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ofstarsandvibranium · 7 months

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Unexpectedly Yours: Part 5

Fandom: Ted Lasso (Regency AU)

Pairing: Roy Kent x F!Reader

Summary: Lord Roy Kent still has yet to marry. He hates the notion that marriage is a way to ensure your status in society. You have delayed your debut to society for years because of the same idea. So what happens when two people who hate the idea of marriage are constantly drawn to each other?

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

You didn't want to speak to anyone the next morning after the dinner. You didn't want to see anyone. You were annoyed and slightly embarrassed with how you behaved last night.

You decided you'd stay in your room for the entire day. Cece had tried to get you to come out and play with her but you expressed that you weren't feeling well. Did you feel bad for lying to your cousin? Yes, but you really just needed to wallow in your room by yourself.

________________

"Lady Clara is here to see you, Miss." Jane announces as she peeks her head into your room.

You sigh, "Did you tell her that I'm feeling unwell?"

"Yes and she's very insistent that she sees you."

You groan as you sit up in your bed, "You may send her up, I guess."

Minutes go by and the door opens. Clara walks in, "Good day, Y/N."

You give a stiff nod, "Clara."

She clears her throat, "I came by to apologize. I never meant to make you feel uncomfortable last night. It was never my intention. My brother has always told me how stubborn I can be. I just-I love him so much. He deserves to be happy. However, I understand that while you and my brother are amicable that doesn't mean you are to be with each other. I apologize greatly for practically forcing you to be together. I am ashamed to say that I'm no better than the rest of society," her head hands low in shame.

"I accept your apology, Clara. Thank you. I admire your love and concern for your brother. He's...a good man. He does deserve love in his life. I'm-I'm just not sure that's me."

Clara nods in understanding, "Yes, well, I'll leave you to rest. I hope you feel better soon," she gives a bow and sees herself out.

As soon as the door closes, you groan and fall back against your pillows.

______________

Roy watches as Cece and Phoebe run around the garden. He's glad that his niece found a friend after moving here. Things haven't been easy for the young girl, and Roy's always done his best to make sure she lives a loving and happy life.

He hears his sister before he sees her. She's walking down the path that leads to where he's sitting, a bench underneath a tree on the property.

"Where did you go off to?" he asks, eyes still on the young girls playing.

"I went to apologize to Y/N," Roy grunts and Clara continues, "I won't meddle anymore. I'm sorry that I've made things uncomfortable for you both."

He nods to his sister, "Thank you. She-She already feels so much pressure on her from her mother, society, she doesn't need more."

"I know, but, Roy...please be honest with me, do you care for her?"

Roy's jaw clenches and he looks away from Clara. He sighs, "I do, but, again, it's complicated. She's so...aggravating, smart mouthed, opinionated. But she's also sweet, she cares deeply for her friends and family. I can't help but be drawn to her."

Clara softly smiles at her brother, she places a hand on his shoulder, "I know I said I won't meddle, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't try to win her affections. I do think there may be something promising between you two and I don't mean in a business transaction way."

"Clara?"

"Hm?"

"Did you love Andrew?" Clara sits and thinks about her husband, who's passed, "I wouldn't say love, but I cared for him as a friend. He was definitely the best out of the other men that have asked to court me. He was kind, understanding. He's also the reason I have Phoebe. I may not have loved him in a romantic way, but I do hold him dear."

"Do you think you could've fallen in love with him over time?"

She shrugs, "Maybe."

Clara and Roy both look on to Cece and Phoebe who are rolling in the grass. Their laughter echoing throughout the property.

_____________________________

In the late afternoon, you eventually grew tired of your self-isolation. So you called upon Keeley and Jamie to join you for tea.

In the sitting room, the three of you are lounging, sipping from your cups.

"I feel like I haven't seen you in forever," Keeley states as she takes a bite from a biscuit.

"It's been a few days, Keels," Jamie says with a snort.

She waves him off, "Too long. Tell me, what have you been up to?"

You sigh, setting your cup down, "My family and I had dinner with the Kents last night."

"Oh! I heard about that!" you look at her with a cocked brow, "Your mother told mine. Honestly, I'm a little upset you didn't tell me!"

"How was it? Was Lord Grumps his usual grumpy self?" Jamie asks with a smirk.

"We hardly interacted. He seemed quite miserable actually. Then his niece asked when Roy and I would get married." Keeley and Jamie give you a questioning look and you respond, "Because we played princess and dragons with them. They were the dragons, I was the princess, and Roy was the knight who saved me. The princess and the knight always get married in the stories they've read. Anyway, I told her that what we did was make believe and she got upset. She ran upstairs. Roy followed. Clara and my father made a comment that Roy and I should be together and I-I just got so annoyed and upset. I left the dinner."

"Y/N, why are you so against you and Lord Kent being together?" Jamie asks, genuinely.

"I-He-We're just so different. He's so uptight and grumpy all the time! He's probably only smiled five times in his life! Besides, Jamie, isn't he always rude to you?"

"He's rude to everyone, ain't he?" Jamie responds with a shrug.

You point to him, "That's another thing. He's rude!"

Keeley's interjects, "I think that's just him trying to protect himself from anyone getting too close and potentially hurting him." You and Jamie look at her confused, "What? It makes sense! I heard he was previously engaged to this woman name Georgina Afton. They were super in love, at least it seemed that way. Then Georgina caught the eye of a duke and she broke off the engagement. People say Roy was completely heartbroken."

"So...he's just scared of getting hurt?" you ask in clarification.

"Probably."

"Yeah, I suppose that makes sense," Jamie says, "Wow, love. You never seize to amaze me," he says looking at Keeley like she hung up all the stars in the sky.

"Aw, thanks, love!" she leans in and pecks his lips.

The sight makes you smile. You always hoped to find a love like theirs. It was rocky at first, but Keeley and Jamie...they just make sense to you. They fit each other well and you dream of finding someone who fits you.

Is that someone Roy Kent? You're still not sure.

He frustrates you and makes you doubt yourself sometimes, but he also challenges you. He's caring and adores his family. He's quick witted and snarky, but also funny.

Hmmm...you really had to think about this.

Besides, there were other men that could potentially catch your eye. Maybe...maybe you should start taking finding a suitor more seriously...

#roy kent x reader #roy kent imagine #regency au #ted lasso au #roy kent au

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idyllic-affections · 1 year

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employee benefits.

summary. baizhu remains constantly attuned to his chronically ill employee and their needs. it is no surprise that he knows when they are unwell.

trigger & content warnings. chronic illness flare-up.

tropes, pairings, fic length, & other notes. fluff. baizhu & reader, qiqi & reader. 0.5k words. they/them pronouns for reader. this post is an expansion of invisible disability? it's rather visible to me.

author's thoughts. in celebration of me getting baizhu within 30 pulls and me getting to soak up all of his lore like a dry sponge would to water, heres some more baizhu content!! we love him in this household <33 he and kaveh are literally the REALEST genshin characters ever with the most relatable trauma and ideals like what the fuck man..... /lh

baizhu knows that some days, his junior herbalist just can't work; it's far too much for their body. he's had many such days himself. it's unavoidable and unpredictable—some days, his body doesn't function well even if he was completely fine the day before. the same applies to his young hire. as such, he is often the one able to see the signs as soon as the day begins.

"good morning, dr. baizhu, qiqi, changsheng," they greet, a tired smile on their face. their smile widens a little bit when qiqi tugs their sleeve to draw their attention before handing them a pastry.

"[name] needs to eat."

"hehe... yes, you're absolutely right, qiqi. thank you."

she hums, content, as they pat her head. she remains glued to their leg.

the way their chest rises and falls is blatantly irregular, as if they're trying to catch their breath. there's a slight tremble in their limbs as well. baizhu briefly wonders if qiqi is supporting their weight, if she's somehow, subconsciously aware that something is off about them this morning in particular.

"oh my," baizhu muses, observing their tired disposition. "did you not rest well?"

"what he's trying to say is that you look awful."

"jeez, it's this early and you're already bullying me, changsheng? gui isn't even here yet. it's too early... what did i do to deserve this?" they huff. "to be honest, i woke up feeling unwell. i don't know why. i just feel very weak today."

"hmm..." he's thinking. if they are unwell, he absolutely will not permit them to work, given that they may faint or collapse at any point. he simply doesn't want to see them hurt themselves. "well, there's still quite some time until we officially open. come. i'll examine you."

"do i get an employee discount?" they joked, to which he smiled.

"i won't be charging you."

"wha— no. i was joking. i was kidding. you can't not charge me. that's hardly fair, given that i can afford it. i know we're supposed to make things as easy and affordable for patients as possible, but i don't need those accomodations. i work here. i already have easy access to everything i need."

"don't be stubborn, [name]."

"i am stubborn, dr. baizhu. you can't be hypocritical and expect me to allow that."

silence. then, the liyuean doctor chuckles fondly. the way he gazes at them is soft.

what a handful they are.

"fine, fine. i'll take the cost from next month's pay, alright? just let me look at you. we can't have you collapsing on us today, now can we?"

a month later, they find something... oddly normal about their pay. not a single mora has been deducted.

"dr. baizhu, i love and respect you and would never doubt the things you say, but... you said you would take my examination cost from my next paycheck. this is the same amount of mora i get every month."

"oh, did i say that? hm, i can't seem to recall that conversation."

"...with all due respect, you're insufferable sometimes."

please consider reblogging, it helps me out quite a lot!

#aphelion brainrots 🌸#: [ the junior herbalist! 🌸 ]#favoniuslibrary #astronetwrk #platonic genshin impact x reader #platonic baizhu x reader #baizhu x reader #genshin impact x reader #platonic genshin x reader #platonic genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin imagines

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pinkkittysaw · 8 months

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I AM AFRAID NOT OF LEAVING, BUT BEING FORGOTTEN

*the title is part of a quote from the book Little Devil in America: Notes in Praise of Black Performance by Hanif Abdurraqib

pairing: clive rosfield x f!reader

summary: unable to deal with your bouts of insecurity, you try to call it quits on your relationship with clive

word count: 3.5k

content: hurt/comfort, established relationship, self flagellation (talks of insecurity and self doubt/deprecation), unhealthy coping mechanisms, allusions to anxiety, extremely self indulgent

(18+) this piece is sfw but am uncomfortable with minors interacting with my work

a/n: dealing with a lot of anxiety and thoughts of worthlessness/hopelessness so i created this in hopes of alleviating some of those feelings 👍

also if you’re interested, i listened to Need 2 by Pinegrove while writing this. figured it’d help set the mood while reading

divider by @/saradika

"You're still sleeping in the bunks? Clive returned yesterday, you know." Jill teases as she sits on the edge of the bed you've chosen to occupy for the past few nights. It wasn't unusual for you to reside in the bunks whenever Clive was away on an assignment; the big bed that occupies his chambers being too spacious to bear during nights spent alone.

What was unusual, however, was that you continued to spend your evenings there after he had already returned. Having once been so eager to jump into his sturdy arms after catching wind of his arrival back at the hideaway. You were often caught running down to the pier once the ferryboat came into view, excitedly waiting for him at the dock while waving your arms like a madwoman. When Jill heard from Clive that the two of you hadn't spoken since before he left, she immediately knew something was amiss.

"I'm aware," you grumble into the pillow that you're currently holding over your face.

"Did something happen between you two?" She probes, a frown forming on her features as she scoots closer to you. "Did he hurt you? Because I swear to Founder if he-"

"No, no, no, it's nothing like that," you interrupt, removing the pillow. "He's lovely. I just..." Hesitation creeps into your voice as your words trail off. To be honest, you're not quite sure how to describe what you're experiencing at the moment. "I'm feeling...unwell." Though it's not a physical illness that ails you, you hope that your response is satisfactory enough for her to leave the conversation be.

"Have you come down with something? I can help you to the infirmary if you need."

"It's nothing that serious. I'll be alright." You give her a half-hearted smile in an attempt to reassure her. She eventually yields, though still not convinced of your words.

With a shake of her head and a heavy sigh, she rises to stand. "He'll come looking for you sooner or later." Padding across the room from your bunk to the entrance, she looks back at you before making her exit. "You can't avoid him forever."

You scoff when she's just out of earshot. Like hell you can't, you think to yourself. Wearing your self-isolation on your sleeve like a badge of honor. Whenever you wanted to disappear from people's lives, you did, regardless of how much it hurt. This time was no different.

The truth of the matter is that you were avoiding Clive; the reasons for doing so were nobody's fault but your own.

In your eyes, you were so much weaker than he, often thinking you were undeserving of a man of his caliber. He harnesses the strength to take on entire eikons, whereas you peril in comparison, so after ruminating on your feelings of worthlessness one night, you decided to call it quits, figuring that it was for the best and choosing to avoid him so you didn't have to confront your own inadequacy. Perhaps it wasn't the healthiest choice, but it was the one you decided to go with.

The next few days are spent taking on as many assignments as you can, with the hope of eluding Clive. The majority of his time was spent away from the hideout, but you could never be too careful.

Rushing over to check the alliant reports at first light and carrying on well throughout the day. From dawn til dusk, you worked yourself to the bone only to collapse in your bunk at the end of the day, dead to the world, rising early from your slumber to repeat it all again the next day.

Apparently, Clive caught on to your little scheme because, after one late afternoon, someone stood waiting for you at the pier upon your return to the hideaway.

After thanking Obolus, you make your way over to the fellow bearer to inquire about what's going on. "Clive's looking to speak with you in his chambers; he said it was urgent," she states.

"It can't wait?"

"He seemed rather insistent; best not keep him waiting."

"Of course, thank you for letting me know." You smile at her before making your way over to his chambers, grumbling to yourself. You climb the steps to his room with a pout on your face, not looking forward to the conversation awaiting you on the other side of the door.

After taking a moment to collect yourself, you extend your arm to gently knock on the door. "Come in." His voice calls out from inside the room.

You push apart the two slabs of wood separating his chambers from the main deck and step inside. He's sitting at his desk to your left, quill in hand, stripped down to just his tunic and trousers, his leathers and armor removed, while his sword rests against the wall. Fuck, you think to yourself. He must be set on staying a while. There's no escaping him this time.

You make quick work to occupy yourself with the objects scattered around the room as you move to stand in front of his desk. You're surprised to see a pile of your forgotten clothing neatly folded on the couch that sits against the opposing wall, as well as the various knickknacks you've added to his desk during your time together. Albeit an overreaction, you half expected your things to be tossed into the lake's abyss with how you were acting.

"Ah," he says as he looks up from his writing, setting down the quill. "There you are. I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of having your clothes washed, should you want them back."

"But if not, I could always make space for them here."

Your eyes meet his as the statement leaves his mouth. It's an invitation, an olive branch extended to you in hopes of making peace. The implication of his words, the domesticity of it all, leaving bits and pieces of each other in one another's lives, even after all that you've done to push him out of yours, leaves a bitter aftertaste in your mouth, making you realize just how truly undeserving of his love you really are.

A mumbled "Thank you" is all you can offer him in response.

"It's no problem." He stands up from his seat; both his hands lay flat on the desk below as he peers down at you. "I've heard you've been making yourself quite scarce lately."

"Your undertaking of assignments has increased significantly. It's almost as if...you've been avoiding me." He states it like a question, trying to gauge your reaction and see if you'll give him something he can latch on to.

"That's not true," you scoff. It is true, and you both damn well know it, but you keep up the facade anyway.

He exhales the breath he was holding, easing up on the interrogation. "I admit, I've been spending more time away from the hideout, but you can't seriously expect me to believe that your behavior lately is normal."

"I haven't seen as much as a glimpse of you since before I left."

Frustration grows in your belly; you're tired of running, tired of hiding, and tired of pretending. "I can't do this anymore, Clive."

"Can't do what?"

"This. Us."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm just not good enough for you... or anyone."

"I shouldn't even be here. I'm not strong enough to fight alongside the cursebreakers," you gesture into the open air. "I lack the wit to come up with strategies to help take down the Mothercrystals, and I've got as much charm as a bloody morbol."

"I've read the missives from the past few days, all of which praise you for your tact, your kindness, dedication, and care. Just because you're not on the frontlines doesn't mean you're not making an impact."

"What good is any of it?" You raise your voice. "What good is helping with crops, fetching supplies, and slaying meager monsters if it's the next day that our people are led to slaughter?"

"The imperials tighten their grip across the realm with each passing moon, and what I do in the grand scheme of things is the equivalent of sitting on my arse twiddling my thumbs. I'm about as useful as a corpse."

"ENOUGH." His voice boomed and bellowed, loud enough that people down on the main deck probably turned their heads at the sound. "Sit," he commands, pointing to the couch across the room, and you dare not disobey.

Embarrassed that you've stirred up such a fuss, you sit yourself down on the piece of furniture and hang your head low, preparing for a scolding. Not that it wouldn't be deserved; Clive has enough to worry about with the Mothercrystals and bearers, now having to also quell the insecurities that linger in your heart.

Just suck it up and do better is what you've always been told, but try and try and try as you might, you can never seem to get there. You're never enough. Can your strengths even be called strengths if there's so many out there who can do everything you do but better?

You don't bother raising your head to him as he paces back and forth, not wanting him to see another weakness of yours in the form of your tears. He gives a heavy sigh as he collects his thoughts, pinching his nosebridge while searching for the right words. "I apologize for raising my voice, but I simply cannot bear how critical you are of yourself, especially when I know for a fact that your fears are unfounded."

He marches up to where you sit on the couch, caressing your cheek and nudging your face in his direction. You can't bring yourself to meet his icy blues, knowing your heart would burst at the seams under his gaze or the kind smile that he reserves just for you. You don't deserve it, not with the way you've acted, so instead you turn your head in the opposite direction, refusing to indulge in his affections. His grip is a tad more firm as he attempts to move your face once more. You don't have the strength to resist his pull, so you let him maneuver your jaw to face him.

Tears begin to flow down your cheeks, and your lower lip wobbles as you attempt to hold in your sobs. His eyes widen as he sees the state that you're in, and with a gentle finger, he lifts your chin up.

"Will you look at me, please?" His voice isn't as strong as it once was moments before. There's a small break in his tone, almost as if he's pleading with you. Feeling exhausted now, you lift your eyes to meet his. They're not filled with anger or disappointment, but with concern, and more tears pool in your waterline as you scan his face.

"Oh, sweetheart," he whispers, bringing his thumbs to wipe away the tears spilling from your eyes before sitting down beside you. He surveys your sullen expression before pulling you into a hug. His warmth surrounds you in his embrace, and a part of you hates how secure it makes you feel.

Always relying on others to get by, you'd be dead without him, and you know it. You're a hopeless, bumbling mess trying to find your way through a dark maze.

You cry more into his shoulder, soaking through his tunic with your tears, despite your best efforts to remain unfeeling and stoic. It's all too much all at once, and his comfort only agitates the ache deep within your heart.

"Let it all out; I'm right here."

"You're safe," he murmurs in your ear, stroking a comforting hand up and down your back.

"I don't deserve you, Clive."

"You don't deserve to see me like this," you manage to choke out between sobs. The force of your crying is so violent against him that you start hiccupping and gasping for air.

He doesn't respond to your claims, not yet anyway, knowing that doing so would only rile you up more—choosing to hold you instead, rocking you slightly from side to side. He waits for you to calm down before addressing you, and you don't attempt to speak again, your shortness of breath not allowing for any more words to be uttered. You allow yourself to rest in his arms like you've done many times before, and after a short while, your wails are reduced to nothing but sniffles.

Once you've become a bit more settled, he pulls away from the embrace only to fetch a hankerchief, giving you a few minutes to collect yourself. He sits back down with you, his free hand grasping yours firmly, grounding you. The weight of his fingers interlocked with yours serves as a reminder that he's here; he's with you.

"I apologize for the outburst," you say, wiping your face down with the cloth before shifting your attention to him once more.

"No need for apologies, my love. I'd much rather you cry in my arms than continue to bottle this feeling inside you and let it fester."

You look away from him, turning toward the gaps in the wall of his chambers where the sunlight peaks through. You stare out at the lake below, watching as the black water laps at the walls of the hideaway.

Your voice takes on a somber tone when you speak next. "You deserve someone better than me, Clive, someone stronger." The air surrounding you two is still but its weight is all too heavy.

"Don't be ridiculous," he chides, his body turning to face you as he throws an arm over the backrest of the couch.

"If only I was." You let your words drift off into the ether before speaking again. "You deserve someone who can bear the weight of her own burdens, who's strong enough to not fall apart at every small inconvenience, someone who doesn't need to run into the comfort of your arms like a petulant child. I'm not worth everything you do for me—the kindness, the generosity, the love—none of it."

He scoots closer to you, bringing a hand to grasp at your hip, his thumb stroking it back and forth. "Is that not my right as your lover? To see you at your weakest and most vulnerable and still love you anyway?"

"I'm nothing, Clive. It's been that way since the day I was born. I'm not worth trying to save, just deadweight that needs to be tossed overboard."

"You think I'm a sinking ship, then? that I can't ‘handle’ you?" He gestures in the air.

"I can barely handle myself. Let's just end this before it's too late."

"Don't I have a say in the matter? You're making all these decisions about us without so much as a forethought for how I feel."

"It's better this way."

"Better for who? The self-destructive thoughts in your head? Because it's certainly not better for me and I'd go as far to say that it's not what you really want either. So pray tell, what's the real issue here?Where is all this stemming from?"

You shoot a glare his way—a defensive one, but still a glare nonetheless.

He reaches out to cup your face, his thumb stroking your cheek. It feels like no matter what you do, it's always wrong. Here you were acting like a brat to the man you loved, and here he was, being patient with you like a saint.

You relent, letting him have a peek into the inner world that you've kept a secret all this time. "There's a horrible weight in my chest carried with me wherever I go, wrapped up tight in my gut like a ball of twine, and no matter what I do, it comes back. I can't shake it. I can't shake anything. I'm still here, a mess of fear and nerves."

"I'm angry, vengeful, and mean, but at the same time, I'm scared of everything, timid and fragile as a mouse. If weakness were a person, it'd be me. Sometimes it's a miracle that i'm even able to do the things I do. I rely on you too much, and it scares me."

"You're anything but weak, my love. In fact, I think being vulnerable and open like this takes immense strength." He continues to caress your face.

"I'm not strong enough to fight alongside you. I'm useless when it comes to taking down the Mothercrystals."

He chuckles. "If physical strength was all I cared about, I would have taken a brute as my lover."

"Clive…" You roll your eyes in a playful manner, appreciating his attempt at lifting your mood.

The sun is setting now, and his chambers are tinted with a pale orange-yellow hue. The light reflects off the water, and you gaze upon the lake below while his gaze lingers on you.

"Come," he states, extending a hand as he stands up from the couch. You take his hand in yours as he leads you over to the gap in the wall, both admiring the sunset together. It's a beautiful evening; the clouds are painted pink and orange as the sun dips below the horizon.

"I'm serious, you know," he nudges your shoulder. The beginnings of a smile paint your features—a smile that he takes as a small win.

"Clive, I-" He presses a finger to your lips, silencing you. "Just listen, please," you nod, and he turns, facing the scenic view again, the sunlight bouncing off the yellow tones of his skin. "Do you remember traveling to the Apodetry all those years back? When I couldn't grapple with the fact that I was Ifrit and very well may have killed my own brother?"

You don't say anything, but you nod, and then he continues. "I'm not sure if I ever would have come to terms with it if you weren't by my side." He lets out a small sigh. "You say that you can't handle your own burdens, that I deserve someone stronger, but the truth is, without you, I might never have been able to bear my own. I'm not sure if I'd be the man I am today if I didn't have you, so don't you dare imply that I'd somehow be better off without you."

"You're right when you said I don't need you. It is not a matter of need or deserving, my love, but a matter of want. I want you. I desire you so wholeheartedly."

"I know that I alone am not enough to quell these thoughtsof yours, especially after the life you've lived-" he turns to face you again, his thumb grazing the leftover scar on your cheek from the removal of your brand, "-but please believe me when I say that you do matter, and not just to me, but to everyone here, to every person you've helped, to every soul you've graced with your kindness. Would you say those who work in the backgarden are unworthy of being here, simply because they don't wield a blade and march in the frontlines?"

"No," you pout.

He smiles. "Then I implore you to extend that same kindness to yourself." He steps closer, moving to nuzzle your nose with his. "Though you're not taking down Mothercrystals, you're showing people that there's still hope—that kindness can still exist in a world where harsh cruelties befall those who never deserve it."

"A twinkling light is left with everyone you help, no matter how minuscule it seems."

"We chose this undertaking so that dominants and bearers alike could live the lives they choose. If a life of peace is what you want, then it's one that you shall have. You shouldn't be fighting each and every day just so you can make it to the next."

Both of your foreheads press together as he continues to speak. "You don't need to throw yourself to the wolves. You're done with having to earn through suffering. You're done having to prove your worth. You don't have to earn your right to exist and be happy, not with me or anyone else here."

He presses his lips against yours. "I love you," he whispers in between the kiss. "Your vulnerabilities, your fears... They are not shortcomings, my love. They are what make you who you are, and though I wish I could make your pain a bit more tolerable, I wouldn't change a single thing about you, ever."

He presses more kisses on your lips, sweet, loving, and gentle. "You are my strength, my everything. I love you so much."

Bathed in the dying light of the sun, you hold each other tender with a slow brushing of lips against each other, and though such demons of the mind aren't so easily bested, you're given a moment's solace in the warm embrace of your lover, knowing that no matter what ails you, you'll face it together.

"I love you too, Clive."

#clive rosfield x reader #final fantasy x reader #final fantasy xvi x reader #final fantasy 16 x reader #x reader #hurt/comfort #angst #clive rosfield angst #final fantasy angst #final fantasy xvi angst #final fantasy 16 angst #✰ミ angel writes

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throwaway-yandere · 6 months

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I want to be honest (no this has nothing to do with fics lmao youll get it as scheduled)

This post is an explanation as to why I consider myself as "retired". I know I've said it's because of studies, but that'll be 1/3 of the truth. I want to talk about the true three real reasons why, and I'll do my best to be straight to the point. This isn't a cry for help (I swear to the heavens it is NOT). This is just to clear out assumptions.

Here's the other two reasons:

Grief & Mental Health

Writing itself & interactions

Grief & Mental Health:

I'll pour my heart out, so I'm sorry if it's long. As I said, I'll be straight to the point, so: my grandfather around the first week of June. I remember how I received the news so vividly. I was listening to Two Birds while washing the dishes at 12 AM. My mom went down the stairs with my father, crying as they tell me the news that he's gone. We drove half an hour to the hospital where I get to pat his head one last time. I remember mindlessly wandering the hospital halls— I remember mindlessly using the free alcohol attached to a wall. I remember breaking down as I realized I just cleansed away the hand that last had contact with him. I remember every detail, from the ride home where I messaged my good college friend to tell her that she needs to be a good nurse because the public healthcare system in the country is awful. I remember silently hating everyone and everything. I remember thinking about how cruel it was that life took away the one relative who genuinely cared about me and I was sure was related to me by blood. I remember thinking how much I'm distant to everyone else on my mother's side except him. I remember feeling so empty. I remember not sleeping for two days straight.

But let's back track for a bit. Before his death, I did have one final conversation with him. He was sedated and tubed miserably. Deep down, I knew his time was coming. So, I just made jokes about how grandma was growing senile and mistook me for a nurse for ten whole minutes. Then, I thanked him for everything he's done, and told him I'll become an engineer. Just like him.

And now here I am, dorming 3 hours away from home. I dormed because I had nearly decided my life meant nothing after lack of sleep through daily commutes and workloads. But I am lonely and unwell. I don't know what I want in life. I don't know what I actually want to be, but I already shifted courses as a chemical engineering student. I was so stressed to the point I've accidentally cried to my chem professor in a phone call. I don't know what I'm doing with my scholarship and education if it's for no one. And I am scared that I'm draining my parents' already limited resource for nothing. That I'm wasting the scholarship my country had given me nothing. That I am wasting my people's taxes for nothing.

It was only when another friend told me that I seem to live my life based on other's decisions and opinions did I notice just why I'm incredibly miserable.

I know I don't have dreams for myself. And even if I did, how the hell will writing and drawing feed me in the future when the industry in this 3rd world country is absolute garbage?

I guess Asians really do the things they hate so they can get what they love. Okay, I'll stop making jokes.

I miss my long-time friends, Phitre and Frost. I also miss my old blockmates when I was a BSEd-Math student. I am too used to eating alone, studying alone, walking alone. I am too used to being an outsider. But I'm not used to silence. I'm not too used to hearing actual silence.

All I have is Discord and Messenger.

And even then, it's quiet.

Writing itself & Interactions

I love writing and drawing. I just hate posting it at this point, which is why I made another account that's purely interaction-based.

I love writing a lot— my happiness is turning shtposts into something terrifying. I don't like writing romances, I like the thrill instead. I like laughing like I'm Hubert from FE:TH after thinking of an evil plot twist.

But I hate posting it. Because I know, no matter how much effort I put it, it's not enough. No matter how long it is— no matter if you learned basic coding for it— drew art— made interactive google forms— it's just not enough. I literally made two long separate fics with different endings depending on your choices and it just performs less on something I didn't actually put anything on.

Lord.

Lord I hate Creative Differences for that. I finally understood why bands hate their hit songs because of that lol.

Don't comment something like "oh, you content creators are just whining—" I am whining. Why? Because we don't treat artists and writers like they're human enough. Like we're just uploading content and that we don't want to hear what the others have to say. I remember there was one ask telling me how they're gonna miss traumatizing their friend— and I'm just sitting there wondering "why didn't YOU tell me their reactions? Why are you making me feel like I'm talking to a brick wall for 2k words and more?" It's not their fault. I am not mad at this anon. They've done nothing wrong, but lord do I hate feeling like this.

I could follow "part 2???" requests, finish all my drafts for the events. But I know. I know the chances of the person who requested them won't actually answer after all the effort.

[insert Berkut's "all that effort, what is it all for?!" voice line from FE:Echoes here to lighten the mood]

But that aside.

It's just silence. Just notes, when I feel like comments are what matters more. I'm used to being alone, but I really hate silence. I hate it so much. That's why I'm always so grateful to the people who do interact often, and don't say that's not true because I can prove it. You can see me make content just for them, dedicate fics, art, everything. I love them, I love the "noise".

I know we all have lives, I know we're all busy, I know. I respect your time, I respect you.

And I think it's just time I respect myself as well.

So that's why I'm retired. No pressure on events (idol and letters), no pressure on anything. I'm actually taking my time in End Of Year Blues. It's nice.

Edit: I forgot to mention

My father hates that I write. He constantly tells me to stop it, to prioritize my academics, when writing is my only way of coping.

So.

Haha, what the hell do I even do anymore, right?

#tw: suicidal thoughts #tw: grieving #astrilde-talks #tw: mental health

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getvalentined · 3 months

Text

With thanks to the friend who tipped me off to the direct response he posted on Instagram:

HEY PIX!

STOP LURKING MY FUCKING ACCOUNT.

I'm glad you're happy now! I'm glad you're allegedly getting better! I'm not sure how you're getting better, since you're still lying though your teeth and minimizing everything. It isn't a surprise but is a huge disappointment.

In case you couldn't figure it out, your "explanation" reads like this:

"I was mentally unwell, life was so hard for me when I was doing all this, I'm sorry if I hurt anyone (except Nashi, who I literally sent a Christmas card saying I was going to slap in the face but never threatened with physical violence I prommy), but I don't actually care about anyone else's ability to feel safe and I'm never going to admit that I was abusive so I'm never going to leave you the fuck alone actually and if you don't like that then you can leave because I am still the only person who deserves compassion and safety and affection in the entire goddamn universe."

I wish you'd learn to apologize. I wish you knew how to be honest.

Have you convinced yourself that you weren't really abusive, because we were long distance? Is that it? Have you decided that everything you did to me doesn't count because you weren't in the same room as me when you did it?

Or are you fully aware of what you did, and really just don't care? I feel like this option is more likely. I was never a person to you, I was never human or real or valuable, but you literally said I was making you abusive, and now you won't even use that word.

Screenshots of his post, I'll add alt text eventually but I'm too worn out right now:

"I'm deeply sorry if you knew me during that time. I'm much better. That does not excuse the things that are being said of me that are untrue."

This isn't a fucking apology, this is you once again telling everyone that it's my fault that I was hurt. Just like you told me it was my fault that you hurt me.

You are not fucking better.

#personal #the [redacted] files #abuse tw #gaslighting tw

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heavensentofficial · 4 months

Note

Hello Lettie,

I've seen you a couple of times at the Hospital. I have heard that you have taken on the role as Temple Leader in Jordan's absence. I hope you aren't overworking yourself on your duties. If you ever feel unwell, please feel free to stop by the Hospital.

On a slightly less professional note, I have visited the Temple Gardens and they are quite lovely. I wonder if I can try to grow some of the plants from there, and if you have any tips on how to take care of them.

Sincerely, @hanshospitality

Hans, right? Hello! c:

Yes, I am quite a frequent patient of Doctor Harper's... We still haven't gotten to the bottom of what is actually wrong with me, but I'm there enough for your name to ring a bell! Um... If I'm to be completely honest, I have been overwhelmed, even with the efforts to limit physical exertion. Jordan's duties paired with my own is quite a lot. However, I generally already know how to deal with my flareups I think and I keep medical supplies in my room - so unless something is severe or out of the ordinary, I probably won't need to burden the good doctor. I hear you are quite understaffed there, after all...

Although I can't help but wonder... Is this you asking, or did he request you do so? ... I suppose it doesn't matter! In any case, I'm thankful for the concern. I'll try to be sure I take care of myself. It would be problematic if I got especially ill at the same time as Jordan, after all.

As for the gardens, hearing you say that made me smile c: I haven't been able to be as hands on as I'd like with the efforts to get them in order (Though I rarely am, really.) I've been trying a combination of rewarding people for helping and telling them about the plants, their symbolism in scripture and what we use them for, in an effort to get everyone to feel more, ah... Attached to the garden I guess? If they better understand the work and care more about it, maybe they'll be more inclined to uh... Do it! I sure hope so. I'd be happy to talk more about some of the plants we have here under the cut! We did have to order these online, though. I don't think most of them are available here very easily. I'll throw in some extra information about how I use them too, just for fun. Even if you happen know a lot of it, maybe other people will find it helpful or entertaining?

Firstly, Lavender ^^

Our main concern currently has been trying to get the lavender we already have under control - it gets so wild and woody when it's left to its own devices, but it's really best to trim lavender in late summer. We just uprooted some of the problematic ones (I could probably give you some to propagate if you would like?) and made sure to cover it in a protective fleece from the frost. I think they sell plastic ones? But I can make fleece winter-covers easily.

Lavender really likes sunny spots and fast draining spoil. When you first plant it, it'll be thirsty and want to be watered plenty - but once it's established you really don't want to unless it's been drought-y (Unless it's in a container I suppose?)

They make a great companion for cabbages and tomatoes. They like similar conditions and repel bugs that would want to eat your food without anything having to be harmed c: At the same time, bees and butterflies love it! You can even put the seeds into a bird feeder. ^^

Oftentimes, we use lavender in purification and healing ceremonies. (It's useful enough to keep on my person most of the time when I'm working! Sprigs of it, lavender-oil, anything really.)

Also it's delicious in tea and soothing for your muscles when you put it in a bath - and inhaling the resulting steam often alleviates my headaches. Applying lavender oil or salve to bandages helps wounds close faster, too! ^^ Accidents happen ahaha...

Uhh... Then there's roses, we have quite a few of those. When I first saw mentions of someone called Briar, I must admit, I thought Jordan was upset about tearing their robes on all the briar bushes. They were so wild before...

This time of year is a fantastic time to plant bare-root roses! As for roses you already have though, they'll be just starting to come out of dormancy right around now, so it's a good time to prune them, so they're nice and prepared for the coming year ^^ When you cut roses, try to make sure you're cutting just a little above a bud at an angle, to encourage new growth.

Roses like similar spots to lavender, but they'll want to be watered more often. Moist, but not wet. Try not to water the leaves, naturally... Roses will also appreciate being fertilised regularly.

Roses don't like much competition and it's important to make sure they have plenty of space to get some air, but with that in mind, alliums, geraniums and marigolds will protect your roses from pests. At the temple, we've been using garlic and onions. (Any opportunity to grow more of our own food is welcome. Some level of self sufficiency is sort of part of the whole... Monastic Lifestyle thing...)

If you want roses that will attract pollinators, go for a single or semi-double bloom so that bees can have easy access. This year, we planted Lady of the Lake roses, which are a pale pink/off white sort of colour with a citrusy scent to them (I'm excited to try eating them ^^) Maybe if we grow enough of these, the lady I sometimes see at the lake will give me a sword? (Kidding~)

In scripture, red roses are symbolic of blood and sacrifice and white of purity. (I'm curious about those two-tone red and white roses... I always have liked them a lot. Maybe I can try growing them, one day, even if only in a pot in my room...) Roses in general also have connotations with the afterlife. I also know Jordan has a rose-based concoction they sometimes use for purification ^^

As for myself, I sometimes use rose water for my skin - and similar to lavender, to make wounds heal faster - and also as a wound wash. (Very helpful to have on hand, especially if an initiate gets hurt while doing their duties! Never good.) I also try to stay stocked up on rosehips. The tea's useful to have while recovering from illnesses and for certain kinds of pain. c:

I think Cyclamen are a pretty common sight in churchyards, but I think that's for good reason

For starters, it's always nice to have flowers that are actually in bloom in the winter! I think these might be the main one you've seen as of late, aside from the rosehips? I also planted some around the general area of the cemetery recently, though that was before I was left in charge. I can't say for sure how much the dead care about having flowers near their bodies, but I don't know that they don't... Maybe I could plant some near the lake, too... Around this time of year, when they're in full bloom, watering them correctly is important, since the roots are so susceptible to rot. You sort of want to wait until the leaves look like they're beginning to droop and the earth feels dry. If it's very rainy, I like to give them some shelter.

Cyclamen like partial shade. We have them mostly near the outskirts of the garden, where the canopy from the forest will sort of protect them from the elements. They're happiest in well-draining, rich, acidic soil, so giving the soil a little snack is sure to be appreciated. c:

They pair well with most woodland plants, really! Snowdrops, primroses and ferns come to mind. Ours are hanging out with primroses. (Lonely plants are kind of sad...)

Like I mentioned with the cemetery thing, cyclamen are super commonly used as memorial flowers! We use them a lot as altar decorations for funerals and certain holy days. They're also used in certain types of incense! (Not all of it. Just some!) They look like they have little bowing heads, so I think they bring kind of a sense of piety to mind for some people? I think they are adorable.

I think there's a way to prepare them that helps with sinus issues, but I don't really bother to. In the past, people ate them to ease menstrual pains and some other stuff, but even if they work, they do also cause a spot of convulsing, vomiting and dying, so... Whether it's worth it, you be the judge! You're the medical practitioner. I just like reading and experimenting. ^^;

It was roughly around this point when I remembered that I'm meant to be responding to somebody's message (and that most of this was completely unasked for ahaha... Oh well...) I think I got a little overexcited at the chance to talk about a thing I'm interested in, my apologies.

Thank you again for reaching out to me ^^ Even if I don't feel great for a bit, I'm likely to be fine ultimately.

#((“Thank you for your concern but I'm Not in the mood to deal with Doctor Hamster at the moment. I'll come in if I think I'm dying.”))#((“Btw are you asking on your own or does he just want to get me at the hospital so he can be a headfucking creep?”))#((Also! I loved this ask plants are one of my main special interests so getting to make Lettie infodump abt #her temple garden planning stuff was very fun <3 ))#((As was getting to research all the biblical connotations of the plants))#((Lettie in Charge arc))#RP Blog

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moonyluvv · 2 years

Text

TXT AS A ROCK BAND

Beomgyu

drummer

Let's be real;

Beomgyu fits every single position in a rock band;

I actually really wanted to put him in guitarist or bassist;

But he's the only one (as far as I know) in TXT that plays drums;

Him banging his long hair while he's playing...

I am SCREAMING;

Drumsticks in hand, tongue poking out in his cheek, that little smirk he's always giving, hair sticking in his forehead;

I am unwell;

He would do tricks with the drumsticks all the time, my guess is he would break them a lot;

Or loose them;

Would always be drumming on tables, plates, or any surfice he could find.

Hueningkai

guitarist

I thought about putting him as a keyboardist, but I couldn't;

First because I didn't find any keyboardist photos that fit the rock aesthetic, but secondly;

Because of this photo;

I mean, can I really put him in another position after this photo came out?

My boy has the most innocent face, but he can really pull off rock if he's in the mood and I stand by that;

I can just see him banging his head while playing, what a vision;

And the guitar looking so small in his hands because god damnit he's fucking HUGE;

I firmly believe rockstar Hyuka would live for teasing the crowd;

Biting his lips when the solo gets more intense, staring at the fans while he's moving his fingers like crazy;

I'll stop here.

Soobin

guitarist

Him and Huening, backs against each other, doing a guitar solo together;

That's it, that's the post;

But really, imagine them resting their heads on each other, Soobin doing an orgasm face only because he knows everybody will scream their lungs out;

Would totally flirt with whoever is closer to the stage;

Winks and heart-stopping smiles;

I don't know why, but I think Soobin would write a song for every single person he hooked up backstage after a concert;

Let's just say TXT songs would all be 18+.

Taehyun

bassist

I have the biggest crush on bassists and Taehyun would SMASH that role, idc;

Bass is such a classy instrument, in my opinion, but it still has a little bit of an edge to it;

Which is why I think it's perfect for Tae;

I will die saying this man has class, but he's in TXT so we have to admit he's not that full of class;

Would be really good with his fingers, if you know what I mean;

I think he would be more composed on stage;

Like more into his own little world, feeling the music;

Mysterious and quiet Taehyun = sexy as hell Taehyun;

And he would most likely never use a shirt with sleeves, only to show off those arm muscles flexing while he plays.

Yeonjun

vocalist

Let's just be honest, they would all sing;

But the main vocalist is "the face" of the band, and I think Yeonjun has the looks and personality necessary to pull off that role;

Taking the mic with him while he's walking on stage, stopping in front of Soobin, Huening or Taehyun and glueing his forehead to them, both looking into each others eyes;

Just rockstar things;

Doing this with the boys guitars, because why the hell not;

He's a tease;

The groupies this man would have, nasty;

Getting shirtless in the middle of shows is almost a tradition at this point;

And throwing a water bottle over his head to cool off? Yes, yes, yes and yes.

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yeastymuffin · 2 months

Text

It is well into thursday afternoon, the curse of living in Europe i guess, but I'll still post something for the wip wednesday. Thanks for tagging me @paperstomach!! :D

I don't know which one of my mutuals are working on stuff, so if you see this, feel free to share your wips (even if it isn't wednesday) and tag me in it if you want some feedback or just a fun comment ^-^

I have two things I am working on at the moment (three if you include my thesis 🤐) so I'll post both. One being a sapphic Victorian-esque ghost story about a haunted hotel near the beach. The second being my recently revived medieval Brittana fic inspired by this piece of art by @katimanki

At the bottom, below the 'read more' link, is the first chapter of the Brittana fic. It's like 5k words so enjoy! (@unholy-fabray you seemed interested so I'm posting this for u <3)

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Premise: Addie and Dolly are riding horseback on the beach. This is the first time they are being honest to eachother about what they are dealing with (Addie being mentally unwell, and Dolly caring deeply for her)

Addie shared a look of deep earnest. A heaviness settled upon hers shoulders. The weight of which her companion shared, for she halted her steed, letting the silence beg for Addie to answer the unspoken question.

“I want to be emaciated.” She said at last. “To feel the same kind of instinctual hunger the gulls feel as a need to drive them up into the sky. That way, and that way alone, could I explain why I feel the way I feel.”

A breath of silence fell between them. The gulls sailed low today, feeding on what tiny creatures hid beneath the surface of the sand. Dolly watched the birds with a naïve kind of curiosity as they spread their wings to glide up each time a wave got to shore with the intent to wipe away all that was before – the rhythm of which never seemed to tire.

“Well then, it must be so.” She spoke. Her face contorted in a stern frown. “But only long enough for you to explain it to me. Then, afterwards, when you sink away in the despair you cried out, let me raise your chin and fill you with love. Let me fill you till it comes out of your nose, and I will wipe away the snot, and hold you, and tell you all can be well. If only you let yourself feel it.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

AAAAAND THE GLEE FIC:

Long Live: chapter one

Throughout the evening the regular folk enters the taverns until a lively buzz of songs sung by drunk rumbles through the streets. Every so often, when a drunkard is kicked out for becoming too rowdy, a passerby would be able to distinctly make out the lyrics of the drinking song as the words roll of tens of stumbling tongues. Where each tavern poured their own ale, so were the songs and festive hymns hand crafted and specific to the place.

The Vulgar Elderberry, known by locals as the most disorderly and unrestrained pub of the city, where middle-aged men go to pick fights and prostitutes make a humble fortune, is as busy as usual. At every hour of the day there is a group of drunk men, but as soon as the sun goes down the benches and stools fill till the early morning sun peeks over the horizon.

Santana, who might as well be wearing Hans Christian Andersen’s red dancing shoes, is having a blast. With only a bat of her eyes a new drink finds its way to her hand. Men are at her feet with every sway of her hips or twirl of the skirt. And they are at her feet in the literal sense since she is up on her third table of the night. Drunkards are watching her from below, tongues nearly rolling out of their mouth and on the sticky surface of the table which has seen the spillage of many a beer.

On the table next to her is a blonde girl she has seen a couple times before. She does not know her name but somehow they always end up at the same tavern and decide to entertain the guests together. Though it is clear the girl does this on a regular basis, dancing into the early hours of the day, Santana thinks she is decently able to keep up in her drunken haze.

The regular bard is strumming away on a lyre, his beautiful song drowned out by the intoxicated attempts of the patrons singing along. Santana has reached the point where the loud chants do not sound loud anymore and the world is engulfed in a blanket of bliss. Yes, this means she sometimes misses a beat or nearly hits one of the guys who is sitting at her table in the face when she kicks her leg up, but hey, she is at the Elderberry. Any visitor is bound to come home with multiple bruises.

At a dark corner of the bar she sees someone dressed in a dark cloak and a blue tunic. The guest has had two mugs of beer at most and has been looking at her intensely all night. Santana, being a glutton for attention and praise, dances harder for every guy staring at her but tonight she has been dancing for this visitor and this visitor alone. Sharp eyes ogle her from under the hood, face inexpressive no matter how suggestive her dancing gets.

If anyone is sober enough to pay attention to the relatively tall visitor in blue, they would notice how out of place the person is. Not only does the person look too old to still be dressed as a squire, the light blue fabric of the tunic is too expensive for any commoner to wear to a pub like this. A night without a fight is rare, and though people like to show off their riches and power in any social setting, the average response to vanity in the Vulgar Elderberry is a punch to the throat. To wear a light blue dyed linen tunic is asking for trouble.

Santana’s eye fucking gets interrupted when she feels a slosh of beer hit her feet. Still dancing, she looks down at the two guys who just toasted too zealous for the state of their motor control. Their spilled toast is all over the table. She shouts a string of curse words at them and not so subtly stomps in the pool of beer, trying to splash them back.

Too drunk or turned on – or both – to care, the men wipe the drops of beer from their face and out of their beards. Two pairs of lust filled eyes look at her, not registering the thundercloud that is forming above Santana’s head. The bald one barks at her like a dog, which encourages another fellow at her table to howl at her. All night, men have whistled and jeered at her but now most guests are unable to remember how much they had to drink. The last bit of Santana’s rationale takes over. Too much exhilaration will lead to men grabbing her for a dance and trying to suck her tongue out of her mouth, which is the last thing she wants.

Helplessly, she looks over at her blonde friend as she twirls, which may not be the best thing to do as she is certain she would trip if asked to walk in a straight line. Still, Santana never said her rationale was logical or the most efficient. After a couple twirls, she finally meets the eyes of her friend who frowns at her, asking what is wrong. Santana nods to her feet where one of the men is trying to grab at her dress to smell it. The girl nods, having understood the cry for help, then looks at her own crowd of drunk men and smiles teasingly.

“Me and my friend here are kind of getting bored.” The girl shouts. Santana is barely able to make out what is trying to say despite their close proximity. The men at her feet perk up, ready to serve this nymph anything as long as it gets her to keep dancing for them.

One guy jumps up on the bench and props one of his feet on the table. He extends an arm and reaches out for the girl. She places her hand in his outstretched hand. He grabs it tenderly and kisses it. Despite the softness of the kiss, which feels out of place seeing the tavern they are in, it is the lewdest thing Santana has seen all evening. She gawks at the sight. There might as well have been two people going at it doggy style on the table next to her.

“Two ale for these lovely broads who have been entertaining us all evening.” The guy screams at the bar.

“It’s on the house!” the bartender yells back as he puts two large mugs on the dark oak surface of the bar. An ocean of hands reaches out to bring the mugs to their destination.

A hand grabs Santana’s lower arm. Ready to fight off a man who cannot keep his hands to himself, Santana spins around to face her assailant, fist in the air ready to punch a bloody nose. To her surprise, it is the girl. She is leaning dangerously far forward and beckons for Santana to join her on her table. Assisted by a steady tug, she jumps over to the table. Delighted when her shoes do not stick to the table top, a luxury her old table did not have.

The girl does not let go of her. Repositioning her hand instead and intertwines their fingers together, her other hand finds Santana’s waist. The blonde turns her head and screams something at the bard. Santana is too drunk to hear it, overwhelmed by the sudden close proximity and the intense brown eyes the girl has.

“Dance with me.” She says. And Santana does.

Never before has she danced a peasant partner dance. After a minute of stepping on toes and legs tangling in skirts, she understands the rhythm of the dance. She smiles brightly at her partner when she figures it out. The girl grins back, all shiny teeth and pink lips.

Beneath her, the men’s clapping slowly increases. Santana dances like it is the only thing she has ever done in her life. Her body moves on its own, keeping up with the pace that grows faster by the second.

They hop and twirl and shimmy. Without looking away from the girl, Santana knows her whirling her red dress and the orange dress of her partner creates for an impressive sight. Two flames growing brighter and brighter in an endless waltz until they burn up together.

They dance on and on. The muscles in her legs are screaming at her to stop, but Santana cannot help it. If this is where she dies, dancing on a table in a disgustingly dirty tavern, so be it. May the heavens find her exhausted soul and realise that for once she enjoyed what she was doing with every fibre of her being.

One of the gods must have heard her death wish, as in the next second one of Santana’s feet slips off the table and she nearly tumbles into the lap of a sweaty, overweight guy. The only thing keeping her on her podium is the blonde girl who instantly drags her back on her feet.

The delirium of her aching body is taking over, or perhaps she is a lot more drunk than she thought she was. An all-consuming laughter bubbles up from her stomach and leaves her body. She looks like a maniac, but she cannot find the energy to care. There is no one here able to scold her for her unruly behaviour. The chest pressed against hers starts moving in shocks. The girl, too, is laughing hysterically.

She needs a full minute to get her laughter under control. Suddenly, as the last hiccups of her giggle die down, she realises she is still clinging to the girl who is sweaty and hot under her grip. A droplet of sweat rolls down the girl’s neck and pools behind her collarbone. Aware of the heaving chest pressed against hers, and the inappropriate intimacy Santana lets go. Albeit hesitantly.

The girl smiles at her, bright eyed, then turns to the men at their feet. “Where are those beers? I feel hot!” She knows exactly how to play a crowd.

“Yes you are!” A guy screams from a couple tables over.

A large mug filled to the brim is pressed in Santana’s hand by the girl. Her head is spinning. If she drinks this and keeps on dancing, she will sleep in the gutter tonight. Having sweat off half of her body weight, Santana takes a big gulp of her beer. She cringes when the lukewarm liquid fills her mouth, having expected the beer to be cold.

“Chug! Chug! Chug!” A guy with a sophisticated moustache chants. He must be a notary of some sorts during the day.

The blonde nudges Santana with her hip and lifts her mug suggestively. Not really caring much for her future self, Santana lifts her own mug with a devilish grin. They toast clumsily, spilling a fair amount as the mugs hit and start chugging.

From across the room, Santana makes eye contact with the peculiar visitor as she chugs her beer. Wanton from dancing, Santana decides to do something she has never done before. With her free hand, she undoes two buttons of her dress, showing off her cleavage. Nearly finished with her beer, she pulls the mug away from her mouth ‘accidentally’ spilling the remainder which drips down her chin and disappears between her breasts.

The cheers of the crowd beneath her leave her cold. Still, Santana bites away her smugness. She caught the visitor biting her lip and fumbling with the belt, hands restless from seeing Santana act all licentious. The victorious smile on her face is hard to supress so she turns to her still nameless friend and focuses her attention on her.

Her heart is running in circles behind her ribcage and kicking up a storm. A heat is growing from deep within and burns her up from the inside. It is dizzying. Santana feels like she can puke at any moment.

The girl says something.

“What?” Santana asks confused.

“It’s Quinn.” The girl repeats. Santana blinks. She does not remember asking the girl for her name, but she must have. Whilst she struggled to keep the content in her stomach inside, her body must have taken over and made small talk. Like when her mind goes away to that special place where she can run away on the back of a horse and ride into the sunset, while her body is talking about the current affairs of the kingdom with some stuck up duke.

“Are you okay? Do you need to sit down?” Quinn asks. Her eyes warm with worry. Santana wishes she can take her home. Quinn seems like a person you can be truly honest with, who would not judge you for the demons in your head.

Santana shakes her thoughts away. She forces herself to take a couple deep breaths. “Yeah, I’m good. The dancing wore me out.” She says. “I’m San- Rosario. Rosario San Cruz I think we’ve met before.”

“Quinn Fabray.” Quinn grabs her hand and spins her around. The soft fabric of Santana’s red dress undulates in graceful waves as she twirls. “We have. I remember because I never had a dance partner that’s able to keep up with me the way you do.”

“Why thank you.” Santana says demure, instinctively bowing elegantly as she takes the compliment. As Santana comes back up she bites her tongue to keep from smiling too hard. Though it’s too late. This Quinn girl has already brought out her cheek dimples. Santana hates them. She is usually pretty good at showing off a certain emotion when really she is feeling something else, but when her cheek dimples show, everyone can see she is truly happy in and out. Information which she prefers not to give away.

Quinn takes Santana’s mug with one hand and holds her other hand up invitingly. “May I have another dance with you, Rosario?” She says with an accent mocking the highbrow and royals.

“But of course you may.” Santana grabs the hand, responding in the same accent.

Quinn regards her, then pecks a kiss to each of the mugs and throws them behind her without looking, like a bride throwing her bouquet. Men dive after the mugs, deeming them worth more than jewellery. Not even a peregrine falcon diving after its prey is as fast.

The bard is playing a joyful song, Quinn sings along softly as she leads Santana. Santana cannot fully commit to the dance however, she keeps one eye on the men fighting over the mug - not trusting it will simply blow over. The tension she had tried escaping by going here has returned. The tiny demon running around in her skull is pulling on all the strings, creating doom scenarios of what could happen. Ranging from a simple barfight to a dragon ripping the roof of the tavern and burning them all alive.

“Stop thinking.” Quinn points out sharply. “This is the third time you’ve stepped on my foot and your eyes keep darting to the side. I know for a fact you’re not distracted by a handsome knight.”

Santana frowns at what Quinn might be implying. “What? I totally like knights.”

“Yeah, who doesn’t?” Quinn lets go of her for a second to do her own little freestyle whilst she stares at the guy whose hand she kissed earlier. “But I don’t see them here. Just enjoy the moment. Worries are for tomorrow.”

Quinn’s hands find her body again and she leads them into a high tempo waltz. Santana gets twirled around again, seemingly Quinn’s favourite move, and lets her thoughts fly away from her as she spins around.

In anticipation of the dip Quinn leads her into she takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. Arms stretched out dramatically, she fully trusts the hands around her waist to not drop her. Her long, dark hair nearly brushes the table top. Her flair for the dramatics is appreciated as whistles and shouts fill the air, shortly drowning out the music.

Then she is pulled back up, rougher than she expected. A yelp escapes her mouth as she crashes into Quinn. Instinctively, her feet position themselves so she is ready to waltz away but the lead does not come. Quinn is looking at something behind her then hisses in her ear. “Duck.”

Before Santana can ask what is going on, firm hands grab her shoulders and she is pushed downwards. With a thud she falls on her ass on the table top. Tears jump in her eyes at the sharp pain that shoots up her spine. Her skin will be bruised for a week. One foot is in the lap of a passed out drunk guy. Carefully, she tries to remove her foot and crawl of the table. A heavy body crashes into her and nimbly slides off the table.

“There is no time to be nice.” Quinn chides. Rudely, she drags Santana to her feet and checks her over. By then, Santana realises the side of the table they are on is empty, aside for the passed out guy. The gears in her head are turning as she looks around. People are chanting, not the regular songs, but cheering and howling. Instead of the low notes of a mostly male choir, deep aggravated grunts fill the air.

The chanting, together with the groups forming between the tables click in Santana’s head. There are fights happening. Multiple.

“I knew the mugs were going to cause trouble.” Santana says to no one in particular as she looks at the fight at the opposite side of the table. A shoe flies through the air and hits a guy who had previously nursed his beer unbothered. Agitated from the beer that spilled all over his tunic he grabs the shoe and throws it back, hitting a different bystander in the face. The bystander makes a face that can only be described as an toad blown up with anger, and stalks towards the guy with heavy steps, nearly stumbling over a nearby bench.

“Good for you genius. We have to go.” Quinn snipes. Her hand locks around Santana’s forearm. With difficulty, Santana keeps up with the swift pace with which Quinn moves through the maze of tables and drunk, fighting barbarians. The closer they get to the exit, the rowdier things become.

The tavern has been filled to the brim the whole evening. Multiple fights are breaking out and escalating. In the chaos of fallen benches, mugs flying through the air and people being pushed over or stumbling away in a drunken stupor, it is hard for two women to fight their way through the crowd. Quinn pushes herself in the slowly moving stream of exiting people, attempting to pull Santana with her.

“Wait!” Santana shouts at Quinn. “I’m missing someone.”

“Forget it.” Quinn shouts back over her shoulder. “We need to leave now or a guy unruly from fighting thinks he needs a victory prize.”

Santana looks back but her vision gets blocked by two tall guys behind her, seemingly brothers. All around her are sweaty bodies. The air smells of barf and wet, dirty clothes. Her arms are pressed to her body. If people are not careful she will be crushed like grain in a mill. The only thing that is keeping her from fully panicking is the death grip Quinn has on her.

All of a sudden the pushing from behind stops, but before she can look behind her to see what happened, a strong arm wraps around her waist. She is yanked out of Quinn’s grip and dragged backwards. She screams in surprise, then a second animalistic scream leaves her throat fuelled by pure anxiety.

Quinn was right. A burly guy who has had too much to drink thinks he owns the world and anyone in it. In order to truly feel like the king he is, he needs his little princess to entertain him. And he has decided Santana will be that princess.

Her whole body stiffens. She is a drawn bow ready to let go. This is yet another guy who thinks she is only good for one thing. His audacity is as big as a dragon and his regard for the thoughts and feelings of others is as true as the existence of gnomes – just a fable. He is a dirty pig, just like the rest of the scum that fills this tavern each night. In a blind fit of rage, she turns around and punches the guy square in the face. Then adds another punch at the nose, for good measure.

Instantaneously, the person lets go of her and grabs at their face. Then throws the hood they are wearing off their face. Two angry and confused blue eyes stare back at her.

“Santana, what the hell?”

“Oh my god Britt I’m so sorry.” Shocked, Santana clasps two hands over her mouth.

Brittany, her self-acclaimed bodyguard and partner in crime, is standing in front of her. Blood seeps from her nose and between her fingers down her chin, dripping on her sky blue tunic. It will suck to wash the blood out later.

“What did I tell you? If something happens. You find me and we take the back exit.” Brittany’s tone is razor sharp despite her the slightly nasal tone from pinching her nose. It cuts through Santana’s heartstrings. Never before has her friend ever been this angry with her, and Santana has gotten entangled in big messes.

Santana nods quietly. Even her mother’s tyrannical scolding has never hurt as much as this. She grabs Brittany’s clean, outstretched hand and lets herself be lead outside. Whether Brittany has threatened the bartender or has found a way to pull some strings Santana does not know. Regardless, they exit through a hatch in the basement through which the beer barrels are transported.

The side street is quiet. There is a light drizzle but Santana refuses to wear the cloak Brittany offers her. She tells herself it is because Brittany will need it later on, as she will face the elements face first as they ride back home on their horse, not because she feels ashamed therefore refusing any comfort.

Brittany holds her close as they walk to the stable. The bleeding has stopped, but she sports a dark red moustache on her upper lip. More smears of blood cover her chin, cheeks and hand. Santana’s ears are buzzing and the ground sways like the sea. She hopes she will not have to puke later the evening, or worse, wake up in the middle of the night and having to find a tub to puke in. Besides her obvious drunk ailment, she is aware of her exhaustion. She just wants to cling to Brittany as she rides, maybe cry a little, and lay in bed.

They do not share a single word until they reach the stable. By that time, her intensely beating heart as calmed down, and the rush and fear from the last few moments in the tavern feel like a dream. In spite of that, Santana still knows it really happened. With every step she takes, she is reminded through a growing bruise on her ass. She sighs as Brittany pulls her pockets inside out for a pair of keys.

“I’m sorry.” Punching Brittany square in the face is not something she ever thought she would do. The shame and hurt inside her do not subside. On the contrary, they keep growing. Santana knows she did something very, very wrong.

Brittany sticks the key in the lock and pushes open the heavy stable door. “I should be sorry. For stealing these keys of the stableboy. He probably got into a lot of trouble for losing these.” Brittany jingles the keys. She grabs a burning oil lamp that hangs on a nearby hook and turns it up, leading them to Fleetwood.

The gelding is chewing his hay loudly. Being the glutton he is, he attempts to take a couple last bites as Brittany pulls him from the stable. Santana watches with her arms crossed as Brittany tightens the girth. She is swaying lightly on her feet, too intoxicated to stand still. They left Fleetwood in his tack with the knowledge they would be back within a couple hours and wanting to leave as soon as possible - maybe even fleeing from a scene.

“After you, my lady.” Brittany bows elegantly as she lets Santana get on first.

A bit unstable, Santana climbs on the back of the tall, grey dappled horse. She has climbed on many a steed with a dress, but alcohol is a consistent humbler and makes even the greats question their skill if they consume enough. Once she sits secure with both her legs on one side Brittany leads the horse outside by the reins and locks the stable again. She then pushes the keys through a gap between two planks of the door.

It is as if they were never there.

Santana is staring at the stars when she feels the saddle underneath her shake. Brittany climbs on behind her. She watches as Brittany makes her red dress disappear by pulling the dark cloak over her legs, protecting her from the cold of the night. A warm hand splays over her stomach, pressing her into the squire’s body. Unconsciously, Santana chooses to believe Brittany wants to feel her close, and that it’s not an act to keep her from slipping off the horse’s back.

With the slightest pressure of Brittany’s feet, Fleetwood takes off in the direction of the castle. His heavy hooves echo through the narrow city streets, a nuisance to anyone who is not vast asleep. Santana cannot muster up enough energy to care, both her body and mind exhausted from drinking and dancing.

“I danced the whole night.” Santana mumbles as soon as they reach the edge of the city. Fleetwood steps sound muffled on the dirt. The words fall off her tongue with difficulty, the muscle too ungainly to pronounce words properly.

Brittany nudges her cheek with her nose. She hums. “That you did.”

“And, I made a friend.”

“You always make friends. You’re very charming.”

“Yeah but, she’s a real friend.” Santana turns to face Brittany, since she is sitting sideways on the horse she does not have to turn much. Nonetheless, the hand around her waist clings on tighter, making sure she does not fall off. “Like… We talked. We had a connection.”

“Sounds amazing.” Brittany deadpans, her focus on the dark trail ahead as she encourages Fleetwood to counter.

“You don’t have to hold on so tight.” The grip of the hand on her hip is bordering on painful. “I’m drunk. Not dumb. I can sit on a horse.” The grip slackens, albeit a little bit.

By the time they reach the castle, Santana is sure she is not imagining the tension between her and her best friend. Normally, Brittany would guide Fleetwood in an easy canter once they leave town until they reach the open field. From there, they would watch the lights on the castle walls grow bigger, Fleetwood walking at his own pace.

Brittany would reminisce about funny figures she saw at the bar or how she won the rigged game of dice. Santana would giggle, perhaps even laugh vehemently in that way only Brittany can make her laugh. She would ask how she did it, how does one cheat the cheater. Brittany would stay silent, and smile a smug smile that makes Santana melt like cream on a warm cake. In those moments, with her head nestled underneath Brittany’s chin as she listens and the light of the stars guiding them home, Santana feels normal.

Any sane person would argue it is extremely dangerous, two girls on a horse in the middle of an open field at night. Raiders or anyone who is uncivilised enough to attack random people could easily sneak up on them and overpower them. Perhaps it is exactly that, the fear of being raided, something any peasant on a trip fears, is what makes her feel normal. Between the castle walls, there is always one pair of eyes on her at least. Where the most vile thing that can happen is someone dropping her new gown on the floor. There, the things she fears most being Miss Corcoran’s lectures about taxes or her father finding out about her nightly escapades, which don’t seem so bad when compared to being held at knifepoint in the dark.

Besides the couple sentences they spoke at the beginning of the ride, they have not talked at all. Brittany forced Fleetwood to canter home without taking a rest, making no effort to enjoy the nighttime through laughs.

Santana feels like an intruder as she watches Brittany remove the tack and makes Fleetwood comfortable for the night. She lingers in the walkway between the stables and pretends to be busy with one of Fleetwood’s neighbours. When the horse retreats her head and there is nothing around Santana can distract herself with. She mumbles an apology.

“What?” Brittany sticks her head out of the stable she is in.

“I’m sorry.” Santana repeats, supressing her usual jeering. She never repeats an apology. She barely even apologises for things in the first place. So, if Brittany can simply accept her apology that angry feeling in the pit of her stomach will go away and they can both sleep soundly.

For a moment they just stare at each other. Brittany’s face is blank, but Santana knows she is thinking. She can tell by the way Brittany keeps tapping the handle of the bucket she is holding with her index finger. She is bothered.

Brittany sighs deeply, closing her eyes for a moment. “It’s okay. It just… hurts.” She flashes a forced smile.

They confronted the problem, talked about it, and Santana apologised. Perhaps not in that order, but it doesn’t matter. Things are a-okay again, starting now. There is totally no reason for tension anymore, Santana decides.

“Yeah.” Santana lets out a shaky breath. “Let me at least clean you up.”

As response she gets a smirk that blooms into a toothy grin. And now Santana knows things truly are okay again.

Quietly Brittany shuts the door that leads to the kitchen. Santana lights up a discarded oil lamp and searches for some rags in drawers. Which, despite the light of the lamp, is hindered by darkness. She grabs the empty air next to a handle on multiple occasions. Once she finds a clean rag, she dips the cloth in a vat of water that stands off to the side and walks back over to Brittany who perched herself on the table. Next to Brittany is a tray covered by clean cloths, the surface of which billowed by the pastries underneath.

“Do you really think they’ll miss one or two?”

“Mercedes worked really hard on them. They’re for the feast tomorrow.” Santana puts the oil lamp on the table and brings up the damp cloth to brush of the dried blood. “Or tonight, I guess.”

“Another one of those stupid dinner parties? Didn’t you have one a couple days ago?” Brittany scrunches her face. The cold cloth uncomfortable against her skin.

“I did.” Santana responds factually. “My parents are inviting all the princes from neighbouring kingdoms and hope I like one. That way no more stupid knights die from Sapphian. Apparently she already has 110 documented deaths since she first appeared, not counting the peasants she kills when she raids the nearby towns. Half of those deaths are our own knights.”

“Never come between a dragon and her treasure.” Brittany says solemnly, then grins.

“You’re so weird.” Santana scoffs, feigning annoyance.

Brittany wraps her legs around Santana’s waist and pulls her close, locking her feet together at the ankles. “You love it.” She teases.

Santana hums in agreement. She ignores whatever Brittany is doing with her hair. She assumes the squire is braiding the strand of hair, judging by the repetitive tugging on the left side of her forehead. When she deems Brittany clean, she grabs a dry part of the rag and wipes off the damp skin.

Brittany pulls a face of disgust and lifts her head backwards, away from the dusty cloth, and wipes her lips with the back of her hand. “It’s good. You know I hate that.”

“You prefer staying wet?”

Instantly, she regrets her word choice. Brittany bursts out laughing. Santana punches her lightly in the stomach, directly in a patch of dried blood. She wipes her knuckles clean, an annoyed frown on her face.

“The gods punish immediately.” Brittany smirks. She sits back, leaning on her elbows. She has this smug twinkle in her eyes that messes with Santana’s head. She hates it, and Brittany is very much aware of that. The legs around her hips tense up, squeezing slightly in a teasing manner.

Brittany stares at her for a while. The light of the lamp reflects in the corner of her eyes and highlights a few loose strands of hair. This observation jogs Santana’s memory. She looks down to see a tiny, messily braided tuft of hair. She picks it up to get a closer look.

“You know Tina is going to brush it out in the morning, right?”

Brittany shrugs. “’s our little secret.”

For a few seconds Santana simply stares at her. “I am way too drunk for riddles right now.”

“I meant,” Brittany sits up and reaches over towards the tray of pastries and grabs two, “that only we know who ate these.” She bites into her enthusiastically, spilling crumbs all over the table and her lap. She presses the other one to Santana’s lips, waiting for her to bite it.

Santana gives her one of her ‘are you serious’ stares but bites when Brittany keeps pressing. She moans obscenely when the flavours of the icing and the berry filling blend in her mouth. She stuffs the rest of the pastry in her mouth.

“These are so good.”

“Told you we should try them.”

Santana rolls her eyes. Not knowing what to do with her hands, she plants them on Brittany’s warm thighs. “You always want a bite of everything when there is food available. You’re always hungry.”

“Yeah, but these are Mercedes’ pastries, so they make me like, extra hungry.” Brittany waggles her eyebrows.

“Weirdo.” Santana says through a yawn. She wants to touch the tip of Brittany’s nose lovingly but instead presses her finger into the cheek beside it. She frowns, annoyed with her own failure to perform a simple task. Brittany watches her for a moment, then jerks into action.

“Let’s get you to bed, my lady.” She says solemnly. Her feet untangle and drop to the side, finally freeing Santana from her leg trap.

As they sneak to Santana’s room, Santana anticipates getting her cuddle on; The only thing that will help her survive the tedious dinner tomorrow.

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