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glowingbadger · 3 years

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Hi it’s me, crawling through the window. Would it be possible to get a crumb of arranged marriage w/ Hubert? His line w/ Dorothea about being willing to get married for politics sake has fueled my brain rot for him.

Good God I need to secure my windows-

I mean HELLO FRIEND ANON YES IT WOULD BE MY PLEASURE

Lol actually though, I have been thinking about this for Hubie since we all started chatting about that arranged marriage stuff! I think it's a perfect concept for him~

This like... got weird while I was writing it though?? Idk man hahaha it ended up on the less-spicy side of what I usually write, and with some very weird dialogue in places... Idk, I hope y'all like it. Maybe if there's interest, I'll follow this up eventually with a more smut-focused piece?

I've been traveling and working so much lately that I just don't even know what writing is anymore or how it works hahaha

TW: A brief mention of non-con

Hubert (FE3H) x Reader ("wife," neutral pronouns)

Arranged Marriage - semi spicy i guess?

"Frankly, he's a pain," Linhardt must be able to see your surprise and confusion written across your face. He goes on, "He's reliable and capable, of course, but also the most persistent nag you'll ever meet. Actually, no-" he glances upward as though to cross reference his own thoughts, "No, her Majesty is worse. But Hubert is a close second to be sure. Always on and on about sleep schedules and proper nutrition and etiquette..." He sighs and closes the massive tome on his lap, as though to close the conversation with it, "frankly, he's an insufferable mother hen. Does that help?"

"Well, it's... Not what I expected," you admit with a shrug, "but thank you all the same."

It's been several weeks since the papers binding you in marriage to Hubert Von Vestra had been signed- and this alone had sufficed. No ceremony, no grand ball, just paperwork and a handshake with your father. A handshake that ensured that, even under the Empire's unification, he would maintain nominal control over his considerable portion of land, and in return, would swear absolute loyalty to her Majesty. It was a beneficial arrangement for all parties, and you were not ignorant to the part you played. You were hardly even a bargaining chip- moreso, a hostage.

Your new husband had made no secret of what manner of harm may befall you if your family were to renege on their deal. Fortunately, you know your father to be a reliable coward, so you have no reason to believe he would be bold enough to step out of line.

Hubert Von Vestra is a terrifying man. A zealously loyal man of storied cruelty and a frigid disposition. His frame looms over you whenever he's near, and though he's hardly placed a finger on you since you'd been given over to him, his mere presence is... arresting. There's a sort of charisma to him that's equal parts frightening and fascinating. Perhaps it's madness brought on by your circumstances, but you can't help wanting to glimpse just the slightest bit into that brilliant, ever churning mind.

Unsurprisingly, he has been resistant to your attempts to understand him. He hardly indulges you in small talk, and if you were the paranoid sort, you'd think he intentionally makes himself busy when you're around. Eventually, perhaps out of sheer stubbornness, you'd settled on a routine of bringing coffee to his study adjoined to your bedroom in the evenings. He'd been visibly surprised the first time. It wasn't until the fourth night that he'd given a curt "thank you." About two weeks in, he'd actually sat back in his chair and laid down his quill pen to receive the cup from your hands. After a month, he'd leveled his narrow gaze at you and said,

"I cannot begin to fathom what satisfaction you glean from playing 'maid' to me."

"Well, I, uhm," you hadn't expected him to address you so directly, but you managed to say, "You... work so hard, I wanted to do something for you, I suppose."

His expression is inscrutable as he replies,

"You are aware that my work was much the same before you arrived."

"I am," you say softly, "But- all the same..." you trail off, and Hubert seems content to let the matter rest. And so you leave him be amidst his reports and correspondence, coffee at his side on the desk. Yet for as unproductive as your exchange might have seemed, it does leave you with an idea. The thought to learn about the man from those who knew him long before your arrival at the capitol.

Your investigation into the true character of your husband does not stop with Linhardt. In fact, his testimony only leaves you with further questions. But perhaps the others would say otherwise; perhaps the United Empire's most up and coming crest scholar simply inspires maternal behavior. This has to be the case- you simply can't imagine that the notoriously ruthless heir of the even more notorious Vestra lineage would be so... Doting.

And yet the more you learn of him, the more contradictory he seems.

Caspar's take is much like Linhardt's- a picture of a man far closer to a school marm than any assassin or master of torture. Ferdinand seems both smitten and incensed by him, oscillating wildly between the two. Then eventually, to your shock, Bernadetta takes the initiative to speak to you about Hubert of her own accord.

"I'm, uh, really so-sorry to bother you!" she approaches with arms drawn close to her chest and eyes resolutely avoiding yours, "I- I just heard that you were... asking about Hubert, so, I, uh..."

It takes some time to prompt her further. You assure her again and again- no, this isn't intrusive at all- yes, you'd very much like to hear her perspective- no, you're not mad at her. In truth, you're endlessly intrigued about what a gentle soul like Bernadetta would have to say about a man feared across the continent. Finally, she manages,

"He's... actually really kind!" she blurts out, as though the words would abandon her if she gave them the window of opportunity. Your eyebrows raise slightly.

"You think so..?"

"Yes, completely-!" she stammers, "I know he's super, super scary, and powerful and spooky and cold and, uh, all of that. But still," her voice falters as she continues, "He only scolds people when they do something dangerous. And he only hurts people to protect others. I... I know he's done some te-terrible things. But... he's always been nice to Bernie," finally, she meets your eyes with an imploring look in hers, "So, uh, I'm really grateful to him. And I think it would be really nice for someone to reach out to him. If... if that's not too weird or anything. For you."

You smile warmly and nod,

"Thank you, Bernadetta. I know it can't be easy for you to come to me with all of this, but... I'd like to try, if I can."

The opportunity doesn't come in the way you expect.

At first, it seems the night will proceed like many others before. You bring a cup of coffee to your husband's desk, setting it down quietly so as to not disturb him. He's silent, but this is common enough, so you head back to the bedroom to undress for the evening. All nights prior, he would lay beside you long after you'd settled in, then rise to resume work in the morning before you woke up- all the while never allowing your bodies to interact in any way.

Tonight, just as you're about to close the door to Hubert's study behind you, long fingers catch around your wrist, visibly startling you.

It's the most physical contact you've had to-date, but he only says,

"One moment."

You whip around to face him, a touch of anxiety evident in your eyes. It's clear in his own that he notices, but if anything, he only seems amused. He steps forward, his taller frame menacing you as he speaks,

"I understand that you have been busying yourself with some manner of investigation as of late."

It takes a moment for his meaning to reach you. When it does, your face burns and you can't bring yourself to meet his scrutinizing gaze,

"Oh, uhm..."

"I assure you, my dearest wife," he says with barely concealed venom, "anything that I do not wish for you to know will be kept from you. Aside from which, your efforts thus far have proven amateurish at best."

Something seems off about his tone. You could understand if he felt uncomfortable or hesitant about your efforts to learn about him, but this seems far more grave, more... business-like. He steps towards you once more, and you step back in turn. Yet before long, you feel your legs bump the edge of the bed. A gloved hand trails a fingertip down your jawline to your chin, then urges you to look up at him.

"Whatever you are planning, my dear, I promise it will be fruitless. You had best rethink how you spend your days before your actions bring you to harm."

"No, I-" your brow creases deeply, your face burns, your body burns hotter and you don't want to consider why, "I've just been trying to learn about you as a person, nothing else. We're- we're married, after all, so..."

He gives an abrupt, dry laugh.

"Ah, so I am to believe that you've been interrogating my allies out of some misguided affection, is that it?"

"Hubert, just listen to me!" for a moment, you feel bolstered, defiant, and you straighten your posture, "You won't tell me the first thing about you- the only way to learn so much as your favorite color is to ask someone who's known you for a decade!"

Briefly, he does seem to consider your words. But his eventual reply is as aloof as any prior,

"If you're no spy or politician, then you're worse- a fool." he says, and before you can respond, he's seized both of your wrists and pushed you back onto the bed. For a moment, the room spins and your voice leaves you. A shrewd eye watches you with cruel condescension as he pins you against the sheets.

"I should think that you'd be well aware what I'm capable of," he nearly whispers, "I personally ensured that the rumors spread through your father's territory and further still. Do you think that anyone would even dare lift a finger to help you if I chose to seek retribution for this recent behavior?" He draws nearer, his grip tighter at your wrists, "Perhaps as punishment, I'll simply take my pleasure from you by force."

Your lips tighten, you take a breath. Then, meeting his gaze directly, you reply,

"You won't."

His visible eye narrows.

"And what evidence do you have to prompt such unfounded confidence? Perhaps you have crafted a flattering falsehood of me in your mind," a mocking smirk curls his lips, "Am I a misunderstood sentimental sort to you, then? A sad, lonely man for you to save?"

You scowl, though you suspect it looks more like a pout to him.

"I don't know what I think of you yet- not completely. But I don't pity you like that, and I don't think you're sad or lonely. I know you're not."

For the first time, it seems that you've caught him off guard. That frigid mask falters for just a moment, and you go on before he can replace it,

"You're surrounded by people who care about you. I've seen it for myself. Whatever you've had to do in the service of your ideals- it hasn't kept the people around you from wanting to know and understand you, even if it's despite you."

Hubert is silent for a moment. His gaze bores into you like he thinks he'll discover some hidden layer if he can just keep digging. Then, he sighs,

"How did I ever become bound to such a troublesome spouse..."

When you wrest your arms from his grasp, his hands fall away with little resistance, and you think that perhaps he had never truly intended to keep you in place by force to begin with. He moves to leave the bed, but your fists find the front of his clothing and tug him back down to you.

You press your lips to his without hesitation, and you can feel him inhale sharply, his entire body rigid above you. His lips are surprisingly soft, his scent like coffee and old parchment, and though your heart threatens to burst from your chest, you hold firmly to him by his clothes. Near imperceptibly, he leans down against you, and your fear, along with any remaining doubts, begin to dissolve. Knowing he won't pull away, you let your hands relax against him, running up his chest where you can feel his own pulse pounding. It's so human, so entirely reasonable and normal. Now, at last, Hubert Von Vestra is merely a man of flesh and bone.

Your tongue meets his naturally, your lips parting in time with his as your kiss deepens to a fevered pace. One hand reaches that sharp, handsome jawline, reveling in the erotic sensation of his mouth moving against yours. And yet, all the while, his hands remain staunchly on the bed beside you. He doesn't touch you- doesn't even let his body meet yours.

It's impossible to tell whether passion or madness drives you to bring your teeth to his lower lip, a single insistent bite communicating desire mounting faster than you can contain. And for a moment, you sense something new; a sound catches in Hubert's throat, a reaction he fights to stifle. Then, he pulls away. His pale skin is tinted a rare shade of pink, and his hair is ruffled out of place enough to reveal both narrowed eyes. His cloak has spilled around his frame to surround you both, and somewhere in your frazzled mind, you imagine that you're caught in some beautiful, velvet-lined trap.

"I- must... return to my work." Hubert says stiffly. He pushes up from you and turns away, leaving you still flustered on the bed behind him. You sit upright, holding your arms tight around your body as you watch him straighten his hair and clothes.

"You, uhm..." your face reddens still as you search for the right words, "you could... join me in bed, if you liked."

Hubert turns to the door of his study, speaking without daring to even glance your way,

"Anything that you offer to me now will be born from the impulse to survive. I have been bargained with before." His shoulders slack just slightly, his voice low and sober, "The proudest nobleman will even sell off his own child to a monster if he feels it will spare him its teeth."

You open your mouth to protest, then shut it without a word. You feel that you know your mind and heart, even in this moment, but you lack the words to convince a man like this. In a feeble attempt, you murmur,

"You don't frighten me, Hubert. Not anymore."

He half turns toward you, though his hand remains on the handle of his study door.

"You yourself said that you do not know what you think of me," he says, "As such, I will not lay a hand on you until the day that you do."

You stare down at your hands in your lap, barely registering the sound of the door clicking shut as he leaves you in the bedroom. No matter how you try to sort out your tangled thoughts, the memory of his lips on yours won't leave them. If anything, it eclipses any sense of reason, standing resolutely in the way of your path to clarity. Letting out a groaning sigh, you fall onto your back on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling as if it could offer you any advice.

What do I think about my own husband? You wonder, the thought nearly enough to make you laugh. Well for one, he's a pain.

#hubert von vestra #hubert x reader #fire emblem #feh #fe3h #fire emblem three houses #fire emblem x reader #fire emblem imagines #fire emblem fic #x reader

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wwilloww · 3 years

Text

the bodyguard | ksj

pairing: bodyguard!jin x reader

genre: smut, fluff

rating: explicit

wc: 5k

summary: As your bodyguard, keeping you safe from the world comes with rules for Kim Seokjin. But you’re used to getting what you want, and you want him.

warnings: nudity. pining. makeout. YN always gets what they want. no pronouns used to address reader. public sex. exhibitionism. unprotected sex (pls be smarter than these fictional characters). creampie. fingering. oral sex. multiple orgasms. fluff. oh my god so much fluff.

AN: The first part of this fic was written entirely wined up with the INTENTION OF IT BEING A DRABBLE. The second part of this fic was written with the intention of showing all the love to Jin, but then came the idea of smut and bam here we are. 1 million thank yous to @jin-fizz, who beta’d this at the very last moment and helped me rearrange some things. SMOOCHES to you, you lovely!

The Bodyguard

“Help! Someone, please, Help!”

The cry rings through the rooms, splitting through walls, through the heavy wooden doors of the almost-empty city manor.

Jin’s footsteps echo from what sound like too far away, climbing the stairs, sprinting down the creaking wooden boards. He bursts through the door to find you, crouched and hunched over your leg on the floor.

“What! What’s wrong?” he almost yells.

His gaze flicks around the room, taking in every detail possible. The unmade bed, the open perfume bottle on your vanity, the doors open to the balcony, curtains fluttering in the late-night breeze.

“My leg!”

In a split second the man your father has hired to be your bodyguard is on his hands and knees next to you, large hands reaching for your palm, gripping it tight.

She had shown you exactly how to do it. Mixing the expression of pain and beauty so expertly on your face. Your mother, despite all the awards and golden trophies she had won for her Hollywood success, had always been the best kind of actress at home.

His eyes light with the slightest amount of relief as he scans your face.

Alright. She’s alright.

“Where?”

Before you can even say anything, he’s gripping your ankles, pulling you to him, looking for any sign of injury.

“Higher.” You lace the pain so particularly into your voice.

His deft fingers kneed into the flesh of your calf, searching for the cause of your cries.

“I don’t see-”

“Higher,” you insist.

His fingers trace so delicately, so carefully, over your knee, pressing into your thigh, higher, higher, until he’s brushing back the silken fabric of your nightgown.

And then, breath drawn so quickly through his nose, fingers digging into you, holding you tight.

“Oops,” you breath. “I must have completely forgotten.”

“To put panties on?”

“Mhmm. Exactly.”

With a quick movement, he’s wrapped both of his hands around your calves and tugs you forward to him.

“You’re a liar,” he drones, your legs nearly wrapped around his waist.

“I am.”

“And a cheat.”

“Of course.” You grin. “You know more than anyone that I don’t like to play these kinds of games by other people’s rules. And I know that you love it.”

He doesn’t respond. Just closes his eyes, takes a long controlled breath. When he exhales it brushes so teasingly across your face.

“I might be a liar, but I know you’re not.” You reach for his cheek, and you think you see his eyelids flutter at the touch. His hands are still wrapped around your leg, the warmth of his palms seeping through into you. “So tell me you haven’t been thinking about this,” you whisper.

He growls softly, his eyes flashing bright and conscious towards you.

“You know I can’t.”

“Are you saying you don’t want me?” You draw on your prettiest of pouts.

“I can’t.”

You just blink back at him, letting your eyelashes brush against the warming rise of your cheeks.

“That’s not a no.”

“Your father would kill me.”

“Father’s not home.”

“He’ll be back by morning. And he’ll take pleasure in killing me if he were to know,” Jin asserts, running a hand through the falling wave of his sky-dark hair.

“You’re avoiding the question. Why do you always avoid my questions?” You push yourself closer to him, coming to wrap your hands around his neck and tug on the fresh pressed angle of his white dress shirt collar. He looks away from you.

“Because you always ask all the wrong questions.”

“I do not. In fact, I’d argue I’m asking all the right ones.” You glance up at him. The look in his eyes is unmistakable. Desire. Mixed with restraint. You know which one he’ll let win out over the other, and within a second he’s proving you right.

“I should go.”

He begins to pull away from you.

“You should stay.” You push yourself forward, wrapping your legs around his torso and slinging your arms around his neck. Impulsively, his hands press against your lower back, supporting you. So when he stands, you’re face to face. He blinks, taking a second to realize your position.

“Stay. Please,” you whisper.

He continues to stare at you, eyes tracing the shadow of your brow, the press of your lips, the mound of your warm cheeks. Your confidence crumbles in his silence.

“At least tell me you want this. Tell me I’m not making it up. Tell me I’m not alone in this.”

Finally, his eyes flick up to yours. It’s there. The answer. But he remains silent, his breath moving through his chest, and then through you. The stillness of the moment — being held by the man you can’t get out of your mind — mixed with the bitter taste of a lingering question. You can’t. You can’t hold it all, not in one body: the tenderness of his being and the acrid promise of his rejection.

And so you release your arms from around his neck. Unhook your legs. When your body drops softly to the floor he lets you go.

“It’s okay,” you say. “If you want to go, you can go.”

Without looking at him, you pad silently to the cracked open french doors. With a light push, they swing open before you and the crisp of the night air ruffles through your hair and the thin fabric of the night gown you’re wearing.

Silly. Silly. Silly.

You squeeze your eyes shut, letting the breeze swirl around you and prickle with ice against your skin. If only you might lose yourself in it. If you could lift yourself up off the stone balcony to fly through the city streets, feeling nothing but the brush of strangers against you.

Had you mistaken it all? The lingering gazes. The tightened grip on your waist when your father introduced you to potential suitors — all of whom you’d quickly turned away in front of Jin, by the way. Did you misread the way that his gaze had begun to latch onto you to trace not just your safety, but your sense of being in a way that surpassed his usual loyalty? And most important to you, the way he’d begun smiling around you for the first time. Letting cracks show in his usually pristine professional behavior.

You wait for the sound of the doors to your bedroom slamming shut and Jin leaving, but you must be so lost in yourself that the sound never comes. It’s just the wind, howling. The beating of your heart in your chest. The bite of something that tastes like regret nibbling at your throat.

“How could you think I didn’t want you?” It’s so soft you can barely hear it. But you do.

Spin back towards the room.

Jin stands between the doors, his broad frame flickering gold in the soft light behind him. His face is shadowed in blue as he faces out into the night, out towards you, but his eyes shine with a warm light.

“How dare you?” he says softly with a smile playing against his lips. He steps towards you. Before the smile can fully take position on your lips, he’s so close to you you can feel the warmth of his large body radiating out towards you. “How dare you think I don’t want you.” A long pause. And then, as softly as if the words might break him: “You’re all I can think about.” Tentatively, he reaches out towards you.

And then he stops, just as his hand is about to touch your burning cheek.

You do the rest, stepping back into your usual tradition of goading him on. With a soft movement, you reach for him, interlacing your fingers with his and letting his touch fall across your face. You sigh into it. His thumb strokes slowly over your cheek bone.

“How dare I?” you say. “How dare you make me wait this long.”

He just smiles back, his dark eyes reflecting the streetlights back to you.

“Will you let me kiss you, now? Finally?”

“Finally, yes,” he says.

You reach up, pressing your fingers to the back of his neck where his hair has grown long in the past months, tangling your fingers into them before his lips have even reached yours.

None of your other first kisses have been like this. Sure, you’ve kissed other people. Other men. But you’ve never kissed Kim Seokjin before.

Your lips meet like wings brushing against each other: soft and fluttering, finding a path through the air with ten thousand questions etched into each feather. He wraps one of his long arms around your back, spreading his fingers wide and pressing you lightly into his chest, all the while his opposite hand brushes so lightly and tenderly against your cheek, guiding you ever closer, ever deeper into his affections.

“You,” he whispers against your lips, “are an absolute gift.”

“I don’t know how you did it,” you whisper back.

“What?”

“Resisted me for so long.” He snorts against you and you can’t help but giggle. “I swear to god I’ve been trying for so long to let you know how I’ve felt,” you explain, leaning your forehead against his.

“I’m a dumbass, baby.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

“Please,” you look up at him. “Kiss me again.”

For a split second he hesitates.

“What?” you ask. The silence that opens between you two opens up something else inside of you.

“If…” He wets his lips. “If I kiss you again, I won’t want to let go.”

“Then don’t.”

The smile that spreads across his pretty face is wide and splitting, but it is only a half second before he is recapturing you in his hold, pushing you back against the stone railing of the balcony as his lips meet yours a second time.

Whereas his first kiss was like a ring of petals opening slowly to the dawning sun, this kiss is midday heat. It is searing, pressing through you like a flash, lighting every nerve within you on fire. It is red and pink and all the warm colors on the spectrum of life. It burns you tender with its quickness, but all you want is more.

As if he is feeling exactly as you, his kiss quickens. He bites your lower lip and greedily swallows the moan that slips out of your mouth. When you tangle your fingers in his long hair, he hisses back at you and you can feel the curl of his smile against you.

“You like that,” you note quietly when he moves to nip at the cut of your jaw.

“I like you.”

With a graceful move, Jin twirls you around, slamming your back against the open door, effectively slamming it shut and leaving you in privacy on the balcony. Your breath rushes out of your lungs in a gasp.

“Jin?”

“Darling?”

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to get as close to you as possible.”

“Then, goddamnit, get closer.”

He grins, takes your begging, and runs with it.

With the kind of grace and speed you were so used to seeing abound in him while he was working, he dives for your neck, intertwining the pillowed press of his lips with sharp nibbles against the sensitive skin.

“Closer.”

He chuckles and does as you bid. With his awkward strength, he lifts you, balancing your weight on his hips as you wrap your hands around his neck for balance. An unfortunate time to remember your current situation: entirely unclothed except the thin slip you donned just at Jin was sprinting up the stairs.

He adjusts you and your bare cunt brushes against the silky smooth fabric of his dress pants. But that’s not what makes you gasp. It’s the bulge that nestles hard and hot against you as he dives back in for your neck.

One hand tangled in his thick locks, you can’t help but grind your hips down on him. The sound that spills from his lips is needy, desperate, and it reverberates straight through you.

“I want you,” you whine as his hand graces up your torso. He pulls back. Cocks his head to the side ever so slightly.

“You want me?”

“As if having me half naked and wrapped around you isn’t enough to convince you of that?”

“Isn’t that a little… fast?”

“Is waiting four years a little too fast for you?”

“Good point.”

And he’s diving back in, nipping at the already blossoming marks on your neck. Throw your head back, relishing in his every touch and the even more divine gift: his entire attention focused on you.

“Please, Jin, I don’t want to wait anymore. I mean it.”

“What do you wan—”

“I want you to fuck me.”

“Oh.”

“Here.”

“Here?”

“Mhmm.”

“On the balcony? Where everyone can see?”

You kiss him then, taking his lower lip between your teeth and relishing in the gasp that you pull from him.

“No one will see. And if they do, then they’ll know.”

“Know what?”

“That I’m yours.”

He grins back at you. “Mine?”

“If you want me.”

“Of course I want you. Don’t you know what you do to me?”

“You could tell me about it.”

“I could, but then I’d miss out all on this.”

Gently he lets you down, but his lips never leave yours as his hands come to meet your hips and guide you where he wants. You let one of your hands drift down from where you’ve kept them locked around his neck. Kissing him still, you pluck open the first two buttons of his dress shirt and trace your hands down the burning skin.

If you’re known for anything, you’re known for your impatience. So you don’t linger long on the smooth planes of his chest, and instead glide your hand down his torso until you reach his belt buckle. You make as if to dip underneath his pants, but at the last moment you pull away and cup the impressive bulge he’s already sporting.

“Shit,” he hisses as you trace a manicured nail around the shape of his cock. But all sound chokes in his throat as you grip his erection through the fabric of his pants and begin to stroke him. “Need you. Now.”

“Good.”

You begin to turn, to pull your nightgown up over your bottom, but he’s tugging you back towards him and spinning you around so you’re pressed to his chest.

“I want to see your face.”

It’s hasty work, him pulling himself out of his pants, wrapping his veiny hand around his throbbing cock and notching the head of it against your dripping folds. But you’re no more patient, hopping up so you’re seated precariously on the balcony railing and kissing at his neck steadily and reaching down to part your lips just for him.

He only teases you for a moment, stepping between your legs and dragging the head of his cock against your clit. He wraps one hand around your waist, securing you tightly to him.

“Please,” you breathe against his chest and he pushes into you in one swift thrust. The sensation of him filling you is everything. It clouds your vision. It resets your senses till all you can think of, can feel is this man’s existence, beating so close to yours.

“Fuck—” he hisses as his cock settles inside you, as you adjust around his thick girth.

“You’re so—” you pant against him.

“Is it too much?”

“Big. Just give me a moment.”

He does, reaching to cup the back of your neck and press a kiss to your forehead. It’s almost too intimate, the way he holds you so softly, so tenderly, all while his cock throbs within you. It’s in that moment that the discomfort of the stretch shifts to pleasure. Warmth, spreading from your abdomen outwards. You relax in his hold, hands falling from his neck to the strong muscles of his arms.

“Please,” you murmur. “Need you.”

His hips rut against yours as if he’s never had anything as good as you before.

“Want you to feel good,” he tells you. “Tell me—”

“Just need you—closer.”

You weren’t sure that he could get closer but it’s what your body craves and it’s what he serves. He wraps his arms around you, hands spreading wide and pressing you impossibly close. In the moment, you wish you two were bare as your bodies move against each other as if they’d known the shared rhythm all along.

He fucks you like that, like you’re suspended in air. The warmth of his body keeps you grounded as the height that hangs behind you reels through you, adding a giddy, heady feeling to it all. Or maybe the giddiness comes from the way you relish in the quick pants and desperate grunts that fall from his lips and to your shoulder. Or the way he gasps your name like a monk’s chant into your ear, the sound of it like nothing you’ve ever heard before. You don’t want to hear it any other way either.

When he comes, spilling deep inside you, it’s your name on his lips. When you come, it’s his name splitting through the silent sky.

Jin holds you there, pressed still against his chest for a long moment as you both catch your breath. It’s only when he feels the slight shiver of your body that he pulls back.

“You’re cold?” You nod. “Let’s get you inside.”

He helps you down carefully from the balcony banister before tucking himself away and grabbing your hands in one of his large ones.

“Come, I’ll take care of you.”

You can’t help but let the joy show on your face as he leads you forward.

He reaches behind him, opening the balcony doors. The light curtains wash out into the room with the cold air, brushing around Jin like some kind of ethereal welcome.

Welcome back to my world, you think. But the thought of reality, of the conversations, the negotiations, the reality that will await you in the morning slips out of your mind as Jin twirls you into his arms and suddenly your whole world is warm again. Suddenly your world is Jin again.

He peppers your whole face with kisses as he walks you backwards, loud smooching sounds echoing through the large room coupled with your giggles that turn into full blown laughter.

“Hey hey hey!” you chide, grabbing onto the loose collar that now teases the delicious arch of his collar bones and neck. “You can’t do that!”

“What!” he snaps between kisses. “I can’t kiss you!”

“Not if you’re going to be that ridiculous!”

At that moment you feel the soft edge of the bed hit the back of your knees and you are tumbling backwards, eyes widening with shock. At the last second he’s reaching behind you, catching you and lowering you slowly to the soft mattress. You reach for him, but he kneels at the edge of the bed, just far enough that your grabbing hands only find empty air.

“So then tell me, if I can’t drown you in kisses, can I at least do this?” His hand teases the hem of your slip, tracing circles on your upper thigh. The touch is simple, but it raises goosebumps all over your body. He slaps away your reaching hands.

“Or this?” His fingers dip beneath the fabric, tracing up your thigh to dance around your hip. “What about this?” He pulls the fabric all the way up to your waist. With the quickness of a fox, he’s bending down and licking one long line up the slick folds of your cunt.

“Fuck!”

His tongue swirls around your clit, still bathing in soft sensitivity from your most recent orgasm. He seems to sense this as he blows lightly against your lips, forcing your back to arch into the mattress, your hand reaching out instinctively to tangle in his hair.

“Okay, okay, I get it!”

“What, you act like it’s some kind of punishment.”

“It is, when it means you’re not up here, fucking me.” He blinks, still not quite used to your explicit language. “And anyways,” you pant, “doesn’t this kind of foreplay usually come before the mindblowing sex?”

“And who’s rules are you playing by now?”

You grin, giddy at the cleverness of your own words turned back on you.

“No one’s.” You push up to your elbows, taking in the beautiful man above you. “But if I’m making the rules, then I need you inside me, now.”

“Patience, darling,” Jin smiles, sitting up.

“No,” you say, reaching for him. “I will not be patient. Not for you, anyways.”

“No?”

“No.” You’re moving to unbutton his shirt, and he lets you, but doesn’t do much else to help you along. “Off, off, off,” you grumble, tugging on the collar of his now wrinkled shirt, but he stands there like a limp fish. You sigh, sitting back on your heels. “Please?”

Jin throws his head back and laughs that full-belly laugh. “Will I ever be able to say no to you? To this?”

“No,” you smile. “You won’t. And I won’t have it any other way.”

“Good.” He presses a kiss to your lips, one that lingers long and sweet. Sweet enough that when he pulls back, you miss the taste of him. But he’s doing as you’ve asked and quickly tugs his shirt over his head and drops his pants to the floor.

You don’t know if you’ve ever seen something as beautiful.

Jin had always had the power to command a room with his large but quiet presence, but seeing him like this, bare and breathing hard for you is something entirely different. There is both something soft and sweet about the tenderness of him, and something sharp about the desire he lets swirl through his body. You want it all.

“Your turn?” he asks softly, reaching for the slip that pools around your hips. “I want to see you.”

You nod and he pulls the light fabric up over your head with an unspoken gentleness.

“Look at you,” he breathes, but his gaze doesn’t linger long on your body. Instead, it’s latched onto your gaze, watching for every thought that will flicker across your expression.

“Come here.” You open your arms wide and he is tumbling into your embrace, pushing you back into the bed. You’re both giggling in the sensation of falling, giggling at each other's laughter, giggling because, really, what else is there to do when you’re finally wrapped up in the person you adore?

And then you take a breath. Let the silence of the room, the old, ticking clock in the hallway, the sweeping sounds off the streets filter through both of you. For a moment both of you become everything around you. For a moment, both of you are only the sensation of looking at another and wondering.

It doesn’t last.

It’s too difficult to resist reaching up for him, pressing your fingers lightly against the arc of his neck and drawing his lips back to where they belong: against yours. You’re not sure how, but each time he kisses you it’s a whole new world. This time, it’s spring. Ice melting against the promise of warmth. He melts against your touch and you wrap your legs around his waist.

He pushes into you without resistance. This time, your body welcomes him with ease, wrapping warmly around his throbbing length. He reaches so far into you.

When he begins to move, it’s too much. The spear of pleasure shoots through your abdomen and you arch your back. He stills immediately.

“Look at me,” Jin says. “I want to see your eyes when you come around my cock.”

You smile. Nip at whatever skin is accessible to you. Press yourself as close to him as you possibly can and chase the pleasure of having him, finally, in your bed.

When you grind your hips against his, he grunts and thrusts deeper.

When he lowers his weight down on you, he does it at an angle, one hand near your chest, the other one coming down on your hips. His fingers wrap around your waist and he begins to move you in time to his thrusts. It’s with even more power that he enters you now, but his pace has slowed just enough that your own orgasm dangles in front of you like he’s teasing you with sweetness.

He’s always teasing you, isn’t he.

Pleasure ripples across his face, marking his brow, dancing across his lips like a fleeting ghost. You want to memorize the way his delight radiates out into the world, want to return to it everyday like a favorite book.

He holds you like he has so many times before, but this time there’s a new edge to his gaze. Trust. He knows you’re his. Knows that the blossoming purple on your neck and the breath coming quickly from your lungs are marks of him. That even if the red blessing of dawn tears him from your bed and your arms that this moment is marked, is held, by him.

For now that will be enough.

He has you wrapped up in his arms, your gaze fluttering between pleasure and weariness.

“You’re a gift.”

You don’t know what it is about that phrasing. If it’s the way the words take shape on his pink lips, if it’s the deep sound of his voice flooding through you. If it’s the devotion swimming in his eyes. Either way, your cheeks flood with warmth and you cut back: “You said that already.”

“And I meant it both times.”

He notices your flickering gaze and the heat painting your cheeks and reaches for you, stroking his thumb against the burning flesh.

“You’re so warm.”

“I’m embarrassed,” you say softly.

“What?” He leans in. “The crown jewel of the city embarrassed? By a measly little affection?”

“You’d be surprised at the list of things you do that can bring a blush to my cheeks,” you cut back too quickly — only to realize it’s not as much of a cut as you thought it was.

“Oh?” He rolls closer. So his chest is once more pressed to yours. He lets his hand drift up to tug on a loose strand of hair that falls into your face. “Tell me more.”

“Really?”

“Give me the juicy details.”

“No!”

“Give them to me,” he grins. “I want to know exactly why the hell you’ve fallen for me, me of all people.”

“Fine — that, uh—” Suddenly you are overwhelmed with all of the moments and instances that this dear man inspired you with. Where to begin? “I can’t get you out of my head.”

“I know. You’ve made that quite clear.” He punctuates his meaning by flicking his gaze towards the discarded nightgown at the foot of the bed. “But why?”

Moment after moment flies through your brain and before you can think of censoring yourself, you’re grabbing on to the first one that sparks your attention. “That thing you do when you throw me over your shoulder and run. It’s a little excessive but I promise you it gives me plenty of time to admire your broad shoulders.”

That crinkling scrutiny in his eye glimmers again.

“It’s just my body. Hm.”

“No! No…” You correct him, bringing your hands up to his cheeks and tugging his face closer to you to make sure he is listening.

“Your kindness.”

“Sure. My job is to beat people up for you and you fell for my kindness?” You see the flash of shyness in his expression and suddenly you’re devoted to making him understand. He doesn’t see it.

“Really.”

“Really?”

“Really. You know… when you aren’t out there performing you’re actually quite riddled with kindness and… intricacies.”

He laughs. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Like… that one time you woke me up at 3am because it was our only night at the beach and you weren’t going to pass up the chance to go fishing — and refused to leave me alone just to do something you loved — and how you sat there with your little frown and waited for hours only to realize that we were in the completely wrong spot to be fishing in the first place. You love it. And you’re horrible at it. And in this stupid world where everything either has to be for perfection or for money — that’s so fucking refreshing.”

His laughter echoes through the room, bouncing off of the cold stone and landing warmly in your chest. “That-that’s it? My horrible fishing skills. What about the time-”

“At the gallery?”

“Where I literally-”

“Took a bullet-”

“To my shoulder!”

“Your prized possessions,” you wink.

“Yes, the time I saved your life. That’s not it?”

“Sure, sure,” you flap your hand. “I can find a man to take a bullet for me on any street corner, any day of the week.”

“Sure, sure!” Jin scoffs back at you, but he’s smiling. Watching the way his plump lips stretch towards his cheeks, you realize you could list the reasons you can’t let him go until the sun bridges her gaze over the horizon of city buildings — and still not be finished. And yet, you continue.

“Here’s one: The way you listen. You take things in and notice — but, no, it’s not just noticing. You process them and turn them quietly into something deep and beautiful and meaningful and it never fails to surprise me. And! And the way that sometimes when you laugh it sounds like something horribly squeaky and delightful.”

His jaw drops.

“Something squeaky!”

“Like windshield wipers… Sometimes! Only sometimes! And it’s delightful!”

His brow narrows.

“I’m going to kiss you now to shut you up before you say something even worse than that.” Your eyes widen. “If you’ll have me.”

“Yes-yes, god, I’ll have you.”

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shreddedparchment · 4 years

Text

A Wife for Thor Pt.03

10/21/2020

Garden of Delights

Pairing: King!Thor x Reader Word Count: 5,411

Warnings: angst, jealousy, talks of death, talk of sickness, infant sickness, neglect, fluff

A/N: As I said, writing itself right now. lol I’m not really sure how long this story will be. I have the basic premise set and a small plot, but if I choose to make this around the size of Pseudo Princess, I’ll have to come up with a bigger plot than the simple one I’ve got. Anywho, I hope you enjoy this chapter! I know I certainly loved writing it. If you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work! xoxo

Seriously, Thor doesn’t reblog as easily as Bucky or Steve on tumblr, so I TRULY appreciate it.

Please do not RESPOST any of my works on other sides or blogs.

REBLOGS always welcome!

You’re still laughing gently, hiding your chewing behind your hand.

“Stop.” You plead, looking across the table at Thor.

Both of you seated on opposite heads of the table. To your left is Loki, smirking with no shame at the stories just relayed. To your right is Brunnhilde, sipping her wine…well, guzzling would be more apt.

She’s teetering left and right, elbow on the table as she shakes her head at Loki across from her.

They lock eyes and Loki scoffs, “Don’t pretend as if you didn’t want to stab him too when you first met him.”

“I never said I didn’t!” She argues, plopping her glass down a little too hard and the glass makes a loud clink that draws everyone’s gaze.

“Why did you want to stab him?” You ask her, reaching for your own glass of regular wine. Thor had promised that you didn’t want to try the Asgardian mix.

“You won’t wake for a week. Trust me, Your Highness.” He’d been super proper, and it was a little annoying, but you understand why he’s being so careful. He wants to impress everyone, especially the two who sit beside him.

To his left sits a woman, absolutely drop dead gorgeous with creamy moon skin and raven hair. She’s certainly one to watch out for as Brunnhilde had said.

She hasn’t smiled once since she gave you a small stiff grin as Thor had introduced you.

Even now she watches you, her hand resting on the table, a little too close to Thor’s hand for comfort.

Her fingers seem to be inching their way towards his and you feel the beginning bite of fangs in your mouth at the thought of her hating you because she wants Thor for herself.

This also makes you sad because you don’t meet women who are as unique as she, but Lady Sif has drawn a line and you find yourself on one side with Thor while she watches from the other, despising your very existence for taking the man she covets.

On Thor’s right is a man with his dark hair in dreads. Beautiful amber eyes stand bright against his dark skin, and the luxurious gray armor he wears, sits pretty on his muscular form. To his own right is a sword, placed between him and Loki.

He looks less amused by the story Loki and Thor just told them but when he meets your gaze, his eyes betray an amusement. Heimdall, protector of the Asgardian borders, has a soft spot for his King and his friends.

“To put it short,” Brunnhilde begins, popping her lips as she lifts her wine to her lips again, eyes locked on Thor. “He’s a bit of a doofus.”

Thor’s burst of booming laughter in infectious and you laugh too, just as Loki, Brunnhilde, and even Heimdall chuckles along gently.

Lady Sif is the only one who doesn’t laugh but merely smiles as she look at Thor as he shakes his head overwhelmed with amusement.

You know what she sees, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes are endearing. The sparkle of his one blue eye. The loveliness of his golden bearded face all stretched into a stunning smile.

“I am not a doofus!” He protests, then clears his throat and taps his fingers against the table as he makes his face as serious as he can manage. “What way is that to speak of your King?”

Brunnhilde throws her head back outrageously tickled by his words.

“You may be my King, but that does not make you any less of a doofus than before you earned your crown.” She throws at him and Thor laughs again, shaking his head as you quietly chuckle with them, loving this exchange and the ease at which they seem to be.

“What about that made you want to stab him?” You ask her, everyone’s gaze drawn to you and Lady Sif’s smile vanishing.

“Well, you’ll just have to wait and see.” Brunnhilde teases. “My condolences. Being married to this buffoon will be a true test of your character.”

Although her words are said as a joke, your heart gives a small lurch as you meet Thor’s gaze again, and this time he holds it, his own face falling a little to only a soft smile as both of you replay the conversation in the hallway once again.

“I’ll just have to try my best.” You tell her, a small shrug of your shoulder. “He seems alright so far. No major red flags. Besides the obvious.”

Thor’s smile is completely gone now, his brow furrowed as he continues to stare at you, his breathing a little deeper. A little more labored.

You’re nervous as you speak, voice shaking a little as your heart pounds and aches.

“What’s that?” Loki asks, also serious suddenly, picking up on the tension between you and Thor.

It might seem like you’re letting it go on too long on purpose, using it to make everyone uncomfortable, but really you just have to find the strength to speak as your nerves begin to get the better of you.

“Well,” You begin, voice still shaking. “I mean, look at him.”

And they all do.

“He’s also been really nice to me.” You admit, because aside from the unanswered question in the hallway, Thor has treated you respectfully, politely, with genuine concern and compassion…so far. “I think the deal was that I’m supposed to marry him and it’s alright if I don’t love him but, how long can I really resist?”

Brunnhilde scoffs, purging the atmosphere for everyone else of what you’re saying allowing them to relax and laugh at your strange way of telling them you find Thor attractive.

“At least your worries about your wife not liking you are assuaged.” Heimdall claps Thor on the shoulder, visibly shaking his body, but Thor’s intense gaze is on you alone.

Swallowing hard, you reach for your wine glass and take a deep drink, so conscious of Thor’s stare.

Dinner goes on just as it began and before long, Thor is back to laughing and chatting while your own attention is given to Loki and Heimdall whenever he remembers something he’s wants to ask.

When all plates are cleaned and glasses sit empty, dinner officially over, Sif turns hard eyes on you.

“So, I hear that you don’t have parents.” The interest is forced. She couldn’t care less about you or your life.

“Yeah,” You nod. “Um, they died a few months after I was born. Plane accident.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” Heimdall laments kindly.

Beside you, Brunnhilde has her head in her hand, elbow on the table, eyes shut and mouth slightly open.

She’d just been talking so this is new.

“Thank you, but I don’t remember them. My only sorrow comes from never having a family.” You admit. “I grew up in a school—well, really it was an orphanage, but it was run much like a private school with uniforms that the government provided along with a minimal education. I attended until I became a legal adult and my lawyer, came to give me my inheritance.”

“Why weren’t you adopted?” Sif asks, her voice full of well-hidden venom that you can hear only because you know to look for it, her hand is inching towards Thor’s again and while he’s not your husband yet, the urge to stake claim over it is strong.

The way she asks also makes you feel as if she’s waiting to see exactly what is wrong with you. What can she use against you?

You smile, a smirk really, knowing what she’s up to.

You’re not unkind, but you bristle when attacked and Sif is making it easy for you to be defensive.

Searching within yourself for the strength to keep yourself calm, you take a deep breath before you answer.

“I wasn’t a healthy baby. I was sick, all the time. There was even a night my fever became so high that the doctors were sure that I would be left with brain damage. So, they watched me grow, expecting defects, but I got sick less and less the older I got.

“My speech and motor functions were top tier, and my learning capabilities were also fine.”

Everyone is silent, watching you with somber expressions. You’re a little on edge with them paying you such close attention, but this was the point of the dinner. To get to know each other.

“Unfortunately, potential parents were warned about the possible challenges I might face as I grew older, which put many of them off. While they wanted an infant, they didn’t want one that was broken.”

“I’m sorry for their ignorance.” Heimdall offers. “Clearly you grew up to be a lovely woman, but even if you had not, I’m saddened by their lack of compassion.”

You can only smile at him, having come to terms with the facts of your childhood long ago.

“Anyway, that’s why no one adopted me. So, a true family is something I’ve never had. I’m…” You blink, wondering how honest you want to be here. “I think it’s one of the things I’m looking forward to most. After tonight, I’m more convinced than before that this is will be a good environment to build a family. You’re all so nice.”

Loki, Brunnhilde—who’s awake again—and Heimdall are smiling. Lady Sif sits stiffly, her hands pulled onto her lap as she keeps her eyes locked on the empty plate in front of her.

Your heart stutters as you meet Thor’s eyes again. Staring deep into the single blue orb still locked on you.

“As conflicted as my past with the people in this room has been, I promise you, that is the right decision.” Loki assures you, a peaceful smile on his face that somehow comforts any misgivings you’ve been having.

At least about the people you’ll be around daily.

Your conversation with Thor in the hallway is a different matter, and one that you really want to finish.

“Well,” Brunnhilde slaps her hands on the table, rising to her feet with a little sway. “I think that’ enough pleasant conversation for me. I am tired-”

“And drunk.” Loki adds.

“-And that.” She agrees. “I need some sleep. So, Y/N, Your Royal Highness this has truly been a pleasure. I will be by in the morning to see you about wedding arrangements. Not too early though, you know—”

She steps out from in front of her chair, already walking towards the door large double doors.

Heimdall rises too, then Loki, Thor, and Lady Sif.

You stand last, fixing your dress as you do, making sure it isn’t stained. Luckily, it isn’t.

“This has indeed been illuminating.” Heimdall agrees, moving over to you to take your hand and press a chaste kiss to your knuckles. “Your Highness, it has been a true pleasure. I look forward to getting better acquainted with you.”

Loki is smiling, standing by the door but then he turns his eyes on Lady Sif.

“A word, Sif?” She looks at him, freezing beside Thor where she’d already begun to take his arm to pull his attention. “It won’t take long.”

With a sigh, she gives you one look before moving out the door in a huff, Heimdall following. Loki gives Thor a nod, something silent passes between them. With one final nod to you as well, Loki leaves.

“I really am very sorry that Volstagg, Fandral, and Hogun could not join us. Unfortunately, the Warrior’s Three are highly sought throughout the galaxies.” Thor says, moving towards you with calm slow steps. “They should be back for the wedding though.”

“I’m excited to meet them. Everyone was so kind.” You observe. “Well, almost.”

Thor looks confused, stopping just at the corner of the table beside you, his fingers nervously tracing the shape of the edge.

“Seriously? You didn’t notice?” You shake your head, somehow finding it funny. “I think Brunnhilde might be right about you being a doofus.”

Thor laughs once, blows a quick raspberry in denial at your conclusion. “Why do you say that?”

“Thor, Lady Sif hates me.” You point out, it’s so obvious to you and was obvious to Loki too at least.

“No.” Thor shakes his head.

“She kept trying to grab your hand! She kept glaring daggers at me.” You sigh. “She’s in love with you.”

“Sif is like a sister.” Thor tells you, as if this negates her feelings as well.

“She’s still in love with you.”

Thor sighs. “I’ll speak with her.”

“Don’t bother. I think Loki’s beating you to it.”

“Walk with me?” He asks, and your heart goes into sudden arrest.

Fingers nice and tingly, you swallow the lump in your throat. “What?”

“I would like it very much if you walked with me for a while. The night is not over yet, and despite the exhaustion of my court, it’s not actually that late yet. The gardens my people have cultivated for the palace are beautiful. I’d love to show them to you.” He offers his hand, waiting patiently for you to take it but you can only gawk at him.

“Isn’t it cold outside?” You ask, on edge.

Thor drops his hand. “Oh, right. Estrid?”

She’s already waiting by the door, auburn hair looking slightly disheveled.

“Ah, Estrid.” Thor smiles, big dopey grin on his face. “Oh, your hair…”

He gestures and she quickly fixes it.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty.” She gasps.

“No, no. Just looked funny.” He eases her, and she calms instantly, smiling bashfully. “Can you fetch Her Highness a jacket?”

Estrid turns and rushes from the room but returns only seconds later with a long navy cloak. It isn’t a jacket, but it will match your dress nicely.

“That’s not a jacket.” You observe, feeling self-conscious.

Thor takes it from her and holds it open for you. There’s a clasp around the throat that will sit against your collarbone. “It’s a cloak. It’ll keep you just as warm as a jacket.”

You turn for him and he slips it over your shoulders, holding it until you turn to face him then he quickly fastens the clasp.

“Better?” He checks, fixing it around you.

You can’t find your voice to answer. Heart is racing. Damn him. This isn’t going to work if he keeps being sweet.

He offers you his arm and you hesitate, timidly wrapping your hand around the lower part of his large bulky bicep again.

“Wonderful.” He smiles wide. “Estrid, Her Highness will be in later, please prepare her bedroom so that she might go to sleep as soon as we return.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” She curtsies quickly then turns and rushes out to get your room ready.

“She doesn’t have to do that.” You tell him, turning to watch her flee. “I can make my own bed and stuff.”

“It’s her job.” Thor tells you. “Will you take it from her?”

You think about it carefully, and despite the fact that Thor is a warrior and has travelled around the world sleeping in terrible places with no comforts at times, you understand in this moment that having servants is something he’s used to.

“No.” You realize and make a mental note to let these people do their work without putting up too much of a fight.

Thor leads you off down a side door into another dark wooden hallway with beautiful cobbled floors beneath your feet with a long carpet running its length. No one seems to be walking around in this hallway which makes you think it’s more secluded.

“Did David tell you I like flowers?” You check, wondering how much information Thor has about you.

“No? I didn’t know that though. That makes this even better.” He realizes.

You lapse into silence, hand trembling around his bicep as your mind replays the last two hours, picking apart every moment, every word shared, and every lingering look Thor had given you.

“Did you enjoy dinner?” Thor asks, his voice much lower, quieter.

It’s an intimate volume and it startles you, giving you a little bit of a delay in your response.

You meet his eyes and he’s staring right at you, soft smile stretched across his lips. It’s more a peaceful expression, calming.

And yet, it has the opposite effect on you, and you gasp a little as you catch your breath. Your heart is pounding through your ribcage.

“It was good.” You nod, looking towards the large stone archway up ahead. One of the doors stands open, the Norwegian night beyond.

You can see a splash of beautiful green beyond and can already hear the soft tinkling of flowing water from what is probably a fountain.

“And the conversation?” He asks, tilting his head to one side as he gives it better thought. “Aside from Sif.”

“They were all super nice, Thor.” You smile, honestly grateful to Loki, Brunnhilde, and Heimdall for their warm welcome. “I wish Lady Sif had been more open. She’s been fighting at your side for a long time, right?”

“She has.” Thor nods, as the two of you break through the doorway and you’re greeted with an elegant garden larger than even the circular room you’d first met with Thor in.

Your jaw drops and you stop walking, gaping at the collection of flora and fauna each piece delicately pruned and cared for. There are certainly several small fountains, dark gray with small underwater lights to provide the garden with diffused illumination.

Despite the chilly night, the garden makes you feel warm with flowers of every color. Roses in white and red, lilies with stunning white, carnations in pink, wine, cream, yellow, and purple. Throughout the roses are smaller pink flowers you don’t know but they’re adorable and the fragrance in this garden is intoxicating.

“Wow.” You whisper.

“You like it?” Thor asks, smiling a little wider as he waits for you to take your long look.

“It’s beautiful.” You nod.

“Come.” He pulls you along gently, urging you to walk again.

You follow, your hand sturdier around his arm. “Do you like gardens too?”

Thor nods. “My mother used to cherish her garden. When we arrived, it was the first thing I had commissioned. They were finished building it before they even finished the palace.”

“She passed?” You wonder, looking up at the echo of sadness in his eyes.

“A while ago.” Thor nods. “I miss her counsel. She was always the voice of reason and logic in my life.”

“I’m sorry.” You offer, hoping it’s a comfort.

You reach up with your other hand, wrapping it around his arm too.

He looks down at you, eyes searching, confused? But his smile never wavers. “Thank you.”

The two of you lapse into silence again, you busy looking at every flower you pass in admiration, Thor lost in thought.

“I’m going to miss my herb garden.” You lament with a sigh.

“You had an herb garden?” Thor wonders, turning his attention back to you.

“Just a small one. I only had some rosemary and thyme. I wanted to grow some mint, parsley, basil, and dill but I didn’t get the chance.”

Thor stops walking, gently shakes his arm to make your hand slide down along his forearm. As it falls, you takes hold of it.

You’re startled, but you don’t pull away, your mind devouring the information you can gleam from this moment as quickly as it can.

His hand is warm. No…it’s hot. Like he’s had it shut for a long time. The skin is a little rough, calloused, but not uncomfortable. You can just imagine the battles he must have fought. His hand is so big. Fingers wrapped softly around yours. He gives it a squeeze and you feel it in your core that this isn’t going at all how you planned.

You almost want to run to your room and hide under your blankets with the speed at which you can feel yourself dropping your guard to him.

The plan had been to marry him, never love him, and live your life as best you can and probably take a lover at some point. You should be able to love too.

But it isn’t supposed to be Thor. You’re not supposed to fall for him.

You remind yourself of his refusal to be honest with you. You remind yourself that his heart is already given and accepted. Jane loves him too, even if she won’t marry him to prevent him from marrying someone else.

You can understand why she can’t give up her life to take on this one. It’s a lot to ask of anyone.

It helps you grasp onto reality, to remember the conversation before dinner and his inability to commit to honesty when It comes to Jane.

“I have something to show you.” He tells you and pulls you down the length of the garden until you reach a greenhouse.

Thor releases your hand and throws the doors open before holding his hand out for you to take again.

You do, and he pulls you into the narrow but long space. Each side is lined with planter boxes, each box holds a different herb, including all of the ones you mentioned before, and some you have never seen before.

“What is this?” You gasp, reaching for a particularly strange one in a deep blue, almost black color.

“It’s the Asgardian version of lavender.” He tells you, placing his other hand over the one you’re reaching out for it with. “But it stings a little for humans to touch with bare hands. There are garden glove in the box by the door if you want to cut some for your room later. It smells wonderful. My mother used to keep some on her desk.”

“I can take some?” You gasp, turning to look up at him and he’s standing so damn close, you shrink in surprise.

“Of course.” He smiles at you, “This is your home now. Anything in these gardens is yours to have.”

He’s so fucking nice! You hate him.

You’re too stunned by his proximity to speak, hands twitching under his own. He seems to realize what’s got you tongue-tied because he takes a step and one hand back but keeps hold of the other.

“I wanted to talk with you, it’s why I’ve brought you here.” He pulls you along, and you give the herb garden one final look before he shuts the doors and moves back towards the center of the garden.

There you find several white marble benches around a small manmade pond, surrounded by more flowers.

Thor leads you to one of these benches, then extends a hand towards it so that you’ll sit.

You do, nervous suddenly as he sits beside you, taking his hand back for the first time since he began to show you the garden.

“You’re making me nervous.” You admit, your mouth moving before you can stop it. Anxious is not a good state for you.

“No.” He assures you, shaking his head, full of concern. “No, please don’t be nervous. I only wanted to continue our conversation from before dinner.”

“Oh.” You nod, expecting to be denied the honesty you want.

How will you use his refusal to do it as an excuse to not fall for him if he agrees to it?

“You’re right.” He nods, turning in the seat to face you a little better, your body mirroring his.

“I am?”

“Yes.” He takes a long deep breath. “After everything that was said during dinner, after watching my friends meet with you and get to know you, I realize that you’re right in what you say. I am asking a lot from you. More than I care to admit.”

Your mouth is suddenly dry.

“Did you mean what you said?” He whispers, a trace amount of uncertainty in his deep voice.

“What did I say?” You ask, voice not as quiet but still a little breathless.

“About falling for me?”

“Oh.” Your brain goes fuzzy and your heart is probably going to burst through your chest like in that one horror movie you watched as a kid.

“Truth is, I chose you because you were different.” He nods. “Not, different from regular humans. Most of them are very much like you, which is great. I love humans. But compared to the other ladies that came to meet for this purpose, I…if I’d wanted someone who would turn a blind eye while I and Jane continued to see each other, then I should have chosen one of them.

“They knew what was expected, as did you, but I didn’t consider how the difference in you would affect your own responses.”

“Are you saying you don’t want me anymore?” You ask timidly, feeling a rush of emotions all mixing together, turning into confusion.

You’re almost happy that he doesn’t want you anymore. You won’t have to marry him and deal with Jane and a life of standing by watching him be with someone else while the world thinks you’re together.

Another part of you, the part that’s already out of your control—even though you’ll never admit it—can’t help but feel depressed that he’ll be married to someone else.

“No!” Thor rushes to assure you, sliding over closer so that he can take your hand again, his knee touching yours. “No, that’s not at all what I’m saying. What I’m saying is that I understand what you meant. I know why you were upset. I’m sorry that I did not consider this whole thing more carefully from your perspective.”

You feel a wave of relief and know you’re screwed. It’s already too late.

“But I need you to answer my question.” He says.

Your eyes go wide at the audacity of this man as you laugh because it’s so funny of him to need that of you when he couldn’t return the favor before. “You didn’t answer mine!”

He smiles, chuckling. “Answer mine first.”

As you consider him, blue eye staring at you with no restraint for the way his gaze makes you feel, your mood grows somber, all traces of your laugh gone.

“Yes.” You sigh. “I’ve never been in love before.”

You shrug.

“And it’s not like you’re not…I mean…You know damn well what you look like.” You growl.

Thor laughs, throwing his head back.

“And then you come in with that voice and you’re not rude or…I mean, you were a little mean with the whole asking me to put up with being married and having no love in it. Like, I get that it might be normal for royals or whatever, but I’m not really royal. I haven’t lived in a palace with servants and a crown on my head.

“I grew up in an orphanage with no friends. No one has ever loved me. My parents loved me, I think, but they died and no one has cared about me like that since. Even now, the only person on my side is David, and I know he only stuck around because he felt bad for me. He’s also getting paid by my estate, so…there’s that.

“I’m not asking you to love me. I know that you love someone else, but I was only asking for you to be open with me about it. If you want to meet Jane, fine. Meet her. But do it somewhere that I can’t see. Do it but tell me that’s where you’ll be so that even if rumors fly in my ear that Thor is meeting with his mistress, it won’t hurt as much. It won’t make me feel as stupid, because I already know that’s where you are.”

Thor’s hand over yours grows tighter, his face lamenting for who knows what reason, because you’re not in his head but you can see that he feels bad which is stupid and you hate him for it because it means he cares.

You only just met him but with every passing moment in his presence, you fall more and more. It’s not love yet. You know that. It can’t be a crush because you know him too well. You like him. You’ll admit that.

“To answer your question more clearly,” You take a deep breath, exhaling quickly to wipe away the excess of emotion that surged forward suddenly. “Yes. I meant it. I don’t love you now, but I think I could.”

Thor nods, looking down at your hand, turning it over in his own.

The silence feels endless! He won’t speak, but his thumb keeps caressing your hand and you kinda wanna bite him for it.

“If my mother were here, she’d be disappointed in me. She’d tell me that I should let go of Jane. She met her, and while she liked her but…We are clearly moving along different paths and as much as I love her, she is not the one for me. Not anymore. My mother would definitely think so.

“I think she would have really liked you.” He admits, and his words give you comfort. “She would have called me a fool to pass up such a sweet and level-headed woman.”

“I’m not that level-headed.” You confess. “I’ve got anxiety issues sometimes.”

Thor smiles.

“I think she would have been right.”

Wait, is he saying what you think he’s saying?

“I will talk with Jane tomorrow to…to break things off. It won’t be the first time for us to part ways and I think in the long run it will be better for us both.”

“Thor, you don’t have to-”

“But I do.” He nods, meeting your eyes. “I need to let go of my past to embrace my future. And that’s you and New Asgard. It’s my people.”

“I want this marriage to work.” He continues. “I chose you and I meant that choice. Out of all the women I met, your picture of an ideal marriage was the closest to mine. It would make me happy to live that life with you.”

You’re breathless, chest heaving as you struggle to find a coherent thought.

Thor seems to realize that you’re struggling because he places your hand on your lap, tapping it gently before scooting back a little to give you space.

He’s so fucking massive! How is it possible that this is seriously your life? This God will be your husband. You’re going to have his kids?!

Your cheeks burn, neck burns, ears burn, legs suddenly clenched together as the fear from before runs quickly through your mind.

They’d wanted a maiden and they got one. Will he talk about it with you later? You can’t bear to talk about it now. You’re too embarrassed and overwhelmed by what he’s saying.

“So,” He starts, rising to his feet to tower over you. Then he falls, gliding gently onto one knee before reaching into his pants to pull from his pocket a small brown pouch.

He opens it, turns it over, and into his hand tumbles a shining silver ring.

“I chose this before I knew you liked flowers but now that I know, it makes me glad I picked it.” He smiles, “It just made me think of you when I went searching so, I hope you like it.”

He grabs it with two fingers, pinching the thin band delicately to hold it upright so that you can see the stunning design. A round diamond rests in the middle, shining brilliantly at the center of what looks like a lotus flower made of smaller diamonds filling its leaves.

You hate him because you absolutely love this ring. You love the sight of him on his knee in front of you. You love the way he scoots closer so that he can hold your hand easier as he gently straightens it and presses the ring to the tip of your finger.

“Will you marry me, Y/N? Will you be my Queen?” He asks, and you’re so silent, he grows visibly nervous. “Please?”

You laugh at the hitch in his voice, the plea there.

“Yes, stupid.” You laugh again.

He chuckles as he slips the ring on your finger, then after a moment of hesitation, he hooks his hand behind your neck and pulls you down to meet his lips.

Eyes wide, heart stopped, you freeze as hot lips fry your nervous system.

#king!thor x reader #thor x reader #royal au #arranged marriage au #thor odinson x reader #king!thor x reader fanfic #king!thor x reader fanfiction #king!thor x reader fic #king!thor x you #thor x reader fic #thor x reader fanfic #thor x reader fanfiction #thor x you #marvel au #marvel fanfiction #a wife for thor #a wife for thor pt03

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youvebeenlivingfictional · 4 years

Text

When We Were Young Part Four

Previous Part | Next Part | Masterlist Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader Rating: T Notes: Not beta-read I hope everyone's had a good week and is doing well :) Thank you for all of the likes/reblogs/replies!! Warnings: Uuuuuh none Summary: “I’ve never come across a boring case, Lord Dawson. Some have perhaps been easier to solve than others, but the truth is never boring.”

“You seem a little agitated, if you don’t mind my saying so.” You did mind her saying so, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be irritated with Mrs. Lloyd. She was Uncle Cornelius’ housekeeper, had known you since you were very young, and was familiar with your moods. “I’m not particularly looking forward to this evening,” You excused. Mrs. Lloyd glanced at you in the mirror as she adjusted the off-the-shoulder sleeves of your royal blue evening gown. “Could it have anything to do with the fact that Lord Dawson will be in attendance?” She asked. “Among other things,” You replied stiffly. She hummed, lifting her hands to smooth over your hair. “Shall I tuck a flower into the braid? I got a lovely bunch of gardenias at the market this morning,” Mrs. Lloyd offered. She didn’t wait for your answer before she headed for the door. “Why gardenias?” You asked, turning to look at her. “They symbolize purity and gentleness,” She told you. You grimaced. “Are there any flowers that symbolize resentment?” You asked. Mrs. Lloyd frowned. “Petunias. But I didn’t buy any of those.”

-- “It’s the last thing this country needs, reform,” Mycroft had been prattling on for nearly twenty minutes now. Most of the men’s voices uttered murmurs of agreement, though you noted Sherlock’s was absent. You glanced in his direction to find him eyeing the man that had been seated across from you. Lord Fredrick Adelbert Dawson did cut a fine figure, you couldn’t deny it. With a sharp, pointed jaw, dusty blonde hair, hawk-sharp steel blue eyes, and an aquiline nose, he tended to draw the eye of many a young lady. He had even drawn yours when you’d first met him. And then you’d had a conversation with him and any interest you’d had faded quickly. You lowered your eyes to your plate as you saw Sherlock’s gaze flit to you.

“Come now, gentlemen, I do believe we’re boring our companions,” Cornelius chuckled, casting looks around the table, “Perhaps Mr. Holmes could tell us about the case he’s currently working on?” You felt yourself grow tense as everyone’s attention shifted to Sherlock. If he was rattled by this sudden spotlight, he didn’t show it. His face retained its usual mild expression; the only noticeable change was a now quirked brow in Cornelius’ direction. “What is it you’d like to know?” He asked. “Whatever it is you can tell us,” Cornelius pressed. “I’m not sure there’s much Sherlock can say about this one at present,” Mycroft’s voice was tight as he reached for his glass of wine. You watched him take a rather long sip before he lowered the glass to the table. The hand that had been holding it rested on the cloth, balled into a fist. “Is it because it’s confidential, or is it simply dreadfully boring?” Lord Dawson asked. You cast Sherlock a glance, watched him tip his head and narrow his eyes at the question. Oh dear. “I’ve never come across a boring case, Lord Dawson. Some have perhaps been easier to solve than others, but the truth is never boring.” “The truth?” Dawson repeated, brows raised in amusement, “What excitement can one find in the truth?” “About as much excitement as you find at the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden. Is it still under the management of Madame Vestris?” “Sherlock,” Mycroft hurried to hiss from the other end of the table. But the damage had been done. You watched as the blood drained from Dawson’s face. The comment had landed with the other gentlemen at the table, and, unfortunately, with you. Uncle Cornelius, in one of his more intoxicated states, had once made mention of ‘the pretty ladies he’d been in the company of’ at the Theatre Royal. You weren’t naïve; you knew that they were ladies of the night. You reached for your glass of wine, avoiding the eyes of both Sherlock and Lord Dawson as they looked to you for a reaction. “I quite loved H.M.S. Pinafore!” Cornelius piped up in the hopes of breaking the tension. -- After dinner, the ladies had adjourned to the sitting room for a glass of wine and some conversation; the men had remained in the dining room for brandy and cigars. You had only been able to stand the chatter for a few minutes before you excused yourself. You stepped out into the garden, sighing into the night air and allowing your shoulders to sag just a little. Dinner had been no less than a disaster. Even after Cornelius had moved the conversation on, there had been glares and harsh words veiled as polite conversation between Sherlock and Dawson. You had hated it; you knew that this would be awful, but you couldn’t have fathomed it would be nearly this bad. “Are you cold?” You jumped at the sound of his voice. Sherlock held his hands up in apology as you brought your hand up to your chest, feeling your heart pound. “No,” You lied, the word harsh in your irritation. If he knew you were lying, he didn’t call you on it. Sherlock turned, beginning to wander around the garden in silence. You rubbed your hands over your arms, trying to warm them as he was looking elsewhere. As you saw him turn back toward you, you quickly lowered your hands, clasping them in front of you. “What are you doing out here?” You asked. “I wanted some air,” Sherlock excused. “There’s plenty of air inside.” “And you?” Sherlock asked, “What drew you out?” “... It was too warm in the sitting room,” You fibbed. Sherlock hummed, clearly unconvinced before he began to wander the garden again. “Did they teach you to lie at finishing school?” He had meant it to be a joke, but you nodded and said, “In a way.” His brow furrowed. “Explain,” He requested. You looked down at your hands, considering. “Well... You’re taught to comport yourself according to the rules of society. How to sit, how to eat, how to smile, how to speak, how to laugh. And you’re taught to act that way regardless of however you may truly be, or however you may feel. You learn to become someone else, for the sake of society...Though everyone tells you that it’s for your own sake.” When you looked at Sherlock, you found him watching you closely. “...Promise me you’ll find Enola before Mycroft does,” You pleaded softly. His mouth turned down in irritation. “I’m doing everything I can, dove,” Sherlock swore. “If you were doing everything, you wouldn’t be taking breaks to ruin dinner parties,” You retorted. Sherlock grunted, turning away from you. “Your Lord Dawson is quite the character,” He commented. The butterflies in your stomach began to swirl about in an uneasy flurry. “How so?” You asked. “Well, he’s quite blunt, firm in his opinions. He seems to be under the impression that you’re meek, soft...Though maybe that was the fault of the gardenia,” he glanced back at you. You let out an irritated huff, reaching up and yanking the flower that Mrs. Lloyd had put in your hair out, tossing it on the stone bench near you. You glowered at the sight of Sherlock’s amused smile. “I’m sure Mycroft will be quite cross with you for what you said to Fredrick,” You commented. “Fredrick?” Sherlock repeated, stopping in his place, a thread of incredulity in his tone. You arched a challenging brow, silently daring him to comment on the name further. Rather than press, Sherlock said, “I’m sure Mycroft is already taking the pains to smooth things over. You’re familiar with Dawson, do you think he’s amenable?” “Your brother has a reputation for being persistent to the point of ruthlessness. I’m sure his success is imminent.” “I wasn’t asking you about my brother,” Sherlock pointed out. He tucked his hands behind his back, regarding you. “...Could you be happy with him?” The question took you aback, but your answer was prepared - it was the same thing you’d been telling yourself for months: “My family would stop worrying about my future. It would be a weight off of their mind, and therefore mine.” “That isn’t an answer.” “Yes it is,” You argued. Sherlock considered this. “I disagree,” He finally said, “Let me ask again.” He began to cross the garden toward you in slow, steady steps as he spoke, “Would you be happy, being Lady Dawson? Attending opening day at Ascot? Wearing the latest fashions? Having your name in the papers whenever your husband takes up another of his several affairs?” Your stomach churned uneasily, heart pounding as Sherlock stared you down. “Stop it,” You mumbled. “Bearing two, three little lords or ladies? Shipping them off to school--” “Stop it!” You snapped more loudly. Sherlock went still at that, close enough for you to see the flicker of shock in his eyes. You shook your head a little bit, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment to quell the tears that had begun to prickle, taking a deep breath to steady yourself before you looked at him again. “You’re just as bad as Mycroft sometimes, you know? Prodding me to see how quickly you can get a rise out of me like I’m some experiment and not a person. It’s cruel.” Then you saw it again - the flash of hurt that had crossed Sherlock’s face back at Ferndell. But it didn’t disappear this time. Instead it settled, twisting his handsome features as his eyes lowered to the ground. “You did it when we were young, too. Maybe it was fair then, maybe I was just this irritating noise-making thing that you wanted away from you. But we’re not children anymore,” You reprimanded him, “And what I may have to do to maintain my family’s social standing is none of your concern, Mr. Holmes.” Sherlock looked at you then, eyes skating over your face before he met your gaze. “Your eyes are red,” He said. Irritation shot through you. “I’m not a case, Sherlock,” You sneered before you turned away, intending to leave. Sherlock’s hand caught hold of yours, stilling you. “Let go,” You hissed. “Dove.” His tone was beseeching, gentle. You didn’t trust it. “Let go of me,” You demanded. He did, and you strode away, leaving him alone in the night. -- “Are you alright? ... My dear, you’re shaking,” Mrs. Lloyd gripped you by the shoulders, steering you back into the study. “I-- It was colder than I anticipated,” You excused. You allowed yourself to be steered into a chair by the fire, folded into a blanket, the others fussing about you catching your death. No one noticed the gardenia missing from your hair. No one noticed the white petals peeking out from the pocket of Sherlock’s jacket as he bid Cornelius a good night. -- “Breakfast is on the table. And there’s been a delivery for you - it’s in your study,” Your mother informed you. You thanked her quietly before turning back to your vanity to finish pinning up your hair. You were glad to be home. Your last two days in London had been entirely uneventful. You’d met with your father’s other investor (with minimal condescension; the gentleman had actually been somewhat pleasant) and dropped in on your aunt one more time before traveling home. You hadn’t heard from Dawson, which was a relief. You’d heard nothing from Sherlock. That should’ve been a relief, but it was, in fact, agonizing. You told yourself it was because it meant that you had no news of Enola, but you knew that it was more than that. You couldn’t help but wonder what the two of you may’ve said or done if you’d turned back to him when he’d wanted you to. You hadn’t sought him out despite this curiosity, either in person or by post; he had a case to work on. Besides, you didn’t know what you’d say to him even if you did see him. You two seemed to turn to bickering when left to your own devices. Your curiosity about the delivery won out over your hunger, and you went into your study. There was a beautiful white satin glass vase sitting on your desk filled with purple hyacinths. You knew what those flowers meant well enough - you’d sent them to your Aunt Mary the last time you’d failed to send her a formal thank you note for a dinner party you’d attended at her home. Purple hyacinths were for apologies. You stepped closer to them warily, gently fingering the petals. Your eyes fell to the envelope beside the vase, and your stomach gave a little flip. Sherlock’s handwriting hadn’t changed after all this time; his penmanship had always had a crisp, almost tight quality to it. You picked the envelope up, pulling the note out. Please forgive me, dove. -S.H. At the very bottom of the note was an address for Miss Harrison’s Finishing School. Tag list: @run-through-wa11s ; @thefallenbibliophilequote ; @bitchy-witchy-post-mortem ; @maan24 ; @awkward-walking-potato ; @madalore ; @alexa-lightwood-blog ; @chelseaxaz ; @marwritesgood ; @runawayolives ; @parkerismybaby

#When We Were Young #Sherlock Holmes x Reader #Sherlock Holmes x You #Sherlock Holmes Imagine #Sherlock Holmes Henry Cavill #Sherlock Holmes/You #Sherlock Holmes/Reader

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andypantsx3 · 4 years

Text

in cinders | 9 | explanations

pairing: Todoroki Shouto / Reader

length: 24,362 words / 9 chapters

summary: You’re just trying to fairy godmother your best friend into a happily ever after. If only the prince would stop hanging around and cooperate.

tags: cinderella AU, prince!Shouto, romance, misunderstandings, reader-insert

warnings: aged up characters, eventual smut

“Get your hands off of her!” you yelled before you could think.

You rushed forward, ducking under the heavy arm of a guardsman, and ripped the soldier off of Ochako. You took advantage of his surprise, getting yourself between them and pushing her behind you. You held out your arms to block his access to her.

“What the hell is going on here?”

The guardsman whirled on you. “This little wench stole from a noblewoman.”

He pointed, and you followed the line of his finger towards the pink, puffy dress clutched in Kamiko’s conniving fingers. Kamiko smirked at you, looking more pleased with herself than you had ever seen before.

“I found this hidden under her mattress so I reported her to the authorities. Now get out of the way, cinders, she needs to be punished.”

A feral noise escaped you. “I’ll fucking kill you for this, Kamiko.”

Kamiko scoffed. “You wouldn’t dare.”

A soft voice from behind you sniffled, “It’s not true! I promise I didn’t steal it!”

The guardsman let out a flat laugh. “How would a servant come by a dress like this? It’s obviously stolen.”

You moved to block him again as he reached for Ochako. Thinking quickly, you swept the crowd of servants in front of you, looking for any escape route. Your eyes fixed on Kaminari who stood frozen where he had been trying to control the crowd. His gaze was locked behind you, and his brow was furrowed. His mouth seemed to be shaping some word in question.

You tried to catch his eye but before you could, he whipped back in the other direction and was off like a shot, pushing through the crowd and out of the kitchen.

“Hand her over or I’ll have to hurt you,” the guardsman growled, drawing your attention back to him.

Your heart leapt into your throat. There had to be some way out of this. There had to be some way to protect Ochako, there had to--

You froze, a plan dawning on you. Ochako had never stolen a thing, but you had. And if there was one person Kamiko hated more than Ochako, it was--

“It was me.”

The guardsman halted, staring at you. Around him, the other kingsguard looked dumbfounded and the kitchen staff quieted. Kamiko and the housekeeper looked floored.

“I stole the dress,” you said quickly. “I stashed it under Ochako’s mattress.”

“Y/N, no--!” came from behind you but you paid her no mind.

“It’s not the first time I’ve stolen a noblewoman’s dress,” you said loudly. “I stole the Lady Utsushimi’s gown the night of the ball. Kamiko found that one too, didn’t you?”

Kamiko stood frozen, but a gleeful look was entering her gaze like she couldn’t believe her luck.

“Ask her,” you said to the guardsman. “Ask her what she found beneath my mattress.”

He turned to her in askance and slowly she nodded. “It’s true. I returned the dress to Lady Utsushimi myself.”

You grimaced. “So you see, this isn’t the first gown I’ve stolen and hidden beneath a mattress. Ochako didn’t even know I had done it.”

The guardsman gestured to another of the kingsguard. "You’re to go to Lady Utsushimi to confirm the return of her gown.”

Then he turned back to you. “You’ll be coming with us.”

You hesitated. “Is Ochako free to go?”

He frowned. “If you come with us quietly, no harm will befall the girl.”

You nodded, holding out your hands. Ochako’s fingers clutched at the back of your dress and she muffled a sob into your shoulder.

“Please don’t do this,” she said quietly. “Tell them it’s my dress.”

The guardsman took your outstretched hands, binding them in a thick layer of rope. He knotted it securely, the fibers digging into the skin of your wrists.

“I’ll figure a way out of this,” you said to her under your breath. “I always do.”

The guardsman gave your bindings a tug and you tripped forward. He wrapped a hand in the fabric of your shift, tugging you in front of him. From this angle, you could see the rest of the kitchen staff, staring at you in shock. Rikido fluttered nervously over the shoulders of the kingsguard, looking beside himself. You tossed him a reassuring smile.

The dress in question belonged to no one. If they couldn’t find the owner, perhaps you would be let go with minimal punishment. You only regretted that you wouldn’t get a chance to apologize to Ochako before then, or set things clear with Shouto.

“Ochako,” you said as the guardsman pulled you stumbling along after him. “If Shou - I mean, if he comes looking, tell him I’m sorry I didn’t wait for him.”

Ochako's brow knitted and she opened her mouth to say something, but was cut off the the door to the palace courtyard bursting open.

“WAIT!” A voice gasped out and Izuku Midoriya all but fell inside, followed closely by Kaminari, who was looking especially proud of himself. “Ochako didn’t steal anything, she--you’re not Ochako.”

The door to the courtyard thumped against the opposite wall and rebounded heavily into Kaminari's shoulder, sending him stumbling into Izuku's back.

The guardsman holding you hesitated, looking confused, and you felt your own confusion rise within you. What was Izuku doing here? Had he been who Kaminari had run off to? How did Izuku know Ochako and why would he come running?

Ochako herself answered that question for you.

“Izuku!” she shouted, flinging herself into his arms. Izuku held her to him tightly, pulling her close in a way that that was unmistakably affectionate. His emerald gaze darted worriedly all over her, as though checking her over for injury.

“You’ve got to stop them taking Y/N.” Ochako was pleading into the fabric of his vest. “They think she stole the dress!”

You glanced between the two of them, puzzled. Now was not the time, but you couldn’t help yourself. “Are you two....together?”

Izuku looked at you, a kind expression on his freckled face. “Yes, since...I, um, recognized her at the ball.”

All of a sudden, things snapped into place. That day in the kitchens, the way Izuku’s gaze had been drawn over your shoulder, the blush that rode high on Ochako’s rosy cheeks. Their disappearance at the ball, the night in the corridor where’d you stumbled over Izuku. It all made terrible, horrible sense.

Ochako had never been in love with the prince.

“Mr. Midoriya,” the guardsman said, “Forgive me, but I believe you’re interrupting a criminal investigation.”

“No, sir,” another voice cut in, and you whipped around to find Lady Utsushimi at the other entrance. “I am interrupting a criminal investigation.”

Your mouth dropped open and you felt a little bit like you were losing your mind. Was the entire castle going to come witness your arrest? What was Lady Utsushimi doing here?

A murmur went through the other servants, several of them eyeing Lady Utsushimi with interest. Her gaze swept disdainfully over the chaos of the kitchens, flickering over the guards in their red livery and Ochako clutched in Izuku's hands before landing back on you.

“My afternoon tea was interrupted by a guardsman checking on the return of a dress, claiming that the thief had struck again today,” she said haughtily. “Imagine my surprise when I learned that the accused was none other than my favorite kitchen girl.”

The place staff stared at her, silent.

"I came all the way down to this..." she hesitated, eyes roaming judgmentally back over the messy worktables, "place...to tell you that the dress in question today is also mine. And that Y/N did not steal it, the blessed simpleton. I lent it to her."

Your eyebrows lifted in surprise as another guardsman turned to her in bewilderment. “She herself claims to have stolen it, my lady.”

Lady Utsushimi raised her own scornful eyebrow, and the guardsman seemed to shrink before her. “Are you suggesting that I am a liar, sir?”

That’s exactly what she was. Despite yourself, your heart went out to the poor fop.

“N-no, my lady,” he stuttered. He seemed to cast about desperately for any explanation. “I only meant--”

“I suppose you didn’t even stop to think before marching in here and calling foul, did you?” she demanded, and his panic seemed to increase exponentially.

You had to stifle an absurd laugh. Though not the dress on trial at the moment, you had quite literally stolen this woman’s gown. And here she was, busting into the kitchens to yell at a man for accusing you of the very same.

The eyes of the kitchen staff flicked between them, looking on as though they’d never seen a match more engaging. Their interest was dialed up by a thousand, however, when a head of red and white hair appeared over Izuku’s shoulder.

“Izuku, why’d you run off? Is everything--” Prince Shouto stopped, staring at the scene before him. His full mouth parted in surprise, and instantly his eyes snapped to you.

You flushed, twisting nervously in your bindings.

“Y/N, I thought I had asked you to wait for me,” was the first thing he said. Your blush deepened and a chatter began to build in the crowds of the kitchen staff.

You cleared your throat. “I, um...something came up.”

The prince's eyebrows went up and he huffed a soft laugh. “Yes, I can see that.”

The guardsman who held you shifted nervously behind you. “Your highness, you know this girl?”

Prince Shouto fixed his gaze on the guardsman, stepping forward. “I do. Has she done something?”

A delicate sniff came from over your shoulder. “She's done nothing, as I’ve been telling them.”

Shouto’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Camie? What are you doing here?”

Lady Utsushimi inspected a fingernail idly. “Informing them that she did not, in fact, steal my dress.” She waved her hand at the fluffy monstrosity now hanging loosely in Kamiko’s shocked grip. “This idiot girl," she gestured to Kamiko, "seems to have assumed the worst. Or to have lied.”

Something like fear flashed across Kamiko's angelic features and you had to stifle another laugh.

“Will someone tell me what the devil is going on?” The housekeeper groused from Kamiko's side. “Is there a reason why all these nobles are here for Y/N?”

You had to wonder at that as well.

Lady Utsushimi, however, seemed to have no problem adding fuel to the fire. “I'm here because I lent her my dress, of course," she paused, a sly look crossing her face. A vague sense of sudden foreboding came over you.

"I figured she should get used to wearing them..." Lady Utsushimi said, a smirk overtaking her features,"...seeing as she’s going to be Shouto’s bride.”

Your brain turned off, and you stood frozen in absolute bamboozlement.

What in the hell did she think she was doing?

Shouto coughed uncomfortably. "Camie, I told you that in confidence. I didn't realize you were already acquainted with Y/N."

Lady Utsushimi shrugged, unconcerned. "It's not like you weren't going to ask her."

Your eyes flashed up to Shouto’s and he stared back, lifting a shoulder a little helplessly. “I had planned on asking you a little differently, but I suppose now is as good a time as any.”

He pushed his way past Izuku and strode the length of the room to kneel before you.

You could only stare down at him in shock.

“Y/N,” he said in that soft, low tone that made you feel like your mind feel a little like it was melting. “I love you, and I can't let you go now that I've found you. Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

All your blood seemed to rush out of your head to pool somewhere near your feet, leaving you mindless.

“Shouto, but I -- but you --”

He laughed, and he took both of your bound hands in a calloused palm. “I understand if you say you won’t, but I hope more than anything to hear you say you will.”

You looked down at him, your eyes darting over his handsome face. “You mean it? You really love me?”

He smiled. A length of silver ribbon appeared in his fingers. “Since the first moment you trod on my toes.”

You laughed, a feeling of euphoria crashing over you like a tidal wave. You felt incredible, like you could shoot apart like a firework, run the length of the continent, lift the entire castle with only your mind.

Shouto loved you. Ochako loved Midoriya, and Shouto loved you.

"Yes!” you shouted, startling even yourself with your own enthusiasm.

Shouto grinned and leaned forward, looping the silver ribbon over one of your wrists. “I had hoped to have a ring prepared before asking,” he said, shooting a sour look in Lady Utsushimi’s direction. “This will have to do for now.”

Lady Utsushimi inspected her nails again, nonplussed.

Abruptly, Shouto stood, scooping you up into his arms as he did. You yelped, throwing your still-bound arms around his neck in terror. He laughed into your hair.

“Shouto!” You gasped, clutching at him, but he was already moving, kicking the door into the servants’ hall open with one booted foot.

“Camie, Izuku, please see that this situation is resolved,” he said, carrying you into the halls. His deep voice bounced off the stone walls. “And send word to my father than I cannot be disturbed for the rest of the evening. I will speak with both of you later.”

Without waiting for their response, he moved down the hallway, turning the corner into the castle proper. He carried you through the palace, up through that winding series of brightly-lit halls. You blushed as people stared at you in passing, hiding your face in his broad shoulder. Then the world around you was all a blur of windows and doorways, until you stood before the grand oak doors to his apartments.

“Please ensure that we are not disturbed for the next twelve hours,” Shouto said to the guardsmen as they opened the doors for him, and you felt the tips of your ears go red. Surely he didn’t mean...?

As the doors closed behind you, Shouto carried you through his sitting room, straight through the double doors that lead to his bedchamber. His bed appeared much neater this time around, the covers clearly having been laundered and remade, but you did not have much time to admire it before you were tossed bodily onto it.

You yelped, but Shouto was already there, his body covering yours and pressing you into the soft, soft give of his bedding.

“I thought I told you to wait for me,” he said, his face dipping near to yours. His eyes were so bright and a roguish grin cut into the corner of his mouth. A rough hand came up to gently press one of your arms down next to your head.

Your breathing shallowed. “I had wanted to talk to Ochako.”

He looked at you in question.

“I had...believed her to be in love with you. I see now that I was quite mistaken,” you said.

Shouto laughed. “So that’s who Izuku has been sneaking around with. No wonder he ran after her at the ball. She was the Lady Uraraka, yes?”

You nodded.

“And that was why you came to the ball,” he murmured, putting the pieces of the puzzle together. “And slipped her jewelry onto my tray. Why didn’t you say something, that day in my chambers when I asked for information?”

You squirmed. “I thought you were...angry with me. You were asking for the Lady Ito, and Captain Bakugou kept brandishing his sword.”

Shouto smirked. “You thought I meant to have revenge for my poor toes?”

You flushed. “I know now that you wouldn’t.”

His smirk turned predatory. “I rather think I would. I believe I will collect my dues this very moment.”

With that, he leaned down and slotted his mouth with yours. Your blood rushed in your ears. His mouth was so soft and he tasted like mint, exactly the way you'd thought he would.

A calloused hand slipped up your waist to press you up into him. You gasped, arching with the motion of his hand to get closer to him, pressing desperately against him.

He groaned softly and slipped his tongue into your mouth, moving to hold the back of your head in a gentle but firm grip.

“Y/N,” he breathed when he drew back from you. “I shouldn’t go any further. It would be improper, before we are married.”

You let out a frustrated noise and threw your arms over his neck to draw him back to you. “I stole Lady Utsushimi’s dress and broke into your birthday. I called Kamiko a spineless fucking flop and all but poisoned your food with a necklace. I spend every evening up to my elbows in ashes and soot because I can’t keep my mouth shut. I don’t care about proper.”

And then you pulled his mouth back to yours. Shouto seemed to resist for a moment before sinking back into you, his weight trapping you heavily against the mattress.

“Unless you’re worried about your virtue,” you teased when you finally broke apart.

A dark look came into his grey and blue gaze and he gestured to your still bound wrists. “I rather think you ought to be more worried about your own predicament, love.”

A shiver raced down your spine. His sharp gaze caught it and he smirked.

“Like that, do you?” he pushed back onto his knees and pulled his shirt over his head. Your mind went blank, and all your focus narrowed to the sight of his sculpted chest and well defined abs, the promise of power in his sinewy arms. This is what he had been hiding beneath all those soft doublets.

Shouto leaned over you again, caging you in and lowering his face to yours. “That day in the library. You shivered when I called you a good girl.”

You flushed in embarrassment.

“I confess to imagining what else would make you tremble like that.” He turned his face into your neck, biting down softly. You gasped, and your hips lifted into him before you could stop yourself.

“It’s time for me to take my revenge for everything you’ve put me through, love,” he breathed, laving over your collarbone. “You've hid enough from me these past weeks. You are going to come apart for me - once for every day you hid from me.”

You moaned, grasping frantically at his arm. The week wasn't long enough to give him that many climaxes, never mind the evening. “Shouto, I can’t.”

His mouth dipped below the line of your dress. “You're going to try, love. As your prince, I command it. I will wring them from you should I have to.”

Shouto’s fingers moved to the hem of your dress and he pushed it up over your head, helping you move your shoulders to roll it out from underneath you.

“Perfect,” he breathed. His mouth latched over a nipple and you arched desperately up into him. His clever fingers trailed down over the skin of your thigh, before slipping beneath your underwear. He pressed gently against your clit and you moaned even louder, writhing somewhat helplessly underneath him.

“S-Shouto,” you panted. “Please let me touch you.”

His mouth released your nipple, only for him to flick his tongue over the hardening bud. “When I’ve properly avenged my toes, princess.”

His fingers pressed into you and you moaned again. He looked up into your face, staring with interest. You moved to hide your face in embarrassment but he caught you by the arm and pinned it back into the mattress above your head. The bindings held your other arm in place with it.

Shouto kissed you again, and his clever fingers twisted inside you. Heat built within you, and as his thumb pressed insistently against your clit, your vision went white with pleasure.

You rode his hand to completion as he swallowed the sounds of your moans. When you returned to yourself, he was stroking your hair gently as your hips jerked in weak little circles against him.

“So beautiful,” he said, smiling and pressing another kiss to your mouth. “You’ve made me the happiest man alive. You’re going to be the most loved princess this kingdom has ever seen.”

You flushed, but smiled against his mouth. “I hope to at least be the most well-read."

His varicolored gaze raked over you, like he was cataloguing every one of your features to save forever, and his hand tightened in your hair.

"I love you, Shouto,” you said, letting your gaze rove over him too. "I'm sorry to have hid from you for so long."

He smiled, looking elated at your pronouncement. “Y/N," he said, "I love you, too.”

Then, a serious look overtook his handsome face one more. “But I believe we have some unfinished business, love. That’s one,” he said, and his hand moved to unlace his breeches. “But you have several more to go."

He rolled over you, stretching out over your body and reaching for your bindings. "I do think I promised you to teach you how to ride.”

You choked and blushed to the roots of your hair.

And teach you he did.

#bnha #bnha x reader #todoroki shouto x reader #fanfic #todoroki x reader #todoroki shouto #boku no hero academia #smut

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letterboxd · 3 years

Photo

Love Thy Neighbor.

With her nineteenth-century American romance, The World to Come—starring Katherine Waterston and Vanessa Kirby—screening now, director Mona Fastvold talks to Ella Kemp about the need to create images, striving for ASMR storytelling, and just how much we owe Terrence Malick.

“We’ve seen a lot of movies during this time period in America about what the husbands were out doing… but they had wives who are at home, living their completely separate lives. What were they up to?” —Mona Fastvold

In the American Northeast in the nineteenth century, life for farmers’ wives is physical, lonely, subject to both the extremes of weather and their husbands’ moods. When Abigail (Katherine Waterston) and Tallie (Vanessa Kirby) become neighbors in The World To Come, their lives become infinitely more bearable.

What unfolds is a careful study of the ways affection and understanding can bloom in the most unlikely places. Based on Jim Shepard’s short story of the same name, Mona Fastvold’s desperately romantic film starts where Abigail’s diary also begins: with a new year, and new neighbors. Through lyrical voice-over and closely drawn scenes, Abigail tells of how, in the wake of unimaginable loss, her life is cracked wide open by the arrival of effervescent, free-spirited Tallie. She speaks of grief and exhaustion, but also of astonishment and joy.

Katherine Waterston as Abigail and Vanessa Kirby as Tallie in ‘The World to Come’. / Photo by Vlad Cioplea

It’s a story felt through whispers as much as kisses, framed by the blustery winds of the East-Coast frontier—and by the spectre of their husbands (Casey Affleck as the downcast Dyer, Christopher Abbott as the jealous, disturbing Finney) finding out about their new love. Fastvold gives each character just enough attention to let the relationships that matter most rise up all on their own. She does so with words, poetry that somehow feels alive, and with music—specifically, a stunningly passionate clarinet soundtrack.

The World to Come won the Queer Lion at Venice last August (where it miraculously had an in-person premiere), and won many more hearts at Sundance in January. It’s Fastvold’s second film as director, after 2014’s The Sleepwalker, which also starred Christopher Abbott, and was co-written by Fastvold’s partner (and Vox Lux director) Brady Corbet.

What did you feel when reading Jim’s story for the first time? Mona Fastvold: It was a home I wanted to move into. It was this feeling of thinking, ‘This belongs in my universe, and I belong in this universe.’ And I all of a sudden had a few images that I felt a very strong need to create. The first thing that I felt really compelled to do was creating this physical expression of joy after the first kiss. I had this image of Katherine in this wide shot, completely open and just exposed. And I was really compelled to shoot her in the snow by the grave as well.

I also wanted to frame her being tied to the house with a rope, working her way through the snowstorm. There was a lot of amazing text and maybe fewer images in the script, because it’s written by these two really wonderful writers and authors of novels, not so much screenplays. So it’s not a very technical screenplay, and there were a lot of things left to me to work out, which I enjoyed. But the foundation was this really good text.

Mona Fastvold on the set of ‘The World to Come’. / Photo by Toni Salabasev

The text is so striking, in the way it’s so verbose but never feels stiff. How did you keep the words intact while bringing these emotions to life? I cast some really good actors, so that helps! Then when you’re working with this kind of text, it’s not really a text that you can improvise or play around as much, you really just need to honor it. For me it’s really about finding the movement that will support the beats of the text. I like the edit to be motivated by a gesture, something that says, “I want you to look at this”. I’m trying to make the rhythm more exciting. Ping-ponging back and forth is less exciting to me.

When rehearsing, we’d create movement either physically, or find changes through long pauses already in the text, and then upon finding those organic beats I’d figure out with my DP how we can stay in one take for as long as possible, until we find that moment which motivates a change. I never like there to be a camera movement just for there to be something cool visually. And there’s all this subtext in the text, all these messages Abigail and Tallie are trying to send to each other. When are you being direct? When are you being understood? When are you not?

Particularly in recent years, we’ve been fortunate to have a number of films that reframe period pieces about forbidden lesbian romances. Why do you think we keep coming back to this kind of story? A lot of people feel compelled to say these stories have always been there, and to claim that part of history. It’s not modern, it’s not a new thing, but it’s just that these stories have not been told much. Especially a love story that takes place among farmers. We know a little bit about upper-class stories from some literature, but not that much from that time period. So part of the appeal for me was to say: this is a part of history. Even though it’s not a story about Napoleon, this story about these two quiet, introverted women is still worth exploring. And we’ve seen a lot of movies during this time period in America about what the husbands were out doing. I’ve grown up watching these movies, but they had wives who are at home, living their completely separate lives. What were they up to?

Finney (Christopher Abbott) reads Tallie’s mail. / Photo by Vlad Cioplea

You mention the husbands—I felt watching this film that it was set in a very different world to the likes of Portrait of a Lady on Fire, which a lot of people loved precisely because of how few men were in the film. But here the husbands play a really important part within the story about these two women, helping to convey their frustration and limitations, without taking over. All characters in a story deserve equal counts of love and attention from the writers, directors and actors. It was incredibly important to portray the men with as much nuance as Abigail and Tallie. It makes for a more interesting story for them, that their relationships with their partners are complex—they’re not just these male archetypes who are terrible and awful. Dyer was an interesting character, in that he’s striving to understand even though he doesn’t quite. And he had different ambitions as well, but this is the situation he’s in, and he’s chosen a practical partner who he respects, and I guess loves and cares for. But they’re running a farm together, they’re business partners as well and depend on each other for survival. When he says “I’ll die without you” it’s quite literal, in a way. I wanted to break these characters open and make them more difficult to deal with, for themselves and for the women as well.

Your picture includes a beautiful, and really unexpected score by Daniel Blumberg—particularly in the use of the clarinet, which feels like its own kind of narrative. Can you talk me through the process of weaving that into the story? I brought in Daniel even when I was developing the script and working on casting early on. I kept listening to ‘Three Pieces for Solo Clarinet’ by Igor Stravinsky, and somehow the instrument felt really connected to Katherine’s voice-over. It was important that the voice-over was not slammed on top at the end. It’s there, I hope, to have a bit of an ASMR effect where you feel it draws you really close to Abigail in a hypnotic way. That you feel like you get this intimate experience of that character by having access to her life even if it doesn’t explain things too much.

So we wanted to have the score speaking to the voice-over, which we recorded long before we started shooting as well. We would play it on set and Daniel would come in and play music there. So constantly being in dialogue between the text being read and the music being played was an important part of the process.

It’s time for some Life in Film questions. What is your favorite ‘forbidden love’ story? A film I really love, which inspired The World to Come, is Olivia. It’s from 1951 and it’s directed by Jacqueline Audry, and it was one of the first lesbian on-screen kisses ever captured. It’s a great movie directed by a female director when that wasn’t so much of a thing. It was an important trailblazer for this film.

Marie-Claire Olivia and Simone Simon in Jacqueline Audry’s ‘Olivia’ (1951).

What’s your favourite “Dear Diary” movie, the one that best uses a confessional voice-over? Terrence Malick pretty much cornered that market with some beautiful, beautiful attempts at that. We definitely have to pay our respects! Particularly Days of Heaven is pretty amazing. The voice-over work there is extraordinary.

What is your go-to comfort movie? It’s funny because I was asked that a while ago and normally I would just be like, “Anything Nancy Meyers makes is just so lovely”. She makes these films that are just like candy. But during the pandemic, it’s just too hard to watch these cozy movies, because it just makes you feel depressed. So right now, the film I’ve watched the most in my lifetime is Eyes Wide Shut. I also find it to be a Christmas movie… If it’s on anywhere, I’ll always leave it on, or just watch a little piece of it.

What should Letterboxd members watch after The World to Come? First of all they should watch Olivia if they haven’t seen it, and then the other day I watched Martin Eden—it’s an incredible movie. So beautifully made.

What is the one film that first made you want to be a filmmaker? I grew up watching a lot of movies. My family are cinephiles and I’ve always loved films. I grew up on a steady diet of Ingmar Bergman’s films during my teenage years, and Tarkovsky too. Seeing those films made a really big impression me. But what really inspired me in many ways was seeing Claire Denis’ films. The way she approaches storytelling is so intuitive. It’s so exciting. That resonated with me, and later on I recognized some of that in Lucrecia Martel as well. I just love how she handles time and logic and character.

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Follow Ella on Letterboxd

‘The World to Come’ is currently in select US theaters, and will be available on demand from March 2, via Bleecker Street.

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besanii · 4 years

Text

shattered mirrors 49

WangXian ; 1729 words

The low table by the window catches his eye the moment he walks into the room. It stands a little over knee height and a metre in length, with flowing clouds engraved along the edges of the paulownia wood; the slip of light blue silk draped across the top is embroidered with silver characters he recognises as musical notations for the guqin. The instrument itself is missing, but he knows instinctively the owner of the instrument without confirmation.

He allows himself a small smile as he traces the notations on the silk until he hears footsteps in the corridor and retracts his hand quickly; moments later, Lan Wangji walks into the room. A young man follows a step behind, carrying the guqin in its white wrappings on his back. Wei Wuxian dips his knee in welcome.

“Wangye,” he says, lowering his gaze. “Welcome back.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji greets him in that stubborn way of his, refusing to call him anything but with the name he had long discarded. “Have you been well?”

Hands slide beneath his elbows to help him to a standing position; he raises his eyes to meet Lan Wangji’s through his lashes and offers a sweet little smile.

“Xian-er is very well today, thank you very much for asking, Wangye,” he replies demurely. “Please, have a seat. I’ll pour the tea.”

One of the large hands at his elbow shifts to his back, its gentle pressure guiding him over to the larger table in the centre of the sitting room. He shies away as Lan Wangji moves closer to help into the seat, masking the way his breath hitches with a soft laugh when his fingers trail over the sensitive skin of his palm, instead reaching for the tray at the centre of the table. Lan Wangji holds himself still as Wei Wuxian moves away, his fingers curling into fists and lowering back to his side; he sinks into the seat quietly and keeps his eyes fixed on the cup that is placed before him.

The sharp fragrance of the tea is immediately familiar, as is the light hue of the tea itself in the fine ceramic cup.

“Wangye seemed to enjoy the Longjing we served on your last visit, so I took the liberty of serving it again,” Wei Wuxian explains when he notices the focus of Lan Wangji’s attention. “I hope I have not been too presumptuous.”

“No,” Lan Wangji says. “Not at all.”

Wei Wuxian smiles as he takes his seat beside him, the folds of his pearl-grey robes settling around him with a sigh. It is not a colour he usually wears, but the material was a gift from one of his wealthier clients and he had been insistent on seeing him wear it—afterwards, well…it would have been a shame to waste a beautiful set of robes. He turns his attention instead to the young man hovering just inside the doorway, turned away from them politely, the guqin resting on the floor in front of him, held up between his hands.

“What have you brought with you today, Wangye?” he asks.

“I thought we might have some music,” Lan Wangji says, raising a hand. “Jingyi.”

The young man jumps at being addressed out of the blue and turns to Lan Wangji with a quick bow before carrying the guqin over to the small table. The care with which he unwraps the instrument is offset by the way his eyes dart back and forth between his task and Wei Wuxian with interest; Wei Wuxian inclines his head politely in his direction when their eyes meet and he flushes, fingers fumbling over the tassels as he sets the guqin on the table. The thud it makes is loud enough to make the poor boy wince and Lan Wangji’s eyes narrow, but the task is otherwise completed without further issue and he backs away quickly.

“Wangye,” he says with a low bow. Lan Wangji inclines his head.

“Thank you, Jingyi, please leave us.” He turns back to Wei Wuxian as the boy leaves the room quietly. “Please excuse him, he is…excitable.”

Wei Wuxian laughs softly. “He is still very young, Wangye.”

“He is old enough to learn the values of restraint,” Lan Wangji replies with a frown. “And he carries the name of the Imperial family. He would do well to learn the lesson early.”

A twinge of sadness passes through Wei Wuxian at those words and for a moment he looks at Lan Wangji and sees the seventeen-year-old boy behind the man, tall and proud and so very lonely. Once upon a time he had hoped to chase away the loneliness in those eyes, had promised to never leave his side—but the promises of children have always been foolish, and they are so very different from who they once were. But regret is an emotion he prefers not to dwell upon, so he laughs again and rises from his seat to inspect the guqin.

“This is a very fine instrument,” he says admiringly. “Is it yours, Wangye?”

The instrument is carved from the finest paulownia wood in the simple, elegant Zhong Ni style, with blue clouds curling across the smooth, dark lacquer on either side of the strings. There is the tiniest of dents in the lacquer just above the bridge, no bigger than the tip of a hairpin, that catches his eye—a pang of recognition makes his heart clench, and he passes over the spot quickly in favour of plucking the first string. A clear, mellow note rings out from the guqin.

“Yes,” Lan Wangji replies, watching him carefully. “It has been passed down in my family for generations.”

But you already know this, goes unsaid.

“I have long heard the qin of the Gusu Imperial Family are unmatched in all the kingdoms,” Wei Wuxian says, feigning ignorance with the lightness of his tone. “Er-wangye especially. I confess my own skills are sub-par in comparison.”

“You play?” Lan Wangji asks, surprised. Wei Wuxian looks at him with a playful little smile.

“Only very little,” he says with a hint of embarrassment. “I would not dare to compare myself to someone as talented as yourself, Wangye.”

“I would love to hear you play,” Lan Wangji tells him. The sincerity in his voice makes his heart ache. “If you are willing, of course.”

Wei Wuxian inclines his head. “If that is your wish, Wangye, then Xian-er will display my inadequacy and play a piece for you.”

He shakes out his sleeves and takes a seat in front of the guqin. He adjusts the tuning quickly for his chosen piece, his fingers darting over the strings and the hui with practised ease, each harmonic ringing loud and clear. When it is properly tuned to his liking, Wei Wuxian takes a deep breath and places his hands in position.

The piece he chooses is slow and sorrowful, a song of parting, and he plays each note with careful deliberation: lingering with each downward slide, ending each phrase with a trembling note. It is a piece he knows well and plays often, pouring a little of himself with each new interpretation of the score, coaxing the yearning of the original poem from silk strings against fine wood. When the last note fades into silence, he releases the breath he had been holding, the ache in his chest petering with the music. Only then does he dare to look up at Lan Wangji.

“Yangguan Sandie,” Lan Wangji murmurs. There is an odd light in his eyes Wei Wuxian cannot place. “Why did you select this piece?”

“It is one of my favourites, Wangye,” Wei Wuxian says, resting his fingers lightly on the strings. “I will admit it is one of the simpler pieces, but the merit of a song should lie in the feelings it evokes in the listener rather than the complexity of the technique—wouldn’t you agree, Wangye?

“‘The fragrant wine is limited, but this regret is boundless’,” he continues, when Lan Wangji does not answer. “‘Boundless grief, grief, and grief again.”

He lowers his eyes and draws his hands back into his lap. His chest feels hollowed out, empty, and he is grateful for the table’s edge that hides the way his hands tremble. Perhaps it had been the wrong piece to play, he thinks in the wake of Lan Wangji’s silence, he should have picked something livelier instead of a song of the yearning, heartbreak and sorrow of farewell—

“‘After today’s parting, in both places our mutual yearning will grow’.” His heart stops at the sound of Lan Wangji’s voice, deep and warm and gentle as he murmurs the words. “‘But to whom can we speak them?’”

The words hang in the space between them, weighted with meaning. Wei Wuxian stands up, heat rising to his cheeks as his heart thrums in his chest; he moves over to the open window in a bid to hide his face, careful to keep his movements casual despite their swiftness. Lan Wangji remains by the guqin table, watching him silently, an unreadable expression in his eyes.

“The song is one of your favourites,” he says thoughtfully. Wei Wuxian curses himself internally for giving even that little fragment of information away. After a pause, Lan Wangji exhales. “It has also brought me great comfort over the years.”

Wei Wuxian forces himself to laugh, turning around to face Lan Wangji again.

“Now that I have demonstrated my mediocre abilities on the qinin front of a great master such as yourself,” he says, pitching his voice higher as he smiles. “I believe it is your turn, Wangye.”

Lan Wangji hums.

“I am no master at the craft,” he disagrees, taking the seat Wei Wuxian has vacated. “Merely one who is dedicated in its practice.”

“Begging your pardon, Wangye, but I have heard very differently,” Wei Wuxian tells him with a teasing smile. The flirtations come easier now that his heart has settled again, and he is able to meet Lan Wangji’s eyes with his usual humour. “I am very honoured to be able to have Hanguang-wangye play for me personally.”

Lan Wangji smiles, his eyes already turned to the guqin.

“If it pleases you to hear it,” he says quietly, “I will play for you every day.”

Notes:

hui - the note scales on the guqin (similar to frets on a guitar), marking places of positive integer dividends of the string length

Zhong Ni style - one possible shape of a guqin. It is the one I’ve found most similar to Wangji as it is drawn in the donghua

Yangguan Sandie (阳关三叠) - Three Refrains on Yang Pass, a song inspired by a poem by Wang Wei that laments the parting of friends [ WATCH ON YT: / watch?v=nHNdgfoxvvo ]

Master Post is here: /shattered-mirrors-master-post

// buy me a ko-fi : besanii //

#wangxian #mdzs #shattered mirrors au #王爷机 X 花魁羡 #shattered mirrors fic #my writing #wei wuxian #lan wangji #Xian-er arc #featuring Wangji the guqin #阳关三叠 is one of the first pieces i learned on the guqin #and i have a special love for it #so yeah #sorry for the long delay between updates #my brain has not been working lately

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iceeckos12 · 4 years

Text

ouch oof i am sad

remember the scene that @pitviperofdoom was talking about in this post? well this was something she mentioned in the discord server and because i am always a sucker for a good angst, i wrote an entire Thing for it. content warnings under the cut

basically: assistant archivist au where gerry did die. mentions of past character death

Jon’s quiet as Julia explains how to pull Gerard Keay from the page. This is not unusual in and of itself. Jon is not the type of person to fill spaces with endless chatter, or to make small talk for the sake of it. Martin and Jon’s friendship has been characterized by long, comfortable silences and the conversation they make between each one.

This is different, though. Martin can’t tell if it’s because of his connection with the Beholding that he knows, or if he’s just gotten better at reading Jon, but this is - wrong. The last conversation that they had, if you could call it a conversation at all, was Jon quietly asking if they could stop by Pittsburgh to visit the hospital where Gerard Keay died. Since then, he’s been mostly lost in thought.

Martin knows that Jon and Gerard worked together with Gertrude. He’s inferred that they were friends, because Martin has learned to read the quiet grief that crosses Jon’s face whenever Gerard is mentioned. Now he’s wondering if they were closer than he realized.

He doesn’t dare ask though, not in front of Julia. And he’s not even sure that Jon would tell him if he did ask. So he sets aside his worry, turns to the Hunter, and says, “Thank you, Julia.”

Her smile is full of teeth. “Give the door a knock when you’re done.”

Martin watches her go, unwilling to take his eyes off of her for more than a moment. When the door finally clicks shut, he lets out a quiet sigh of relief and looks down to find Jon holding the book in his hands, staring at it, perfectly still.

“...Jon?”

Jon jumps and looks up, his lips pressed into a thin, bitten line, his eyes slightly wild.

Martin knows how to handle Jon when he’s scared, when he’s cruel. He knows how to handle Jon when he’s simmering with anger, when he’s exhausted and frayed about the edges. This is completely new, and he shifts at the unwelcome, familiar feeling of uncertainty. “Do you...want me to do it?”

Jon immediately shakes his head, so quick it looks painful. “No. No, I should…” he takes a deep breath, scrubs his hand through his hair. He takes a few quick steps forward, then turns around, the book pressed to his stomach. “I’ll do it.”

Martin opens his mouth to question the wisdom of that idea, but then Jon is flipping open the book to the last page. He clears his throat once, twice, and then, “His consciousness faded in and out like the tide.”

Jon’s voice breaks on the last word, and he stops.

“...Jon?”

Martin watches the gentle bob of Jon’s throat as he swallows. Then he shakes his head and says in a voice much stronger and clearer than before, “His consciousness faded in and out like the tide. He tried to refuse their drugs…”

He continues talking, his voice rising and falling with every word, like he’s reading just another statement. He slows as he reaches the last few sentences.

“...And his only thought was to cry out for the one he loved. He could feel small, familiar hands gripping his, the soft rise and fall of a voice, hushed like a prayer. The name fell from his lips, but he couldn’t be sure whether or not he had been heard. He hoped that he had been heard. And so Gerard Keay ended.”

Gerard Keay stands in the center of the room. He’s wearing all black, which Martin had expected. Black trench coat, black trousers, black boots, eyes made sharp with makeup. He looks like he just raided the shelves of a Hot Topic, only he makes it work.

Gerard’s gaze flickers from Martin to Jon, and for a moment there is no recognition, no comprehension. He opens his mouth - and then he stills, his eyebrows coming together in vague confusion. His jaw slackens, and his eyes widen, and his expression is cracked open like an egg, revealing the vulnerable yolk beneath.

Jon makes a sound. Martin could not characterize that sound even if he wanted to. It sounds like - like all of Jon’s insides have been scooped out of him, like he’s surrounded by air but he can’t get a breath, like - grief. It sounds like pure, mortal grief.

Just like that, Martin understands.

“Jon,” Gerard Keay says.

And then Jon bursts into tears.

“Gerry,” Jon gasps, but when he reaches out his hand goes right through Gerry’s sleeve. “Gerry, I - “

“Jon,” Gerry steps in close, his hands framing Jon’s face, staring at him the way a drowning man stares at a life raft.

“I’m sorry,” Jon manages. “Gerry I’m so - I promise, I didn’t know, I - “

“It’s okay,” Gerry reaches for Jon’s hair reflexively, but freezes when his fingertips disappear into Jon’s forehead. His expression crumples. “It’s fine, I know. I know. Jon, Jon - ”

And then they’re both crying, tears dripping down. Jon’s face is buried in his hands, and he’s weeping, keening, and Gerry keeps reaching for him, but there’s no way to connect, no way to touch. There’s no relief. It’s just shared grief, endless and pervasive and shattering.

Martin turns away and frantically scrubs his hands across his face. Oh, God. He feels so guilty, but he doesn’t want to be here right now. There is a Shakespearean tragedy playing out before his eyes, the kind that’s brimming with heartache and things left unsaid, and he is powerless against it.

Finally, mercifully, the sound of crying dies away into exhausted silence, except for thick, heavy breathing. Martin keeps his back to them, wanting to give them some semblance of privacy for a conversation that they obviously need to have.

“...so where is she?”

Jon huffs out a quiet laugh, lacking humor, edged with hurt. “Dead. Shot to the chest.”

“Figures.” A meaningful pause. “So are you...”

“Oh, no. No, it’s...oh. Martin?”

Martin sniffs hard and drags his hands over his cheeks before turning around, forcing a smile on his face. Jon and Gerry are standing as close to each other as they can without touching, twin tracks of silver tears on their cheeks. “Hi, sorry. Just...wanted to give you two a bit of privacy. Martin Blackwood, Head Archivist.”

Gerry dips his chin in acknowledgement, before turning his confused gaze back to Jon. “I thought…?”

“He knows,” Jon says quickly. “I’m...well. It’s complicated. Gertrude hid a lot more from us than we knew.” There’s still a raw hurt in Jon’s voice when he says that, mixed with a lingering sort of nostalgia.

Gerry grimaces. “Did she know about…”

Martin doesn’t realize what he’s asking about until he gestures toward his head, a helpless, reluctant sort of gesture.

“I - maybe?” Jon shakes his head, for the first time turning out of Gerry’s orbit, wrapping his arms around himself. “I’d like to think not, but...it doesn’t matter now. She’s gone. We’ll never know.”

There is a moment of silence. Martin bites his lip, then forces himself to stop when he realizes that he’s already chewed it bloody. It’s hard to watch Jon draw back into himself, put the pain where it can only hurt himself.

“Hey,” Gerry reaches for Jon’s chin, frowns when his hand sinks into the skin. He shakes his head and walks around so he can insert himself into Jon’s field of vision. “Stop. I can feel you blaming yourself, okay? Just...stop. It’s not your fault.”

“...but I should’ve -”

“I am not letting you use this as another stick you beat yourself with,” Gerry interrupts firmly. “You read my page, didn’t you? I didn’t die alone. I’m sorry that you had to go through that, but you don’t understand how much I -”

He breaks off. Jon’s breath rattles dangerously again.

“I always thought that I was going to die alone,” Gerry finishes.

There’s another moment of silence. Jon puts his head in his hands again, and Martin aches at the way Gerry’s face crumples with the desire to reach out, to comfort. They’re in the same room, but there’s a yawning, uncrossable distance between them.

Then Jon lowers his hands. There’s a spark in his eyes that Martin recognizes: the scarce moments before an inferno, before manic determination sets Jon’s whole being ablaze. “Gerry, I’m getting you out of here. I can - you and me, we can figure it out. We can -”

“No.”

Jon pauses. The spark jolts, catches on the cool wave of his confusion. “...what?”

“I’m dead, Jon,” Gerry reaches out for Jon again, then stops. Lets his arm fall to his side, clenches his fists. “I can’t live like this.”

Breathless hurt snatches across Jon’s face. “No, Gerry. I can’t - not when I’ve just found you, I -”

“It hurts, Jon,” Gerry interrupts, and he does not seem like the type to beg, but his voice dips at the end with a desperate plea. “It...it hurts, all the time, and...I just want to rest. Please, just let me rest.”

Jon swallows once. Twice, and his face crumples with sympathy, with empathy, with that awful exhaustion that they’ve all been wearing since what feels like forever. After a moment, he nods.

Gerry lets out a low, quiet sigh of relief, tension draining from his broad shoulders. He smiles faintly, ghosting his knuckles against Jon’s cheek. Jon leans into the touch even though he must not be able to feel it, his eyes fluttering shut, mouth drawn.

“I wish you were here,” Jon whispers.

“Yeah,” Gerry steps back, hiding his expression behind his long curtain of black hair. “Me too.”

There’s a moment of silence. A rearranging of expressions, a folding of hurt and pain back where it can no longer be seen. Jon is once again himself, his expression distant, and Gerry is wry and so very, very dead.

Gerry turns to Martin and smiles. “I wish we had met under better circumstances, Martin.”

Martin swallows, trying to unearth his voice. “Yeah. Me too.”

Then Gerry turns back to Jon. “You know what to do.”

Jon nods again, sharp and short. “I...I dismiss you.”

Gerry closes his eyes, and the whole room sighs as he dissipates into nothing.

Jon stands alone in the middle of the room, spine so straight there may as well be an iron rod put up the back of it. Martin doesn’t even know what the hell he is supposed to say. There is nothing he can do to make this better. How the hell is he supposed to make this better?

The moment passes. Jon’s shoulders slump, and when he turns back to Martin, his eyes are empty.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he says monotonously.

Martin cannot do this. Martin cannot just stand there while Jon apologizes and looks at him like that, and -

“Don’t apologize,” he steps forward. “Can I hug you? Please?”

Jon thinks about that for a moment. When he eventually nods, Martin crosses the short distance between them and folds Jon into his arms, trying to ease the sharpness of the pain he surely must be feeling. He can’t make it better, but he can make sure that Jon knows that he isn’t alone. He can do this.

Jon doesn’t move for a moment, his face pressed into Martin’s shoulder, his arms loose at his sides. But just when Martin is about to pull away, he slowly reaches up, curls his hands in the fabric of Martin’s shirt. Lowers his head so he is half-buried in Martin’s embrace. He was already small, but he tries to make himself smaller, like he’s trying to hide himself in the folds of Martin’s pullover.

Eventually, he lets go. Eventually he steps back, letting his bangs hide his eyes, and goes to pick up the book. Martin watches his painful, slow movements, as though he’s filled with bruises from the inside out. He’s so distracted that Jon’s voice almost makes him jump.

“You should…you should do it.”

Martin shakes himself. “Sorry?”

“Burn his page,” Jon elaborates, holding the book out to Martin.

Martin gapes at him, stunned, because - “Um. No? Jon, why -”

“I can’t be the only person who’s ever done right by him.”

Oh. Well, when he puts it like that.

Martin swallows and takes the book gingerly, like he’s holding something precious. He flips to the last page and carefully tears it out, ignoring the way Jon’s breath catches at the soft ripping sound. Then he folds the page and puts it into his pocket, trying not to let on how nervous he is about having this precious page on his person. Trying not to let on how nervous Jon’s complete and utter trust makes him.

He is painfully aware of how many times that trust has been broken.

“Are you ready?” Martin asks.

Jon finally looks away from Martin’s pocket. “Yes. Let’s go.”

#tma #my friend's au

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cheri-translates · 4 years

Text

[CN] Lucien’s Whimsical Date (Eng Translation)

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for a date which has not been released in English servers! 🍒

Disney Dates Collection: Gavin // Kiro // Victor

The date begins with MC in the office at around 9pm

She has been working tirelessly on a program for about half a month

She’s worried and stressed because she can’t think of something innovative for her program

Lucien suddenly calls to ask if she’s still at work, and suggests that she sets her work aside and relax i.e. by going to the amusement park the next day

MC hesitates, but Lucien goes into science mode and tells her that her efficiency might actually decline if she keeps focusing on one single thing

MC caves in, and immediately feels happier <3

The next day, the weather looks fine and perfect

And then it suddenly starts POURING right when they are two streets away from the amusement park

Lucien covers her head with one hand, and pulls her hand with the other to find shelter from the rain

They end up outside a shop

Lucien: Come to think of it, our story seems to always be associated with rainy days.

[Note: I did this translation while listening to a Chinese gameplay commentary, and the commentator said, “Your story is associated with rainbows, but you just can’t see them...” T^T]

Lucien notices cute Disney character plushies in the window of the shop and smiles

Lucien: I think I can understand the meaning of this sudden rain.

Lucien: Perhaps it was meant to sound a prelude so that would come here.

Lucien: Since it’s still raining, why don’t we go in to take a look?

A pair of Mickey and Minnie plushies catch MC’s attention, but she can’t reach it. Lucien tries to get them for her, but he keeps grabbing the wrong ones 👀

Because she's trapped in between the shelf and Lucien’s fine chest, she turns into a Gavin i.e. her ears start flushing

Lucien finally gets the correct set:

Lucien: This pair?

MC nods vigorously, and says they can get one each

While saying this, I reach out to take Minnie from Lucien’s hands. However, Lucien suddenly retracts both hands.

MC: Eh?

Lucien sways the Minnie in his left hand lightly, then smiles faintly as he reaches out his right hand, which is holding Mickey.

Lucien: If possible, I actually prefer to keep her. If MC wants to use these dolls to represent the both of us... I’m thinking this would be more meaningful, right?

After hearing his words, I feel the temperature of my cheeks rising even further. I gently poke the doll in Lucien’s hand.

MC: [blushing] ...put these back first!

Lucien: Hm? Why?

Lucien raises his eyebrows slightly, his smile gentle and calm. There’s a hint of mischievousness in his narrow eyes.

MC: [blushing] There seems to be other styles over there. Let’s go and take a look!

With this, I turn around and run towards the other end of the plushie section. Behind me, I hear the sound of Lucien’s faint, low laughter.

By the time MC leaves the shop, the rain has reduced to a drizzle. Soon after, Lucien walks out of the shop too.

I walk up to grab Lucien’s hand, and swing it twice.

MC: Lucien, let’s go!

Lucien: Judging from your expression, you seem to be in a much better mood?

MC: It’s because even before I’ve done anything, the heavy rain has already run away!

Lucien: You’re not wrong. Even though we don’t have umbrellas, the rain has dissipated on its own. This is why even when you meet temporary difficulties, don’t blindly immerse yourself in the feeling of loss. Everything has a solution, am I wrong?

MC agrees, and they finally head to the amusement park, which is still as crowded as ever despite the rain

Lucien suggests that they try something different today - instead of being participants, they become observers

Lucien: Sometimes, people’s emotions have an influencing effect, especially in this place.

As they wander around aimlessly, MC feels delighted because she doesn’t have to consider what attraction to go for next, etc.

The smiling faces of the visitors, the vibrant colours, the colourful balloons, the inter-dimensional cartoon celebrities... I can more clearly feel the charm of the amusement park.

I also have his company at my side...

I turn my head, sneaking a peek at Lucien. Similar to what I was doing just now, he’s watching the visitors queuing up to take a picture with a cartoon celebrity.

As though noticing my line of sight, Lucien turns his head over, meeting my eyes directly.

Lucien: What’s wrong?

MC: Nothing!

I shake my head, but the corners of my lips curl up involuntarily. Suddenly, a colourful castle enters my vision. I point excitedly at the one which has a spire.

MC: Lucien, look at that castle! Isn’t it very pretty? Since young, I’ve always liked colourful castles with spires. I’ve even dreamt of them!

MC: I once dreamt that little monsters took over a castle, and I turned into a little super warrior, bravely sending those monsters running!

MC: The moment the monsters disappeared, there were colourful rivers of light outside the castle.

Lucien blinks slowly, then his eyes bend at a nice angle.

Lucien: Sounds like it was a righteous yet intriguing dream.

I purse my lips and smile, then look at my surroundings.

MC: We seem to have walked around the entire park. Let’s go for the attractions!

Lucien: All right. I’ll have to trouble MC to be my guide.

Immersed in the joyful atmosphere, I even forget the time. When I come back to my senses, I realise that the sky has started to darken, and the rain has long since stopped.

MC: It’s already 6pm...

Lucien: After this, do you want to have something to eat and have a rest, or continue playing?

MC: Let me think...

The lights in the park start flickering on one by one and MC decides to bring Lucien to the spinning teacup ride

MC asks if Lucien finds the light installations pretty

Lucien: When I’m with you, it seems I can always discover a different scenery.

All of a sudden, there are dazzling lights in the sky.

[Note: The original word used here is “流光”, which can mean (1) “rivers of light” (like an aurora...?), or (2) streamers (i.e. party confetti). I picked the “rivers of light” interpretation because it seems more appropriate. But I’m really not sure which one the writers are referring to so please don’t scold me if it turns out to be party confetti LOL]

MC: Too perfect... we were just talking about rivers of light just now, but I never thought that we’d see them. It’s so magical!

Lucien stands next to me. His expression is calm as he lifts his head to look at the lights. Then, he leans down slightly.

He laughs lightly, and I feel his warm breath brush against my cheeks, as tender as a feather.

Lucien: In the amusement park, nothing is impossible. That includes the whimsical lights in your dream.

Hearing his words, I’m left stunned. In the next second, a thought flashes across my mind.

MC: ...! Lucien, did you...?

With a sudden realisation, I look at him, my eyes filled with disbelief. Lucien doesn’t say anything. He just smiles faintly and straightens a finger to do a “shh” posture.

I was right! These lights were created by Lucien!

-- in order to complete the whimsical dream I once had.

Lucien rubs the top of my head, the corners of his lips turned upwards slightly, the colours in his eyes tender.

Before he retracts his hand, I hurriedly hold onto it, and then entwine my fingers with his.

MC: ...Lucien, thank you.

I originally planned to say even more, but my eyes are drawn to the couple in front of us.

They are lifting a Mickey doll in their hands, happily taking a selfie with the almost vanishing lights as a keepsake.

Thinking about how we ended up not buying the dolls from the shop just now, I suddenly feel slightly envious, and a little regretful towards my earlier decision.

Lucien: What are you thinking about?

MC: ...N-nothing much.

Following my line of sight, Lucien’s eyes sweep towards the couple in front of us, then holds my hand to walk forward.

Lucien: Let’s go, it’s almost our turn.

They ride the spinning teacup

MC confesses how she feels:

MC: I regret not taking photos of those beautiful lights, and regret...

I bite my lip, letting out a light sigh. At this moment, a low laugh travels to my ears. Lucien turns his face over, drawing nearer to me.

He pinches the tip of my nose gently.

Lucien: Do you still feel regret now?

MC: Eh?

Before I can react, Lucien takes out a pair of dolls from behind his back. It was the pair we saw at the shop!

My eyes widen in surprise, and I have no idea what to say.

Lucien: After you left the shop first in the afternoon, I bought them.

Lucien: As for why they could appear here, it’s thanks to the enthusiastic helpers in the shop.

Lucien: As for your other regret... want to take a photo?

Without waiting for me to react again, Lucien suddenly places the dolls into my arms and takes out his phone.

“Kacha” “Kacha”

Facing me, he takes several photos.

MC: ...eh, are you going to create more rivers of light?

I take the phone from him in confusion. After swiping through the photos, I realise that the photos only feature me, looking silly while holding the plushies.

MC: Why am I the only one in the photos... I even thought you’d capture the lights!

I purse my lips, pretending to be unhappy. Even so, the gradual heating up of my ears reveal my inner happiness.

Lucien laughs and sits even closer to me, gently wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

His body temperature seeps through his shirt, travelling from my arm to the depths of my heart.

I lift my head to look at Lucien. Neon lights flash across his face, casting a reflection in his eyes.

In the midst of the mottled, changing lights, I can clearly see a tiny me.

Lucien brushes my hair which has been messed up by the wind, then places a hand on my back, speaking in a low voice.

Lucien: Only you. Only the time spent with you are worth treasuring forever.

His warm breath lingers on the tip of my nose. He gazes at me tenderly. In that moment, my heartstrings are tugged, as though making contact with electricity.

The surrounding scenery and neon lights follow the movement of the spinning cup and continuously change. Only the starlight above us remains bright.

However, no matter how beautiful these lights are, they can’t compare to the tiny universe in Lucien’s eyes - the ones that reflect me in them.

MC: ...it’s the same for me.

Hugging a doll each, Lucien and I are nestled together quietly. As the music gradually reaches an end, the speed of the spinning teacups also slows down.

As though noticing my reluctance, Lucien suddenly asks.

Lucien: I wonder if MC’s “battery” is fully charged? As compared to the library, isn’t the relaxation from this trip to the amusement park even more fruitful?

MC: You’re right! My entire body is full of energy! Tomorrow, I can definitely welcome the new day of work with vitality!

Looking at my brilliant smile, the corner of Lucien’s lips curl upwards as well.

Lucien: In that case, it’s my turn to gain energy.

After saying this, he takes my hand in his once again, pressing his forehead against mine. His eyes drift shut.

In our arms, Mickey and Minnie’s foreheads are also leaning against each other.

As though energy could really transfer from my body to his, the space between Lucien’s eyebrows smoothens out, and his expression is one of a rare, complete state of relaxation.

I close my eyes too, feeling my throbbing heartbeat and his body temperature. Our skin is tightly pressed together, allowing our breaths to gradually mingle.

Perhaps more magical than the amusement park is Lucien - a miraculous existence.

As long as I’m by his side, I am always surrounded by happiness and joy.

Lucien’s Post: The amusement park at night seems to possess an even more unique charm.

MC: I think so too!

Lucien: Perhaps next time, we can consider staying here overnight.

Lucien’s Post: The amusement park at night seems to possess an even more unique charm.

MC: Eh? What charm?

Lucien: I feel very close to you.

Lucien’s Post: The amusement park at night seems to possess an even more unique charm.

MC: It’d be great if today never ends.

Lucien: Even if it ends, it will remain in our hearts.

#mlqc #mlqc cn #mlqc spoilers #mlqc lucien

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toloveawarlord · 3 years

Text

Ch. 6

Characters: Edgar Bright, Iris Adley, Sean

Pairing: Edgar x Iris

Tagging: @plumpblueberry

“You can’t blame them for being curious. No one knows what Sir Edgar is having you do as his second,” Sean said, lounging back on the perfectly made bed. He and all the others that were under the Jack of Hearts were hovering around me, asking an infinite amount of questions about the allusive and mysterious Edgar Bright…ever since he appointed me as his second.

I buttoned up my uniform shirt with visible annoyance. “I’m basically a glorified secretary, organizing documents, keeping notes about important dates and meetings, and pretending to be him when penning letters that he finds too boring while he sits on the sofa sipping tea.”

It wasn’t that he didn’t work. Soldiers came and went all day long with reports and documents. When he wasn’t in his quarters, he was in meetings with Jonah and Lancelot or officials in Central Quarter, on top of training his own troop of soldiers with a warm smile and steel fist. And yet, when we were alone, he turned into a candy gobbling child that enjoyed causing me a headache.

“Aren’t you tired? You don’t return from your duties until the early morning hours and then turn around and be up at first call at 7 like the rest of us.” He was just as intrigued by my new position as the others, but for more reasons. Every day he asked if we’d spoken about my predicament and the answer remained a stern no.

“Tired of his ridiculously idiot game? Yes.”

“Aw, that’s no way to speak about your adoring superior.”

The only slightly peaceful part of my day came crashing down at the presence of the Jack of Hearts. He’d let himself into the room without any warning, apparently a recurring trait of his. I can’t exactly complain, outwardly at least.

I rested against the bed to slip on my boots, tugging the laces extra tight while imaging the thin string to be around his neck. The whispers from the hallway not so quiet, nearly bringing a large commotion to the barrack hallway. “I’ll assume you’re here for business, sir.”

“Sean, you will be in Central Quarter today.” Edgar gave the order with a hint of edge to his voice. He received a salute and Sean scuttled off to leave us. One quick glance over his shoulder and the rest of the soldiers scattered before those mischievous jade irises were turned on me. “You will be accompanying to patrol the forest. Won’t that be fun, Iris?”

“Are you going to insist on calling me that when we’re alone?”

“It is your name. Besides, the expressions you make are worth any risk.”

I swiped my hat from the rack, settling it on my blonde locks, adjusting it with stiff movements. I made a silent vow to work on how I outwardly reacted to his taunts, if only to irritate him a fraction of how he irritated him.

Outside of his personal unit, the soldiers continued to treat me like an outsider. They glared when they thought none of the ranking officers were watching. They whispered in ear shot of me, insisting on being petty about my sudden rise in position. Only the ones within Edgar’s unit had begun to accept me, at least enough to not avoid me during meals and free time.

The leaves crunched beneath his boots, the Jack of Hearts strolling with a spring his step. His good mood almost contagious. It was strange, simultaneously keeping up my guard while also lowering it at times around him. He hadn’t broken his word and exposed my secret. “Iris, lost in thought, are we? I do hope it’s me on your mind.”

Jade irises mischievously reflecting my own clear, blue ones. Edgar’s face mere inches.

I took a step back only to hit a tree. The pain dull but grounded me back in reality.

Quick to close the distance, like a wild cat slinking up to its cornered prey, Edgar’s grin grew wider. “You make a pretty boy, but I prefer the real Iris.” Gloved fingers expertly removing the earring and pocketing it in seconds. “I’ll hold onto this until it’s time to return.”

Without the magic, nothing hid the fact that I was a woman. It would be unlikely for the army to send multiple soldiers on this patrol, but not unheard of. And yet, winning an argument with a rock was more attainable than reasoning with the gentle demon.

The forest was peaceful. Although not many ventured in due to the rumors surrounding it, bandits tended to gather on occasion. The town was abuzz with talk of some unsavory types moving between Central Quarter and the Forbidden Forest. Edgar had been tasked with uncovering and eliminating them.

“I did some digging, but there’s no record of where your brother disappeared to. Not even your parents have any inkling. I suspect that you have some idea.” He broke the silence as he adjusted his gait to fall in step with me.

“I don’t. He never told me where he was going. Only that the girl he’d fallen obsessively in love with was the reason he wouldn’t take his position in the army.” The night he’d left still seared freshly in my mind. It made little sense. He had been handed the fourth highest rank in the Red Army and he abandoned it for a woman.

Edgar hummed in response, gaze lifting to the treetops above us. “Peculiar, but I hear that love makes one do crazy things.”

“He’s an absolute fool. Love is an abstract idea that is fleeting. He barely knew her, and yet he threw away his whole life, making a traitor of himself, of our family. For what?” He’d said that he might be gone for a while, years. At that time, it would be much too late. Our family would be ostracized, the position given by birthright erased and passed on to some distant blood relative.

“You’ve never been in love, have you, Iris?”

I gave him a disgusted glare before replying, “No. I’ll wager you haven’t either.”

He snickered from behind his palm, not making any attempts to avoid my slap to his arm. “You’re right. I’ve little time for dalliances with women. I have been approached, but taking a wife is not of importance to me.” For a second, the facade slipped, and I saw the flash of melancholy cross his features. Then it was gone, replaced with that empty smile. “I imagine you’ve had plenty of men throwing themselves at you.”

“You mean at my father.” I shivered in absolute revulsion. None of them had approached me directly. Whispers of how I could be harsh and hard to please were always circling me like rampant sharks. Negotiations went through my father, and I never accepted a single one. “I have no desire to be someone’s wife.”

“You’d rather be a solider?”

There was no judgement or ridicule in his question, as it had been with all the men previous in my life. Any time I trained with a sword or learned hand to hand combat, they all had a similar tone. It’s not for a woman. I would prove them all wrong. “Yes. Only the Red Army has rules against women joining. It seems obvious that after 500 years, perhaps a different perspective might be advantageous.”

“War is not made for the weak.”

“Weak and female are not synonymous.”

Jade eyes crinkled as he smiled at me. “Oh, I’m well aware of your strengths, Iris. And I, for one, have no qualms with you being in the army. It’s not simply a matter of changing laws.”

The politics. It’s always about the politics among the Red elites.

The scent of smoke drifted through the trees, silencing our discussion. The rumors were proving to be true. We both became silent, like ghosts leaving no trace of their existence as we neared the campsite. Only one man guarded the camp.

“We’ll wait until nightfall, and all of them are to be captured.” His whisper carried the weight of his position. The teasing superior vanished without a trace, replaced with the Jack of Hearts giving his soldier an unbreakable order. His gaze only flickered to me long enough to see my nod before returning to our targets.

They came and went, five of them in total. As the sun began to slide beyond the horizon. Once the light faded, the group all gathered around the fire, clinking dirty glasses of stolen booze, and rifling through their treasures. Edgar gave a signal, directing me to circle to the other side.

Blending in with the darkness was easy. The moon cast slivers of silver light between the leaves rustling in the wind. I crouched by a thick bush, waiting patiently for our moment to attack. I hadn’t, however, expected him to announce himself.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” Edgar startled the whole lot of them, hand lightly gripping the hilt of his sword. The fire crackled as one choked on his drink at the sudden appearance of the officer. “You’ve caused quite the ruckus in town. It’s time to answer for your crimes.”

Swords and knives were drawn, all eyes focused solely on the single man in the crisp white uniform. Their bravery coupled with cowardice as they collectively moved the opposite direction with slow steps, save for their so-called leader. He alone faced the gentle demon with a scowl.

He gave a howl and lunged at Edgar, only to grab air and lose his breath as his torso connected with the Jack of Heart’s knee.

Tension rose through the campsite. Some were frozen in their spot, watching the imminent defeat of their boss. But one... there’s always one, who decides to save themselves and run.

Unlucky for him.

The wheeze that passed his lips when I wrenched my elbow back into his throat divided the attention. He collapsed to the dirt, body curling up as he clutched his neck and struggled to catch his breath. “How pathetic,” I said, drawing my own sword from its sheath.

There’s two of them?

Who cares! Just take them out and let’s get out of here!

They were barely worth any effort. Their form sloppy and no coordination between them. Although it hadn’t been too long since being under Edgar’s guidance, I had picked up on some quirks of his. In the beginning, the soldiers in the unit avoided me, leaving Edgar to spar with me most of the time. I’d learned his movements quite well.

“I’m impressed. You’ve done so well,” Edgar praised with a pat on my shoulder. He chuckled as I brushed it off.

I finished the knot on the last rope, creating a line of prisoners so they couldn’t try to escape. “I didn’t ask for your evaluation.”

“But that’s my job. Your hand to hand could use a little work. I’d be happy to teach you.” His eager grin disappeared at the voice of the leader of the bandits. I hadn’t witnessed the demon side of him until now.

Since when did the Red Army employ women?

I turned away, remembering that he still had my earring and no magic had shielded my features. Edgar slipped it into my palm without a word before slinking up to the angered prisoner.

“He is quite pretty for a boy, I’ll admit. You’d do well to keep your mouth shut.” The malice laced in his words paired perfectly with the dagger pressed a little too hard against his prey’s throat. His threat received with a silent nod.

I trailed behind, lost deeply in thought. It hadn’t been necessary. There was no reason for him to say anything. No one would have believed the word of a criminal over the Jack. There’s no logical reasoning behind why Edgar had protected me, nor why I can’t simply say thank you and move on.

My cheeks were unbearably hot.

Why did he confuse me so much?

#ikemen revolution #ikerev #edgar bright #iris adley #ikerev oc #finally #iris is beginning to have feelings #even though she has no idea what those feelings are

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welcometophu · 3 years

Text

Not Your Guardian Angel: Chapter 14

Marked Book 3: Not Your Guardian Angel

Chapter 14

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It’s been almost two weeks since Nikita and Alaric disappeared. As peaceful as it is in her dorm room, it’s still strange knowing that Nikita isn’t just with Heather. It’s stranger still how life just goes on and only a few people seem truly worried about the fact that several people—including a professor—have just disappeared.

Even Pels feels like she should be more worried than she is. There’s a part of her that just expects that everything will be fine eventually. She’ll turn around and Nikita will be there, and Coven will happen again, and Dad will push her across campus to join the meetings.

But there is also a tiny part of her that is scared that it can’t be that simple. That there is something she’s ignoring.

“Go check on Rory,” Dad suggests as she climbs the stairs after dinner. “I haven’t seen him down in the dining hall.”

“I’m sure he’s doing fine,” Pels mutters. “He’s got Kit. Besides. It’s not like I can do anything anyway.”

“You underestimate the healing power of company.” Dad blocks the way when she tries to get to her room, nudging her down the hall. She pushes back, but he’s stronger, and she realizes that once again, she’s going where he wants, despite herself.

She makes her way down the hall to the corner room that Alaric and Rory share, and raps on the door.

“It’s unlocked,” Rory calls out, so she nudges it open.

Rory sits on the floor with his back against his dresser, knees drawn up and his guitar across his lap. His toe just barely touches Kit’s rounded back, where Kit’s hunched over, drawing something on the pad across his knees. Serina sits not far away, staring down at a textbook on the floor and doing nothing.

“I just—” Pels almost steps out as soon as she steps in, but Dad blocks her way. “I wanted to see if you’re okay.”

Rory shifts, and as soon as the pressure of his foot leaves Kit’s back, Kit looks up, blinking. “Oh. Hi.”

Serina lifts a hand to wiggle her fingers, then picks up the textbook to move it to her lap, staring down at it still.

“Not really,” Rory says. “But I’m panicking less.” He slides his hand down Kit’s back before pushing himself to stand. His hair falls forward, almost covering his face as he looks around. “I can offer you space on the floor or our one desk chair to sit on.”

“Floor’s easier if you want to study with us.” Serina’s voice is flatter than usual, almost listless. “But I’m guessing you aren’t into Chemistry.”

“Not my usual thing, no.” Pels is used to feeling awkward, but the tension in this room is so thick it’s troubling to step further in. She takes the chair Rory indicates, sitting on the edge while Rory sinks back to sit closer to Kit than before, one hand across his back. “I just—I got to thinking at dinner and I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“My family came down,” Rory says. The sound of Kit’s pencil is louder now, faster as Rory leans close to him. Pels isn’t sure Kit’s even aware of his surroundings anymore.

“Your family?” Pels asks.

“My extended family, from Vermont. My Dad grew up in a commune of Mages.” Rory lifts his right hand as he speaks. “They went over Pawel’s house with a fine tooth comb, trying to figure out what they were even doing. I know they were looking into issues with the Shadows, trying to decide what to do next to heal the Split.”

That is entirely Greek to Pels, but she nods along anyway like she doesn’t feel like she’s coming into the middle of a conversation and entirely lacking in antecedents.

“They’re positive no one died,” Rory says. There’s a soft sound from Serina at that. “They think someone might have Traveled, and given that they had three people capable of it, that’s plausible.”

“Mac Teleports. Carolyn Travels through her cards. And Matteson’s a Shadow,” Serina mumbles, tracing something in her book. “So they think they went somewhere. But they still aren’t answering their phones, or talking to us, or coming home, so we don’t know where.”

“But they’re safe,” Rory says firmly. “We’re almost positive that wherever they are, they’re safe.”

“Oh.” Pels is pretty sure she’s supposed to say something sympathetic here, but she has no idea what. “I’m… glad they’re safe. It still seems weird that they haven’t—”

“Right?” Serina looks up, and for just a moment she looks almost like her usual self, a bright light in her eyes. “They should be here. Carolyn should just come tumbling out of wherever and Travel them back. It should be easy. I can’t focus. I need Carolyn to be okay.”

“She’s okay,” Kit mumbles. “I’d know if she wasn’t.”

“That’s good news at least.” Pels stands up, hesitating. “If you hear something else, let me know? I don’t miss the epic fights, but I do worry about Nikita. And everyone else.”

Dad nudges her, and she stumbles forward. She shoots a look over her shoulder, not sure what he’s getting at, and Dad nods at Rory like there’s something she should be doing.

“What?” Pels hisses.

Rory looks confused.

Dad wraps his arms around Pels in a quick hug, and she gets it then. “Oh. Um.” She opens her arms in offering.

Kit ignores her, huffing slightly as Rory rises. Serina looks back at her book. But Rory leans down to wrap his arms around her, his head against the top of hers. He’s skinny enough that even small as she is and reaching up as she has to, she can get her arms around him and try to hug him tight. And he holds on just as tightly in return, clinging to her like she’s a very small teddy bear for several breaths before he finally steps back.

“It’s all going to be okay,” he says, like she’s the one needing reassurance, so she nods to give that back to him.

“If I hear anything from Nikita I’ll let you know,” She says. Dad lets her back up until she’s at the door, and she slips out into the hall, closing the door after herself. There’s a soft strum of a guitar from the inside as she goes.

“Any other errands you want me to run?” Pels murmurs. Dad’s already at the other end of the hall, turning the corner. She hurries after him, expecting to find him heading down the stairs, but instead he’s leaning against the open doorway into the common area, watching as Pat packs things into bags and monitors popcorn in the microwave.

Pat glances over as Pels steps next to Dad, and grins. “Hey, you’re just in time.” He grabs one of the bags off the counter, handing it to her before turning back just in time to turn off the microwave. He juggles the hot bag of popcorn between two hands before dropping it into a canvas bag, and then picking that and the last bag up. “Come on. Trish said she’d bring the drinks.”

Pels glances into the bag as she heads down the stairs. Rolls. Marshmallows. Graham crackers. A box of vanilla wafers. “And we’re bringing food?”

Pat turns as he reaches the bottom of the stairs, waiting for her. “I appreciate the help carrying things, and yes, you will be fed. That is, as long as you’re interested in hot dogs, popcorn, or s’mores.”

“How weirdly will you look at me if I admit I have never eaten a s’more?” Pels asks. She passes by him as he stares at her. “I’m not joking. It’s not like I’ve ever been camping. Or gone to a lot of bonfires. It’s just one of those things steeped in social mystery that I’ve missed out on.”

“We are going to fix that.” Pat raises a bag, calling out to Jackson as he emerges from a different door further down Townhouse Row.

“Condiments,” Jackson says. “Trish is bringing the drinks, right?”

“Sera said Trish is bringing the drinks,” Pat agrees. “I don’t know if that means alcohol or not.” He casts a sideways glance at Pels. “Let me guess—”

“You would be right,” she admits. “Because there is honestly nothing more sad than drinking alone. Besides. We only had wine in the house, and it wasn’t even good wine.”

She trails after them, Jackson seeming to move his long legs in slow motion to allow Pat to keep up, but Pels still struggles. Pat might claim to be short, but he’s at least a half foot taller than Pels, and it makes a difference when they’re on the move.

They veer off in a direction Pels isn’t familiar with. “The theater is over this way, right?” she asks.

“The theater is on this corner of campus, yes,” Pat waves a hand like he’s giving a tour. “We’re passing by the Arts buildings now. The main auditorium is in there, but the smaller club theater, entirely maintained by students, is the low building coming up on the left. Sera did tech for the fall production, but she’s been too busy this spring. Where we’re going are the gardens beyond that.”

“Gardens?”

Pat starts walking backwards. “Didn’t you walk through the gardens on your tour before you applied? Or during Accepted Students’ Day?”

Pels opens her mouth, then closes it again, lips pressed together in a rueful expression. “How many things do I have to say I never did before you really start looking down on me?” she asks quietly. “I just applied based on reputation, and hoped I’d get in. My Mom came here, although she didn’t get her degree here; she left when she was pregnant with me. I knew it was a place where Talent is accepted, so I figured that people might think I’m weird, but I wouldn’t end up having to leave because of it. I just thought I could be…” She searches for the word and comes up empty. When she looks over, Dad doesn’t offer anything to help. “Background noise,” Pels mumbles, because that’s the closest she can get to what she meant to say.

Pat stops dead. “You should never have to be a side character in your own movie,” he says solemnly. “You aren’t background noise, Pels. You should be loud, and—”

“Please don’t say proud and out because it really sounds like that’s where you’re going with this,” Pels tries to cut him off, but it only makes him laugh.

“I know what it’s like to be quiet,” Pat tells her. He runs back to her, putting an arm around her shoulders and drawing her forward as he starts walking again. Jackson moves along beside them, chuckling softly as Pat keeps talking. “I decided that I was never going to be quiet again. I thought that if nobody saw me, everything would work out, and that did not go according to plan.”

“You do have loudest on the floor nailed down,” Pels says dryly.

Pat puts his free hand over his heart. “I’m wounded that you believe that my music is somehow louder than the legendary sound of thunderclaps from your own room.”

“I’m not involved with those,” Pels protests. “You can’t blame me for Nikita and Jennifer. The music is yours, though.”

“Sometimes it’s mine,” Jackson says solemnly.

“Hey, there they are!” Pat’s arm drops away from Pels so he can hurry forward to where Trish, TJ, and Sera are waiting by a wrought iron arch between two head-high pine bushes. “Booze or soda, Trish?”

“Both.” She pats the soft cooler that lies slung across her body by a long strap. “Not a lot though, but my momma raised me right to bring something along to any party.” She looks over as Pels slows down, uncertain about yet another new person. “Pels, right?”

“Pels, right,” Pat confirms. “And Pels, these are the gardens. They don’t have any kind of a fancy name, and according to some people they aren’t nearly as good as the ones at VIT—”

“Look, I’ve been in the gardens at VIT and they live up to their reputation,” TJ talks over him. “They set aside a ten acre plot for these incredible, meticulously fashioned gardens, with hundreds of different kinds of plant life. The trails are fantastic and well-maintained. The brook has three separate places to cross. This is—”

“Like someone let an ancient football field fall to Chaos, and left a fire pit in the middle,” Trish finishes his sentence with a soft laugh. “But we’ve got a fire pit, so who cares?”

“And I’ve reserved it.” TJ brandishes a lighter. “One of the perks of being an RA. So let’s go.”

As soon as Pels ducks under the arch, the tree cover overhead almost blocks out the last rays of the late afternoon sun. The temperature drops in the near darkness, and she has to pull out her phone to use the flashlight to light her way. Even with the dim light that filters through, she trips over a tree root at one point, righting herself as Dad keeps her from faceplanting on the path.

“Thanks,” she murmurs under her breath, thankful that no one seems to have noticed.

The path winds through the trees, eventually opening into a small field that has several benches, along with a large fire pit and a pile of wood nearby. There are a few stones around the edges outside the pit which seem to be there to sit on, and Pat drops his bags next to one and uses it like a table as he starts pulling things out.

“Get building,” he instructs, gesturing at the fire.

TJ looks at him. “You think I know how to build a fire? I’m a city boy, and we do not build fires on the rooftop in New York, thanks.”

“Give me the lighter.” Trish slips it into her pocket, then starts sorting through the wood in the pile. She directs Sera to bring her different pieces, building a stack of wood according to some algorithm Pels does not understand at all.

Pels sits on one of the benches, trying stay out of the way, and also trying to ignore the fact that Dad is sitting next to her, feet on the bench as he perches on the back. He leans down, elbows on his knees. “It’s even a school night, and here you are,” he says. “Your sister would love to hear about this.”

He’s probably right.

Pels waits until the fire is going, flames licking into the air above the pit. Pat spears hotdogs onto metal skewers and hands them out; Jackson puts three on his skewer and holds them in the flames to cook them all at once.

Pat motions for Pels to come closer. “Eat dinner,” he says, offering a skewered dog.

Pels fishes her phone out of her pocket. “Hang on. Can we, uh—” She gestures from the phone to Pat to herself. “For my sister. She’ll never believe me otherwise.”

“Hey, everyone, selfie time!” Pat calls out.

Sera leans over his back, arms on either side of him, her cheek pressed to his. “Oh?”

They all gather around, Pels at the front. When she can’t quite get everyone in frame, Jackson grabs her phone and holds it out and above them to snap several pictures as they make faces at the camera. By the time she’s done, she can easily pick a few to send to Cheyenne. Then she has to add more contacts to her phone and start a brand new group text for the group so she can send the full set of pictures to everyone.

Are you at a cookout? Cheyenne asks.

Illicit underage drinking, hotdogs, and apparently s’mores are on the menu, Pels replies. As Dad informs me, I’m being a real person tonight, acting normal and everything. Not that he’s said all that explicitly, but she’s gotten very good at reading his expressions over the years.

Good for you! Oh. Dad’s calling. I need to go down for dinner.

Cheyenne cuts off with that; even though Pels texts her again, there are no replies.

“I hope everything’s okay with Peter,” she mutters. “I just—I need to get her out of there.” But she can’t. Cheyenne’s just a kid, and Mom’s still the adult, and if that leaves Cheyenne walking on eggshells around Peter, Pels can’t fix that.

Not to mention that Cheyenne is trying to protect Pels and won’t let her do anything.

“Are you going to cook your hotdog?” Sera asks. Her gaze is focused somewhere else, Pels has no idea on what, but it’s not Pels or the fire. Sera’s eyes move, as if she’s tracking something Pels can’t see.

“Oh. Yeah.” Pels shoves her phone back in her pocket and forgets about it for a moment, as TJ helps her find the best spot to heat her hotdog without burning it to a crisp. As soon as she thinks it’s done, Pat is standing next to her with a bun held out, and gesturing to the condiments.

It’s just a hotdog, but it’s weirdly good because of the fire and the company. It’s too hot, a little smoky, and she did burn one side, but it’s still better than anything else she can remember recently. Even those little mini dogs from The Dog Shack.

Pat opens the marshmallows while Pels is still trying to finish her hotdog. He lays out different options on one stone—plain and flavored marshmallows, different kinds of chocolate and peanut butter cups, and two different kinds of graham crackers or vanilla wafers. “We believe in variety,” he says solemnly. “There is no one true way to make a s’more.”

“But if it’s your first, you should go with traditional,” Jackson says, holding a hand up to keep Pat back as he grabs a marshmallow and skewers it. “C’mon, Pels, let’s do this. Then you can try options.”

“All the options,” Pat encourages.

Trish starts laughing. “She’ll be high on sugar.”

“Which does not taste good with beer.” Sera has a can open in her hand, and she makes a face as she alternates bites of crisped marshmallows with swallows from the can. “This is really gross. Who thought of this? Pat, you’re an idiot.”

“I am brilliant, because this is a perfect way to spend a Thursday night,” Pat declares. He might be on his third or fourth s’more; Pels has lost count. She also hasn’t seen him with a beer yet.

Jackson makes Pels feel even smaller than usual, and she readily gives up her skewer to him rather than leaning over the fire to toast the marshmallow herself. She gathers up chocolate and graham crackers as directed, holding them when he places the marshmallow on top, then covering it.

“You seriously haven’t had one before,” he asks.

Pels is well aware of what they are. She’s seen them on shows, she’s seen cereals based on the taste. She once toasted a marshmallow over the flame of a gas stove, until Peter found her trying to clean up the sticky, dripping burnt sugar mess. They’d moved a week later, losing a security deposit because Dad had blown out every light in the kitchen along with one window.

“I seriously have not had one before,” she says solemnly.

She bites into it and immediately regrets it because the molten hot sugar hasn’t cooled enough to eat. She makes a low noise and blows on it hard, but then takes another bite right away because it’s just so good. She realizes she grabbed dark chocolate, but that’s wonderful against the sweetness of the marshmallow. There’s a crisp earthiness to the outer roasted shell of the marshmallow, and the chocolate melts against it, spreading over the graham cracker. Everything crumbles, and she ends up with sticky fingers and a too-full mouth, needing to chew and swallow fast as a low laugh bubbles up. “That’s good,” she says around the remaining mouthful.

Pat shoves a wrapped peanut butter cup in her hand. “Now make another one with this,” he orders, and Pels hastens to do exactly that.

After four s’mores, she’s absolutely positive that she’s had too many. She’s full of energy, her skin itching with the need to get up and do something. Or maybe that’s being surrounded by people, all of whom are talking and shouting over each other, and seemingly unbothered by the way she just observes. They include her without forcing her to speak, and it’s strangely welcome to be able to just be here on the sidelines.

“Yeah, a little. I want to have some new material before I hit the road at the end of May,” Trish says. She’s sitting with her back against one of the large stones, between Sera’s legs. Sera combs her fingers through Trish’s hair, idly braiding it, then combing it free again while looking at something else in the distance.

Pels isn’t sure what the start of that conversation is, then Trish starts singing.

“Whatever I do, wherever I go, I’ll travel the world, to come home to you,” Trish sings. “It’s nowhere near done yet. I’m trying for that feel of being on the road, but knowing you’ve got an anchor to come back to.” She leans her head back, looking up at Sera. “It’s nice knowing there’s always someone there for you.” Her voice is a little slower than Pels remembers, the southern accent a bit thicker.

“We should’ve had you bring the guitar,” Pat says. “You and Jackson on guitar, some of you with good voices, the rest of us just yelling out music because it’s fun.”

“No guitar doesn’t mean no campfire songs.” Jackson’s on the ground as well, leaning back, one shoulder pressed against Pat’s. He gestures, and TJ ends up on the ground next to him, as Jackson loops one arm over his shoulder. Jackson whispers something to TJ, and they both start belting out a song that Pels recognizes as one of Rory’s.

Pat joins in, along with Trish, and Sera jerks to a halt, blinking as she looks down at Trish. Her brow furrows, fingers caught in her hair.

Trish reaches up, touching Sera’s cheek as she grins and keeps singing.

Sera looks over at Pels, brow still furrowed. “We should record this.”

Pels can barely hear her over Pat’s off-key rendition of the song. TJ and Trish are nice to listen to, and Jackson isn’t half bad, but Pat can’t carry a tune to save his life.

Sera continues to look between Trish and TJ, her brow furrowed. Pels wonders if she is recording it, capturing it to whatever hard drive lurks inside her brain.

Maybe an external recording would be nice, too.

Pels gets her phone out and kneels on the ground so she can get them all in frame. They move from one song into the next almost as if it’s planned, and Pels manages to capture that one in full. She stops the recording as Jackson falls back, dragging TJ and Pat with him.

“Thirsty now,” Jackson complains, holding one hand up. Trish puts a can in it, and laughs when Jackson realizes that he can’t lie down and drink at the same time.

“Can I share that video with Rory?” Pels asks.

“It is adorable that you ask permission,” Pat says. “I vote yes.”

“I definitely say yes,” Dad murmurs. “Look at you, sending something to amuse a friend in need.”

Pels waves her hand in Dad’s direction, as if flicking away a mosquito. She sends a quick message to Rory with the video, then decides to send another to Cheyenne saying, Yes, I’m having fun tonight. She’s a little surprised to realize that she hasn’t had a text since Cheyenne said she was going down for dinner, so she adds, You okay? and sends that as well.

She gets back a picture of Cheyenne’s face, barely lit by her desk lamp in a dim room. I’m fine. Just buried in homework. I get to see Dr. Smalls tomorrow. Don’t worry.

It’s an interesting combination of things to say, and really isn’t likely to make Pels worry less.

If anything happened, you’d tell me, right?

She feels awkward sending even that much, like maybe Peter will see Cheyenne’s phone. She doesn’t want to say the word Talent, or Telekinesis at all. She definitely doesn’t want to refer to Peter himself.

I’m okay, seriously. Don’t worry. I’ll call you tomorrow. Promise.

Pels supposes she has to accept that, even if it’s hard to just let it go.

TJ points up from where he still lies back on the ground, his feet warmed by the fire. Jackson’s sitting up between him and Pat, drinking his beer. Sera’s returned to whatever she was focused on before, but her feet are drawn up cross-legged on the stone, and Trish is stoking the fire.

“If you look up, the sky is clear enough to see the stars,” TJ says. “And planets. That’s Jupiter, right there. It’s crystal clear tonight. Saturn will be, too, but it hasn’t risen yet.”

Trish lowers herself to the ground next to TJ and lies back, raising her own hand and letting TJ adjust it. “Oh. There. I see it now. Hey, aren’t you an Arts major?”

“My mom loved Astronomy. Which, maybe it’s a funny hobby for a dancer, but she used to say how we’re all made of stardust, and that’s how some of us become stars,” TJ says softly. “I think she liked the wordplay, since she was a star on stage. We used to talk about how dance was meant to show our starlight, and I still think of that every time I dance.”

“It’s a pretty image,” Jackson agrees. He sets aside his empty beer and lies back, while Pat pushes himself up one elbow.

“Come on,” Pat says, and Pels isn’t sure if he’s talking to her or Sera. “Come look at the stars.”

Sera meets Pels’s gaze, and for a moment she has a feeling that they might be on the same wavelength. Then Sera heaves a long sigh, tucking dark hair behind an ear studded with piercings. “Fine,” Sera says. As she approaches the group, TJ rolls closer to Jackson, and Sera drops into the space offered, between TJ and Trish.

It looks uncomfortable, being so close.

Pels carefully picks her way around to the other side of Pat and lowers herself to the ground. Her feet are almost too warm, as close to the fire as they are. She wiggles her toes, seeing the fire burning merrily just beyond them, then when Pat nudges her, she looks up to see the stars spread overhead in the clear sky.

“It’s beautiful,” she admits.

“Peaceful,” Pat says. “It’s easy to lie here and just forget about everything else, right?”

Maybe for him. As soon as he says that, thoughts flood in and Pels can’t pick which one to follow first. Nikita’s still missing. She’s intensely confused about watching people interact. Why is Sera petting Trish? Why is TJ snuggling Jackson one second and Sera the next? He’s now on his side with his back to Jackson, holding Sera’s hand as he guides her to see different constellations.

Is this how this is supposed to work?

“I can hear you thinking and you haven’t even had anything to drink,” Dad murmurs, and Pels does her damnedest not to jump at the way he’s crouching next to her, leaning in far too close. “I think they’re all a bit drunk.”

They might be. Pels won’t judge, and honestly, she wasn’t paying that close of attention to who drank how much.

“Just relax for a little while,” Dad says, patting her head.

Pels closes her eyes, exhaling as she tries to let her body relax into the ground. She does it again for good measure, and this time it seems to work, and the voices become background noise as she floats in a sea of darkness and a strange mix of warmth at her toes and the top of her head chilled in the night air.

“I don’t have to understand everything, right?” she whispers. Dad doesn’t respond, but there’s movement next to her, like Pat might have heard her.

“I don’t think it’s possible to understand everything,” Pat murmurs softly. “I think all we can do is try to understand the things that affect us most, and move forward from there.”

It seems like valid advice. Maybe Pels doesn’t need to understand how other people relate to each other. Someday, though, she’s going to have to figure out how other people relate to her.

Someday.

Tonight can be about the s’mores and the stars.

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ixchel-sketch · 4 years

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TITLE: Cacalotl / El Cuervo GENRE: Crime & Romance FANDOM: Mayans M.C. SHIP(S): Coco & Original Female Character STATUS: Complete LENGTH: 4,057 words

Coco is beginning to feel worn down by balancing his responsibilities with the MC and his relationship with Maya. Before she goes away to a festival for a week he gets a letter letting him know that he’s being placed back on active duty. The club is supportive now that he is a fully patched member and all that is left to do is tell Maya about it. Meanwhile she discovers some game changing news of her own.

The honeymoon phase was officially over, whatever the fuck that meant. Five months into their relationship and there was no longer any novelty about coming home and finding arbitrary art supplies scattered into every corner of his place. Or the small piles of clothes that remained stacked where they’d been removed until he reminded her to do her fucking laundry. Though he didn’t have too much of a leg to stand on with complaints, his beer bottles and cigarette butts were practically a form of interior design by this point. Both of them had low moods where they weren’t productive, much less focused on avoiding the other’s pet peeves.

When he was still a prospect Coco could get away with disappearing for a few hours to a night or two spent somewhere else. Now that he was a fully patched member he didn't have to stay late after parties and runs to clean shit up. There was more freedom and some stability now that the club business was going good. Maya had decided to cut down on the amount of travel she did a year, her nights spent split between the RV parked in the back of Coco's house and his bed. Sometimes it was great, he felt a sense of peace coming home and seeing her face light up when he entered the room. Or her head popping out from behind the thin door of her van once the sound of his motorcycle cut off. The feel of her pressed against him at night. But on the hard days, ones where she would suddenly stay in all day and only move to finish a painting or pop something in the microwave reminded him of just how trapped all of the so called stability made Coco feel.

And the guilt at having those feelings just made him feel even more fucked up. Maya would look at him with those big dopey eyes and say sweet things at him. Even when his temper would flare and he would push her away she would just shut down and give him space or worse...be outright accepting. The guys didn’t see it as a problem and Coco had gone long past the point of trying to explain. As far as Angel and Gilly were concerned she was damn near perfect, never causing drama or getting into Club business. She didn’t even give Coco a hard time when they would spend nights at Vicki’s for some celebration or another that usually involved other women giving them attention.

Which was just another sin Coco could add to his current list of burdens. While Maya had remained faithful and filled her time making art Coco had not been able to resist flirting and stealing kisses from the women at Vicki's. He hadn't slept with anyone, an embarrassingly small point of pride he still wore like a badge. Though the longer it took for them to see any kind of excitement or danger the more his resolve weakened on that front. When they finally got a job doing a run that their northern charter couldn’t complete, crossing over territories that would take at least a couple of days to cover and keep up with the necessary hospitality, it felt like a breath of fresh air. An eager distraction from confronting the news he’d gotten earlier that week.

Maya certainly hadn’t seen it that way.

“Oh.” Her shoulders slumped and the look of disappointment that wormed onto her face made his stomach clench. “ I have to leave for that festival in a couple days…”

“Yeah.” She’d been gearing up for that for weeks, only adding to the stress of their interactions. A smudge of red paint on her cheek told him she’d been working on the collection again. Finally being able to get away for more than a day was exactly what he needed. “And?”

“I just thought you might want to spend it together.” Her words were loaded and it sent Coco automatically on edge. They had never set restrictions on the other’s behavior before but now she was going to disapprove of the Club business?

“It’s not exactly a choice.”

“But you want to go, right?”

His shoulders bunched up, making the shrug more apparent and he turned his back to where she was standing in the kitchen to head towards the room and begin packing his bag. The plan was to leave early in the morning and cover as much road as possible. Maya stayed at the doorway and even not facing her Coco could guess that her arms were crossed over her chest. “I gotta go. It feels like I’ve been stuck in the house for fucking weeks.”

“That’s kind of funny,” Though her tone made it clear that she felt no amusement. “ considering you’ve had more shifts and club stuff these last two weeks than in the past couple of months. And when you are here you’re practically itching to leave.”

“How the fuck do you know what’s going on in my head?” The clothes were tossed onto the bed with little care, just a couple things that would fit into his military surplus backpack.

“Are you serious?” She scoffs, turned to head back into the kitchen so that she could finish putting away some dishes she’d been working on clearing out earlier. Maya had a habit of leaving them in the sink until the end of the day and felt the need to clean from the rising tension come over her. “The only time you want to talk to be around me is when you want to fuck.”

“Wait wait,” He calls from the other room and the sound of his pack being dropped to the floor is the only noise until he’s standing in front of her with an incredulous expression. Dark brows are lowered into a glower and Maya squares her shoulders in preparation for the oncoming fight.

They didn’t get into arguments often. In fact she could probably count the number of actual fights on one hand, usually resulting in one of them leaving the house until they had both cooled down and were ready to actually talk about it. There was always some sort of catalyst, or some slow building thing that was finally too much for either of them bare. The former was always an easier fix...but something about the way that he’d been pushing her away made her think the resolution wouldn’t be so simple this time. It had only become obvious that something was wrong when she noticed the way he would lean away from her, the casual brush of his hand against her waist or ass had long since stopped when they were in public. And even though she knew the club had legitimate connections and business at Vicki’s, Coco came back smelling more and more like cheap perfume instead of just cigarette smoke.

“Don’t pull that fuckin shit. If I’m not at the club or work I’m here just hanging while you do your art so you can take the fuck off again. And when I gotta do the same you wanna start shit? Fuck!” One of the drying plates from the sink is swept off the counter in one fast movement, sending glass shattering on the floor and making Maya jump a couple inches in the air. Her eyes are wide with shock and he purposefully doesn’t meet them, only stares at the organic shaped pieces of ceramic that decorated the tile.

“What the fuck is goin’ on with you?” Her Appalachian draw picked up as her heart started to race. There was definitely something deeper that caused this kind of reaction in him and the dread that it was something big began to loom in her mind’s horizon. “This isn’t about me wanting to spend time with you before I leave town for a couple weeks is it?”

“No, it’s about you never leaving me the fuck alone!” She’s silent, watching him try to breathe some level headed thoughts back into the conversation, his hand swipes at his mouth where some spittle still clung from when he was shouting. “You’re always here, and when you’re not you’re in my fucking drive way. I agreed to date you, not put a fucking ring on it.”

Coco felt out of control. As though the topic they had was covered in a metaphoric sheen of gasoline and in his hand held the match. Sure, there had been times when Coco had done his best to lash out and push Maya away, but all of those had been weighted down by his infatuation with her. Now, all he could think about was how good the road was going to feel and the hours of silence and distance. Of action. Of getting away from the conversation at hand and where he knew it would lead. There was far more comfort in the life that he’d known than there was struggling to find himself in a life of domesticity with her.

“Well it’s a good thing I’m leaving then, I guess.” To agree with her out loud would be too spiteful so instead he went to work picking up the mess he’d made. Shoulders still held high and tight and each action was careful, like he was desperately trying to keep whatever he was feeling buried. Each silent moment made the void of anxiety in her chest open just a little bit wider. “Do you...still want me here? Or is this about something else?”

Coco’s dark eyes snap to her face and Maya swallows heavily. There’s a severity to his grimace and she had a feeling if he didn’t have a dust pan full of broken plate he’d probably be reaching for a cigarette right about now. After dumping them in the trash can he ran a hand through his hair. A few moments of tense silence later and Coco crossed the kitchen to pull out an official looking envelope, her own gaze drawn towards the seal of the US military at the corner. “What the fuck is that?”

“Got this a couple days ago. “ Her hands were practically shaking as the piece of paper slipped free from its packaging. A quick scan of the first page gave her enough information...he was being called back to active duty and would have to leave at the end of the month. “I already told the guys, they got no beef with it.”

“But you didn’t want to tell me. You didn’t even tell me you were still enlisted!” “Signed up for six years, they can call me back if they want.”

“So? Fuck them!”

The glare she receives for that outburst tells her all she needs to know. His mind was made up and the withdrawing made total sense now. A lump formed in her throat and she retreated back to his room to climb onto the bed and wait for him to follow. The painting she’d just finished earlier was still hung on the wall to dry and caught her eye. When Coco finally came in to finish packing Maya waited, the air heavy between them. There was an emotional pain blooming in her heart that felt like the coming of the end. Her voice wavered when she finally worked up the courage to speak.

“What does that mean for us? I don’t...I don’t want us to be over.”

Tears finally break free and make tracks down her cheeks and Coco lets out a heavy sigh. Maya hadn’t even noticed that she had her palms pressed to her face until his calloused hands are gently pulling them away so he can wrap his arms around her. Falling for each other hadn’t been in either one’s plans and even though she’d never met another person that made her feel like he did --- some part of her had always known that Coco wasn’t ready for something permanent.

“Nothing’s got to change right now, we got a couple days to figure it out.” She shook her head against his shoulder and let out a small hiccup of a sob. He was leaving to get away from her. He wanted it to end and there was nothing that she could do about it. The emotion at the forefront of her mind was heavy confusion at how they had even gotten to this point. More gentle than he had ever been, Coco buried his face against her neck and for just a moment she thought he might join her in shedding a couple tears. Instead he simply stroked her back until her chest felt a little less tight and her crying had slowed to a stop. The warmth of his palm against her spine and Coco’s steady breathing turned heavy as he pulled her closer still.

“I love you.” Maya whispered into the space between them. He didn’t reply, simply placed a kiss in the corner of her neck, her jaw, her lips. His hands are careful but still hold a bit of desperation where they grip her. The fact that he doesn’t say it in return doesn’t go unnoticed but she valiantly pushed the fear of what was to come away so that she could only feel the familiar and comforting arousal that his attentions usually brought on. Maya kissed him back with fervor, hands splayed on his chest, smoothed over the loose white T-shirt he wore until she could wrap her arms around his neck. The long steady strokes down her back slowly reach even lower until he’s grabbing her ass and pulling her into his lap.

“I’m sorry.” She’s not sure if he means for the fight, or for something more final… Either way it doesn’t matter at the moment. Maya shushes him with another kiss, one of her hands going to card through the short black hair at the base of his head. His gentleness begins to fade when she arches her back so that their chests are pressed against the other, though there is still a measure of care to his movements when Coco pauses to remove the sundress she'd thrown on earlier.

His clothes are quick to follow and Maya takes the opportunity to stretch out on the mattress beside him, eyes roving over his bare form -- memorising the lines of his tattoos and the way they move over his muscles. Soon the shadow of him looms over her, his forearms bracketed either side of her and Coco places a kiss on her forehead. There's something heavy and too scary to name behind their intimacy. A slowness that neither had really had too much patience for before that night. Now it was as though both of them were determined to take their time, one of his legs sliding between hers and allowing the weight of his body to rub her in all the right places.

"Fuck, you feel good." He groans, hips rolling against her. Maya smirks and brings her hand up to lick her palm before slipping it between them and around his member, earning a gasp of pleasure and fevered kiss for her efforts. Coco thrust against her hand, his own findinding purchase in gripping her thigh or calf where it's raised against his side. His breath is hot between them, warming the air between kisses placed on her collar and lower still.

Maya lets out a small cry when he noses against her breast then his lips close around a raised nipple. At the same time Coco easily entered her, her hand on his dick going to scrape up his back and rest curled around broad inked shoulders in order to keep him close. She feels stretched and full in all the right ways, but it’s still not enough.

"Shit, harder baby--" Her tone breathy and heavy with desperation. The heat on Maya's belly growing and moving south with building pressure of pleasure. Opposite of her request, he comes free of her and laughs at the pouting frown that creased her full lips. Before she had time to complain though, Coco takes firm hold of one of her legs and brings it up to his shoulder.

“Oh! Fuck!” At this angle it feels like he might be trying to split her open, hips pistoning fast and harsh until the sound of their pants and the slap of flesh is all that’s left. One of Maya’s hands traces up the muscles of his stomach to lay a palm over his chest and Coco meets her lust filled gaze with heavy lidded eyes. A wet kiss placed messily at the where her calf is balanced against his collar. Her own eyes fall closed as her orgasm ripples through her and pulls him closer to the edge, but she thinks she catches the words ‘Te quiero’ on his lips.

It’s almost a week before she talks to him again. Four days before she’s supposed to return from the festival. The next morning Coco had taken off hours before she woke up, leaving Maya full of insecurity over their future and the argument that had occured that night. There was no trying to talk him out of his decision and the longer that she spent thinking about the time that would mean apart --- the bigger the void got in her chest and the looming feeling of heartbreak. They had never spent too much time planning their future, but she had a feeling at least a year apart would require some kind of heavy talking. And if their last conversation was any judge of his feelings on commitment then she truly felt as though their relationship was living on borrowed time. The internal disquiet caused her stomach to let out a sharp pang of nausea, bile rising in her throat and Maya forced herself to breathe through it rather than go running out of her booth.

“Hey! Maya!” A familiar voice caused her head to snap up and a grin pushed the dark thoughts momentarily at bay. Tati, the artist that ran the table next to hers came over with a water bottle in her outstretched hand. “Here, you’re looking kind of pale.”

“I’m alright, just a bit of indigestion.”

“Damn, that sucks. Do you think I could borrow a tampon?”

“No. Please do not return it.” She laughed and went to get her purse, sure she had a few older ones lying towards the bottom of the large patchwork bag. Her mind ildely trying to think of the last time she’d used them and froze with a sudden icy chill of panic Maya couldn’t hope to hide. Her fingers shook as she fumbled to place the plastic wrapped tube in her friend’s hand.

“You okay? You look like you just saw a fucking ghost.”

“N..No, I’m fine.” Tati looked unconvinced but thanked her again before heading back over to the safety of her canopy. These were the times she wished she’d split the table with another artist so that she might be able to take a break and answer the scary question that was growing like a weed in the back of her mind. As it was she would have to wait until the end of the day to close up her booth and head to the nearest convenience store, each hour passing by impossibly slow despite the amount of decent foot traffic she had. Her gaze cast out and locked onto a nest of a black birds, most likely a crow, equally busy in the tree across the foot worn path. Whether they were a beautiful show of nature or a bad omen she couldn’t say. Instead she counted the weeks since her last cycle, then again for good measure to make sure that it wasn’t just paranoia. Sure, she was on The Pill but had been known to accidentally miss a day or two...and she’d never been very good about staying on schedule with it.

" Fuck me, shit.” By the time she made it to the store the sun had set and her anxiety was in full swing. Maya grabbed two boxes of tests and polished off the rest of her large water bottle. Privacy was pushed to the back of her mind in panic and the brunette locked herself into handicapped stall. Coco had been slow to answer her texts since he'd left, and even now left her messages on read despite the obvious stress behind them. With her heart racing and the test lining up on the sink accusingly, she was in no mood to be toyed with.

"Pick up, pinche pendejo." Three calls, no answer. The sound of women coming and going in the other stalls completely ignored by the focus at hand. By the fifth call there's finally an answer on the other end, his voice tight and the sound of laughter in the background loud and obnoxious over the line.

"What?"

"Where are you?" She had expected him to be home, or maybe out with the guys. Though the familiar sound of music and women's laughter told her otherwise. "At Vicki's?"

"Yeah. Hello to you too."

"Hm." He'd never ignored her calls when he was there before.

"What? Qué paso?"

"I think we have a problem." She waits for him to say anything but the only response is the quieting of ambient noise. He must have gone into another room or stepped outside. The tension grows so thick that her stomach spikes with nausea once again. One glance at the four tests lining the sink and she's unable to breathe the repugnant feeling away this time. The cell phone placed quickly on the floor before Maya emptied the contents of her stomach.

With a tired sigh she wiped her mouth and picked the cell phone up, grumbling a weak apology.

"What happened? You take something?"

"No, nothing like that." She'd called him from a show sick from drinking or tripping before, her impulse control severely lacking while on the road. The words felt foreign in her mouth but she forced them out. The bitter taste of bile still coating the back of her throat with a scratchy burn. "I'm pregnant."

Nothing. Almost complete quiet except for where his breathing has gone rough and stilted. "What the fuck did you just say? Are you sure? I thought you were on the pill?"

Multiple feelings strike her at once, rippling through her core like a physical blow. Intensifying with each question. Though her tone goes flat and cold, the cell gripped so tight Maya's knuckles go white. "I am. It's not perfect."

"Yeah? No shit."

Her eyes closed tightly and Maya swept the tests into the trash. There was no use clinging to them as though she could will away the situation. She clears her throat to make sure her voice doesn't break. "So...what do you want to do?"

It's his turn to sigh, a slow whooshing crackle over the line and he sounds bone weary and utterly contrary to the wired and shaky energy that courses through her veins. "That's not on me. Look... I already got a couple kids, and I'm not in their lives for a reason. Ain't nothing really changed on that front."

It's a conversation that they should have been holding in person. Both of them shared accountability for what had happened and not being able to see the look on his face only hastened the hysteria that swiftly encroached. "Right. So you don't...want to be involved. If I keep it."

"Maya...I'm not even gonna be here."

"Right." Her heart sinks and Maya finally flees the small bathroom, rushing out of the store and shivering when the night air chills the nervous sweat that misted her forehead. The lock to her bike came free as she balanced the cell phone on her shoulder. Numb shock of what this meant making her movements mechanical. The consuming heartbreak just waiting until she was alone to attack, for now anger was her only defense. "You're right. I got this. Just do me a little favor, 'kay?"

He doesn't answer but it doesn't really matter. There's no way that Coco would turn down this final request, especially since she wouldn't be back for another few days.

"Pack up my shit so I can just swing by and get it? Thanks."

#johnny coco cruz #coco cruz #mayans fanfic #mayans smut #mayans mc #Coco & Maya #Maya Ortiz (OFC)

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jade4813 · 4 years

Text

Like Moths to a Flame, Chapter 6

Fandom: North and South

Title: Like Moths to a Flame

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: John/Margaret

Synopsis: “I hope you realize that any foolish passion for you on my part is entirely over.“ Margaret decides to confront John about his unjust judgment of her character, but the two have always been drawn to each other, and things quickly get out of hand. In the aftermath, she agrees to marry him to satisfy propriety, but she cannot forget how ready he was to believe the worst of her. Can love survive without trust, or will the two find a way to work through the misunderstandings that have plagued their relationship from the start?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

The air was cold, a slight spattering of snow drifting from the dreary gray sky, but John hardly noticed as he escorted Margaret across the yard in companionable silence. He strove to find a topic of conversation she might find sufficiently diverting, but his concerns about the state of Marlborough Mills plucked at his consciousness and gave him no measure of peace. She seemed to be content to leave him to his ruminations, and he appreciated her disinclination to rush into mindless prattle just to fill the silence.

As it happened, there was one topic that had lately begun preying upon his mind, and so he decided to address it in his usual forthright manner. “I’ve met with your friend, Mr Higgins,” he remarked, offering her his arm. He was gratified when she accepted it, and though he doubted she took particular note of it, his attention was diverted by the soft pressure of her hand. Would she always have such an effect upon him, to cast his orderly thoughts into disarray by a simple touch?

As he had hoped, her joyful expectation at this revelation was reflected in her eyes, which were brightened by the smile she turned his way. It made him almost regret the churlishness with which he had initially greeted her friend, embittered by the role the millworker had played in instigating the strike that had exacerbated Marlborough Mills’ precarious financial state.

His temper had gotten the better of him during their first interview, but he had subsequently calmed and asked after the man’s story, discovering that he had spoken the truth when he confessed he had taken in a dead man’s six children. Impressed by his reputation for honesty and hard work (and, if he was being honest, moved by his story), John had reconsidered his position and offered Higgins a position. Had he known that the other man had come to him on the advice of Miss Hale, he might have conquered his foul temper sooner – and he’d been left to wonder if such a circumstance had presented as a possibility in her own mind.

Attempting to keep his tone light and unaccusatory, he asked, “Did you encourage him to meet with me because you thought I would be swayed by your friendship?”

She looked surprised and replied in an arch tone, “Of course not. I would never presume to imagine that you cared so much for my opinion.”

“On the contrary. Your opinion matters to me a great deal.” Little did she know that her opinion was dearer to her than any other. How could she not know the effect she had on him? “But I do not have the luxury of considering sentiment in matters of business.”

A line of irritation marred her brow. “So you turned him away, then?”

“I did at first, but I checked after him and was assured he’s a hard worker, so I gave him a position. And he’ll keep it, so long as he keeps to his time and doesn’t let that brain of his get him into trouble.” She ducked her head, hiding her face beneath the brim of her hat as he continued, “I wanted you to understand that I have him a position based on his merit, not as a favor to you or as a consequence of our engagement.”

The hand on his arm stiffened, but she didn’t draw away. Her anger was evident in her voice, however, as she asked, “Were you afraid I would misunderstand and lord it over you, if I thought you had sought my favor?”

“No.” Drawing to a halt, he turned to look at her, waiting until her face was no longer obscured or turned away to continue. “I was afraid you would misunderstand and think you owed me your gratitude. I’m not looking for your thanks, Miss Hale. Nor do I want you to fear that any future disagreement between us will result in a retraction of my offer.”

To his relief, her pique faded as quickly as it had arisen, as she laughed lightly. “You’re confident we’ll have cause to disagree over the course of our marriage?” she asked teasingly.

Her smile begged an answering one from him in return as he replied, “I’m not often a betting man, but I’d be willing to bet on that.” She laughed again, the sound warming his heart in defiance of the winter weather.

The mood between them grew companionable once more as they continued on their way. They’d had no set purpose when they set off from his house, traveling generally in the direction of the shops. Although he was loathe to shatter this renewed sense of peace, he had still not broached the subject that had plagued his thoughts from the moment Higgins had confessed to the true architect of their interview. Taking the chance he would once again incur her wrath, he remarked mildly, “However, I was surprised that you encouraged him to meet with me. I know you think me too hard on my workers, determined to drive them into the ground.”

She shot him a look out of the corner of her eye but refused to rise to his provocation. “It is astonishing to me that we will be married soon and you still have so little understanding of my mind.”

John took a moment to carefully guide Margaret around a throng of people exiting a shop before he murmured, “I’d like to know your mind, if you’d let me. And your heart.”

“I keep neither hidden from you, though I suspect I think better of you than you think of me at present,” she acknowledged, lingering by a shop window to gaze inside at its wares. After a moment, she turned to him. “Tell me, Mr Thornton. I know I’m still unfamiliar to the ways of the North, but is it customary for grooms of Milton to present their brides with a gift?”

“I – yes,” he agreed, surprised by the abrupt change of subject. He had already begun to think on the matter of her wedding present, in fact, but he had not yet come to a decision on the matter.

“Then if you will indulge me, I have a request for my gift.” Undeterred by his slight frown, she continued, “We have both misunderstood and have thought the worst of each other. I ask that we put our misconceptions in the past and move forward together. You once had faith in me, in my character, I think. I wish you’d do so again.”

If only what she asked were so easy to give as a length of ribbon purchased in a shop, John would do so gladly. Glancing around to ensure they weren’t observed, he lowered his voice to prevent being overheard. “You want me to pretend I don’t know you love another? ‘Very much,’ I believe you said.” He had not intended to eavesdrop on her conversation with his mother earlier, but he had heard her admission as he’d entered the house, nevertheless.

She winced, and a shadow flickered across her face. “I do love him,” she admitted in a voice as soft as his own, “but I’m asking you to trust me when I say it’s not in the way you think.”

“Mar—Mis Hale, I’m a reasonable man. If you would explain the situation to me, I would—”

“If I explained the situation to you, there would be no need for faith.” Sliding her hand down his arm, she let her fingers linger of his – a gentle, pleading caress – before dropping her hand to her side. “If you have no faith in me, how could you ever trust me? Whatever disagreements we’ve had in the past, whatever circumstances have brought us to this moment, I do hope we can find contentment in our marriage. But I don’t think that will ever be possible, if you don’t trust me. If we don’t trust each other.” Dropping her voice to a whisper, she added, “Please, John.”

He didn’t know how to reply. How could trust be recovered, once it had been lost? But he could deny her nothing – certainly not when she looked at him as she was now – and so he gave her a short nod. “If it’s in my power to give you, it’s yours,” he agreed, the two turning their attention to more cheerful topics as they continued on their way.

Margaret was surprised to discover how much she genuinely enjoyed Mr Thornton’s company throughout the remainder of the afternoon. Over the course of their acquaintance, their relationship had been marked by the tumult of many conflicting emotions. It was almost strange to find now that his company brought her such measure of peace. Perhaps the shift in her attitude warranted further self-reflection, but she was wary of upsetting the temporary truce into which they had tacitly entered.

At the conclusion of their afternoon together, he offered to escort her home, but she asked him to return her to the mill, instead. She had realized her rudeness only belatedly and wished to make amends to Mrs Thornton, who was only acting in what she perceived to be the best interests of a child she adored. Margaret might be able to fault her for her assumptions and her opinions, but she could not fault the older woman for her devotion, or for being so protective of her only son.

Back in the mill yard, however, she found herself reluctant to return to the task of wedding her wedding, and so she lingered by his side, accompanying him back to his office. Though he could have sent her away, he did not, seemingly longing for her company as much as she desired his.

Once the door was closed behind her, however, she found herself at loose ends, uncertain how to behave in his company. It was not lost upon her that she had behaved most improperly on her last visit to his office.

To her relief, he was not similarly overwhelmed by recollections of the past, although his expression appeared distracted as he stepped behind his desk. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he began, choosing his words carefully. Even so, he was momentarily stymied in his attempts to continue. “Ah…how have you found your time in Milton so far?”

“My time in Milton?” she repeated, at a loss as to his meaning. If he could provide her any insight into his thoughts, it wasn’t forthcoming, so she ventured, “It has been difficult, at times, but I think I’m learning Milton’s ways. I believe – or, rather, I hope – I give less offense than I once did.”

“But what about the place?” he pressed. “Is there nowhere in Milton that you look upon in fondness? Nowhere that brings you joy?”

The more he spoke, the less she was able to comprehend his purpose. “I suppose…I enjoy my daily walks, though they’re only through the graveyard on the hill. I miss the beauty of the landscape in Helstone.”

By the twisting of his mouth, she suspected he was dissatisfied by her answer. “No, there is not much beauty to be found here,” he agreed in an abstracted tone.

“Perhaps if I understood why you’re asking, I could think of a more appropriate answer,” she suggested.

Rather than respond to her request, he pressed, “I wonder if there is anything – or, rather, any place – that has become dear to you in Milton? Is there nothing you would miss if you were to leave?”

You. The thought came so suddenly to mind that it left her confused and off-balance, and she turned away from him so he wouldn’t see her conflicted feelings. Was that really true? Since arriving in Milton, she had held fast to the conviction that there was little to tie her to this town. If she was forced to leave its gray, smoky landscape behind as abruptly as she’d arrived, she believed that there was little she’d need to excise from her heart. She would mourn the absence of her friends Nicholas and Mary, as she still mourned the loss of their beloved Bessie. She would miss them, she would write to them, but they alone did not have sufficient hold on her heart to either convince her to stay or to draw her back to this wretched place.

Surely John could hold no greater sway over her heart than her dearest friends could lay claim to. Closing her eyes, she attempted to gather her thoughts into some form of order. No, it wasn’t that Mr Thornton had such a great claim on her affections, although he certainly had lay claim to her hand. It was simply that Mr Thornton and Milton were so inextricably tied together in her mind that it was impossible to think of one without the other. Everything that could be said about this town – good and bad – was personified in him. Its coarse and terrible harshness. Its strength and awful beauty. Pride and ambition, warring with vulnerability and compassion.

Mr Thornton was Milton to her, for good or for ill. It wasn’t just her life that had undergone a dramatic change since her relocation to this Northern industrial town, it was her person, and he could claim as much credit for that alteration as the poverty and want she witnessed every day.

Margaret raised a trembling hand to brush a lock of hair off her face, more to have a momentary distraction from her thoughts than from a need to put any unkemptness to rights. “I suppose,” she ventured in an uneven tone, once again looking upon the mill yard with sightless eyes, “it would be here.” She could hardly confess to the direction in which her thoughts had turned, and claiming the mill seemed as good a deflection as any.

In fact, there was perhaps some underlying truth to her words. Though the memory of the riot was hardly a peaceful or welcome one, she believed her words had helped calm the situation, if only briefly. She had momentarily soothe the rioters’ tempers and, in doing so, had helped ensure the safety of the Irish workers locked in the mill. Since first arriving in Milton, she had tried to find ways to make herself useful, but that had been the first day that she’d truly felt of use.

“The mill?” he asked, astonishment evident in his voice. She turned to face him once more and felt her heart begin to pound at the warmth of his gaze. “Do you mean it?”

“Well, so much has happened here,” she conceded. “Both bad and – and good.” This is where the two of them had met, after all, albeit in less than auspicious circumstances. Where she had first argued with him. It had been here at the mill that she had first seen Bessie, and their friendship was one she would treasure all her life. It was in his dealings with his workers that she had first begun to see Mr Thornton’s integrity. His honesty. His honor. And then, after a time, even his compassion for those under his care.

The mill had also been where she and John had shared their first, impetuous kiss, but if she dwelled too long on that memory, she thought she might die of mortification. Or, more perilously, of desire.

She had said enough. She should hold her tongue, lest her somehow discern the direction of her thoughts and ask questions of her that she was incapable of answering. He was still gazing at her with an enigmatic expression, and she found herself adding lamely before her voice trailed off into embarrassed silence, “It’s where I first met Bessie. I miss her.”

In response to her words, his eyes grew cold, his expression aloof once more, chilling her more completely than the merciless winter wind when it blew in from the North. “I see,” he replied in clipped tones, stepping away. As though they were tied by an invisible thread, she followed after him.

“Wait!” she blurted, staying his retreat. In her attempts to hide her thoughts from his view, she had caused offense and, she feared, had hurt him. “Please, do not misunderstand. Your friendship is very important to me.”

“My friendship.” He spoke the words more to himself than to her, as though mulling them over. As she watched, the storm that had overcome him seemed to fade away, although his emotions were obscured as he said, “Friends. Is that what we’ve been to each other?”

“I’d like to think so,” she agreed, though her mouth grew suddenly dry as he drew near. Reaching for her, he cupped the nape of her neck in his palm, his fingers tickling the bare, soft skin he found there as he drew her in for a kiss. It was the first embrace they had shared since her humiliating display of impropriety in her father’s sitting room.

Margaret had intentionally avoided any situation where the two might spend time alone in private, in order to resist temptation. Now that it had presented itself, however, she found herself its willing accomplice, gripping the front of his coat as she leaned in to his embrace.

Breaking off the kiss, John’s face remained inches from hers as he whispered, “My sweet Margaret, it seems we’re always talking at cross-purposes.”

She indulged in a cheeky grin in defiance of the serious subject as she replied, “It is worrisome that the only time we don’t seem to argue is when our mouths are otherwise occupied.”

His eyes widened at her unexpected boldness, but her efforts were rewarded when she heard his soft chuckle. “I suppose it’s one way to win an argument.”

“You’ll have to bear it in mind. It might be the only way you ever have an advantage over me,” she teased him, eliciting a laugh. It hadn’t taken her long in Milton to realize that laughter from the Master of Marlborough Mills was a rare sound, indeed. She treasured each occasion on which she’d managed to provoke him to such lightness of spirit.

His good humor remained as he pressed one more kiss against her lips. “Will we never come to understand each other?”

Margaret sighed in contentment, her head falling against this shoulder as she mused, “I suppose we have our entire lives together in which to try.”

She felt his breath against her cheek as he murmured, “I was asking because there’s something I’ve been meaning to give you. I hoped to find a more romantic spot for it than this, but—” His voice trailed off as she drew back and gasped when she saw him pull a ring out of his pocket. As unconventional as their engagement had been, she had never thought to expect a ring to mark the occasion.

Like the man who offered it, the ring was simple but beautiful. A table cut sapphire flanked by small pearls had been set into a delicate gold band. “I don’t have any family heirlooms to pass on, I’m afraid,” he admitted. “Those were…lost, long ago.” She understood immediately. Undoubtedly, he had been forced to sell them to pay for his family’s care and the debts his father had left behind following his suicide. “If the ring isn’t to your liking, I could have it reset into something more—”

“No,” she reassured him, extending her hand in silent invitation so that he could slide it on her finger. Its weight was unfamiliar, but the presence of it was a reminder of the way her life would soon change. The way it had already changed. It gave a strange sense of permanence to their engagement which was both daunting and oddly reassuring.

It would have perhaps been a logical moment for the two to exchange another kiss, but Margaret stayed where she was, and Mr Thornton made no move to bridge the gap between them. They had already shared one illicit embrace that day, and experience (in this very room, no less) indicated just how dangerous giving into temptation too many times could be.

Lost in her thoughts, she remarked, “It’s perfect. It reminds me of you. Of the day we met.” At his puzzled expression, she explained, “The sapphire matches your eyes, and the pearls remind me of the cotton in the air the first time I saw you. It was beautiful. Like snow.”

“I wouldn’t have thought the cotton would have been what drew your attention,” he admitted in a wry tone. But, of course, he undoubtedly believed their angry encounter was the first time she’d seen him. He didn’t yet know the truth.

“It wasn’t, during the, ah, incident. But first saw you a little before then, when you were looking over the workroom. I thought you looked very—” Handsome. She had thought him the most handsome man she had ever seen. “—forbidding.”

“An opinion that could hardly have been contradicted by our initial meeting,” he acknowledged. “There have been times I’ve wished I could go back to that day. Things might have been easier for us if I’d made a better first impression.”

She’d wondered something similar before, just as she’d wished she could go back in time and prevent their ill-fated meeting at the railroad station. But there was no benefit to brooding upon things that neither of them could change. “There’s no point in dwelling upon the past. We must look to the future.”

The ring on her finger glinted in the sunlight, an omnipresent reminder that the future they were destined to share together, lest she ever be tempted to forget.

Following that pleasant afternoon spent in Mr Thornton’s company, Margaret did not see him again for several days. She continued to work with his mother to finalize wedding plans, neither woman broaching the subject of their former disagreement. Then one evening, with the wedding less than a fortnight away, Margaret received confirmation she had awaited with equal measures of anticipation and dread.

She was not with child.

How would Mr Thornton respond to this revelation? She could not in good conscience keep it from him, not when his proposal had stemmed from a sense of honor that, it turned out, was misplaced. Uncertain how her news would be received, she put off telling him for as long as she could, but finally, she came to terms with the knowledge that she had no other choice.

It was with a heavy heart that she prepared to step out into the cold winter weather, to make the long walk to the mill to see him. Strictly speaking, meeting with him in private was still not entirely proper, although they were engaged. However, society was often willing to extend a measure of grace to couples who had already entered into a formal agreement, in a way they would never do for the unattached.

Her imagination played havoc with her nerves for the entire walk to his office, the Mr Thornton that existed in her own mind embracing every reaction from elation to scorn. It was unlikely that the Mr Thornton that existed in flesh and blood would indulge in either such extreme, but her mind insisted upon pondering each scenario in turn, nonetheless.

When she let herself into his office, however, she did not find him hard at work, as she’d anticipated. Instead, his head lay upon his desk, his hands stretched out on either side. Her discarded scarf was trapped under one hand, one end trailing over the edge of the desk to fall upon the floor. His coat had been discarded, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. He had fallen asleep in his chair, exhausted by the relentless work that occupied both his days and – more and more frequently, of late – his nights.

Something in the general region of her heart twisted as she gazed upon his features, peaceful and soft in repose. She was accustomed to seeing his expression in studious contemplation, in the throws of anger, set in determination, when overwhelmed by desire. This was the first time she had seen him look so at peace.

She was tempted to leave him be, to back out of the room in silence to allow him a few more moments of rest. However, she also longed to touch him, this man who would soon be hers. Reason warred with desire, and desire won. Compelled to reach for him, she extended one hand to brush the hair off his forehead with a tenderness she didn’t dare show him in his waking hours.

His eyes fluttered open at her touch, his gaze hazy and unfocused and a smile softening the edges of his face as he sat up. “Margaret. Is this a dream?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she replied softly, her hand cupping his cheek.

He sighed, leaning into her embrace, the harsh scrape of his stubble scraping gently against her palm. She watched as he slowly came to awareness, shedding the last vestiges of sleep, as his expression grew more guarded and withdrawn.

Finally, he pulled away and stood. “Miss Hale, I apologize. I was indisposed when you came in.”

Embarrassed that he had caught her in a tender moment, she muttered a soft reassurance, stepping around the desk to give him more space as he pulled himself together. “I didn’t mean to come by unannounced. There’s something I – I need to tell you.” Sucking in as deep a breath as she could manage around her corset, she linked her fingers so that they might not forget their place again so soon and confessed, “I’m not with child.”

At her words, he grew so still, she might have thought he was a statue, except she could see that his mind was working furiously in the tumult of emotions behind his eyes. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

An awful silence full of unspoken things fell between them once again. Mr Thornton busied himself by continuing to set himself to rights. As he shrugged into his coat, he asked, “Will you cry off the engagement, then?”

In her previous flight of fancy, she had imagined several possible responses to her confession. That he might ask this single, simple question with an attitude of such quiet calm had not entered into her musings. “Do you want me to cry off?” she asked, astonished by the turn of their conversation.

He wouldn’t look at her, busying himself with straightening the cravat he’d hastily tied a few moments earlier. “I don’t want to force you into marriage against your will. I know crying off might damage your reputation, however, so I have no objection to letting it be known that you were the one to put an end to our agreement.”

It hadn’t gone unnoticed that he’d avoided her question, and she was unwilling to let him off the hook so easily. Crossing her arms over her chest, she demanded, “But is that what you want, John?”

At the sound of his given name, his eyes darted to her face, and she was strangely relieved to see that his outward calm was not reflected in their blue depths. “My desires are unchanged,” he admitted in a hoarse voice. “But I’ll not blame you for crying off. You might be wise to do so. The truth is, the financial situation at the Mills is…precarious. We have enough to cover payroll. For now. I had hoped to keep our circumstances secret a while longer, in the hopes that I might find a solution that resolves our problems without anyone else ever discovering how bad things have gotten. However, if you wish to cry off, I’ll not contest that you have cause.”

Although her father had intimated his suspicions that the strike had put strain on the mills, Margaret was surprised to learn of the extent of the damage. “Are things really so bad?”

Mr Thornton sighed. “Although I wish I could promise you a secure future, I cannot. I can only swear that, if you still wish to be my wife, I will care for you to the best of my ability.”

Knowing what she did of his past, she didn’t doubt that capacity was great indeed. Still, she was not unconscious of the depths of his sacrifice in extending her such an offer. Mr Thornton was a private man, particularly in matters concerning his business. It would be a blow to his pride for his financial straits to be made public, for him to be viewed as incapable of caring for a wife to the extent that the shame of a broken engagement was her only reasonable recourse. But for her, he would do it. Without question.

“That won’t be necessary,” she reassured him, her voice thick with emotion but surprisingly firm, resting her hand over his so the gold of his engagement band glinted in the candlelight. “I have made you a promise. The circumstances that prompted our engagement might have changed, but my resolve hasn’t. I will marry you, gladly—” Gladly? Where had that come from? Willingly, she would have understood, but gladly? “If you’ll still have me.”

She saw the muscles in his jaw flex as he swallowed heavily, reaching up to capture her hand in his own. He appeared to struggle to find the words, finally managing to say, “It would be my honor.”

Their emotional intimacy was more than Margaret had expected, and it was certainly more than she was prepared to deal with at present. She was finding it increasingly difficult to comprehend their situation. Although they hadn’t spoken of Frederick since their stolen afternoon together, she held no illusions that he had yet found it in his heart to forgive her, let alone to trust her. His lack of faith in her character was one reason she was firm in her conviction that his proposal had not stemmed from an excess of sentiment.

And yet…he treated her with uncommon tenderness, which often seemed so at odds with her brusque persona. That he desired her, there could be no question. However, his attitude toward her seemed to extend beyond physical longing – or even honorable obligation. Without his trust, she couldn’t possibly have his love, could she? Did she even want it? Her own feelings for him were still too conflicted for her to be certain, one way or another.

Pulling her hand from his, she stepped back, increasing the distance between them until she was nearly to the door. Under the circumstances, she couldn’t afford to allow herself to believe in the fiction that their present engagement was anything more than an act of honor, even if the fear that had prompted it had proved to be fruitless. “I should go. It isn’t proper for me to be alone with you like this,” she told him, although they had skirted the bounds of propriety before.

He didn’t protest. However, he drew her attention one more time, before she could escape. “Miss Hale.” When she turned to look at him over her shoulder, he said simply, “Thank you.”

Margaret frowned at him. “I don’t seek your gratitude any more than you wish for mine.”

He was unmoved by her argument. “Nevertheless, you have it.”

Her hand resting on the door, she regarded him in silence for a moment before saying, “We are in this together, Mr Thornton. For better or for worse. If we cannot depend upon each other for kindness and understanding, then who may we rely upon?”

Concerned that her tongue would further betray her innermost feelings if she remained, she slipped out the door and rushed out of the mill, eager to return to the safety of her father’s house. Knowing it wouldn’t be her home for much longer.

If her feelings for her fiancé were this complicated now, how much more of a mess would they be in once he became her husband?

#like moths to a flame #north and south #john thornton #margaret hale #fanfiction #my fanfiction #john x margaret

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thinkyoureholy · 5 years

Text

Soul Eater [2]

Pairing : Jung Yunho / [Fem] Reader

Genre : Angst, Violence, Language, Fluff, Future Smut, Character Death? Demon!AU

Words : 3.2k

Pt 1. Pt 2. Pt 3. Pt 4. Pt 5. Pt 6. Pt 7. Pt 8. Pt 9.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

-Yunho's P.O.V-

"So the moment I make a sound she's ready to tear a new hole into me but I can't say anything when she's throwing stuff around? Make it make sense."

Mingi smirked while San just chuckled, leaning back in his chair with an overly smug look on his face.

“I say you two should just fuck to get over this tension that’s between the two of you.” He said as if it was nothing.

I glared at him, throwing a napkin in his face in retaliation of his stupid joke, “That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be funny.”

“She hates me.” I deadpanned, drawing a snicker from Mingi’s lips, “You have anything to add?”

He raised his hands in surrender, shaking his head but he gave his impute either way, “San might have a point here.”

“He has no point.”

“Look all I’m saying is from what I’m hearing she’s the complete opposite of you and you know what they say, opposites attract. Why not try and give it a shot?”

I stared at the two of them with the most expressionless look on my face, “You two are crazy.”

“C’mon man, it doesn’t hurt to try. I mean what could go wrong?” San jumped in, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“Everything could go wrong. If I say the wrong thing I can guarantee that she won’t hesitate to throw me out the window.” I explained, hoping they’d understand that there’s no way in hell anything between me and Y/N was ever going to happen, “I mean she doesn’t even care enough to learn my name! We’ve lived in the same apartment for the last four years and she still calls me ‘305’.”

The two laughed at that, the biggest grins I had ever seen spreading across their faces.

“I know she hates you but man I would love to meet her. I’d get such a kick out of seeing her actually call you ‘305’ to your face. I mean just knowing she calls you that is already hilarious but actually getting to experience that in person...man I’d pay to see that.” Mingi teases, the grin on his face only growing.

I just stared at the two of them. Fine if they wanted to see it in person I should at least be getting paid for being insulted. I put a hand out, the smiles on their faces falling slightly as they looked down at my hand before meeting my gaze.

“Fine, it’s $100 a piece.”

They shared a look before the smiles they had on their faces moments before returned. They dug into their pockets and pulled out their wallets, placing a crisp hundred dollar bill in my hand.

“Let’s go.” I grumbled, pocketing the money begrudgingly.

Those two were pretty loud as we walked down the block my apartment building was on. I was half hoping Y/N would be out like she usually is but to my disappointment she was walking towards us, or to be more precise towards our apartment building. I groaned internally when the guys pushed me ahead of them, causing me to lose my balance. I tripped over my own two feet, already feeling myself fall forward. Unfortunately for me Y/N was close enough for me to fall into her. I was half expecting her to, you know, try and catch me or help me regain my balance like any normal person would. But it was my mistake to think she was normal in the first place. I fell face first into the pavement, Y/N stepping to the side to avoid contact with me. I could feel her staring down at me as well as hear the guys trying to hold in the laugh that wanted to come out.

“You should really watch where you’re going.” Y/N said in a bored tone of voice, not an ounce of concern in her voice.

I grit my teeth, pushing myself off the ground and rising to my feet, glaring at her, “Gee thanks for the advice, I’ll make sure to follow it next time.” I snapped at her sarcastically.

She raised a brow at my tone of voice, something flashed in her eyes for a moment but it was gone before I could even question what it was. She didn’t say another word as she turned to walk into our apartment building. I marched after her, the guys following closely behind. We all packed ourselves into the small elevator, the guys staying quiet as I spoke to her.

“You know you could’ve helped me back there instead of just letting me fall on my face.”

She looked into my eyes, the same bored expression on her face, “It’s not my fault you don’t know how to walk properly.”

I set my jaw, closing my eyes for a moment as I inhaled deeply through my nose, “It’s called being a good samaritan.”

She smirked at me, tilting her head to the side, “And who ever said I was good to begin with, 305?”

Hearing her call me ‘305’ caused me to snap at her like I never had before, “Yunho! My name is Yunho! At least have the courtesy of knowing the name of the neighbor you’re always insulting!”

She looked at me wide eyed, surprised at my sudden outburst. The elevator had gone so quiet you’d be able to hear a needle falling to the floor. And it stayed quiet until the elevator dinged, signalling we had arrived to my floor. I pushed passed the guys and headed for my apartment. I could hear them coming after me a few seconds later.

-Y/N’s P.O.V-

I stared at the elevator doors as they closed, still a little taken aback by his sudden outburst. But the moment the shock wore off I smirked, tilting my head from side to side as I stared at my reflection, my eyes having changed to their true black color.

“Yunho...you’ve got guts I’ll give you that…”

I walked out of the elevator with that smirk still on my face. As soon as I walked into my apartment I could hear Yunho ranting through the floorboards. I couldn’t help but listen intently to what he was saying, agreeing with most of it myself as I dropped my jacket onto the couch. Everything he was saying was true. I was grumpy all the time, I insulted him every time I saw him, I complained at every little thing he did, I’ve threatened him more times than I can count with my fingers, everything he was saying was true but I never cared about those things and I don’t think I ever will. What point is there being nice to humans? I’m not one of them anymore and they just irritate me now. In the time that I have been alive there has not been a single human that I have been affectionate towards. And the more time I stayed up here the more I thought I never would.

“Okay so Y/N solving your problems of being single is out of the question.”

I scoffed at the thought of just being in a relationship with a human, let alone Yunho.

“Hey why don’t you try summoning a demon or something, ask if they want to get with you cause no human is willing to.”

I froze at those words, staring down at the floorboards with wide eyes. Those idiots- your souls are too precious to be selling away for something as idiotic as that! They better not go through with it, I swear I’ll kill them all for being so stupid. This is why I hated humans. They sold away the one thing that made them human and for what? Shit like this. I’ll admit a small percentage sold their souls to bring a loved one back to life, that is the only reason I will excuse it but this? This was unacceptable. They have no idea the kind of shit they get into because their souls were claimed by demons. I clenched my hands at my sides, my claws coming out. I felt them pierce through the skin of my palms, my blood trickling down to the floor underneath my feet.

The sound of a door slamming shut snapped me out of my thoughts, I held my breath as I listened for more of their conversation but I didn’t hear anything. Yunho must’ve kicked them out. A hint of a smile played at my lips, maybe he’s not the idiot I pegged him to be. I let out a sigh, but it wasn’t the usual sigh of exasperation or frustration, it was a sigh of relief, relief over not having to take a soul that didn’t deserve to be tied down to hell for all eternity once the human was dead.

……

It had been a few hours since I last heard anything coming from downstairs but I paid it no mind. I preferred the silence anyway so I can’t really complain. I had been craving some sweets and I needed something to pass the time before I started being summoned. Witching hour or ‘devil’s hour’ was about to start and that's when I’d be called on the most. Just as I finished mixing the batter for the cookies I was making my surroundings changed.

I closed my eyes for a moment, exhaling deeply before opening my eyes and looking around. And what I saw had me in shock. I turned to take everything in, my wings knocking things over in the enclosed space. No, no, no, that idiot! Just as I had that thought I made eye contact with him. The moment his eyes made contact with my pitch black ones his legs gave out as he fell back onto his ass. I let out what could only be described as an animalistic growl, baring my teeth as I took an unconscious step towards him. The moment my foot went over the line of the drawn pentagram a sharp pain travelled up my leg. The pain was excruciating, I could barely stand as I fell to my knees in the small space he made for me.

“You idiot…” I groaned out through clenched teeth, still feeling the pain but it was more bearable now, “Let me out.”

He said nothing as he stared at me, bewildered. I reached out a hand without thinking, crossing the line. I brought my hand back to my chest almost immediately, crying out in pain. I doubled over, the pain worse this time.

“Let...me...out…”

“You’re--you’re a demon?” He asked, finally getting his mouth to move.

I grit my teeth once more, spreading my wings out and swinging at the air above his head, “Let me out!”

He jumped at my shout, crawling away from me before he rose to his feet, “N-No. I...I want to make a deal with you.”

“If it’s about finding you a significant other you can forget it! I won’t make a deal for something so idiotic!”

He stared at me dumbfounded for a moment before he shot me a glare, “I’m in control here and you-”

-Yunho’s P.O.V-

She cut me off with a laugh. I stepped back at the sound, a chill running down the length of my spine. She was thrown into a fit of hysterics but it wasn’t the kind that put a smile on your face, no, it was the kind that had your stomach twisting in fear. She doubled over, clutching her stomach with one hand while she brought the other to cover her face as she continued to laugh...that is until she suddenly stopped. She looked at me through through her fingers, her hair having fallen over her eyes, the smile on her lips had my heart skipping a beat but not in a good way.

“You’re in control? You? A mere human, in control of me?” She paused to chuckle darkly, rising to her full height, combing her fingers through her hair to show her whole face, “I'm a demon, boy. No human can control me. Even Lucifer himself has a tough time keeping me in check but you think you hold some power over me? Know your place.”

Her eyes were no longer just black. They glowed red where her iris and pupil would be, shining bright against the blacks of her eyes. I took a step back at the sight of her, pure unadulterated fear running through my veins but I spoke up either way. I had noticed that she didn't make a move to leave the pentagram and that's when I realized, it's not that she didn't want to leave...she can't.

"You--you can't step over that can you? So...that means I'm the only one that can let you out...so I...I am the one in control here." I stuttered, unable to hide the fear in my voice.

She grit her teeth but said no more. So I'm right. She can't do anything about the pentagram I had her in. I let a nervous smile spread across my face but it fell the moment I met her gaze. She was glaring so fiercely I thought I'd die from just staring into her eyes.

"Y/N I want-"

"Yunho! Stop this! You don't know what you're asking for!" She shouted, taking a cautious step towards me.

She must've forgotten how small the pentagram was as she fell to her knees once more, crying out in pain. Seeing her in this much pain made me want to let her out but I stopped myself. The surprise I felt at knowing she was a demon passed fairly quickly. I still couldn't believe it but it's true, I mean how else can you explain the claws, eyes, and wings. If I let her out she'd surely kill me and then I would've died for nothing. So I'm going to make a deal with her even if I have to force her into it.

"Make a deal with me."

"No." She all but hissed out, still in pain.

"Why not? Shouldn't you demons be happy at making a deal?"

"You think I like what I do? Sure, I'm good at it but I don't like it. Especially when the deals I make with humans are totally one sided, I get all of the benefits," She groaned out, her voice breaking halfway through, "You have no idea what you're getting yourself into."

"I know exactly what I'm getting myself into."

I knew what I wanted was stupid but I was just tired of it all. So who cares if I make a deal with a demon for something so minuscule? If it'll make me happy then…

"I want a significant other."

She hung her head at the sound of my request, her claws digging into her palms, "Is that really what you want?"

"Yes."

"Yunho...what's your full name?" She asked, her head still bowed, her voice trembling slightly.

"Jung Yunho."

She stayed silent for a moment before she finally relaxed, her hands no longer clenched into fists, "Undo the pentagram. I can't seal the deal while trapped in here."

I hesitated. What if she tries to kill me once she's free? She must have been able to tell what I was thinking as she sighed heavily.

"I won't hurt you, you have my word. Once I've heard your request I have no choice but to seal the deal and get you what you want."

At hearing that I relaxed, stepping forward to smudge a line of the pentagram. As soon as it was done she stepped out of the pentagram, her wings lay flat against her back as she reached out, grabbing my wrist in her hand. I flinched the moment her fingers touched my skin but surprisingly enough her touch was gentle...even a little warm. I stood there silently, staring into her eyes, mesmerized by them. She reached over to place her hand on the side of my neck but unlike before I didn't flinch, in fact I leaned into her touch.

"Jung Yunho, your soul...is now mine." She whispered gently, her voice barely audible.

But I heard her loud and clear. Soul? Wait they didn't- My thoughts were cut off completely when she leaned forward, suddenly capturing my lips with her. Without thinking I groaned low in my throat, pulling her closer. Our lips moved in sync for awhile before she finally pulled away but I followed after her not wanting the kiss to end. But she pulled away fully, stepping out of my hold. I opened my eyes to see she had gone back to normal, her wings and claws were gone and her eyes were no longer black. But the look she held in her eyes was a bit unsettling.

"Call me whenever you need me to play the part of your girlfriend." She said with as little emotion as possible, turning on her heel to walk out of my apartment.

Wait...she was going to be my new girlfriend? I went to stop her, grabbing onto her wrist but the moment my fingers touched she yanked her arm away. She stopped walking but refused to turn around.

"You never said anything about you being-"

"That's what happens when you make a deal with a demon...we give you what you want but there's always a twist. This is why I tried so hard to stop you," she said, her voice softer than I had ever heard it, "Now your soul will burn in hell for all of eternity...just like the others. If you had just listened to me-"

"Why would you try and stop me in the first place? Last time I checked you hated me."

She's never shown any type of concern for me so she should be glad I made this stupid deal in the first place...or that's what I thought. The moment I asked her why she turned to face me, the look in her eyes was a mix of anger...and sadness?

"I never truly hated you...I just couldn't stand how annoying you are but I never felt any hate towards you. I tried--I tried so hard to stop you because…" She trailed off, her voice beginning to break, "Your souls are the most precious things you are born with and yet you humans...you give it away so easily."

She paused for a moment, inhaling deeply before shaking her head, rubbing her hands over her face, "Humanity truly has not changed one bit."

She mumbled this under her breath, as if she had been alive for a long, long time. And I don't doubt it. The way she spoke...I could tell she's seen many things. This could explain why she's the way she is...she must have given up on humanity a long time ago. She didn't say another word, finally leaving my apartment.

-Y/N's P.O.V-

I slid down the door of my apartment, my knees pressed against my chest as I rested my elbows on my knees, burying my face in my hands. All this had started bringing flashbacks of the time I was human. My memories had been wiped the moment I died but after I became a demon they started coming back slowly, piece by piece. It was still a jumbled mess but I was able to put the pieces back together and what I saw...I never wanted to remember.

"Dammit Yunho, you have no idea what you just got yourself into."

Tags : @chanyeolol

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