#he just wants to brood in peace and listen to his tunes

[fanaticsnail]

Benn Beckman's Alt Divorced "Dad Rock" Playlist

Some thoughts before I go hard into carving out Sapsorrow.

Modern au Benn Beckman has a playlist the other guys always give him shit for, but he loves it.

When he's driving, that playlist is the only thing he allows over the radio. Shanks would rather be listening to literally anything else, but will tell the other guys to: "Pack it in! The big man's got some feelings he's gotta get out!"

Shanks secretly loves the playlist, especially the Red Hot Chili Peppers & Nickleback, but would never admit it.

Here is the playlist so far (that I've already forced upon @sordidmusings, @since-im-already-here & @feral-artistry)

If you have thoughts on what more to add, clue me in! I love making playlists, and this one was really fun to make.

#benn beckman #op benn beckman #benn beckmans alt divorced dad rock playlist #benn beckman broodily breasting boobily #shanks #red hair pirates #modern au benn beckman #dad rock #alt dad rock playlist #one piece #beckman wives unite #he just wants to brood in peace and listen to his tunes

[a-world-with0ut-dr34ms]

Your Touch

Ghost x Reader

Ghost likes getting his back rubbed at night.

SFW, Extreme Fluff, Back Rubs, Cuddles, Pre-established Relationship, Hurt and Comfort, Touch-Starved!Ghost, Ghost is soft and vulnerable in this, Drabble, Scarcely Proofread

How about some fluff amidst all the smut I've been working on. 💞

Masterlist

"I don't quite know how to ask this, but..."

Simon's eyes dipped down quickly from yours, back towards the ceiling, a sudden rush of shyness and vulnerability running through this large, deadly man like a tidal wave. Once a suitable amount of seconds had passed, he turned his body to face you, the entire bed shifting against his form and tugging at the covers.

"...Could you rub me?"

Your lips curve into a crooked and playful smile as you turn on the bed to face him, your hands resting comfortably sandwiched between your head and your pillow.

"Rub you?" You say, fingers playfully beginning to sift through the covers towards his lower half. "Your wish is my command, Si'."

Your hands have just reached the waistband of his sweatpants when you suddenly feel a strong grip gently take hold over your wrist.

You hesitate at first, immediately fearful that you've suddenly overstepped a boundary or done something wrong; since beginning your relationship with Simon, you've done the most to be respectful of his pace. If he wished you to stop then you would, no questions asked. But you catch his eyes -- dark brown orbs half-lidded and wavering. You knew this had been something else.

He could have you continue; go on with feeling your skin slide against his before you've found the better parts of him you'd been yearning for. Have your small fingers dance and tug at him until you've pulled the night-time exhaustion he'd been looking for out of him. He could have that happen and have no complaints at all. He knows he always could.

And yet he holds your hand back, keeping your touch as far away as his brooding gaze had suddenly become.

"Not that," he says. "Not tonight at least, love. I meant rub me like..."

Like the first night you ever rubbed him. A night spent longer than most together in bed wrapped in one another's arms. Your breathing was a soft tune his ears could follow along to as he rested, your arms better than any blanket he could have.

As he laid on top of you, an innocent gesture on his part, your hand slipped beneath his shirt. Before long he had felt your fingers softly glide over the most neglected parts of his back, tracing small lines and circles.

Touch never came gentle to Simon; it has always been a sick and harmful thing. To feel a touch now so sweet and with care, without even having to ask, the man had felt unworthy by nature. And mostly he had felt sorrow, in many degrees beyond its own self. 

If this is what a loving touch had truly felt like -- like safety and peace -- it turned his stomach at times to be aware that he never felt such a thing in his life until now. Not from anyone beyond his mother. A short-lived time that left as quickly as it remained. But nothing had been this. He knew that the moment he felt you.

He remembers not wanting that night to ever end. And he remembers how fast it had put him to sleep as well. Since that day he's silently enjoyed your hands running against him innocently, never quite finding the strength to ask you outright to do it more often until now. 

What had made tonight different, he couldn't say. But even now, with your hands in his, patiently listening to him, he just wanted you to touch him more. Extend your body out to him and remind him of his own humanity.

"I don't know how to describe it..." Simon says, though he'd partly been lying.  He could describe in full detail what he wanted if it didn't make him feel so frail doing so.

But you smile, seeing the bashful glint in his brown eyes and understanding the man's hesitancy to be more upfront. "I understand."

You slip your hand from him and gently curve it over his body beneath the covers, scooting your way over until your short arms finally manage to reach his back. 

Your fingers gently comb over his skin, grazing him faintly with your nails, as you've begun to let your hand trails up his spine from the lower half of his back all the way up to the base of his neck. You let your finger pass each link of his spine beneath his skin, feeling the goosebumps you had risen over his entire body. 

Simon lets out a gruff groan and sinks into your arms, letting his head begin to nuzzle into your chest, and giving you a better angle to rub him. "You're too good to me love," he says. 

His continued little adjustments only make you laugh. "It's the least I can do for you, Simon."

A/N: I'm participating in Kinktober somewhat, but I might mix in more fluff and angst pieces as well. Just to throw in some variety ^^

#ghost x reader #ghost simon riley #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #call of duty #modern warfare ii #call of duty modern warfare ii #mwii #mw2022 #call of duty modern warfare 2 #ghost #simon riley #Spotify

[mirahuyooo]

Under The Sun | myg

Under the Sun | Elysian Tales — Greek Myth! AU

Min Yoongi as Apollo

— She loved everything under the sun. For she is a blissful warmth herself, it would be hard not to like her company. And so, eventually, the sun came to love her, too. 

Word Count: 25,155 words  Content/s: AnGsT, FluFf, pining, strangers to lovers ayEEE, switching POVs (mostly Yoongi’s), vaguely historical setting, BLONDE YOONGI, there’s a girl named Teresa here (sorry if it’s your name already lmao), there’s also a male rival (but not really?????), apollo!yoongi brooding a lot and having a crisis over his feelings, Hyacinthus is his ex btw so he’s mentioned a few times lol, Artemis!Yoonji (yes that yoonji with the bangs) being a good twin sis, brief (but a bit graphic??) mention of death & dead bodies (uhh… happy Halloween???? Lol couldn’t post it in time but oh well AJSDJASD), Yoongi and you kinda go sadistic for a moment (but its dESERVED anyway lol), Greek Mythology AU Pairing: Min Yoon Gi x Reader Inspired by Apollo and Hyacinthus (I think it’d be safe to say that? WHAHSHDAHSD)

[masterlist] | [Elysian Tales masterlist]

A/N: I've been gone for a L O N G TIME AHHAHAHAHA and this biTCH is THREE YEARS IN THE MAKING i dID NOT intend it to be SO LONG either (this is the LONGEST I've ever written a oneshot omfg) HWHAHSHSHSH I couldn’t decide if I want this to be a modern or a historical fantasy but I ended up with something somewhat historical WHAHSH I really did like the concept though so I hope you guys like it too! Enjoy!

In such a small town sitting on the far edge of a kingdom, the people there heavily relied on travellers and merchants coming in to tell them of the current entertainment and ongoings of the capital. And so, musicians were a marvel to come upon—a chance to listen to the possible latest of music. 

The song that filled the air lured people into a humble tavern, gathering around the cloaked young man in the corner playing the lute. His fingers fiddled with the strings and gave birth to music in a way that none of them had ever heard of. Others leaned closer to watch him play, while others reclined to the sound of his music. “What a wonderful tune, sir!” a woman from the crowd claims, sitting by his table, “you must be a blessed child of Apollo.”

She was a beauty with long curls of brown, framing such features that any man would find pleasing to look at. Her blue eyes held a certainty within them, as if she knew her beauty was her weapon above others, and though this may have been true for just about everyone in this town, it doesn’t save her from the disrespect of her actions. She leans towards the musician, a little too close and makes him miss a tune or two. 

Someone else, followed by others, protested against her move. “Let the man play in peace, Teresa!” 

Amidst the hollers, the young man nearly flinched—not that anyone would’ve noticed or cared. Whether the woman, herself, had noticed any discomfort or not, she only shamelessly  grinned, batting her eyelashes at him. Her flowery words did nothing to the man, however. 

He was scowling.

Still, his fingers deliver a smooth end to the tune, ignoring the cheers from the people around him. Having no need for them, the foreigner barely bothers to acknowledge such praises, and simply reaches for the pint he had left unattended before. 

The kind owner of the tavern approaches him with a grateful bow. “Thank you for the music, good sir,” he says to the quiet man, “Would you like another pint? I would gladly give one to you, free of charge.”

A shake of a head was the only reply the old man received, as the musician wordlessly gathered his bearings and slipped past any of those who attempted to approach him for recruitment of his talents and service. He knew better than to trust any mortal, and didn’t even bother to confirm it for himself.            

“Wait, sir!”

The woman, Teresa, from earlier comes chasing after him. “Leaving so soon?” she muses, clutching onto his arm. “Why not play more for us?”

The touch of this mortal on his skin made his blood boil. He glares at the hands that dared to hold him back, before raising a stern glare that takes the woman aback. Eyes glowing for a fraction of a moment, he sees in her eyes the flashes of her life in shambles—a woman so desperate to rile a reaction out of her absentee lover that she had resorted to seducing the rest of the town in petty vengeance.

“No,” he simply tells her, almost having to force himself out of her grasp. “Go back inside now, before your lover sees any of this.”

“I beg your pardon?” the woman stammers, a look of confusion casting onto her once daring features. “How did y—”

Rolling his eyes, the young man leaves the woman gawking outside the tavern, marching anywhere his feet would take him—which, apparently, was the large forest that surrounded the town. A sigh escapes the musician’s lips, as he sought refuge in a clearing. Sitting against a boulder, he looks at the lute on his lap, contemplating.   

The air becomes heavily downcast, in spite of the warm glow radiated by the sun. Those who merely proceed with their lives will barely sense the tinge of woebegone discomfort carried by the still ambiance. Then again, not everyone would notice the sun's lack of fervor in shining—no mortal would in this part of the world.

The golden years of the gods and goddesses have long passed and by the minute, a little bit of nostalgia couldn't be helped. To the great god of the Sun and Music, Apollo—as he was once called—yesterday was but a mirage that slipped past his fingertips. Often did his mind drift down the rich lane of memories, looking back at the ventures that were now merely dismissed as legends among the people.

Apollo. 

He nearly scoffs at the name mortals gave him millennia ago. There was barely anyone now who fully addressed him with all the true respect and worship a god must have. It was nothing but an expression now. There was no Apollo. It was Yoongi at the moment.

Min Yoongi, the stoic musician who travels from kingdom to kingdom. Min Yoongi who lives by his lonesome self, playing music or listening to tunes of others. Min Yoongi whose alluring yet enigmatic aura entices yet intimidates all of those he comes across. Min Yoongi—a name for the mere mortal disguise to mask the identity of a morose god.

Yoongi recalls a much better time when there were days of glorious worship as mankind trembled in respect and fear before the gods. He recalls everything—every delight, every sorrow, every defeat, and every victory.

Yoongi could handle change, this he thinks be certain. In fact, he was one of the gods that had managed to adapt well after the fall. However, the aggravation over the situation couldn't be helped. Though he may have outgrown hubris and no longer demand fear from mortals, he, at least, wanted respect. 

His mind returns to the words of the woman earlier. A child of Apollo? Such a claim so casually tossed—no respect, no nothing. 

Coming to this town was a farce, Yoongi decided. He had wasted his time, hoping to come across something entertaining, and yet this place had no significant affinity towards music, at all.

As nostalgia became the very reason for his own dysphoria, the sun god sat idly by the clearing in the heart of the barren forest. It was, at the very least, somewhat comforting to be surrounded by the warmth of nature that distinctively reminded him of his sister. The putrid stench of villages has always displeased him.

Still, his whirl of emotions was unwavering. Perhaps that is why the grip on his restraints loosened a little and the heat of the sun became alarmingly hotter. Perhaps that is also why the massive grey clouds suddenly rumbled and took over the horizon—Zeus, himself, had noticed the drastic change brought by the fuming deity and decided to intervene.

The pale man looks up, glaring at the sky before sighing. "Alright, alright, father," he scorns, saying the last word in a tone of disdain to defy the king of mankind and gods. The sun god's eyes nearly roll back a century as the sky remains dark with the thunderstorm still brewing. In the long run, he felt the droplets gently trickle down his face before it gradually rained cats and dogs upon Earth. Soon enough, he was soaked to the bone.

Yoongi continues his brooding, undoubtedly not so pleased with the fact that Zeus—or whatever his name is now—continues his efforts for the sake of subduing him. Resentment wouldn't suffice to label his demons. It was somewhere between misery and ire. Then again, there wasn't exactly anything else that he felt for a long time.

"Excuse me? Are you alright, mister?"

Suddenly, a shadow looms over him, causing the rain to divert in accordance to the shape of whatever had shielded him from it. Yoongi was, to say the very least, taken aback by the hush gentleness that filled his ears. He instantly looks up towards the voice, speechless for the fact that it was an actual person and not a mere figment of his imagination.

He looks at the woman before him suspiciously, almost forgetting that she was waiting for a response in the first place. Yoongi was occupied looking at her with his ability, seeing, to his surprise, no ill intent from her in either past, present, or future—at the very least, the current possible future. (Fate is fickle, after all.)

“Sir?”

It was then he decided to open his lips and use his words. "Yes, I'm fine," he delivers the words well, albeit there was an edge to them.

Such words did not deter her, however. "Why do you sit in the rain then?" The woman asks with her head tilted to the side in a slight frown. The curiosity besieging her face was almost childlike. 

Not knowing what else to do, he pushes himself up from the ground, standing up to his full height and awkwardly scratching a spot behind his ear—a force of habit, really. "I, uh," he pauses, "I hadn't really noticed."

How embarrassing. He hadn't felt this graceless since he confronted Hyacinthus about his feelings. Zeus knows how long that's been.

The young woman lightly laughs at his remark. "As much as the rain looks comfortable to you, sir, you'll get sick. Do you not have a place to stay?" she comes to ask as she adjusts a large woven tray over to properly protect the both of them from the harsh rain. Yoongi gives a sheepish shrug as he sends a hand to comb back his wet golden tresses. He hadn’t really fully settled in this town, and thus, have had no lodgings yet for his stay here. 

Still, he was rendered utterly suspicious of the events happening. This woman, this mortal, approaches him with intentions that meant no harm or greed he’s seen common amongst her kind. As a god, he could see through her, after all. She really had approached him with a kind heart and had wanted nothing in exchange. It's always a pleasure to come across genuinely good mortals, Yoongi thought. 

“Are you certain you’re alright?”

Yoongi lightly jolts out of his reveries and sees her staring at him still with curious concern. Perhaps it was his complete inability of taming himself, but the most peculiar thing happened—well, peculiar for her.

Like the blush that flames upon his cheeks, the atmosphere grew humid and it was a stark contrast to the previous cold brought by the thunderstorm. Yoongi sees her eyebrows knit together in confusion as she squirms in discomfort at the feel of both sweat and rain causing the bottom part of her dress to cling onto her legs like a leech. The both of them soon jump at a sound blast of lightning.

Deciding to not leave the woman waiting, the sun god stood on his feet to duck beneath the makeshift parasol. Yoongi couldn't help himself. His eyes spared a glance to gaze at the woman in a more personal manner. Her skin wasn't as flawless as Aphrodite's, but it had a light flush of life in them. Her hair was slightly unkempt, but it flowed freely beneath the protection of a (f/c) shawl. Her steps through the mud were a little bit clumsy, but that was a given with the current circumstances. She was certainly no goddess, but she was breath-taking nonetheless.

“My cottage isn’t far,” she then gestured vaguely to a direction behind her. “You could wait out the rain inside, if you’d like.”

Yoongi soon found himself walking alongside her, tucking his lute beneath his other arm. “Ah, yes,” he coughed, as he matched her hastening pace. “Wonderful idea.”

The sun god realized that the woven tray isn’t doing well to protect the both of them from the downpour, evident by the woman’s backside darkening from the raindrops that wetted it. Yoongi grabs the edges of his wool cloak and lifts it over both of their heads for additional coverage. This startles the woman for a moment, but she recovers with a smile. 

“This way,” she urges, looking onwards.

Yoongi curtly nods. Let’s see how long this charade will last.

Soon enough, the two of them made their way down a clearing and the god’s eyes landed on a small cottage with a few chicken coops and a garden. “Quickly,” she soon ushers him inside after opening the door as quickly as she could. “I know it’s not the best cottage in town, but please,” she smiles, gesturing him to sit down, “make yourself comfortable.”

Looking around, Yoongi takes note of the slight clutter and mismatched furniture. The kitchen and the dining table were a little cramped together, and there was a shelf filled with miscellaneous things. There were also only two other rooms—a bedroom and a bathroom, if he were to guess. It was a fixer upper. It wasn’t exactly a place befitting a god, but Yoongi voiced no complaints.  

What did spark his thinking, however, was how she was so open to offer him, a foreign stranger, shelter from the rain. “Are you usually one to let just any stranger in your home?” he retorts, shrugging his sodden cloak from his figure and setting it down with his lute onto one of the chairs, before taking a seat in another.   

The woman looks up from tending to the stove, staring at him over her shoulder for a moment, but she simply gives a chuckle before returning to whatever it was that she was doing in the kitchen. “Only ones that are in need of my assistance or company,” she tells him kindly, “Why do you ask?”

Yoongi shrugs, watching as she puts a few spoonfuls of some dark powder into two mugs before moving elsewhere. “Are you not worried they might be capable of harming you?” he frankly asks, mind wondering all the same about whatever meal she was conjuring in the kitchen before him.  

Though the question visibly raises her guard around him—her posture straightening, her warmth lessening—the woman dismissively waves at him, almost as if to assure him she could take care of herself. “No, not at all,” she beams, hand now brandishing a rather large knife. She takes a sourdough bread from a nearby basket, slicing through the bread with vigor. The knife was a bit worse for wear, but the blade could still do its job. “I can handle myself just fine, should anyone try to do me any ill will.” 

Though he doesn’t show it, the sun god was taken aback. Whether that dialogue was supposed to be a euphemism or not, for someone who had been so gentle to be vaguely threatening with a knife like that was a surprising twist of events. Did this woman just subtly threaten a god?

“Do you have plans to, sir?” she then asks him, looking at him with her head tilting to the side as she idly spreads some jam over the bread slices. 

Yoongi was knocked out of his stupor. “Of what?”

“Harming me?” the woman gestures to his previous statement just as the kettle started whistling. She tends to the stove, taking the kettle from the fire and pouring the boiling water onto the two mugs on the counter. 

The aroma was wonderful, nearly making the sun god forget about the conversation. “Of course not,” he then scoffs, nearly offended that she would think little of him like that. “I wouldn’t dare stoop so low. You helped me, after all.”

“That’s good for the both of us then,” she smiles, putting the two mugs onto the table along with the plate of jam-spreaded bread. Her eyes, he noticed, relaxed a little, holding onto his unspoken promise. 

It was amusing, Yoongi thinks, how this mortal had gone from being wary to handing him back her trust. This time, he knows, she now truly means for him not to break it, since she had made her point across.

The woman rummages through her small kitchen pantry. “Here,” she says as she places a final bowl of fruits onto the table. “I apologize,” she sheepishly grins as she sits down, “it’s all I can prepare in a short notice.”

The sun god dismissively waves her concerns away. “It’s alright,” Yoongi tells her. It isn’t something I need anyway.

Since the fall of the age of the gods and goddesses, Yoongi had managed to survive years without offerings, and if he had gotten any, he had learned to preserve his powers by simply not using them. A lot of them had learned that humans would only lose more faith if the gods lash out on them.

The light cluttering around him brought Yoongi back to reality, coming to see the woman reach up a shelf to get a jar. She comes back to the table with a triumphant smile, opening the jar—of honey, Yoongi realizes—and scooping a bit of the golden syrup into the clay mug. Only then did he notice the other steaming mug before him. “What is this?” he asks, taking a whiff of the aroma he had been so curious about earlier. 

“Coffee,” the woman smiled, stirring the spoon in her mug. “Haven’t you ever had a taste of it?”

Yoongi shakes his head, looking strangely still at the drink. 

The woman nods, understanding that his confusion and curiosity had made him wary of this new drink. “They were brought in by traders from the south,” she tells him, pointing to a small sack in the pantry. “I helped them camp nearby and gave them some food, so they gave me those roasted beans in return. If you grind them into powder, and add it to hot water with a little bit of honey, you’ll have something warm to drink in the mornings to wake yourself up.”

It was a wonder, Yoongi thinks, what mankind has done with what the gods had given them. He wonders what Demeter would think of this creation as well—if she would stop trying to pry on her daughter's life, that is. 

The sun god takes an idle sip, brown eyes soon widening at the taste of the warm liquid going  down his throat. He couldn't help but take another sip—this time, savoring the flavor more. 

She laughs at his amazement, almost endeared. “How is it?”

“It’s delectable,” he says, a light tug daring his lip to curve upwards.

The excitement in her eyes was apparent at his words. “It is, isn’t it?” she gleefully beams. “The merchants used sugar to sweeten their coffee, but honey is all we could have around here. It’s still good though. I’ve hardly been able to stop myself from having coffee every morning, else I’ll use up all of it in no time.”

Hardly any of the villagers welcomed the trade of the travellers from the south. She, herself, had been wary at first, but she, at the very least, had the decency to offer to find the travellers a clearing to camp in. The scent of the coffee being brewed had drawn her in, and the merchants gave her a small sack as a token of their gratitude. She had easily fallen in love with it.

It was then she shivers, as if her body had only now remembered that they were under the pouring rain earlier. She stops in the middle of biting onto her bread, clearing her throat as she glances at the dead fireplace. “I’ll get a fire going,” she stammers, shyly excusing herself.

As she goes to stand up and tend to the fireplace, however, Yoongi takes note of the fabric of her dress clinging onto her, bearing faint marks of her undergarments. Wordlessly, Yoongi helped the fire come to life much quicker, turning back towards the table so he could give her some semblance of privacy. “You should change your clothes, as well,” he then tells her, sipping on his coffee, “you’re soaked to the bone. You might catch a cold.”

She quickly turns, as if to hide her backside from him, but relaxes when she sees his back turned to her instead. “Right...” she hesitates, though seeing the reason in his logic. 

Clearly, the woman was worried about leaving a stranger unattended at her dining table. “There’s no need to worry, I won’t steal anything,” Yoongi assures her.

The woman stood by the fire for a moment, embarrassed that he had seen through her. “I...” she pondered about it more, but in the end, she admitted defeat. “Alright.”

As she disappears into one of the rooms, Yoongi takes the time to look around the humble little home once more. From what he had seen with his sight earlier, she had others living here with her before—a father, a mother, and a grandfather by the looks of it. The bunch of fabric by the desk on the other side of the room confirms the scene he had seen of her stitching something by hand. She must be one of the town’s dressmakers then. 

He was halfway through his coffee and munching on his second slice of bread by the time the young woman came back freshly dressed and clutching a pile of clothes. She gingerly hands him the pile. “Here,” she says, “You should change too.”

Yoongi looked at what she had given him, a pair of old trousers and a loose shirt, and looked down at his own clothes, suddenly so aware of the feeling of fabric sticking to his skin. Beneath his jacket, his under shirt was soaked and near see-through from the rain. His trousers were darker than their original color and marked with streaks of mud and dirt.  

“They were my father’s,” she adds an explanation when she saw him observing the clothes—not that she had to, really. “I think they’d fit you well enough.”

Yoongi nods, standing up from his seat after taking his boots off his feet. 

She takes his boots and sets them near the fireplace to have them dry quicker. “You can change there,” she gestures to the room she had gone to earlier. Without any further thoughts, Yoongi wordlessly goes to change.

It was much more pleasant than he thought to stay in the mortal’s cottage. 

It wasn’t as rowdy as some of the inns he’s been to, and it was certainly better than taking camp in a forest surrounded by wild beasts. Dare he say it, it was just a little better than his palace in Olympus. 

Perhaps it was the company—the feeling of having someone talk to you, not in fear, or any ulterior motives, or for the sake of politics, but to actually have an engaging conversation. It’s been so long since he has had the pleasure of this. The only people in Olympus he ever tolerated was his sister, Artemis, and his comrades, Hermes and Dionysus, and with the gods trying to keep their respective domains and believers alive, he has hardly ever seen them in decades. 

And yet, this mortal, who he had only met hours prior, had roped him into telling her stories of the world, playing her tunes, and even philosophical thoughts. The two of them sit before the fireplace, having taken the plate of bread and their coffee with them to get warmed up next to their wet clothes. 

“How come you travel so much, Yoongi?” the young woman, (Y/N), asked, watching his hands fiddle with the strings of the lute. 

The sun god froze for a moment. Surely, she won’t be able to comprehend it properly that he’s a god who has lived to see the world for millennia now. “I simply do,” he tells her with a shrug, which wasn’t necessarily a lie. As a god, he can go anywhere he wishes to.

(Y/N) tucks her legs closer to her, resting her chin on the arms that crossed over her knees. “Is that something you do so recklessly then?” she laughs, “Do you not worry about money, settlement, or danger?”

He shrugs again. A god needn’t worry about such things.  

(Y/N), on the other hand, looks at him with a smile that was amused by his careless attitude, but it was also laced with a sadness she carried in her heart. She had been a child once, so curious of the adventures of heroes she had heard from the stories of her grandfather. “I want to see the world, too,” she then quietly muses, “but I can’t bear to leave this place.”

The music falters for a moment, his fingers skidding to a stop to hear such despondence in her voice for the first time since he’s seen her.  “How come?”

(Y/N) looks around the walls of the cottage, eyes dripping with longing for years that have long passed—her mother’s kind caress and sweet smile, her father’s strong shoulders holding her up, her grandfather’s stories from his days at sea. “This cottage was everything to me and my family,” she tells him, “Leaving would mean leaving behind memories of them, too.”

Yoongi was confused for a moment. From the few moments he had seen of her life, her grandfather was a sailor from ship to ship and little (Y/N) always sat on the edge of her seat listening to his adventures. “Would your family prefer you to be held back from pursuing greater things?” he asked her. 

She thought about it for a minute, long and hard. “Yes.”

He watched as she bitterly laughed at her own forward answer. Something in him didn’t like it.  

(Y/N)’s grandfather, so hungry for adventure, didn’t return home from the sea he so loved and her father played hero with his strength, saving everyone but himself in a fire. “My mother told me about Icarus,” she tells him, “how he flew too close to the sun, and that all you should do is be content with what you have so as not to suffer the same fate he had.”

Mortals are fickle, Yoongi thinks. They can be so arrogant and reckless with their lives, but also so cowardly. “Then you will die not knowing the greater happiness you could have if you live with such a fear,” he simply puts it. To think she had been so lively and kind so as to even help and trust a man she barely knows, and yet have such a belief drilled into her head. “Greatness can’t be found if you don’t dare to seek it,” he says, “Take the coffee, for instance. You came upon it as a reward for an act of kindness after you took the chance to approach those merchants. Had it not been for that time, had you been content being by yourself, would you have been able to taste coffee on your own?”

If she keeps herself tied down, the sun god wonders, wouldn’t she lay at her deathbed with so much regret?

“It’s good not to be greedy and be content with what you have,” he hums, acknowledging her mother’s words, “but to clip your wings to stay on the ground when you can fly just fine? You’ll kill yourself far before death takes your soul to the underworld.”

This was the same way Icarus would’ve crashed to the sea if he had flown too low, the waves dampening his wings til they grow heavy. A little courage and crazy never hurt anyone, so long as it is kept in moderation. Then again, this is something he had to realize in centuries, so Yoongi supposed it would be difficult for some mortals to ease into the thought of it when their lives are so short compared to his. 

“You can be greedy for greatness, or defy the path carved for you, fly as high as you want,” he tells her, “so long as you have the reins over yourself, and know when enough is enough. The moment you do, you will have done what you wanted for your happiness, for a life entirely your own.”

It was then Yoongi took note of the deafening silence around him. Tearing his eyes away from the fire, he notices (Y/N) staring at him, deep in thought. Her (e/c) eyes were swimming with emotions too messy and entangled for Yoongi to unravel, but he knew she had needed to hear such words. 

The words that left her lips were barely above a whisper, head still reeling from the weight of his thoughts. “I never thought of it like that...” she confesses, a twinkling in her eyes.

To think of it, had she not have the courage to approach this stranger in the first place, she wouldn’t have heard those words at all. She almost laughs at how funny fate is. To think that she had been unconsciously doing what she had needlessly feared for all along. It was in the littlest of things, yes, but all (Y/N) had to do now was to take a big step. 

Her eyes move from his to the window behind them. The setting sun shone through the trees, and the previous scorn of the rain had come to a quiet hush. “The rain has let up,” she says, standing up to look out the window more clearly. “You may stay here for the night, if you would like to. You have nowhere else to stay, right?” 

Yoongi looks thoughtfully out the window. With the moon peeking at a distance, he scours his thoughts on what to do. It’s only a matter of time.

A look of surprise dawned on her face when he made a decision to shake his head, refusing her offer. “There’s no need,” he tells her, “I have something to tend to.” 

She only nods and doesn’t pry, which the sun god appreciates. Yoongi stands and gathers his clothes, which were unfortunately still a bit damp. His boots were alright, and he had no trouble sliding them on. “I’ll return your father’s clothes as soon as I am able to.”

“Yes, that’d be wonderful,” she tells him, voice faltering as she does so. A part of her is admittedly disheartened by his choice of departing, but who is she to stop him? He is but a temporary guest, after all.

The two of them made their way to the door and she opened it for him. “Alright,” she gives him a little grin, “Be safe then. Stay out of the rain.”

Yoongi’s lips form a smile at the little jest. “You, too,” he says, as he puts the hood of his cloak over his head. “Thank you for letting me stay for a while.”

“Thank you for lending me your thoughts and stories,” she smiles at him warmly, meaning each word. She offers a small wave to the sun god, and he could still feel the warmth of his time in the cottage even as he disappears well into the treeline ahead.  

He feels bad—really, he does—to have lied to such a kind woman.

It’s not that he had anything particularly important task at hand to deal with. It was simply because of the time—the night time. His decision to leave the cottage was not a matter of despise or fear of the night time either, but merely of what it represented. 

He is the day and the sun that nourishes the world as it wakes.

His sister is the night and the moon that watches over the world as it sleeps. 

He may not have seen her in decades, but a low possibility doesn't necessarily mean no chance at all. She may have been hunting, or doing duties nearby. Who knows? 

Yoongi steals a glance at the moon as he comes to a clearing somewhere deep enough in the forest to have no one there to witness him. He raised his hands and channeled an energy to deliver his command.

“Come to me,” he says, eyes glowing.

Waiting long enough, a familiar rumbling of a golden spark at a distance soon comes to him—a chariot of gold drawn by magnificent four white stallions. Yoongi steps on and firmly grips the reins, sending the chariot through the air. 

The moonlight shining upon him felt like a watchful gaze, reminding him an awful lot of his sister. Though he loved her dearly, Artemis was always a critic of his life—specifically in the matters of his relationships with others. His history with romance had made his sister all the more opposed to it, often scolding him for his reckless actions. 

Yoongi doesn’t necessarily see the mortal in any other light than a kind stranger—an acquaintance, perhaps. After all, he had been changed by the times, heart broken enough times to have him learn his lesson. His sister’s concern over him and his heart, however, was great enough for Yoongi to know she would keep (Y/N) on watch and perhaps even confront the poor girl. 

And so, Yoongi rides back to his palace, away from the forest, away from the serendipity that was that little town.

Time has aged relatively slowly for Yoongi. Almost two weeks have passed since (Y/N) gave him shelter from the pouring wrath of his father, and all he had done in the days in between was answer prayers and pace around his palace, deciding whether or not he should return the clothes he had been allowed to borrow during that time. 

Of course, the answer was an obvious yes, but it was the ‘what happens next’ part of the equation that has been occupying the sun god’s mind. Yoongi liked to think of himself as a generous god. (Y/N) is the first mortal he’s had the pleasure of forming a bond with in years, and so, of course, he wanted a better excuse to go back—something meaningful perhaps, something to return the favor and company she had given him.

“What gift would be fitting for someone like (Y/N)?”

It was most unbecoming, really. A god worrying about appeasing a mortal? 

If it would be anything, it would be a fantasy—and yet, here he was, another paragon for the bizarre case. 

“Just one last visit,” he says to himself, “Yes, just one.”

One and he’d never go to that town again.

And so, for a reason he so denies, Yoongi finds himself standing before the woman’s cottage. He tells himself that he was only here for one visit—for returning the clothes, and for coffee. His duties have worn him down, and so the liquid energy that the human called coffee was very much the surrogate ambrosia he needed down his throat. Olympus was, after all, so far away, and the ambrosia he had taken with him was long gone after he had crossed paths with Dionysus and his wife.

After a few knocks on the door, (Y/N) answers. “Yoongi?”

For a moment, she was shocked, but she quickly recuperates upon seeing the familiar face of Yoongi. “Pleasure seeing you here again,” the young woman greets, looking as radiant as ever. “Would you like to come in?”

Yoongi could only give a distracted nod. In reality, pride almost swells in him for being the god that governed the sun, for it was the very thing that had allowed him to see her under a much better light. 

This time, her dress was looser with the same (f/c) shawl from before now embracing her from behind and providing her more coverage. Her hair was more kept now, braided into one that draped over a shoulder. She looked much more casual and at ease than the first time he had seen her. 

Perhaps, she had no errands today. 

“Yoongi?”

Yoongi was brought back from his thoughts, having been embarrassingly caught staring at her. She was standing there, opening the door wider than before and waiting for him to come through. “Forgive me,” He coughs, “I was momentarily thinking of something.”

(Y/N) laughs. “You look tired, too,” she jests, “Come in. I still have some coffee left.”

The god enters the mortal’s humble abode once more, taking in the welcoming atmosphere he’s never able to find anywhere else. (Y/N) was then quick to go to the kitchen and fix him the promised mug of the hot drink he had taken a liking to. Fortunately, she had already been boiling some water. It was for her bath but she supposed it could wait for a while. She had a guest to take care of, after all.  

All the while Yoongi sits himself before the dining table, just as he had weeks ago. It almost feels nostalgic, seeing her go about the kitchen.

(Y/N) looks up from stirring the coffee. “Did you come back from another trip?” she mused, giving him a smile. “Where have you gone this time?”

Yoongi averts his gaze towards the oaken surface of the table, as (Y/N) gently slides the cup towards him. As he accepts the mug, their fingers momentarily brush against one another. The god clears his throat as he brings the mug to his lips. “Home,” he simply said, looking back down to sip at his mug—something he will likely choke on at this rate. “I haven’t been anywhere else really.”

Upon casting a fleeting glance, (Y/N), he noticed, was taken aback by his curt reply. “Oh,” she stammered, a sheepish chuckle escaping her lips. “What have you been up to then?”

The sun god doesn’t really know how to reply. How does one tell a mortal that he’s been answering prayers from loyal followers?

Yoongi begins bouncing his knee. “I’ve been occupied by…” he rummages for the right word, “responsibilities, you could say. I just finished one of them, and thought it would be better for me to pay you another visit now.”

(Y/N)’s gaze followed the gesture he made, hand pointing to the big mass he had brought with him. “You brought quite the bag with you this time,” she muses, walking around the table to take the closest seat next to him. “What have you done to my father’s shirt and trousers?” 

A chuckle flits past Yoongi, before he lifts the bag onto the table. (Y/N) finds herself standing alongside him, as he brings out the pile of clothes he was meant to return in the first place. “They’re just fine,” he tells her as he hands them back to her. “I had them washed. You needn’t worry about them.” 

She sets the pile down to peek over his shoulder, seeing burlap sacks within the bag. Yoongi readily takes one out, and encourages her to open it herself. “What’s this?” she asks, but soon gasps at the familiar aroma that engulfs her senses as she unties the strings. “Coffee?!” she gawks at the bag before her, a grin spreading so big that it started to hurt her cheeks. “Yoongi, where did you get this?”

Seeing such a grin on her lips and such spark in her eyes, Yoongi decides that this sort of happiness was most fitting for her. It was contagious—not even he could exempt himself from its clutches. “I came across some travellers from the south, too,” he then tells her, which was the truth—more or less. 

The prayers that had come in for him to answer were most fortuitous to his effort to keep his mind on something other than that little cottage and its kind owner from that barely memorable village. Alas, the Fates were funny.

It was past midday and he had been on his chariot, having finished his duty as a pastoral deity to an old man and his family who had prayed for the protection of their flock from the sudden surge of attacks going around their town. His quiver was an arrow or two short from hunting down the large wolf he had caught stalking the sheep.

What had stopped him in his tracks—and nearly had his horses trample over one another at the sudden stop—was the faint scent of something awfully familiar. Coffee.

A group of merchants trading coffee, spices and other things had given him the perfect excuse to visit her. “I traded some animal hide for coffee beans,” he tells her, before muttering under his breath, “among other things.”

Excitement whirring in her head, (Y/N) grinned at his story. “That’s wonderful!” she beams, but reminds herself that this wasn’t hers. Alas, it could never be. This was Yoongi’s hard work, after all. “You have your own coffee to brew now,” she muses, still happy to have introduced a person who eventually came to love the dark brew. 

“It’s not mine,” Yoongi instead says, “it’s yours to keep.”

Shock and confusion befell upon (Y/N)’s face. “Mine?” she asks, incredulous, “Why is that? You were the one who traded for these.”

A satisfaction settled within the sun god as he watched the mortal comprehend his words, idly staring down at the measly burlap sack of coffee. “Think of it as a gift from me,” Yoongi urges, “an extension of my gratitude.”

The sun god sees (Y/N) unconsciously pursed her lips in a bashful manner that never served to help Yoongi in his current conquest. “A gift?” she says, words shy as a blush reddened her cheeks. “You have no obligation to give me anything, Yoongi. I only did what I thought was good.”

The only reply she received was a nonchalant shrug. “I insist,” he chuckles at her flustered expression, taking out the small sack of coffee from the bag and bringing out another sack. “This one is yours, too.” 

(E/c) eyes gawked at the item. “What would be inside that then?” (Y/N) now then points to the other sack, curiosity condemning her hands to be itching to open it. She doesn’t know whether she should be terrified or excited. 

Yoongi simply gestures to her to open it, earning a louder gasp than before. The mortal’s mouth was left open as she could hardly believe what she was seeing. She takes a pinch from the sack’s contents, sprinkling the crystalline bits on her tongue. Sweetness erupted, shocking her more than ever. “Sugar?” she exclaimed in awe and in terror, “Yoongi, this is expensive! This is too much!”

Yoongi scoffed, head not at all bothered by such trivial, mortal aspects. He had gotten it now, there was no use taking it with him when he had no use for it. It didn't matter how much he had to spend, either. He only really traded for it anyway. “Nonsense,”  he huffs, “You said coffee can be sweetened with sugar. So, I brought you your sugar.” 

(Y/N) still could hardly process what her new friend had brought her as an extension of his gratitude. Sugar was only ever really for the rich, as they were imports from another far off land and required a lot of arduous work. She had gotten into great trouble once, curiously attempting a little taste of sugar at an old friend’s house as a child. They were farmers tasked to make sugar from the sugarcane brought to them by their lord, and they made it very clear that sugar was precious.   

Just what life has Yoongi led to not have this common knowledge? What drove him to even give her gifts to this extent? 

(Y/N) didn’t really feel worthy to receive such precious gifts. “How come you brought me such gifts?” she asks softly, “You didn’t really have to, Yoongi. Just returning the clothes was fine.”

The sun god was taken aback by the sense of discomfort and guilt in her voice. He hadn’t really thought of this sort of reaction. Mortals like to receive things in turn for their favors—this he has learned in the centuries he had been roaming around the world in his free time. “I...” he stammers, thinking of something to make her feel better. “I wanted to return for a better reason, other than simply giving what’s already yours back.”

That moment at the chariot, his only immediate thought had been not to get himself coffee, but her, recalling her absolute love for the drink. It was so easy to think of it as a fitting gift, but, in retrospect, Yoongi should’ve thought it through more clearly. He clears his throat, finding him looking down at the wooden surface of her little table once again. “I only wanted to give you a gift,” he says, “I never meant to cause you unease. I apologize.”

Upon noting the deflated state of Yoongi, (Y/N) half-heartedly nudged him by the shoulder. “You don’t need expensive gifts to earn yourself an invitation to my measly old cottage, silly,” she tells him, tying the burlap sacks closed before taking her seat beside him. “You are most welcome to come here any time you wish,” she says, but soon playfully glares, “Just not on ungodly hours. I will unleash the chickens upon you.”

A grin dares to erupt from the sun god’s lips. Not only had you so casually nudged him, but you also just called a god silly. “Oh, dear,” he says, most sarcastically, “not the chickens.”

Laughter escapes her lips—the same mellifluous melody as the day he had met her. She then leans on the table, cheek cupped by her palm as she grins at him once again. “But if you really want to pay for your visits…” she muses, “then, I would like to hear more of your adventures as currency, please.”

Yoongi finds himself laughing, the sunlight around him seemingly twinkling along. “More?” he asks, “Have you not had enough of last time?”

Her cheeks hurt from grinning, but it never leaves. “Never,” she says, merely shaking her head at him.

The sun god nods then, admitting easy defeat to her request. “Alright...” he hums, turning in his seat to face her. “There exists this little island called Naxos...”

The two of them continued on, even as the warm brew of coffee on the table grew cold. Such a wholesome moment and such heartfelt words had thrown his initial plan of leaving after one visit out of the window. Here he was welcomed, and where he was welcomed, he was free to stay. 

So, he does. 

It became a sort of tradition—one that only the two of them upheld—to have Yoongi come to the cottage once a week or so and spend their hours either by the table or by the hearth. The time was mostly spent with (Y/N) sitting in anticipation at the endless tales that spewed from the sun god’s lips. He, after all, lived for millennia—not that she was aware of this. 

Sometimes, he would be gone for weeks at a time, rendered busy by either doing orders or favors for other gods or answering his followers' prayers. Still, (Y/N) and her cottage were the ones he found himself going to, his horses now used to landing and waiting on that clearing in the forest. 

To make up for so much time loss, the sun god would bring her something from his travels. They were nothing expensive or overwhelming since he has now learned his lesson, but they were a marvel nonetheless. What he would bring her, aside from more tales, was music. 

The sun god had found himself more sociable with mortals in his pursuit to learn the music of their diverse cultures. He had done this before, of course—his massive collection of musical instruments gathered from thousands of years were in a room in his palace and easily could attest to this—but, he had never really thought to actively seek musicians and ask to learn songs from them just so he could come back to that little cottage with an instrument and play for her.   

For the sun god, it was an escape from the agony of his divinity. In that cottage, he was no god of a forgotten age. He was Yoongi—a man and a friend respected and welcomed. 

There was a warmth that bubbled within Yoongi in the scene of them by the fire, the golden red glow making her intent staring in awe all the more endearing. A peace he had never felt before was always with him. 

For the mortal, it was an escape from her mundane life to imagine the tales that Yoongi told with such vivid detail, her heart longing to someday be able to see for herself. With him, she was simply (Y/N), who was allowed to dream of things that others would’ve scorned her for wanting. This was the sense of freedom that came with the presence of Yoongi.

Her fascination with all his tales were unlike that of her time with her grandfather’s. It felt more alive, more invigorating. She had started saving some money, actually, hoping to one day ask him to let her tag along with him on a trip or two so she could learn to eventually do it herself. 

Alas, a peasant woman working as a humble dressmaker could only earn so much. (Y/N) resorted to working herself to the bone with other things—selling some of her chickens’ eggs, doing other commissions for other towns, and even doing laundry for others.

It was certainly a surprise then for the sun god when he came by on another visit.

“You should’ve been more careful,” the words instantly fell from Yoongi’s lips in a scold as he brought the soup over to the cocooned woman on the bed.

If Yoongi would’ve had it in his ability to turn back time and tell himself that months from his sworn sulking in the rain, he’d be in the cottage of the same young woman he had vowed to avoid like the plague after one visit, then he wouldn’t be that surprised at all, actually. His sister had always faulted him for this, for his awful tendency to care too much. 

Before him, (Y/N) sniffled, not from tears of grief but from the consequences of her carelessness. She messily blows into a spare piece of cloth, somehow still in a beautiful glow that quelled the sun god’s heart. “I know, I know,” she said, clogged nose and all, “I shouldn’t have overworked myself, should’ve looked out for my health. However, no one else would have taken care of the chickens, Yoongs. What else was I to do?”

In the manner she pouted at him, Yoongi’s breath hitched, mind racing and heart cursing the Fates for all of this. Yoongs—a name he never had thought he would allow himself to be addressed as—became his most favorite thing to hear from her. 

“Yoongs?”

There it was again.

“Yoongi?”

The sun god was knocked out of his stupor. Perhaps, he may have been getting too carried away with all of this.

Yoongi noticed (Y/N) staring at him, now sat up from her previous position on the bed. She was already halfway with her bowl, and already feeling progressively better thanks to the ancient remedy he secretly poured in with the soup for her. “Y-yes?” he finds himself stammering, unbecoming of a god of his calibre and status. Oh, if Zeus could see him right now.  

In spite of the confusion in (Y/N)’s head, she repeats what she had meant to say. “Thank you,” she said with a ghost of a smile lingering on her face, “you didn’t have to come all the way here to take care of me, but you did.”

Yoongi wasn’t quite sure where he got the sudden bout of courage from, but he lifted his hand and gently ruffled her (h/c) hair. “No one else would’ve taken care of you, (Y/N),” Yoongi said, “What else was I to do?” 

She glares, but a grin daring to break through her lips betrays her supposed anger. “Are you drawing parallels between me and my chickens?”

Yoongi barely exerts effort in holding back a grin. “I said no such thing,” he said. 

A fit of coughs rocks through the poor girl, ruining the light moment as she turns her head away from him to stifle it into the crook of her arm. Yoongi sighs at the sight of this, approaching her bed and channeling his power little by little through his fingers as he gathers her hair in his hands. To keep her from turning back to face him and see the light glow flowing from him to her, he decides to braid her tresses the same way he had learned to braid his sister’s hair when they were young. 

He finishes the braid in time to have his power simmer within her very being. It will take time, since he had elected against an immediate recovery to have her not be suspicious of anything. “Rest after this, alright?” he tells her, voice soft but firm. “I’ll watch over the chickens while you recover.”

(Y/N) weakly laughs, recalling the time Yoongi got chased around by one of her chickens. His shrill screams echoing throughout the yard as it pecked at his ankles for accidentally stepping too close. “Ebony is not quite fond of you though,” she tells him. “What then?”

An embarrassed blush conquered the stoic musician's face at the memory of that dark feathered bird.  “I will smite him if he ever dares to chase me through the garden again,” the sun god grumbles. It wasn’t his fault animals were more partial to his sister. 

Eyelids growing heavy thanks to his powers, (Y/N) lays herself back down with Yoongi quick to tuck her in. “Don’t smite my chickens, please,” she says with a yawn. “I need them.”

He only nods. “Sleep, (Y/N).”

And so, she does.

Yoongi sat there, at the edge of her bed, suddenly very much aware that his cold heart had, at some point, thawed  during his time with her, now leaving him there with a mess of a sentimental puddle. This, he was certain as he felt the rapid beating of his heart to an oh so familiar rhythm of impending chaos, similar to that of the ones he had felt upon his bygone lovers. 

‘Oh no’, he dreaded then and there, ‘not again.’

The sun god found himself glaring at her sleeping figure, though, in reality, he was scolding himself for letting this happen. ‘You, fool! Had you not gotten anything from the past thousands of years you’ve been alive?!’

Yoongi was certain he had known all sorts of love, at this point—unrequited or not, love has never lasted or has never been. His last taste of it was from a sweet prince loved by all—loved by him. Hyacinthus was one of the few he had the pleasure of calling an actual lover. 

He didn't run, nor did he reject. Instead, the prince chose him. Out of all the gods and mortals who admired him, Hyacinthus chose Apollo. It was bliss—one that had been taken away too quickly. 

Yoongi's heart clenched at the very memory of it—of the weakened prince in his arms, of the life fading from his eyes, of the one last whisper of love. No matter how much Yoongi had grovelled or how much he had drained himself from trying to heal him, Hyacinthus died because the Fates fated him to. 

Love is tragedy. This, he engraved in his mind. Yoongi had sworn love would never have a hold on him ever again, and yet here he was. 

His walls were weakening—already has. 

It dawned on him that Min Yoongi is still the Apollo infamously known for falling head over heels for people he cannot have after all—a brutally soft god beneath the cold layers he had convinced himself would protect him from the forces he had once been swayed under.

Who is to blame for all of this?

Was it the Fates who made their paths cross in the first place?

Was it Eros who reigned over matters of romantic love?

Or, was it himself who had failed and let himself be with her? 

The sun god's head hurt at the thoughts that were now at war in his head. There was no use pointing blame when the damage had already been done—when his heart already deemed that it would beat, ache, break for her and her alone. 

Yoongi looks down at the woman sleeping so soundly, unknowing of the fact that she had caught herself a god in her clutches and could easily tug by the heartstrings to do her bidding—unknowing of the fact that the Yoongi she knew was but a front for a god who had come to love her and the coffee she would brew.  

It wouldn’t be bad—says the part of him that dared to urge him further into the mess at hand, looking for hope amidst the chaos. (Y/N) was someone who was kind and welcoming about everything and anything, someone who would smile and look at him in awe. Wouldn’t it be nice to love and be loved by her?

Yoongi froze at the what-ifs blossoming from that one question. He takes a deep breath, easing himself—easing the heating of the sun outside the walls of this cottage. 

With a grunt, Yoongi stands himself up from the bed, feet leading him through the small spaces and out to the yard where the chickens idly pecked at the ground. A certain chicken looks up and stares him down, but the sun god did not let up either. This little bastard should be glad to be under the protection of a god. 

It was then that he had caught himself. 

This little bastard should be glad to be under the protection of a god.

Under what circumstances would he have expected this? To put up with such a menial task, to stay in the vicinity of a pesky little critter, to risk being pecked at like a fool instead of going back to his palace—all for the sake of a promise to a mortal. A promise, mind you, that wasn't even officially spoken into existence. 

He could leave. Nothing binds him here, after all. 

But he won't—not when she was still so unwell. He wouldn't dare to. 

"Ah!" Yoongi yelps out of his reverie, looking down to see Ebony circling him. He manages to wrangle the angry bird into his hold. "Stay put you little menace!” the sun god aggressively hushes, “She's sleeping!"

Another sigh left his lips as he put Ebony down with the others. So much thinking, so much annoyances. 

Ignore it, then—a third voice offers. Ignore it for now.

The sun god finds himself nodding. Yes, that’s a sound plan.

Yoongi tried—he really did—but what use was ignoring the situation overall when the very existence of her ignited the two warring sides in his head every time? 

It didn’t help either that this had been the longest he had ever stayed over at the cottage.

A day had passed since he had come across (Y/N)’s aching state, and had since stayed with her in order to ensure she had fully recovered. For the sake of his heart, Yoongi had insisted on sleeping on the old bench in front of the fireplace during the night—something the exhausted (Y/N) couldn't argue him out of—with only two fairly thick blankets and a measly spare pillow to have with him for sleep. 

“Are you certain you would want to stay the night here, Yoongs?”

The rasp in her voice only served to strengthen Yoongi’s resolve, making him nod as he took the warm bowl of soup over to the dinner table. “You’re sick, (Y/N),” he simply says, sitting down in front of her. “It would also be too late for me to travel now, anyways. There are wolves and all sorts of beasts out at night, and I hardly came prepared.”

That was a lie—obviously.

Still, a worried frown remains on the young woman’s face as she gingerly takes the spoon and begins eating the dinner he had made for the both of them. “I have no spare bed for you to take,” she tells him, knowing he couldn’t exactly share the bed with her either—else he would catch the cold she had. Her father had sold grandfather’s old bed so they could make end’s meet then, and she lives alone now, too. Where would Yoongi sleep then?

Yoongi takes her concern into consideration, looking around the cottage with eyes landing on the wooden bench by the fireplace—the one they often sit at to chat away. “There,” he gestures, “I could sleep there.”

(Y/N)’s eyes followed the direction of his nod, seeing the old furniture she had watched her grandfather and father build as a child. “Nonsense,” she tells him, head whipping back almost too quickly and making her hiss a little. She ignores the concerned frown that tugs at Yoongi’s lips. “You would barely be able to move in that thing,” she reasons, “you’d fall to the ground!”

The sun god shrugs. “I’ve slept in worse places before,” he tells her, “It wouldn’t be a problem, I assure you.”

“But—”

Yoongi leaves no room for any more arguments, nudging her bowl closer to her, “Eat,” he commands, firm but soft all the same. “It’s getting cold.”

(Y/N) was right, of course. It was uncomfortable with barely any space to move, yes, and he did fall off somewhere in the night, but he would have hardly been able to sleep if he had gone home and left her to herself.  

“Yoongi?”

The sun god awoke to a light nudging on his shoulder, something he couldn’t help but be annoyed about. The guttural groan that left his mouth in protest stops as the one eye that begrudgingly opens sees (Y/N) crouching beside him. He would’ve thought it to be a dream—what with the sunlight gracing her with a golden glow and all—but the constant ache at the back of his neck was the pinch making it known to him that this was reality.   

(Y/N) had woken up fully recovered early this morning, courtesy of him spending the time in between them yesterday secretly infusing his powers into her slowly but surely. She was still a bit sluggish, but she was well enough to get up on her own and check her guest. Seeing him instinctively rub at his neck in pain, however, made her feel guilty. “I told you that you would fall off this old thing,” she attempts to jest, but the sigh that follows her words betrays the light-hearted attempt. “Are you alright?”

Yoongi got up from the floor as best as he could while entangled in the blankets. “I’m alright,” he assures her, giving himself a second to ease his muscles. The pain, of course, easily subsided, thanks to his godly prowess. “What of you?”  

The young woman grabs one of the blankets, starting to fold it as he does the other. “A lot better, actually,” she then beams, “your soup works far better than any medicine it seems.”

A smile gingerly blooms on the god’s face, knowing it wasn’t just the soup. “Secret family recipe,” he shrugs, grabbing the other blanket from her and stacking it with the pillow on the wooden bench that made things difficult for him last night.  “I’m glad it has made things easier for you.”

“I’m glad you were here for me when you were,” she tells him, wrapping her (f/c) shawl around her sheepishly. “Else I would’ve been bedridden for days.”

The compliment takes the god aback. “There’s no need to thank me,” he softly hushes, “What sort of friend would I be if I left you on your own when you’re sick?”

Friend. 

That word left a bitter taste in his mouth to say.

Still, a warmth dusted on both of their cheeks—something they would’ve seen, had it not been for them being so flustered that they rushed to do separate things. Yoongi idly went to the kitchen and (Y/N) looked out the window to briefly check on her chickens in their coop.  

It was a beautiful day with the sun shining brightly on the world. There were just the right amount of clouds in the sky to make the heat of the sun bearable. Thankful for his efforts in taking care of her, (Y/N) had decided that they needed to do something to compensate for the lost time. 

“Yoongi?” she calls out to him, closing the windows. She sees him setting the table with some bread and fruits while some eggs fry on the pan. The sight of this pops an idea into her head. 

“What is it?” Yoongi asks, as (Y/N) hastily comes into the kitchen, going through one of the cupboards and taking out a basket. As she dusts it off, the sun god incredulously watches her lay out some cloth onto it. “What are you doing?” he chuckles at the evident delight in her steps. 

The young woman stops putting the bread in midway, looking up to grin at him. “We wasted a lot of time yesterday,” she tells him, “I thought we ought to make up for it.”

What exactly that was, Yoongi didn’t know, but how could he ever say no to that hopeful and excited smile on her face?    

As it turns out, it was a picnic. 

(Y/N) takes him to a field on the outskirts of the forest that has a nice breeze and a nice view of the distant neighbouring town. The two of them laid down a blanket on the grass, setting the basket there before sitting down themselves.

“This is a better view than that ol’ fireplace, is it not?” she muses, happily munching on one of the sandwiches Yoongi made for the two of them. “We should go here more often, actually.”

The sun god simply hums. In truth, he preferred that old fireplace—fire faintly crackling, huddling closer together, talking hushly amongst yourself because it was late. It was more intimate for him—more sentimental.   

This alternative, Yoongi thinks as the wind gently blew away at her hair and made her close her eyes to savor the breeze, was a good view, but it could never suffice to replace that place in his heart. Either way, what bliss it is to spend time with her—to be able to idly sit and share stories while the world goes on around them. 

(Y/N) begins telling him about the time her mother brought her out here for a picnic too, but the sun god could barely look at anything else other than her—the way her lips smile and form words, the way the wind fluttered her hair around, the way the backdrop of the sunny sky and flowery fields made the whole scene so beautiful his hands itched to capture the moment in a painting. 

It was hard for Yoongi to keep his feelings to himself, when he had been so used to easily declaring his affections to mortals before. Were these millennia ago, he would’ve been elated and unbothered. He is a god. Why would he have to worry about what a mere mortal thinks?

This was something he cannot do now, however—not that he would do so anyways, even if given the chance. He knows well that such arrogance would only lead (Y/N) away from him. Over and above that, if time and fate have ever taught him anything, it would’ve been that love isn’t meant for someone like him. Tragedy befell all of his lovers, and he surely wouldn’t want this young woman to turn into a plant or jump into the sea anytime soon. 

Yoongi wondered then, if he wouldn’t actively pursue (Y/N), would it guarantee less heartbreak?

“Yoongi?”

By the time the sun god’s mind returns to reality, he sees (Y/N) looking at him in confusion and concern. “Are you alright, Yoongs?” she asks him, head tilting to the side. “You’ve been awfully quiet.”

His face and ears redden from the state he was caught in. “I just have something in my mind...” he says, settling for a vague truth. “I apologize for getting preoccupied.”

Her expression softens, scooting closer and resting her cheek against her palm as she gives her full attention to the man next to her. “What are you so busy thinking about, hm?”

Yoongi was silent, certain he can’t exactly tell her what he was really thinking about at the moment. No. He needed time—time to think, to process, and to decide on his feelings.

“I’ll be leaving soon,” he opts to say, instead. Yes, some time to himself was what he needed. 

“Oh...” (Y/N) seems to falter at this news, but she recovers with some pep in her smile. “Where to?”

The sun god felt the awful guilt weighing his heart down. She must think it’s another simple trip. “I don’t know,” he says, playing along, “I’ll tell you when I return.”

A chuckle escaped her lips, as a part of her itched to ask him to bring her with him. Alas, seeing Yoongi’s current disposition told her that he’s facing something he’d want to deal with on his own.  “Alright,” she smiles, a bit forced but still well-meaning. “Stay safe and come back, alright?”

(Come back to me.)

Something in him says he will. He always will. “Always.”

This, the sun god definitively affirms, was a worse case than Hyacinthus.

It has been weeks since Yoongi left for somewhere with the last moment you saw him still engraved in your head. 

“Take care,” you told him, neck straining as you looked up at him perched atop a white horse.

The musician fiddled with the reins in his hands. “You too,” Yoongi softly smiles as you take out something from underneath your cloak. “What is it?” 

You sheepishly hand him a flask. It was warm. Yoongi seemed to notice this as he took it in his hands. “It’s coffee,” you explain, “I thought you could use something to keep you warm along the way.”

There was a moment of silence filled with Yoongi staring at you with an indecipherable expression. “Thank you,” he tells you, words weighing something more than they mean to, “I’ll be back before you know it.” 

Your eyes soften, heart warming at his words. “I know,” you smile, “See you soon.”

Yoongi nods. “See you soon.” 

A part of you hoped for a way to send letters to him immediately—to ask him how he’s going, where he is, what he’s seen—but it wasn’t possible. At best, it would take months, or not at all. All you could do was wait for your dear friend to return.

“(Y/N), dear!” 

You were knocked out of your reverie by a familiar voice, turning around to see an old friend coming towards you. “Teresa?” you ask incredulously, “What are you doing here?”

You were at Madame Louise’s shop, turning in the dresses you’ve just finished putting together last night. The brunette now came to link arms with you, startling you quite a bit. You let it be, knowing it’d be no use wrangling your arm back from her.

Again, what is she doing here?

“I saw you coming in!” the brunette beams, before showing you the fabric in her arms. “I have some dresses to turn in, as well.”   

It was a stretch calling Teresa a friend, when most of your interactions together were simply her making the first move to strike up a conversation with you. She wasn’t a friend the same way Yoongi was to you. You don’t particularly look forward to her arrival, and don’t necessarily think about spending time with her. The two of you simply used to be playmates as children, running around the field, making flower crowns, and whatnot. 

The two of you, as some of the town had put it, were opposites. You were timid. She was bold. You prefer being in a quiet environment. She was a frequent patron of the rowdy town tavern. The list could go on, really, but. in spite of her reputation as a vixen, you don’t actually mind the girl. She was nice and someone who knew what she wanted. What you do find irritating about her was her tendency to—

“So, is it true?”

—gossip.

You hold back the urge to sigh. “What is?” you ask, entertaining her excitement. 

Teresa giggles, nudging your side. “You and that foreign musician,” she muses, just as one of the employees came out from the back of the store. “He’s been coming back to town for months on end. Rumor has it he has asked for your hand in marriage—good morning, Marie!”

“Good morning,” the young lady greets, taking Teresa’s handiwork.

If you had a drink, you would’ve choked on it and spat it out, but you didn’t and so you simply just froze in place. Marie had to take the dresses from your hands herself. “I… I beg your pardon?” you squeaked, ears and face turning red. “Me and Yoongi? Married?”

As Marie leaves you two be, the brunette next to you hums, taking in your flustered reaction with a cheeky grin. “So, his name is Yoongi, huh?” she ponders, “I must admit, a peculiar handsomeness surrounds that man.”

Your head tilts in confusion at the manner she spoke of him, lips itching to voice your question. “How come you know him?” you ask, your head still reeling from what Teresa had just told you minutes prior. The whole town thinks Yoongi is courting you?

The both of you exit the shop, Teresa’s arms still linked with yours. “I saw him perform in Leonard's tavern on his first day here,” she tells you, “was a bit of a recluse, and he didn’t seem to like company. I don’t know how, but he brought up Thomas to get me to leave him be—as if that would’ve worked.” 

Yes, that sounds like Yoongi, alright. “He isn’t fond of company,” you nod, finding yourself giggling.  

Walking through town, people turn their heads and murmur at the sight of Teresa and you. Used to it, Teresa ignores everything else aside from your conversation. “He seems to like yours, however,” she teases, “What’s he like, dear?”  

Your mind drifts to the musician who’s been coming to your quiet side of the woods—his blond tresses, warm brown eyes, and catlike behavior. You think of how he easily gets lost in his element and effortlessly creates music, how he brings a new instrument every now and then to play you the new music he learned, and how he becomes flustered with a gummy smile on his face when you praise him.  

Catching yourself getting carried away, you return to the real world and  turn to your gossiping acquaintance, face still so red. “He’s a friend. Nothing more, Teresa,” you insist, though you don’t sound at all convincing. 

“Really?” Teresa muses, clearly not believing a lick of what you just said.  “Why does he come back so often then?”

For a moment, you find yourself thinking that as well. “He simply visits, because I asked him to,” you say, more to yourself than Teresa, really. “We make something to eat or drink, we spend the time talking, sometimes he plays music too, then by the end of the day, he leaves.”

Teresa laughs at the brisk flash of panic and confusion in your eyes. “If it’s simply just the talking between friends, then I doubt he would return much,” she tells you, as you two reach the outskirts of the small town. She lets your arm go and sits on a boulder, stopping your little walk. “Why does he still come back? Isn’t he a foreigner?” she poses a challenging thought, “How far must he live from here and yet still come visit you just because you asked him to.” 

(She doesn't go on to tell you the things he’s been seen doing around town. How he was almost always seen somewhere in the forest heading towards the direction of your cottage and how the second time he did come to town, he had rushed around the market for vegetables to make soup with.)

Her series of questions, however, were enough to shut you up for a good minute or two, sending you into another spiral of mulling things over. “Well...” you mumble, sitting next to her, “I don’t know. It’s not my place to say, but his.”

The woman takes pity in the crisis she started in your head, taking a gentler approach. “What about you, then?” she softly urges, “What do you think of the musician?”

Obediently—and against your better judgement—your mind comes back to the thoughts of that musician. “Yoongi is...” you pause, a smile slowly stretching across your face, “kind, gifted, and considerate. He doesn’t say it but he cares a lot, even for the chickens.” 

Teresa smiles at your words, looking at you in keen interest with her palm against her cheek. “Do you really not see yourself with that man then?” she asks, genuinely curious.

The question brings you back to the start of this whole ordeal with the rumor Teresa brought up. Up until this point, you haven’t really thought of Yoongi under that sort of light. Do you see yourself with him?

You and Yoongi’s union would be announced at the front door of the town church, to be attended by the townspeople and officiated by the bishop. You’d be wearing your best blue gown, and him in his best tunic. A feast would follow after, and maybe Yoongi would play some of his music for all. It would be nice.

—if it wouldn’t ruin your friendship with him.

“No,” you shake your head. “Yoongi is just… Yoongi.”

Teresa notes the despondence that soaks your expression, the way you deprive yourself of a mere fantasy. “And if he were to find himself other prospects? If he settles down somewhere else with someone else and doesn’t come back here anymore?” she challenges you again. “What then?”

The thought of Yoongi with someone else and not returning stirs an ache in you that you never quite expected. It would’ve been sad, obviously, but your heart clenched so much that it rendered you at a loss for words.

“I...”

Oh no… 

Do you like Yoongi that way after all?

 There lies a satisfaction on Teresa’s face as she sees the cogs turning in your brain. “So much hesitation, darling,” she muses, “is he really just Yoongi to you?”

You couldn't find it in yourself to shake your head anymore, or respond at all, actually. Still mulling over the prospect of your feelings towards that blond musician, you could hardly find the energy or effort to respond to Teresa.  

If you are as smitten as Teresa thinks you to be, then how could you bear facing Yoongi now? It'll take a great strength in you to manage looking into his eyes when he comes back from his voyage—what more talking and being so close to him. You have doomed yourself—No! Teresa has doomed you! 

Had she not come to gossip, had she not poked at you and Yoongi's dynamic, you wouldn't hav—

A gentle caress on your head makes you look up. Teresa smiles at you in assurance. “A good man is just as rare and precious as a love that’s real and sweet, dear,” she tells you, “Think long and hard about what your heart says and wants. Then, tell him, before you regret it—before you lose your chance.”

Your heart swells at the words, the chaos in your head subsiding. “Thank you, Teresa,” you smile, grateful, “I’ll keep those words in mind.”

Teresa looks at you for a moment, a storm brewing in the blues of her eyes. “I envy you, (Y/N),” she confesses, “I really do.”

Picking at her fingers, Teresa's words come out weary. “To find yourself in the company of a man who truly cares and takes care of you,” she muses, a bittersweet smile on her face. "You're truly blessed."

She looks out to the town bustling before the both of you, cheekiness and daredevil attitude damned. You are then reminded of the young woman who came to you crying once or twice. “Have you and Thomas still not come around?” you find yourself asking before you could stop yourself. Eyes widening at your reckless mouth, you cover it shut. "I'm sorry." 

Teresa dismissively waves, eyes hardening at the memory of her husband. “We will never come back to the way we used to be,” she says with such finality you'd think it was written in stone. “I’ve come to terms not to exhaust myself with matters so helpless,” she declared, sighing to herself before grinning, “I'm just having fun now.”

Your eyes furrowed in concern for her and her reckless behavior. She had sworn before you once—after you had seen her break down in tears for a full hour—that she would never again put her faith in men. She would use them the same way they used her. She had built her scandalous reputation on this. It was a rebellion and a vengeance against her husband who had forsaken her, but it was a coping mechanism as well—a way for her to feel something. 

Teresa chuckles at your troubled gaze. “Don’t worry about me, (Y/N),” she tells you, “you and Yoongi will do much better. I just know it.”

The two of you were opposites, but Teresa always meant well. You may not be as close as she makes it seem to be, but she is definitely a person in your life that you will never forget. This little moment with Teresa that brought your feelings into light, gave it hope, and flourished it, is a moment you will forever keep in your heart. 

—which made it all the more painful, when the news of her death came around the following week. 

No one knows the exact events that had transpired. 

Her body had been found downstream, all the way in the next town over—bloated, pale, and almost unrecognizable. Before the villagers had delivered the grave news, the town tavern owner, Leonard, had already taken note of the lack of her boisterous presence for three days in a row. No one really bothered to know or care, until Thomas, himself, came to check the body of the woman found. 

All of a sudden, the murmurs came plowing through the town. The town whore is dead. 

It was an accident. That's what the first round of gossip said. Teresa must've fallen into the river by accident, they suggested. She must've been carried away by the current and drowned!

It's suicide. That's what others sneered. She must've gotten pregnant from one of her escapades, they claimed. Or maybe all that shame finally latched onto her.

One of those is clearly more plausible than the other. The suicide theory was one largely based on malice, one that jealous men and women spread to rake her name through the mud more than it already is. 

You may not have known her on a personal level, but you found it unlikely that Teresa would ever resort to ending her own life. She had told you herself that she would rather go down fighting than to kill herself over the grief the betrayal her husband had caused. 

Then again, that cannot be fully ruled out in the list of possibilities. You don't know if anyone else had seen the side of Teresa you had seen, but the town whore that everyone scorned and envied was a broken girl that lost faith in love and the world, letting her name be sullied in the name of riling her husband up. 

Could she have really done it to herself?

You didn’t know—and it pains you.

Staring at the ground that held Teresa beneath, the prayers of the priest and the people around you faded away. You didn’t have the chance to see her before the burial—no one else in town has, either. They say the river turned her face terrifying, and so, her whole body was wrapped in the winding sheet with only her husband and family members to say their final goodbyes. 

Her last smile burns in your head, the same way tears stung your eyes. You tug your (f/c) shawl tighter around your frame. The day felt colder today, the sky rumbling in a murky gray that foretold the coming of a storm. 

It didn’t help the feeling of losing a friend.  

In the days that followed, you felt more alone than ever. Not only has Teresa’s passing left you mourning still, but Yoongi’s influence over your life has also gotten more and more apparent the more you had time to think about it. To add to that, every time you came to town, gossiping whispers and stares were drilling holes into your very being. What they talked about, you weren’t sure, but it was safe to say you were getting next to nothing when it came to sleep because of these things.  

Today you awake, still in your sleepwear with no real motivation to change and go out in the world. Alas, you did have a few duties in your home that you do have to do, and so, you were out of the bed with a little oil lamp in hand, navigating the slightly dim path out your room. 

You set the oil lamp down the dinner table and open up the windows to let in all the light. After idly braiding your hair, you started a fire in the stove and set the kettle over it, waiting for the water to boil. Outside, your chickens wake, too, the rooster also later crowing out its call. 

With this, you officially start your day. 

The sunlight peeks through the windows as if in some attempt to give you the warmth that you’ve been lacking in your life. The sunny day felt nice, if you must admit, taking a little of the weight off your shoulders. Pairing that with a nice cup of coffee in hand reminded you of your days with a certain someone. 

Min Yoongi. 

At the thought of Yoongi, you wonder again how he is doing—if his travels led him somewhere cold or hot, if he’s learning another song, or if he’s thinking of you as much as you were thinking of him. It’s a fantasy, you thought to yourself, but it’d be nice if he did—even if it were only as a friend.

Alas, hearing your chickens cluck a commotion outside, you were pulled out of your thoughts. You set your cup down, wrapping your (f/c) shawl over your chest tighter for some decency opening the door in your nightgown. The knob was a bit stubborn, but you managed to ease the door open.

“Thomas?”

You didn’t have the effort in you to hide the surprise on your face. There stood the lean man Teresa had often cried to you about, easily looming over you with his height. You haven't seen the man since the funeral, and you were quite unsure how to feel about his sudden visit. 

A pool of anger simmers within you from the image Teresa has painted in your head from all her stories—how he was unfaithful, how he acted like she never existed, how he couldn't care less about people harassing her even before she lost faith in the world and let her reputation swallow her whole. This was the man that led Teresa on a path to self-destruction.

But he was also an old "friend"—a playmate, really—and a man who hasn't done anything directly wrong to you just yet on this fine day (other than to ruin your reveries, that is).

And so, you settle for a small smile. "Good morning," you curtly quip, "May I help you with something?"

Thomas visibly perks up, as if he had been lost in thought, too. "Good morning, (Y/N)," he greets, a sheepish chuckle escaping his lips. "I'm truly sorry to bother you so early in the day, but I thought it would be good to bring you something that Teresa would've wanted you to have."

In his hands was something wrapped in an old fabric. "What is it?" You asked, head tilting as you hesitantly took it from his hands. 

"It's a dress," Thomas answered. "A wedding dress."

Confusion besets you. "A wedding dr…?" a soft gasp leaves your lips as you unfold the worn brown covering, revealing a simple but beautiful blue dress. Your fingers gently glide over the cotton, noticing that the delicate embroidery at the trims weren't finished—the answer is obvious as to why.

"Oh, it's beautiful," you coo, tears stinging your eyes even as the smile that blossoms on your face tries to stop it. Even in death, Teresa encourages you to pursue your heart.  

"May I come in?" 

You broke out of your trance, looking back up at him. "What?"

Thomas' green eyes squint as he looks at the sunny sky. "It's awfully hot out," he tells you, before gesturing to the dress. "I also want to see more of the dress."

"Oh…"

You look at him still—at the way the sunlight made the top of his light brown tresses a bit more golden, at the discomfort written partly on his face. You were tempted to keep him there, but you took too long mulling over his words that it would be rude to deny him now. 

Wordlessly, you opened the door wide and stepped aside. You focus your attention on the dress, admiring the embroidery one more time before holding it out, the fabric flowing down and stopping at a decent length for your height. 

"She said it's a wedding dress," Thomas hums, taking a seat at the bench by the fireplace. "Are you really getting married?"

There was a slight grit in his words that caught you off guard, breaking the ease of the smile you forced out of your lips. "Eventually," you awkwardly muse, "Every woman has to, yes?"

Thomas nodded, but with the way he stared off somewhere, his mind was clearly some place else. "To whom?"

A shyness suddenly sieges you. "Well, it's uncertain for now," you say before channeling an ounce of hope and confidence from the words Teresa had left you before. "But, I am hoping to get the affections of a certain someone."

The brunet's expression hardens, one that you hadn't really noticed until he spoke again. "Is it the foreign musician?" Thomas spat, causing the soft smile on your face to vanish. 

There was a fury in his eyes that you couldn’t quite understand, and frankly, it put you off. On instinct, you gently drape the dress over a chair and inch closer to the dining table—closer to your coffee, and away from the bench and Thomas. "You mean…” you idly drawled, “Yoon… gi?"

"So that's the bastard's name," Thomas sneers again, “Yoongi?”

A silent huff escapes your lips, one that you hoped he didn’t notice. "Is something wrong?" you asked him, a tight-lipped smile on your face as you take a sip of coffee to calm yourself.  

"He fucked my wife."

With the way Thomas said that matter-of-factly, you sputtered, nearly staining your shawl and nightgown with coffee. "I beg your pardon?" you gawked in disbelief at the hunter on your bench, his words ringing in your head.  

"He fucked her," he claims once more, "I'm sure of it."

You, however, weren’t so easily swayed. Yoongi and Teresa may have met in passing, but neither have mentioned the other at all, Yoongi having said nothing and Teresa having only brought him up for gossip. "And you're sure of this because?" you challenge, leaning against the table as you turn to face him with your arms crossing together. 

Thomas stands up from his seat as he begins laying out his ‘evidence’."She met him on his first day here, and he's been coming back a lot. Surely, something must've happened," he says, "He must've broken her heart and led her to kill herself."

A part of you wanted to laugh. This man is delirious. 

With a sigh, you unfurl your arms to reason with him. "I highly doubt it, Thomas," you say, "I would know because I'm the only one Yoongi only knows well in this town, and he stays here."

Your words, instead, seemed to be gasoline to fire—a catalyst worsening his rage. "How can you be sure what he's done when he's not here?" he scorns, nose flaring and fists clenching. 

That's true. You don’t really ask Yoongi what he does outside of your time together, the only look into his life being really just the adventures he chooses to share with you—but that still doesn't validate Thomas’ affair theory. 

You trust Yoongi. You trust Teresa. You trust them more than some bygone boy from your childhood years. You haven’t spoken to Thomas in years until this moment—clearly, Teresa is much closer to your good graces than he is. With the baseless slander he’s putting out of his mouth, he falls further and further down from the nothing he has. "You're pointing out needless accusations, Thomas," you grit through your teeth, "Yoongi and Teresa don't have an affair. They've hardly met more than once."

Thomas marches forth, pointing at you. "Stop siding with the foreigner, (Y/N)!" he bellows.

It really didn’t sit well with you right now, that this man, who had practically abandoned his wife and not even thought to fend her against other men, suddenly gets angry at the thought of a foreigner having an affair with his wife before her death. "Why are you so sure he's involved with any of this?!" you exclaim, frustration settling in very quickly.

“Because he's taken what should’ve been mine!” he screams, as if this was a matter of stolen objects. 

You were having enough of his tantrum. "For the last time, Thomas," you hissed, voice firm but shaking with rage. “Yoongi didn't have an affair with Teresa. He never did.”

Still, the hunter doesn’t relent. “I'm not talking about Teresa!”

That alone silences the both of you.

“What?”

The sunlight that filtered through the palace was abundant, what with its Grecian architecture having a lot of open spaces to let all the natural light in. This easily added more to the title of it being a golden palace. Yoongi is the god of the sun, after all. It made the most sense. 

But that didn’t mean he liked it—not all of the time, at least.

He didn’t want to be reminded of what he is and what his duties are supposed to be—especially, not now. The sun god was draped across a large bed, idly hovering between asleep and awake, and staring up at the ceiling. His curtains were drawn to a close, with only the wind lightly blowing at the curtains to let more light in the room.

His head pounded, having woken up from the consequences of his escapades with Dionysus the night before. The fact that he’s a god suffering from a hangover at the moment is telling of just how much he drank. It’s not easy to get a god drunk after all, but of course, this is something the wine god is good at.

In hindsight, he should’ve never gone with his old friend at all. He may have gotten what he had wanted, but it was only a temporary fix. Now, not only did he have a massive headache, but his original problem was back. 

(Y/N)—or rather, his mind constantly bringing her up. 

The drinking had been in the name of forgetting her, really—something that he hadn’t really told Hoseok when he had agreed to go out for a drink yesterday. Otherwise, Yoongi knew he would’ve been taken to sit down and talked into a sad and sorry drinking session instead of a fun one that would’ve distracted him, just as he had preferred.   

It's not that she had done anything wrong—she’s a good soul, after all—but the constant mulling over his feelings was a lot more difficult than he had anticipated. 

As of now, he is definitely more certain than ever that he really does love her—love her more than he had ever with Hyacinthus. It was a shock to admit it to himself out loud, but it was now the truth. The way he felt around her was different than what he had felt with everyone else. There were no butterflies that came to warn him, there was only peace and then a sudden chaos—one that swept him off his feet, and frankly, he had no plans to get up. It was futile, after all, to fight something so great and powerful.  

But it is this difference in this love that also concerns him. If he had loved Hyacinthus so greatly before that his death had broken Yoongi for centuries on end and have this love surpass it, then how could he ever learn to live without her when she dies?  

Mortals live so shortly—something that Yoongi himself has come to see in millennia and also something he has come to accept somewhat. Even as a friend then, Yoongi knew he would one day lose her to death, and it already saddened him enough—what more now when he has come to love her? 

Everything reminded him of her—the sunlight that often gave her that golden glow, the mornings when they would have coffee together, and even music, his literal symbol, has come to betray him in his endeavour. He now cannot pick up an instrument without having an urge to go down to Earth and play songs for her.

It doesn't help either that the excuse he had given her when he left was that he was travelling. Thinking of her waiting down there for him, made his heart clench.  

“Are you done moping around?”

A shock of his life came to Yoongi at the sudden voice of an outsider. He got up from his bed in haste, a sharp hiss leaving his lips after the motion made his head ache worse. It took a moment for him to collect himself, but when he did, he turned his eyes towards the direction of the voice with an immediate glare. 

By the hallway, was a familiar woman. Small and lean, like himself, and skin so milky white that one wouldn't at all think she was a huntress so used to being outside. Her eyes and hair were dark, but shone with a little bit of a blue hue when the light graces them every now and then. 

It was his sister. 

“Artemis?” he asked, incredulous. “What brings you here?”

The moon goddess rolled her eyes, walking further into the room with the ends of her dark blue dress fluttering around her. She stops a few feet away from his bed, crossing her arms. “To talk some sense into your foolish self,” she sneers, prying the curtains ahead open with her powers. “Get up.”

A yelp leaves Yoongi's lips, taken aback with eyes nearly burning at the sudden flooding of light into his room. “I beg your pardon?” he exclaims, returning to looking at his sister with a fierce glare.

Artemis ignores this and walks around the room, looking at the clutter he has made in the weeks since he's been here. The look of disgust and disdain is obvious on her face. “You and I both know I am not one for love, brother,” she sighs, saying it nonchalantly, “I found no sense in your romantic escapades. I thought you a fool.”

This was the most obvious difference between them. Where Yoongi had countless of lovers,  his sister had none. 

“However,” she then firmly interjects, “what I find more detestable are people who lie and run away from their problems.”

The sun god stared at her in confusion, but then in fear upon realizing that Artemis may have discovered his little secret on Earth. “W-what do you mean?” he stammered, but it would’ve been futile even if he hadn’t stammered. Like him, his sister had a keen eye for detecting emotions. 

This was now evident with the way Artemis' eyes narrowed at him. “You met a woman several months ago,” she says, “(Y/N) was it? You kept returning to that quaint little cottage of hers so much that this palace of yours could burn and you wouldn’t care for it.”

His head went blank. “You know about (Y/N),” he says, words leaving his lips in an almost inaudible manner.  

The moon goddess’ eyes rolled back a century. “You weren’t exactly being the most careful in the end, brother,” she tells him, matter-of-factly. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

“Don’t hurt her, Yoonji,” was his immediate thought to say. There was an edge in his voice—one that shocked both his sister and himself. He even used her mortal name.

The shock, however, was replaced with anger. “You dare assume I would do such a thing?” she spat, clearly offended. She may be a bit overprotective when it comes to the matters of her brother's heart but she was a protector of women and children. She wouldn't hurt the mortal so baselessly. 

“I don’t have to hurt her, Yoongi.” Yoonji then settled him with a sarcastic smile, “you alone can do enough damage.”

It was Yoongi's turn to be offended. “What are you talking about?” 

Yoonji points an accusatory finger at her younger brother. “You lied to her and ran away,” she said.

His heart skipped a beat in a bad way, more guilt settling in now that his sister has pointed it out. “I didn’t run away,” he sighs, not denying the lying part, “I’m thinking my feelings and decisions through.”

“Are you?” Yoonji drawled, challenging him, “Or are you simply stalling?”

The sun god sighs yet again. “I—AH!”

All of a sudden a bright light flashes and invades his entire vision. 

The expanse of a familiar forest appears before his eyes, the whole thing in a hazy glow. There was silence for a moment but a figure suddenly whirs past, sending the birds flying amok. 

The perspective suddenly changes into whatever or whoever it was that just went by. They kept running and running through bushes and branches that hit and hurt against the skin. He can't hear anything but he could feel the fear running through their veins. 

What are they running away from? 

What happened?

Before he could get an answer, the prospective changes once again. This time, a man loomed over the figure, blood running down and obscuring his face. Hands reached out and clawed at the man, trying to fight back.

Then, just as quickly as it came, it ends, Yoongi now returning back to the bright walls of his palace. The sun god crashes onto the floor, his breath labored as if he had done the running himself. 

Yoonji was left aback by her twin’s sudden collapse. “Brother?” she asks, running over to aid him, “What’s wrong? What happened?”

A vision. It was a vision.

Yoongi hadn’t had one himself in years. They would usually be something that would directly impact his life and future, and upon realizing that, the sun god could only think of one person. 

Exerting a sudden strength, Yoongi forces himself out of his sister's grasp, collecting his bow and arrow from the wall atop his bed and marching out onto the balcony. He calls forth his chariot, all the more confusing Yoonji. 

The moon goddess chases after her twin. “Yoongi!” she calls out to him, managing to grab him by the arm. “What’s going on? Tell me!”

Before her, Yoongi has never been more panicked—more desperate. “(Y/N),” he tells her, “she’s in danger.”

"What?"

The silence that clung in the air was astoundingly suffocating. It seemed as if even the chickens outside went silent, and the only thing you can hear was Thomas's words echoing in your head. 

Before you, the hunter sputters, clearly in panic. "I…"  

The anger that had been simmering within you started to boil as his words now sink in. “What do you mean you’re not talking about Teresa?”you drawled before your voice bellowed in rage. “She’s your wife!”

Thomas now was even more reckless, his defensive side making it all messier. “She’s nothing but a whore!” he screamed back.

His words were now a catalyst to your rage. “You neglected her in the first place!” you hissed, “She loved you, but all you did was cast her aside! Your actions were what led her to be the way she was!”

Face now red from all of the yelling, Thomas took a moment to breathe. “If she did love me then she would’ve stayed at home like a good wife,” he gritted his teeth, “Instead, she went around town to do things to embarrass me! To retaliate against me!”

While you also had worried about the petty way Teresa coped with her husband's awful shortcomings,  you certainly didn't like the way Thomas acted as if he didn't do anything wrong. “Yes, because of you,” you pointed out to him, emphasizing his critical role in the problem. Angry tears roll down your eyes. “You say that as if you had no fault in the matter—as if you’ve been so faithful!” you exclaim, almost wanting to laugh at his ridiculous mindset. “Who’s the one you’re referring to if not Teresa then, huh?”

“You.”

Another silence rips through the air, a gasp leaving your lips as you gawk in disbelief at the audacity of the man before you. “What?” You uttered breathless, “What do you mean ‘me’?”

Thomas takes a step forward, trying to plead his case. “The woman I love is you, (Y/N),” he tells you, “You.” 

Disgust seizes your face as you lean further away from the hunter. “Since when?” You ask, a scoff leaving your lips at his declaration of love. “We barely know each other.”

There was a flash of hurt in his green eyes—one that you couldn't care to think about when all you could think of was the utter bafflement of what had just transpired. “I realized it a few years ago,” he confessed, head lowering. 

It was amazing just how much this man has managed to surprise you in barely an hour of coming to you. “A few years ago?” you gasped, “You married her a few years ago!”

Thomas ran his hands through his light brown locks in frustration. “It was after I’ve already gotten married to her,” he tells you this as if he were simply trying to reason with you like you were the one being irrational. “She’s no longer here, we can—”

“What?!” You look at them in horror, scandalized by what had just tried to suggest. “Have you gone mad?!”

This man really thought that after the death of his wife and a confession out of nowhere, you would accept his hand in marriage—after you've also mentioned having someone else in your heart. What a ridiculous thought. “I have no feelings for you whatsoever!” You tell him this, giving him the brutal truth that sends him in another fit of rage.

The hunter marched towards you, hands gripping either side of your arms tightly. You trash around in his hold. “Does that bastard of a foreigner really hold your heart then? That good-for-nothing musician that keeps coming back to a place he doesn’t belong?” he questioned, face getting redder and redder. 

“Let me go, Thomas!” you scream, managing to slip away enough and hold yourself against a nearby wall. You back away more as he starts to loom over you again. 

“What do I have to do to make you forget him?” Thomas manically asks, throwing aside a chair that got in his way. “Do I have to kill him too?!”

Your eyes widened in horror. “Too?” you gasped, as the dots connect in your head immediately—Teresa’s funeral happening so quickly, his empty expression as the priest carried over the ceremony and his sudden visit here. 

“Did you… Did you kill Teresa?”

That stopped Thomas in his tracks, making him realize what he had just said. The absence of remorse in his eyes terrified you more. “She had it coming,” he growled.

Shivers ran down your spine at the memory of Teresa’s death. It wasn't an accident, or a suicide—it was murder.  

Thomas arrives home after selling a few of what he had gotten from a previous hunt, only to see no supper waiting at table. Teresa usually does this, as part of her ploy to aggravate him, but she would usually prepare supper for herself and so, Thomas would have something to take and eat. “What are you doing?” he growled, as he takes his boots off by the door, “Where’s supper?”

His wife nonchalantly shrugs. “I’m making a dress,” she simply tells him, showing him blue fabric and her hands. He had seen her work on that dress before, so it wasn't really that much of a surprise. 

He pulls a chair to take a seat across hers. “Is your customer more important than your husband?” he lowly asks, glaring at her.

Teresa, as per usual, could not give a single damn about what he thought. “Considering I earn money from it, then yes, Thomas,” She tells him, matter-of-factly, So focusing her attention on the handiwork in her hands. “Besides, it’s not a commission. It’s a gift.” 

Thomas sighs. If it were allowed, he would’ve long left this bitch.“What on Earth are you making a dress for?” he grits through his teeth.

“A wedding.”

That caught him off guard. There were no announcements posted on the church's door today. “Whose?” he asked, thinking of the hunt that would be needed to prepare for the feast after. If the couple were a little well of, then he coul— 

“(Y/N)’s” Teresa cut off his thoughts, a smile on her lips that wasn’t clearly just meant to be happy for the couple, but for herself as well. “Rumor has it she’ll be marrying the foreigner musician soon and I want to give them my best regards before they leave this godforsaken town.”

Thomas was obviously irked. He had heard of those rumors in passing, but he never really put much thought into it.“Why waste effort on rumors, Teresa?” he grunts, “Stop lollygagging now and fix us up some dinner.”

Teresa rolled her eyes and set the dress down to check on the pantry for food, knowing well that Thomas was at his limit and would throw a massive fit if he didn't get what he wanted sooner. It would be difficult to hide another bruise. 

Still, a part of her was satisfied to hear the obvious irritation in his voice and that part of her tempted her to poke at him more. “It’s not just a rumor,” she excitedly tells him in a gossiping manner.“I talked to (Y/N) myself, and they seem to be very much in love.”

Thomas clenched fist. “And why would she settle for a foreigner?”

In hindsight, this was a bad idea, but Teresa hasn't seen him react this much before. She becomes careless in her endeavors, the satisfaction of angering him—of hurting his pride—being such a delicious fruit to grasp. “He’s handsome, kind, caring, and seems to be well off too,” she said, listing some of the things she had heard from (Y/N), as she took out the pot of porridge she had made this morning. “Why wouldn’t she marry someone like that?”

“He’s a farce,” The hunter sneered. “She shouldn’t marry him.”

She sets down a bowl for the both of them with a little bit of force. “Why are you so against it, dear?” she fakely asks, lips twitching. “Is it because you know he’s better than all you could ever be?”

Thomas stands up to his full height, easily towering over Teresa. “What did you say to me?”

All sense of fear abandoning her, Teresa was beset by her fury. “You’re not fooling me, Thomas,” she spat,“I know why you’re so cross about anything that has to do with (Y/N).”

She walks towards him, a slightly crazed smile on her face that tells him she really does know the truth he’s been trying to hide—the grave sin he had committed. Lust. “The way you look at her, the way you perk up at the mention of her, the way you say her name in your sleep,” she growled. “I know it all, you bastard.”

“That’s enough, Teresa,” Thomas warns. 

Teresa only laughs at the evidence of guilt on his face. For someone scorned to be a whore and a vixen, the town will surely be scandalized to hear that the one who sinned first was the husband after all. “If I hadn’t known just how much of a sweetheart (Y/N) is, if I had been such a fool to blame her for your infidelity,” she hissed, “I would’ve hated her—cursed her even.”

“Enough!”

Teresa doesn’t stop, carried away by the heartache she had been keeping for years. “But you and I know, you will never be with her,” she tells him, cackling—only to be cut short by a slap.

Thomas’ hand stings from the impact. “Shut up, you wench,” he grits through his teeth.

Furious tears ran down Teresa’s cheeks. She doesn’t wipe them away. Instead, she turns back to him, glaring into the windows of his soul. “You don’t deserve her. She deserves better,” she declares, a grin spreading across her lips at the memory of her discussion with the young dressmaker. "And she has just that—the musician," she tells Thomas, “That alone is a satisfying vengeance for all you’ve done to me.”

It was then and there that Thomas’ rage truly exploded. It was quick, how he marched towards her and wrapped his hands around her neck. “Shut up!” he bellowed.

Teresa clawed at his wrists and kicked about. “Rot in hell!”

“Forget about her—about him,” Thomas coaxes you, as if the fact he had murdered his wife in cold blood was something so easy to forget. “Come with me.”

You nearly topple over the bench in your attempt to get away from him.  “You’ve gone mad, Thomas,” you tell him, shaking your head. "You need help."

The hunter growls at your words, stepping forwards, trying to catch you, but you warily dodge his hold. In avoiding him, you made it somehow to the dining table. "Don't come any closer, Thomas," you warn, keeping in mind what lay there behind you.  

Before you, the man breathes heavily. “I’m perfectly sane!” he insists, tearing at his hair in frustration. “I did what I had to do! Listen to me!”

Fully convinced he's about to break, you "Don't lie to yourself," you plead, now exhausted with this whole charade. "What you did was wrong and you know it."

It was so sudden that you barely saw it coming. Thomas lunges at you with a tight grip on the back of your head as the other hand painfully squishes your cheeks to have you look up at him. You whimper, trying to pry at his hands and free yourself from his hold. 

"I said listen to me," he growled, shaking you still, "now, shut up."

Thomas stared you down. "You will never see that musician again. You're com—AH! FUCK!"

He staggers back after a slightly hot splash of coffee hits his face—you being the culprit after reaching for the mug behind you. With his vision and guard down for a moment, you took no time smashing the mug in your hand onto his head. Yoongi's mug was now shattered, but it had effectively given Thomas a lot of damage—an awful gash now on the side of his head. 

Not all triumphs last long, after all. 

Thomas howls in pain as the wound trickles blood down the side of his face. "You bitch!" He then glowered, charging towards you like a bull. You dodge in time, sending him crashing into the table instead. 

His crash was followed by a pained grunt, then shatter of something hitting the floor. Much to your horror a reddish glow begins to spread beneath the trashed dining table. 

The oil lamp.

You step forward in an attempt to quell the fire, but Thomas groans, panicking you even more. The heavy clench of your heart at the thought of your cottage burning was outweighed by your crazed suitor catching you. You wrap your shawl around you tighter, bolting towards the door. 

You shock your chickens in your sudden exit of the house, sending them running amok too. In your haste, you don't bother to lock the small gate behind you and don't bother to look behind you either. 

You didn't have enough power in you to fully process the terror of the events that had transpired. All that suffering weaving all sorts of people together in an entangled mess. 

In another life, maybe Teresa and Thomas would have reconciled and worked through the problem. Maybe they would have had children—children that would have been your godchild even. Maybe she wouldn't have lived so miserably and died in such a tragic way. Maybe they would've been happy.

But not in this life. 

In this life, Thomas was cruel, discontented, and insane. If he is still any of these in his next life, then it is a guaranteed recipe for disaster. Would there be any hope for him? 

You didn’t know—or care, at the moment. All you could think of is run. 

Run as fast as you can.

In all honesty, you know nothing of where your feet were taking you, but you were hoping it was somewhere in the direction of the town. Your mind wandered into the fate that loomed over you. Will you manage to leave this alive and ever tell Yoongi how you felt? Will you die at the hands of Thomas and later be found at some place else, the same way Teresa was found in the downstream river? 

You don't know what fate will befall you, but you would at least like to try fighting your way to whatever end awaits you. Through bushes and branches that hit and hurt against the skin, you just kept on running with fear only fuelling you to go further. Your heart was beating so fast against your rib cages, your lungs aching for air, but you couldn’t stop.

—until the ground itself made you stop.

Feet caught by some stray log sticking out, you plummet down to the ground with an outcry. Your fall gives you scratches and bruises along the arm and leg of the side you fell on, tearing the ends of your nightgown and a sleeve. You stay right where you landed, tears stinging your eyes as you take a few seconds to redeem yourself. It hurts to breathe, to move, to even think.

You close your eyes allowing yourself a little bit of a break from all of this, muttering a prayer under your breath as you did. It'll be fine, you tell yourself this even with no assurance at all, trying to manifest that good grace of fate towards you. 

You're fine. 

Everything is fine. 

Everything will be fine.

In the distance, you start to hear howls and dog barks, breaking you out of your little rest. You did your best to push yourself up, whimpering along the way when jolts of pain shot through your body. Heartbeat speeding up at the sight of bushes moving in the distance, you think that they might be wolves—or bloodhounds.

Did Thomas bring his bloodhounds with him? 

Oh, no. 

You try to move, try to take a step forward in another direction but your knees buckled and every inch you moved was painful. Still, you start to limp towards a certain direction and eventually find yourself arriving at a clearing—one that you don't recognize to be near the town at all. 

Tears stream down your eyes then and there. You were far from salvation, far from anyone who could help. You were doomed.

Looking behind you, you hear the hounds grow louder and louder. With the limp making it difficult for you to run, you grab a hold of a large branch you find amongst the ground. It was somewhat sturdy and sharp. You could use it for defense. 

Propping yourself against the nearest tree, you do your best to hide from whatever it was that was behind you. Should it choose to attack, you have something to attack with. You ready yourself to fight—ready yourself to die fighting—and wait for death to come so you can look at it straight in the eyes and bare your teeth.

Much to your horror, two bloodhounds had indeed come after you, drool running down their chin as they growl at your weakened state like some prey for a hunt. Their fangs glistened with ferocity—a far cry from the way your tears beckoned desperation. “Stay away!” you snarl back, your hand shaking but you swing the branch at them anyways.

“There's no use fighting now, (Y/N).” 

You froze at the voice that reached your ears. You turn your head and see Thomas at a distance, the side of his head tainted red but the bleeding seems to have stopped that at some point. Behind him, you see a faint line of smoke trailing up into the sky. Your cottage was up in flames by now, no doubt. 

You know not how he managed to catch up with you so quickly, but he was here now and you had to worry about him. Clutching your makeshift weapon tighter, you gather the last of your strength in preparation of what’s to come. “Stay away, Thomas,” you grit, “please.”  

The dogs bark, the near thunderous sound making you jump. You can’t run from either side with the hounds ready to snap at you at any time. Their master approaches you in the middle. You immediately swing the branch, successfully hitting him once or twice. Thomas staggers back from your attack with a pained grunt that soon turns into a growl as he grips at the branch and yanks it out of your hands. Your shawl falls to the ground at the harsh movement, and you can’t even go to pick it up.

It was now officially three against one.

Thomas seizes your neck—not enough to choke you, but enough to trap you between him and the tree. “You’re really testing me, woman,” he sneers, before he sadistically grins. “Come with me now, and I’ll forgive you, hm?” 

You stomp and kick at his legs, slamming your fist against his chest. His pride disgusts you. “I never loved you,” you spat, “I never will.” 

Thomas kissed his teeth at your words in irritation and disappointment, shaking his head. “Wrong answer,” he says, throwing you to the ground and easily hovering over your fallen figure with his hands now having a firmer hold around your neck. 

“You leave me no choice,” Thomas says, “Die.”

Your eyes widened at the sensation of him making his hold on you tighter and tighter, making you thrash beneath him more in an attempt to free yourself. Instead, you were hauled up and slammed back down, the impact resulting in an outcry as it knocks the air out of you even more. 

“Come with me,” he asks again.

You answer with a weakened hit to his ribs. “Rot,” you wheeze, “in hell.” 

The words lit a flame in Thomas’ eyes, you notice, and he exerts more strength into strangling you than before. Clawing at him draws out redlines and scratches on his skin, but the hunter doesn’t yield. Tears flooded your eyes, but it doesn’t make a difference with your senses starting to black out. 

Was this it?

Your last sight being a madman choking you with a crazed look on his face, instead of being surrounded by a loved one? 

Your last hearing of the world being rabid dogs barking around you, instead of soft music?

Your last words being “rot in hell”, instead of something witty or wise?    

Your last breath being released in a life that ended so untimely and unknown, instead of a long life of adventures?

There were a lot of things you still didn’t do—things you still haven’t said. In your last moments, you choose to think of Yoongi. If he returns to the sight of a burned cottage and no sign of you, would he mourn? Would he miss you? 

He will in some way, you think. We had something after all.

Then, you suppose it’s a fortunate misfortune not being able to tell him the things your heart wanted to before you died. It would hurt and burden him more if you had. You haven’t seen Yoongi cry before, but you have no doubt it’ll break your heart. Yes, that would be bad. 

Suddenly, air floods into your lungs, the weight on your neck—on top of you—gone. You came to, seeing the vast expanse of the sky above you in beautiful white and blues. Alas, the sudden flurry of air that your lungs greedily take in sends you coughing, forcing your eyes close and your head pounding. Curling into yourself, you cradle your arms to your aching chest.  

“(Y/N)!”

Your name was called. It echoes in your head. A touch follows, but it wasn’t the rough and cruel one you had witnessed before. This one was soothing, warm, and familiar all together. The furrow between your brows eases as the hand brushes back your hair. Letting yourself sink into the darkness, you savor the last touch you were feeling. 

It feels nice. 

Stepping off the golden chariot, the moon goddess easily commands the two rabid dogs to stand down and flee from the clearing. “Is she alright, brother?” Yoonji asks, staring at the young mortal that has yet to get up still. 

Yoongi couldn’t answer his sister, head buzzing and heart pounding with worry at the lack of response he was getting. “(Y/N),” her name falls from his lips in a fragile grace, shaking from rage and fear for her. “Please wake up.”

She was pliant in his hold, no signs of coming back to her senses to react from his hold just yet. Little nicks of red littered her skin, her feet bearing most of the damage and dirt from running, and around her face and neck were bruises that will no doubt blossom into worse colors. 

Frustration bubbled within the sun god at his circumstances. When they had flown over the town, his heart immediately hammered at the sight of the cottage up in smoke. He thought it was fortunate not to see or hear anyone trapped inside, but it was hard enough as it is to try and search for her through the woods. 

Damn it all. 

Without any hesitation, the sun god channeled his powers towards her, skin glowing golden at this point. He presses a soft kiss onto her forehead as he waits for any sign of effect, still flowing the healing energy onto her. Please work. Please. 

Alas, minutes pass. It was still nothing. 

"Yoongi," the moon goddess softly scolds with a firm hold onto her twin's shoulder that was both a warning and a comfort. "That's enough. You'll drain yourself."

Thinking he may have been too late, the tears began to well up his eyes. The helplessness wracking his heart felt awfully familiar. Yoongi tightly shuts his eyes close as he buries his face into her hair, bringing her closer and cradling her onto his lap. “Please say something,” he whimpers, stubbornly trying to heal her still. “Please.”

I can’t lose you, too.

Yoongi's heart was shattering all over again. Another failed love—another tragedy—so it seems. It was most tragic too, that he hadn't come to see her smile, hear her voice, and feel her caress one more time. 

The moon goddess' own heart broke a little at the sound of her brother's sobs. The last time she had seen him like this was millennia ago. For him to love again after so long only to lose his love so early, she knew this must be a terrifying pain to behold. This was exactly why she didn't prefer to mingle around the concept of love. 

All that stalling and moping had indeed become regret. 

Yoongi mulled over what could have been. If he had been there, he would've easily gotten rid of the bastard. If he had been there, the cottage wouldn't have caught on fire. If he had been there, he would've gotten away with her in time. Worst of all;

I haven't even told her I love her. 

“Don’t cry…"

Yoongi froze at the weak but soft caress that brushed over the hand he had cupped the side of her head with. He pulls away in an instant, eyes glistening more at the sight of her (e/c) ones staring at him. Exhaustion was written all over her face, but the color was back on her now untainted skin. 

In relief, Yoongi almost collapses as he brings his forehead to rest against hers. The gesture caught the mortal off guard but the sun god could barely hold his emotions back for any longer. “I thought I lost you,” his words were a whimper delivered by a precious smile. 

He thought for a moment that, like Hyacinthus, she was destined to die then and there, and he wouldn't have been able to revive her. The Fates seem to be kind this time, for the love of his life was now in his arms, alive and well after his efforts to bring her back to the world of the living—to him.   

There were a lot of things in life you didn’t expect to happen but did. 

You didn’t expect for coffee to have such a big influence in your life. You didn’t expect to meet Yoongi, and fall for him. You didn’t expect to connect with Teresa but later mourn her death. You didn’t expect for Thomas to come in insane, chase you through the woods and kill you with his bare hands. 

What you certainly didn’t expect, however, was to feel a warmth enveloping you and bring you back from the abyss—to suddenly open your eyes again and feel arms around you. You hear sobs as you are held tighter. 

“Please say something. Please”

 It was then you realize just who the person cradling you was. Min Yoongi.

What you had thought about him crying turned out to be true. Your heart broke at the sound of Yoongi crying. “Don’t cry,” you find yourself saying, voice rough and weak. As you force your strength to your hand to touch his. 

The relief on Yoongi’s face was instant. “I thought I lost you,” he cried, resting his forehead against yours. It shocks you, but you savor the sensation, heart swelling to see someone worry so much over you.

It was then you remember the darkness you fell into, and the light that followed it. 

You were dead. How are you here now?  

Sitting up properly, you stare at your feet and arm, confused to see not a single bruise or cut in sight. In fact, you can stretch your limbs all you want and not feel any pain like earlier. “What happened?” you ask, “H-how am I...”

Yoongi froze before you, raising your suspicions.

There had always been something ethereal about Yoongi, you had always just simply associated it with his beauty and presence. The sunlight always seems to gravitate towards him, he always feels warm, and he brings with him some sort of luck.

But to stop you on your way to the afterlife is a far cry from just those little things. “Yoongi...” you began, words dripping with hesitance.  “What are you?”

The memory of that day flashes in your mind, Yoongi’s eyes glowing in the rain for a brief moment as you had asked him if he was alright. It felt peculiar then to feel a light flow of warmth wash over you,  

That day when you had gotten sick, was it his work too? That warmth you felt in that moment of darkness, you felt it while he played with your hair. In an instance you were caught in a trance, floating in water peacefully with all of your headache easing.   

“Have you not told her still, brother?”

A woman you don’t know suddenly makes her presence known to the both of you. She has the same ethereal aura as Yoongi, dark tresses glinting blue as it frames her delicate face. In her hands were a quiver and bow, while another pair was strapped to her back. 

She looks like Yoongi—which partly explains why she had called him brother. What it doesn’t explain, however, was the fact that Yoongi never told you of his sister. You never even knew he had one!

“... Who?”

The woman’s attention turned to you, hearing the faint question that unconsciously left your lips. “I am Artemis,” she tells you, a ghost of a smile resting on her face, “the goddess of the moon and hunt—among other things. You may call me Yoonji.”

You could hardly believe the words that reached your ears. The tales your grandfather would often tell you as a child mentioned old gods and goddesses in passing. If you recall, the moon goddess had a twin brother. That would mean Yoongi is...

“No,” you shake your head, a forced chuckle trying to mask your disbelief, “that can’t be… that would make....”

It was then you were reminded of what she had said before. 

Have you not told her still, brother?

You look at Yoongi expectantly. Is that what he hasn’t told you?

Before you, the musician you’ve known to love avoids your gaze. The longer silence prevails, the more your heart beats erratically. If he is who his sister implied he is, then he lied to you all this time. “Tell me the truth,” you plead with him, “Please.”

Yoongi looks pained at the look of confusion and hurt in your eyes. “I...” he began, struggling for words. In his hesitation, the answer became more obvious. “It’s true,” he sighs eventually, confirming your thoughts aloud. “I’m Apollo,” he confesses, “Yoongi is the name I use as a mortal.”

The world seems to still for you. 

Yoongi is a god. 

All this time you were befriending a god—you fell for a god. You felt betrayed, honored, and confused at the same time, the mess of emotions making tears well up your eyes. A part of you could understand why Yoongi may have chosen to hide it from you. He was a god of a bygone era, an eternal who may have found himself a solace in the simplicity your time together has given him, but a part of you also felt hurt by what he did. 

Could you still love a man you only know such a small part of—a god whose life is so grand and long compared to yours? Would your love even mean anything to him when you could so easily die?

"Was everything a lie too?" you find yourself asking aloud, deep in your heart hoping that wasn’t the case.   

Much to your heart’s delight, Yoongi panics, insistently shaking his head. “No, no, it would never be a lie,” he tells you, his hands almost reaching to intertwine with yours, but he seems to have stopped himself at the last second. “Every moment I spent with you was more genuine than anything else I've felt in centuries, (Y/N)," he confesses, “I...” 

Your eyes soften as you watch Yoongi struggle with his words yet again, this time doubting if he should continue with what he has to say. "You...?" You prompt, encouraging him further by gently squeezing on one of his hands in assurance. You want to hear everything he has to say for himself. 

Suddenly emboldened, the sun god raises his gaze to yours. “I love you,” he says in barely a whisper, holding his breath in anticipation of your reaction. "It's what I've been mulling over for the past weeks. I love you," he declares, "I love you and I want us to be together as lovers should."

His words sent you further into a flurry of emotions. 

He loves you. He loves you the way you love him. 

Wanting to hear those words is different from actually hearing them come to fruition. "I love you, too," you find yourself smiling, tears flowing down your cheeks from the emotions overwhelming you. It felt surreal—a dream come true—but dreams were different from reality. 

It seems that Yoongi notices the smile slipping from your face. His heart beating wildly against his rib cages. “But...?” he prompts, anticipating your response. 

You look down at your hands. “But…” you say, not sure of how you should tell him of your worry about the two of you being so different. “You're a god, Yoongi,” you tell him, a bitter smile on your face as you think of the future the two of you could have. You then catch yourself at the last minute. “Should I even call you by that name anymore?"

This was different from what you had imagined when it came to loving him. The most conflict you had expected to come along when it came to loving a man would be status, but to love a god would surely escalate the complications.  

Yoongi’s sudden caress on your face almost made you flinch when it reminded you of what happened before, but his touch was as gentle as it could be, gently urging you to raise your head and face him. “Be it Yoongi or Apollo,  I don't care,” he tells you, brushing back a stray strand of hair behind your ears. “So long as you call me yours.”

Your heart swells at his promise, but it doesn’t ease your ache at all. "You're a god," you reminded him again, “I'm a mortal. We can't love one another the way mortals do—the way I hoped we could."

We can’t grow old together.

The both of you understood what you meant, but Yoongi persisted. "If we can't love each other the way you had hoped, then we can, at the very least, love in a different way,” he says, wanting the two of you to have at least tried to make things work. “I had a vision of what happened, that’s how we got here, and even then, I was too late,” he tells you, tears blurring his eyes. “I realized then and there that even if you won’t choose to be with me for eternity, I want to still be with you—be there for you—for the rest of your life. I want to love you, to spoil you, to show you the world you’ve been wanting to see. I want to save myself from that regret of not being able to have loved you just because I was scared to lose you to death.”

Yoongi sheds the cloak on his shoulders, wrapping it over your figure. "It’s a blessing alone that I’ve managed to bring you back," he tells you, bringing a hand of yours to his lips. “It would be a great honor for me, if you would allow me the pleasure of loving you, (Y/N),” he implores with a voice so soft, “Be with me.”

Your breath hitches at the words he just proposed, your heart wildly protesting against your brain. You think of the future you could have with Yoongi, if you would choose to stay. You would die eventually, yes, but Yoongi had a point. If you let your fear drive you away from choosing the love you could have with the man you love, then would you be certain you wouldn’t sooner wish you had done otherwise? 

His argument had reason in it. Regret was a powerful thing that could haunt him for years—much more than it could ever do with you. Take the leap, your heart says. Take the leap and just love him. 

The distance between you both was so intimately close that you would think Yoongi would hear your quickly beating heart. Soon enough, you find yourself nodding as you shyly glance into his eyes, looking at the way they lit up at the sight of your silent answer.    

Yoongi smiles a little, standing to his feet and offering you a hand. “Really?” he asks, eyes so hopeful that it makes you smile. You take his hand, a small grunt leaving your lips as you stand. 

Another nod from you makes him smile more. “You’re right to say we should at least try,” you say, gently squeezing his hand back. 

Yoongi’s cheeks were hurting from the gummy grin encapsulating his face. Bringing his hands to your face, he presses a soft kiss onto your forehead. “Yes,” he hums against your skin, “let’s try.” 

Your eyes flutter close, savoring the feeling of his lips—until you realize something. 

His sister.   

With a soft gasp, you pull away, turning to the moon goddess all flustered and embarrassed. The remnants of a disgusted scowl were on her face, but she assures you a dismissive shrug. (Her brother has had lovers before. She’s walked into worse things.) 

Yoonji simply moves on, nodding her head towards something. “What do we do with this filth then?” she asks, gritting the words through her teeth. You didn’t need to ask who she meant by that, but you did, however, turn to look at what she’s glaring at.

There, just a few feet away, was Thomas pinned to a tree by two arrows—one gold, one silver—piercing him by the shoulders. His green eyes were blown wide open in shock, but he doesn’t move at all. 

"Tell me what happened," you hear Yoongi growl beside you, seething with rage. "Tell me what the bastard did."

You tear your eyes away from the bastard on the tree, feeling your chest tighten at the memories that Yoongi unknowingly uncovers, A hand gently lingers closer onto yours, knitting fingers with yours. You look into Yoongi’s worried eyes with a sad smile. "He murdered his wife because of me," you bitterly say, unsure of how to sum it all up. "Teresa, she…"

The mention of that name rings a bell in Yoongi’s head. "Teresa? The town wh—" he stops himself at the upset glance you threw his way. "—flirt? The town flirt?"

You sigh, tugging at the cloak around your shoulders. "She encouraged me to pursue my feelings for you," you tell him, smiling a little at the memory of Teresa advising her. "It angered him because he fancied me, so he killed her. Then, he got violent when I refused him…"

You hear the moon goddess scoff. “What a bastard...” she cursed under her breath.

Stealing a glance at the tree, you look at the twins with a curious glance. "Is he… dead?" you ask them, gesturing to the hunter.

The goddess shakes her head. "He's paralyzed," she tells you.

"Paralyzed?"

Yoongi gestures to the bows and quivers his sister has with her. "Our arrows have the ability to numb whoever we shoot with them," he informs you. The goddess nods, handing the golden set of quiver and bow to her brother. "He's still alive and aware of his surroundings,” Yoonji tells you, “but he cannot move."

Seeing your hard stare at the hunter, the sun god could tell the emotions simmering inside you, "Do you want me to make him suffer?" he tells you, eyes burning with rage enough to be angry for the both of you.   

The rational part of you told you it wouldn’t be right—that you wouldn’t be any different from Thomas—but you remembered Teresa and what you’ve both been through because of him. "Yes," you find yourself saying, an edge to your words. "Make him suffer as much—if not more—than what he put Teresa and I through."

The sun god presses a soft kiss on your forehead in comfort and assurance, before approaching the tree. He glares at the man, yanking at the arrow and sending Thomas to the ground with a thud. Still unable to move, Yoongi easily turns the body over and stares down at Thomas. 

You watch as his eyes glow golden, goosebumps littering your skin. "You will live,” he tells Thomas, voice growling deeper, “but you will live the rest of your life in a slow, torturous, incurable pain and only she can grant you death.” 

An ire of fury rises in your heart further. At that moment, you think to tell Yoongi an additional punishment. “Have everyone know what he did to Teresa and I...” you grit through your teeth, clenching your fists. If it’s a slow torture that’ll await him when the effects of the arrow wears off, a murderer’s execution will await him. Then, he’ll have to live in shame and in hiding for the rest of his life when the world sees he cannot die.   

Yoongi nods curtly. “You heard her.” he darkly chuckles at the unresponsive hunter at his feet. “Everyone will know the truth of your sins,” the god declares, eyes glowing yet again. “Whatever you saw or heard here, none will ever believe the words that come out of your filthy mouth either.”

Satisfied, the god leaves the hunter on the ground before calling out to the skies. “Come!” he commands. It confuses you for a moment, but a distant rumbling came as a response to his call. 

Soon, a golden chariot comes into the clearing, drawn by four horses that ease at the presence of Yoongi. The moon goddess hops onto it as Yoongi turns to offer you an inviting hand. “Shall we?” he asks, gesturing to the chariot where Yoonji waits.

Your heartbeat quickens. “Where?”

“To Olympus,” he tells you with a smile. “Won’t you come with us?”

You look up at the sky. Olympus was the land of the gods, how could you ever live there?

As if having read your mind, Yoongi walks towards you. He secures the cloak around your shoulders and gently caresses your cheeks. You look up, seeing tender eyes stare back at you. “You are under no obligation to come with me to Olympus,” he tells you, “but I want you to know that you are more than welcome to stay there with me. You deserve more, and I can give you more.”

A smile blossoms on your lips at his words, leaning into his touch as you mull over your thoughts. You don’t think you’d be comfortable living from a cottage to a whole palace all of a sudden, but you know for a fact that you’d at least like to see one of your grandfather’s stories come to life. “I think it’d make a nice visit,” you tell him, but then think of the state of your cottage now. “I… have nowhere else to go either.”

Yoongi presses a kiss on your forehead. “Alright,” he grins. “Come along, love.”

The sun god leads you into the chariot by the hand, where you stand by his sister. As the horses took it to the skies, a yelp left your lips, nearly making Yoongi stop the chariot then and there. He persisted, however, not wanting the whole thing to crash to the ground when the horses haven’t stabilized their flight yet. Yoonji, instead, gives you a comforting squeeze on the shoulder. “You’ll get used to it, dear,” she tells you.

She was right—somewhat. It was terrifying still, but you simply focused your attention on your lover holding the reins—it was a better view to look at anyways.

The three of you exit the chariot, the moon goddess walks ahead—not wanting to intrude anymore with her brother’s lovey dovey self. “How could you come by so much to my cottage when you have a whole palace waiting for you?” you smack Yoongi by the arm as soon as you see the golden palace before you. 

The sun god only laughs at your puny attempt to scold him. “I don't give a damn about this place,”  he tells you, leaning closer with a teasing smile, “my home now lies with you and wherever you will be.”

You smile for he was yours now, too.

“So is mine,” you tell him, feeling bold enough to lean closer.

With the distance so little between the both of you, Yoongi’s grin slowly slips away. “May I…” he murmurs, stealing a glance on your lips before boring his eyes onto yours. “...kiss you?”

A chuckle leaves your lips, before you steal a quick one on his. “You’ve been pressing kisses on my forehead ever since I said I’d give us a chance, silly,” you tease with a grin, laughing more at the sight of him blinking in shock at what you just did. 

The sun god half-heartedly rolls his eyes, before snaking an arm around your waist. “Alright then,” he muses, chuckling himself. Yoongi wastes time no further, seizing your lips for a proper kiss. 

You do nothing but close your eyes and savour it. 

Silly indeed.

You know not how you could ever manage to recover from what you had witnessed, how you could simply manage to move on from that chapter in your life, but the first step is clearly turning the page to start anew. It won't certainly be easy. You will be greatly haunted by what you had known and saw, but with Yoongi by your side, you knew well that you would do better to save yourself from ruination. 

And so, you turn that page and leave that chapter of your life behind as best as you could. You leave behind that dreadful town, that dreadful man, and all other dreadful things. You leave with only the fondest of memories of your time there—your family, the cottage, the merchants who gave you coffee, coffee, meeting Yoongi, Teresa, and more. 

You leave, stretching out your wings. With your love—your Yoongi—you are off to pursue greater things. 

WHY APOLLO? 

Another different depiction from the Greek Myth AUs would be Min Yoongi as Apollo. I understand that Yoongi broods a lot and that most would associate him with Hades, but I thought, why not Apollo? 

I mean, Apollo is the God of Music, Arts and the Sun. From that, we can see the parallels already. We all know of Yoongi’s capabilities of creating wonderful music and that he can put really deep poetic meanings in his works. He, himself, is ART (aLSO THAT VLIVE OF HIM PAINTING???) I also envisioned him as an Apollo whose heart may have hardened over the years from all the heartbreak and rejection, and that gave me a reason as to why he’d be a grumpy lil meow meow.

This also just feeds off of the stereotype of Apollo's love life btw (bc I wanted that ANGST) JSHSHSH Apollo had A LOT of boyfriends and girlfriends and not all of them ended in tragedy (good for u bud!) 

ALSO, jimin is zeus, yoongi is apollo which make jimin his DADDY but we have no time to unpack the complicated pool that is the Greek Myth family WHAHSHHS 

WHAT INSPIRED YOU?

I followed no specific lore of Apollo, but I did mention Hyacinthus a lot bc he was the only one I’ve heard of who actually liked Apollo back lmao but in the end I kind of got inspired by that story of them anyways??? 

In the myth of Hyacinthus, there’s this god called Zephyr/Zephryus who liked the Spartan prince but he went “if i can't have you no one will” and ended up killing Hyacinthus out of jealousy of him choosing Apollo AAAA 

IT’S SO SAD TOO BC APOLLO LOVED HIM SO MUCH HE TRIED TO HEAL HYACINTHUS BUT HE CAN’T BRING BACK SOMEONE WHO WAS DESTINED TO DIE AAAAAAAAAAAAA 

I didn’t want to kill y/n though HASDHASDH and I wanted to separate Apollo!Yoongi’s love for his Hyacinthus and his current love so there could be parallels drawn between them. I also wanted to give Yoongi a break from the angsty heartbreak he has gone through in this fictional life AHHAHAHSDJAS

Last note; I was also kinda a bit salty with this in the beginning, bc reading Lore Olympus in WebToon made me sO PISSED at Apollo (then again, i think its safe to say that ALL gods in greek mythology have dirt on their golden glories though lmAOOO) jsbgaihsbghf but I knew I can’t do my bb yoongs wrong and dirty like that so let’s just separate him from the original (this isn’t exactly meant to be a direct representation in the first place either LOL)

Thanks so much for reading this LONG ASS bitch AHDSHASHDHAS hope y’all enjoyed! <3

#bts #bts au #bts min yoongi #bts imagines #bts greek myth au #bts greek mythology au #bts suga #bts min suga #min yoongi #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi fluff #min yoongi angst #min yoongi imagines #bts yoongi #bts yoongi x reader #bts suga x reader

[littlefreya]

Santa Baby

Summary: For over a decade, detective Walter Marshall kept a dirty little secret, thinking no one would ever find out about his past. Sadly for him, you are somewhat of a detective yourself.

Challenge prompt: the song Santa Baby.

Pairing: Walter Marshall x reader

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: Some sexy themes but mostly fluffy floof fluff.

A/N: This is for @toomanystoriessolittletime​​ Christmas challenge, which I am sadly a day late with. Remind me to never sign up to challenges. I stumbled upon erotic book covers that looked a lot like Walter (this and this) so decided it’s a funny idea. I never read these books, so I am not mocking it or the artist who drew it. Many thanks to @wondersofdreaming​ for helping me out. Not beta’d, I own my mistakes.

Please feedback, comment, reblog if you enjoyed reading. 💖

Title: Santa Baby

It’s not that Detective Marshall was the Grinch or anything, it’s just that he couldn’t afford to be merry. With crime levels peaking during that time of the year, and sunlight being scarce, his body ran strictly on caffeine and stale doughnuts. 

The temptation to spend Christmas eve sprawled on the worn-out leather sofa in his office was quite strong tonight. But even big hulking bears had their weaknesses, and as exhausted as he was, he dreaded every morning he woke up without your warm body curled up beside him. 

With his energy level blinking red, he finally decided to call it a night and drive home. Heavy growling and thundering drums roared within his truck, the extreme Scandinavian black-metal he listened to served as a complete contrast to the soft snow that fell from the sky and quietly piled up on the sides of the road. Pausing at the street-light, he watched the little crystals striving to form on his windshield and melting just as quickly against the heat of the car. 

For a single moment, all the terrors of the night diminished by the little flame that was the reminiscent of you - his little firefly who led him through the darkness, tender as snow and wild as fire. Accelerating just a tad, he imagined you’d be asleep by the time he’d get there, and if not, Walter hoped to at least be in your good graces. 

Luckily, ther warm orange hues beaming through the windows assured him that you were still very much awake, and he couldn’t help but spare one of his rare smiles.

Muffled tunes of a familiar song played beyond the door, the bass vibrating through the polished wooden flooring and the walls. Slow and sensual like honey rolling off one’s finger, the jazzy beats filled the spacious house along with the sweetest scent of crushed peppercorn and red berries. Smiling wider, he held onto the doorframe and kicked off his heavy boots.

“Pet?” he called and followed into the living room, hearing you humming along with the lyrics.

“Santa baby, just slip a Sable under the tree for me.”

Oh, he was indeed in your good graces. 

Sitting on your knees with your ankles hunched below your ass, you wore a velvety Santa hat and a sheer, red nighty finished by fake white fur that outlined your breasts. Your hands held a shiny green present over your thighs, and you gave him one of those coy looks that made him want to fall before you and pledge himself as your servant.

Instead, he crooked an eyebrow and unzipped his thick winter coat, carelessly discarding it on the floor and making his way toward you.

“Have you been an awful good girl?” 

Sleeves rolled up; he crossed his muscular arms together while towering over you. His cobalt eyes drank in your sight, trying to decide what to do with you first. The scent of musky sweat mingled with dark cologne wafted over you within seconds, making your chest rise and sink in a primal instinct. 

“Oh, I’m definitely going down your chimney tonight,” he growled upon your reaction to his presence and sucked in his bottom lip with growing hunger.

“At least three times,” you dared him in return and then casually lowered your gaze to the box perched on your lap. 

The large man caught on the hint and carefully knelt before you. One of his hands reached to stroke his beard while his mind rummaged to figure out what surprise hid behind the shiny package. 

“Got something for me over there?” he wondered with a playful beam, “I thought we’re not doing presents until tomorrow morning.”

“Just a little teaser,” you answered. Your eyes shone brighter than the large decorated tree that stood at the corner of the living room. 

Being a detective, Walter could practically smell the mischief that drenched every teeny hair on your body. As usual, his naughty vixen was up to no good. It always made him laugh how bad you were in trying to surprise him, which worked in his favour. Walter hated surprises. 

Intrigued, he snatched the gift from your hands and shook it against his ear for shy second before beginning to unwrap it. His eyes briefly scrutinised yours, darkening, smokey with lust while he tore at the chrome paper and absentmindedly threw pieces of green wrapping all over the living room. 

You watched carefully, your cheeks rounding and filling, your teeth flashing with wickedness upon seeing the colour drain from his rugged face.

“Where…”

Walter paused and swallowed the lump in his throat. Fingers oily with sweat and knuckles turning white, dug into the object held in his hand.

“How did you find this?!”

The snort you’ve been trying to hold back for the last couple of minutes finally made its way out, followed by a fit of uncontrollable giggles that made you fall to your back with your hand held over your torso. 

Walter, on the other hand, was anything but amused. He always feared the day someone would dig up his dirtiest secret.

It was more than a decade ago when he was struggling to pay his tuition to the police academy that Walter found an easy and quick way to make money. As a British immigrant who barely had friends and blended with the crowd, he made the mistake of thinking no one will ever know about his short-lived modelling career for cheesy erotic novels. 

He should have known better. He might have been a professional police detective, but you had a skill for uncovering the truth.

“Where did you find this?” Walter repeated with a frown, clenching his jaw and waving the colorful book in the air.

Pausing your giggles merely for a second, you took a gander at the cover, focusing on the image of your dear husband’s open white shirt. There he was, the man you knew as a brooding, black-sweater wearing grump, lost in some green meadow with a half-naked chick. A deep dramatic gaze crisped his younger face, his nose inhaling the scent of her hair, and his hand laid flat upon her juicy rump. 

Oh the drama!

You tried to speak, but all that came out of your mouth was an uncontrollable peal of chuckles. The corny title of the book didn’t help either; his fiery love rod.

Walter sulked and suddenly shuffled to hover above you, one hand snapped at your wrist before the other discarded the book onto your sternum and joined in restraining your other arm. Led purely by instinct, your legs spread to straddle his wide waist and wrapped around his muscular ass.

Staring at your strong, intimidating husband, the laughter rolling from your lips slowly died down, yet the smile was still smeared between your cheeks, especially once you felt his groin pressing into yours.

“Woman!” the big bear growled at you, “I am not going to ask you more than once, where on earth did you bloody find this?”

“The second-hand bookstore,” you answered and glanced at the book lying upon your chest, “was looking for something raunchy to read when suddenly I noticed a familiar face.” You explained and then swallowed the dryness in your throat. 

“At first I thought I was hallucinating with all them Christmas carols eating into my brain, but then when I took a closer peek, I recognised my husband’s ‘fuck me’ stare.” 

Walter felt a burn rising in his throat and swerving to tingle at his bristly cheeks. If there ever was a moment when he regretted a life decision, that moment was now. He knew he’d never hear the end of it from you. You were dauntless and unyielding as the ocean, one of the reasons why he was utterly in love with you. 

Nostrils flaring, he tightened the grasp around your wrists and rolled his hips into yours, eliciting a small moan from your quivering lips. The thick bulge in his groin hardened at the calling of the hot, wet patch in your panties.

“Name your terms, woman.”

“You are going to read it to me,” you answered without even overthinking and gestured toward the book with your chin. “Every. night. before. bedtime. I want you to hold me in your big strong arms and read me a chapter from ‘his fiery love rod’, or else…”

“Or else?...” 

The fire from the mental suddenly illuminated your face, causing dark shadows to form over your irises and the hollows below your brows. “Your friends at the MPD are going to find out about this one,” you paused, “and the 12 others that you made.”

Taken back by your words, Walter gulped, his fingers became moist around your wrists as sheer horror seeped into his mind.

“You... you know about the others?”

You nodded at him and then snaked your legs around the back of his thighs to cage him in your grasp like a fickle dryad growing her roots around a helpless wanderer. With his attention faltering, you twisted your hips and rolled the two of you so you were on top. Fingers lacing into his, you pinned him down and leered over him with cascading triumph.

“12 books, all under our Christmas tree, detective, so you better be good to me tonight and satisfy all my needs.”

Adam apple bobbing up and down, Walter watched you with a mixture of awe and agitation. There was nothing he hated more than losing control, but damn if he didn’t adore his wicked queen, especially when you were in a joyous mood, which, as he found, tended to be contagious. The moments in which the grouchy detective felt at peace were rare to non-existent. It was only in the embrace of your thighs that he thought that for a minute, everything is going to be okay.

Noticing the muscles of his jaw somewhat relax, you reached for the Christmas hat and slipped it off your head, placing it atop of his curly mess instead. Your hands held firmly onto Walter’s shoulders, and with a careful twist, you flipped the two of you over once again and shoved him down your torso while blissfully chanting.

“Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight, hurry down the chimney tonight, hurry toniiiiiiiiiiight.”

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, ideas or parts it and claiming it as your own

Dividers by @firefly-graphics​

Disclaimer: I don’t own Night Hunter/Nomis or Walter Marshall

#henry cavill #StephsChristmasWritingChallenge #walter marshall x reader #henry cavill x reader #walter marshall

[retvenkos]

come morning | c.b.

requested Bridgerton - Colin Bridgerton x Reader, fluff

tw: none

word count: 1.3k

A/N: alright,,,, i have been holding onto this too long. it’s time to let it go. i hope you like it.... it’s only a tad rough around the edges.

prompt: “i don’t like our odds.”

Summary: In moments like these, being with Colin was easy. Nothing else mattered but the two of you - there wasn't anything in the world that could stop you from just enjoying his presence.

On summer nights like these, the world was cocooned in the thick, warm blanket of darkness. Those who were asleep wouldn't wake until morning, and those who still fought against the aging night were losing the battle, drowsy and nodding off. You slipped out of your house as quietly as you could once night fell, and all went silent. Casting a furtive glance over your shoulder, you stole away to the park, whispering underneath your breath in what was either a prayer or a scolding. The night was mild and still, and the colors of the world were rich and dark. You breathed in deeply, closing your eyes and allowing the crickets to lull you into a state of peace.

A pair of hands closed over your eyes, and a moment later, a familiar voice sounded by your ear, cheerful and low - full of life. "Found you."

"You were supposed to."

Colin Bridgerton laughed, eliciting chuckles of your own, filling the deep night with such beautiful sounds. Coming around from behind you, Colin reached out, taking your hands in his and squeezing them tight.

You leaned forward, so your foreheads touched. Colin sighed happily, and you committed the moment to memory - his being beside yours in the hours before wakefulness when the only souls awake were you, him, and the orchestra of crickets around you, playing music to which your hearts could dance.

"How did you manage to sneak away?" you whispered.

"Well, Hyacinth, Francesca, and Gregory go to bed at a decent hour; Anthony was brooding in his study; and, Benedict was joining Eloise in the backyard."

"And your mother?"

It was hard to see his face in the dying light, but you could hear the grin in his words. "I'm afraid I had to tell my mother that Eloise might be smoking for her to abandon her post by the front door."

"Eloise is going to kill you for that."

"She'll have to know it was me, first."

You laughed again, and Colin squeezed your hand before letting go, sitting down on the cool grass and looking up at you expectantly, waiting for your to descend. You fluttered down beside him, and for a moment, he just looked at you. The air held a particular feeling to it - as though neither of you could ever bore of these stolen moments of fond intimacy. You smiled, although he couldn't see it, and Colin moved so that his head was resting in your lap.

"Tired?"

"Just comfortable."

You hummed pensively, and Colin took your hand in his once more, skin grazing against skin, his fingertips tracing patterns on your palm. He listened as you told him about your day - the highs and lows and those dreaded middling moments when all you could think about was this moment and how much longer you'd have to wait until the sun dipped down over the horizon. Colin was an attentive listener, and when he spoke of his adventures, you were just as mindful.

His voice carried all the warmth and command of a symphony. You closed your eyes and let it wash over you. In moments like these, being with Colin was easy. Nothing else mattered but the two of you - there wasn't anything in the world that could stop you from just enjoying his presence. The waking hours were much more difficult. It was as though every action had to be calculated... it had to have some sort of thought or meaning.  

Your first midnight escapade began by accident. Your cat had somehow managed to slip out the door and (against your families' wishes) you went searching for it in the park across from your home. At that same time, Colin Bridgerton had been taking a walk with Eloise, distracting her from something Anthony planned to do that would only lead to questions that didn't need to be answered. The two of you had quite literally bumped into each other, and Eloise had the mind to walk herself home. After an evening spent searching the park for your pet, you told Colin that should you ever run after your cat in the middle of the night again, you would hope that you would have the luck of running into him.

The very next week, you found him in the park, despite neither of you searching for a lost animal.

"I wish we could just stop time right here," you mused.

Colin chuckled at that. "We could do it, I suppose. Lasso the moon and hold it in place. Of course, we'd have to find a rope large enough."

"Mmm, and what would we do to hold all of the stars?"

"Charm them? Perhaps they'd enjoy my singing?"

"I certainly do."

You heard Colin scoff. 

"I don't like our odds, though."

Colin shifted, and after a pregnant pause, he sat up. "Are you alright?"

"Hmm?"

"(Y/n)."

You breathed out, smiling. Colin, of course, wouldn't be able to see your expression, so you reached out for his hand instead. "Of course I am. I'm always alright when I'm with you."

Now it was Colin's turn to hum unconvincingly. The crickets held his tune, holding the lapse of silence and filling it with something profoundly tender - vulnerable and sweet.

"I enjoy these nightly escapes of ours," Colin started, his silhouette tilting its head, as though he were considering you deeply, searching the outline of your figure for a response, "it makes dreaming of you so much easier."

You bit back a laugh, but your lip quivered. 

"And I do dream of you - quite often."

"You mean you find time to sleep in between your daily activities and our night rendezvous?"

"Daydreams count as well, don't they?"

"Yes, Colin Bridgerton, I suppose they do."

Satisfied with the exasperated laugh that left your lips, Colin laid back down, his head in your lap, and his hands reaching for yours.

"What do you dream about?"

"Are you looking for me to stroke your ego?"

"Perhaps," he said, and you could hear his grin once more.

"Fresh bread, figures in the stars... you."

"A fine order of dreams."

You rolled your eyes and leaned down to kiss him on the forehead. "I start from the end and work my way backward."

You couldn't see his face in the pitch of night, but you could imagine what he might look like - moon-eyed and blushing, like those flowers that only bloom at night. "A real shame," Colin muttered, something in his voice almost breathless, "I quite like fresh bread."

And you were laughing again, bent over and giggling into his hair.

Eventually, your joy subsided into residual warmth in your chest. When Colin spoke, his voice was soft, barely heard over the crickets and their music. 

"Should I call on you, come morning?"

Call on you? The idea caught you off guard, despite having imagined it thousands of times before. Call on you? And risk losing all of these moments stolen from time?

Perhaps it was silly to think that it could all go away if you were to spend time together in the day. What was the difference, truly, between the park at night and the park during the bright, dazzling day? Something about it felt lesser - less secure. Here, you had the cover of darkness. In the daylight, all would be revealed, and perhaps this charming flirtation would become something less. You didn't want that; but you couldn't let this exist only in the shadows, either. For now, you were alright, as was Colin. But soon, neither of you would be. You didn't want it to have to come to that.

"Come morning?" And for a moment your voice sounded uncertain.

"Yes," Colin prodded.

"I'd like that very much."

-- taglist: @findmeintheafterglow​, @catsbooksandmusic​, @multifandomfix​ // message me if you want to be added!

#bridgerton #colin bridgerton #colin bridgerton x reader #colin bridgerton imagine #colin bridgerton reader insert #bridgerton x reader #colin bridgerton x you #bridgerton x you #reader insert #gender neutral reader #fluff #imagine #one shot #x reader #fic #writing this my thought process was..... i know where i'm going with this..... actually... i don't

[milkbaer]

love to hate you | part 3

„Grateful about the invitation of the queen, they are however not so grateful about her plans.”

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• Pairing: Prince Friedrich x Reader (Princess of Bavaria) • Word count: 4.6k • Warnings: nothing, just the usual

• A/N: Because I’m a total idiot & couldn’t resists … I decided to switch up the collage every 2 chapters or so. C: Hopefully you all enjoy reading part 3 as much I did writing it lol

 • Small dictionary: Bärli – a cute nickname, kinda a cute way to say bear Wundervoll – wonderful, lovely, delightful etc. Mein Prinz – my prince Einfach himmlisch – (prob not the best translation) simply heavenly, wonderful, divine … something is just so good that it’s like smth divine

  Dear Readers,

You might have heard so already, yet another prince has set foot on English shore. Traveling from the Alps, Karl of Bavaria attended Lady Danbury’s latest soirée. As This Author has heard, they both know each other from the prince’s time at Cambridge. But I fear that I must disappoint all ambitious mamas, having made plans to snatch the other prince. Your Highness has arrived with his wife and daughter, Marie and Y/N of Bavaria. And This Author must admit that amongst the ladies of the ton, the young princess felt like a fresh breath of air. With her gown she truly looked like an edelweiss in the alps. I might say she is able to compete with our Incomparable. But do not fret all my ambitious mamas, I can assure you that the reason for the travels is not the prospect of marriage. There is no intention in looking for a gentleman on the princess’ side. All debutantes must be delighted at that, but I am sure that some gentlemen might not. But who can tell the future? Certainly not This Author, I fear.

– Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers

“I see you’ve left quite the impression, my dear,” spoke the queen, addressing you, but not looking up from the paper she held. It wasn’t the first time that you dined with a queen, but breakfast felt a bit more private and intimate than a banquet. Honestly, Queen Charlotte made you a bit nervous; you didn’t know her, and her palace was enormous and made you feel like you were in a different time. And she intimidated you, a lot. You only knew her for some hours and yet you could tell that she was the queen of giving looks.  You were unable to read the queen, maybe she was judging you for something or maybe not. You couldn’t tell.

“Yes? Who did I impress?” you asked, clueless, having no idea who she was referring to. Who could you have impressed that the queen was so delighted?

“Lady Whistledown.” Friedrich’s voice caught you off guard, he hadn’t spoken to you all morning, except for a curt ‘Good Morning’. Even now he wasn’t looking up from his plate. Instead, he shoved some scrambled egg into his mouth. “The paper my aunt is reading.”

Your eyes wandered back to the queen. Indeed, she was still focused on the small, white rectangle in her hand. You wouldn’t be too sure, but she hadn’t looked up from it once. Which means, that this paper must be really good. “Pardon, Your Majesty, but when you’re done reading Lady Whistledown could you lend it to me? I would love to read it too.”

For the first time Queen Charlotte’s eyes detached from the paper and with a quirked brow she looked at you. Was she sizing you up? Was she judging you? Had it been wrong from you to ask for it? To your relief her face turned into a small, amusing smile. “Of course, my dear. You can have it when I’m done.”

The queen was right, this paper was good! You couldn’t connect any of the names to a human being and yet you couldn’t stop reading it. Once you’d knew who this Lady Whistledown was referring to, it would be even better. But you already felt bad for the poor Miss Featherington.

Queen Charlotte watched with pursed lips how you soaked up the gossip of the ton. Solely by your wide, excited but nosy eyes could she, and honestly everyone else, see how much you enjoyed the rag. But the queen wasn’t much interesting in your reading habits. Her royal majesty couldn’t get the words, the praise of the anonymous writer out of her head.

I might say she is able to compete with our Incomparable.

She watched you precisely, examining you from head to toe – or since you were all sitting, your bust. Engrossed by the gossip rag you didn’t notice her sharp, hawk like gaze on you, watching you closely. Nor did anyone else at the table. Friedrich was too occupied by his breakfast, mostly a way to ignore you, and your parents were too engrossed by everything else, the breakfast, the interior.

The queen squinted her eyes, as if that allowed her to see sharp and more of you. She deeply disliked being in the wrong and she counted, she bet on Daphne. But whoever Lady Whistledown was, she was right. You could compete with Daphne, easily. You were a princess after all, nurtured to be flawless. Her sharp eyes moved to her nephew.

She chose Daphne.

You were a princess; you weren’t participating in this game.

She wished, no wanted Friedrich to find his match in Daphne.

The Queen was never wrong.

But …

Everyone likes an interesting season, don’t they?

“Say, how do you know each other?” she asked, leaning back into her chair.

“Oh, they know each other since childhood,” Marie answered. Neither you nor Friedrich were listening. You were too focused on people you didn’t know, and your own appearance, and Friedrich was too focused on ignoring you, blending out as much as possible.

The queen pursed her lips, brooding something under that massive wig of hers. “I see.”

While reading a column about yet another unknown girl, your eyes landed on Friedrich’s name. Curious on what this lady had to say about him, and the girl, you read every line precisely. But it was hardly about him, more about a girl named Daphne and that she has caught his attention. Bridgerton … Daphne … the names sounded familiar, but you couldn’t associate a face to them.

“Who is Miss Daphne Bridgerton?” you asked all sudden. At the mention of Daphne’s name Friedrich looked up, even though he swore he’d never react in any way to your voice again.

Friedrich stared at you in annoyance and disbelief. “Are you joking? You met her at the soirée.”

“Well, I met quite a few people. I can’t remember everyone.” He didn’t know why but your ignorance about Daphne irritated, no, angered him. How could you not know her?

“Oh, Bärli,” your mother Marie stated, knowing of your difficulties. “Reddish hair, blue dress. I think she was with this one duke.”

At the mention of a certainduke the queen and Friedrich frowned.

“Oh! The one with the bangs?” you asked, mimicking Daphne’s look with your index fingers. Marie nodded, it was exactly the one with the devil, or bee antenna, like bangs. Friedrich groaned in annoyance, he couldn’t cut off the feeling that you were purposely mocking her, and he couldn’t take it. He couldn’t let you mock poor Daphne. “Why are you even asking?”

“Oh, well.” You held up Lady Whistledown. “The lady is writing about her, the duke and you. Something about marriage. – I was just curious, that’s why I’m asking.”

“Lucky Daphne, being courted by a duke and a prince.” You sighed, maybe a bit too melodramatic.

They both frowned even more. Being maybe enamoured or well, , interested in Miss Bridgerton Friedrich didn’t like listening to stories about her and the duke. As a prince he could easily marry her, but he wasn’t one who used his title for love. And the queen disliked being in the wrong, even though she liked her season interesting.

After a moment of silence and peace, the topic of Lady Whistledown and Daphne long died down, Queen Charlotte approached you again. “Say, my dear. How do you like London so far?”

“Sadly, I haven’t seen much of it yet, your Majesty. But it is a wonderful city.”

Marie giggled. “Oh, I assure you, that’s not even all. She was thrilled when we arrived in London. Oh, you must have seen her when we reached Dover!”

Your mama could chatter for hours, especially when the topic were her children. Like so often, when she got caught in her flood of words, you tuned her out and focused on something else. No one seemed to listen to Marie’s rant, expect for the queen maybe, who nodded along with pursed lips. But she looked deeply in thought, like she was scheming something.

“Friedrich,” Queen Charlotte said, eying her nephew sharply. “Why don’t you show our guest around Town? Y/N hasn’t seen it yet and it would be a shame, if she left without seeing its splendour.”

Hearing her words, you couldn’t help yourself but stare at Friedrich in shock. He should be your tour guide? Him? Your papa knew London too, he could do the exact same job.

Friedrich didn’t look as appalled, but he wasn’t so fond of the idea either. His day could be spent with better activities, and people.

“That would be splendid, your Majesty,” you uttered. “But I am sure, that Friedrich’s schedule is filled to the brim.”

“No. – Actually, he has nothing planned,” she stated. “Or am I mistaken, Friedrich? As far as I know, Miss Bridgerton is not in town today.”

He gritted his teeth, wishing it was different. “No, you’re right, she is out with her family. – But I thought about riding …”

She turned back to you, a satisfied, even victorious, smile adorning her face. “Well, my nephew has nothing planned. He will gladly show you around London.”

“B-but what about a chaperone? I mean, even if we have guards accompany us, it would be unproper for us to go alone!” you spluttered, feeling like eight again, when Franziska and you had accidentally knocked over an old Meissen vase and tried to blame Maxi for it.

Sadly, all sucked up in the moment, you had forgotten that you were visiting London with your parents. “Bärli, mein Dummerchen, I will be your chaperone,” Marie chirped. “I, too, would like to see London.”

“Wundervoll…” Friedrich groaned under his breath, resisting the urge to ran his hands over his face and through his hair. His day was ruined.

“Wonderful!” exclaimed the queen, sounding very delighted, too delighted even. “Then it’s all settled.”

Standing in the hall all dressed up in a walking dress and matching pelisse, waiting for Friedrich and your mama to arrive, you were fuming. You couldn’t believe that your planless day had been ruined like that. No activity was pleasant as long god damn Friedrich of Prussia attended to it. And when he finally arrived, dressed in his usual boring Prussian-blue uniform, you glared at him.

No.

You threw daggers at him.

Friedrich wasn’t excited either but never had he seen you in such a sour mood, not since your childhood. And when he saw you, all fuming and mad, glaring at him dangerously, he gulped. Never had he seen you look so threatening.

Stomping your way over to him, you jabbed your finger into his chest. “This is all your fault!”

Already fed up with your attitude Friedrich grabbed your finger, forcefully, and pulled you towards him, chests almost touching. He hadn’t been that close to you since your last dance. Under normal circumstances the small distance of our bodies would irritate you, but now, all filled with your anger and other unpleasant emotions you didn’t even noticed.

“It’s not and you know it,” he snarled angrily, tightening his grip on your wrist. He was so incredibly close that you could feel his breath faintly brushing the tip of your nose and cheeks..

Huffing in anger was all you did, not knowing what to retort to that. He was right and you knew it. But you never would admit it, you were far too mad at him and the whole situation. It was obvious that none of you liked the current situation and yet he did nothing to writhe you out of it.

In anger you managed to forcefully twist and pull your hand out of his grasp. Tumbling back, you gripped, and caressed your tormented wrist with a hiss. He was stronger than you remembered.

“You could have called it off,” you hissed, still rubbing your wrist. “You men always have something important to do, don’t you?”

“I can’t! I gave her my word!” He didn’t. But he was smart enough to not objecting a queen, especially if she was the sister of his mother. It was better to be done with it quickly. Who even said that he had to spend the whole day with you and your mother?

Again, you huffed, and he felt it was the only thing you did now, but it was amazingly annoying. “Of course, you did,” you scoffed, glaring at him.

Wanting to retort to that, saying anything to have the last word, Friedrich opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Yes, he always kept his words but now he was lost of them. He wanted to throw them against your head, coaxing out a reaction, another one of your vexed faces. But he couldn’t. And when his brain finally put some words together, he had to shut it because he could hear Princess Marie approaching. Friedrich had stood there like a fool, like a damn fool and giving by your haughty, mocking grin you knew. You enjoyed it, took pleasure in seeing him like that.

. . .

It was difficult to stroll around London, sharing a coach and sidewalk, pretending not to love the idea to throttle each other. Especially accompanied by a chaperone that was your mother, who not only smiled delightful at the sight of Mayfair, Belgravia and other districts but also at the enforced couple across her. Gladly you would have loved to kick his shins multiple times but not with your mama’s eyes on you.

Briefly Friedrich had shown you Hyde Park, well you drove past it and he told you it was, well, a large park, where people did different activities. He had told Marie, not you, that he sometimes rode through it. Then you stopped at a huge, impressive building called Somerset House. Having been told that inside was a huge art gallery, walls literally painted with art from the ceiling to the floor, Marie and you wanted to visit it immediately. But Friedrich had to disappoint you. It wasn’t like a public museum and only shared its extraordinary art collection with the ton on special dates. Of course he didn’t told you, that as members of royalty, and friends and guests of the queen, you didn’t have to wait for a special occasion to visit. Friedrich wasn’t stupid and certainly not keen to spending hours with you alone, ignoring chaperone and guards, between art hung walls. But he was nice enough to inform you, that Somerset House would open its doors soon enough to celebrate its new wing.

And now you were here, strolling through the streets of Mayfair, or another rich part of Town, accompanied by guards and your dear mama. If the members of the tons, and other pedestrians, haven’t noticed prince and princess by themselves, they sure would do now with their entourage.

Carefully your hand lingered on his arm, you weren’t keen on touching it. You had tried to make Friedrich stumble several times, without success, it was difficult to hit his heels when you had to walk beside him. “You can touch me, you know?” Friedrich grumbled, mentally groaning about his own words. But you looked absolutely ridiculous with your hand not touching him even the slightest.

“My uniform is freshly cleaned and you’re just making a fool out of yourself,” he whispered to you, clearly annoyed by your antics. Quickly he regretted his words, when your hand laid down on his arms, pressing your fingers in it with as much pressure as possible. His uniform sleeve was sturdy enough to caught much of your force and yet it felt uncomfortable enough.

“You’re ridiculous!” He gritted his teeth, cerulean eyes glaring at you.

You smiled innocently at him, fluttering your lashes, but he could see the scorn in your face. “Oh, why? I’m just holding onto you with my dear life, mein Prinz.”

Absolutely flabbergasted did he look at you. That was the most disgusting and confusing thing that has ever left your mouth. It had completely thrown him off the tracks. You were unable to call him your Highness but were now calling him your prince? Yours? He was shocked, to say at least, unable to form any words in response. His brain was wiped out. He felt like a fool and with his lips parted, but no words passing through, he also looked like one. And you were absolutely enjoying it. You were bathing in this moment, enjoying his response proudly.

“Oh, what’s this?” you pulled at his arm and nodded towards a whitewashed building. Gentlemen, young and old, were streaming in and out, but looking at the walls it told you nothing. Some young gentlemen, bachelors perhaps, looked rather dashing, you had to admit.

“Can we go in there?” You asked, your eyes following a charming young man with fluffy brunette curls. Having been annoyed by your constant pulling and asking Friedrich now stared at you like you had two heads. As if you were a maniac … but he wouldn’t be surprised if you truly were on.

“No.”

“And why is that?”

Scoffing at your objection he rolled his eyes in annoyance. You were really testing him today. “Because my dear Y/N,” he stated, sounding like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and it was. “This is a Gentlemen’s club, and you are a woman.”

With wide eyes you starred at the white house. Well, this explained all the gentlemen, and no gentlewoman, swarming in and out of the building. “Oh.”

After the failed attempt of storming a gentlemen’s club, chasing mindless after a curly dandy, the tour around Town was a bit … uneventful. Friedrich showed you around Mayfair, mostly, briefly hinting at shops, cafés and market stalls. It wasn’t like London was boring, but Friedrich made sure to keep everything brief and quick. Not that you were keen on spending your day with him. But his rushed manners annoyed you, a lot. Since the club he was prone to end this as fast as possible.

“Oh! Is that a modiste?” Marie asked joyfully, like the guards she was a good distance behind you. Following her pointed finger, you too saw the small looking shop, all adorned in soft colours. Friedrich sighed, quickly reading the words on the signs above the door. Modiste. It was really a dressmaker…

“Yes, I think so,” was all he said, praying that you two wouldn’t want to go in there.

“Excellent!” Marie exclaimed. “Is she good? Do you know that Friedrich?”

Mentally he groaned, physically he only sighed. “Uh, pardon me.”

“Oh right! I forgot, men don’t go to the modiste,” she giggled.

“Explains why you are always wearing the same blue uniform,” you muttered, unable to hide your grin. You knew that men went to a tailor instead, but you couldn’t waste this opportunity.

He really held the desire to accidentally push you into a muddy puddle, like he did when he was eight or nine years of age. Instead of following his desire he smiled sweetly at Marie.

“Oh, I bet she’s good, but a princess like you surely doesn’t need to visit a local modiste..”

Clearly Friedrich had enough of playing escort for you and if you two would ever decide to visit the modiste he just hoped that you wouldn’t take him with you. Strolling around Town with you, and your death-like grip on his arm, was barely enough for him to handle. You were really testing him and his patience. But as long as Princess Marie was in reach, he was willing to keep up the last crumbles of his peaceful façade.

Almost desperately the prince wished for the day to end.

You, however, thought differently. While you were as much thrilled as he was about spending the day together, you did not like the way he treated you, dragging you around London like a child. Maybe he deserved some more time with you, and sometimes you had to make sacrifices yourself.

Rushing, yet again, through the streets, not listening to Friedrich’s curt explanations, your eyes fell on another whitewashed house. Its windows were rimmed white, and the door was lined with little trees cut into a ball. Different to the gentlemen’s club it had a very telling sign above its entrance.

“Oh! Is that a tea shop?” you asked him, despite already knowing what it was.

Friedrich nodded to that. “I see you can read.”

Feeling quite satisfied with his answer, at least you had rolled your eyes, he tugged you arm to move on. But you kept your feet rooted on the ground. Annoyed he pulled some more until your steal-like fingers left him. “Stop it,” you said. “I would like to go in there.”

Friedrich groaned annoyed, having some tea with you was the least thing he wanted to do. “Come on, we’ve to go.”

“No!”

“We’re not drinking tea, stop making a fuss,” he hissed, not liking that more people stared at you when you rose your voice. As a prince he was used to the stares of civilians, people stopped and stared whenever a member of royalty walked among them. And they were hard not to see with guards following their every step. But being the centre of attention because of a dispute was different.

“I am not fussing!”

“Yes, you are.”

Huffing in anger, he had already surpassed your state of annoyance with his attitude, you were looking for you last straw. Friedrich might be a prince, but he wasn’t your papa, and you would certainly not let him patronise you. He couldn’t forbid you some cup of tea.

“Mama?” you turned to Marie, who’s interest was piqued immediately. “The whole Town tour is a bit long, isn’t it? Quite tiring I would say. A stop at the tea shop doesn’t sound so bad, don’t you think, Mama?”

Friedrich couldn’t believe his ears. You really had picked that card?

For mere seconds Marie seemed to consider your words if the points you made were valid enough for visiting a tea shop. However, you knew your mother the best. You knew when you’d point out the tea shop and refreshments your mama would agree. Marie never refused the chance of good pastries. “Yes, it is a bit tiring,” she nodded. “I have to admit, I do feel quite thirsty. And the shop looks quite lovely…”

“So do I, Mama.”

“Friedrich, don’t you wish for some tea? You must be exhausted too.” The way Marie smiled at him he would feel more than bad to decline her offer. Frustrated he bit his lips knowing his afternoon was sealed. Refusing you, and only you, wasn’t difficult. But refusing Princess Marie and you? He could hardly do it, especially since your mother hold a kind character. It wasn’t her fault that she gave birth to a malicious witch.

Having tea at a tea shop was different than he had expected, mostly because Friedrich and you weren’t sipping tea but eating ice and pastries instead. Well, scones and macarons surely weren’t surprising for having tea but flavoured ice? When he thought about it, he hadn’t had ice for ages. Maybe he should’ve gone to Gunter’s Tea Shop much, much earlier. He should take Daphne here, she’d love it.

“Mama, are you sure that you don’t want any? The ginger ice cream tastes amazing.”

Nipping at her cup of tea Marie smiled and shook slightly her head. “Thank you, Bärli. But I’m happy with tea and biscuits.”

To be fair, their pastries, especially the macarons were as good as the sorbet. Scooping up some more ginger sorbet you enjoyed its cool and sweet, and slight sour, taste with a delightful hum. It felt like eating angels’ dish. Adding a sweet raspberry macaron made it even better. Right now, you definitely were in heaven.

“Einfach himmlisch,” you sighed over a new scoop of ice cream. In Friedrich’s ears your overjoyed sounds were annoying but sadly also distracting. His plan was simply to ignore you until you three were done with your sweet break. But with every sound you made, and you made a lot, all gushing over Gunter’s sweets, his eyes shot to you. It was only brief, yet distracting and annoying.

Devouring delicious ice cream and pastries apparently made you so happy, you looked like a completely different person to him. More at ease, less pugnacious and … he hated to admit it, but you looked kind and lovely.

“Well, it’s good but not that good,” he grumbled, even though he thought of it as delicious as well, and immediately earned a light kick, with greetings from you. He hissed at the brief but sharp pain. Forget nice and lovely, your looks were some kind of ruse or trap to lure in the innocent to torture them with your wickedness.

But Friedrich made the mistake to look at you. It was meant as a glare, flashing you a grim look of anger, but when he saw you all innocent, and ravished by the simple taste of ice cream, he couldn’t stay mad with you. Usually, he’d love to kick you back or do anything else to repay you but now … all desire for revenge was gone.

Hm, that was really weird.

Must be the light and the whole café itself.

Foremost you sat at a very unfortunate spot, right at the window and near a shiny tray of petit fours, scones and macarons. The pastries didn’t do much to you, or him. But he had to admit that your pelisse worked perfectly well with the shop’s colours. You looked like you belonged here, which was only troubling him slightly. But the window … it must be the window. The noonday sun shone right at you, softened by the white curtains of Gunter’s. It made your hair shone bright and warm, as did your skin, especially your cheeks. You were glowing and blessed with the divine sweet taste of sherbet, looking scarily peaceful, content, and lovely, you looked like a painting that belonged to the national gallery. Daphne had been right you looked lovely.

Friedrich stopped. Had he just thought that you looked lovely? Did he just compare your looks to art? No, he couldn’t – he didn’t. You must have bewitched him with a wicked spell or something, or was this a ruse to confuse his poor mind and trick him? It must be. Knowing you the lady sitting in front of him wasn’t you, she was far too calm for that. You were two separate persons.

But your cheeks looked so warm and soft …

“Friedrich, is everything all right? Your ice is melting,” asked Marie, slightly worrying about the young prince. He hadn’t noticed that he was staring at you, very noticeable. For how long had he looked at you, admiring your changes in look?

Clearing his throat, he smiled at your mother, reassuring her that everything is alright, hoping that she didn’t noticed him starring at her daughter.

“Yes, I was just think– ,” Friedrich winced and whimpered faintly, but noticeable. With a pleased sly smile, you enjoyed another scoop. He needed some time to compose himself from your shoes, you had managed to hit the exact same spot as last time. “I was just thinking. Everything’s good.”

Except for the throbbing pain in his shin, everything was good. It was clearly that his eyes and mind had fooled him, because now he knew that you were not merely a wicked, malicious witch. Minutes ago, you had been a mermaid but you were a siren nonetheless, tricking him with your calmness into believed safety only to torment his leg yet again.

 taglist: @netflixton @onlymexsarah @awesomebooklover17 @verygardenerbanana @bxnnywatts  @freyagallileaevans​ @bicyhot1​

if you want to be tagged as well, let me know :)

#bridgerton fics #bridgerton #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton x reader #prince friedrich #prince friedrich imagines #prince friedrich x reader #prince friedrich fanfiction #own writing #love to hate you

[jungstruly]

From Eden || Lee Jeno

Disobedience, the first sin on mankind.

WORD COUNT 2.4k

GENRE Romance, Demon!Jeno AU

WARNING/S Religious undertone, Suggestive

NOTE Hello, I am back from my hiatus! Here is a peace offering for you all lmao. Thank you so much my lovely @scissorhands1617 for taking the time to read & edit my work! I love you my cute lil froggie úwù. Happy reading! Also, read at your own risk. Even I kept on blushing while writing Devil!Jeno ;)

The tree was calling your name. It rang in your ears like a captivating enchantment, whispering your name and telling you to come. A hymn that you cannot tune out that starts from the rise of the sun ‘till the dead of the night. You tried everything that you can to block it from your senses. You divert your attention to the clouds at noon even frolic in the river with your favorite animals to pass the time. And even tasted every fruit that this huge garden can offer. Except one, of course.

The only tree up the small hill that you were prohibited to do so. You were told that you are allowed to eat anything. Anything but that tree’s fruit. The both of you were instructed to do so without even telling the reason why and it bugged you deeply. You tried to bury it at the back of your mind.

But the more you resist, the more your curiosity heightens. Your desire devours every inch of you. You felt like it was going to kill you any time soon. If one cannot answer your simple why then, it is a matter of time ‘till you figure it out yourself.

The untouched green grass prickles your bare feet but you could care less. The tree was just few feet up from you. Your mouth gets drier with every step. It quirks up as you look behind you. With two shaking pupils, you glance to where you left your sleeping companion just across the river bend. Sure enough, his eyes screw shut in a deep slumber. It was now or never.

Sure, the garden in which you live was beautiful. The place is paradise itself. Every tree was standing proudly. Flowers in every kind dotted the whole place. Creatures in every kind live in harmony but all of these, can’t compare to the beauty that the tree has. The tree alone left you even breathless from your walk.

It has the plumpest red fruit that you have ever seen. It was even bigger than both of your fists combined. You were absolutely sure that it wasn’t your mind playing tricks on you but you swore that the air was sweeter here. A sweet and citrusy scent wafted to your nose. Truly, it was addicting.

The late afternoon sun made the leaves sparkle. You swore that you even saw tiny specks of gold on its leaves. Confusion stirs inside you as you remembered being told not to eat anything from it. Why would anyone stop you from having a taste of the fruit of this pure and harmless tree? It was absurd that you were kept from taking anything from it or merely looking or thinking of it.

Lost in your own thoughts, your hand absentmindedly reaches out to caress the red fruit. You were told not to eat it. Nobody said that you can’t touch it. The sensation of touching it along with its sweet smell puts you in a trance.

“Grab it.”

A faint whisper can be heard from your left ear. It was soft but it made your naked body jump because of the close proximity. The hot breath of the culprit tickled your ear. You turn to the side, expecting to see your companion fully awake but you were wrong.

Two piercing red eyes glowed and met your warm gaze. His long ebony hair parts perfectly, falling at the side of his face in an intricate manner. He looked like he was sculpted to perfection because of his chiseled face. A smug smirk lingers on his red lips. Just like you, he was naked.

It was a man. No, not your companion. It was another man that you haven’t seen in this entirety of Eden ever since you can remember. You tear your eyes from his blazing red pupils as you became conscious of what you were doing. You wanted to see the tree up close, nothing more. But here you are, seconds away from picking a fruit from it.

“We really should not.” Your voice sounded like a hoarse whisper. The man beside you walks past your nervous figure and marches near the fruit that you were holding earlier. “We were told not to do so and-“

A loud grunt comes from him before he picks the red fruit from the tree. Your eyes widen at his sudden action. You were sure that he was absurd but you can’t seem to tear your eyes off of the fruit. The man throws it in the air in one swift motion before catching it right in front of your face. It’s intoxicating smell wafts through your nose.

“You were saying darling?” The loud beating of your heart filled your ears as you tried to calm down your ragged breaths.

“I-I,” You stutter, unable to form coherent sentences to scold him but nothing came out. Your squirming figure only made his smirk grow wider.

Clearing your throat, you tried to swat his hand away and look him in the eyes.“I thought there were only two of us here, me and my companion. How come this is my first time seeing you? Where did you come from? Are you one of us too? Do you have a name? And what on earth do you think you’re doing?”

“Well, it’s to meet you too.” The man’s voice dripped with sarcasm but you were too nice to notice it. The tree that you were under gives both of you a nice shade.

Your cheeks immediately heat up, biting your lip in embarrassment as realization hits you. “Where are my manners? I’m not usually this rude. Sorry,”

“It’s very nice to meet you. Hello,” You blink back at him. “I am Y.N and you are?”

Your wide curious eyes look innocently at him. The sight of you being so pure and almost angelic made the man growl underneath his breath. His mind raced into different directions, but every single one of them involved him breathing your scent and him not leaving any inch of your skin untouched. The dark haired man raised a brow at your waiting figure. Well, how must he put this? What must you call him? He has many names indeed.

Serpent, devil, demon, monster, beast...

You wave your hand in front of his face, still naive of the brooding dark look that he was giving you. He snapped back to reality. His face contoured into a quick smile which you also mirrored.

“I got distracted, pardon me.” What he needs is your trust if he wants to get inside that pretty little head of yours. He didn’t expect you to be this kind and hospitable already but it wasn’t really a surprise. After all, everything is designed to be good and righteous in this garden.

“It’s Jeno,”

A nod is your only response. Questions filled your head but everything seemed to disappear once you got another look at the fruit that he was clutching. A sinister smirk paints on Jeno’s lips as he takes a closer step to you. Your eyes not leaving the fruit.

“Don’t you want to take a bite?” Jeno’s voice is filled with honey yet laced with malice. He urges the fruit closer to your face the moment he sees you gulping. His cold demeanor vanishes once you come back to your senses. You shake your head.

Jeno gives you a knowing look, slowly waving the red fruit in front of your face. His smirk not faltering. “Even just a tiny little bite, darling?”

“No, I’m not supposed to eat that.” Curiosity was eating you out but it still didn’t stop you from doing the right thing.

“Why?”

“Well, I don’t know.” You whispered in all honesty. His question caught you off guard. You glance at the sky. “I think I should go back now. It’s almost night time.”

“But don’t you want to know why?” He presses on. Jeno knew you were listening when he saw you not moving an inch despite bidding farewell. 

He tries to hide his devilish smile while talking. “I mean, I suppose there isn’t any problem with you knowing why you’re not allowed to eat this one fruit. Why not find out right here, right now?”

“I was told that I’ll die if I did.

His loud laugh filled your ears. Once his laughter died down, he raised a mocking brow at you. The smile was still obvious on his lips. “Oh really?”

A nod was your only response. Your face contoured into a face of shock and despair the moment he takes a huge bite from the forbidden fruit. A gasp leaves your lips.

“Oh dear!” You panicked, eyes wide open as you think for a solution to save him from dying.

Jeno on the other hand, moaned in delight upon chewing the delicious pomegranate.

“But I am very much alive?” He shrugs, taking another bite. “You were saying?”

Your mouth opens in astonishment. Jeno gives you a smug look. “Why don’t you take a bite?”

You were persistent. Your head shook no. You tried to push the idea of your creator lying to you away as you try to feed your curiosity. “Well, what does it taste like?”

“As sweet as an angel’s kiss.”

“A kiss?”Jeno finds your curious head tilt endearing. “What is a kiss?”

He stops himself from taking a bite from his fruit. Jeno gritted his teeth. You looked like a cute lost deer, waiting for its prey to eat you anytime soon. That time has come for he has something up his sleeve.

“Do you want me to give it to you?”

“Well if you must,” You held out your hand in front of him, anticipating the ‘kiss’ that he was talking about. Jeno snickered to himself. He wanted to stain your innocence so bad. You were too pure for him in his delight. It was a surprise that he was able to control himself from keeping you all to himself and taking you to his lair.

Besides, the serpent himself isn’t that foolish to begin with. He knew with your inborn goodness, you’ll definitely do what you’re asked of.

“One should stay still. Can you do that for me darling?” Jeno slowly runs his tongue to his lip as he draws closer to you. The taste of the red fruit still lingers on his mouth. “Hm?”

Head bobbing excitedly, you can’t help but to put your other hand out in front of him. This was exactly what he had in mind. If there was one thing you were also born with, it’s curiosity. You were created to have it. A mortal will always have the need for answers. It is inevitable.

You shudder at his touch. Jeno’s pale hands delicately caresses your cheek before cupping it on his palm. His touch was soft and gentle as if he was holding a porcelain doll. Your soft and warm skin made him crazy. His red pupils dilated the moment he locked his eyes on your plump red lips.

You were about to open your mouth to ask him the kiss’ whereabouts but your words were silenced by Jeno’s lips crashing on yours. It was rough and hard— the exact opposite of his touch. He was going crazy how soft your lips are. The fact that he was the first one to do it to you pushed him to the edge.

His action took you by surprise. You stood there frozen with eyes wide open. This was your first time receiving a ‘kiss’. You didn’t know what to do and you didn’t want him to stop. Whatever he’s doing, he’s making you feel something you haven’t felt yet in your entire lifetime.

Jeno pulls away breathlessly. His forehead still glued on yours as he whispers, tucking a small strand of hair behind your ear. “Close your eyes and just feel it. Let it consume you.”

Obeying his command, you did what he said. With eyes screw shut, Jeno smirks to himself.

“Good girl,”

He attacks your lips once again. This time around, you were much aware and responsive. Jeno’s lips tasted sweet with a hint of citrus. It tasted almost like a fruit actually— a fruit that you haven’t tasted yet. You didn’t know that your body was capable of responding to his actions. Your hands slowly run through his silky dark hair before letting your hands knot itself on it.

Jeno gives out a throaty chuckle when he realizes how much eagerness and hunger you’re giving to the kiss. Not that he was complaining though. He couldn’t blame you either. It’s hard to resist the things that are forbidden. One will have a hard time to quit.

You let yourself indulge in the kiss as much as you liked before pulling away just to breathe some air.

Jeno’s eyes flicker with mischief the moment your eyes linger to his lips and to the tree. You can’t help but to question your creator. How come you haven’t crossed paths with this man in front of you? How come the “kiss” isn’t introduced sooner? Why is eating the fruit from this tree prohibited in the first place when it’s obvious that it is harmless? Why? Why not?

“I-l” You tried your best to meet his eyes, avoiding to stare at his very red lips. “I need to go. It is getting dark.”

He nods his head with a knowing grin before grabbing your hand to place an open mouthed kiss. Jeno’s eyes not leaving you with each passing second. You gulped when he stayed still in that position.

Chuckling at your squirming figure, he releases your hand. “I think you should.”

As much as you wanted to stay here and kiss Jeno until morning comes once again, you know to yourself that you can’t. You give him a wave before skipping down the hill however, you stopped midway.

“When can I meet you again?” Your voice sounded desperate, needy even. He knew that his plan worked and it’ll just be a matter of time until you get banished from this ‘paradise’ and he can all have you to himself.

“Oh sweetheart,” Jeno’s eyes darken as he smirks. The bitten pomegranate fruit went flying in the air before it landed perfectly on his palm. “I’m everywhere.”

That night when you were asked if you have eaten the fruit from the forbidden tree, you answered no.

But you did.

The fruit of evil is indeed sweet. It is addicting. It consumes every part of your soul. The lingering taste of his lips shouldn’t be tasted in the first place. Because Jeno— Jeno became the fruit itself.

#nct #nct 127 #nct 127 imagines #nct 127 blurbs #lee jeno #lee jeno imagines #nct jeno #nct smut #nct dream drabbles #nct imagines #nct 127 smut #nct masterlist #nct 127 drabbles #nct dream blurbs #nct u #jeno lee

[talesofealdancynedom]

Professor Hara Fyrstan, in fairy robes; remastered concept.

Tale 31: If We Lost The Sea Wives (chapter 1 - Northland Family 1/5 ) part 7. Stories of Magic Forests

no warings

              Hara Fyrstan tends the Fey Conservatory, with great care; He was a prodigy, filling the role his grandfather once did. In fact, they weren’t too different from each other, in looks, roles and personality. Both red haired, grey eyed, fey loving, Northland bred passionate professors. Both with big hearts, and equal compassion for all living things; Including fey. This due to both of them being born, and raised, in the farthest North West tip of Elden Kingdom: The magic Isle of Isfisceard. This mystical ancient place, had the most magical sea in the world. Every inch of the village and islands, was coated in fey. It made the people invested in their land, and its connection to fey of the sea. Naturally, this included Hara and his grandfather, Saturn.

The fey conservatory of Pepperidge academy, which was used for rehabilitation and education, was Grandfather Firepot’s greatest accomplishment. It is a school treasure. All teachers, students, and fey; enjoyed the peaceful atrium. It is a glass walled, three stories tall, magic garden withing the school. Hara dreamed of this job, ever since his grandfather told him stories about it. It inspired Hara to work hard in his Northland schooling, to immigrate to to The Grand West, just for the position. When Hara got there, he made the most of his success. Pepperidge Academy’s infrastructure, community, and fey, received only the best love and care from their new head seer. Hara had gone so far, as to make all of Pepperidge a protected magic forest, like his ow. He had quite the reputation after only a year’s employment. Hara was incredibly thankful for his grandfather, who helped inspire and teach him.

              The conservatory didn’t just hold and heal ferries and wonderous plants, but also aquatic fey; Fish children, Sea wives, or Daughter of The Sea, as Hara knew them. As a mage of the Northlands, Hara should have a complex and deep relationship with the daughters of the sea, but instead his qualms with the Fish Kingdom came from one of his students; Rah Wintersleep. Rah was also a mage, but instead of a seer of magic knowledge like Hara, he was charmer that sung spells. Rah was also a storm-breaker, that caused epic storms when magic flowed through him in times of joy. He was working on controlling it, with a storm staph. Rah was not only Hara’s responsibility as a student, but had fallen into a trap Hara’s kin often do; Loving a maiden from the waves. Sorry, mister of the waves. While preparing food for the fey, in the back room, Hara got to over hear Rah, and his true love, Fish Prince Broc. Hara spied on everyone who came into the conservatory, in order to protect the fey and students.

“The selkie your mother made, which you suggested to her; I think she’s actually infatuated with our witchery teacher.” Rah said. He was charming the small pearly cuttle Kraken in the fountain. Hara perked up at the word Selkie.

“Oh, yeah. He’s probably going to love her back. Selkies often suffer from Stockholm’s syndrome, so it’s nice to see a little sister find actual true love; Instead of being kidnapped.” Broc smiled. Hara was too busy in school for seal gawking, back home. Rah and Broc’s conversation was making him nostalgic. As if the distant tune of proverbial bagpipes, was calling him hither.

“Now that you’re my queen in waiting, and the wolf kingdom fell into disrepair, I worry for my mother.” Broc continued. “She always frequents the Day Veil of men, but now mages have made the Beast King’s more willing to see view humanity in person. I doubt people will take kindly to a ghostly giant mermaid, or bewitchingly radiant maiden. I don’t want to be Fish King so soon. I will worry for all my new daughters, while I mourn my Mother and little siblings.” Broc said. Rah hugged Broc, to comfort him.

“I’m sorry I’m too young to be queen of a fey kingdom yet. I worry I’d be a bad fish Dad; No one can top your father Lyra… Besides; your mother, father, and family are very well loved. It would be a tragedy to all who adore the water’s fair folk. I can’t imagine life without ocean fey. All beautifully crafted, and sweet of song.” Rah said. He was getting sad, which was unusual. The two of then gazed into the pool of miniature kraken, nuzzled together like gannets.

Hara slumped. Imagining the world with fewer fey, was a chilling thought to someone who spent their life learning about and helping them. The thought that the bays of Isfisceard, could no longer echo with the haunting melody of the fish children, seemed unnatural. The ocean would have no song, no feminine beauty, and no more wonder. Hara considered if he had taken it all for granted. Rah’s words made him think of home, and all it’s verdant cliffside isles. Home would be nothing without the Sirens on the oddly formed sea walls, mermaids in the rivers and glens, selkies on the beaches, or krakens listening in the deep. The smell of sea salt, vibrancy of the hills, wool of sheep and music of home. Hara wilted at the thought of all that vanishing. It made him feel like life was short, and that he wanted to see it all again. The fey of the fish kingdom, were the ones that inspired him to study and conserve fey. They taught him he was a mage, and how to interact with the world of magic. Hara wanted to experience that again. All of this in the span of the ten minutes it took to pour milk into little labeled saucers for the pixies.

After the school day was done, Hara went to his dorm, to see his dragon princess trying to cuddle Woodwick. Hara had become a queen in waiting himself, but to the Dragon Kingdom; Fleoganan was his true love. She was an optimistic idiot. Which is an underappreciated quality in people. Hara’s heart filling with love when embracing her, combined with a day’s brooding, reminded him that his family hadn’t met Fleog yet. They had already shared the undying true love’s spell, and Grandpa knew nothing of it. Then Hara saw Woodwick, innocently preparing for tomorrow’s lessons. Woodwick also remined Hara of home; He was technically Hara’s adoptive uncle. Woodwick was one of the last two fountain nymphs, which grandfather had found on a black market. These Naiads turned the flowing pools they bathed in, into water that could heal any wound. Yet, Woodwick’s dream was to be human; And due to his value, grandpa adopted Woodwick, and kept his identity secret. This gave Woodwick his dream, by fooling everyone. Nymphs can be very convincingly human. In fact, the unpublished research grandpa Firepot left to Hara, on Woodwick’s desire for humanness, helped Hara conserve local fey.  It gave common folk, including wizards, empathy towards fey, similar to mages.

When Woodwick and Hara first met, it was on a road trip to the family beach home. They spent time packed into a hot car, after being picked up at the Main Northland Station. Their little home was in the middle of nowhere, as Isfisceard was an isolated heritage village, by the Fish Gate into the Shadow Veil of fey. The small house was on a sandy beach, along the main road into the cove. South of the magic academy and village, west of the train station. Hara was not fooled by his grandfather’s insistence that Woodwick was just a tween he adopted. Hara, though a child, was an avid seer mage; He knew a fairy when he saw one. Hara never asked why Grandpa adopted a fey, and never mentioned that he knew. Woodwick had just become a normal member of his family.

It was official; Hara missed his. He hadn’t seen his grandfather, or parents, since he graduated and arrived in Pepperidge. Hara decided he wanted to visit home, the next chance he got.

“Woodwick, I want to go home for the semester break; Want to come? Fleog, you have to meet my family.” Hara chimed.

“I’m not particularly interested.” Woodwick said. “Then again, it would make your grandfather very happy.”

“I can’t believe your not homesick. I keep forgetting that under all that professor, is a fairy.” Hara sighed. Woodwick as a fey, lived a timeless state with no opinions of past or future. Missing something, would require opinions regarding the past.

“Well, now that I know seeking a familiar face is human thing, I may consider myself persuaded.” Woodwick responded. He wanted to be human, and was very assertive about it. There was a time he was also convinced he was a real boy, and not some changeling. He was focusing too much on the words, and not enough of the familial aspects. Hara apologized, and made the plans. He felt good about visiting his safe, unchanged, childhood home. That was on a specific abandoned beach, close to the fey of the sea.

NEXT--->

#art #tales of ealdan cynedom #short stories #story 31 #hara #firepot #WoodWick #rah #broc #fleog

[patricksmusicblog]

PMB Favorites: My Favorite Albums of 2020

2020 was largely year of changes that brought on a heightened sense of stress and anxiety in my life (and a lot of peoples lives as well) but when I needed it music was there to provide escapism or to color the grim and uncertain mood the year tended to bring. Here are the albums that were the soundtrack to my 2020(In no particular order). I welcome all musical recommendations.

. Squarepusher- Be Up, Hello: Squarepusher returned early in 2020 with a hard-hitting drum and bass album, filled with bright textures and poly-rhythms. The albums both exhilarating and intense listen at times. Love “Speedcrank” and “Voltrack”

Oneohtrix Point Never- Magic Oneohtrix Point Never: Released in the 4th quarter of the year Oneohtrix Point Never came through with an album strongly inspired by his love of radio growing up Magic 106.7 to be specific. The result is an album of diverse styles of pop, rock, hip-hop etc blended into the plunder-phonics that Oneohtrix fans have come to know, great project.

Lady Gaga- Chromatica: Chromatica is Lady Gaga's triumphant return to dance-pop after getting personal with Joanne (2016) and doing the Star is Born soundtrack. Chromatica, like Gaga's early work, is packed with hits and catchy tunes, i.e., the Ariana Grande assisted "Rain on Me" and "Stupid love," a great pop album and one of my favorite albums from Lady Gaga thus far. 

TOPS-I Feel Alive: Tops are a band that has been progressing with each release. This album is a beautiful mix of indie-pop/dream pop that features the summery title track and the brisk synth-driven "Colder and Closer." It is one of the better indie-pop releases this year. 

Dream Wife-So When You Gonna...”:  Dream Wife typically has a high octane and raucous sound. So When You Gonna... calms things down a bit. They go more in-depth on this project with songs about keeping sexual agency, not seeking validation from others, and staying true to yourself. It has nearly the energy of their previous self titled LP but with lyrical depth.

Hinds-The Prettiest Curse: Hinds have gotten better with every album. The Prettiest Curse is their best thus far. The Prettiest Curse finds them expanding their sound with more lavish production and some synth-pop in there to go along with their garage rock sound. A few Great tracks on here but "Good Bad Times" and "Take Me Back" are amongst my favorites. 

Nas- King’s Disease: Nas's Kings Disease maybe the best Nas release since at least Untitled and probably since the early 00s. A lot of that has to do with producer Hit-Boy who provided Nas the canvas to create a wise and timely album. "Ultra Black," "Til the War is Won" with Lil Durk, and "10 Points" are amongst my favorites on the album. 

Westside Gunn- Pray for Paris: Griselda Records was dominant in 2020. Westside Gunn is a big part of that in that he released two great albums this year. The first of which was the menacing but luxurious Pray for Paris. The beats are hard and classy, and Westside's rhymes are both street and opulent/artful. "$500 Ounces", "Shawn vs. Flair," "George Bando," and "327″ are essential. 

Westside- Gunn- Who Made The Sunshine: The second great album by Westside was Who Made The Sunshine. This album is a darker ominous project that sounds like quintessential Griselda. Built for grey skies and dark times, it was great on overcast days late this year. "The Butcher and the Blade," "98 Sabers and "All Praises" are my favorites on this one.

Conway The Machine- From a King to a God:  Conway The Machine's From a King to a God may be the best album from the camp this year. It's an album that spans both street tales, introspection, and some social commentary. It's also found Conway getting as personal as he's gotten any album thus far. The album features high-level production from Hit-Boy, Daringer, DJ Premier, etc. "Spurs 3″, "Dough & Damani", are my favorites here.

Benny The Butcher-Burden of Proof: Rounding out the Griselda releases to make my 2020 favorites is Benny The Butcher's Burden of Proof. Burden of Proof is handled 100% by Hit-Boy, who gives Benny's hard-nosed rhymes a bit of pristine sheen without taking anything away from Benny's style. There's no real reaching here, and it ends up being an album that shows Benny can be versatile. "One Way Flight," "Timeless," "War Paint," and "Legend" rank amongst my favorites on the album.

Freddie Gibbs- Alfredo:  Been following Freddie Gibbs since Pinata with Madlib in 2014, and it seems as though he hasn't missed since. I loved his 2019 project Bandanna, and Alfredo is another excellent project. Alchemist handles the production here and does a great job providing a backdrop for Freddie's fluid and vivid rhymes. There's the measured reminiscing of "Babies & Fools," the soaring "1985″, the shadowy menace of "God is Perfect," essential hip-hop listens for 2020. 

Royce Da 5′9-Allegory: Royce Da 5′9 follows up his excellent Book of Ryan (not to mention PRhyme with DJ Premier) with Allegory. While his last album was decidedly a personal effort, this one finds him using his lyrical gymnastics on being the best and spitting knowledge on what's going on in rap and in general. "I Play Forever," "Tricked," "Overcomer" are the favorites here. 

Princess Nokia- Everything is Beautiful: Everything is Beautiful is in my opinion, the better of two albums; Princess Nokia released in the early part of 2020, an album that finds Princess Nokia reflecting on what made her coming up in her childhood. Elastic flows and charisma with eclectic production from the likes of Adam Pallin and Tony Seltzer. Favorite cuts on this are "Green Eggs and Ham," "Wash and Sets," and "The Conclusion."

Logic-No Pressure:  Logic came full circle on this album from 2014 Under Pressure to his current and (for now) final release No Pressure. No Pressure may be his best album. It's consistent all the way through, it wears its influences on its sleeve than previous albums, and it's not a knee-jerk reaction album done based on what people want from him, and it's not corny. It feels closest to pure Logic that sounds like he's just spitting about where he's at in life(dadbod) and finding peace within himself. I love this LP. 

Jeezy- Recession 2: Jeezy's one of those rappers that is just solid, you know what to expect, thunderous beats, hood motivation music. Even still, Jeezy's music continues to mature as he does, touching on the ills of the ghetto, police brutality, and putting your monetary priorities in the right place. "Modern Day," "Back," "Almighty Black Dollar" are amongst my favorites here. 

Roc Marciano- Mt. Marci:  Roc Marciano's Mt. Marci is a darkly beautiful album. The album features collages of different soundscapes that are generally classy and ominous. Of course, Roc's stoic monotone flow continuously reeling off-kilter references and punchlines is the album's centerpiece. Roc's flow is just cold-blooded. "Covid Cough," "Downtown 81″, "Wheat 40s", and "Butterfly Effect" are among the livest tracks on this album, in my opinion. 

Run The Jewels-RTJ4: Killer Mike and EL-P kill it every time they drop, and RTJ4 is no different. It's another album of high octane/great beats from EL-P and essential bars from Killer Mike and EL-P. As you'd expect, RTJ speaks to lots of issues going on today while at the same time going crazy to one-up each other bar for bar. "Ooh La La," "Out of Sight," "Never Look Back," and "Pulling the Pin" are the highlights of the project to my ears. 

Megan Thee Stallion-Good News: Megan Thee Stallion has been dope since Tina Snow.  Whether it's Fever or Suga, you can expect both skill and top-notch charisma and confidence from Meg’. If you've heard those projects, you know you can expect to hear Meg taking explicit agency of her sexuality, partying, rappin' her ass off, and generally commanding these tracks. There's also the drama with Tory Lanez, but the album, fortunately, isn't weighed down with ways about that. Favorites on this album include "Shots Fired," "Savage(Remix), "Movie," "Girls In The Hood."

21 Savage & Metro Boomin- Savage Mode II: 21 Savage and Metro Boomin's original Savage Mode was bleak and brooding enough to launch 21 Savage careers, and this one is similarly cold-hearted. Still, there are more varied styles of savagery here, whether we're talking the 80′s inspired "Steppin' On Niggas” or the more pop-orientated "Mr. Right Now" or the inspirational/introspective "Said N Done."

#My Favorite Albums of 2020 #20 Albums #Music Blogs #Music Favorites #Lady Gaga #griselda #21 savage #TOPS #dream wife #Hinds #Jeezy #megan thee stallion #roc marciano #Freddie gibbs #RTJ #princess nokia #Square pusher #oneohtrix point never

[thewitcherssongbird]

Heartbeat

Chapter 1

Geralt doesn’t understand what it means when Jaskier’s pulse changes or why his breath catches, he doesn’t understand why he either avoids Geralt or doesn’t leave him alone. Geralt is confused about many things but mainly why he even cares. Jaskier knows Geralt isn’t an idiot and he hasn’t been very careful but he just can’t help himself. He has a poet’s soul and what he feels he sings. It won’t be long now until Geralt figures it out, maybe he already has. Mutual pining, obliviousness and stupidity. Idiots in love amiright? 

*****

At times it’s useful to have superhuman senses, but at other times, and Geralt begins to believe most of the time, it’s so a real fucking curse. He can smell fear, lust, aggression, he can hear things ordinary humans can’t, a butterfly’s wingbeat, a creek bubbling a mile away, a predator sneaking through the bushes and he can see in the dark.

He can sense many things, but the thing he cannot smell or hear or see is what the hell Jaskier thinking about at night when he sits quietly, staring into the flames of the campfire with a melancholy expression on his face, as if he isn’t quite there. He doesn’t understand why Jaskier insists on washing Geralt and make sure he takes care of himself and he cannot for the life of him figure out why Jaskier’s moods seem to change as often as his outfit and as quick as the chords on his lute. He doesn’t know Jaskier’s heart speeds up at random or why he sometimes avoids Geralt when all he does at other times is cling to him like they’re glued together. He just cannot read the man and

it

is

vexing.

Jaskier lies by Geralt’s feet, head supported by rock Geralt is pretending to meditate on.  He strums quietly at his lute, humming and scribbling in his songbook every so often. Geralt doesn’t know when he stopped trying to meditate but now he’s listening to Jaskier’s fingers tugging at the strings of the instrument and slowly weaving a sweet melody out of thin air. Geralt listens to his hums, coaxing music out of nothing. When he concentrates he can focus on the beating of the bard’s heart over the pouring rain outside the cave, subconsciously in rhythm with his half formed song.

“How about- Oh no I’m sure there’s one like that already. Maybe…The Daydreamer? What do you think Geralt?”

Almost, Geralt almost breaks his façade to reply with a hum of approval but catches himself just in time.

And then the bard’s breath hitches for a second before going back to normal as if the universe were amusing itself at his expense. “Oh, right. Right.” His heartbeat falters a little and Geralt almost opens his eyes to see why but it evens out. Gods he should just ask but then Jaskier would know. That he listens, wonders. Cares.

“Witcher meditation,” he grumbles under his breath and Geralt is lucky Jaskier has turned his attention back to his music because he can’t quite bite back the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He wonders if Jaskier always talks to himself when he actually meditates.

For a while he indulges in his guilty pleasure but he decides it’s a pathetic thing and gets up to tend to the dying fire. “Oh Geralt you’re! I need your opinion on something how does ‘Love only in daydreams’ sound for a title.”

“Hmm.” Geralt nods.

“Right,” Jaskier grins, “Love only in daydreams it is.” He scribbles the title on the top of the page. “Thanks, Geralt.”

Jaskier’s heart speeds up a little and Geralt wants to rip it out of his companion’s chest and demand why it’s doing what it’s doing. He frowns at the image and instead wonders when his opinion started influencing Jaskier’s music. He tucks it away to mull over when he doesn’t have better things to do.

Geralt only really slips into meditation when the bard is deep in sleep.

When the day dawns the rain has let up and the smell of the rain-fresh forest fills the cave. They set out towards the road early, Jaskier chirping at Geralt who ignores him like the rest of the birds chattering in the trees. For the umpteenth time Geralt wonders why he lets him.

“Why did we have to camp so far from the road?” he moans for the second time in as many minutes.

“It’s two and a half miles.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” he grumbles.

They only mount their horses when they reach the roads, the bounce in Roach’s trot is testament to a good night’s rest. Geralt gives her pat on the neck. An affectionate gesture and reward for putting up with the bard and his equally affectionate chestnut gelding who are both always in her space.

“You give your horse more affection than your best friend,” Jaskier comments, amused.

“And who says you’re my best friend?” Geralt counters.

“Do you have any other friends who follow you around, keeping you good company and writing songs about you which improve your public image and earn you more contracts and income than you’ve ever had before? No, no I don’t think you do.” “Maybe Roach is my best friend.” It sounds pathetic even to Geralt’s ears even though he knows that for a long time, it was true.

Jaskier raises a skeptical brow, “If horses count then you have been alone too long.”

Geralt remembers the time before Jaskier had thrust himself upon the witcher, a time of blissful peace and quiet only filled with his regular one sided conversations with Roach. He doesn’t miss it as much as he used to.

“What, do you want a pat too?” Geralt asks, steering Roach closer to the gelding to give Jaskier a similar pat to the shoulder. “Feel better?”

“Actually, I do. Thank you, Geralt,” the bard says and Roach snorts at the same time Geralt does.

The next town is only half a day away, Geralt enjoys the absence of meaningless chatter which the bard has decided to fill with only a hum of his latest song. ‘Love only in daydreams’, Geralt remembers. The tune is bitter-sweet, he’s curious, curious to hear the words he’s heard being scribbled into his songbook but Jaskier hasn’t sung any. He finds himself wondering why, lately he’s been wondering a lot where Jaskier is concerned. It’s odd but Jaskier is a walking oddity so Geralt chalks it up to his infectious nature and leaves it at that before he admits something he doesn’t want to admit.

They reach the town a few hours before sunset. Jaskier books an inn while Geralt tends to the horses and soon they’re in the tavern, making use of their usual strategy. Geralt sits down at the bar, orders a pint and lets Jaskier entertain the crowd with songs of their adventures. It’s a wordless routine into which they have settled in the past few years while traipsing about here and there looking for contracts and crowds to entertain and spending their income on whatever their hearts desire.

Jaskier sings for the crowd, the timeless crowd pleaser ‘Toss a coin to your witcher’ loosens everyone’s pockets and gets them all singing along. By the time Jaskier sits down and orders a pint for himself he’s sung all his hits about the White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia and his pockets are heavy with coin. Now they sit, waiting for anyone brave enough to approach with a contract.

It’s not long until Geralt has acquired 4 contracts, a drowner nest, a kikimora, a graveir and a ghoul plaguing the towns and farms nearby. He’s guaranteed to leave with a heavy coin purse. They have no schedule and no plans and the feeling of not knowing how long they were staying in the town and not having to worry about anything at all is a glorious feeling indeed.

***

The sun has long set and Geralt suspects it’s morning when they walk to the inn they booked down the street, Geralt is supporting a drunk bard, very amused at his own inability to walk straight.

“Geralt…” he giggles, “I haven’t been this drunk since… since years.” He throws out his arms, smacking Geralt in the face. The only reason Geralt doesn’t catch the arm before it hits him square in the face is because his hands are otherwise occupied supporting the Jaskier. And the only reason he doesn’t bite him, he tells himself, is because he’d have to explain the mark in the morning.

“Sorry,” Jaskier slurs, “didn’t want to ruin your gorgeous features.” Geralt is unsure whether his tone was mocking or serious. Jaskier slings a friendly arm over Geralt’s shoulder which makes it somewhat easier to support him. Geralt grabs both his wrists when he tries to pat Geralt on the head. This is how they walk the rest of the way down the street, Jaskier practically hanging on Geralt who has one hand holding the arm slung over his shoulder in place and the other around the minstrel’s waist. A few cats hiss at either Geralt or the noise and he’s sure there are plenty of people rolling over and covering their ears in their beds.

“Geralt you’re so handsome,” he sighs. Geralt is thankful for Jaskier’s drunkenness because he falters, unsure of what to say.

“So I’m told.” Geralt settles on and doesn’t know why he even bothers when Jaskier will likely not remember it in the morning.

“Really- really wasted on you when you only sleep with women. And in brothels too. Mean, you could have anyone without payment, really.” His voice rises and falls in the way reserved for the drunk and the dramatic. Jaskier was both. “Women get everything,” he grumbles.

“Not just women,” Geralt corrects him and now he’s supporting nearly all of Jaskier’s weight. He supposes it’s a bit cowardly of him to have this conversation while Jaskier is sloshed but there’s no-one to judge him but Geralt himself.

“Really?” Jaskier exclaims loudly. “Well I haven’t had a man in forever. You,” he settles for patting Geralt’s chest with his dangling hand in accusation when he finds that he can’t jab a finger at him, “You’ve been scaring them all away, brooding like that. Women tend to be braver than men when it comes to you, apparantly. Don’t know why. Very odd. Come to think of it, I haven’t slept with anyone in far too long.”

Something possessive relaxes in Geralt’s chest. “You’ve slept with men?” He asks, surprised.

“Well of course, no reason to be fussy with who you fool around with now is there? Pleasure is pleasure. And why rule out half the population when some of them look like, you know, like you.”

“Why indeed?” Geralt says for no one’s amusement but his own. Something stirs in his gut.

“Geralt,” sighs Jaskier, “this walk is awfully long, are we there soon?”

“Mhmm,” Geralt assures him. He hasn’t talked this much in months, it’s oddly pleasant.

“This is fun, I should get drunk more often,” Jaskier giggles. “Maybe you’ll carry me like a damsel in distress. That would be nice wouldn’t it? Nice being the object of the stone cold Witcher’s affections. Yes, yes.”

Geralt wonders how he can still joke when he’s this drunk.

As soon as they reach the stairs in the inn, Jaskier stumbles and falls heavily onto the staircase. Instead of getting up he lies groaning miserably on the stairs. Geralt winces to himself, he hopes he won’t have to explain any injuries in the morning. For a moment Geralt thinks about fetching a blanket and leaving him there but his newfound conscience, which is very annoying he might add, kicks him in his mental shin. And besides he’s never hear the end of it and he’s have to suffer the kicked puppy expression on Jaskier’s face which Geralt would never admit he found cute.

Geralt heaves him up again and with much childish protest, starts to climb the stairs. “Oh god, Geralt.” Jaskier braces a hand on the wall, clutching his stomach. “Going to be sick.”

“No no no no no,” Geralt says quickly, “Sit down, just sit.” Geralt has been in this town before and he knows it’s a gold mine. If Jaskier throw up now, they’d kick them out of the only inn in the whole town and that was unacceptable.

Jaskier sits, groaning. Geralt stands, fumbling and for lack of anything else to do sits beside him, awkwardly patting his back in what he hopes is a soothing manner. They’re sitting halfway up the staircase in the early hours of the morning, Geralt has lived for a long time but never has he been in this situation before.

Jaskier rests his forehead on his knees, moaning dramatically every once in a while. He goes quiet after a while, but he’s not quite unconscious. Finally, he turns his head, cheek rested in his knees, arms still hugging his legs.

“Am I your friend?” He asks, drunken cornflower blue eyes wide in childlike curiosity. If Geralt hadn’t known him, he’d have thought he looked almost innocent.

“You are,” Geralt admits for the first time. Jaskier lets out a “hm” that clearly means he’s surprised and that makes Geralt feel a little guilty for letting him believe he wasn’t for such a long time. Little does he know Geralt has long ago accepted that Jaskier had become a friend. He had only denied it because he didn’t want any ties. A stupid reason, Geralt realizes. Fate had always enjoyed proving him wrong.

Satisfied, Jaskier closes his eyes. “Come on,” Geralt says, “you can’t sleep on the stairs what are we paying for?”

Jaskier moans in protest. “Gods, why do you get to be pretty and muscly and gorgeous and not get drunk and embarrass yourself ever?” he ventures on to a different topic. Geralt doesn’t know whether the words are running together from drink or exhaustion or both. “S’really not fair, everyone should embarrass themselves. Stupid Witcher.”

“I don’t need to; you embarrass me plenty.”

Jaskier grumbles at that and then sighs rather melodramatically. “Geralt I think I’m in love,” he says dreamily and that thing in Geralt’s chest constricts again.  

“I’ll, uh, fetch you some water.” He gets up and as an afterthought he adds, “don’t throw up.” It doesn’t take long for him to find their room and locate the water skin, after all, Geralt is only slightly drunk. When he returns from the room, water skin in hand, he finds the bard has passed out slumped against the wall. Geralt sighs. “At least you didn’t throw up,” he mutters to himself.

He heaves the limp body into his arms, it feels like holding water.  Jaskier is feather light in his arms, small, limp body always threatening to slip out of Geralt’s grip like water escaping through his fingers, he’s sure there’s another deeper metaphor hidden in there somewhere but he doesn’t go looking.

He lays Jaskier down gently in the bed, stripping him down to his underthings like he usually sleeps when they have the luxury of a bed. Friend indeed. Geralt wonders when he came to care so much about his companion to be doing such things for him.

For a moment he allows himself to gaze at the sleeping features, so calm and peaceful. Geralt thinks how rare it is to see his features free of all emotion, when usually, being a very expressive person, Jaskier always has a smile or a frown or something in between on his face. He tucks away the image. Geralt has never appreciated the soft beauty in Jaskier.

He sleeps with a troubled mind.

*****

That’s it for today:)) Hope all of you enjoyed that very much and axiously await Chapter 2 coming soon! Please leave likes and comments because I live and breathe for attention. Kidding, but do please!

#geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #Jaskier #gerskier #the witcher #the witcher netflix #witcher netflix #geralt z rivii #geraskier fluff #geraskier angst #idiots in love #heartbeat

[absynthe--minded]

Blessed Hands Will Break Me: The Official Playlist

listen on spotify // listen on youtube

cover art by @princess-faelivrin

Okay. So. I’m gonna try and walk you all through this playlist? It’s a combination of “songs I listened to while writing” and “songs that just have A Vibe”; it’s a little over an hour in length. It’s vaguely meant to evoke the flow of the story, but there’s a little back and forth to facilitate a better listening experience and make it less jarring.

Survivor - Oceans: (And I can’t help but wonder out loud ‘If only we could go back to square one, if finally we could pinpoint where we lost touch, I’d stand alone reaching out my hand to you’) This is where we start the story, more or less, with Findekáno confused and lost and a little angry. It’s a song about separation, about not knowing which way is up or down, about wishing you could rekindle a lost relationship and being a little desperate to do whatever is necessary to fulfill that wish. Also the music and the production create this wonderfully mournful tone; I do get the impression of speeding across a dark ocean with nothing but pain behind and uncertainty ahead.

Emilie Autumn - Castle Down: (Trying to balance all that I had left with what I didn’t have anymore) Findekáno finding out about Maitimo’s capture, and being lost, and trying to rebuild his psyche after such a devastating blow, and wrestling with the fact that his husband is both his savior and his destroyer in one.

Shinedown - If You Only Knew: (I don’t regret any days I spent, nights we shared, or letters that I sent) More reeling from loss - this is very much a story about what you do for love, and musing on what you had before tragedy, and Findekáno’s mental state through much of chapter two matches this kind of frustrated brooding. Not to mention that he’s tormented by Maitimo’s situation and absence enough for his sleep to be disrupted - it’s all he can think on, and it consumes him. The fact that this is sung to an absent lover who presumably can’t hear the singer’s thoughts and isn’t aware of them only makes it more poignant.

Adelitas Way - Last Stand: (And I can’t make it without you, I need a second chance ‘cause I wanna make it about you - I’m making my last stand) Of course, he ultimately does decide that, for better or for worse, he’s going after Maitimo, regardless of the impact on his life and the lives of his people. This is a song about trying to do right by your partner after some kind of separation, and it’s just frustrated and desperate enough to tug at my heart.

Kamelot - Lost and Damned: (Leave me behind, don’t look back) When Maitimo becomes aware of the fact that Findekáno is sharing his consciousness and is seeing what he’s seeing and feeling what he’s feeling, he responds by shoving Finno out of his head and shredding all he can of their marriage-bond to keep his captors from noticing. This song has a specific story function in a greater rock opera, but it really works here.

Journey - Separate Ways (Worlds Apart): (Someday love will find you, break those chains that bind you) If you’re writing a story about Thangorodrim and you don’t put this song on there, what are you even doing? In all seriousness, though, this was my first song that I ever heard that made me go “oh this is about Russingon”. An eternal classic and full of yearning and desperation and pain, and perfect to describe Finno setting out under cover of darkness, I think.

Icon For Hire - Hope of Morning: (When the hope of morning starts to fade in me, I don’t dare let darkness have its way with me) This song, honestly, more than any other I’ve ever heard, is Findekáno. For one thing I’m hooked on associating him with the dawn, and with the hope that comes with the sunrise; normally in Tolkien the Sun is associated with Men and I think it’s a really interesting thing that Finno also has some of that same imagery and energy tied into him, particularly surrounding his death. But beyond that? This is a song about being worried about your legacy, struggling to balance hope and duty and mental health, worrying always that you’re not doing enough and resolving to cling to the dawn and keep looking forward. I can’t think of a better summation of my favorite elvish prince.

Devour the Day - Oath: (One way or another, I’m coming home to you) This song’s title alone would have earned it a spot on the list, but the fact that it’s called ‘Oath’ but is about endurance beyond all else in the name of returning to a loved one’s side? Yeah, that’s Blessed Hands in a nutshell, especially this first part.

Fireflight - You Gave Me A Promise: (I will hold onto this hope that I have, you gave me a promise, you gave me a promise) This is the part of Finno’s journey north that isn’t him being miserable all the time - he’s doing this for love and for the sake of his marriage and the commitments they made to one another, and the hope he has is the hope that he can do right by the nér who promised to share his life.

Linkin Park - The Catalyst: (We’re a broken people living on a loaded gun) The other half of Finno’s journey north is him worrying and fixating on the possibility that he’s left behind his people to freeze to death, even having an encounter with some sort of ghost that feeds off of that fear. What’s more, this song just has an auditory aesthetic of loneliness and cold solitary journeying through desperate situations, and of uncertainty towards the future; that fits well here.

Bastille - Icarus: (Look out to the future, but it tells you nothing, so take another breath) Mountain climbing song! No, really - the way this balances an urgent, frightened beat and fast-paced instrumentation with lyrics about not knowing what’s coming? There’s nothing better for the moments when Findekáno is terrified out of his wits and afraid he’s going to have to shoot Maitimo, only to be saved by an eagle.

Atreyu - Lose It: (This is it, I’m falling - my wings need to grow, I lose my hold, I will let go) This is a song about being afraid of falling, and doing something terrible and frightening. It’s a perfect accompaniment to amputation, and the sick horror of being forced to make a decision that might end in death for all involved.

Sara Bareilles - Gravity: (I never wanted anything so much than to drown in your love) Honestly I like this song less for the lyrics than the overall aesthetic. It’s a peaceful, gentle, regretful tune with so much emotion in it, and its themes of wondering what to do and wondering whether or not to continue on a set path with someone else are fitting. I tend to apply the idea of wanting to leave someone here to mean Finno wrestling with his royal duty - once Sorontar saves him and Maitimo from the cliff, they have the chance to go elsewhere, be other people, leave the Noldor and the Oath and the war behind them. And he chooses not to do this, for both of them, because while he wants to run he knows he shouldn’t.

Skylar Grey - Coming Home - Part II: (I know my kingdom awaits, and they’ve forgiven my mistakes) A soft, sad, mournful reflection on a less than ideal return home, that’s somehow warm and uplifting at the same time. It encapsulates Finno’s feelings on his resumption of duty and social role perfectly.

Meg Myers - Running Up That Hill: (If I only could, I’d make a deal with God, and I’d get Him to swap our places) And now we come to the heart of Blessed Hands, the song that encapsulates the whole of part I in a single tune. I chose this cover by Meg Myers because I like the instrumentation’s aesthetic more than Kate Bush’s original when it comes to this subject, but any version, really, would work. This is a song about wishing things could be different, about trying to make them different, about wishing after changes and alterations. One other line that speaks to me is ‘Is there so much hate for the ones we love?’ which, in the context of this relationship and these families, cuts right to the heart of the whole matter. Blessed Hands Will Break Me is a story about loyalty, more than all else, and about choosing love over hate, and about trying to defy cruel fate and sometimes winning, and this song covers all of that and more.

#blessed hands #RUSSINGON #silmarillion #absynthe’s fanmixes #music #silmarillion fanmixes

[aliypop]

The Dance Of Fate

Wordcount: 1,925

A/N: So I’ve been really wanting to flesh out Adina more and so I thought a few short stories could help so anyways here’s another!

Warning: Language , violence hints of abuse 

"It's too early to get out of bed.." Adina said, her voice gravelly from being awoken by the lack of a certain Witcher next to her. "And don't you dare hum.." her vision still full of sleep. Geralt turned back to face her. After what had happened the other night with the blistering boiled scar, he was still unsure of his feelings for her. Geralt knew he liked her, but at the end of the day, she was still a princess, 

which meant she had to have had someone waiting for her in the kingdom that they were no longer faraway from, "I need to find you a mage.." he said, making an excuse to leave, looking back at the semi- sleeping woman, he noticed how at peace she was,

 "Where the hell are you going to find a mage in these woods at this time in the morning..."  She popped her head up, dark hairs peering out of her braid. "Tell me that, Geralt."  suddenly entering from the tent was Flora. Covered in what the pair both could see were love bites, "Not to intrude, but..." her eyes on Geralt then back at Adina, "What is it.." Geralt asked, keeping his focus on the elf. " A royal ball!" she said, wiggling in excitement. 

The two only stared at her, giving the signal that it wasn't a good time.  "Seems fate is calling you hmm," Geralt asked, a bit standoffish towards Adina. "Seems it is.." she covered herself back into the covers. 

The sun was hot with beating beams shining on the travelers. As both Buttercup and Roach trotted along the dirt paths, their riders were silent. Not a word uttered by  Adina, who usually had something witty to say. 

"I was thinking the one song about the striga," Jaskier mumbled, walking next to Flora. 

"Too raunchy.." Flora responded, "Mahaps the fish one? it'll keep everyone dancing." she laughed, 

"You like that one.."  he asked, a blush rising on his cheeks.

 "It's the wink you do.."

"What will you do when you return.."  Geralt looked over at Adina, 

"You think I want to go back to that hellish place.." she snapped her head at him. "You'll never understand how it is to have such a burden thrust upon you to overtly fuck you over!" Geralt looked at her in shock as he only laughed, "You wouldn't last a day being a witcher.."  he snarled, pulling the reins to get Roach to gallop faster.  Abbinshire was an enormous village with tall fixtures. Waterfall mountains and "A Tavern... I could go for a drink..."  Jaskier said, happily taking Flora by the hands walking her over.  

An a kiss from the princess!

To the champion to the Knight

Spare a maidenhead tonight!

Flora smirked, sitting down on the table as the crowd of drunken cheers grew louder. "Flora's ome!" Adelaide shouted, her red hair gleaming in the sun. "Tell us about yer ventures.." Swan, a pirate, said, her chin in her hand. "Well, I defeated a Striga using my lute.." Flora started, watching as Jaskier looked up to her with the most loving eyes. "And then I said to it.." 

"You hid in the bushes.." Adina smirked, her caped hood covering her face.  "Got your biscuit buttered by the bard." she walked closer towards the elf. " Then I sliced it in half and saved a witcher.." she took her hood down, revealing her face. "Your h-highness.." everyone dropped silent at her voice. It had been a while since the kingdom had last seen her. " Give us your best mead.. " she laughed, as she then plopped next to Flora. As much as Adina hated being back home, she did miss the ounce of power she had over people from time to time. 

" Do you have in mind what suitor you're going for ?"  the pirate asked, wiggling her eyebrows at the now monarch. 

"Not a Lryian nor a Cintran they bore me.." She winked at the woman, "I'd much prefer a Rivian or a Kaedwenian."  she looked at Geralt, who seemed to be flirting with another woman. One that looked like her friend Ravalee, Adina thought nothing of it as she then paid with coppers and walked out, taking Buttercup towards the kingdom's drawbridge.  Seeing the golden dragon tapestry hanging on the walls brought back many memories, some joyous others, mostly pain. The once ever so bleak halls shinned with decorations fit for an engagement made for a one-sided party. 

As she took further steps, she could feel the bloodshed of someone that she had ought to have remembered longer than before. "Are you okay?" Jaskier asked, standing beside her, taking in awe the detail of the castle. "Just haunted by the ghost of the people my father killed.." she said, feeling the scar on her back sting again,  

"Do whatever is you must to retrieve my-" Clarion looked at his daughter in disbelief of what Adina had been wearing. Geralt's shirt, with pants and the armor of a knight. "Thank you, bard, for returning my daughter to me," he mumbled. Jaskier only nodded as he then left. 

"So the songs are true.."  the king glared, taking a whiff of her scent. "You've been impersonating a knight .." 

"I am a knight I swore under the code when you neglected me!" she growled.  

"You reek of Witcher.." he balled his fist. The familiar boils around her scar reappeared, some making puss the others growing like a boiling potion. Adina was practically on her knees from her pain. "I thought I advised you never to socialize with their kind." 

Adina looked at him, hot tears staining her face,

 "Please stop.."   she whispered, her vision going black.

The sound of lutes and instruments flooded her ears as the voices of millions began drowning the cheery tune out. Although she didn't know how she got there, Adina noticed that she was sitting amongst her father, dressed in a gown of red.  

"From Cintra lord... Gazza!" Adina nearly scoffed, a look of boredom on her face. 

"Princess Adina, I bring forth to you the promise of a male heir," he smirked. Adina nearly choked on the wine. "I doubt it.. " she mumbled under her breath, " a cocky bastard with half the cock.. " she laughed, thinking about how Geralt would have loved her witty comment. 

"Presenting The  Knight Bram from Nilfgaard."

"Boring.." Adina commented, 

"Bring in the next suitor .. and have him executed." The king decreed. Although he was doing this in his favor, he could at least pretend that he was listening. 

 "You're going to go in there and impress.." 

"No.." Geralt sighed.

"I bathed you and dressed you."Flora whisper shouted from behind the door. Flora and Jaskier had set up Geralt with the best royal treatment they could muster up as two bards. "I feel stu-"

"Presenting Geralt of Rivia!."

Adina's heart swelled up as it began to beat faster than usual. She knew that the way they had ended things before she had gotten to the palace was a bit unjust, but there was nothing like seeing that white-haired brooding man in front of her. Adina stood impressed with the clothes that Flora had bought him. If she didn't know any better, she'd think he was a prince. " He's the one!" Adina said, walking towards him, the soft red fabric trailing towards the witcher, emerald jewels on her neck.

"Why not think this over with a dance of the other suitors.." The king whisper shouted, balling up his fist as a threat.

As the music of the ball played, Adina's eyes found amber ones looking directly at her. She was surprised that her father didn't pick up on the fact, but for now, she just wanted to be with Geralt, 

"Flora amazes me.. she's been strumming for 8 hours now," Adina said, standing next to Geralt.

"How are you.."

"Magic.. daughter of a wizard ." she pointed to her clone. "Walk with me.." she nearly commanded. Sitting in the stable under the moon and stars were Adina and Geralt, silence falling over the two, but this time more comfortable. With the company of Buttercup, 

"About the other day."

"What about it.." Geralt asked, 

"The kiss .. and the words.." 

"You are a big fucking pain in my arse .." he laughed, pulling her closer towards him. "But you once more are not a burden." he flashed a charming smile as he heard her heart skip a beat.  "And the kiss?" she looked him deep in the eyes.

 "What about it.." 

"Did you mean it.." Geralt had never witnessed a face so delicate and wanting as he did now. Seeing Adina in her full princess attire only made him want her more. Geralt gave her a nod, pressing his forehead against hers. 

"We need to go.." Flora ran into the stables, "Your father found out Geralt's a witcher, and well.. "

"There's a bounty on your pretty heads."  Jaskier finished her sentence. The two then saddled up as Adina wrapped her hair. Charging and slicing the bodies of guards they had made it off the moat,

 And closer towards an Inn. As usual, Geralt was in the tub, but this time he was accompanied by Adina.  "

Go ahead, ask about the scars..."  he sighed. Adina only laughed as she stepped into the bath.

 "Those are cute." she grinned, "Especially the kikimora scar." she rubbed her finger across it, noticing how Geralt never shivered under her touch.  

"Tell me about that one.." He pointed to a deep cut like scar on her leg that from her ankle to her knee. " Oxebeast.. ugly looking bastards." she laughed, "I surprisingly shouldn't have that leg, but miracles, am I right.." she turned to face Geralt. He was amazed that a woman of stature was so bold enough to fight an on oxebeast.  

"How'd you get so brave," he asked, sitting her between his legs. "Well.." her breath hitched, "I wasn't always so brave.. haven't been since my mother died...I  knew her for a short time.." she teared up, "And then she was gone... sometimes I wonder if she'll come back, and other times I wonder.." 

"Why did she leave me .." he mumbled, reflecting on his childhood for a bit. 

"You feel empty..and you wonder when you're next, so you stop giving five shites." she then looked at him, moving a strand of hair from his face. 

"You start to appreciate life when it doesn't give a damn about you.." he smirked, knowing that what she said was true. "Are you sure you aren't a product of Kaer Morhen," he kissed her cheek.  The way she was so vulnerable at the moment reminded him of how he used to be before the world around him came crumbling down as he laced his fingers in her hair. He couldn't help but feel that she was apart of his path to destiny. 

"No, but I'm a product of my honor. " Adina smirked, ghosting her lips over his own. She felt him lean closer as she then moved away. 

Laying her head in Geralt's lap, Adina saw the destiny she always wanted, staring right back at her. 

"You look like a greasy pig." she laughed, playing with the sweat-soaked hair stuck to his forehead. 

"Shut up.." he rolled his eyes, lacing their fingers together.  Adina then wrapped her arms around his muscled torso as she then scrunched her face in pain, a vision occurring.

"She's alive.." 

#the witcher oc #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher fandom #geralt x oc #geralt fanfic #jaskier x oc #royalty #new series

[this-is-my-toenail-collection]

Zadr week phase 2: dumbass in distress

And a short story I wrote for it :)

It had been 1 week since the truce.

One week since Dib had foolishly thought to give the smelly alien a chance. For one week Dib had put the fate of humanity into the hands of an outsider, and in one week Zim had proven himself trustworthy.

There was no denying that Zim had changed, or maybe its Dib who saw him differently. Knew him better. But for a while Zim had been the only one to listen, to sympathize. The earth was not Zim's motivation, rather, he and Zim shared a driving force.

As much as Dib hated to admit it, it was approval.

Dib still didn’t fully trust the space bug but he had been so yearning for companionship that the desire to fight dwindled on its own. Zim was just a kid…like him. Even though he deserved to be suspended in the glass tube that imprisoned him now, Dib could not help but feel as if the fear and embarassment on the Irkens face was his own.

However, none of this is the reason for the twisting of his gut. The heat rising in his face and the bile in his throat at the sheer disgusting nature of what he was witnessing.

His Father stood in front of the tube gesturing wildly and announcing things to the camera people who crowded his lab.

“Yes as you can see here I have discovered genuine alien life living amongst us.” He boomed to the press. “Until now extraterrestrial entities have been entirely theoretical, but with this discovery I have proved not just the existence but—”

Dib backs away quickly, tuning out his fathers words.

He almost vomits for the 4th time today, his mind reels at the injustice of it all. His father, the man who never believed him for a moment about Zim being an alien, standing in front of the entire world declaring his discovery.

It had happened so fast. Zim had stayed at his house every day since the truce. 'for research, Research I say!' he had proclaimed from on top of the dining room table. Dib had not snickered at the antics. Not even slightly. When Zim had asked to stay over the next day and the next Dib had started to suspect Zim's “base” was a bit more lonely than he let on. It wasn’t a big deal, his dad had never noticed any of the other paranormal happenings that were right under his nose, why would Zim be any different?

All it had taken was one night. Zim had snuck into the kitchen to raid the twice already raided snacks cabinet. Dib didn’t blame him, it must be boring not sleeping every night. Zim had traversed the house without Dibs knowledge, and without knowing about Professor Membranes non-existent sleep schedule.

Zim had not worn his disguise.

Now he was witnessing a nightmare. Dib had thought the worst thing that could happen was Zim's success at taking over the human race. Now he knew at least then no one could say he didn’t try. But now everything he had worked for was uprooted and dismissed. Overshadowed by the prestigious individual who called himself Dibs father.

Dib walks to the living room expecting to find Gaz not caring on the couch. To his surprise she’s not there. He considers going to his room to brood but he doesn’t think he can stand to be among his alien tracking gear right now. He resigns to brood in the living room and hope the press keeps the noise down.

He sits on the couch and assumes the brooding position. Knees tucked to his chest with his elbows resting on them. His fingers steeped in front of his face as he stares intently at the ground. It isnt a very comfortable position but that isnt the point.

He knows he should be happy. Zim is caught, the earth is safe and he’ll finally get to know how Erkins work. His pride has taken a massive hit but that isnt too out of the ordinary in his life, he honestly should have expected this is how things would work out. But he couldn’t shake the thought that it was supposed to be him. He should be the only one to cut Zim open and learn how he worked.

He had chased Zim all over the solar system. Hed matched the Erkin in cunning and technological prowess from day one. Now that Zim was finally defeated and it was time to reap the rewards Dib felt he was the only one who should be congratulated.

He earned this dammit!

As for Zim? He was growing to tolerate him but in the end he still wanted him dead. Zim was a horrible space cockroach who deserved to be cut up and studied for science. But Dib still felt that letting anyone other than Zims designated rival do it…in a way it stripped Zim of a dignified defeat. It was just wrong.

Dib found his mind wandering to Zim, suspended in that tube surrounded and critiqued like an art project. His face held such fear, there were wires and tubes coming out if his pack. His arms had cords pumping a strange liquid into his bloodstream.

Dib's knees started to ache from holding his very productive brooding position, he stretched them out to get the blood flowing back to his toes and found he was no longer brooding.

And his face was wet.

He took a quick survey of the room to find the source of the water. Then the realization hit him like a punch to the gut.

He was crying.

Why?! That was so unlike him! He had dealt with disappointment like this for years without shedding any tears. He wipes his eyes on his coat aggressively and prays Gaz doesn’t pick this moment to return her usual spot on the couch.

He hears footsteps approaching the living room because of course he does, but they aren’t Gaz. The news crew follow Professor membrane into the living room. Trailing so close they don’t notice the young membrane slip into the lab to avoid them.

Without the extra people the lab is eerie. The only light coming from the suspension tank that holds Zim. It casts a green sheen on to the ominous tools and inventions cluttering the lab.

Zim's eyes are closed, his posture is almost relaxed, perhaps he was sleeping? But Irkins don't sleep...

Without thinking Dib steps closer to the tube, placing his hand on the smooth cold glass. He holds it there for a moment watching zim, so still and peaceful, as if he’s already dead.

Zims eyes fly open.

Large compound red spheres suddenly upon him standing out in stark contrast from the green skin of the alien as well as the murky teal liquid hes suspended in.

Dib nearly jumps out of his very mysterious trench coat in his surprise, but he doesn’t look away.

He doesn’t know exactly what he expected Zims expression to be. Maybe one of fear or hatred…betrayal. None of these emotions show in the Erkins large eyes. There is only one message Zims gaze pierces Dib with. A challenge.

'You're going to let that dirt monkey do this?'

Dib stares entranced by that challenging gaze. It holds years of fighting and malice and begrudging mutual respect.

These eyes have haunted Dibs nightmares and thrilled his waking days. It occurs to him the biggest problem he has with Zims capture, perhaps even the reason for his crying.

The thought of never seeing those eyes again.

That horrible gaze turns questioning, wondering why Dibs just standing there. Dibs stomach drops into his shoes at the thought of waking up every day and not thinking about what Zim is doing, how Zim will challenge him, how he can stop Zim. He thinks of coming home every day and doing nothing, going to the taco place and not having to be prepare for casualties. He thinks of life without Zim in it. And its empty.

Dib doesn’t feel his feet move as he backs away from the tank. He doesn’t feel his hand rap around the heavy rubber drumstick sitting conveniently on one of the work tables. Hes watching Zims eyes, his face. It shifts from confusion to fear as Dib swings the drumstick at the cylinder.

He doesn’t hear it when it shatters.

His senses are dulled as he watches Zim collapse to the floor. People stir outside the lab. One second, two seconds go by and Zim doesn’t get up. Dib barely registers the footsteps coming toward the lab. Four seconds and Zim slowly rises to his feet. He tugs weakly at the cords in his arms, unable to break free. Dib just watches the small green creature struggle, unable to decide what to do.

“Oh its just my son, poor insane child—”

His fathers voice brings Dib crashing back to reality. He broke Zim out of the suspension tube. Hes standing in his dads office with a rubber drumstick in his hand and live cameras on him.

His dad starts walking to where Zim is still struggling with the cords. Dib pushes past him ignoring his insulting comments. He pulls the cords out of Zim a little too roughly and grabs him by the hand.

“when I say, we run” his voice doesn’t shake or crack. Uncertainty often plagues his decisions but not now. This isn’t a decision, there are no other choices. Zim is dazed but offers no argument.

“Now”

Dib rushes the reporters hoping bitterly that his stunt makes the news if only to embarrass his father. Zim drags behind on shaky legs but Dib doesn’t slow down. They had to get out of there. He nearly knocks Gaz over in the kitchen on his way out the door.

“Dib!” she growls. He doesn’t have time to explain so he shoots back

“imfinallytakingcontrolofmylifegottagocallyoulaterbyeeee!!”

He nearly takes the door off its hinges as he bursts into the evening air. He looks behind briefly to check on Zim.

Zim is deathly pale and has his free arm rapped tightly around his midsection, but his eyes are fire as he glares ahead determined to keep up with Dibs sprint.

Dib doesn’t know where they're running but he knows its not that god damn house.

His lungs burn but he doesn't stop. His heart is pounding and his mind is buzzing with adrenaline. They’ll go to Zims base, he decides.

Dib let Zim stay over, the least he can do is return the favor.

#Zadr week 2 #zadr #long post #invader zim #this is my first time posting original content please be nice #I'm just happy to be here #dumbasses in destress

[galaxysedginess]

Conversations in a Quiet Room

In a universe where everything is the same except Satine survives the Clone Wars and bears witness to the fall of the Republic.

Characters: Satine Kryze, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Bo-Katan Kryze, Anakin Skywalker | Darth Vader, Padmé Amidala

Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Satine Kryze, Bo-Katan Kryze & Satine Kryze

Tags: Satine Kryze Lives, Post-Order 66, Reunions, Return to Mandalore, Fall of the Republic, Heart-to-Heart, Obi-Wan Kenobi is a Mess, The Twins Are Safe

Rating: G

Read on AO3:

Chapter 1: Transfer of Power

Satine discusses her contingency plan with her sister in the fallout of the Republic and the Jedi.

You'd have to be dead to miss the fall of the Republic.

It was on every holonet site, every sign, every screen; even in a neutral system. As for Satine Kryze, it was written all over her face.

"Jedi uprising." She sneered in internal disbelief, though she was positive her own advisors knew where she stood on that supposed fact, which was cutting through every possible news channel. She found it positively ridiculous how there only seemed to be one narrative on the matter. No debate, no explanation, not even an investigation. The Jedi, who despite their more recent actions as soldiers (per the Republic's demand, might she add), were typically the very last vestiges of peace in the corrupt government. Now, they were bad. Simple as that.

Of course, in an Empire there is no other point of view- just the Emperor's.

She may have not always agreed with the Jedi, but at their core, she knew in her bones that they were fundamentally good. One did not become a successful leader without having fine-tuned instincts.

But she still had to watch their temple burn. The news outlets framed it as a success for the newly anointed Emperor Palpatine, who heroically ridded the galaxy of a treasonous and dangerous cult. It was not reported as the tragedy it was. They did not talk about the young children that lost their home and loved ones at best and their lives at worst. They did not show the Jedi walking along their friends into battle to only have the very same guns turned on them in half an instant. They did not display the cries or the fear or the bloodshed. Instead, they kept reverting back to what Satine could only assumed was doctored footage of Master Mace Windu attempting to assassinate Palpatine. The footage cut out from there, erasing the rest of the scene without a trace.

And whether out of deliberate ignorance or general enthusiasm, people ate it up. It was easier to believe that the strange religion that outsiders did not understand betrayed its people rather than the government. It was easier to see the Jedi as dangers than it was an old man that supposedly navigated them into peace.

The term "peace" was now being thrown around hither and yon, it seemed.

Some folded because they had to and surely developed contingency plans of their own. Bail Organa of Alderaan was certainly no fan of the matter by glance alone. There was Mon Mothma, who was by far the boldest of his adversaries, despite technically walking in line with the Emperor's new ideals. Padmé Amidala had been one of them, of course, but...

Satine shivered at the thought of her friend's unfortunate loss. She hadn't even known Padmé was pregnant. It was another thing she could not fixate on for too long if she wanted to remain on task.

Wanted posters flocked everywhere in search of remaining Jedi stragglers. Despite the pain that it caused her to look upon such young and abandoned faces, she checked every single day for updates.  It did not mean these Jedi were necessarily safe or alive, but it was the only form of hope Satine had to go on. Mandalore would surely be confiscated by the Empire. Palpatine's very goal seemed to be acquisition at its finest.

It was only a matter of time as it had been a mere 3 weeks since the destruction of the Jedi Temple. The Empire was to be the way. As a leader of an entire group of people, she had to determine what was best for them. Her whole platform had been built on pacifism and maintaining the peace, but this Empire would not be responding with such kindness.

She did not doubt the fighting capabilities of her people, either, of course. They were Mandalorians, but there was not enough of them to take on the drones of brain-washed soldiers that would arrive at the front door the moment someone set a toe out of line.

"Those that attempt to disrupt the peace and bring chaos to our galaxy will be silenced." Slavery. He was going to enslave those that did not fall firmly into his shriveled grasp.

She never liked that man. Ever.

She looked out her balcony and at the morning sky that washed the city in orange and pink hues. It was beautiful and peaking through the skyscrapers, but her anxiety kept her from appreciating its true decadence. She could not allow herself to slow down and take a moment. There was too much to prepare for and worst of all, there was too much potential loss that was creeping in the corner of her mind. She tightened her grip on the railing to steady herself to Mandalore and to her people. That, in and of itself, was enough of a budding tragedy that did not require thought of a Jedi with soft eyes and sharp wit.

The Empire was coming.

"Satine?" Her sister's voice called from behind her, interrupting her array of thoughts. "Korkie said you wanted to speak with me."

She released a breath before turning to face Bo-Katan, who looked nothing like her, but had aged substantially in the past couple of years- ever since she distanced herself from Death Watch. Dark circles underlined her eyes, indicating she'd been sleeping approximately as much as Satine had lately. Despite their philosophical differences, both wanted what was best for Mandalore and both knew for a fact that this Empire was not that. Bo-Katan had changed her mind significantly ever since they began to work together on improving Mandalore's future. Fighting off Maul and his band of cronies certainly acted as a much needed force for the two of them to get along.

Still, in the amber lighting of the hallway, Satine could not help but see her little sister. Not the one that woke up one day and decided Satine was weak and went and joined a terrorist group, but the one that would come into her room when she was small and troubled with nightmares. The one that would give Satine her olives because she didn't like them and accept Satine's cucumbers for the same reason. The one that wanted Satine to take her to school or to read to her or sing with her.

She knew, of course, that Bo was no longer that little girl and to think of her in such a way was hurtful to the both of them in the long run. They were on the same side again, which would have to do.

"I did. The Empire is coming for Mandalore."

Bo snorted, "We've known that."

"I reckon they'll be here any day now." She twisted her hands nervously at what she was about to ask of her sister. Her sister, who was no longer a child, but still much younger than anyone that should take on such responsibility. She'd decided that for herself, in a sense, when she wanted to uproot everything Satine had built. She'd apologized since then in her own way and while Satine had mostly forgiven her, there was one final piece to that puzzle of redemption. She hadn't seen it until she awoke this morning and realized what needed to happen for Mandalore.

"You're afraid." She commented, "We all are."

"I need you to take my crown away from me." Somehow, she managed to look Bo-Katan square in the eyes when she said it. Despite all the practice of decorum and the schmoozing of politics, she could not fool her sister. If she did not make immediate eye contact, it would not resonate as an official decree.

"Excuse me?"

Now that it was said, it became easier to explain, for some reason. The first words were often the hardest to say, because from there, the frame of conversation was dictated.

"I'm a threat to our people, Bo. I've been nothing but a thorn in the Emperor's side during the Clone Wars. Had it not been for me, we would have been another system he would already possess. On top of all of that, I have considerably strong associations with a wanted Jedi Master of the High Council. I'm sure they'll see that as a reason to call be treasonous."

"And I'm your sister."

"Who has never publicly supported me." She didn't mean for it to sound like a slight, but it certainly came out that way. She didn't miss the way her sister's eyes fell just a smidge, but she continued on. "Which while I never would have believed that to be a strength until now. Nobody of the public knows you are on my side."

"Because you didn't want to be associated with me."

"That's not-" She clenched her fist and took in a calming breath. "I didn't want the rest of our people to be under the assumption that I'm in the business of being in peace with terrorists. Even if I know, in my heart, that that is not you. Your narrative in this is as someone who Palpatine likely believes he can manipulate."

Because you've been manipulated in the past.

"But you aren't." Satine said with a hardened edge to her voice.

"I'm no leader either." She squawked, "Politics and... And diplomatic solutions... And boring legislature... That's your ballpark, not mine."

"You do not see what I see when I look at you." She took her sister's hands in her own. "When I look at you, I see someone strong, adaptable, smart, and caring. All of which, might I add, are exceptional qualities to have as a leader. Also, when you're not trying to be a brooding troglodyte, people like you quite a bit."

A fond smile quirked at her lips as she rolled her eyes. She did not release Satine's hands. "And you think all of your loyal advisors and precious followers will listen to me if I snatch that crown from off your head?"

"Since when do you need to be well-liked?"

She shrugged, "You've got me there. And remind me again why you can't just pawn it off to me in an announcement?"

"Because then the Empire will know we are at least on speaking terms."

Bo nodded and seemed to weigh the heaviness of the conversation just then. She didn't want to be Duchess of Mandalore, but truthfully, when Satine was 18 years old and forced into the role after her Father's murder, she hadn't wanted it very much either. But she had a duty to uphold.

She waited for more protest, hoping and praying she had the words of encouragement to persuade her sister as well as herself.

"I know this is hard for you." Bo said. "I don't deserve this."

"Then earn it." Satine said.

The redhead released a breathy laugh and looked nervous for the first time in her life. It was a valid title to be nervous over. Satine remembered the night before her commencement. Satine hadn't been the world's favorable candidate either at the time. There she was, a young girl who seemed like an outsider that spent most of her days on Coruscant rather than her home world of Kalevala. Many viewed Satine as someone that wanted to crush Mandalorian tradition in favor of 'fluff' that had filled her head. She was labeled an idealist and a fool, but she fought (in her own way) tooth and nail to get where she needed to be.

And the hurt the hurt that settled over Satine as she thought about leaving Mandalore was immeasurable. It cracked her heart in ways she did not know were possible. She'd given up everything for her people. Everything. Now, it seemed she had to give them up if she wanted them to survive. It was a cruel and unfair joke, but she'd analyzed it from every angle. The Empire was coming and she knew they would not see her as someone they could work with. She was unsure if she could play into their game.  

Better for Bo-Katan to play the part of the obedient Imperial leader and to do everything to protect the citizens of Mandalore than for some stranger to come in and enslave everyone.

"What will come of you?"

That was a very good question.

"I can advise you- off the books, of course, because so long as I live and breathe, you will never be alone in this."

"Do you think..." She trailed off like she wasn't sure if what weighed on her should be said.

While Satine was always a huge proponent of strategizing conversations, there was no room for tactics here. "What is it?"

"Do you think Kenobi made it?"

That was a question that Satine had not been prepared to ask herself. While she'd never been the type of woman to lose herself in anything, much less a man, she could not deny that a piece of herself would die alongside Obi-Wan Kenobi. She could not seem to fathom it and to question his resilience felt like betrayal, but it had been weeks since the fall of the temple and the hunt for remaining Jedi began. Obi-Wan's name had been popular on the list of the 'Unfound' as they were calling it, but this did not guarantee his safety. It was a big galaxy, but the Empire's reach was far.

"I've not heard anything." She said quietly.

Bo-Katan nodded, "Sometimes, no news is good news, yeah?"

"Yeah." Satine swallowed what felt like her whole heart.

Actual good news would be better though.

#star wars #myfics #the clone wars #obitine #satine kryze #bo-katan kryze #obi-wan kenobi #sw

[sunyoonandstars]

BTS One Shot || 𝓓𝓸𝓷’𝓽 𝓛𝓮𝓪𝓮 𝓜𝓮 𝓝𝓸𝔀 || You x Yoongi

↳ You’ve had enough. Of the silence. The distance. The unanswered texts. The calls he never makes. 

So you decide to give Yoongi one last chance to make it right. But things don’t go quite as planned ... 

〖 Requested 〗

Prompt 3 "Please, don't walk out of that door."

angst, fluff

Word Count 2.276

A/N: This is not what you think. Read till the end. Trust me on this. 

❝ Wow." You struggled to keep your voice steady. "Wow, Min Yoongi. I'm – Wow. You really outdid yourself this time."

A frozen smile stretching your lips, you started clapping your hands together, not feeling anything. Your limbs were numb, as was your face.So, this is what they call an out-of-body experience, you couldn't help but think to yourself as you watched Yoongi staring back at you, his soft features twisted into an ugly, bitter scowl.

"You can be so mean."

Your voice was barely more than a breathless whisper.

You hated how small it sounded in the silence of the studio.

"I know," was all Yoongi said, his face bare of any expression. ❞

𝓓𝓸𝓷’𝓽 𝓛𝓮𝓪𝓮 𝓜𝓮 𝓝𝓸𝔀

Text you when I can.

Those were the last words Yoongi had sent you. Six whole days ago. Ever since then: Radio silence. No calls. No texts. No sign of life. Just a tweet on BTS' official Twitter account, spoiling a new track he was apparently working on two nights ago.

Granted. The song sounded like it was going to be yet another masterpiece, born from the mind of the incredibly talented composer he was, and you loved it instantly. The tune was catchy, touching, melancholic, rich with emotion, Yoongi's burning passion for his work seeping out of every beat. And you could guess it was coming from a dark place, that he had fallen into one of those bottomless and lonely pits of self-doubt and hopeless despair yet again. That Yoongi's mind was spinning in circles, working around the clock to convince him that he was not enough, unworthy of the fame and affection he so much deserved. And you wanted nothing more than to be with him in this time of hardship, to show him that he was not alone, that you could see his pain, that it was valid and that you would leave nothing untried to alleviate it and show him the beautiful, lovable man you saw every single time you looked at him. You also knew, however, that he wouldn't let you. You had tried often enough. In the state Yoongi was in, he would only reject your affection and try to push you away even further to prove to you and himself that he was not the one for you in the first place. That you deserved ‘better’.

And you tried to be understanding, having been there before. After all, you yourself were no stranger to the Great Sadness and the conflicts of the heart it often entailed. And, from time to time, it still paid you a visit. But you fought it with all you had. Every. Single. Time. Because you refused to let it take away from you once more what you held dearest.

Yoongi, on the other hand, didn't seem to put up much of a fight recently. And you knew all too well that you couldn't make him. Nobody could. It was a decision he had to make by himself. Whether or not he would give in to his self-destructive tendencies and allow them to suffocate your love. And even though it pained you to admit this truth, you could feel yourself tiring out from fighting for the both of you. He didn't even talk to you, the one person he was supposed to be closest to. The one person he swore to always be honest with. Instead, Yoongi shut you out entirely.

And tonight, you were going to give him one last chance. One shot at fixing the damage he had done.

So you stood there, knocking on the door to his studio that he reportedly had not left in over twenty hours.

"Yoongi, please open up. It's me, y/n. Your girlfriend. Today is our two year anniversary, in case you forgot."

Silence. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.

You involuntarily held your breath.

Finally, the lock clicked open.

"Of course, I didn't forget," Yoongi grumbled in opening the door for you. His hair was tousled, his eyes puffy, his shirt crinkled. He didn't even spare you a single glance when you slipped past him into the studio.

"How could I?" He went on, kicking aside a few empty cans of beer and Red Bull. "I set a stupid reminder on my phone. Woke me up at eight in the fucking morning. Never gonna do that again."

His careless words hurt you more than you should have allowed them to.

"Well, I'm glad to hear that this day is as meaningful to you as it is to me."

"What's with the tone?" he blinked at you, blinded by the harsh white lighting.

"Yoongi, what the hell is going on with you? When's the last time you took a shower? Or ate something?"

"I had a bag of Bugles just the other night."

"Something real. A healthy meal."

"What does that even mean? Healthy? Do you think those stupid diets you're always on are healthy? Or binge-drinking with your so-called work friends? That guy? What's his name? The one you always smoke with? Do you think that's healthy? We both know you’re no saint. You might be better at pretending, but you’re not above those self-destructive patterns you condemn. And that you're really the last person to lecture me."

You stood there, paralyzed, mouth open, gasping for air, merely staring at Yoongi, your cheeks burning, eyes watery.

"Wow." You struggled to keep your voice steady. "Wow, Min Yoongi. I'm – Wow. You really outdid yourself this time."

A frozen smile on your lips, you started clapping your hands together, not feeling anything. Your limbs were numb, as was your face.

So, this is what they call an out-of-body experience, you couldn't help but think to yourself as you watched Yoongi staring back at you, his soft features twisted into an ugly, bitter scowl.

"You can be so mean."

Your voice was barely more than a breathless whisper.

You hated how small it sounded in the silence of the studio.

"I know," was all Yoongi said, his face bare of any expression.

"You know, I was going to give you one last chance to make this right." At this point, tears were streaming down your face, melting your paralysis, allowing the pain to leak in through the cracks they left. It hit you in smothering waves. "And it's not like I expected you to come crawling back to me on your knees, begging for forgiveness or anything. But I thought – I really thought there was some part left of you that still loved me. Enough to be the bigger man. Guess I was wrong."

You turned around without leaving Yoongi time to respond. Because you knew that, right now, in your state, you wouldn’t be able to take his sarcastic retorts and half-hearted excuses. Not again. Not this time. 

"Crawling back to you? Why should I? Why would I have to?" he asks. And you freeze with your hand already on the door handle. "Back to you? Did we split up? Did I miss something?"

"Think about it, and you'll know."

"Well, I'm too tired to think. So enlighten me, please."

Your lips pressed together to keep your teeth from shattering, you turned back around even though you had sworn to yourself you wouldn't. Despite everything, Min Yoongi was still your greatest weakness.

"I really can't take this anymore. Just tell me to leave and I will."

"Leave?" He seemed confused.

"Yeah. For good. Just tell me to go now, and I swear I won't come back. I won't bother you anymore. I'll leave, and you can finally brood in peace. Isn't that what you want?"

For a few seconds, Yoongi only looked at you, lips parted slightly, moving but not making a sound. But you were tired of waiting.

With one last shake of your head, you turned to go, prepared to leave for real this time.

But three words, spoken in a low voice, held you back.

"I love you." He paused. "Y/n. Please, don't walk out of that door. Unless you really want to. Because I don't. I don't want you to leave. I mean it when I say I can't lose you."

Words. Nothing but empty words.

Or so you tried to make yourself believe as you pushed down the door handle, the cold metal slipping from your trembling hand.

"Please, y/n. Don't leave me now."

You swallowed hard, choking on your tears.

Your choice was made.

When suddenly, a song started playing.

You had heard this tune before. Two nights ago. On Twitter. And when Yoongi now began rapping softly, his voice so tender and soothing, you could feel it enclose your heart like molten amber. Warm. Soothing. Taking all your pain away, and with it your doubts.

"Whenever I get lost

You are the one who finds me

My brilliant searchlight

Solid as a rock

Your love

That taught me how to trust."

Listening to the melody, wonderfully bittersweet, felt like drowning in molasses.

"I know I hurt you once before

And I will cut your heart again

I hate myself for hurting you

But I love you more than that

So I will keep fighting

Fighting my nature

To be your searchlight

Whenever you get lost

Your bastion of calm

When the storms get too loud."

When you turned around, Yoongi was just standing there in the middle of his studio, softly swaying his body to the cadence of the song. Barefooted, surrounded by squashed soda cans and crumpled-up post-its, hands dangling by his sides, his chin resting on his chest, head hanging low, a curtain of unkempt hair hiding his face from your view. But you could still see his chapped lips, soundlessly mouthing the words coming from the high-end speakers.

"I promise I'll be there for you

In the end, I will be there

Because my soul

Will never stop loving yours

Until the day I die."

For another minute or two, you listened to the song and let it sink in, unable to raise your voice even when it was long over. Until Yoongi's eyes found yours, his gaze searching yours expectantly.

"Wow. Pretty corny, if you're asking me," you snickered eventually, watching Yoongi's lips curve into a smile, your vision blurred by tears.

"Yeah, I know. Not really my style. But Bang PD seemed to like it." He fell silent for a few seconds, his expression suddenly serious again. "It will be on our new album, you know. And I asked his permission to dedicate it to a special person."

"You – What!?" you gasped, your heart racing.

"Y/n, this song will officially be dedicated to no other than you. First name and last. Because I know now." Slowly, Yoongi made his way towards you, until your bodies were mere inches apart. "That I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

"Yoongi – I –"

He silenced you, gently pressing his index finger to your quivering lips.

"Now it's my turn to talk."

Eyes closed, Yoongi rested his forehead against yours before continuing.

"Y/n, I know I'm messed up. We both are. And I guess things will never be easy. We're not perfect, and neither is our relationship. But nothing is, really. And I don't even want perfect, anyway. I want you. Us. I know, I can be a pain in the ass sometimes, but so can you, babe. I admit, what I said earlier, and the way I acted these past few days, leaving you hanging like that – I was being an absolute asshole. And I sincerely apologize. But I only did that because I was scared. Of doing this."

Before you could entirely grasp what was going on, Yoongi was already down on one knee, holding up a silver ring, pristine in its immaculate simplicity.

"Will you, Y/l/n Y/n, marry this idiot and help him become the man he knows he can only be for you?"

Panting for breath, your hand shot up to cover your mouth, agape with astonishment.

You had expected a bitter breakup, maybe even a heartfelt apology. But not this. Never this. And yet, it seemed to be the only most sensible thing. To your heart, it felt right. So you didn't hesitate another second before holding out your finger, allowing Yoongi to put on the ring.

"Yes. Yes! Yes! Yes!" You boisterously laughed through tears, still in disbelief.

"Yes," you mumbled once more against Yoongi's lips, now pressed onto yours for a deep kiss as he swept you up off the ground and into his embrace. "Yes. Yes. Yes. Always, yes."

"Glad you think so," Yoongi whispered, winded. "Because they're already printing the lyrics for the new album. And that dedication would have made me look like a fool if you had broken up with me today."

"Lucky you, then," you giggled, adrenaline still rushing through your veins. "But, now that this happened, how about we get you into a shower? And a little toothpaste wouldn't hurt, either."

"Ouch."

"Well, we're basically a married couple now, so we might as well act like on."

"Touché."

As he gently set you down, a broad grin spread across Yoongi's face. You could imagine all too well what he was thinking.

"What's with that smile?" you asked nonetheless, equally scared of and excited for what his response would be.

"Care to join me? For a shower? I hear that's how married couples do it."

"Oh, you wish."

"Don't think you have much of a choice, actually.”

With those words, he effortlessly picked you up and swung you across his shoulder.

"Get ready to get wet, Mrs. Min," he called out as he carried you out of his studio and down the hallway towards the bathroom.

"Ewww, Hyung, seriously," you could hear Jungkook groan from the common space.

"Not what you think, Kook!" you shouted back.

"What makes you say that?" Yoongi cooed. You could basically hear his smug smirk.

"Wait, Mrs. Min!?" Jimin and Jungkook echoed in unison.

They were in such a hurry to race down the hallway and after the pair of you, they almost stumbled over their own feet.

"Does that mean –?"

"– she said yes?!?" Jimin completed Jungkook's sentence.

Smiling, you exchanged a quick look with Yoongi, his brown orbs flooded with utter glee.

"You bet I did."

Whoever requested this, I had so much fun writing it and hope you enjoyed the read. And that it wasn’t too cringe-worthy. Lol. 

XO, Ana 💙

None of the GIFs are mine. Credit goes to the initial creators. Thank you for your hard work and dedication. 

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[thecomposerthatwaspromised]

‘This will be the final word in the story of Skywalker . . .”

So declares the disembodied voice of Emperor Palpatine in the latest teaser for “The Rise of Skywalker.” The last film in the decades-spanning space opera promises the return of the iconic Sith lord, who’s been pulling strings in this faraway galaxy since our story began. But there is another puppet-master behind the scenes, steering every dramatic incident, orchestrating every twist: composer John Williams.

It’s said that the Devil gets the best tunes, but Williams has long proved that that maxim applies to Sith lords, too. Within Star Wars’ ever-expanding library of leitmotifs — recurring, malleable musical symbols — much of the most insinuating material belongs to the villains, from Darth Maul to Jabba the Hutt to Supreme Leader Snoke. Listening to these nefarious themes with the ear of a music scholar offers a lesson in the real power of the dark side, showing us how music can repel, deceive and, with the right compositional tricks, even charm.

The standard by which all villain themes are now judged is surely the “Imperial March,” Darth Vader’s theme. “It should be majestic — he’s a majestic fellow,” Williams remarked in 1980, “and it should be a little bit nasty, because he is our heavy.” Vader’s leitmotif is, as music theorist Mark Richards has shown, a deviously sophisticated tune, full of rhythmic quirks and harmonic corruptions. But no one in Star Wars is beyond redemption. Vader’s death in “Return of the Jedi” occasions one of the most stunning musical transformations of the saga. Williams strips away the march’s militaristic trappings, leaving behind a sputtering shadow of the theme, orchestrated with such extraordinary delicacy that part of it seems to evaporate with each new phrase. With a final, hollowed-out rendition on a solo harp, the old dark lord expires, and the once-unstoppable “Imperial March” achieves a small measure of peace.

Standing in Vader’s musical shadow is his grandson, Kylo Ren. Among the various motifs assigned to this dark side scion, the most conspicuous is a motto that is, as critic Alex Ross puts it, “dominated by a stagey tritone” — the most demonic of musical intervals. There is a distinct quality of overcompensation to Ren’s roar of a theme, a studied attempt to project the menace of his grandfather. Yet behind the bravado is insecurity. His theme is a disguise. Even when Williams hints at a more authoritative transformation at the end of “The Last Jedi,” the motif is stunted, unable to reach structurally satisfying thematic closure. Like his music, Kylo Ren is unbalanced and unfinished, still just a boy in a mask.

Of all Star Wars’ Dark Siders, though, Emperor Palpatine has the most intriguing musical representation. Williams’s material for the evidently unkillable Palpatine is aimed at making the character simultaneously repulsive and alluring. Palpatine’s primary leitmotif, introduced in “Return of the Jedi,” is constructed around commonplace minor triads that progress chromatically, in a kind of violation of natural musical law. As music theorist James Buhler writes, “The music gives the impression that only a very powerful sorcerer, perhaps only a god, could animate these chords thus.”

The brooding, wordless male chorus that intones Palpatine’s theme reinforces the sense of eldritch unease that the character exudes. Unlike the “Imperial March,” the Sith lord’s music is not overtly threatening, but mysterious and beguiling, like a dark siren’s call. The leitmotif draws from an old association in film and classical music that wordless choruses stand in as the voice of the divine — a technique especially favored by Williams’s old-Hollywood mentor, Alfred Newman, as in the vision scene in “The Song of Bernadette.” The emperor effectively takes one of the angelic choirs featured in epics like “The Robe” and “Ben-Hur” and gives it a satanic makeover.

Williams’s compositions also capture Palpatine’s insidious influence on other characters. Some discerning analysts have discerned the emperor’s melodic fingerprints in the themes for Kylo Ren and his light-side counterpart, Rey. It seems entirely possible that this latent musical relationship is a clue to Palpatine’s as-yet-unexplained role in the events of the new films.

Even more ingenious is the concealed transformation of his theme into a peppy children’s chorus in “The Phantom Menace.” This is a deliciously cynical little musical Easter egg: While the good guys think they’ve won the day, everything, including the soundtrack, is actually proceeding according to the villain’s design.

George Lucas wanted Palpatine’s rise to echo the ascents of real-life tyrants. “Democracies aren’t overthrown,” he claimed in a 2005 interview, “they’re given away.” Williams’s prequel scores reiterate that narrative with on-the-nose musical allusions. For example, when, as chancellor, Palpatine is granted emergency powers, the soundtrack channels the stately style Williams uses to characterize American politicians in a positive light: John Quincy Adams, Abraham Lincoln, John Kennedy and Barack Obama, among others. Heard against Palpatine’s power-grab, such noble strains are perversely incongruent. But they illustrate the dangerous appeal of authoritarianism when presented through a filter of (here musically constructed) nostalgia and patriotism.

An even more forceful connection to American history is made when Palpatine declares himself emperor in “Revenge of the Sith.” For this pivotal scene, Williams reworks a portentous brass chorale from his score for Oliver Stone’s “Nixon.” The passage occurs during a re-creation of Nixon’s fiery speech at the 1968 Republican National Convention. The sequence exaggerates Nixon’s fascistic tendencies and, through Williams’s hyperbolic score, works hard to whip the viewer into a fevered, receptive emotional state. As scholars of music and propaganda have shown again and again, music is as powerful as spoken rhetoric when it comes to opening people up to political messaging. Such turbulent tunes invite us to root for the disgraced president — or space dictator.

The clearest demonstration of the seductive power of Williams’s music comes during the “Tragedy of Darth Plagueis” narration in “Revenge of the Sith,” which finds Palpatine attempting to plant dark desires in Anakin’s heart during an opera house performance of “Squid Lake” (really). At no point in the scene, recently singled out by “Rise of Skywalker” director J.J. Abrams as the best sequence in the entire prequel trilogy, does the emperor’s leitmotif play, but his musical machinations are all over the score. The first half of his narration is accompanied by the deepest male choir yet heard in the saga, chanting a single low B on naked vowel sounds, in the style of Tibetan Gyuto monks. The choir ceases being underscore and becomes diegetic — that is, part of the movie’s fictional space, hearable by its characters. The emperor’s malignant music has seeped out of the soundtrack and into the world of the film.

When Palpatine finally makes his pitch to Anakin, his music does something most uncharacteristic for a Sith: It gets ecclesiastical. For a brief 15-second span, the violas and cellos state a hushed, reverential hymn in pure, unadulterated C-sharp minor. The Sith lord’s secret takes up only five measures. But these measures are profoundly salient, evocative of an antiquated style that has not been heard before in Star Wars. If anything, the hymn is a spiritual cousin to Williams’s Holy Grail theme from “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.” In the orchestral score, the performance instruction is “liturgico” — like a prayer. The ultimate appeal to evil in this series, it would seem, hinges on a feeling of religiosity. A promise of occult knowledge, presented with just the right musical halo, is all it takes. A few scenes (and a temple full of assassinated Jedi) later, Anakin has succumbed to the dark side.

Film music is inherently and unapologetically manipulative, and for decades Williams has proved himself Hollywood’s master musical manipulator. While the black-and-white morality of Star Wars is on its face as simple as can be, the way Williams contributes to this moral universe is far from simplistic. With his music for villains like Vader, Kylo Ren and the emperor, Williams invites us to lower our guards. For the Jedi, the seductive power of evil is a constant threat. And for those of us watching their adventures, likewise, it’s something we can easily hum along to.

#Star Wars #John Williams #Palpatine #Anakin Skywalker #Darth Vader #Ben Solo #Kylo Ren #commentary #analysis