dances in the living room. I want to keep his love, attention, care, worry, sadness, anger, grief. I want to keep my husband.

Instead, Tony reaches for his back pocket, and squeezes his ring. It burns in his palm, almost begging him to put it back in it's place, or on his finger, where it fitted like it always belonged. His being feels it, as if connected, and he decides to even the odds in the cowardice department.

Sam holds his breath as Tony hands him the ring, with hesitance, with no indication he wants to. "You sure about this?" It's a careful question, painfully gentle, far softer than Tony deserves.

No. Not by a long shot. "Yeah, " he mutters, almost lost in the air. "It's not mine anymore."

Sam curls his hand around the ring, pockets it, and Tony wrestles with the urge to ask for it back. His eyes are trained to the floor, on his shoes, the fine leather ones Steve bought for him on their anniversary, he realizes.

He watches droplets of water splash and dissolve into the concrete. It's raining, he figures, he should take Peter inside or he'll catch a cold. He looks up to watch the dark clouds, and the senine blue above mocks him.

"It's okay, " Rhodey picked a good one, Tony thinks, as Sam covers his crying form away from Peter's eyes. "It's okay, Tony. Just... Let it out. You earned this."

"I tried, " he sobs in Sam's neck, sobs his demise his failure, his bottled cocktail of emotions that waited to implode. "I tried, Sam, I tried so hard, I swear I did."

"We know you did, Tony. We all know."

---

Peter wants to meet Bucky one day.

"Papa used to talk about him all the time, " He says, oblivious to how vexed Tony is hearing that. He apprehends himself, reproaching that he should be over it already. "He sounds pretty cool! I want to see his Terminator arm!"

"It's a Tin Man or Robocop arm, at best, " He smirks at the pout Peter throws his way, smoothing it out with his thumb. "And he's in a hospital. You and I hate hospitals, remember?"

Peter whines and makes his eyes larger, pitifully glassy and sad, just the way to wrap Tony around his little finger. "Daddyyyy, pleeeease!" He hooks his fingers around his arm, hugging it close to his chest and his lower lip trembles.

He imagines Steve behind him, smothering a laugh in his shoulder, egging Peter on like two conspirational buddies. He melts, pushing the rush of yearning back, and knows it's a battle lost. Peter is too lovable, too determined, too bright eyed.

He's morbidly curious, in a way, to see what was so special about Bucky that it made Steve want to trade that.

---

Bucky and Peter hit it off in a heartbeat.

The facility hosting Bucky is uncomfortably pristine, from door corner to ceiling. Everything is tailored and arranged with ridiculous precision, clinical, professional, boring, and detached, as most medical spaces are. His workshop dances circles around it in the personality field, and he tells Bucky as such.

He laughs at him. "That's an interesting way to say you're a chronic untidy mess."

'Chronic untidy hot mess, " Tony corrects, hating how easily he falls into conversation with him. He tells himself it's merely a distraction from the stomach twisting smell of medicine, stingy and sharp smothering the air. "How offensive. I demand a trial by combat. Peter, make him pay in blood!"

Peter turns to Bucky, unblinking. "Your hair's greasy."

A theatrical gasps spreads in the room from the blue eyed brunette. Tony beams, kissing Peter's cheek. "That's my boy. I'm sure Bucky's bleeding a lot on the inside."

"Yeah. You know, where blood usually is, " Bucky snarks, heatless, propping Peter off from the spot on his leg and putting him on the ground . "Why don't you go ask nurse Joy to give you some magnets for the arm? Your father and I gotta talk adult business."

"Uncle Clint says adult business is just gossip for grown ups. " Peter retorts, smirk on his lips, half raising on the edges of his mouth. He got the smugness from him, that much Tony will admit. Bucky huffs a laugh that mirror Tony's own and waits for Peter to be out of the hearing range to say his next words.

"I owe you an apology."

Tony blinks, hastily, and speaks before he can even register what he's saying. "No, you don't. Drop it." It comes off razor sharp, yet Bucky must be used to worse, because he doesn't falter.

"I ruined your marriage. There's no forgiving that, but I DO regret it and you'll damn well listen to what I have to say."

"Look, I appreciate it. I do. I'm not... Mad at you. You're just in the crossfire of this clusterfuck. There's no forgiving because there's nothing to forgive, " he murmurs under his breath, words quiet, but sincere, he realizes. "My failure is my own to carry. "

"Stark, relationships need more than one person. Stevie ain't exactly blameless in this whole thing, - Far from it, trust me, I let him know. He got the scolding of the damn lifetime, because he threw away a damn good thing. He made a home for himself and then demolished it. You didn't hand him the sledgehammer, he picked it up on his own dumb self."

"You know, your philosophy lesson would impact me better with wizard lingo. Throw in a riddle or a prophecy and I might bite. " Receiving a blank stare to his quip, Tony sighed, eyes downcast.

"Look. I called it off, alright? I lit up the matches, I burned down the bridge, and I watched it turn to ash. But it was meant to happen, one way or another. We were just too different. Guys like me break the world apart. Men like Steve put it back together. He'll move forward. Like he always does."

Bucky's reply is instant. "No, no he won't, " it's said with such conviction, with such a finality, that it has Tony freezing. "He'll never move on. Not from this. I've never seen him like that for anybody, hell, never seen ANYONE like that. You and him? That's a forever kind of deal. You don't need a ring and name change for that to last. You don't have a choice."

Tony swallows, slowly, unsure. "So what? We just keep path crossing like fate has us tied together, in each other 's range but standing on parallel lines, never meant to cross? This isn't a fairytale, Barnes. It's real life. And even if it wasn't, that's still far from fair."

"It is real life. Which means it ain't fair, Stark. "

Tony takes Peter home, cuddles him closely as if he might disappear, and eyes the empty area around the right side of the bed with a lonely glint that burns in the darkness.

---

The first time Tony meets Steve after the divorce, it's for Natasha's birthday party.

Time jumps from slow to fast, alters between stagnation and overwhelming in the first 6 months that pass after the finalization of their parting. Some days are agonizingly slow. As if the world wants him to stomach every second, consume every minute, where Steve is not with him, isn't his anymore, and choke on the pain that tastes just as sharply as the first time.

And in some, time goes by in blink record, not keen on giving Tony the courtesy of healing, of moving on, of according him the patience or kindness in adapting his feelings to his pace, to accommodate to the arrangement it dragged him in.

Concern crawls inside him regardless of how many times he buries it, makes a tangly nest right in his chest, and makes no effort to move. He doesn't blame Steve for not wanting to meet him, to look at him, to give him the chance of staring into the bright, baby blue eyes that hold everything beautiful in the world.

Tony's seen the wonders of the world, all 8 them, and they all pale put next to Steve.

He feels seething, scalding guilt showering him for thinking that. Because Steve is not his to worry over, not his to call wonderful, not his to care for. Not anymore. He repeats that like a mantra against his eardrum when Natasha asks him if it's fine if she invites him to her party, too.

It's the perfect excuse to see how he's doing, but Tony elects to ignore that and remind Natasha grown-ass people don't ask other grown-ass people for permission on what to do. "Do I look like Pepper to you? No? Then why would I order you around?"

A discreet smile reaches Natasha's features, exhibiting confidence but betraying relief. She loves them both, Tony knows, and wants her friends first, not the fallen lovers. "Just wanted to know if I should hide the sharp knives or prepare some spare sheets."

His face heats ferociously, climbing all the way to the tips of his ears, and all the embarrassment in the world is worth listening to Natasha laugh. Something sharp-edged inside of him brittles at the prospect of seeing Steve, thought, and he holds his tongue from saying something of that nature won't happen.

In the company of his solitude and shame, Tony wonders later, is he afraid of seeing Steve again because he fears the blonde is not doing okay, or because he is?

Later on, he sees Steve stand in flash before him, chatting with some faceless figures, hair longer than last time and flattened slightly at the nape, sporting a beard that framed his gorgeous face perfectly. The impeccable balance between scruffy and well-groomed. Tony itched to run his fingers against it.

"It's the divorce beard, " Clint muses, elbow jolting Tony in the side to show the humor. "Give him a few more weeks, and you'll see him shopping from the Hobo shop. All wrinkled shirts and ketchup stained clothes or something. Men are useless without their wives.'' He winks in Tony's way, but Tony is too entranced by Steve to acknowledge it.

His fists are bruised, Tony notes with a wince as he gets drunk on Steve's form with a studious gaze, creamy skin battered and laced in a cluster of dark purple, crimson, and small patches of yellow shaping his knucklebones.

A trail of question rests blistering on his tongue. 'What happened? Who did that? Who were you fighting? Why? Are you okay? Did you win?' But he closes his eyes and bites his tongue, knowing these questions don't belong to him anymore.

He gave up his rights to that.

But then, Tony spots them.

His breath is knocked out of his lungs in a silent punch, eardrums pushing out all the sound attempting to penetrate his ears. His fingers loosen so much they almost drop his water, feeling tingly numb. Tony's eyes, large and surprised, trace the circle of gold curled around Steve's fourth finger, gleaming softly against the artificial light around the dining room.

Steve is still wearing his ring.

But then, his chest burns and booms, heart roars fiercely behind his ribcage as he notices the thin string of black leather circling around Steve's neck, loose as a necklace, hanging low enough for Tony to eye the shape of metal halo looped right in the middle of the material.

Steve was wearing Tony's ring, too.

The realization left him petrified in place, more statue than man, in stunned shock as he bore into his former lover who only then noticed the brown eyes looking at him, transparent astonishment clear as crystal in his features.

It's like a spell breaks.

Tony's limbs move mechanically, on autopilot, running to the nearest room, getting himself away from what his body detects as danger. Urgency is packed on his step, taking him to the bathroom in record time, but Steve's always been the runner, more athletic between them, and his sprinting lands him a spot in the sleat Tony wass about to slam.

He's pinned to a wall effective immediately, feels cold tiles plant clammy kisses on the back of his head and neck. Tony almost hisses at the force of the slam, but before he can make a peep, his lips are stolen in a savage, fierce kiss.

It's pure desperation conveyed in the most unconventional way. Steve pounces on him, lips wild against Tony's own, pouring every emotion he went through in the past few months,- Longing, yearning, craving, hunger, desire, - his being, his love, his soul into that kiss, barely giving Tony the chance to breathe.

"St-Steve, " He gasps, head tilting slightly to the side to escape the ministrations, to gulp air, moving to avoid the chase at reconnection Steve is playing at by trying to capture his lips again. "Wait, wait a minute, -"

"Missed you, " Steve's voice is thick with want, hitching in the small puffs of air that came off raggedy and breathless, words melting over Tony's mouth. Steve's face glows with a blush he wants to kiss with inhuman greed. "I missed you, I missed you,Tony I missed you" Tony's fucked.

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travellvogue · 4 years

Text

Friend of a Friend

Chapter 1- Reunited

The wheels of the black taxi crunched against the gravel as you pulled up to the players entrance, hauling your bags out of the boot and brushing a quick ‘thank you’ to the driving, completely aware that he was beyond disappointed for being assigned the teams photographer to drive to St George, rather than the infamous Harry Kane or Raheem Sterling.

But here you were, bags of equipment thrown over your shoulders in a less than delicate fashion, Y/N Y/L/N, about to embark on the biggest adventure of your career so far. The building looked down on you, windows forming it’s eyes, a large gaping door for a mouth, ready to swallow you up and introduce you to a new side of the world. Pulling your case behind you, walking inside to be greeted by a few faces, it’s as though you’d been pushed into a washing machine, tumbling around whilst being passed a room key, lanyard and schedule, “you must stick to this” you’re strongly instructed. No problem there, you were here to take pictures, nothing more.

Stood in the entrance of the dining room, plastic chairs neatly tucked under the oak wood tables as far as the eyes could see, a clatter of pots and pans coming from what you presume was the kitchen. A mutter of noise leaked through the floor to ceiling windows, raising your eyes to watch the huddle of men stood of perfectly neat astroturf, you wondered for a second if people would get on their hands and knees to trim the corners of the surface, the immaculate shaded lines about the be destroyed by the studs of several football boots in a matter of moments.

You spotted him, stood in the sea of footballers, his pink boots catching under the sunlight making you smile. “Real men wear pink” you whisper to yourself, remembering the time you’d told him that over face time when he was giving you a ‘boots haul’ as he likes to call it. He didn’t know you were here, god you didn’t even tell him you got the job. You’d use the excuse that you were keeping it at a surprise, but truthfully you weren’t sure if you even wanted to be here, the thought of being surrounded by people that earnt your monthly wage in a matter of short breathes was intimidating for a young girl. Yet you can’t help but feel a comforting warmth flicker alight in the depth of your stomach, simply at the sight of him.

The thought of going outside to wave quick ‘hello’ crossed your mind, but you decided to stay put, sitting down at the nearest table and pulling your laptop out. Connecting to the wifi that seemed to take an exhausting amount of time to connect, (despite the facilities being modern the network failed to keep up), making yourself familiar with your schedule, cringing at the seven thirty arranged awakening, at the top of the printed out page. The black ink pen that had been used to scribble your name at the top had been smudged under the pressure of someone's hand- a leftie, you presumed. As you read it, your name comes alive.

“Y/N!?” your name echoes through the reception room, the familiar voice bouncing off the walls, drowning your ears in the comfort of having someone neighbourly here with you. “What are you doing here?!” The floppy mound of brunette hair is the first sight that welcomes you, noting the lack of hair gel, maybe he’d taken your advice to wear it naturally more often, that’s how he looked best after all. Shining white teeth and piercing eyes following quickly, the beaming smile warming you from the inside-out. His beard had grown longer, you liked it. He lunges towards you, muscular arms enveloping around your smaller frame, lips pressed to the top of your head in a warming kiss, tingles running down your spine at the contact.

“Mr Ben Chilwell” you beam playfully, arms wrapping around his body for a warm embrace. In the midst of bewilderment, you felt at ease, like you were home again, his arms providing you with such familiarity that the worries of starting a new job- which was quickly frankly your biggest move yet- fade away for a minute. You pull away reluctantly, his warmth carried away from you,

He’d helped you find this job, texting you as soon as he heard that the England NT were looking for a new photographer. You remember the day clearly, sitting in his kitchen, cup of tea in front of you on the expensive marble counter, the brown liquid growing cold under the conversation. He showered you with compliments, dramatically convincing you that this would be such a great opportunity for you. “It’s what you’ve been waiting for!” he beams, tilting his head like a dog waiting for a treat. Silence. Your mind working through your options. “Fine” you breath out.

“I got the job” you chuckle awkwardly, batting your jazz hands in the air, desperately trying not to let your unsettlement rise in your tone. He watches you, knowing you better then you knew yourself most of the time, eyes flicking up and down your body, fingers reaching out and strumming at the lanyard dangling down from your neck, tapping at the laminated picture of yourself.

“I’m so proud of you” he winks, slinging his arm around your shoulder, squeezing you to his side. You darent tell him his clammy shirt was sticking to your bare arm, the sweat of a hard training session showing in droplets over his forehead. He might pull away if you told him, and truthfully, you weren’t willing to let go of the comfort of him just yet. “So… how have you been, my love?” he beams, it had been a while since the two of you had seen each other, with careers and busy schedules it was hard to find quality time to spend together. Now seemed to be the perfect time for that. “You look beautiful, by the way” he rubs his hand over your shoulder, poking your cheek with his free hand, giggling at the blush that had risen to your face, completely in awe of how- no matter how many times he has to remind you how gorgeous you are- you still grow shy from his compliments. “Missed your pretty smile” he whispers under his breath, low enough for the truth to not reach your ears, catching himself looking at you for too long, nearly enough to be deemed as creepy. Peeling his eyes away from your glowing appearance, listening to your story of the boring taxi driver on the way here, chuckling at the right points. A buzz of excitement ran through his veins, realizing he gets to hear your voice at any given point now you were here with him.

His body led you along the hallway as the conversation flowed, briefly catching up on the latest friendship dramas and how training was going. Following his footprints on the plush carpet, a risky choice for the amount of studded football boots around. A large wooden door stood in front of the two of you, his arm relaxing from your body. Time to fend for yourself again. An A4 sheet of paper was lazily sellotaped to the wood, a map of the training grounds with a red dot pressed to your current location. ‘YOU ARE HERE’ it read, the vast metres of pitches backing onto the room. ‘The Rest Room’ the metal plaque above the print-out read.

Did no one notice that the nickname makes it sound as though the room will host an array of toilets for the boys.

You follow his lead, nervously trailing behind him as the noise of chattering men fills your ears. A few heads turning to face you, beaming smiles towards Ben and slightly more relaxed ones to you, a new face that the boys were yet to learn a name to. A thumbs up from Marcus as he passes the two of you, Jordan sending you a little wave, walking over to you before you could catch who he just ended his conversation with. Ben winks at you, patting Jordan on the back before walking off to the opposite side of the room, leaving you to fend for yourself.

“Hi Y/N” he holds his hand out to signal for you to shake it, very formal. A smile works its way onto your face, grateful that he’d made the effort to read the name printed on your lanyard, feeling rather ridiculous wearing it, but at least it now stood with a purpose. The conversation was light and easy, Jadon catching your eye and tilting his head upwards in a silent greeting. Jordan talks you through the basics that you need to know for your first few days- breakfast at half eight, come dressed for the day, ‘training starts at staggered times depending on the day, you’ll be there taking pictures at different sessions depending on their importance’. It was easy to see why everyone saw him as such a father figure within the group.

“Y/N, my gorgeous girly!” Ben calls over, no shame in the endearing pet name, hand waving in the air to beckon you towards him. Excusing yourself from the company of ‘Hendo’- as he’d told you to call him- a nickname that instantly made you feel closer to him already. Walking over to your best friend, the glimmer in his eyes failing to hide his excitement, bouncing on the balls of his feet with every step closer you took. A second body emerging from behind the corner of the room, approaching the two men.

“There’s someone I’d like you to meet”

#england nt #ben chilwell #ben chilwell blurb #football imagines #trent alexander arnold #marcus rashford #Jordan Henderson #james maddison #jesse lingard #jadon sancho #harry winks #trent alexander arnold blurb #friend of a friend #masterlist

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magpieslocket · 3 years

Text

#writeyourwitchcraft

Inspired by this post, I wrote down my answers to these prompts in September 2019. Revisiting the list, I have rewritten my answers for January 2021.

The long long prompt list and answers follow under the cut.

What draws me to witchcraft?

Witchcraft draws me in as a tool of self-reflection and self-improvement.

How do I see the divine?

I see the divine as a human creation out of necessity. We seek patterns in a chaotic universe, and divinity is the thing beyond us that laces together disparate parts into a seamless whole.

What in witchcraft makes me happy?

Tea, oils, incense, and community.

Do I want to follow a path that has to do with a little nature, or a lot of nature?

A lot of nature. I believe we need nature in our lives, and the closer we can get to it, the healthier we are.

What areas of witchcraft would I like to learn more about?

Regional biodiversity, ethnobotany, divination outside of tarot, more about tarot, more traditional Americana regional styles of craft.

Where do my witchy talents lie?

Visualization and empathy.

What kind of deities, if any, do I want to honor?

I don’t currently work with any deities.

How do I believe magic works?

If it works, it works by sympathetic principles of energy flow and positive psychology. I think we manifest what we believe. I think we have the most powerful computer on the planet riding around on our shoulders, and magic is a way to program ourselves.

Simple or elaborate spells/rituals? Why?

As elaborate as is needed. I believe that some pageantry acts as a trigger in our brain to start recording, so to speak. By performing a ritual, we are telling ourselves we have power to affect the outcome of events. Some elaborate steps can help us believe it better, as we are so trained to see simplicity as ineffective.

What are my views on cursing/hexing?

I believe it is pointless, as it only increases the pain and hate in your own heart, and will seldom affect the target unless the target knows they have been cursed. On the other hand, I don’t believe in some “karmic” return of the reflection of the power used. I think it is fine for others, but I don’t seek it out.

Do I want to practice something similar to my ancestors?

I am wary of Norse reconstructionist religion because so much is based on so little in the way of sources, so I have no idea how similar the practice is to what my Danish ancestors would have really known. In spite of this, I have always been drawn to Norse mythology and have Huginn tattooed behind my ear. I try to balance my own Norse leanings with some Americana / Appalachian tradition.

What are the basic morals and ethics I feel I should live by?

This is such a difficult question to boil down to a few sentences. I believe we are all human together, and as such, we must treat each other with dignity and respect. Not because of some reward for doing good, but because we wish to be treated with dignity and respect ourselves.

What in nature am I drawn to; the ocean, animals, the trees, etc?

All of it.

Which (witchy) holidays, if any, would I like to celebrate and how?

I celebrate the Wiccan Wheel of the Year with friends because while none of us are Wiccan, we are all flavors of Pagan, and find the regular breaking of bread together fun.

How do I believe divination works?

Divination is self knowledge passed through the veil that obfuscates authorship. We project our gut feelings onto a medium made to soak up and amplify those feelings into readable patterns, then read those patterns without acknowledging our hand in making them.

Would I like to work with a group some of the time, all of the time or not at all?

Some of the time would be grand, Covid willing. I would love to find more like minded people to practice with.

Which aspects of witchcraft appeal to me most, which the least?

I love the trappings of witchcraft, and despise the gatekeeping, racism, and antisemitism that plague the community. The sense of community and the ceremony of witchcraft appeals to me in so many ways, but I find a lot of fault in the community at large for cultural appropriation of people it then fetishizes.

What do I believe happens to us when we die?

I think we go dark, cease to be, and are mourned. I think our body returns to dust and our mind was only ever a flicker of light in the darkness in the first place.

How do I see mythological creatures?

I think most mythological creatures are based on hearsay of living or extinct animals, that knowledge passed down from ear to ear and from generation to generation, changing and becoming unrecognizable to its original form, like a strange game of Telephone.

When do I feel most magical?

I feel magical when I am in a flow state. When the rest of the world melts away and I can focus entirely on the task at hand.

How much is witchcraft woven into my daily life; is this too much, too little or just enough?

I feel that right now, it is just enough. I use visualization to boost my mood, my confidence, and my energy, and I use meditation to relax, soothe anxiety and depression, and be more mindful of my body. I use crystals and teas to affect change in my emotional states.

What kind of witch do I feel I am?

If I had to choose, Green Witch. I feel most connected with the energy of plants.

Which texts/quotes best describe my current path?

There are no gardening mistakes, only experiments. – Janet Kilburn Phillips

A society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in. – Greek proverb

Remember that children, marriages, and flower gardens reflect the kind of care they get. — H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

Do I like research and gathering info, or do I like things handed to me?

That is a loaded question and I don’t like it.

Which things about witchcraft worry or scare me?

I worry about becoming overly dependent on magical thinking and not taking the reins to my own life.

What is my favourite element?

No way to say.

How do I see gender (roles) in witchcraft?

Gender is not a binary experience, and gender roles in magic often feel like outdated trapping of a different time. I feel that society is catching up with the expression of gender being something varied and personal and that the witchcraft community is catching up too. I simply ignore anything that takes it upon itself to assign gender roles to magical correspondences.

Am I interested more in magic, or spirituality?

I have had great talks with friends on the difference between the two. How do you define it? I think I prefer spirituality as a pattern grid that lays over life and gives meaning to senselessness.

Do I like to be told how to do things, or would I rather figure it out on my own?

That depends on the thing! I prefer to be told how to fix a car or not poison myself with homemade tea, but I like to figure out my own methods for programing my attitudes.

What rules, if any, do I live by when it comes to witchcraft and magic?

I had a lot of trouble with this question. There are simple rules, like “don’t eat strange herbs without ample research” and there are complex rules, like “try not to appropriate closed cultures” - I think that like the ethics and morals question, it boils down to treating others how you’d like to be treated.

What do I gain from witchcraft and magic?

I gain a feeling of autonomy, to self-direct my own brain.

Formal or informal rituals/spells? Why?

Informal, because who’s to say what is formalized.

What subject do I love to study?

Oh everything. There isn’t a bad subject to study.

What is my favourite type of magic; candle, sympathetic, sigils, etc?

Sympathetic magic is one of my favorites, and sigils are a common topic of interest for me.

What would my perfect witchy day be like?

What does this question mean? “April 25th — because it's not too hot, not too cold. All you need is a light jacket!”

Would I want to be dedicated/initiated?

Sure, if I trusted the people doing it.

Who do I honor (ex: deities, ancestors, myself, etc), and how do I, or would I like to, honor them?

I honor myself with mindful listening.

How do I create a sacred/witchy space?

I create the space by engaging with my five senses. Creating texture, scents, sights, and general ambiance to enrich my experience and captivate my senses.

What do I believe is needed for a successful spell/ritual?

Intent and belief.

Which cultures do I draw from in my witchcraft?

Norse, Hellenistic/Greek, American/Appalachian.

What is my learning style; books, websites, videos, more hands-on?

I’m still experimenting with content, but I think websites and hands-on.

What, if anything, in my mundane life influences my witchcraft?

Chronic depression and anxiety influence my witchcraft because they influence my energy levels and ability to engage with the experiences.

What are my hobbies, how do I (or can I) incorporate them in my witchcraft?

My biggest hobbies are writing, drawing, and painting, and I use all three to explore my craft. I use writing to question and define, I use drawing to explore, and I use painting to honor.

Where do my non-witchy talents lie, how do I (or can I) incorporate them in my witchcraft?

Art is where most people would say my talent lies. I have used stormwater to add interesting energy to paintings, and would do so again in the future.

What would my dream witchy life look like? What steps can I take to work towards it?

My dream witchy life is running a combination gallery space and witchy store. Steps I can take would be to continue honing my craft (art and magic) and building the skills necessary to run a gallery space successfully.

What would my dream sacred space/witchy home look like? What steps can I take to work towards it?

Plants, plants, and more plants. Statues, paintings, and prints of powerful imagery. I am working on my gardening dreams, and my art dreams, so continue to do both of those things.

What symbols correspond with me; runes, animals, flowers, gemstones, etc?

Stags, deer, wolves, smokey quartz, rutilated quartz, snowflake obsidian, pothos.

Am I an open and proud witch, or do I (need to) hide my craft?

I am a very private person in real life. I don’t share my craft with anyone outside my direct family and close friends.

What are my favourite witchy items/tools; divination tool, ritual tool, décor, clothing, etc?

Tarot cards are my current obsession. Some of the magpied shiny bits that I have collected over the years, from sharks teeth to perfume bottles, make the list.

What is holding me back in my craft?

Issues with mental health, physical health, and self-doubt.

What is my pre-spell/ritual routine?

Grounding myself to the Earth.

What are my ultimate witchy goals and how can I work towards them?

I’m not sure how to answer this. I guess, to be more mindful, to be more content, and to be more present. I am working with myself through therapy and ritual and setting small achievable goals to work towards those things.

I implore @theodoravanyar and anyone else who takes the time to read this long slog of words to consider writing their own answers down for the new year.

#wakingwitchblr #witchblr #writeyourwitchcraft

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shortnotsweet · 5 years

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Ooh, have you possibly entertained the idea of Prince(ss)/Knight AU with Fiveya? I think either in the roles would be very cute and the whole situation thinking they both have unrequited loves on each other due to their own duties/honor really tugs on the heartstrings!!

A Witch, a Prince and a Princess

Even as a child, Vanya yearns downwards, down the spiralling view from the castle she would have long since abandoned had she any choice in the matter. It’s tall and grand, the grandest in the kingdom, but it’s become shriveled, an empty shell, like a ghost that has not lost its bones. Up in the turrets, the clouds are gritty and stifling, and the ground below and the land beyond are much more appealing, so much so that she dreams of riding a white horse past the borders of the kingdom and into the line where the sky sinks to meet the earth.

For a steed like that, she’d have to be a knight, or something of the sort. Higher nobility owns the best horses, ones that aren’t thin and sickly, or packing mules, but Vanya’s no princess, and she’s certainly no knight. She’s just a servant, one who was born just outside the borders of the kingdom, within the green outskirts of the King Reginald’s reign.

Even as a child, Vanya knows not to speak of her origin of birth - sorcerers haunt those woods, or so the whispers say. Demons lurk within the trees, and when night falls, it brings with it magic, and naked women dancing under the full moon, casting spells and disturbing all that is holy, sacred, and good. Besides, magic is outlawed in Reginald’s kingdom, and exists freely only outside its borders - after a ten-year long campaign to purge his lands of witchcraft, the filthy stuff, (and a decade of rolling heads, fresh from the executioner's block, of limp bodies swaying under mottled necks, feet drifting above the ground, of the night air saturated with broken shrieks as the flames of the pyre grew taller and hotter) Reginald had finally established prosperity and unquestioned political strength amongst the Five Kingdoms, cementing his place at negotiation tables.

No one dares speak of the Sixth Kingdom, lost to the world, its remains scattered throughout the rest of land.

Vanya is a mere twelve when she meets him first - she’s mimicking the knights dueling on the training grounds, wielding a stick that’s not too thick, not too short, and imagining rows and rows of opponents being felled. They’re not too far from the crops, effectively dwarfed by the field of tall dry grass and hidden from sight. She sees only the sky above her, gaping and huge, until she notices him crouched close to the ground, eyes bright with something she can’t place.

“Who goes there?” she shouts, whipping around, still in character, and he emerges good naturedly from the grasses. He’s a boy around her height with dark hair dark eyes, not unlike herself, but when he grins, dimpled and slightly lopsided, Vanya notices his teeth, white pearls against his gums.

He has good teeth, she thinks, numbly.

“Just watching,” he says, cocky and charming in a way that only twelve-year-old boys can be.

“Well - do you want to play?” she asks, because Pogo may be her uncle and not her real father, but he raised her right.

“What’s the game?”

“I’m a knight,” she says, “and you can be the damsel, if you want.”

The boy frowns. “I’m not a damsel. I’ll be the knight - I can rescue you, then. It’s less work,” he adds, as if to entice her. Vanya wrinkles her nose. “You’re the girl, anyway, don’t you know how it works?”

“That’s stupid,” she says truthfully, because she was playing first, he only just showed up, so of course she would know how to play. His face twists in clear annoyance.

“Do you know who I am?” The boy advances, petulant, and Vanya’s makeshift sword shoots out to rap him across his skinny chest, preventing him from coming any closer. Instinctively, his hand comes up to catch the tip, and he glares at her from the other end.

“You’re a stupid boy,” she snaps. “What do you know?”

He bares his white teeth at her. “I know you’re just a servant waving a stick around,” he snarls. “What would you know about being a knight?” When you’re just a serving girl, and always will be goes unsaid, but it’s the smug gleam in his eye that Vanya clenches her fists around, knuckles whitening in her anger.

“More than you!” Vanya shouts, vision blurred by hot tears that roll steadily down her cheeks. Her throat feels tight, uncomfortably so, and her head is light and ringing - it’s as if she’s fevered, not thinking straight.

“I’ve been training to be a knight my whole life!”

“Oh? And how long have you been training to be a prat?”

Outraged, the boy’s face begins to turn a curious shade of red as he sputters, “I’d watch my mouth, you dimwit, I’m the crown prince!”

Without thinking, Vanya gives a loud, unladylike scoff and leans forward to poke him hard in the chest. “My mistake. How long have you been training to be a royal prat, my lord?”

It slips out quick, too fast for her to anticipate, too angry for her to snatch back. The second the words escape her, Vanya stops dead, heart in her mouth and eyes wide on her face. She can see him better now: he’s well-groomed, with a clean face and dark hair, with fine clothes that can’t belong to a stableboy - stableboys don’t wear silk. With blood rushing in her ears and pounding in her head to the drumbeat of a death march, she instinctively backs away, feeling both incredibly small and suddenly enormous, like a target.

The crown prince moves toward her, reaching out a hand, a small gesture that’s hardly threatening, but Vanya reacts anyway, winding back her fist and sending it as hard as she can into his nose.

She doesn’t stay to inspect the damage. Instead, she runs.

He’s left staring after her, blood streaming down his face and onto the collar of his shirt. Five, twelve years old and set to inherit one of the greatest kingdoms in the land, falls in love for the first time of his life. He doesn’t know, not yet.

It’s been two weeks she’s spent sulking around the castle. Her Uncle Pogo is an advisor to the King and the castle’s appointed medic, and it’s a wonder she’s never seen the prince in person before - it is, Vanya reasons, a big castle, but she should have known better. No issues for her arrest and execution have reached her ears, or her Uncles, so perhaps the prince had forgotten about the event (or he was biding his time, waiting to strike).

It’s the latter, but she doesn’t know that, not yet.

The evening is setting into the sky, and her uncle has already retired to his chambers, leaving Vanya to her own devices.

Vanya ducks into the armory, looking both ways before dashing in and between the rows of gleaming metal shapes that she can barely make out in the dark but could attach a name to in a heartbeat. She reaches a tentative hand out to touch a spare breastplate hung on the wall, eyes wide, when someone clears their throat behind her.

Vanya turns, and dark eyes bore through the darkness. A white smirk flashes down at her, and she backs slowly toward the door.

“I’m sorry, your highness, I was just - looking.”

“Wait!” the prince calls out quickly, a hand outstretched. “Don’t go - I’m not - I’m not upset.” She hesitates, wary, and he steps closer. “What were you looking at? The armor?”

Vanya nods. “That’s - that’s good. Knowledge of weaponry.” The prince scratches the back of his head, eyes shifting around. “That's useful. For a knight.”

“Right,” she agrees, and he smiles, oddly gentle, as if he’s afraid she’ll shy away and bolt. “Was your nose alright?” she asks after a moment, inspecting what she can make of his face. It looks alright, with no bruising or deformations, and his grin only grows sharper.

“It was fine.”

“That’s good, your Highness.”

“Five.”

“What?”

“It’s Five,” he says. “Only the servants and visiting nobles call me your Highness, and it gets awfully formal after a while.” Vanya cocks her head.

“I am a servant.” After another significant pause, “your Highness.” She gives him a short courtesy, eyes on the ground, and hurries past him and out of the armory.

From then on, it seems that she can’t get rid of him. He doesn’t catch her in the courtroom, but everywhere else, from the stables to the kitchens, she thinks she catches him lingering in her peripheral, ducking out of sight before he becomes tangible. It’s his castle, so he can go wherever he wishes, but Vanya would really appreciate it if he’d only leave her alone and put her out of her misery - she hasn’t been sent to the stocks, but when his face lights up after running into her on the stairs, she hurries away anyway.

Five finally catches her climbing an apple tree near the woods, and she knows that he had to have ventured out on his own - he has no escort, not even a manservant with him, and from the way he was craning his head, it was clear that he was looking for something. Seeing as he’s the crown prince, Vanya thinks, it probably wasn’t apples.

“I can see up your skirts,” he calls up to her in that unabashed way of his, demonstrating a devastatingly poor choice of wording that he won’t grow out of for a long while. “You should be careful, you never know who could be walking by,” Five tells her helpfully.

“It’s a tall tree,” she says defensively, readjusting her footing. Five only regards her skeptically.

“Rapists can climb,” is his response, and she can only gape down at him, bemused and startled by his impropriety. What a weirdo, Vanya thinks.

He finds her again by the creek, and she ends up pushing him in. After he doesn’t resurface for a good minute, Vanya jumps in herself, horrified, wading through murky water and shouting his name.

It’s a mistake, and she finds herself wishing that she’d killed the crown prince after all, when he only grabs her wrist and pulls her further into the water, laughing all the while.

They return to the castle covered in mud, half-drowned and extremely pleased with themselves.

King Reginald was not pleased, and the rest of the servants weren’t either, due to the tracks of mud painting the corridors.

He’s started training with the actual knights, and the next day, Vanya pulls him into the grasses and demands that Five show her everything he learned.

Five gives her an empty scabbard, promises he’ll get a sword next time, and she hands him fresh bread swiped from the kitchens. She’s good at sneaking around unnoticed, particularly at night - recently, she’s noticed a change. Vanya has more energy at night, like the moon gleams brighter, like the sounds of the dry grass dancing under the sky get louder, like the wind turns sweet and speaks to her.

It feels like magic, sometimes, but she doesn’t mention this to Five. Magic is outlawed, anyway, and Five may be Five, but she’s still a servant, and magic is still punishable by death.

The next week passes, and her thirteenth birthday passes along with it.

He finds her on the surface of the lake, drifting along on her back. The pale veneer of her small clothes cling to her like a second skin, and she looks nearly drowned, with her eyes closed, a white body against the dark of the lake. She’s a lovely, half-dead creature, and he doesn’t want to pull his eyes away from her, but he does, if only for propriety’s sake.

“What are you doing, swimming alone at an hour like this?” he calls down instead, and her eyes snap open, startled. Vanya twists around, losing her careful buoyancy and slipping below the surface for just a second - when she comes back up, spluttering, he’s laughing at her.

“It’s one of the Seven Points of Agilities!” Vanya coughs out. “I thought you, of all people, would know about knighthood.” He sobers, for just a moment. Vanya’s dark hair is plastered to her face, and his mouth twitches.

“Women aren’t supposed to know how to swim,” he tells her carefully, rolling his sleeves up to his forearms, looking torn: should he wade in to help her out, or wait for her to clamber up herself? “It’s a sign of witchcraft.”

“Witchcraft!” Vanya exclaims, amazed, but Five only shakes his head.

“If you’re a witch, they’ll have you burned, you know.”

“I’m not a witch,” Vanya hisses. You prat, she nearly adds, but he is the crown prince, so instead she resigns herself to half-heartedly splashing lake water at him.

On Five’s fourteenth birthday, Queen Grace convinces his father to throw a grand celebration. The feast is full of things he loves to eat: game, beef, and pork sit in steaming piles down the tables, and slabs of venison are stacked next to sweet wine. The hall is singing, glowing warm against its stone walls, and Five looks utterly miserable seated at the high table. He catches her by the eye, pouring drinks for the knights, and beckons her over with a finger. Vanya looks both ways and makes her way towards him through the throng of people, hesitant, but just before she reaches him, a voice stops her in her tricks.

“More wine, girl,” one burly knight barks out at her, and she freezes, apologetic. Vanya averts her gaze and turns away. Five frowns.

“It - it felt wrong.” he confesses later.

“What does?” Were my clothes too drab, too plain, even for a serving girl? You’ve already seen me covered in mud, it shouldn’t matter to you, Vanya thinks.

Five’s brow wrinkles, and he speaks slowly, as if he’s working something and his mind is moving faster than his mouth. “Seeing you.” Her heart stutters, then plummets, but he plows on. “You’re all - docile, and quiet, and -” and you won’t look at me, not in the eyes, he doesn’t say, but he means it.

“That’s how I am, Five.” Vanya feels more exposed than she was that day at the lake, smallclothes dripping wet and clinging to her skin, and she cringes at the feeling, gluing her eyes to the floor. “You’re just a servant waving a stick around,” he’d said all those years ago, and even when she’d punched him in the nose and run away, she knew even then, deep down, that he was right. “That’s what I am,” Vanya finishes in a whisper. Except when I’m with you.

Five doesn’t look like a boy anymore, he looks like he’s going to become a man.

“Maybe someday a frog will kiss you, and you’ll turn into a handsome prince,” Vanya deadpans one afternoon. He’s escaped his guard, again, and they’re perched on boughs of the apple tree again, passing one red fruit back and forth between them.

“You think?” Five asks, chagrined. Vanya smiles and nudges his shoulder.

“Seeing as magic’s outlawed, that’ll probably never happen,” Vanya says carefully, and feels a rush of relief when he only tips his head back and laughs. He doesn’t look like a boy anymore, he looks like a prince, and the other servant girls giggle about his crown and the broadness of his shoulders and the way he’s shot up like a vine these past few summers, a head above Vanya herself, but her eyes linger on his jaw and his eyes and she marvels at how he’s changed so much and he’ll keep changing, but some things, she prays, will stay the same.

She doesn’t know what he sees when he looks at her, but a part of her hopes that will stay the same, too.

Vanya spends her fourteenth birthday alone and terrified, huddled against the wall of her bedroom.

From the forest, the druids watch.

Aelwen is rising.

On Five’s fifteenth birthday, he participates in his first tournament, armor and everything. He meets her eyes from across the grounds as servants secure his helmet, and even after the visor flips to obscure his face, she can still feel his gaze.

Vanya watches him from the stands and ignores the way her heart rises in her chest when one knight gets in a lucky hit, sending a mace crashing into Five’s chest. Five hits the ground and Vanya screams, and the crowd shouts with her, outraged, but he’s back on his feet in a second despite his smashed breastplate.

“I never got a favor,” he tells her later, after he’s subdued his opponent and rests in his tent, waiting for the next round and sweating like a dog in his armor. Vanya’s just a servant tasked with bringing the crown prince water, but he looks up to her anyway, reaching up for the pitcher.

Vanya hands it to him, watches as he drinks straight from the rim, water dripping over the sides of the pitcher, down his jaw, and into the neck of his armor.

“Just for luck, then,” Vanya murmurs, pressing her plain white handkerchief into the hand of his gauntlet.

He smiles.

“You’re getting betrothed?”

“Not yet. It’s...in the works. Her name is Dolores - oh, don’t give me that look. She’s well-read, respectful, and an incredible dancer. She also comes with a large plot of land and wealth, and Father - what?”

“What else do you know about her?”

“I just gave you a list, Vanya.”

“She’s an asset to the court. Beyond that, you make it sound like she’s a doll, like she comes with - with benefits, instead of character traits. Does she have a personality? Dreams? Hopes? Fears?”

“I - well, I don’t suppose I've ever asked,” he says, taken aback.

“She’s been staying here for three months.”

“I’m busy.” Five says with a shrug. Busy with you, he doesn’t say. Vanya plucks at the strings of his latest gift: a violin made of pale wood, a foreign gift he’d never himself had use for but kept because he could appreciate the music it made - he’d just never had time to learn it.

“Too busy to spend time with a potential queen?”

Prince Five doesn’t marry Princess Dolores. Dolores, having her own hopes, dreams, and fears, doesn’t mind all that much, and the next week passes easily.

“It’s the last of the agilities,” he murmurs against her ear. Vanya pulls back from his grasp to look at him, puzzled.

“What?” It’s well into the evening, and Five doesn’t usually stop making sense to Vanya until mid-morning, at least.

“Dancing.”

Oh Vanya, asks the moon, since when are you a romantic?

Since always, she replies.

Vanya’s gathering roots when she meets someone in the forest that isn’t Five.

“There a prophecy, you know. A lot of them, actually,” the boy tells her. His eyes are lined with kohl, and his hair is a mess, but his solemn face is both dignified and kind. The boy is skinny and covered in a black cloak made of gleaming feathers. His name is Klaus, and he speaks of the future. He speaks of death.

“Death?” she whispers.

“I see it. I know it.” Klaus taps his temple, and smiles at her. “You can, too.”

“I don’t understand,” Vanya pleads. It’s a lie, but the dread in her voice isn’t, and Klaus only kindly shakes his head at her.

“The moon is rising, and so is Aelwen, the White Witch prophesied to free the druids from their exile and lead the Six Kingdoms into its Golden Age.”

“I’m just an ordinary servant.” Vanya insists, but Klaus only takes her by the hand and gestures upwards toward the gleaming moon and back to her hand, which is white in the dark, ethereal against his own flesh. Her eyes widen; she’s seen opals and diamonds and all sorts of finery, but she’s glowing.

“Aelwen, you’re extraordinary,” Klaus says, and for one moment, Vanya believes him. It’s fleeting, but it’s enough.

“Five!” she calls, and it travels through the courtyard as if carried by the wind itself. From the distance, Five whips around and looks up, craning his neck to squint at her in the heat. I’m going to miss you, she says with her eyes, but she only smiles and waves.

He waves back.

Hope, Vanya knows, lives on the same road as Despair.

On Vanya’s fifteenth birthday, someone tries to kill the king, and Vanya hones in on the sound of the dagger whipping through the air to send it right back at the assassin, embedding it in their chest. King Reginald is alive, but his glass monocle cracks down the middle, a result of the blast of energy Vanya releases into the air, built purely from sound.

The monarchy is saved, and a witch is set to burn at dawn.

“You lied to me.”

Silence.

“How long, witch?”

“Not for long.” I promise.

“‘Not for long’?” The words are spat through the bars of her prison with a broken kind of fury, and she flinches. “What does that even mean? Why wouldn’t you - was any of that real? The entire time, were you - did you -”

“I saved his life!”

“You lied to me!”

“Of course I lied, you prat! You were my best friend, and you were perfectly content with me as a servant, but suddenly I’m not, and now - now you’re going to kill me.” She glares up defiantly at him in the darkness, face lit by the torches.

The flames burn smoothly, warping the line of her jaw and illuminating the gleam of her eyes, which are glinting - not supernaturally, he realizes, but with tears. He looks back at her through the bars of the cell from where he’s sunk against the floor again, looks at her free anger, sees her finally set ablaze, and wonders who’s truly imprisoned.

Five closes his eyes for a moment, imagines dawn breaking the sky, Vanya’s head rolling across the courtyard, eyes unblinking. He envisions her waterlogged corpse, waxy and painted with veins that creep up her face like vines, drowned by a barrel. He sees her engulfed on a pyre, her screams rising into the sky like the shriek of birds fleeing to the west.

The Prince will pursue her on horseback - she is an escaped prisoner, after all and a dangerous witch to boot. He’ll take some of his best men, from Sir Luther with his legendary strength, to Sir Diego, one of the most skilled knights in the land. He’ll search for weeks, because a witch hunt doesn’t end easily. She must’ve used witchcraft, the sorceress, because there was no open window for her to escape from, not unless someone handed her the keys to her cell door and ushered her through the hidden tunnels of the castle and away to freedom.

You told me once that I was just a servant girl, and I would always be just a servant girl, she thinks, and waits for some vindictive pleasure to surge up inside her (because he was wrong, and all she’s ever wanted to do was to prove him wrong, just once, and there’s no moment more opportune than this). It doesn’t come.

(It was a long time ago.)

Klaus takes her hand, firm but not unkind, and gently pulls her away, until they’re running, tearing through the long grasses and towards the woods, and they begin to recede into the darkness of the trees, and the castle becomes but a shape in the distance. Before the forest closes its arms and takes her, though, Vanya tugs from Klaus’s grasp and whips around for one last look - this glimpse, of the kingdom where she fought and nearly burned (and very nearly, very possibly fell in love), will have to last her.

She turns to take the plunge, a white shadow against the trees.

It will be a long three years.

King Reginald dies quietly, without a fuss, an incredible feat for a man so cruel. He’d be rolling in his grave, though, if he knew of the prophecies that were whispered throughout the kingdom, of the Druid uprising, led by their own prophesied princess, Aelwen, the White Witch. The ban against magic was lifted within the second year after King Reginald’s death, and ever since, signs of magic and its people have evaded the borders of the kingdom. She’s coming for the kingdom, whisperers the baker. She’s not here to attack, says the midwife. She comes to avenge, the blacksmith suggests. No, confides the wise man, she comes to unite.

They meet just outside the borders of the kingdom, within the green outskirts of the King Five’s reign. The tall dry grasses sing and dance around them, and he takes in her proud, dark eyes, small mouth, heavy, dark hair, and white cloak draped over her small shoulders. He drinks it up like a dying man.

“I request an audience,” the Sorceress says, “with the king of these lands.”

“I’ve been waiting for you,” the King says, and leads them to his horse.

“At night,” the King says slowly, “I dream. I dream about the future. Do you know what I see?”

“No.”

“The sun hasn’t set yet, you know. I could still have you burned.” Five suggests.

Vanya tilts her head, considering, then nods solemnly. “You could,” she concedes.

“But…?”

“But I am extremely powerful. I could kill your kingsguard and set your entire kingdom ablaze before you even had the chance to gather wood for the pyre,” Vanya confesses, and Five crosses his arms.

“Ah.”

“And, of course, burning me would nullify any impending treaty. My people are rather averse to witch burnings.”

“Are they, now?”

“We’re very progressive these days.”

“It’s a good thing, then, that I am too.”

“It’d also look rather bad on your part, having been crowned merely days ago, pledging to start a reign of peace and tolerance, to immediately start another decade-long war.”

“Indeed, it would. I am so fully committed to decades of peace, in fact, that I am appalled that you would even suggest such a thing.”

Vanya turns to the window, to the courtyard below. The sun washes the pavement yellow, illuminating the bustling crowd like an open field of dry grass. “Anything else?”

“I’ve also been told that I’m a huge prat,” Five says mildly, and leans down to press his mouth to hers.

She kisses him back soundly, as if in agreement.

end

Seven Points of Agilities” – riding, swimming and diving, shooting different types of weapons, climbing, participation in tournaments, wrestling and fencing, long jumping and dancing – the prerequisite skills for knighthood

I know nothing about medieval times. This was strongly inspired by Merlin and The Swan Princess, so historical accuracy? Who is she?

Aelwen, “fair browed” in Welsh

@maradeur thanks for the ask, and sorry for taking literally a month to respond. I have a few more prompts and I do intend to get to all of them, I just want to explore them properly, and I’d feel bad giving some prompts 2k words and background research and other ones like, half a paragraph, but I do read all of them and love everyone who asks so keep it up y’all

#fiveya #the umbrella academy #vanya hargreeves #five hargreeves #tua #mini fic #honestly merlin was the best show ever #lots of subtext to unload there #the prompt was challenging and i did it wrong but its all out now #vanyas a witch and a princess #ask me anons

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sleepylixie · 3 years

Text

Only Fools Rush In

Crown Prince! Jeongin X fem! Reader

Fantasy AU, Loose retelling of Sleeping Beauty.

7k words, Platonic pairing, Beware of non-graphic mentions of death( only mentions, with respect to curses and dark magical behaviour ), slight violence in fight scenes (not explicit at all), NO mentions of blood.

Songs: Can’t Help Falling in Love(DARK) - Tommee Profitt // Tomorrow We Fight - Tommee Profitt ft. Svrcina

|| Prologue ||

A/N: @magicbehindwords hello, Carolyn! Tis me, your Secret Santa!! Man, you have the chillest vibes, I really enjoyed figuring out this fic for you! I had something entirely different planned, but you saying you enjoyed a good high fantasy read ended with me happily derailing and plunging into the Fantasy Woods instead xD I hope you enjoy this offering(I know it’s really late hhh I’m vv sorry T^T)

There will be one more fic joining my pair of Christmas gift fics! As a part of @hanflix With Love, Chistmas holiday collab, I will be posting a Jisung fic soon! Anyways, onto the fic!! Do let me know what you think, my ask box is open! ~

Drop me an Ask! || Masterlist

It’s been very rare to have known you, very strange and wonderful. - F. Scott Fitzgerald

1-JEONGIN

“.....Crown Princess of the Western Isles.”

An elegantly dressed young lady stood before Jeongin, her hair falling over her shoulders as she sank into a neat curtsy. He cursed himself for not catching her name during her herald. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Highness,” her voice was a smooth serenade, the words rising and falling in an unfamiliar accent . Her eyes didn’t flit away from his gaze or widen in flirtation, but maintained a steady gaze akin to his own. Jeongin’s brow arched slightly- she was brazen, playfully so.

“The pleasure is all mine, my lady.” He bowed back slightly, suppressing a sigh at the repeated action he was forced to perform. He had been meeting the multitude of ladies Ataloria had to offer for what felt like time immemorial. It was the same old thing, over and over again- bow, exchange pleasantries, have them whisked away by the herald before speaking about anything of consequence. The hall was abuzz with quiet laughter and chatter, the excitement palpable for the biggest celebration the kingdom had seen in centuries- The Rose Gala.

Ataloria was a kingdom ruled by women ever since it’s conception- queens of enormous power, wealth and cunning who turned the once tiny valley town into the biggest empire of its confederation. While a queen could rule Ataloria solo, a royal son would require a woman in wedlock to rule with him, cementing his place on the throne for him. To make sure their kingdom’s prince found a suitable wife before his coronation, the tradition of The Rose Gala was born.

In the son’s 18th year, a celebration would be held in Ataloria inviting ladies from every corner of the kingdom to the Rose Palace(his home) for a chance at the Crown Prince’s hand. Such was the fairness of the bygone queens- they believed that nobility was a reflection of character, not blood.

“May I have this dance, Your Highness?” Jeongin met the princess’ eyes, surprised- none of the previous ladies he’d met had yet to ask him for a dance, but here was this princess, her twinkling eyes matching her smile as she held her gloved hand out. A smile pulled up the side of his lips as he accepted her hand, leading her into the centre of the dance floor. She was bold, playfully so- he liked it.

The band picked up a soulful waltz piece as Jeongin swept the princess into his arms, the two of them melting naturally against each other as they began to move. She was well- trained, Jeongin noted, because she moved with fluid ease, balancing her movements with his despite this being their first dance together.

“How has the Gala been so far, Your Highness?” Her accent was less pronounced than it was before, but Jeonign shrugged it off. It was likely because he was getting accustomed to it. “It has been quite an interesting affair, my lady. I hope the preparations for your arrival and living have been up to your standards.”

“You live in a beautiful city, Your Highness” she giggled lightly as Jeongin twirled her out and back into his arms, unfaltering in their motions. “Yes, the capital of Ataloria has lived up to the many expectations that us outlanders had of it… But I wonder, Are you always this formal?” He allowed a smile of his own to creep up his face- her stubbornly casual behaviour intrigued him more than he’d like to admit. “If you insist on thinking me formal, I must insist that you address me by my chosen name and not by my title… your name, my lady?”

An amused grin lit up the princess’ face, her hand tightening almost infinitesimally on his shoulder as the music crescendoed to a high.

“Y/N, Your Highness. My name is Y/N.”

2-JEONGIN

The moon was creeping higher in the sky when Jeongin slipped into the highest tower in the north wing. It had been a struggle to slip away from The Rose Gala, a faked headache finally allowing him to rush back to his chambers and gather up his belongings so he could sneak his way to the North Tower.

His previous princely outfit had been exchanged to lighter, more rugged garments of the darkest black, embroidered with threads of silver. A snicker bubbled to his lips at the thought of the ladies in the Rose Hall, of how they’d react if they saw their sweet yet aloof prince like this- scratching a pentagram onto the stone floor with an air of familiarity he hadn’t exhibited to them.

Spellcasting had been a guilty passion for Jeongin ever since he sat in on his mother’s meeting with the silver-eyed spellcaster coven that resided just outside Ataloria’s borders, thoroughly intrigued by how they wove enchantment into words and items like it was second nature. He was forbidden from interacting with them, however. His mother told him that some knowledge was beyond the ears of an ordinary mortal and such boundaries must be respected without error.

However, curiosity had driven him to swipe a few books from the coven elders, fascinated by all the information that lay between the covers. It became a habit to steal some of the spellcasters’ books during their visits, replicate them as soon as possible and return them to their original resting place in the coven’s temporary living chambers.

Over time and innumerable incidents of trial and error, he learnt to wield the energy that thrummed in the world around him. Starting from simple levitation, he worked his way through more and more complex spells as his capabilities expanded. Not a single soul knew about the prince’s penchant for spellcasting- it was a secret he guarded fiercely, for fear that he would be frowned upon and misunderstood for communing with dark spirits.

Sitting back on his haunches, Jeongin admired his handiwork- purple candles decorating the cardinal directions on the pentagram, the flames flickering a warm yellow. 5 crystals lay in a circle in the center of the pentagram, all identical in shape but unique in shade. Sigils of protection, enhancement and power decorated the edges and also littered the floor in a circle around him.

Since most of his arcane knowledge came more from reading than practicing, he’d spent months in this very tower room, mouthing the incantations until he was fluent in the foreign language and practicing drawing the sigils until he could draw them in his sleep. There was too much at stake with this spell to get something wrong- the safety of Ataloria, to be specific.

Saying the first words of the incantation out loud stirred something wild in his veins, instantly feeling every wave of energy throbbing around him. It was darker, stronger, almost turbulent in nature, unlike the freely flowing, easily shaped energy he’d always encountered before. But he would endure, because this spell was not a question of just his capabilities, but also the country he’d one day rule.

This Winter Solstice night, he would cast the biggest spell of his short life as a spellcaster.

This Winter Solstice night, he would cast a warding spell around the Atalorian borders.

If everything went perfectly, the warding spell would need no renewal- it would transcend the life of the caster and instead be latched to the power of the kingdom’s crown.

Shivers of cold anticipation slid over his body as the energy began to swirl around the pentagram, his focus honed to a razor sharp edge as his words began to bend it to his will. It was time.

3-JEONGIN

Jeongin knew that something was wrong the second he stepped out of the tower. The Rose Gala wasn’t the quietest affair; the muted sounds of string instruments and chatter had rung through the walls until he cast a sound-dampening spell around the North Tower. Now, despite lifting the spell and stepping out… an eerie silence hung in the air, heavy and stifling. There was none of the merry-making that he’d heard before.

Keeping to the shadows, he crept down the corridor towards the main staircase and stopped short. The guards posted near the sliding doors of the north wing were fast asleep, leaning against the wall and slumped onto the floor. A shiver slithered down Jeongin’s spine. This wasn’t normal. The guards in the palace were nowhere close to lax in security, especially during nights of revelry.

Catching hold of one guard’s shoulder, he shook him hard, hoping that the jostling would wake him up. But he only crumpled to the floor, completely unaware of the world. Almost like he was….no, He couldn’t be. Jeongin fell to his knees before the man, scrabbling for a pulse at the man’s wrist- no, he was alive. Very much so. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he got to his feet, warily scanning the top of the main staircase on the other side of the sliding doors. The silence was almost deafening as he made his way towards the staircase, looking down at the main lobby of the castle-

Everybody was asleep.

It was almost like a wave of sleep had taken over every guard, guest and staff in the palace, rendering them silent and slumped on the floor the second they encountered it. A maid was leant against a pillar, a tray of champagne lying toppled next to her. A herald lay on the floor, curled up next to the skirts of a slumbering lady in red silk.

Stumbling away from the bannister, he collapsed on the top stair, a rush of panic overwhelming him- was he at fault for this? Surely he wasn’t… But what if he was? What had he done wrong? Was the timing off? How was he to fix this?? What was he going to do-

That was when he heard it.

Cutting through the thick silence was a husky, haunting melody, singing words that tore through his mind, bringing back faded childhood memories. He remembered being afraid first, finding solace next in the voice and its wistful song. As he grew up, his slumber came faster and deeper, rendering him unable to listen to the walls’ song. But he didn’t forget the words. He never did.

However, the voice didn’t echo from the walls the way he remembered- this time, it was coming from the very hall The Rose Gala was held in.

“Wise men say only fools rush in...

But I can’t help falling in love with you…”

The voice continued singing the same lines as Jeongin hurried down the staircase and towards the hall, the open doors spilling the chandeliers’ lights into the modestly candle lit corridor. The marble floor of the hall was laden with ladies’ skirts and gentlemen’s capes and cloaks, every single person including his dear parents and family fast asleep- except for one.

Y/N.

Jeongin watched as she sang to herself, her arms held out almost as if she was… she was waltzing with somebody. There was something so haunting about the sight to Jeongin- maybe it was the song that spilled so easily from her lips or the way she danced with nobody but the air to accompany her. Her skirts clutched in one hand, she swept back and forth in front of one of the windows, the only person awake amongst a sea of sleeping people.

“Wise men say only fools rush in...

But I can’t help falling in love with you…”

“You can come in, Your Highness.” her voice lacked the Isle accent he heard before-if anything, she had the exact same accent as his own. “This is, after all, your palace.”

So much for staying hidden. Jeongin cautiously stepped into the hall, eyes narrow as he marked her every movement. But she was calm as she dropped her arms to her sides, turning to face him from across the hall, her smile the exact same as before- brazen, confident, playful.

“Do you have something to do with this, Y/N?” He demanded, his voice quivering with the pent-up panic he was struggling to control. “Oh no, Your Highness,” Y/N responded, beginning to pick her way across the sleeping people towards him. “That’s the question I must ask you. What did you do to my home?”

Jeongin instantly stiffened, one hand going to his belt for his dagger and the other, encompassed in ice-cold hoarfrost. There was no point in hiding his powers, especially if he was alone with…. Whoever she was. To his shock, her eyes lit up in joyous surprise. “Oh, I see you’ve learnt to conjure the elements. You’ve come far in your spellcasting studies, Your Highness.”

“Greetings, Your Highness. I am Y/N, the guardian of the Rose Palace.”

“Oh, this sweet girl?” she raised her arm before brushing back her intricately curled hair with an uncaring flick of her hand. “ Her name is Yelina. She asked me to… assist her in courting you. I assure you, Your Highness, I’m not from the Western Isles nor do I have the need to spy on you.”

“Assist? Yelin- What are you going on about?” Jeongin’s temper finally reached a fever pitch, his voice raising in frustration. “I expect a straight answer from you, whatever your name is. Who are you, and do you have anything to do with this?”

The young lady in front of him dipped into a bow- it wasn’t the neat curtsy he’d seen at the beginning of the night. This was a deep, sweeping bow, almost mocking in nature as she nearly knelt to the floor and rose in one fluid motion.

Her eyes were silver when they met his, a stark contrast from the dark eyes that had peered out of her face before. “And you, young prince, have just caused trouble you might not be able to mend.”

“How do you know that, Y/N?” Jeongin’s voice was as cold as the ice wreathing his fingers, his jaw tightening as he struggled to keep his rising anger in check. “Do the Western Isles dare to spy on its future monarch?”

Just as Jeongin began to advance toward her, his eyes blazing with fury at her twisted answers, a velvet soft laugh from the doors cut through his haze of anger. He caught the way Y/N’s face paled, her demeanour stiffening as she caught sight of who stood behind him. Whirling around, he saw a man walk into the hall, his plump lips pulled back in a satisfied smirk.

“How very quaint of you, guardian.”

His voice was dark, almost sensual in it’s smoothness, a terrible age ringing in every syllable. His hair was a deep purple, drizzled with streaks of white that hung inelegantly over his eyes. A dark cloak fastened at one shoulder fluttered around his feet as he moved further into the hall. There was something wrong with this man, Jeongin realized as his grip tightened on his dagger. The energy in the room had taken a nosedive with his arrival, leaving him with barely a few strands to hold onto.

“Nobody nor the stars give a damn about your opinion, Chris.”

Jeongin started at Y/N’s cold voice ringing from next to him, her eyes narrowed in derision as she stared down the purple-haired man. However, the man wasn’t fazed in the least, his smile only widening in response. “Is that any way to talk to your elder, young one?”

That was when Jeongin noticed the flash of quicksilver in Chris’ eyes- identical to Y/N’s.

Spellcasters.

4- Y/N

“You’re no more my elder than that band of heathens you used to lead.” you spit, stepping in front of Jeongin. You could sense his surprise as he watched your form change- hair turning white, your forehead wreathed with icy blue flames. It probably must be quite overwhelming for him, but you couldn’t spare that much throught- Chris was not to touch a single strand of his hair, stars be damned.

“You’re not welcome here, Chris. Begone.”

“When has that ever stopped me, little one?” Chris’ silver eyes narrowed in a sardonic smile- only, it wasn’t a smile but a soulless show of teeth. “Besides,the intention of my visit was only to extend a hand of gratitude to the crown prince behind you.”

To his credit, Jeongin didn’t so much as flinch, matching Chris’s stare for icy stare. “From the guardian’s stance, I presume your hand of gratitude isn’t one to clamour for.” A rueful smile dragged your lips upward; Jeongin had never been the type to mince his words.

“I must insist, Your Majesty,” Chris’ very stance glittered with the stench of malice, your magic tingling unpleasantly around you. “Or must I call you Jeongin, for you will not remain a royal much longer?”

“I’ll stop you right there.” You growled, fists clenching as blue flames sparked alive in your hands again. “Do not speak of the crown prince that way.”

“Or what, little one?” Chris laughed aloud. “Will your sweet crown prince run his country to doom yet again?”

“W-What-” Jeongin spluttered behind you, confused and bewildered. Chris cut through his stammered sentence, his words carrying over Jeongin’s. “Your spell backfired, princeling. Instead of protecting your kingdom, you sent them all to the one place where they’d never be harmed- their sleep. If only you knew the nuances of spellcasting. Stolen knowledge can only do so much, you know. I allowed you to steal the books, foolish mortal boy. Did you really think you were sneaky enough to swipe from spellcasters??” Chris snarled mockingly at you and Jeongin. You could sense the terror rippling off your prince; taste it like copper on your tongue.

“ Your kingdom will fall to death soon, all because you couldn’t keep your sticky mortal hands to yourself and mess with power you don’t deserve to know, princeling. All of this,” he exclaimed, throwing his arms out wide in sinful exultation, “Will belong to the heathens Y/N spoke about-” And a spear of fire threw him off his feet, sending him flying and crumpling against the far wall.

Stalking towards his prone figure, you pulled him up and slammed him against the wall, your hands clutching his cloak. A line of blue blood trickled down from his hairline to your sick satisfaction, his lips pulled back in a pained snarl. A snake of your flames bound his arms together as you stared him down, silver for silver.

“This kingdom has never been yours, neither will it ever be.” Your voice was soft, icy, pointed. “It belongs to Ataloria now and stars be damned if I don’t make sure it stays that way.”

“You’re a traitor to your own kind, Y/N.” Chris spat in your face, struggling against the flames around his wrists. “Do what you wish to stop this. You and I both know this curse will be fulfilled by that foolish mortal you protect. You’ll get your comeuppance when your princeling’s folly renders this kingdom obsolete,little one. That’s a promise.”

With those final jarring words, he disappeared in a plume of red smoke, leaving you alone with a shell-shocked Jeongin and Ataloria’s sleeping citizens.

5- Y/N

“The land that Ataloria stands on is home to a lot more history than you know, Your Highness.” You bustled into the basement kitchen with the prince at your heels. Jeongin slumped in a chair at the wooden table, his head hidden in his hands. You couldn’t recognize if it was fear, regret or anger, because the only thing you could sense from the prince was a mixture of emotions too complex to gauge.

The both of you had spent the last couple of hours placing temporary warding charms over the entirety of Ataloria- If your brother could break in, god knows what else could. It was no mean feat, especially for two spellcasters and a vast country. But Jeongin rose to the task, his brow furrowed with concentration as he burned perfectly drawn sigils onto the map and spoke incantations with a clear, soulless tongue. The sun rose as you worked on the warding charms- it was bordering early afternoon by the time you led him to the kitchen. It fascinated you how easily the craft came to him; it wasn’t natural for a mortal with no magic in his veins.

“I don’t want to hear it, Y/N.” He sounded small, exhausted, shattered. The night must have been extremely overwhelming for him, you realized. The pressure of being responsible for an entire kingdom’s destruction must not be the easiest weight to carry. “If you’re guardian of this palace, then why didn’t you do something to stop me?” You could hear the blame, the self-loathing in every sentence, but you let him speak. “All these years, you watched me through the walls, sang me lullabies, but didn’t bother to stop me from digging myself a spellcaster grave.”

You gulped, pulling yourself together as you took a seat next to Jeongin. This was not going to be an easy story.

“Your Highness-”

“Call me Jeongin.”

“This story possibly holds the key to righting the wrongs of the night past. Do yourself the favour of listening, Jeongin.” A wave of his hand and straightened posture signalled you to speak, the only response you received.

“The entirety of the Southern Sphere was ruled by spellcasters, their power much greater than those of the spellcasters in your country. Then, this area was called Erus Nox. The spellcasters ruled with great pride and fairness- mortal and Spellcaster coexisting amongst each other with great peace. The capital was not too far from what you now call the Western Isles. Over the centuries, corruption began to take root as it did in any great empire. Many spellcasters did not believe that mortals deserved rights equal to their own, that mortals were the inferior race because of the magic their veins couldn’t hold.

“Soon enough, there were mortal killings in the bowels of the city.News reached my- the Spellcaster King and he ordered his cavalry to round up the perpetrators and have them publicly sentenced to the gallows for breaking the peace. That decision didn’t sit well with the spellcaster nobility, who were now driven to believe that the King.. our king favoured the mortals more than his own blood. Rumors were circulated that the royal family were weak beings, pandering to the whims of their mortal population...it wasn’t true. None of it was. But it spread like wildfire, and suddenly there were mass killings in the suburban areas and the noble circle every other day.”

“Wait, how do you know so much about this?” Jeongin asked you suspiciously, his eyes narrowed. “This clearly isn’t common information. Were you.. Were you one of the rebel forces?!”

“No, you impatient brat.” You bit out, your clenched fists creasing crescent shaped indents into your palms as Jeongin stopped short at your unfamiliar, condescending tone. “If you absolutely must know, I was the crown princess of Erus Nox. Don’t interrupt me, or I will freeze your mouth shut.” A glimmer of amusement flashed past Jeongin eyes at the barely-veiled threat, aware of how different you sounded from barely minutes ago. He nodded at you to continue, so you did.

“My father and I were particularly outspoken against the heathens ravaging the country. We did everything in our power to curb the nonsense, the fanaticism of the rabid spellcaster rebellion. Towards the final days of the… the era, my family and I rallied the mortals and sent them to the closest mortal-dominated towns in the country. By the time the last human group left, it was too late.

“The rebels broke down the wards and- and sent nearly my entire family to the darkness. My father and I fought until we were forcibly subdued. I was made to watch as my father breathed his last, strung up to the throne I was meant to inherit.”

“From his last dying breaths, my father cursed the entire kingdom to fall apart the second he passed. He cursed the land to only cater to a mortal queen when the right lady stepped up, and continue to have only queens in power- may the masses be ruled by the very race they considered inferior. But before he could complete his incantation, he passed into the darkness.”

“Because of the holes his incomplete incantation left behind, the rebel forces brought in Chris to lighten the weight of the curse.- my trusted advisor and confidant,” You shook your head bitterly, the betrayal still ice in your spine. “He was my trusted advisor and confidant, a spellcaster inferior in power only to my family.

“He had no choice but to let the mortal queens part run its course- but he wrote into existence that one day, a mortal prince with a penchant for spellcasting would be born. When he came of age, he would prick himself on the sharp edge that is the art of spellcasting and bring down disaster upon the kingdom as he knows it. At which point, the crown-less kingdom would be ripe for the spellcasters’ picking, heralding the royal son’s folly as a reason for the mortals’ inability to rule- Erus Nox would be restored in all it’s bloody glory for these savage, power-drunk hordes.”

“As for me, well,” You let out a bitter laugh. “Chris had other plans for me. He had resented being my subordinate all along, and took the opportunity to even out his petty grudge. He bound my soul to the castle that was meant to become my home after my coronation, forcing me to watch Erus Nox’s destruction from what was meant to be my chosen headquarters.”

You sighed as you struggled to keep your voice steady, bluntly ignoring the glance of pity that Jeongin sent to you. “He magically sewed my lips shut, forbade me from speaking about the curse and the crusade to anybody, destroying most of my magic reserve and reducing me to.. Well, Guardian of the Rose Palace. But it seems,” you grinned wickedly, your demeanour switching instantly from forlorn to...wild and wicked. “Chris has always had a chronic problem of underestimating me, despite having to trail after my skirts for decades on end. He weakened his curse on me in the heat of the moment back in the hall, when he told me to do what I wish to stop him.” Jeongin’s eyes widened, his jaw dropping in surprise.

“S-So, you’re free?”

“Well,” you cocked your head in thought. “As free as I can be, without a body to inhabit. This young lady’s body is already quite tired out from the exertion I put her through…. But that’s besides the point.” Your eyes glittered in thinly veiled joy, tinged with malice. “This time, he’s truly going to get what’s coming for him.”

6- JEONGIN

“Chris left a glaring loophole in his incantation. It was a possibility he didn’t entertain, because it was a sheer impossibility in his eyes.” Jeongin listened closely as Y/N laid out the information she’d gathered over the years, and the conclusions she’d arrived at from it. The two of them were still sitting at the table where Y/N told him about the story of Erus Nox. His heart was heavy from the pain he felt from her words- being a prisoner in the same castle you were meant to rule from must have been the worst kind of pain to bear.

“..He did not consider the possibility of the mortal prince being alive to right the wrong he had committed.”

Jeongin gasped, sitting up straight in surprise. “That seems like a stupid possibility to overlook.”

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Jeongin.” You chuckled. “It was quite by chance that I noticed the discrepancy, but yes. Chris’ curse will be obsolete if you undo the spell you wrongly cast.”

He shrugged, leaning back against the chair. “How do you propose we do that?”

Y/N’s fingertips pressed against each other, her elbows balanced on the table edge. “That warding spell you tried to cast- show me what you did. If we were to find out where you went wrong and undo it, Ataloria must likely be revived.”

Jeongin rubbed the back of his neck in thought, processing Y/N’s words. “How long will it take for you to find my errors?”

“Depends on how long the incantation is. ”

“Then what are we waiting for? You know where the North Tower is.”

“Stars above, Chris is a nasty hellhound for letting you swipe this book,” Y/N cursed, carefully taking the book from him and flipping it open. “This book contains incantations that even the most seasoned spellcasters of the current age can’t cast right.” Jeongin’s shoulders slumped as he took a seat on the floor next to her kneeling form.

Stepping carefully over the throngs of peacefully slumbering people, Jeongin led Y/N up to the North Tower. The room was as he’d left it- chalk smudges and bits of purple wax dotting the floor. Pulling open a dusty drawer, Jeongin picked out the book he’d taken the incantation from.

“I really should have kept my nose out of spellcasting. “He muttered softly, watching her turn the brittle browned pages carefully. “Would have saved the world a lot of trouble.”

“You’re such a self-absorbed little thing,” Y/N quipped, still absorbed in the pages of the spellbook. “This was your destiny, one that Chris wrote for you. You’d have come across spellcasting and fallen in love with its craft in one way or another. Besides, you’re in the presence of a master spellcaster- Oh, is it this one?” Y/N pointed at the page in front of her.

Jeongin nodded miserably. “Yes, that’s the one. This is the modification I came up with.” He pulled out a dog-eared, heavily scribbled piece of paper from between the book’s leaves, handing it to her.

“You’ve got some balls trying this incantation without any formal training, that too with modifications!!” Y/N exclaimed, scanning the pages of the incantation. “I’m surprised that an eternal sleep is all you caused after ruining it.If you had cast this right, it would have completely removed the possibility of a siege on Ataloria’s borders ever again.”

“I know. That was why I took the risk of casting it. It would have been ideal to protect the borders.”

“No, you don’t get it.” She spared him a glance laden with calculated curiosity, “This spell is extremely volatile, because of the number of variables it includes- even more so with your changes. It’s strong enough to ward away any mortal or spellcaster who isn’t welcome within its borders. This could decimate the spellcaster siege, if you recast it right. It’s… It’s genius. You’re better than I anticipated.”

“It was all for naught, I ruined it regardless,” Jeongin sighed. “If you’re that good of a spellcaster, can you undo and recast the spell instead?”

“I am still a spirit, so the doors to these kinds of spellcasting are closed to me.” You frowned. “It will take me a long time and power I am yet to find to cast a body for myself, so the fastest way to revive Ataloria would be for you to undo the spell with my guidance.”

An iceberg lodged itself into Jeongin’s heart at the thought of having to cast a spell again. He swallowed thickly, the fear turning his thoughts slow and sluggish. “I’m not sure that is a good idea. I’m clearly not meant to dabble in spellcasting, I’m but a mortal-”

“Does spellcasting make your blood sing, Jeongin?”

It only took Jeongin a split- second’s thought to answer her question. “Yes.”

“Then why must you be scared of failure?” Y/N’s eyebrow arched. “Even spellcasters make mistakes. That doesn’t stop us from pursuing the craft, does it? Also..you’re not alone now, Jeongin.” She placed a warm hand on his shoulder. “ This craft was never meant to be exclusive. I knew mortal spellcasters who bent energy to their will much better than many spellcasters by blood. You’re a natural at this. I believe in you.”

Jeongin’s face crumpled as a few tears escaped his eyes unbidden. The idea of pursuing spellcasting beyond a hidden passion sent a thrill through his body despite the havoc his previous attempt had caused. The possibility of failure, as daunting as it was, only pushed him to practice more, be better- He wiped the tears away. If not for himself, at least for the good of Ataloria...

“Are you certain that this spell could protect Ataloria from future harm?”

“Absolutely. I’m sure of it.” she sounded confident; Jeongin had no reason to distrust her.

“You truly believe that I can undo the spell ?”

Y/N stood up, the book in one hand as she held out the other for him to take. “I do. Are you up for the challenge, Your Highness?” She used the title like a teasing nickname, her eyes creasing into a smile as Jeongin took her hand, hauling himself to his feet.

“As much as I’ll ever be.”

7-JEONGIN

“Do you remember everything I told you?” Y/N leaned against the door of the North Tower, watching closely as Jeongin went through the same preparations as last night. The pentagram and sigils drawn, the crystals and candles laid out, Y/N’s paper of corrections and developments on the new spell clutched in Jeongin’s hand.

“Yes, I think so.” He huffed out a breath, the air fogging in front of him. The sun had set, giving way to the twilight darkness. This night was eerily similar to the night before- the sun was high in the sky, the stars against the cloudless sky. But tonight, his kingdom’s fate hung in the balance, because a group of magical elitists couldn’t admit defeat.

“Thank you, Y/N.” His gratitude clearly caught Y/N off-guard, judging from her widened eyes and parted lips. “Oh- I-”

His thoughts wandered to the people that lay deep in slumber around the castle and the kingdom- his people. Their fate and safety lay in his untrained novice spellcaster hands. Jeongin’s jaw tightened, his resolve strengthened. He would do everything right this time around, no matter what it took. For his people.

Before she could answer, a resounding boom ripped through the tower, shaking the floor under their feet. Amidst the pebbles and tiles falling from the ceiling, Jeongin saw Y/N hurry to the window in the tower wall, her expression shifting from confusion to fury.

“Chris realized his mistake.” The words sent a chill down Jeongin’s spine. The energy-sucking feeling he’d felt in Chris’ presence was one he did not wish to encounter again-

“I’ll hold him off,” Y/N’s brow and wrists blazed in the same icy blue fire he’d seen that morning, her silver eyes flashing dangerously. “No matter what, don’t step out of the room, do you understand?”

That was when Jeongin saw the silver line etched at the entrance of the door, a flare of silvery energy encompassing the entire room around him- A forcefield. Y/N stood on the other side, her voice loud yet muffled as another explosion rocked the foundations of the tower. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND, JEONGIN??”

The energy that picked up around him was as wild as he remembered, a hurricane almost throwing him off his feet from the time he uttered the first words. If anything, it was almost chaotic, the wind screaming in his ears as he struggled to keep the incantation running. It was almost like the energy did not wish to be undone, rebelling against his attempts to right the wrong.

“YES, YES I DO!” He yelled, lunging for the spellbook that had fallen to the floor. He had no time to spare, maybe if he worked the incantation fast enough no harm would befall Y/N or his people, there were his people in the castle, he couldn’t mess up-

He could hear the distant crackle of fire and the screech of metal outside the forcefield- Y/N was making good on her word. It would only be fitting if he did the same.

8- Y/N

You dodged another arrow of ice, a hiss slipping through your teeth as you pulled yourself to your feet. “Tired already little one?” Chris called out, his fists ablaze with red-tinted ice. His eyes blazed a bright silver, almost white as he advanced towards you.

“You wish, blood traitor,” You snarled back, tossing a wave of shadow energy at Chris, but he only danced out of range. “It seems to be so!” He cackled, another gust of energy pushing you backwards on the smooth marble.

The two of you stood at the entrance to the North Tower, right outside the forcefield you’d left around Jeongin. You could only hope that he was doing everything you told him to do. You gritted your teeth, rallying what was left of your magic. Yelina’s body was strong, but she wasn’t a spellcaster. The constant magic use was taking a toll on her while the stress of inhabiting a mortal body taking a toll on you. Your magic wasn’t made to inhabit a mortal body for too long-you could only hope that the two of you held out long enough to give Jeongin the time he needed…It was time for some old-fashioned trickery.

“You can’t get through the forcefield I put around him even if you get past me, Chris. It’s beyond your capabilities.” You grinned at the way Chris’ eyes narrowed. You’d hit the right nerve. “I know for a fact you’re too proud to bring any of your heathens with you,” you taunted further, revelling in his clenched fists. “Keep your nasty tongue to yourself, Y/N-”

“You were embarrassed by the loophole you left, weren’t you?” the mocking sweetness in your tone had a growl ripping out of Chris’ throat, an angry vine of energy flying towards you. You ducked, allowing it to break through the plaster and cement of the wall behind you, a raucous laugh bubbling up your throat. Keep him occupied, keep him occupied until Jeongin completes the incantation-

“You came here alone to fix it. You’re just as I remember, Courtesan,” you exclaimed, dancing out of the way of Chris’ attacks, until one flash of lightning caught you unawares, slamming you against the wall. Chris’s purple hair was almost black in the darkness as he materialized in front of you, his snarl showing pulled back teeth ready to pounce. His hand tightened around your neck, squeezing slowly. “I should have killed you that day in the throne room-”

“ Social climbing, greedy, proud,” you choked on the little remaining air you had left in your lungs, defiantly staring Chris down. “Always overshadowed, can’t do a single thing right-”

“You little-”

Your eyes screwed shut, waiting for the final blow- which never came.

9-JEONGIN

“You- There’s no way you reversed the spell-” Chris screamed, his silvery bright eyes almost white in the moonlight darkness. He could feel Chris’ magic rebel against his own, the intensity almost enough to make Jeongin see stars, but he held on. His magic’s grip tightened on Chris, who choked and spluttered to silence.

“You’re not welcome here, Chris.” Jeongin’s voice was louder than he thought, bolts of magic bodily pulling him away from Y/N. She slumped to the ground, coughing and spluttering, but his attention was speared upon the thrashing man in the clutches of Jeongin’s roiling magic.

“Y/N told me you had a chronic problem of underestimating people.” He sounded calm, almost conversational to his own ears. How was he so calm?

“I must agree for tonight, a foolish mortal boy will be the reason for your downfall. I hope your entire association remembers that before ever thinking of laying siege upon my kingdom again. Leave, Chris. And never return.”

“I would not lay my bets on that, mortal scum.” Chris snarled, finally finding his tongue before dissolving into thin air, Jeongin’s magic letting him leave. The castle was alive yet again, with faint murmurs and loud screams. He could hear the sound of life everywhere- and it finally hit him. He succeeded.

An incredulous laugh spilled from his throat, almost instinctively moving towards Y/N as his grin grew wider. He’d succeeded, he saved them, he did it all by himself-

He knelt before her, gently helping her sit up and open her eyes.. Dark eyes that were decidedly not the silver he’d gotten accustomed to. It was Yelina that stared back at him, not Y/N- her eyes narrowed in exhaustion, the previous injuries inflicted by the fight against Chris nowhere to be seen.

“Y-Your Highness?” Yelina’s Isles accent was back in full force, and it was all he could do to school his face into a mask of bland relief. His tongue instantly cooked up a suitable lie for their location while his mind raced- where was Y/N? Why did she disappear ? Did he do something wrong again?

Until he heard it.

A husky, haunting melody that seemed to echo from within the walls of the castle, the sad melody sounding unmistakably joyous to his ears. Y/N hadn’t left, he realized. She was right here, as she always was. Her curse was weakened, she’d said- not broken. She was still a prisoner of The Rose Palace.

Jeongin smiled a secret smile to himself as he led Yelina back into the castle, a quiet promise made between him and the moon- one day soon, he’d break the curse on Y/N. And that day would come very, very soon.

Wise men say, only fools rush in

Thank you for reading! :)

But I can’t help falling in love with you..

///

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Text

You’re all I want, all I need

Chapter 1 - I’m ready now

Chapter 2 - The 13th clan

Chapter 3 - Soulmates

Chapter 4 - Your enemy is our enemy

Chapter 5 - Costia

After learning about the attack at Mount Weather by the hands of Azgeda, Lexa had called an extraordinary war council, in which took part the generals and ambassadors of every clan, apart from the Ice Nation. It took them a whole of five hours to agree to a plan of action to face this new threat. It didn’t matter if Skaikru had just become a new member of the Coalition, the other clans still weren’t easy to get on Clarke’s people’s side. Most of the generals were still reluctant to work with them, and many of them didn't like the idea of going at war against a clan which had fought by their side at Mount Weather.

Clarke and Lexa still don't know how it happened, but eventually they did manage to come to an agreement. Now each clan is meant to send a part of their best warriors to place a small defensive block around Arkadia. A few of the most valuable scouts will be sent in the woods surrounding the Sky people's home. They’re job is to warn the army about a possible advance of the Ice Queen forces towards Arkadia. In case of a sighting of the Azgeda soldiers a couple of messengers will ride to Polis, where a bigger army will be ready to march to Arkadia, and support Skaikru in the fight against the Ice Nation. Of course, if it comes to that, Clarke and Lexa will join the battle alongside their warriors, as their roles require them to do.

It's midnight by the time everyone has left. The last one to exit the throne room is Titus, leaving Clarke and Lexa alone. The room still hosts the decorations and objects used for the summit, but the two hedas had had the time to go and change into their armors before the meeting began. Well, at least Lexa’s wearing her armor, as for Clarke, she’s wearing more casual clothes.

They stay put for a moment, both of them lingering in the long awaited silence. Then finally, Clarke decides it’s time for them to leave the room as well. She goes for the door, expecting Lexa to follow her cue, but as she’s about to step outside Clarke realizes the other woman is not behind her. Lexa didn’t move at all actually. She’s still inside staring ahead towards her throne.

"You're not coming?" Clarke asks as steps back into the room.

“I'll only be a moment.” She says it with a reassuring smile, but Clarke’s still hesitant to leave. “You should go get some sleep, Clarke. It's been a long day."

"Yeah well, not just for me. It's been a long day for you too, Heda." She says walking towards Lexa so she can stand right in front of her. Lexa can’t help but smirk at Clarke’s attempt to be formal, and makes the other woman smile brightly at her. If their people saw them right now, smiling at each other like idiots… but thankfully, it’s just the two of them right now, and they can finally be lovers, and not leaders. So, they simply stay like that for a few seconds, staring at each other and enjoying the peace and quiet after the chaos that the summit had turned to be.

Finally, it’s Clarke to break the silence with a heavy sigh. In an instant, shame takes over her features and she can no longer stand to look at Lexa. As she moves her eyes to the floor, Clarke starts to apologize. "I'm sorry my people interrupted the ceremony like that."

"Hey, you have nothing to apologize for." Lexa puts one hand on Clarke's shoulder to give it a gentle squeeze, and with her other one she grabs her chin to tilt her head up. Once their eyes meet again, she speaks. "They were only doing what they believed would keep you safe."

"Maybe. But still... They shouldn't have killed three of your guards like that."

Lexa gives her a shrug as if to say she doesn't have to worry about it, it's not a big deal. But then it’s her turn to be ashamed, and to avoid Clarke's gaze. "If someone needs to apologize, that's me. It was my people who destroyed the Mountain, killing yours in the process. I know all too well what Nia is capable of, I’ve tested it on my own skin. But still I let her into my Coalition. I shouldn't have trusted her. I shouldn't..." Lexa's voice cracks, and she's on the verge of tears when she vigorously shakes her head. "I'm so sorry. If I hadn't…"

"Hey, stop.” Clarke interjects, and moves her hands to her face to wipe away the tears that are now flowing down Lexa’s cheeks. “What happened today at Mount Weather was beyond your control. This is not your fault, Lexa." Lexa doesn't seem convinced, so Clarke looks her straight in the eyes with a dead serious expression, and she repeats herself. "This. Is not. Your fault. Do you hear me? You can blame yourself all you want for betraying us, but you cannot blame yourself for the ones who died today. Okay? Promise me you won't blame yourself."

"Okay." She sighs. "I promise."

"Good." Clarke gives her a kind smile before leaning in to kiss her briefly.

"I love you, Heda." She whispers on Lexa's lips when they part. They keep their eyes closed as their foreheads are pressed together. When Clarke opens her eyes at last, she’s met by the sight of two watery green orbs, and her heart immediately fills with worry. She wonders what she’s said wrong to make Lexa cry all over again.

"What's wrong? What did I say?"

"It's just... I’ve never thought I’d hear you say that."

“Say what? That I love you? Because you're gonna have to get used to it, since I plan on telling every single day. For the rest of our lives.” Lexa's smile is so big and bright when she repeats those words that it makes Clarke's heart melt. “I love you, Lexa." And that’s when Clarke mentally promises herself to say those three little words any time she can, if that what it takes to see Lexa smile so beautifully.

"I love you too." She says with a big smile before turning towards the windows. "I’m gonna sit outside for a moment. I like watching the city at night. It's the only time when everything is quiet and peaceful. It's soothing.” She turns back to look at Clarke. “Maybe you can come sit with me tonight. If you want to."

"I'd love to." And with that Clarke grabs Lexa's hand, and they go outside on the balcony behind the Commander's throne.

They sit side by side in silence for a long time. But it’s not an uncomfortable kind of silence, on the contrary, they really enjoy the moment. It feels really good to revel in each other's presence as they look over a sleeping Polis. Clarke takes everything in, every detail of every building. It's actually the first time that she stops to give the city a proper look. It’s beautiful, for what she can see in the darkness of the night. And Lexa’s right, the peace and quiet are actually soothing.

"You don't believe there's a chance Azgeda won't attack my people, do you?" Clarke whispers as she rests her head on Lexa’s strong shoulder.

"No." Lexa sighs. "I'm afraid we cannot avoid this war."

"I wish we could stay like this forever. It's nice to have a moment just for ourselves."

"I have a sparring session with the Nightbloods tomorrow morning. You can watch us if you want to. And then I could take you for a tour of the city."

"Are you offering me to come see you flexing your perfectly toned muscles, Heda? Because you have to do better than that to seduce me." Clarke jokes, but her amused look falters as soon as she hears Lexa's low and seducing voice next to her ear.

"Do I?"

It takes Clarke all the self-control that she can master in order not to show just how turned on she already is. Too afraid to raise her head and look at Lexa, she can still feel the Commander's eyes on her. Finally, she can’t resist anymore, so she gives up her fight. When she turns up her head, Clarke is met with Lexa’s green orbs, which have taken a much darker shade as they stare right back at her. And there goes that little self- control she had left. She can feel her eyes darkening too as she leans in to kiss Lexa. It's nothing like the kisses they've exchanged before. This one is heated and hungry, all teeth and tongues. Their hands start wandering over their bodies as well, touching everything within their reach. Their chests are completely pressed together by the time Clarke feels Lexa's cold hand on the skin of her lower back. Reluctantly, she leans back, earning a whimper from the other woman at the loss of touch.

"We should take this to a bedroom, don't you think?"

"Mine’s closer." And with that they jump on their feet and all but rush to Lexa's room.

They spend hours making love to each other, and discovering every inch of their bodies. At last, their muscles are so sore, they cannot get them to move anymore without hurting. So, they just lie down on their sides and talk. They talk about anything and everything, explaining some of their people’s traditions to one another, and simply enjoying the chance to share all of themselves with the person they love.

Lexa tells Clarke how the Conclave to choose a new Commander works. She explains that all the Nightbloods she and Titus are training here in Polis will have to fight each other until only one of them is left alive. The winner will be her successor, the one to host her spirit. She also tells Clarke that the most promising of the novitiates is Aden, a very smart and strong kid. Clarke can't help but notice how Lexa's face lights up when she talks about her pupils, and how proud she is of each one of them. The brightness of Lexa’s eyes and the love in her voice let Clarke know just how much she cares about these children, who are like a family to her. Then Lexa tells her own story about how she became the new Commander. Clarke learns there were a total of nine novitiates in her Conclave, and that Lexa has tattooed on her back the memory of all of her friends. When she insists on studying her tattoo better, Lexa turns to face away from her, and she closes her eyes as Clarke’s gentle touch ghosts over the ink lines on her back.

"This is beautiful."

"It’s a circle for every Natblida that died."

"Seven circles... I thought you said there were nine novitiates in your Conclave." Clarke sates, remembering what Lexa has just told her.

"There were." It's only a soft whisper, but Clarke hears it loud and clear.

She's curious to learn more about it now. "What happened to number eight?"

"Nia killed her."

Clarke regrets her question as soon as she hears the crack in Lexa's voice. She doesn’t need her to say the name. She knows exactly who Lexa is talking about. "Costia. She was a Nightblood too?" When Lexa turns to face her again, Clarke notices her beautiful green eyes are sparkling with unshed tears.

"We didn't mean to fall in love. We weren't supposed to." Clarke grabs her hand and gives it a small squeeze to give her the strength to continue. "We'd both been taken away from our families at a very young age. As children we soon became very close; best friends you could say. It was no news that we were inseparable. But what the others didn't know was that with time we got closer in a different way. I think we'd always been in love with each other. But as kids we were just too young to realize what that feeling was." When Lexa pauses, Clarke keeps quiet because she doesn’t want to pressure her. What Lexa adds next makes the both of them laugh. "You can imagine Titus's face when he caught us making out in a hallway before our lesson."

"I'm afraid he's not a big fan of me either." She chuckles.

"Yeah... He believes that to be a Commander is to be alone."

"Love is weakness." Clarke says in her best impression of the bald man. "Now I know who you learned that from."

"Yeah well… Fortunately for you, I know better than to listen to him now." Lexa chuckles, soon joined by Clarke.

When they both turn serious again, Lexa takes a deep breath to go on telling her story. "We had a plan. It was a reckless one, but it was also the only way for neither of us to have to kill the other. We were both sixteen when the Commander died in battle. At the beginning of the Conclave it was already clear that I was the most likely to win. Costia always told me I was the smartest and strongest of all the Natblida, but I’d never believed her. I thought she only said that to make me feel good, because I was her girlfriend.” They both smile at that, understanding the feeling all too well.

“The night before the final round of the Conclave began, Costia and I ran into the woods, and I helped her escape. Of course, Titus knew the truth, but he told everyone Costia was dead, and I became the new Commander. For two years, I had to listen to Titus’s reprimands every time I'd snuck out in the middle of the night to go meet Costia in the woods surrounding Polis. Unfortunately, the dark did nothing to hide me from the eyes of Queen Nia’s scouts, who were stationed along the path that led to our usual meeting point. Thinking about it now, it would’ve been wiser had we changed place from time to time. I mean, I’d always been aware that the Nia was jealous of my power, and that she wanted the Commander's throne for herself. But what I didn't know was that she knew exactly what my only weakness was."

Clarke gives her hand another gentle squeeze before Lexa turns to lie on her back. In doing so, she doesn’t let go of Clarke’s hand, who ends up tucked into Lexa’s side, her head resting on her chest.

"For my eighteenth birthday Costia and I had planned to meet at midnight, and spend the rest of the day together. It was supposed to be our very first time together in the light of day in two years. After so long of just sneaking around into the woods for a couple of hours each the night, I was finally going to spend an entire day with the girl I loved. A whole of 24 hours to get tired of each other's presence." Lexa smiles to herself at the memory. She was the happiest girl in the whole world when Costia told her what her birthday present was going to be. She was so excited that in the days before her birthday she'd barely gotten a few hours of sleep. Finally, the day of her birthday, she’d left the tower at dawn and she'd skipped all the way to where Costia was going to be waiting for her.

Lexa realizes she's been crying when she feels Clarke's arms circle her waist in a tight embrace. Just like Costia, Clarke always knows what she needs. She guesses these are the perks of being in love: you understand the other person better than yourself. Lexa rests her chin on Clarke's head for a moment as she attempts to stop other tears from flowing down her cheeks. When she's positive no more are coming for the moment, she leans down to press a loving kiss to Clarke's hair. It's her way of thanking the blonde for giving her comfort and strength. She doesn't voice the words because she knows Clarke will understand. To prove her right, a moment later she feels Clarke’s arms squeezing her sides lightly. Again, no words are needed because Lexa knows exactly what Clarke is thinking. “You're welcome, love."

They revel in their hug for a moment more, then Lexa continues her story. "I waited for Costia all day long, but she never showed up. Titus found me at night sitting against the trunk of a fallen tree and sobbing heavily in my knees. He was the only one to know Costia and I were still meeting, and where. He got worried when a messenger from the Ice Nation showed up to deliver a message for me from Queen Nia in person. After ordering for the man to be locked in prison, Titus came looking for me in the woods. He told me what Nia's messenger had told him: Azgeda had the Commander's lover, and they were going to torture her until she’d revealed all of my secrets. If the girl refused to talk… the Queen would ’ve killed her." A strangled sob leaves her lips, and Clarke tightens her arms around her middle again.

"Sssh. You can stop now." As Clarke whispers those words, Lexa feels wetness on her skin, and it takes her a moment to realize the other woman is crying as well.

"No. No, I… I have to this. I have to let it out. It's been haunting me for too long."

"I'm so sorry. I just feel so helpless. You're hurting, and there's nothing I can do to make it better."

"That's not true. The pain for losing Costia will never go away, Clarke. But laying in your arms makes it hurt a little less. It doesn't feel like I'm drowning anymore. With you I can finally breathe through this sorrow again."

Lexa feels Clarke's lips pressing softly onto her chest, and then she hears her murmuring in her skin: "I'm here. Keep breathing. I'm not going anywhere." With that Lexa takes a deep breath and speaks again.

"I'm sure you can tell Titus isn't a big fan of showing affection and emotion. But I'll never forget his strong arms keeping me from falling as I sobbed into his chest. He stood by my side the whole time as I was trying to figure out a way to save Costia. My people all believed her to be dead, I couldn't just send a rescue party to get her back. Whatever we were going to do, it had to be done in the dark.” Lexa stops to take a few deep breaths, and Clarke can tell that what’s coming next is going to be pretty hard for her to say.

“I was discussing a possible plan of action with my most trustworthy generals, when a guard told me a new messenger from Azgeda had arrived. The man carried something for me, a small box, and he was waiting for me in my chambers.” Lexa takes another deep breath, and this time Clarke is terrified by what might follow.

“Not only had Nia killed the girl I loved… she had also cut off her head, and delivered it to my bed."

"Oh my God." Clarke is horrified by such an image. How could a person ever do that to someone else?

"I let Queen Nia into my alliance, because I needed her warriors to fight by my side in the war against the Mountain Men. That was the first time I made a decision with my head, and not with my heart.” Lexa pauses a second. “Jus drein, jus daun. That’s what my people say all the time. But sometimes blood must not have blood."

With that Lexa concludes her story. She stays silent for a moment as she stares up at the ceiling. Finally, she turns in Clarke's arms so they can face each other. Lexa slips her arms around Clarke’s waist mirroring her position. Then a soft thumb comes up to caress her cheek, drying the remaining tears in the process. After a second, she feels Clarke’s soft lips pressing sweetly on her forehead, where her gear usually lies. When Clarke leans back, Lexa tucks her head under her chin, and she closes her eyes.

She’s exhausted. They both are. So, eventually they let sleep take over their features.

"Reshop, Heda." Clarke murmurs in Lexa’s hair.

"Goodnight, Ambassador." She smiles lazily as they both fall asleep, safe in each other's arms.

Chapter 6 - The calm before the storm

#clexa #the 100 #lexa kom trikru #clarke griffin #fan fiction #fanfic

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cupidmarwani-archive · 4 years

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(2/13)

“Your lipsticks are in,” Connor says as a servant sets the box on her vanity. “We’ll do a swatch test after this.”

He’s been kneeling long enough to have a cushion placed beneath him, padding against the floor as he hand-stitches in the ruche of her skirt. The way to make it look the best is to stitch it while on the body, something Ava learned early into her time under the care of his precise work. There’s no one else she would trust with something as important as making her wedding dress.

No one usually wants to marry the cousins of the ruling line.

Ava’s aunt’s cluster of children have been married off of the past few years and she figured she would be looking through the cities for someone to love, but then the proposal came. For months, she’s been looking forward to the prospect of a life somewhere new, with a princess soon to be queen, and a closet large enough for all her dresses. Besides, the diamond engagement ring has been rather fun to hang over her sisters’ heads as the only one facing the prospect of a powerful marriage. She’s building an alliance, not just finding love.

“I sent scraps to the company for reference, so hopefully at least one of the shades will match your dress.”

“If it doesn’t, I’m rioting. Where are we on the gloves?”

Connor fluffs the red satin of her skirts and leans back to study it. “The courier should have them by sunrise. You’ll have them for the final fitting tomorrow morning. Now-”He stands up and grins. “Lipstick?”

She doesn’t dare to move, afraid of putting wrinkles into the skirt or stepping on its train, simply allowing him to fetch the box and pull out the five tubes perfectly designed just for her. She can’t get married in lipstick that doesn’t match her dress. What will the princess think?

One calloused hand takes her wrist to steady it and swatch each lipstick, one after the other in order. Two are matte, one is glossy, one has sparkles, and one is more of a balm that shouldn’t dry out and would make her more pleasant to kiss at the ceremony. But is it the prettiest? Ava holds her forearm right beside her skirt. They’re all beautiful. Then up beside her face. She likes the matte one with the barest hint of glitter poured into the thick formula, but she needs Connor’s opinion too.

“Whichever you like best, they’re all beautiful.”

She hums and holds out her arm, which has a servant running up with a towelette to wipe her skin clean. No stains on this beautiful dress Connor’s worked on every day for her. Not a single stitch was machine made. Every single thing was done by hand, even the belt of rubies that her jeweler made for her. This dress may be the most expensive thing she’s ever owned, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

Does she need a tiara?

Before she can ask Connor, the door opens to one of the servants who usually belongs in the gardens. They shouldn’t be up here. There's chastisement on the tip of her tongue, but then the servant straightens their posture and clears their throat.

“My Lady, the escorts from Baille have just arrived. Your presence is requested.”

She doesn’t want to stop working on her dress, but she has to be there to greet them. With a long-suffering sigh, she allows Connor to undo the lacing down her back so she can step out of her wedding dress. The servants in the room avert their eyes while she steps back into her royal trappings, chosen just for this. Deep gold, perfectly tailored, and zipped up by Connor before she steps into her heels and hurries down to the gardens. This is it. This is the first step toward her new life, and she almost can’t believe this is happening after all her waiting. By the end of the week, she’ll be married. She’ll be a princess.

The escort party come out of their jet slowly, one after another. First, the guard in Baille insignia with the trademark sewn stars on his jacket breast. He fought for Baille. He personally looks after Princess Reese, Ava’s bride-to-be. Then a couple of servants. Another, less esteemed guard. A royal advisor. This is real.

Ava extends her hand expectantly as the first guard approaches, dropping to one knee before kissing her knuckles. “My Lady.”

The whole escort greets her much the same, respectful if conservative, not unlike their kingdom. How different life over there must be. The first guard introduces himself as Ethan Choi, and he offers her an arm respectfully as she and her own entourage lead the group to the dining room. It doesn't feel like supper time already, but one of the servants informs her it's nearing six.

"I hope you like roasted goose," Ava says conversationally. Choi is too quiet and stiff for her tastes. "We consider it to be good luck when we make big decisions. Like marriage."

"I've never had goose, we don't eat it in Baille."

"It's very fatty and flavorful. It's good for you."

He hums at her and doesn't carry on the conversation. The rest of the escort doesn't even speak to her. Is this normal, or should she be offended? It's hard to know. She's never been to Baille, and the migration between their countries is all but zero. Ava doesn't know what she'll do if her wife is this stiff.

Place cards assemble the guests, Ava placed at the head and her parents, her aunt and uncle, and their eldest son surrounding her. The escort sits at the other end of the table. Tonight is about her. The first pour of wine is into her cup, and the servants fill her plate first, and all of the chatter is about her wedding. Have the candles arrived safely at the palace? What color gold have the rings been made with? Does Ava's have gems? Will she be a figurehead or a functioning princess and eventually, queen? How many of her people may she bring with her?

That last question, she already knows. She's bringing exactly one person, and it's Connor. He's always treated her with respect and kindness. So many like to act as though she's stupid. Shallow. But she's just living, honestly, and trying to survive in a world that has told her what the lady of the royal court must be. All that her days hold are dress fittings, makeup, chatter. She doesn't mean anything here. She'll mean something once she's married.

Across the table, Choi does not stop watching her. She doesn't like it. Nothing good comes of being seen like this, something she learned too well as a child wandering too far from the safety of mother's skirts.

"Do you need something?" She eventually asks.

"I'm just surprised, My Lady, I mean no ill will. His Majesty did not give me any information on my princess' betrothed."

"You expected a princess?" She asks.

Her mother kicks her under the table.

"Not at all."

"Why are you surprised?"

The advisor takes a long sip of wine. Ava already doesn't like him. "We thought the king would marry his daughter off to someone who could give him grandchildren."

Ava sets down her fork and stands up. "I've lost my appetite. May you all rest pleasantly."

Her mother calls after her, but Ava doesn't turn back. Her face is burning red, her eyes stinging with tears. That shouldn't have hurt, but it did, and now she wonders what the princess will think because it never even occurred to her that her betrothed would expect a prince. Someone with standing who could give her an heir and more political fuel, and would be able to consummate marriage in traditional terms. She got so buried in the engagement that she forgot what lies beyond the palace walls- a world she cannot control.

She strips off her formal gown the second she's alone in her room, banishes the servants, and stares her blotchy reflection in the mirror as she scrubs the makeup off her face. It'll be thicker than icing for the cameras when she gets married. She hates stage makeup. She needs a shower, hot tea, music. She needs to calm down. As she turns on the water and brushes her hair out smooth, she sends Connor a message to come by in about an hour. He always knows what to say. And he often brings her something to smoke until she floats.

All she really knows about the princess is her name and the photos that get published by the media. Her Royal Highness, Princess Sarah Reese is absolutely stunning and completely unknown to her people. There's no way to know if she even wants a wife, because these marriages are often arranged overhead. After all, Ava didn't know she was engaged until after the arrangement was agreed upon by her family and the princess' father. She'll be married by the end of the week, and it's suddenly scary as opposed to exciting.

@bipeteypie @one-chicago-hell @bookreader525 @sarahreeese @sextonsharpwinhalstead @isthiswhatshameis @jorgerules

#reesker #ava bekker #chicago med #mine #fic #hlo!fic

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forcefuried · 4 years

Photo

OVERVIEW.

just a few quick headcanons before i begin--i hc faunus have more than one animal trait since the reason why they don’t have more than one is literally because the rooster teeth team didn’t want to/couldn’t animate full-fledged furries anthropomorphic animals and those restrictions don’t have to exist in RP. also, i hc that faunus can shapeshift into their animal forms, and retain some behaviors/characteristics of their animal forms…because why the fuck not >:3

anakin is an orphaned eagle faunus who started his life in atlas. he was taken from his parents while he was still an egg, so he never knew them and never even managed to find them before they died. while it is illegal in all the known countries of remnant to keep a faunus as a pet, many of the elites of those countries get away with it anyway and do it because they think it’s cool/exotic--and that’s what happened to poor ani. anakin was owned by a high-ranking atlesian officer named krokus blume who trained him in falconry (why do falconry with a falcon when you can do it with an eagle) and mechanics (why hire a grown-ass human when you have a faunus boy genius that you can sucker into working for free). he was shown off and treated like a trophy to all of that assjacket’s friends, including jacques schnee, until one day at age 9, anakin flipped out on his master by taking out one of his eyes and then shapeshifting into half-human form during a public falconry demonstration--revealing to all of atlas that he was being held illegally. this was in response to a previous altercation in which krokus fucking cut off his wings for “disappointing him” in a falconry display and forced him to build himself new ones that “worked better.”

afterward he was placed into foster care. foster care in remnant is as nasty as it is in the real world, often littered with abusive parents or parents who only take on the kids for the money--and what’s more, when it comes to faunus kids, systems often refuse to place them with faunus parents. nobody wanted to adopt anakin because he was a physically disabled faunus who had begun to show signs of ADHD and bipolar disorder, and who had the dubious reputation of having slashed out the eye of a high-ranking military official--he was not given any penalty due to having been enslaved, but many people thought he should have been. so he was shunted around several human households who took him on for the money at best.

he went to school to train as a hunter, where he quickly became top of the class in terms of battle performance--but bottom of the class in terms of written work, and not to mention, he had a lot of behavioral problems stemming from his tough home situation. he eventually dropped out by pulling a prank on the level of fred and george leaving hogwarts, ran away from the school and atlas and moved to vacuo because it’s a lot more chaotic, unpredictable + adventurous which he’d love. he eventually became a vigilante.

i’m not sure where to have him go from here but he’s around the same age as the main cast, maybe 2 - 3 years older. he probably never attended shade academy because he never got treatment for his ADHD and for that reason gave up on school entirely. he would have learned how to fight and be a hunter from various mentors, possibly in criminal organizations, but he wouldn’t want to tie himself down to any of them because due to his upbringing he hates the idea of having any sort of master. anakin is a morally grey hero in this verse like he is in basically all of his verses, but i don’t think i’ll ever have him go full-on evil because this boi needs a verse where he doesn’t go vader lmao.

WEAPON, SEMBLANCE, STRENGTHS & WEAKNESSES.

his semblance is called flow, and it allows him to create effects in the world based on his emotions. emotions such as anger, hatred, fear, and an adrenaline rush while fighting will harm and destroy, whereas emotions such as happiness and love will help and heal. he is much better at the former than the latter, to the point that he isn’t even aware that he can heal people with positive emotions because he’s an angry bitter bastard who deals primarily in destruction. the weaknesses of this ability are the following:

the ability can sometimes send his feelings out of control to the point that he passes out. sometimes what really sucks is that he just gets super emotional and faints before he can actually do anything because his power level increases too fast for him to handle.

chemicals. if he’s captured and drugged he is basically useless, because as long as the chemicals are in effect, he won’t have emotions strong enough to get himself out of the mess.

he can summon his power by trying to make himself angry or cheer himself up, but feeling the emotion he needs while prompted by external factors produces far better results.

when he does learn how to repair/heal with positive emotions, he will still have significant trouble with it due to his default state being an angry bastard, and this will not change unless he has significant personal growth.

not a weakness but just wanted to add: i called it “flow” as a reference to palpatine’s quote, “let the hate flow through you.” >:3

his weapon is a lightsaber, or as it is known in this verse, a kyber blade. these weapons are either swords or knives that have blades made of the aura contained in rare kyber crystals, energy that can melt bullets, slice through almost anything like sw canon lightsabers, and retract its blade to fire energy at others like a blaster. they are the favored weapons of the atlesian upper class--but anakin got his own by stealing from krokus.

he sabotaged his master’s sword, and when krokus demanded he fix it, he bullshat some explanation that it was broken beyond repair. krokus, who didn’t know a damn thing about mechanics, threw it away, after which anakin retrieved it and made it his own. he got one of his hands chopped off for failing to repair the blade. but not only did he find it worth it even then, he lost that entire forearm in his teens anyway, so he honestly doesn’t care.

due to their cybernetics, kyber blades are mildly sentient, like wands in harry potter. they have preferences for certain masters, they always work best in the hands of their preferred people, and to those they especially dislike, they won’t work unless forced/reprogrammed. when anakin contrived the plot to steal krokus’ sword and succeeded, he won its allegiance--which is how he managed to keep it, seeing as it’s frowned upon in atlesian culture to disrespect a blade’s wishes.

most kyber blades are green, blue or light blue since those are the most common types of crystal, followed by purple, white and yellow as those are the other sw light side saber colors. red is actually more common of a color than purple, white and yellow, but nobody uses it due to superstition: that they are bad luck, that they corrupt their owners, that they are hard to get along with and the blades they’re in become disloyal, or even that a red kyber crystal only responds to those who are inherently evil/take pleasure in harming others. however, when anakin got krokus’ blue-crystaled saber, he eventually found a red crystal to replace it with because 1) it worked better with his semblance and 2) he just wanted to be edgy as fuck.

just as in mainverse he is a quadruple amputee, as well as having artificial wings in both humanoid and eagle form. the artificial limbs which he built himself give him more physical strength, but they are also weak to electrical attacks, especially the neural interface--if you shock him real good, he won’t be able to move at all.

he is an amazing flier while he is in eagle form and knows a bit about piloting ships, but he’s much better flying on his own than flying ships, as it’s what he grew up with doing falconry and fancy flying tricks, and he finds it more natural.

oh and another thing: as a child he was proven a genius in terms of IQ and he is great with his hands, but due to giving up on formal education at age 13 and due to never having been given proper resources to handle his disabilities, his literacy as well as his understanding of anything he doesn’t hyperfixate on is still stuck at a ~5th grade level. he knows a lot of mechanical science and vocabulary because he has been given hands-on experience with it, but don’t ask him to read a scientific journal on the matter because he’d get lost on the first page. he is aware that there is so much more he could learn if he got his reading up to college level, and he wants to. but he hasn’t sought help for it yet because he has internalized the notion that his ADHD will prevent him from achieving this, and he’s too proud, stubborn and afraid of judgment to admit it to anyone.

due to being an eagle faunus, he is also extremely farsighted. he can spot something as small as a rabbit from a mile away, but he needs special glasses to be able to carry out daily human tasks such as reading the text on his scroll.

last thing i want to list: it is important for the development of faunus that during ages 0 - 10 they spend a relatively equal amount of time shifting between humanoid and animal form, lest they have trouble shifting between one or the other. due to being someone’s pet, anakin spent too much time in eagle form during this critical phase of development and so he will ALWAYS have trouble staying humanoid. while he is an eagle he can’t use his weapon, and he can’t be understood by anyone who isn’t a faunus or a mind reader.

#headcanon. || RWBY AU #on iron wings. || RWBY AU #abuse*#slavery*

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caffeineivore · 4 years

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Commission #6, Belatedly

For @d3fiant, who prompted R/J from an old ficverse.

Holly isn’t in this business for the ill-gotten means, as it were, he’s sure of it.

Of course, it’s not her real name, but then again, none of the women that Jack has come across in the last two years since the beginning of his acquaintance and association with D use their real names. Men in their world still have an easier time of it-- most bystander witnesses would not remember the likes of Noel, for example, beyond hulking shoulders rippling with tattoos, or Konstantin beyond polished but nondescript businessman with watchful eyes and a three-piece suit. Holly, on the other hand, has a face which could grace the covers of glossy magazines and a voice to match the black satin of her hair. He’d been able to pick her out from across a crowded room the minute he’d met her.

He wonders if D has an affinity for herbology of some sort -- certainly, the aliases of his female associates are various types of flora-- all innocuous but deadly. Holly. Jessamine. Daphne. Belladonna. He’s not paid to wonder about it, or about Holly’s origins and habits and what makes her tick and what makes her smile, but a man convalescing from a gunshot wound is a man with nothing but time and his mind for company. Holly, certainly, does not bother to visit more than the bare minimum. Sensible girl.

She brings him his meals, though, three times a day. He is almost certain that wherever she’d brought him is not one of the usual safe houses-- his room locks from the outside and he is both too weak and too smart to attempt to explore outside the confines of the four walls. There is a shelf full of books for his entertainment as he recovers-- ranging from leather-bound classics to trashy paperback sci-fi novels to a good year’s worth of subscriptions to various magazines both pithy and frivolous-- Time. National Geographic. Better Homes and Gardens. Vogue. Us Weekly. The furniture is elegant and tasteful, running towards graceful antiques rather than the sleek and modern, but for all that, there��s no coziness to the room. The hermetically sealed window-- storm-paned glass-- looks out to a well-manicured expanse of yard featuring velvety lawns and neat beds of stately, formal flowers-- two banks of rose bushes, red and white, line up with the precision of soldiers, bordered by neat green hedges. The yard is completely bordered by tall, upright poplars, shielding it from view of prying eyes. It’s certainly too nicely-appointed of a property for the likes of the average safe house, which in Jack’s experience has always been as deliberately nondescript as possible down to the dun-coloured siding and the mid-sized minivan generally kept parked in the driveway.

A clock-- one of those graceful silver-and-glass affairs with Roman numerals marking the hours-- ticks away at the top of the bookshelf, and just as the hour of noon, a key turns in the lock, and Holly walks in with a tray. She is always punctual on these thrice-daily visits: breakfast at eight, lunch at noon, dinner at six. Jack gives her his customary grin, which she does not return, and takes her in.

She’s wearing a cream-coloured silk blouse and a quiet knee-length skirt in dove-gray, with matching stilettos which are completely silenced by the plush of the carpet. No adornment aside from the ruby studs in her ears. Add in a leather handbag and perhaps a long coat in a neutral shade, and she’d blend in with any socialite out for lunch or shopping. He’d bet any money, though, that there’s a gun strapped to her leg under the skirt. She doesn’t know him any better than he knows her. And considering the last time he’d seen her wielding a Beretta 92 at a pursuing car’s tires, he’s well aware that she’s more than proficient with firearms.

“What’s for lunch, Jill?” His inquiry, as intended, earns him a thinly veiled glare. She doesn’t look like a ‘Jill’ either, but it’s fun to get a reaction out of her. She’s normally so controlled. She sets the tray down on the desk, in precisely the same spot as his breakfast tray from earlier had been.

“Grilled salmon and a whole wheat roll, with a spinach salad with blue cheese and cranberries on the side. Don’t call me Jill.” It’s always healthy, well-prepared food, and he thinks that it is perhaps the type of fare that she would eat. There’s a bottle of grapefruit juice to go along with his meal-- no wine, no beer. He has a mid-level craving for a greasy, juicy burger with everything but the kitchen sink piled into it and an icy, foamy lager, but he’d have to be somewhere other than this most well-appointed of prisons before he’d be able to indulge.

“You gonna join me for lunch for once, sweetheart? Just a quick meal between friends and associates. I won’t bite.”

“I have a lot of other commitments this afternoon, and you have a checkup.”

“Ah, yes. With the good doctor from the docks. You know, I do think she’s the only one of us who actually has no ulterior motives or hidden agendas. The only ‘good’ one, as it were. She didn’t even ask questions when you and Noel brought me in, did she? What a kind soul. What’s her name again?”

“Angelica. You seem to have a real problem remembering people’s names.” Holly doesn’t spare him a glance as she lays out a place setting-- complete with a snowy linen napkin and heavy silverware, arranged formally, and pours his grapefruit juice into a glass half-full of crushed ice. She definitely grew up in a household accustomed to formal meals, whatever she’s doing these days amusing herself by running recon or engaging in gunfights rather like some elegant version of a gun moll.

“I will try harder.” Jack tucks his tongue in his cheek and admires the way her legs look in that prim, narrow skirt. “So that’s a no on joining me for lunch, huh?”

“Noel will be over in an hour to take you to physical therapy. You need to fully recover from your wounds, and will be of very little use to D if that gunshot takes you out of the game.”

“It would be a damned shame, wouldn’t it?” Jack cuts into the tender pink flesh of the salmon with his knife and fork. “I suppose I’d have to live out the rest of my days in boring, civilian anonymity. Probably learn how to mow lawns and weed gardens. Your yard is very nice. Who takes care of it?”

“I have a gardener on staff, and contract a landscaping company that handles the heavy work.”

“So this is your home, then. I feel so honoured to be a guest.”

Perhaps she was not trying to tell him so much. Jack grins even as she scowls. “Don’t worry, beautiful. I know not to brag about our time together. Is it so wrong that since I am stuck here until I heal I try to get to know you better? I knew everything about everyone on my platoon, down to MacMillan’s allergies to cats and Patterson’s wife’s obsession with reality TV to Rosenberg’s fondness for gas station hostess cupcakes. We spent a lot of time together, often in close quarters, always with the same people. And besides, isn’t the point of being part of a team knowing and trusting your team members?”

“If you think that spouting off some corporate bullshit team-building synergy nonsense is going to persuade me, you are vastly mistaken. I’m not here to be your friend or your confidante. Just eat your lunch and get yourself ready to your physical therapy.” Holly, clearly at the end of her patience, tidies up the remnants of his last meal and drops his empty coffee cup onto the tray with an irritated clatter. “I have to deal with you when we are working together so as to not end up on the wrong side of a bullet. Outside of that, we’re not here to be buddy-buddy.”

She takes the tray and walks out of the room without a backward glance, and Jack listens to the sound of the lock turning in the door. He could, if he really wanted to, pick it with the tines of his dessert fork. Or smash through the window and rappel down the side of the house and take his chances. But it would be a pity on all levels-- at such an egregious breach of conduct, D would kill him, if Holly didn’t do so, first. And he’s almost certain if the day came that his life was forfeit to the syndicate, he’d deserve it, and never see it coming.

He finishes his meal-- it is expertly prepared and delicious, after all-- and goes over his mental notes about the beautiful, deadly enigma whose somewhat unwilling hospitality he is currently imposed upon. Holly looks to be perhaps in her late twenties, born into great wealth and privilege, and on their first meeting, had spoken flawless French like a native Parisian. But her English is definitely American, with traces of New England society in its haughtier moments. Her hands are elegant and manicured, but he’d seen her just as gracefully snap the neck of one of the goons who’d attempted to corner her in the deserted warehouse. She handles hand-to-hand with the cool, business-like attitude of someone viewing it as a necessary evil, competently and skillfully, but not with any particular relish. He can’t quite pinpoint where she’d been trained, but the style is distinctly Asian, with its graceful stances and lethal strikes and kicks. Every little tidbit of information he gleans brings with it more questions, more interest.

“You’re a hell of a woman, Jill.” Jack grins at nothing in particular and makes his way to the en-suite bathroom to wash up after his meal. There, too, no expense is spared-- the towels are plush, the fixtures pristine, and the soap and shampoo smell pleasantly of cloves and sandalwood. He is given a razor to shave every morning, but it’s always gone out of the bathroom by breakfast-- taken out with his dinner tray and the hamper of clothing. She trusts him enough, perhaps, to keep him in her home rather than a safe-house, but not enough to leave completely to his own devices. Perhaps she wonders about his background and motives like he does about hers.

Noel knocks on the door before unlocking it, right on time. The big guy is a lot less mysterious than Holly is-- Jack already knows the gist of his background. Former Irish mob, a bare-knuckle brawler with the big arms and shoulders to prove it. He’d seen Noel hot-wire a car on one occasion in all of seventy-five seconds, and also seen those big bruiser’s hands, skillful and gentle as a maiden aunt’s, fiddling with wires and microphones to bug an opponent’s office after they’d broken in. Noel doesn’t try to hide the Boston in his accent, or indeed the Galway when he’s particularly riled up. He’s been in D’s employ for two years longer than Jack has, and simply refers to the kingpin as “Boss man”. Quite efficiently, Noel wheels him down the hall, then into an actual elevator. He’s brought outside into a van bearing the name and logo of a dry cleaner’s and efficiently strapped in. Noel takes a circuitous route through town-- not that Jack can see anything from the back-- but at least deigns to play music during the drive. It’s unapologetic, kick-ass hard rock heavy on the guitar and drums, precisely the type of music that does not invite or facilitate conversation.

By the time the van’s doors are opened again, Jack is far, far away from the polished, glossy neighbourhood of Holly’s residence. Garbage-laden alleys and derelict buildings dot these tenements with urban blight, and the industrial building they’re parked in front of is pock-marked with graffiti and rust stains on the concrete walls. To get in, Noel has to swipe a keycard, then punch in a code. They wheel down a straight hallway bright with fluorescent lighting and Noel unlocks the next set of doors with two different keys. The clinic that Dr. Angelica runs, though, despite its singular location, is clean as a whistle, equipped with state-of-the-art technology. She meets them at the door, a petite, pretty woman with sad blue eyes and a wistful smile, and turns her attention to Jack.

“You’re looking well. How are you feeling?”

“A lot better than when I’d gotten shot, that’s for sure.” The bullet had hit him in the leg through the door of their escape vehicle, and Holly had taken control of the wheel from the passenger side even as he’d slammed on the brakes, nearly causing a spin-out. In the tense seconds that followed, though, she’d managed to fire off three shots through the open passenger side window, taking out their pursuer’s two front tires and the windshield. That car had rammed into a wall head-on, and she’d managed to keep him awake and alert for long enough for backup to arrive. He’d woken up, briefly, in this same clinic, groggy on meds, with Angelica patiently stitching him up. She’d taken the time to explain that he’d caught a bullet in the leg and was very fortunate that it had not nicked his femoral artery, but it would be awhile before he could be up and running again. He’d taken it as a matter of course-- really, if one were to think of it, he’d been fired at with a lot deadlier weapons back in the day with his platoon in war zones. A 9 millimeter in the leg from a gang member’s Glock could have been a land mine, or a hail of bullets from an AK-47. Then she’d put him under again, and he’d woken up in that room in Holly’s house some days later, disoriented but safe enough. A week and a half later, Holly still lets herself get annoyed with him whenever he teases her, and a small part of him finds that gratifying.

“I don’t have to explain how lucky you are, of course. With your background, I’m sure that you know. But with the right therapy and exercise, I don’t see why you wouldn’t make almost a full recovery in good time.” Angelica tells him after running some tests. “You are quite healthy otherwise, and you neither lost a lot of blood or received any extensive bone and tissue damage. A clean through-and-through, as we say. It certainly could have been a lot worse.”

“I could be floating facedown in the river, yeah,” Jack says drily. “How long are we talking, Doc?”

“For someone of your size and health, you can be up with crutches as soon as two weeks from now. If you maintain a healthy regimen of light but steady exercise on that leg, you should gain full mobility in another month after that.”

“Do you really think Holly will put up with me for that long?” Jack asks drolly. He isn’t quite sure how well the good Dr. Angelica knows Holly, but certainly the doctor knows enough of the syndicate’s business to not only ask no questions when he’d been brought in, but set up a whole secret clinic in the slums that runs as well as a trauma center in a major hospital. He’d heard of the Doc in the docks since he’d started, but until now, had never had occasion to meet her. “You know Holly, right? Black hair, red lipstick, very hot, keeps a Beretta on her at all times? She can’t stand me.”

Angelica’s lips twist into a faint smile. “If you say so. I know her of old. We roomed together freshman year at Yale. She’ll find a way to tolerate your company for as long as needed, I’m sure.”

Yet another tidbit of information about his elusive, fiery partner-of-sorts falls into his lap. It’s almost more exciting than the prospect of crutches in the next two weeks. Jack lets Angelica poke and prod some more, answers questions by rote, and counts down the hours until he can see her again.

#R/J #senshi/shitennou #sailor moon #fanfiction #fanfic #commission

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