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the-insomniac-emporium · 3 years

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Serenade (Daniela Dimitrescu/Reader) Pt. 6

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T for language, brief violence, and a line that hints at past physical abuse (depending on how you choose to interpret it) Warnings: Mild TW for implied/referenced abuse Notes: Okay so this was supposed to be somewhat therapeutic? But it ended up taking longer to get to that part than I intended, so... Don't worry though, next chapter will be fluffy and also involve more, like, actual Daniela scenes. Previous Chapters: Pt. 1: Nocturne, Pt. 2 Overture, Pt. 3: Accelerando, Pt. 4: Toccata, Pt. 5: Poco a Poco

Chapter 6: Elegy

(Elegy: A piece of music in the form of a lament)

When you dream, you do not dream of being locked in a tower, awaiting a kindly knight to come save you. When you dream… you dream of your old home, infested with monsters, nearly unrecognizable. Of being forced to flee, leaving everything you loved behind. Of escaping to a remote, quaint little village, only to end up trapped once again, as friendly faces morph into gaping maws and fangs dripping red. When you dream, it is less a nightmare, more memories retouched, covered in a fresh coat of paint.

Waking up is but a brief source of comfort. One hand goes to your head, rubbing gently, as if you could wipe away all traces of your past. A quick glance around your shared room leaves you confused, but serves as a welcome distraction. Though there are six beds in the room, yours is the only occupied one, the others having all been vacated and made presentable. The only explanation that fit with what you knew was that everyone had gotten up, and gotten to work, without waking you. Panic filled you as you connected the dots, knowing that missing work was a death sentence.

Rushing, you rise to your feet, throwing your dresser open to search for fresh clothes. While the castle’s staff was almost entirely female, the Dimitrescu family didn’t enforce traditional gender presentation, allowing maidens to choose whether to wear a dress or a button-up and trousers. Remembering the wound on your neck, you pause, glancing in the dorm’s singular mirror to inspect your injury. Most of the blood had rubbed off in your sleep (and would likely be a nightmare to clean from the sheets). There were, however, a few spots where dried blood mingled with the protective scab. Considering how late you already were, you didn’t believe you would have time to clean up.

As much as you hated the thought, the best you could do was go for a button-up, hoping the collar would hide the worst of your disastrous appearance. Your hair was another matter entirely, far messier than it normally was, and you struggled to brush/comb it enough to be mildly presentable. Good thing Daniela won’t see me today, you think, remembering her insistence on skipping today’s lesson.

Then you remember the rest of your conversation with her; the yelling, being dragged to your feet, and the pain in her eyes. For a moment you feel woozy, pausing in the middle of buttoning your shirt. Your eyes focus on a spot on the now-closed dresser… and suddenly you wish you had paid more attention when you first woke up. There’s a note stuck to the furniture, clearly addressed to you.

Heard you had some trouble yesterday. We’re just glad you’re alive! A certain someone has been a lot nicer since you started playing the piano, and we’re grateful. To show that, we decided to split your morning duties among ourselves, so you can sleep in. If you’re reading this, then it’s still before 4 AM. Feel free to just relax for a while, or even get some more sleep! We’ll be by to make sure you’re up eventually.

Sincerely,

Daphne, Rosalia, Ygritte, Alexandra, Juniper, and Riley

“I… have… freetime?” You mumbled, still a little drowsy, but now also shocked. This was a complete first for you. Maybe even a first among the servants! Sure, you had been given breaks before, but having a couple hours to do whatever you wanted? No one had ever pulled strings like this for you before. It made your chest feel warm, and you just about forgot the whole mess with Daniela. “I’ll have to find a way to pay them back, even if they think they’re paying me back.” With that said you relaxed a little, no longer rushing getting dressed, though still leaving your neck the way it was. You figured you’d stop by one of the maidens’ restrooms before you officially started your shift.

In the meantime, you knew exactly what you’d be using this time for: finding those damn piano books you had been promised!

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“Let’s see… dust, more dust, a dead spider, even more dust, and- oh shit, the spider is not dead,” you said, barely holding in a yelp as the arachnid scurries away from you. If you had known the attic would be so unclean, you might not have bothered to come up here. So far your targets had alluded you without giving so much as a hint towards their location. The library had seemed a likely location, but you had heard Daniela’s voice within, and anxiety had sent you dashing away. Up here, in an area clearly used for storage above all else, was the next best guess, as far as you were concerned. Still, you hadn’t seen anything worth your time yet.

Just insects, really. Not even terribly interesting ones. Well, there had been a shiny beetle of some sort, but it had crawled into a crack in the wall mere seconds after you saw it. Other than that, though, nothing but creepy crawlies. Creepy flyers?... Both, for sure. One fly in particular kept buzzing around you, weirdly interested in what you were doing.

Somehow you didn’t understand what that meant until a firm hand had wrapped itself around your neck. The grip was tight, putting more than enough pressure to make your vision blur. Thankfully, or perhaps unfortunately, the culprit didn’t intend to just choke you out. Instead they lift you and toss you aside- casually, at that. You hit the wall with a terrible crashing sound, certain to leave bruises, and narrowly avoid toppling into a stack of heavy crates. So much for enjoying some free time, you think. Stunned for several seconds, you find yourself left helpless as your attacker approaches.

“You’re not allowed to be up here,” a voice snarled, familiar enough to leave you terrified. Of course you had to run into the most violent of the Dimitrescu sisters. “Looking for a way out, hmm? Or are you stupid enough to think we’d leave a weapon where a wretched thing like you could find it?” Cassandra asked, pausing only to send a swift kick your way. A grunt escapes you, leaves you coughing, but it doesn’t hurt as bad as hitting the wall. Despite wanting to curl up and give in, you tried to drag yourself to your feet. Surprisingly, Cassandra makes no move to stop you, perhaps enjoying the sight of you struggling.

“Lady… Daniela… gave me permission,” you said between painful breaths. By the time you’re back on your feet, the vampire before you is watching you with narrowed, albeit curious, eyes. Normally it would take a lot of courage to face her. But you’re exhausted, in pain, and you’ve taken nearly as much hurt from someone who called themselves your lover. It’s not brave to stare down Cassandra, it’s foolhardy. It’s idiotic, really, and yet you find yourself unable to care. “I’m just looking for a couple piano books I’ve been told about, so I can use them to help teach Lady Daniela.”

“Oh? You’re her instructor?” Cassandra asked, a strange smile overtaking her expression. Something in the atmosphere has shifted, dangerously, but you can’t figure out why. Clueless to your self-betrayal, you nod in response. Instantly Cassandra’s smile turns into an open-lipped snarl, and she reaches out to grab you by the shirt, this time slamming you into the wall with her own hands. “Then you’re the reason she kept me up yesterday, crying non stop! I’m going to rip you apart, you vermin.”

The look in her eyes is, most definitely, the scariest thing you had ever seen. It’s feral, inhuman, and unstoppably determined. But when tears fall from your eyes, it’s not because you know you’re about to die. No, it’s because the last thing you think you’ll ever hear is the news that your partner had been sobbing for hours… and that you were the reason why. Your heart aches, both physically and emotionally, as you brace yourself for the bloody end.

Instead, the grip on your clothes loosens. You don’t dare open your eyes to see why.

“What the fuck do you want, sis?” Cassandra asked, sounding like she had turned her head away from you. Before you know it you’ve been let go, and you slide to the ground, too surprised to hold yourself steady. When you look up, you see an irritated Bela pulling Cassandra away from you, whispering something you can’t quite hear. They argue for a minute, under their breath, keen on keeping you out of the loop. Eventually the younger of the two storms away, but not before making a dent in the wall with her fist.

“What a child,” Bela said, rolling her eyes at the display. Then she’s walking back towards you, extending a hand in an offer of assistance (one you gladly accept). “That girl has the foresight of a magic eight ball, I swear. If she had actually killed you… ugh, I can hardly stand to imagine how inconsolable Daniela would become. Then I’d have two insufferable sisters. Regardless, do tell me why you thought it would be a good idea to come up here unaccompanied? It is normally off limits for servants, after all.”

“I-I, well… I mean, firstly thank you for saving me, I had no idea-” Bela holds a finger up in a ‘shut up’ motion, then puts it away as soon as you pause- “right, you don’t care. Look, I was just trying to find the piano books that Lady Dimitrescu mentioned, but I’ve looked all over and I can’t find them, so I should really just go,” you explain, eager to get out of the attic. To your surprise, Bela gives you an odd look before turning away. Then she takes no more than five steps, shifts to the side, and opens an old cabinet. Inside you can see a dozen books of sheet music, notably from several different decades, all worn but still in decent condition. “How did-?... I thought I checked there.”

“Well, you must have been distracted. Nonetheless, you know where they are now, and you owe me twice over. With that in mind… come with me. We have things to discuss,” Bela commanded, walking away before you could protest. All you can do is grab the sheet music, tuck it under one arm, and follow her to who-knows-where.

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“I’ll have to have you make my tea more often,” Bela mused, letting the mug keep her hands warm. The two of you were sitting in some sort of study, a room that you had never been inside before. From what you could tell it belonged solely to the eldest Dimitrescu daughter. Inside were several shelves, each filled with well bookmarked collections, a desk next to a massive window, a couple simple chairs, and a few instrument cases. All in all it was an aesthetically pleasing room, organized but not exactly neat. You could certainly imagine Bela spending entire days in this chamber. “Now, why do you think I brought you here?” Her voice brings your focus back into the present moment, as well as sends a spike of anxiety through you.

“Based on what nearly got me killed earlier… Does it have to do with Daniela crying?” You asked, doing your best to indicate just how bad you felt about the subject. No matter how cruel she could be, you did honestly care about Daniela, and even wanted a real, healthy relationship with her. Desire, or willingness, wasn’t the root of the problem by any means. Something told you that Bela understood this, maybe even respected you for it.

“Guess there’s more in that pretty head of yours than air and symphonies, hmm?” Bela replied, laughing a little as she did. It was a far nicer sound than Cassandra’s maniacal giggling, for sure. “Now, I don’t know all the details about what happened- just that there was an argument, clearly a bad one, and Daniela barely made it through dinner before locking herself in her room. Luckily for you, our mother doesn’t seem to know about your little ‘fight’. She’s not sure what upset Dani, and I doubt my sister would tell her, so your secret is safe. Assuming that I blackmailed Cassandra well enough, that is. Anyway, I can’t help you, and by extension my sister, if I don’t know the full story. In case it wasn’t clear, that’s your cue to start talking.”

You’re surprised, admittedly, by a number of things. But Bela seems impatient, so you go over the details of the previous night with her, occasionally pausing to let her ask questions. The whole time her focus is on you, unwavering. There’s also a noticeable lack of judgement in her expression, even when you voice your regret about how you handled the situation, and what is there seems directed more towards Daniela than yourself. Once you finish, Bela releases a deep sigh. One of her hands goes to rub her forehead as if warding off a migraine.

“Well, I can’t say I’m terribly surprised, as much as I wish I could. Daniela’s always had her head in the clouds, and it’s left her tripping over her own feet more than once. Still, this is certainly one of her bigger messes…” Bela said, shaking her head in disbelief. “I’m going to have to talk to her about this, aren’t I? There’s no way she’s going to process this correctly on her own.” This time she seemed to be talking to herself, gaze locked on her tea as if it might suddenly offer to speak to Daniela in her place. When the tea stayed silent, understandably, she returned her focus to you. “You seemed upset, earlier, about this ridiculous situation. I am going to assume, from that, you are genuinely interested in my dear sister. Normally, this would be the part where I drain you of all blood, and possibly keep your skull as a memento... mori. Yours would look lovely on a window sill, I think.”

She pauses, head tilting a little to the side, clearly evaluating your artistic value.

“However, Daniela appears to care about you, far more than her usual fleeting infatuations. So, for now, I have decided not to eviscerate you, you’re welcome,” Bela cooed, teasingly, enjoying the way you shifted uncomfortably in your seat. Still, you were glad that you would apparently be surviving the day. “So I’m going to give you some advice, which you will take, and you won’t even owe me anything extra for this. Daniela is in love with the mere concept of love- and she has been for as long as I can remember. Romance novels are practically the only books she reads. It’s… embarrassing, truly. More than that, I get the impression that she couldn’t even begin to describe what love actually feels like. She’s digested so much of that written drivel that it warped her senses. Of course, the, ahem, situation we find ourselves in, here at the castle, has undoubtedly added to this effect.

“To get to the point, Daniela’s terribly, hopelessly clueless when it comes to things like what she wants from you. And so I take it upon myself, as her older sibling, to ensure that you understand. Moreso, that you are not dissuaded. If this is an actual chance for her to experience real romance, then it could make her happier than I’ve ever seen her,” Bela explained. The look in her eyes was incredibly soft, to the point where it made you realize just how much this odd little family cared for each other. “Don’t give up, don’t let her occasional infuriating antics push you away. Given enough time… I think the two of you could, I suppose, compliment each other quite nicely. But if you break her heart? I will pull yours from your chest and eat it raw. Understood?” Gulping, you nodded quickly, ignoring the feeling of heat rushing to your cheeks. It was one thing for Bela to want her sister to be happy, but another thing entirely for her to acknowledge your “suitability” for the position. “Good. Now return to whatever it is you maidens normally do. I have a sister to talk sense into.”

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Hours later, you stand alone in a display room, dusting various relics from bygone times. A trophy here, a bizarre art piece there, strange, unlabeled tools you can’t quite imagine are for wine-making. It’s a fascinating collection, really. But your mind is focused on other, far softer things. All you can think about is what Bela had told you, about how Daniela really is interested in you, and how she thought the two of you could make it work. After the chaos earlier in the day, this was exactly what you needed. Just some time to yourself, working quietly, thoughts all to yourself. Even your bruises bother you less, the pain fading out into the background. Considering where you are, though, it is not at all surprising that your peace cannot last. As soon as you finish your task you move towards the exit.

The door swings open, outwards, at your touch, only to reveal a familiar figure reaching for the doorknob. Both of you gasp, taken by surprise, before your gazes meet. Of course it’s Daniela. Who else would you bump into right now?

“I thought about what you said,” she blurts, suddenly, eyes wide and hands shaking. “We need to talk, yeah?”

#daniela dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu x reader #resident evil: village #re8 village #cliff hanger oops #had fun writing this one

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asweetprologue · 3 years

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so hard to say (so easy to do)

This is a follow-up to this fic I did for my halftober series, but can be read as a standalone! This is a whump fic, but all torture mentioned is fairly mild and there is a happy ending. A few people wanted a sequel so I’m finally able to oblige! ao3

tw: hand trauma including broken fingers and mention of cutting near and around the forearms.

***

He can’t remember how long he’s been here.

Days? A week, maybe? It could have been months, and Jaskier’s not entirely sure he would notice the difference. Time began blending together so quickly after the first few sessions. The cell they are keeping him in is makeshift, once some kind of storage room in the dilapidated keep that the Nilfgaardians have occupied. It’s temporary, and so is his capture. One way or another. He will be disposed of the second they no longer find him useful.

It’s a bit of a cat and mouse game. If he weren’t so thoroughly bruised, deep down in his core, he might be a little proud of how he’s led them along. They come every day, a few times, he’s not sure; there are no windows in his hasty prison. They never remove him from the chair he’s strapped to, and he’s been given only water, twice. He’s beyond hunger, his empty stomach just another point of pain alongside his other injuries. There are two men who work on him, one in what he assumes is the morning and one in the evening. They come in shifts. During the first few days - hours? weeks? - they would leave after he passed out, and he would be allowed to rest for a little while. Now they usually stay for a while, teasing him in and out of consciousness with wicked little hooks and blades. He faints too often for it to bring him any lasting peace.

It’s a difficult thing to want to draw out, but draw it out he does. They ask him where the witcher has gone, and he tells them he won’t say, won’t give up his secrets (as if he has any). When they move to breaking his fingers, he tells them that he knows a few places, some towns that Geralt might be hiding out in, which he knows are safe to speak of. He tells them about witcher caches that he knows are long looted, old ruins where experiments past took place, unspoken but harmless truths.

He never tells them the biggest truth: he has no idea where Geralt is. That way lies death, he’s certain.

When he’s not entertaining Nilfgaard’s finest, he focuses on making plans of escape. None of them are particularly grand, or seem likely to work. Jaskier has gotten himself out of plenty of trouble in years past, but there’s not much one man can do against a full legion of soldiers. If he could get out of his bindings, he might be able to make it through the halls of the keep and sneak past the guards, but it’s a big if. It was a stronger contender in the early hours of his captivity, but now he doubts if he could even stand up for long. Weariness and pain have made his bones brittle, liable to crack at the slightest provocation. He fears if he tried to run he would do more damage than the Nilfgaards already have.

He’s not sure if he’s thinking clearly.

He doesn’t think about Geralt at all. He tries not to think about Geralt.

He dreams of him, though. When he faints from the pain or exhaustion or thirst, he doesn’t dream, but a few times he’s managed to fall into a fitful sleep. In the dark of the cell he dreams of calloused hands and smiling, golden eyes. The worst is when he dreams that he’s woken up by Geralt’s side in their small camp, warm and content, only to wake again to the cold, damp dungeon. The smell of it chokes him, iron and piss and mold, and he gags on bile when he has nothing in his stomach to throw up. He sits in the dark, alone, his broken fingers throbbing along with his pulse as it rushes through his ears, every cut and bruise aching in the chill air. For a long while he just breathes, wishing so desperately to be held that he feels like nothing more than a child.

They come for him again the next morning. Or night, he doesn’t know, can’t tell. The torch burns his eyes, and he closes them tightly to avoid one pain he doesn't have to endure. It’s better if he doesn’t look, anyways.

In his brief glimpse of his tormentor, Jaskier could tell that the torturer this time is the thin man. His counterpart is huge, with shockingly broad shoulders and big, meaty, uncoordinated hands. Most of the bruises are from the big one, who prefers to slam his fist into Jaskier’s ribs when he doesn’t hear what he wants to. In his brief and endless time here, Jaskier has learned that he prefers the meat man. The thin man who stands before him now is a surgeon, precise and accurate in all his movements. His fingers are long and thin, and they reach so easily inside to pluck at Jaskier’s delicate veins and nerves. In a strange way, Jaskier can almost appreciate it, one artist to another. The human body is an instrument to the thin man, and the music he makes is pain.

He can hear the sound of a cloth, rubbing across a smooth surface. It reminds him of Geralt, wiping down his blades with old silk, who he will not think of in this moment. Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut even tighter, trying to will his mind into stillness. He’s not any good at this, not really. He can talk around the issue, sure, draw it out as much as he likes, keep them guessing. Jaskier would never let a single unintentional detail slip, this he knows in the depths of his being, past the music and charm and frivolousness. Nothing could make him betray Geralt and Ciri. He could run the Nilfgaardians round in circles for years if he wanted to.

But he isn’t good with pain.

This time the first knife to pierce his skin isn’t even preceded by a question. It comes with little fanfare, slicing into the pad of one of his twisted fingers in what Jaskier knows is a painfully intentional line. Exactly as big and deep as it needs to be to hurt him how the thin man wants it to. It burns against the swollen skin, already too sensitive. Jaskier lets out a slow breath, trying to brace himself for the rest.

“I will no longer ask,” the thin man says. His voice is soft, with the almost musical lit of someone from near Toussaint. He always sounds breathy, like he’s been walking too quickly up a flight of stairs. “You know the question.”

Jaskier nods jerkily. He won’t speak for a while. He needs to draw it out, perhaps find a way to barter for some water or food. Information in exchange for things that might make his existence more bearable. Who knows how long it will be before -

No. Don’t think it.

The thin man hums and begins his work.

Jaskier fades, coming back to himself only when the pain becomes the worst. He passes out a few times, but he finds no reprieve. The thin man waits for him when he wakes, and begins again. Jaskier doesn’t even know what he’s doing anymore. All he knows is that his skin has been replaced with fire.

They haven’t even started working on his face yet, but the thin man had made some chilling comments about his eyes. Jaskier hopes they have time yet before that.

He’s gritting his teeth through a particularly deep incision on the inside of his forearm - just shallow enough not to be dangerous, but wide enough to sting - when the door to the room shatters inwards.

The chair that he’s in was bolted to the floor, which he expects is the only reason he doesn’t go flying backwards. As it is, his head rocks back from the blast and knocks into the wood, and he’s too dizzy from blood loss and dehydration and maybe a slight concussion to register what happens next. There’s some shouting, and a spray of something warm and salty across his face. A brilliant light, and then darkness.

He keeps his eyes closed until he feels hands on his cheeks. When he opens them, he is met with gold, gold, gold.

Geralt is here.

“Melitele, that took you long enough,” he says, and then he passes out.

***

When he wakes, there’s no pain.

He sits up and winces, amending that thought. There is, most definitely, some pain. It crackles along his ribs and his joints, aching, but it’s dulled. He’s lying in a small room, warm wooden logs forming the wall next to his small cot. A fire crackles merrily away on the far side of the little cottage, basic cooking implements hanging above it. A table sits underneath a window to his left, where he can just barely make out a thin line of blue sky above a dense treeline. His bed is covered in rough, simple cotton sheets; the room is warm enough that it needs no quilt. When he lifts them warily to assess the damage, his torso is wrapped in fine linens, the kind Geralt likes to keep in their packs for when jobs go south. Three of his fingers are heavily wrapped as well, bound together to keep them stiff and straight. He fumbles as he picks up the still mug of water he finds on the little shelf beside the cot, and he drinks so quickly he nearly drops it on the floor.

He’s so focused on the critical task of getting water from the mug into his mouth without spilling it all on the sheets that he almost doesn’t notice the front door opening. When he does, he jumps - can’t help it, suddenly filled with a bright spot of panic. It fades into sheer relief when he sees the slight silhouette and the faint, nearly white hair backlit by the late afternoon sun. Ciri stares at him, holding a wide, flat bowl against her hip while propping the door open with one hand. Suddenly the bowl goes clattering to the floor, dandelion greens falling in a floral carpet as she launches herself across the room at him.

“We were so fucking worried about you!” she says, throwing her arms around his shoulders. Jaskier laughs, the sound of it coming out rough but no less joyful for it. He lifts his sore arms to hug her back, ignoring the way it pulls at his healing injuries.

“Now what would your father say if he heard you using such language?” he asks. One hand lifts up to card gently through her hair. Ciri pulls back a bit, and he tucks a stray piece of it behind her ear as she glares at him. Her green eyes are covered in a film of tears, but he won’t mention it. His eyes are burning a bit as well.

“You know I only learned it from him,” she says, “and you. I’m angry with you. And him. You made us leave you behind.” She’s so young, he thinks, even with everything she’s been through. It makes something in his chest compress and expand at once. It’s a strange feeling, but not a bad one.

“I know. I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it, mostly. “I didn’t want to. But I would do it again, to protect you. Both of you.”

A stray tear slips down her cheek. “You were so hurt,” she croaks. She takes a few breaths through her nose, biting the inside of her lip. “When they brought you back, Geralt was so quiet. Not like normal quiet, but like, like people get when they don’t want to talk about how bad it is. I’m sorry. It’s my fault.” She looks bereaved, guilt twisting her young features, and Jaskier can’t stand it.

“No,” he says, firmly, as much authority in his voice as he can muster with it still raw from hours of screaming. “It was my choice, Ciri. The fact that people want to hurt you doesn’t make it your fault. I will always choose to protect you. Always.” He reaches out his free hand to take hers, squeezing it tightly. “You would do the same for me, Lioness.”

She nods shakily, and squeezes his hand back. He knows this isn’t the last time he’ll have to say it, but that’s alright. He’ll say it again.

Ciri wipes her eyes quickly and pulls away. “I need to get Geralt. He’s been… not good. He needs to know you’re awake.” She stands up, rushing over to the door and righting her upended bowl, saving what she can of the greens. Jaskier takes a moment to arrange himself on the bed a bit, shuffling around until he’s more comfortable.

“Not good how?” he asks. Ciri shoots him a look.

“Not good as in worried, of course. We all have. Even Yennefer. She stayed with you the entire first day you were back. It’s been -”

The door slams open again, this time revealing a panting Geralt. His hair is down around his face, looking slightly damp. He has on only a loose gray shirt over an old pair of trousers, the ones with a rip in the knee that Jaskier had told him to throw out but he’d insisted were good for at least one more season. Jaskier had been meaning to patch it up for a few weeks now. He’s so fucking beautiful Jaskier could cry.

“I was fishing,” Geralt says. He’s staring at Jaskier with wide eyes, one hand still on the door handle.

Ciri says, “Um. I’m going to find Yennefer,” and slips out the door under Geralt’s arm. Geralt doesn’t even seem to see her.

The door falls shut behind her, but Geralt seems rooted in place, staring at Jaskier with an expression that’s wide open and raw. It lands on Jaskier’s skin like a balm, tracing over every visible wound with desperate attention.

“Well,” Jaskier says finally, “I’m not going to bite you.”

Geralt makes a hurt noise, and suddenly he’s across the room, crowding into Jaskier’s space. He hovers beside the bed, curved over Jaskier’s propped up form with his hands inches away from bandaged shoulders. He hesitates. Jaskier can’t stand it.

“I didn’t get tortured for however long for you not to hug me once I’m rescued,” he snaps. “I’m not going to break.”

Geralt laughs, but it’s so strangled Jaskier isn’t actually sure it isn’t a sob, and then Geralt finally leans into him. His fingers come up to cradle Jaskier’s skull, holding onto the back of his neck like he really might fragment apart at too harsh a touch. His other arm circles around Jaskier’s chest until he can feel a warm palm spread along the base of his spine, anchoring him. Jaskier sighs, feeling the last of the tension leave him as he collapses against Geralt’s sturdy form. One wet strand of white hair tickles his cheek where he’s pressed against Geralt’s neck.

“Four days,” Geralt says, so soft Jaskier might not have heard it if he didn’t half feel it through the rumble of Geralt’s ribcage.

“Four days?” Jaskier repeats, turning it into a question.

“How long they had you.” A hot breath leaves him in a long sigh, tickling Jaskier’s eartip. “Didn’t know if we’d find you in time.”

“I should have let Yennefer put that tracking spell on me all those years ago,” Jaskier says, aiming for light. Geralt just squeezes him a bit tighter, enough that it stings a little, before he eases off a bit. He doesn't let go.

“She’ll do one as soon as she’s able,” Geralt says. “Used a lot of energy, healing you.”

“Exceptional job she did,” Jaskier says, soothing his nose along the line of Geralt’s throat. “My, ah. Well. Does she know if my - Any prognosis on, ah -”

“Your fingers will be fine,” Geralt says, bringing the hand on Jaskier’s neck down to cradle his bandaged fingers. “Yennefer said they’re mostly healed already, but she’s keeping them wrapped so you don’t aggravate them.”

Jaskier sighs in relief. “Well thank small mercies and powerful mages for that. How long am I bedridden for? I’m taking two days at least off of whatever orders Yennefer has given, knowing her she’s added an extra week just to keep me ‘out of trouble’ as she would describe it. I’ll not sit around a moment more than -”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts. He pulls back, looking serious, almost grave. But his eyes are full of something else, something that makes Jaskier’s words catch and halt in his throat.

“Yes, dear heart?” he prompts. Geralt closes his eyes.

“I love you,” he says, soft and breathless. He opens his eyes suddenly, pupils blown wide as he meets Jaskier’s gaze. An expression that Jaskier has seen so, so many times steals across his features - scared, but determined. His witcher is a very brave man. “I’m in love with you. I didn’t know if I’d get to - if you would be -”

Jaskier reaches up to catch Geralt’s cheek in his wrapped palm, and Geralt’s eyelids flutter like he wants to close them, but he doesn’t. He stays looking at Jaskier, drinking him in as Jaskier is doing in return. His eyes are two spots of honey in the warm light of the fire and the afternoon sun spilling into the room. Jaskier leans forward and presses their lips together. His are too dry, and Geralt’s are a bit chapped. He bites them when he’s nervous, or worried. It’s also the most brilliant kiss Jaskier’s ever had - it feels like the relief of coming to a familiar place after a long time on the road, where you know the people and the food is good and everyone knows your songs. It’s cheerful fires in silver blue campsites, blankets shared on cold nights on the journey north, buttercups and dandelions braided into snow white hair. It’s coming home, the only way Jaskier has ever really known how.

He pulls away, letting their foreheads fall together, just breathing in the space between them. Geralt smells like Roach, and fresh spring water, and lilac. “I know, sweetheart. I love you too.”

Geralt smiles at him, really smiles, beautiful and relieved. Ciri’s voice comes to them through the window, excited and drawing nearer, interwoven with a smoother tone that Jaskier remembers from hazy half wakeful moments. Yennefer will want to check on his wounds, will lecture them on getting distracted and ruining her hard work, but she will also smile and it will touch her eyes like it didn’t used to. But for the next few seconds, it’s just the two of them, and once again the moment feels unhurried and infinite. So he leans back in to kiss him again and steals Geralt’s quiet huff of a laugh to keep within his own mouth, and for a moment that’s everything there is.

#geraskier #jaskierxgeralt #geraltxjaskier #geralt/jaskier #the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #dandelion #ciri #writing #fan fiction #whump #tw: throwing up #tw: torture #brief head trauma but it's not discussed bc yenn heals it pretty immediately #passing out #my tags make this sound worse than it is probably lmao #my work #<5

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blossom-hwa · 3 years

Text

Prologue (CHAN) - |Breathe, and Live|

And so we begin the fluff :) Enjoy single dad chan!

Pairing: Chan x fem!reader

Genre: fluff, angst, slice of life, single parent!au

Triggers: allusions to sex

Word Count: 1.7k

Chan is lost, so lost, and sometimes it feels like the walls are caving in. But he’ll make it, he knows. He has to, for the two little boys cradled in his arms who he loves more than anything he has in the world.

SKZ Masterlist | Breathe, and Live | Touching Stars (TBZ teacher!au)

She tells him at precisely five fourteen in the afternoon, voice dead but panicked, on a crowded bus full of people, words crackling over the phone.

“Chan, I’m pregnant.”

The walls are silent. His laptop, too, since he paused the track to pick up the call. He can’t speak, can’t breathe. It deafens him. It squeezes at his head, pounds against his temples, fills his ears with static buzzing.

His vision blurs. Something rises in his throat.

Chan thinks he might throw up.

How? his mind screams. He’s always been careful, always used a condom. She takes birth control, takes the pill every morning after. It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t fucking make sense.

But you can never be sure, the rational part of his brain unhelpfully supplies.

The droning voice of his old sex-ed teacher back in Australia fills his mind. “The only way to be sure is to practice abstinence.”

Back then, he’d snorted quietly in the back with his friends, elbowed them and smirked and didn’t bother paying attention to the rest of the lecture. What was the point, anyway? Chan may not be as cautious as his parents – the impulse decision to stay in Korea for university, even after his family moved back, is proof of that – but he’s tried to be careful with this. Cautious, respectful, caring.

That kind of thing would never happen to him.

Somewhere, somehow, he hears her saying his name. Between the noise in the background and the ringing in his ears, it’s muffled. Disjointed.

“Okay,” he manages to choke out. “Okay.”

What else can he say?

Her voice sounds hoarse now, even over the tinny phone speakers. She’s crying, or on the verge of it – Chan’s known her long enough recognize the catch in her words that signals the lump in her throat. “I – Chan, I don’t –” She gasps. “I don’t think I want to keep it.”

It takes a moment to understand. But the minute he does, there’s only horror. Sharp, clear, precise. It pierces his chest, breaking through the foggy cloud of his brain.

He wants to scream, yell at her, how could she think of that? How could she not want to keep the child that’s depending on her?

But his sister’s voice cuts through his swirling thoughts. “No uterus, no opinion.” Hannah’s dark eyes, quiet but challenging, flash across the restaurant table, voice cutting through the debate going on across from her. “You don’t own anyone’s body but your own.”

He’d agreed then. He still agrees now.

So he takes a deep breath and tries to understand. They’re young. Stupid. He’s in his last year of university, she’s on a gap year. They’re barely old enough to function in society on their own. It’s understandable. And more importantly, it’s her body. Her choice.

Another deep breath, a bit shakier this time. He settles his mind. “Come home first,” he says quietly, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. “Come home first. We’ll talk about it then, okay?”

There’s a sniff on the other end. “Okay,” she breathes. “Okay.”

The call ends. Chan sits still for a moment, staring at some random section of the wall, thinking but not really seeing. The paint is peeling. The lights are glaring. The university studio, the place he thinks of essentially as a second home, suddenly feels cloistering. Unwelcoming. It feels like some disgusting, warped metaphor for his life.

He buries his head in his hands and tries to breathe.

. . .

Chan can barely face her parents. It’s not that he doesn’t want to. He really wants to tell things upfront, give them his apologies and promise that he’ll do anything to help them out, but they just look at him with smoldering, narrowed eyes. There’s no endearment in her mother’s expression anymore, no quiet pride in her father’s, as though he was another son. There’s only hatred. Disgust. Disappointment.

With a thick tongue and embarrassment coloring his face, he swears up and down that they used protection. She doesn’t say anything, just looks down with a sort of hopeless expression on her face and occasionally nods or shakes her head in accordance with what he’s saying.

They blame him. That much is certain. Privately, Chan thinks that’s a little unfair, but given that the woman bears the brunt of the pregnancy much more than the man, he lets it go. It’s understandable. After all, he blames himself a lot, too.

His parents act a little better. They’ve known him for all twenty-one years of his life, known how he always tries to treat people with respect, with care. Chan can still hear the disappointment and worry in their hushed voices over the phone, but it’s okay. It’s better than hatred.

She doesn’t want the child, she makes that clear. Her parents don’t want it either. They want to adopt it out.

On the other hand, Chan, well… it’s fucking hard. He’s barely finished with university, barely gotten started with his life. And he’s in the damn music industry. Unless he makes it big, there won’t be a lot of opportunities to sort out his life.

But he wants the child. Even though it’s going to be difficult taking care of her through the pregnancy, then making a path with the baby in tow, he wants it. He doesn’t want to give this up.

So they settle. She’ll have the baby. Once it’s born, she’ll take care of some of the bills if she can. Otherwise, Chan is the guardian.

It isn’t so bad, not at first. There’s the morning sickness to contend with, but they live together. It isn’t too hard for Chan to take some time to take care of her. They make the doctor’s trips together, and seven weeks into the pregnancy, they find out they’re having twins.

(Well, Chan is having twins. Her face screws up just the slightest amount, not in disgust but not in something nice either. Chan elects to ignore it and focuses on his own happiness.)

He works like a madman, sending off tracks to companies, submitting others for homework. He performs when he can, picking up any possible extra paychecks. She works, too, so money isn’t an issue yet. Chan also thanks all the higher beings above that she’s on a gap year, so he’s the only one adding homework to the equation.

The storm starts brewing in the fifth or sixth month, maybe. They’re having two boys, and they like to remind her that they’re there. She doesn’t feel well a lot of the time and has the crankiness to prove it. Still, she helps when she doesn’t have cramps, though she does complain about the weight gain.

But the number of nights where they’re up at odd hours only increases. The boys like to kick. Their mother wants to scream. Chan doesn’t even think he has a brain at this point – any cells up in his head have just been pounded to mush.

On one bad night, when she’s almost crying of exhaustion and the babies won’t stop fucking moving, Chan brings out his laptop. His fingers fly over the keyboard, tweaking soft beats, changing notes, composing a short little melody.

It’s rough, nothing substantial, something completely opposite from the polished tracks he makes for class. No lyrics. There’s just a simple piano melody backed by some guitar chords and it’s probably not going to do anything to help but Chan’s this close to just ripping out his hair and screaming for the entire city of Seoul to hear. He has to try something.

He almost deletes the track by mistake and has a mini heart attack, but he saves it with shaking fingers and brings the laptop over to the bed. She’s lying there, hair a mess, eyes red, but there’s some relief in her gaze as he puts the device on the sheets next to her and hits play.

It works. It fucking works. The babies slowly stop kicking, and she eventually falls asleep.

For just a moment, Chan sits on the edge of the bed and takes in the calm, soaks in the silence broken only by the track playing softly in the background. He rubs his eyes once, twice, clears the fog that obscured his vision.

Maybe he can do this. Maybe he can raise these two kids, even if he’s the only parent they have. Maybe there’s the tiniest fucking chance in the world that he can really be a good father, someone for his children to look up to and love. Maybe there’s a chance that he can really have this family.

Four months later, she gives birth to two healthy baby boys. Jisung is born first at 11:58 p.m. on September 14, while Yongbok comes next at 12:11 a.m. on September 15.

Chan holds them close as soon as he’s able, in awe of their tiny faces, their tiny limbs and tiny eyes.

How did he manage to create such life?

“Give them English names,” she says tiredly, her voice barely a whisper. She looks at them too, a bit sadly, with some care, but distantly. “They’re yours.”

A tinge of bitterness spikes in his chest, but it dissolves as he looks back into the faces of his two boys. She’s right. They are his. So he decides on Peter for the baby beginning to wake on his left arm, and Felix for the boy still sleeping soundly on his right.

She’s up and out of the hospital in a matter of days. A week later, she moves back into her parents’ home, leaving Chan standing in the doorway of their apartment, two babies in his arms.

“We’ll make it together,” he whispers, watching her car disappear down the street. “Together.”

Jisung makes a little gurgling sound. Felix scrunches his nose.

The tiniest of smiles slides across Chan’s face. Yes. They’ll make it together.

He takes a breath, then heads back inside.

If you enjoyed, please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

(1 reblog = 1 prayer for Chan, he’s going to need it :/)

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peaceoutofthepieces · 3 years

Text

you were my crown

chapter 1

Ao3

hi, I finally got tired of waiting. I’ll do my best to update weekly. hopefully you all enjoy :)

~^~

The rest of the kingdom woke before Jens.

He came to when a thick strip of sunlight was already streaming through the windows, further illuminating the already-sparkling gold tones of the room. The ends of the chandelier glittered at him from underneath the canopy at the bottom of his bed. His crown sat forebodingly at the foot. None of these rays woke him. It wasn’t the sight but the sounds, heavy, repetitive bangs on his door accompanied by a familiar voice.

“Rise and shine,” Senne de Smet shouted through the wood. “You have less than an hour to get your fancy gear on and eat before the boys get here. I’d recommend opening this door within the next five minutes unless you want cold breakfast.”

Jens groaned then let the complaint melt into a sigh as he burrowed further into his silk sheets. They had crept down along his arm overnight, slipping off his shoulder, and he resisted the urge to pull them back up to his chin and curl into the warmth. He had already closed his eyes again, head still drowsy and body still heavy, glittering dreams still holding him under. Vague images stuck with him, flashes of silver and blue, scars and swords, and he rubbed them away as he pushed himself up onto one hand. The muscles in his arm trembled under his weight, not yet having enough energy for the day, and it was this thought that finally drew him out of bed and towards the door.

He didn’t care much to cover himself, pulling the heavy mahogany doors open in just his sleep trousers. It didn’t matter that he was shivering in the autumn air, barefoot and bare-chested as he was. Senne’s threats always fell true, and Jens’s stomach wouldn’t forgive him for making it survive the day without a proper breakfast.

Senne was leaning against the far wall, and he grinned cheerfully as Jens peeked through the door. Much too cheerful for this time of day. He did hold, however, a steaming plate of food that contained a collection of Jens’s favourites, so he could possibly be forgiven. He slipped in past Jens and Jens followed with his nose in the air, the delicious scents wafting up with the smoke and instantly making his stomach rumble.

“I was worried I was going to have to barge in here again,” Senne said, still too lively as he plonked the breakfast plate down on the table a few feet from the foot of the bed.

Jens sighed but dropped into the head seat, slumping against the plush back with his head drooping forward. He rubbed at his eyes again and murmured, “Remind me why I never punished you for that.”

Senne shrugged. “Because you know you wouldn’t survive without me.” He stole an apple from the fruit bowl in the center of the table and tossed it into the air, catching it one-handed. “Otherwise, you’d be stuck with Sander.”

Jens tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “You make a good point. Why’s he not the one banging down my door?”

“He’s already leading drills. You let all your friends do the work for you while you’re all wrapped up in dreamland,” Senne teased, flicking the side of his head.

Jens was grateful when the older boy dropped into the adjacent chair at his right instead of leaving. “Don’t abuse me, I’m the Prince,” he muttered, collecting his fork and knife from next to the plate and beginning to prod at a sausage. “When are the others getting here?”

“Shouldn’t be long. They’re likely already on their way.”

Jens nodded, getting some food onto his fork and then staring at it. His stomach pleaded and protested at once. He couldn’t use the excuse that it was too early, but it was certainly too soon after waking.

Senne kicked him lightly under the table. “Eat your breakfast. With your schedule today you probably won’t get anything else until your dinner.”

That wasn’t unusual, and it also wasn’t what Jens wanted to hear. “You’re like an overbearing parent all on your own.”

“I’m only two years older than you,” Senne reminded him, fixing the cuffs of his blue tunic with apple still in hand. “It’s just also my job to look after you.”

“As my guard,” Jens muttered, “not my mother.”

Senne heaved out a sigh. “Sadly, I’m not lucky enough to be the queen, no.”

Jens snorted and didn’t bother with a reply. His breakfast was already getting hard to swallow, but depending on how the day would go, it could be the only meal he would have for a while. He could manage to shovel it down as long as he didn’t also have to try to speak. Senne didn’t seem bothered, lounging in his own chair and eating his apple, and Jens appreciated it. It was always nice, to have a sound outside of himself to break up the silence. Senne and Sander knew this, and often indulged him, but while Sander filled the space with chatter and teasing and on the most drastic occasions, music, Senne provided a more stoic presence. A silent but steady company. Jens appreciated it most in the mornings.

But even this couldn’t last forever.

Senne rose from his chair and rounded the table to chuck the remnants of his apple in the fireplace. Jens rolled his eyes but didn’t protest—even if it lay there long enough to smell, it would be ashes by the time Jens returned to his room tonight, and that was enough for him. Senne set a hand on his shoulder on the way past and squeezed. “I trust you can handle yourself from here?”

Jens hummed around another mouthful of food. “I’m good. Thanks.” He wasn’t, but he just had to scrape up the remnants of this meal and then he could join his friends, so maybe he was. Either way, Senne had better things to do than hang around and babysit him. He would be fine.

“Ah, he remembers some manners,” Senne teased, squeezing his shoulder once more before heading for the door. “Have fun and don’t die.”

It was, honestly, sound advice, and Senne’s tone wasn’t entirely teasing. Still, Jens huffed between bites and waved him off. A few seconds later he heard the heavy door fall shut. It took him considerably longer to get through the rest of his breakfast, each swallow seeming more difficult as his stomach started a protest. Eventually he managed to clear the plate, and then he took another minute to pour and down a cup of water.

He moved to his wardrobe and plucked out the first tunic within reach. There wasn’t much variety to pick from, anyway. (There was, but he wouldn’t have been caught dead in anything frilly, so it was slightly more limited. He also heavily favoured red. Exceptions were made for grey now and again.) Alongside the red tunic, he dug out one of dozens of pairs of black trousers. For now, he’d be allowed to dress himself. Depending on what his mother had planned for later in the day, this was subject to change.

For now, though, he was free, and finally on his way to the library.

This was not to do some—or any—reading. The library was reserved for members of the castle or invited guests only, and most members of the castle were not frequent visitors. Few of the knights had much interest in the dusty books on offer, and the majority of the servants preferred gossiping and get-togethers once they were free of their work. This meant that, most of the time, the library was relatively empty and easily taken over, and this was often what Jens and his friends did.

The library was quiet when he entered, as expected. It was already brightly lit through the long stained-glass windows, dust shimmering in the air as it fell from ancient texts. The books were endless, spreading out for what seemed like miles in every direction. Jens had gotten lost between the shelves as a child. There was, however, a wide open space in the center leading from the door right to a staircase at the back, which led up to an attic space Jens believed no one had entered in years and that was even dustier than down there. Various tables and sofas took up this section of the floor, mahogany and velvet creating a rich mix of red and brown.

On one of these sofas lounged Robbe Ijzermans, Jens’s best (and once only) friend.

He was spread across it with one leg kicked up along the cushions and a book open in his hands, seeming deeply immersed. He looked up, however, as Jens entered, and immediately grinned and snapped the book shut—after marking his place.

“You’re late,” he teased.

“I am perfectly on time. You’re early,” Jens retorted. “The others aren’t even here yet.”

Robbe waved a dismissive hand. “Well, I don’t have as far to travel.”

It was true that he didn’t, so much so that he might have been even closer to the library than Jens. There were not many residents of the castle who weren’t either of royal blood or a servant, but Robbe was an exception. He had lived here with his mother for as long as Jens could remember, as the woman was a long-time friend of the Queen’s and a previous Lady, until her Lord had up and vanished without a word. She had been distraught, and unable to look after her young son alone. Jens’s mother had taken them in on a rare act of love that no one had ever dared to question.

Jens didn’t care what the reasons were, only that it had given him Robbe. It made them almost more than friends—brothers in all but blood. A lot of the time Jens wished they shared the same lineage. Robbe would have made a much better successor to the throne. He was already treated like a Prince by the entire kingdom.

Robbe shifted to set both feet on the ground so Jens could sit next to him. He realised they were another mixture of those rich tones, blood and rust mingling as he slumped back and let their shoulders press. Robbe, like Jens, had a preference in colours and an aversion to frills.

“You can’t be tired when you’re likely only awake,” Robbe protested, but he didn’t push Jens away.

Jens let his head loll against the backrest and narrowed his eyes at his friend. “I ate breakfast. I dressed. I know I’m talented at many things, Robbe, but even I can’t do that in my sleep. Senne gave me a very kind wake-up call a while ago, don’t worry.”

Robbe huffed. “Senne is nice. You’re just whiny.”

Before Jens could protest, the door burst open again and permitted loud greetings.

Moyo Makadi entered with his arms spread, pushed along on a food trolley by Aaron Jacobs. Jens instantly covered his face with a hand, both to block out the sight of more food and Moyo’s cheeky wave. Moyo hopped off the cart and barely managed to help Aaron draw it to a stop before it crushed Jens and Robbe’s legs.

“Oops,” Moyo said. “Hello, you royal asses.”

Robbe snorted as Jens finally dropped his hand and rolled his eyes. He was unable to stop a smile, however, as Aaron immediately slipped in to gather him and Robbe in a hug. Moyo simply slapped hands with them both and dropped onto the closest free space, another lush sofa set at an angle to the one Jens and Robbe already occupied. Aaron settled next to him and they finally struck up a conversation.

“So, what flashy business is happening today that gathered us all here?” Moyo questioned, mock-intent as he rested his chin on his fist and raised his brows at Jens.

Jens shrugged. He wasn’t always kept in the loop regarding this information, himself. “A trial of some sort, I think.” It would, inevitably, cut this little get-together short, for him at least.

“I would love to be you,” Aaron pouted at Jens. “You get to know everything.”

Jens didn’t bother pointing out that this was far from the truth, as he in fact felt he knew very little. “You can take my place if you like,” he offered, shrugging.

Many would think him ungrateful, entitled, and maybe that is exactly what these thoughts made him, but he was really just tired. He was exhausted, constantly. He shouldn’t have been, considering he was literally served everything on a silver platter, and didn’t really have to work for anything as far as the outer world was concerned. Sitting on a throne as a pretty accessory was hardly effort, after all.

He thought maybe it was this that tired him. Monotony was supposed to be tiring, wasn’t it? He was tired from doing nothing while also doing everything. He was tired of being expected to do it with a regal aura he wasn’t sure he even had.

He might have also been tired of doing it alone.

“Are you giving away the place of Prince, now?” Moyo cocked a brow, then slapped his hands together. “I’ll gladly take any going positions.”

“You can take Jens’s and I’ll take Robbe’s,” Aaron agreed.

Robbe made a small sound of protest, sitting up straighter and removing the support under Jens’s shoulder, leaving him to tilt sideways and almost knock his face into Robbe’s back. “I didn’t offer any position. I’m perfectly content right where I am.”

“You basically live in your own castles anyway,” Jens pointed out. “But you don’t have to sit in and watch my mother judge some poor commoner.”

“Aww, Jens is just too soft.” Moyo poked his knee.

Jens rolled his eyes.

“Well, at least you don’t have to travel around in a carriage on an empty stomach to get here,” Aaron said, finally leaning forward to cast his gaze over the feast they’d brought with them.

Robbe huffed, amused, and settled back alongside Jens. “You can take your fill now. All of this is for the two of you. Jens and I already ate.”

“What?” Moyo blinked at them, then stared at the food, then at Aaron. “It’s just for you, then. I actually got up in time and already had my breakfast, too.”

Aaron’s eyes widened as he glanced between all of them and then back at the cart. He let out a long breath and patted his stomach. “Alright. We can do it.”

Jens snorted as Robbe burst into giggles and Moyo simply shook his head. Jens enjoyed these moments more than anything else, the ridiculous ones with his group of friends in which he could just be himself. He didn’t have to be polite or polished or princely. He didn’t have to be anything. He could just laugh without anyone looking at him in awe or judgment.

He really didn’t have to worry about these three being in awe of him.

Moyo turned to him with a wrinkled brow, breaching the gap between them to poke him in the stomach. “It’s probably a good thing you’re opting out, you’re getting a little soft there.”

Jens batted him away. “So what if I am?”

“Don’t they have you on some strict, fancy diet and a training regime? Thought they didn’t want a pudgy Prince.”

Jens crossed his arms over his stomach and scowled.

Robbe made a small noise of protest next to him. “Jens would be basically skin and bones by your standards. I’d rather see him soften up than fade away.” He nudged Jens teasingly, but gave Moyo another pointed look.

Moyo’s expression gentled. “He knows I’m kidding. I just think it’s crazy, some of the expectations like that they have of you. I couldn’t be a knight, either.”

“Sander loves being a knight,” Robbe pointed out.

“Doesn’t Sander just love everything, though?” Aaron asked. He had a smear on his chin from some sort of sauce, even though Jens couldn’t spot any amidst the array of food.

“He loves being a pain in my ass,” Jens muttered. Sander Driesen was a nuisance more than a knight, a member of his personal guard, and one of his best friends. He was the same age as Senne, just two years older than the group of them, and still he appeared younger. Jens could speak about (tease) Sander in a manner that didn’t feel quite as appropriate with Senne.

“Maybe,” Robbe acquiesced, grinning over at him. “But at least you know it’s with love.”

“Well, who doesn’t love our dear Royal Highness,” Moyo teased.

Aaron took another chunk of food. “And his royal heinie.”

Robbe choked on his breath. Moyo, however, immediately started cackling, and Aaron joined in once Jens flipped them off. Eventually, Robbe’s giggles joined the fray, and this was eventually what roped Jens into letting out a quiet laugh of his own. They were too much, sometimes, but he thought he quite liked it that way.

The door burst open once more to permit a fluffy cloud of white hair. Sander poked his head in and raised his brows at all of them, lips twitching slightly in response to their laughter. Jens gave him a little wave and he strode into the room, still fully decked out in his chainmail with a navy cloak wrapped around his shoulders.

“Ahh, there he is,” Moyo grinned. “The skinniest knight in the land.”

Sander pulled a face and flipped him off. “I can be skinny and still know how to skin you.”

Moyo’s brows rose, but he quietened, sinking back in his seat with raised hands.

“I’m guessing you’ve come to whisk me away?” Jens sighed.

“Afraid so. I’ve been waiting all morning to come sweep you off your feet,” Sander said, hand placed mockingly over his heart as he smirked. “I almost challenged Senne to a duel to get to your chambers.”

Jens rolled his eyes skyward.

Robbe giggled, and Sander narrowed in on him and finally softened, as he usually did. It was little secret that most of the fellow castle members favoured Robbe, and that Sander in particular had a soft spot for his doe eyes. Robbe was the reason he was here, after all.

Sander rounded the food trolley and sat on the arm of the sofa next to Robbe, ruffling a hand through his curls. Robbe would have smacked any of them away, but he leaned into Sander like a cat. “I hope you’re not letting these ones corrupt you.”

“You’re hardly a stellar role model yourself,” Robbe drawled, gently teasing.

The hand Sander placed over his heart seemed slightly less mocking, but his pout twitched towards a smirk. “You wound me, dear Robin.”

“They don’t need me immediately, do they?” Jens attempted to draw Sander’s attention back.

Sander shrugged. “I was told to fetch you so you could be properly dressed,” he announced, overly amused.

Jens groaned and slumped down in his seat as Moyo laughed again.

|*~^~*|

Ow. Cinched too tight around the waist. Again. Cutting into his throat. He let out a slight grunt and the maid handling his ties and buttons mumbled an apology, still avoiding his eyes.

“It’s alright,” Jens reassured her. He thought her name might be Lisa, but he wasn’t sure, and he refused to use it only to be wrong. “It’s not you, just these clothes. I don’t see the need for them, in any case. Do you?”

Lisa paused for a moment and considered him, actually thinking through her answer. “I think they’re nice, Sire.”

Jens blinked. She was complimenting him, he thought, but she was also disagreeing with him. Not to a large extent, of course, and the good certainly outweighed the bad, but that didn’t make it any less unusual. Most of the servants just smiled and nodded and furtively agreed with anything he said. Robbe and the boys were different, as well as some of his knights, but outside that small circle, Jens rarely garnered any honest conversation or genuine opinions. It was refreshing.

“They do look quite uncomfortable, though,” she commented, and he deflated slightly. “But at least it’s not a dress. The Princesses take a lot longer.”

This startled a pleased laugh out of Jens. “I can imagine. What with Lotte being barely twelve and Lies being so demanding.”

“I wish that Lotte was going to remain that age and never require any awkward clothing,” Lisa admitted, turning away to run her hand over Jens’s heavy cloak. She looked back at him curiously. “It’s a while yet to the meeting. Would you rather wait to wear this?”

Jens waved her off. “Sure. I’ll manage it myself, I’m sure. Thank you.”

Lisa offered a small bow, as well as the hint of a smile when Jens grinned at her. She took her leave without any further fuss and let the heavy door fall shut behind her, leaving Jens once again alone in his silent chambers. He almost wished Sander had stuck around, but Sander had been starving and Jens was the one who told him to go and find himself an early lunch. He wished he could have spent more time with the boys, as well, considering now he would simply have to wait—just in a bit more discomfort than before.

He cast a glance at himself in the mirror. At least, he thought, he was still wearing red. The padded jacket hung low on his wrists and was clasped with a belt at the waist, with the collar obscuring most of his throat. It was well fitting and of a soft material and really, it wouldn’t be so bad if he was more used to it. It just felt a little too restraining. Had he actually put on a little weight?

He tugged at the collar, skin underneath beginning to itch uncomfortably. Eventually he gave in and unbuttoned the top of the garment, taking a deep breath and finally swallowing without feeling like he was being choked. He didn’t think it looked any worse, or less professional, but then again he was never the best judge. He’d once tried to convince his mother that their family taking up a more casual style would only earn them more respect from their people, and help put them all on the same level. She had disagreed.

His door opened without any forewarning, which meant it had to be a member of his family. He turned around to see Lotte racing towards his bed, throwing herself on it amidst his protests. Her giggle floated out into the room and Jens groaned slightly, but the roll of his eyes was fond. He glanced back at the mirror and checked himself over once more, fiddling with that top button, before he let his hands drop and turned to his youngest sister.

“What are you doing in here? You know there’s a meeting soon,” he berated, only to huff in amusement when she narrowed her eyes at him. “I won’t be able to spend much time with you.”

She considered him for another moment, then simply shrugged. “I know. But I’m bored. I like whatever time I get.”

Jens softened. He knew that, in some ways, it was even harder for Lotte than it was for him. He had Robbe and the boys, and Senne and Sander, who were not only his people and his guard but his friends. Many of the people who worked in the castle were his age or thereabouts.

Lotte didn’t have the same luxury.

He went to join her on the bed, ignoring the alarms in his head warning him of creased clothes as he flopped down beside her. “Okay.” He smiled over at her and gave her a nudge. “I always have time for you.”

The girl returned his smile, but it quickly faltered. “Unlike Lies,” she muttered, picking mournfully at her fingernails.

Jens grasped her small hands in one of his to stop the motion. “She doesn’t mean to brush you off, you know. She is just busy, too.”

“Not as busy as you and you make an exception.”

He supposed this was a fair point. He also supposed sisters of twelve and twenty might not have all that much in common, but they were a special case. The three of them had almost everything in common. “Have you really tried to get her to spend time with you?”

Lotte hesitated. “Not really.”

“Would you like me to mention something to her?”

“No, that’s embarrassing.”

“It won’t be. I’ll be subtle.”

“But you’re awful at that, Jens.”

“Excuse me?” Jens sat up, affronted. “I am excellent at subtlety. It’s a big part of my job.”

Lotte seemed dubious. “How? You don’t actually do much.”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean with the people,” Lotte specified, blushing slightly even as she tried and failed to hide her amusement. “You don’t get many opportunities to practice subtlety. Neither do I.”

“Clearly,” Jens quipped.

Another giggle erupted, and Jens couldn’t fight back his smile. He had his friends and his family. Lotte had always looked up to him and he had always adored her—they were as close as a brother and sister eight years apart in age could be. He and Lies were close, too, though they were also, obviously, much closer in age and more likely to match up to each other’s taunts. But Lies had always been Lotte’s favourite. The two had been thick as thieves almost since Lotte’s birth, but recently Lies had been sucked into her own position in the castle. She wasn’t subject to as much nonsense as Jens, but she had her own fair share of business and responsibilities. She had also simply grown up.

But Lotte was still growing up with them, and Jens wouldn’t just let her be left behind.

“It doesn’t matter if I’m subtle,” he said. “Lies will make an effort if she knows you miss her. You know how much she loves you.”

Lotte hugged one of his many pillows against her chest and didn’t look at him. “It’s different now, though.”

“No. You’re our sister and that will never change. Okay?”

Before Lotte could respond, a harsh rap on the door interrupted their moment. Jens closed his eyes briefly, already guessing who it was. The door swinging up with no further warning confirmed his assumption.

“Well, now you’re just being difficult,” Sander said, exasperated. “I did not drag you back here early so you could get some more sleep.”

Jens groaned and tugged the pillow out of Lotte’s grasp to cover his own face with it.

Lotte giggled, and Sander finally took notice of her. His lips instantly split in a smile, and he took a deep bow, which only made Lotte’s laughter louder. “Pardon me, Princess. I hope you know I never intended to lay on you the same disgrace as your brother.”

“Of course not,” Lotte said, ever at ease as she bounded over Jens and towards Sander, letting him place the usual kiss on her hand. “You’re only doing your job right, and I am sure he deserves it.”

“I thought,” Jens interrupted loudly, “that we were supposed to stick together. I am only here because of you in the first place, but I see you’re not yet old enough to know better than to fall for his charm.”

Lotte stuck her tongue out at him, which might have proved his point. “You are just jealous Sander is better at it than you. Enjoy your meeting.” She gave him a wave and a smile before slipping away, and Jens watched after her, hoping above everything that she wouldn’t get old enough too quickly.

Sander also smiled fondly after her, but grew stern once he returned to Jens’s gaze. He placed his hands on his hips and sighed. “Your mother is going to have me in the stocks one of these days, and then I will teach you how that works in our next training session.”

Jens snorted. “I would like to see you try.”

|*~^~*|

He hated sitting in for Court. It was less about the ‘criminals’ and more about the royals, the endless lines of knights and Lords and servants, eager to witness another fool. He didn’t care much for fools, but he cared even less to laugh at them. It soothed him only slightly that Sander and Senne were visible near the front of the room.

He cared least for his formal attire. He was overheating in his jacket, once again delicately buttoned up to the throat, the collar digging into his skin. He’d tried leaving the top hanging open, and it had hardly taken a second for his mother to give him a sharp glance, nodding to a maid that had hastily run to button it back up. He was left to sit and suffocate.

His mother was seated next to him, as regal as ever in her throne. Her fitted dress was a deep burgundy, multiple shades darker than her son’s jacket, and her hair was pinned up neatly with her crown placed carefully atop it. She hadn’t paid attention to Jens, bar the instance with the clothing ‘mishap’. Instead she was talking quietly to Senne’s father, who also happened to be the head knight, or Commander. Jens didn’t know him well, and the man never seemed to give him much thought. Which was fair, he supposed, as he was obviously of less importance, and the position and size—a little behind and a lot smaller—of his own throne in comparison to his mother’s was a good reminder. This meant he was left alone as they waited for whatever poor soul was being charged to make their way to the throne.

For some reason, he wasn’t expecting the poor soul to be a boy roughly his age with scruffy hair and striking blue eyes set in a delicate face.

Jens straightened subtly in his chair, placed to the right side of his mother’s throne, and met the boy’s eyes for half a second.

His mother ordered a sharp, “Kneel.”

Before the boy could comply, one of the guards that had escorted him set a heavy hand on his shoulder and forced him down, making him land on the stone floor in a manner that left Jens’s own knees aching in sympathy. The boy simply caught his breath and held his chin high, looking straight at them and through, his jaw clenched.

Jens drummed his fingers on his knee in interest.

The same guard gave the boy’s head a forceful shove. Jens thought he might have been one of the Berg children, though of the four brothers there were in that family, he couldn’t distinguish this one. He could see, however, that the guard must have been twice the boy’s size in bulk. “Speak your name to the Court.”

The boy took a breath as some of his masqueraded confidence slipped. “Lucas. Lucas van der Heijden.”

Jens licked his lips, cataloguing the sound of his voice, the way his mouth parted for an instant before the actual sound escaped. The name rumbled deeply around the room and seeped into the walls, encased in the brick in case it would otherwise be lost.

Jens’s job was to watch, to note, and to only give judgement if asked. It often didn’t take him long to form conclusions. His conclusion of Lucas van der Heijden was that he seemed, at once, nothing and everything like a criminal.

He was young, and clean cut, though his clothes were a tad too tight and an inch too short on his ankles, fraying at the hems. There was a smudge of dirt on his cheek, a familiar sandy mixture that Jens had seen on all hostages of the castle cells. It was impossible to tell how long he had been kept in them—Jens was rarely offered such information. There was an innocence to his youth but a confidence in his posture. His eyes held a pleading light and a resolute film. Whatever his crime in regards to the crown, he held a loyalty to someone.

“State his crimes,” the Queen requested. She had abandoned any attention towards the Commander, though he remained by her side. She was looking at the boy with a cool intent that surprised Jens.

The opposite guard, whom Jens failed to recall a name for, stared straight ahead as he spoke up. “Thievery and dishonor to the Court, Your Majesty.”

Jens could barely hold back a snort. He relaxed slightly. There was rarely a severe punishment for a loaf of bread. The scene before him suddenly made more sense.

His mother’s tone, however, was unusually steely. “Thievery of what?”

“Sir Viktor’s sword, Your Majesty.”

Jens blinked. A rumble of interest spread through the Court. That was something of a surprise. Jens was suddenly paying more attention.

Lucas’s jaw tightened and he gave a minuscule shake of his head, so much so that Jens was sure he was the only one to notice.

The Queen didn’t seem quite as intrigued, which meant she had already known. “And what, boy, do you want with a sword?”

“I didn’t steal it.” Lucas spoke through gritted teeth, but his gaze didn’t waver. “I’ve never even seen the sword before.”

“It was found under his bed, Your Majesty, free of its sheath. Sir Viktor had been missing it for a full day before organising a search.”

Jens barely resisted rolling his eyes. If Viktor had been missing it that long, he was almost in need of a punishment himself. He’d known Viktor Deruwe, Senne’s brother, for only over a year, becoming acquainted with him long after he’d already met Senne. Senne’s loyalty and honour, that Jens had become easily familiar with during the man’s service in his personal guard, did not seem to emanate as clearly from his brother. Jens had received only a few pleasures of his presence, and pinned his discomfort down to this unfamiliarity. As he watched Lucas’s expression tighten further, however, there was something that didn’t sit quite right with him.

The feeling only strengthened as the Queen raised her head and stared Lucas down. “You’d do best to not add dishonesty to your list, Mr van der Heijden. The proof sits against you. If you claim not to have stolen it, how do you suppose it ended up with you?”

Lucas swallowed. For a tiny second, his gaze flitted over to the crowd on his left. Jens followed his gaze and found nothing that stood out, other than his own friends. Senne was watching Lucas intently, and with mild surprise, though he did not appear angered on his brother’s behalf. Sander was flicking cautious glances at him anyway.

“I didn’t steal anything,” Lucas repeated. “I’m an artist. I have no reason for a sword.”

“And yet,” the Queen said lightly, “there was one so close to you. Are you able to explain that?”

Jens came to the realisation too late, after noticing the hard lines of his mother’s frown and the steel underlining the easiness of her voice. This wasn’t a trial—this was merely the sentencing.

“Someone else must have placed it there,” Lucas said, just as light, with just as much steel underneath.

“I’m sorry, Mr van der Heijden, truly, but the evidence against you is not something I can simply dismiss as a wrong guess. Do you have proof, of anyone else who may have had access to your quarters? Even so much as a theory.”

“It’s not hard,” Lucas laughed slightly, “to access my quarters. From the way your guards stormed my home yesterday without so much as a knock as a notice, that seems fairly clear.”

Jens raised his brows as the Queen lowered hers. “You’d do well not to speak out of turn, boy. Evidently, my guards had every right to rip your home to shreds if they so pleased.”

Jens looked at her in surprise. He knew his mother held a firm and stern rule, but she had never shown herself to be cruel. Jens would never have expected her to so openly disregard the rights and welfare of her people. He supposed Lucas was good at pushing buttons, and he’d somehow managed to hit a number of her’s throughout their short interaction. Jens glanced over Lucas again, his curls scattered and shoulders straight, and felt a stab of worry in his stomach.

Help yourself, Jens silently urged. Try to win her over. Don’t make it worse.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty.” Lucas seemed to force the words out, dragging them from himself as if he was being made to pull his own teeth. “My mother—I take care of her. I worried that she would have been harmed in the fray.”

Jens watched his own mother soften slightly before regaining her resolve. “While that’s admirable of you, it doesn’t truly explain your resistance. Your lies, Mr van der Heijden, may only lead to further searches of your home in an attempt to confirm either your guilt or your innocence. Would you not, in that case, rather save your mother the trouble?”

Jens swiveled his gaze back to Lucas, watching the low blow hit, cataloguing the way the boy’s own resolve crumbled.

Then he straightened, undeterred by the hand still tightly clasped on his shoulder. “My mother has no involvement, because neither do I. I’m not lying. I stole nothing.”

The Queen regarded him for another long moment, as did Jens. Then she released a heavy sigh. “I was hoping that your cooperation would provide an option for leniency. A true explanation may have lightened your sentence, but the proof against you is overwhelming.”

Jens’s brow furrowed. He wasn’t quite sure he agreed, but he was only meant to give his opinion if he was asked. He didn’t think his mother much cared what he thought, most times, but especially now.

“I cannot believe that you are free of intent to threaten the crown, due to the unusual action of your crime. I fear I have no choice.” She stood from her throne and stepped down from the dais, looming over Lucas in her heavy red robes and shimmering crown. “Lucas van der Heijden, for the charges of thievery and dishonor to the throne, I find you guilty and sentence you to death.”

The murmur this time was of a much more extensive volume, but it wasn’t quite enough to drown out Jens’s incredulous burst of laughter.

All eyes turned to him, and he felt his shoulders stiffen. Lucas’s gaze was most prominent, evidently confused, with eyes wide and disbelieving. His mother’s were equally surprised, though underlaid with anger.

Definitely not supposed to be voicing his opinion today, then.

Jens did his best to ignore his discomfort under the attention and keep a princely smile on his face. “Since when do we sentence death without proof? Now you wish it upon one of your younger subjects for the kidnapping of a sword that wasn’t even put to use?”

The murmur that he’d silenced picked up again, and his mother raised an unimpressed brow at him. “The proof has been presented to you as it has been presented to me. Are you aware of evidence we are not?”

“I’m aware that there is a possibility, however slim, that he is telling the truth. Even if he had stolen it and intended to put it to use, the sword has been retrieved. He presents no real immediate threat. If anything, I believe he would have committed the crime as a scared boy with family he wishes to protect. Surely that is something any of us can understand. He may be deserving of punishment, yes, but death?”

The room had fallen into utter silence. Jens didn’t dare look at any of the Court members, but he chanced a glance at Lucas. The other boy was staring back at him, with all surprise now wiped from his face. He wore a carefully constructed blank expression, that didn’t break as Jens looked back at him.

Jens didn’t know why he felt such a strong urge to save him. But now that he’d started, he couldn’t bring his own argument to an end.

“So what else do you suggest?” His mother asked this at length, unwillingly.

He shouldn’t have spoken out. It wasn’t his place. It wasn’t good for her, he knew, to have her rule questioned in public by her own son. But he’d argued without thinking, looking at Lucas and feeling an inexplicable need to stand up for him. To protect.

“It’s his loyalty in question, is it not?” Jens raised a brow and waited for her nod. “So let him prove it. I’m sure someone youthful and strong could have a place serving the Court.”

The murmur picked up again. Jens resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Instead he skipped over all the incredulous looks to find his friends, and was assured to have Sander and Senne watching on with surprise but approval. Sander cocked a brow at him, as if impressed, while Senne merely nodded his encouragement.

His mother stared at him. “Your suggestion is to allow him a position in the castle?”

“He couldn’t be placed under more watch,” Jens said simply. “I would rather test someone’s loyalty and perhaps gain a better bond than let a life go to waste.”

This murmur sounded somewhat agreeable, though it was silenced the second the Queen raised her hand. “There are no positions in the Court up for offer, and I cannot possibly gift a thief the sword he’d stolen.”

Jens didn’t even pause to think. “I don’t have a personal servant.”

There was, surprisingly, no murmur. The room was eerily quiet as Jens and his mother stared each other down and Lucas flitted his gaze between them.

It was not a lie, and was perhaps even the reason he had been doing this. He was tired of fussy maids lacing his shirts and buttoning his coats and buckling his cuffs. His sisters both had maid-servants, while Jens was left with an array of strangers carrying out various duties, never even able to become familiar with faces as they avoided contact and conversation at all costs. He did his best to be amicable with the castle staff, to form relationships, to form bonds. But aside from the few close friends he saw only on occasion (and even they were sons of various Lords in various agreements with his mother), and a few chosen guards, Jens spent most of his time alone.

He wouldn’t have minded someone like Lucas by his side. Someone his age, who wasn’t afraid to look him in the eye.

“You wish to risk letting a criminal become your personal servant? You would trust him to be so close to you?”

Jens let his mother stare disapprovingly at him before shifting his gaze to Lucas. They considered each other, concrete met with intrigue, before Jens gave a simple shrug. “I would.” He saw Lucas shake his head slightly in disbelief, and only became more sure. He turned back to his mother and kept his expression and tone firm. “It’s my risk to take, and I believe there isn’t much risk to it. If I am wrong, then I should get what’s coming to me.”

A few of the guards gave a quiet titter in acceptance, and he watched as his mother looked at a spot in the crowd for a lengthy moment.

Then she was nodding her acceptance.

She looked down upon Lucas. “Very well. You will have a guard assigned to you that will accompany you on any outings, alone or with the Prince. While you are in his service, there will be guards stationed at his door and extra security provided throughout the castle. It is only as a sign of trust towards my son that you are being given leniency. You should be grateful to him that you are leaving here with your life.” She looked to the guard on his left, the one that had spoken calmly to them without laying a finger on Lucas. “Take him and remain with him until the new measures I eventually decide upon are fully put in place.” She then turned to the room at large and raised her voice to address them all. “You are dismissed.”

Lucas listened to her silently, and remained wordless as Berg yanked him to his feet. Jens watched on until his mother spoke up again.

“Jens, you are to accompany him now. If he is not to be trusted from the beginning then he is not to be trusted without his apparent savior. You are also dismissed,” she said. “Though you will be meeting me again later to discuss this decision further.”

Jens bit back a sigh and rose to his feet. The intrigue spiraling up in him was quickly turning to elation. He felt that he had been entirely right to speak up and to continue to stand his ground, and it was a thrilling realisation that he could. It had even been easy, to earn the support of his mother and the Court, in what at first seemed to be an unshakable stance.

As he made his way down the dais and met Lucas’s stony gaze, however, he considered that it may not be as simple as he thought.

#van der stoffels #vds #wtfock #skam nl #prince!jens au #vds royalty au #my fics

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digitalworldbound · 3 years

Text

unexpected

pairing: takeru x hikari (college age)

summary: She had been ignoring the symptoms for weeks. Even now, as Hikari dry heaved into the toilet bowl, there was a logical explanation.

author's note: slight cursing and adult themes

She had been ignoring the symptoms for weeks. When her blouse fit snugly around her chest, she chastised herself for putting it in the dryer. Miso soup had always been one of her favorites, so she disregarded her brother’s raised eyebrows as she went back for seconds, and later, thirds.

Even now, as Hikari dry heaved into the toilet bowl, there was a logical explanation. The few Smirnoff’s she had been able to stomach swirled away. A pitiful groan escaped her lips; she hated to waste food. Heavy bass thumped from outside the door, Mimi’s “little get together” in full swing. Initially, Hikari had been happy to escape into the bathroom. Twelve fully-grown bodies practically filled the small apartment to capacity. The taste of sweat and alcohol lingered in the air, the heat sweltering.

“Hey, you good in there?” Takeru’s voice called out. Her headache thumped in time with the music. Oh god, it’s Takeru. The bile in her stomach swirled with dread; he of all people would see right through her. Hikari didn’t trust herself to speak, opting to flush the toilet again. Quickly, she washed her hands and splashed her face with cool water, washing all the evidence of her escapade down the drain. The thought of facing him made her stomach clench harder.

“Yeah, I’m fine! Just had to use the bathroom.” With the door open, the air was more stifling than before; she was smothering. Hikari put on her best smile and willed herself to act more drunk than she was. Perhaps even under Takeru’s trained eyes she would appear more like the reckless college students she was supposed to be.

He just laughed and guided her back to the epicenter of the party. Takeru’s arm was tight against her waist, pulling her body closer to his. Hikari didn’t miss the way his eyebrows knit together in worry. He knew something was up, but would wait until they were alone. She did her best to detangle herself and get lost in the music, to giggle with Miyako and dance with Sora. Every time her eyes would catch Takeru’s, she would feel nausea burn in her throat.

Three days after her expected period, Hikari fingers turned white around her cellphone.

“Miyako.” It was not a greeting so much as a demand. Her face was wet with shame, the tears scorching her cheeks on their descent. “Please.”

Takeru’s schedule blessed Hikari with a day to herself in their miniscule apartment. They had long ago given up any pretense of sleeping in separate rooms, their clothes, sheets, bodies mingling together. Traces of him lingered everywhere. Hikari’s amber eyes were unfocused around his toothbrush when Miyako found her.

Her face had a healthy flush, bangs sticking to the perspiration on her forehead. “You know, I ran all the way here. The least you could have done was open the front door.” Crinkly plastic was ensnared in her hands, the bag hanging limp.

Despite the gusto Miyako brought to every social interaction, the only thing to draw Hikari from her stupor was the shiny red logo that dangled from Miyako’s fingers.

“Does your family know?” Her voice was hoarse in the aftermath of her suspicion. The thought of her friend buying something so grotesque from her family’s store nearly sent Hikari back over the rim of the toilet.

Miyako had to bite back her laugher. “Of all the things to be worried about, this is what you choose?” Hikari narrowed her eyes, their puffiness and red rims diminishing their intended effect. “If you must know,” Miyako continued, sinking onto her knees beside the brunette, “My sister and I have a no-questions policy. I don’t ask where she sneaks off to at night, and she doesn’t ask why I buy pregnancy tests at noon on a Tuesday.”

If the logo didn’t set Hikari off, the sheer magnitude of the situation did. Her lunch had already been flushed down the drain, bile burning her throat. “Damn, you really are sick. How long has this been going on?”

The older girl ran her hand down Hikari’s rumpled shirt. Once her trembling hands flushed the remnants of her stomach, she listlessly held up two fingers. Loose strands of her bangs shielded her eyes from Miyako, shame deepening the blush on her cheeks.

“I remember being twelve and our only concern being the flavor of lip gloss we wore. When did everything get so messy?” Hikari’s voice broke, forehead leaning against the toilet rim. She could feel herself shrinking against Miyako’s scrutinizing gaze. She let the silence settle, leaning against the bathroom cabinets. “Hikari, growing up is the messiest thing I’ve ever done.”

Hikari's tears were hot and raw, dripping off her chin. Her laughs were shallow, shoulders trembling in the effort to hold herself together. Slowly, as if Hikari was a dove, Miyako wrapped her arms across her middle. She gently tucked her frail frame into her chest, murmuring hollow encouragements into her ear. Miyako let Hikari soak her shoulder in tears, allowing herself to be baptized in her best friend’s pain. There was nothing she could say to make this better, no evil monster she could destroy to make this all go away.

Miyako’s knees grew numb against the linoleum, the plastic bag discarded beside her. A glance at her watch told her that Takeru would be home soon.

Her heart ached at the sight of Hikari. She laid limp in Miyako’s arms, lips swollen and eyes puffy. There was nothing she could do. “Hikari, it’s time.” Her words seemed to stir the girl into action. As Miyako pried the box open and read the instructions out loud, Hikari splashed her face with cool water. Silently, she prayed to whichever deity would hear her case. Please, let it be negative.

“I’ll be right outside if you need anything.” Miyako gripped her shoulders lightly, bending her neck down to meet her eyes. Hikari gripped the plastic handle with a ferocity the rivaled Daisuke’s. Wordlessly, she shut the door to the bathroom.

Once she was finished, the test laid discarded on the lid of the waste bin.

Three minutes.

Hikari’s earliest memory was of her brother. Their parents had been away at work, entrusting Taichi to take care of the both of them. He was practically a baby, barely able to reach the countertops in the kitchen. They decorated the walls in their bedroom with markers, childish dragons and princesses stretching across the baseboards.

Hikari was only nineteen, more of a baby now than she ever had been.

Two minutes.

She was fourteen the first time Takeru made her blush. It was innocent, mere child’s play compared to the predicament she was in now. They had been walking home together, chatting mindlessly about anything and nothing and all things in between. She remembered the way that the late afternoon sunlight reflected in his golden locks, an ethereal halo highlighting his rosy cheeks. Hikari had never seen him like that, beautiful and raw with a smile just for her.

How had things gotten so out of control?

One minute.

No, that was wrong. Hikari’s love for Takeru could not be construed into anything negative. Their love was pure and all consuming, stretching into every aspect of their lives. It was in the way she leaned into him whenever he was near, unconsciously seeking his comfort. Their love gathered itself in the clothes Takeru meticulously folded the way Hikari taught him when they had just moved in, all those months ago. This love – gentle, warm, and pure - could never be out of control.

But it could have consequences.

Thirty seconds.

Her stomach clenched. This couldn’t be happening. Hikari had given up her childhood to save the world; she didn’t deserve this. The universe was constantly bending her to its will, no matter how cruel the circumstances. She had tried to take control of her own destiny, enrolling into college with dreams of becoming a teacher. How could she expect herself to teach children when she had so much left to learn? And Takeru? Would he have to give up his dreams for her? For them?

Positive

If Hikari were a dove, her wings had been clipped.

#takari #digimon #digimon drabble #takeru takaishi #hikari yagami

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hufflepuffhollander · 3 years

Text

fire and gasoline (mob!tom series) ch. 1: new vendetta

a/n | wooo buckle in this is a wild ride 😼 and pls share w the world! i’m proud of this one!

synopsis | Your family runs a sect of the british mafia. Tom Holland is the son of the mob leader in your rival gang. You’ve been groomed to be at each other’s throats for as long as you can remember, and a chance run-in after over a decade of feuding and secrecy has you questioning everything you thought you knew.

cw | mob!tom au. enemies to lovers. language, angst, death threats, objectification, sexual tension, and lots of spit. 3.1k words.

read the prologue, join the taglist :)

Roxy’s was your spot- it always had been. The dark alleyway entrance, the smoky air inside that concealed who you truly were, the faceless regulars that just knew to leave you be- it was everything you could want in a local bar. So, instead of somewhere a little cheerier, you chose here; instead of a glimmering club with strobe effects to blind you and music loud enough to burst your eardrums, you decided to spend your birthday where you knew you could melt into the blackness of the night and live mess-free, even if it was just for a few hours.

You had just gotten your second round of drinks with a few friends, your heels clicking from across the room as you wandered over to your table with freshly topped off shot glasses. A brand new, skin-tight black dress paired with electric blue heels adorned you, and the birthday glow radiating across your skin had you looking and feeling like absolutely nothing could bring you down. You were celebrating, you had just landed a major deal with a supplier to your casino; and better yet, you hadn’t heard from the Hollands in weeks. Since their failed attempt at taking out your father during a high-profile event, they had been lying low, full of shame. A recent victory for your family in the never-ending turf war with the Hollands? Not a single mention of Dom or Nikki thwarting your plans in days? Well, that was the best birthday present a girl could ask for.

You barely had time to feel the gin roll down your throat before the bar door was shoved open, bells tied in a knot overhead chiming ominously as it felt like a tornado had blown in. The room fell quiet, the punkish music on repeat seeming to mute itself. Even the smoke moving through the air was put on pause. Everyone was eyeballing the doorway, where two heavily armed young men stood rigidly; right behind them, a pale, muscular boy with the scent of his own ego radiating off him, a slick smile painted across his face. Every part of your body suddenly felt ice cold.

The boy took off his glasses, the sheer notion that he was wearing wayfarers at night making you groan, and coated the room with his gaze until it landed—and stayed—on you. You tried to avert your attention but couldn’t, as a wave of realization fell over you when he made eye contact. You knew this fuckwad. It was Tom Holland- the son of your rival mob, the boy your father always told you to imagine a target was when learning to sharpshoot...the one who had orchestrated the failed assassination of your dad. Your belly filled with a white-hot fire at the audacity he had to show his face here. Who did he think he was? What the hell was he doing on the East side? And did he know he had just walked into his own execution?

You would’ve seen it through, too, had he not been about to strike you square in the face with a curveball.

“We’re closed.” you heard Roxy spit out, not even bothering to look at the boys as she dried a glass.

“Doesn’t seem like it, babe,” Tom sneered, flashing her an insincere smile and focusing his attention back on you. “And anyway, we aren’t staying; I just came here with a message for the birthday girl.”

You fantasized about a knife appearing on the table in front of you so you could slice the little bitch to shreds for even daring to acknowledge you. But no such luck.

Tom whisked past the bar front, taking his time to saunter over towards your booth. You had bribed your security guard to let you take the night off- he was only there because of your dad’s doing, so he could breathe easier when you were out of his sight. But you hated feeling like a little kid needing to be babysat, especially tonight, when you were turning a year older, and paid him off to get doped up with a friend instead of coming with you. You were kicking yourself for that decision now, watching Tom come up to you without a hint of fear in his dark, shimmering eyes.

You hadn’t seen him since you were kids, when you had told everyone you were getting married to the cute boy you played with and exchanged candy rings with him in your backyard.

“My my, what an impressive array of barbies,” Tom laughed as he stopped in front of your table, swiping his tongue across his teeth. “any of you pretty things looking to blow this joint?”

Your few friends looked simultaneously revolted and terrified, and you knew they lived their lives too sugarcoated to witness the interaction you were about to have.

“Girls, you should leave,” you said, giving them a concerned stare, and it took them less than a second to get up and bolt. Some real friends you had.

You tried to remain composed as you turned your attention to Tom, syllables seething through your gritted teeth. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing here?”

“Aww, baby, that’s no way to greet an old friend, is it? ‘Coulda least let me wish you a happy birthday,” he sat down on the bench across from you, making you recoil into your seat. “I even have a candle you can blow, if you like.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, asshole.”

“Well someone just isn’t feeling very sentimental, hmm? You remember all those years ago, playing hide and go seek in your mansion, holding hands under the dinner table...I think I remember you having it pretty bad for me back then-”

“You must have a death wish, huh?” you cut him off, standing up and advancing towards him, but taking a step back as he stood up to meet you and towered over you menacingly. He smelled like cigar smoke and cherry aftershave and it clouded your thoughts. You’d always said you’d kill him if he ever got this close to you. Why were you faltering now when it mattered most? Your heart couldn’t keep up with your head.

“No, doll. Not tonight, and definitely not in a place like this. But I gotta admit, I was not expecting you to look so fucking good after all these years. Pop had me believing you were some kind of ugly recluse. Makes it extra difficult for me to tell you to give daddy a call before your birthday is over,” his eyes hungrily flicked over you in your dress, making your blood boil. “y’know, tell him you love him.”

“The hell are you talking about?” you reached for your purse where your pistol was lodged, but felt a cold piece of metal touch the back of your head, halting your movements.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” said minion #1, standing behind you with the barrel of his gun nestled into your curled hair. You swallowed nervously and felt your heart rate skyrocket. The bar seemed to have emptied out; it was just you, Tom, and the promise of death caressing your scalp, and you had nowhere to go.

“Hey, now, Harrison, there’s no need for that! y/n and I go way back,” Tom said, motioning for his friend to lower the weapon. Deeply buried flashbacks of child you linked arm in arm with child Tom flicked through your mind, memories you had suppressed long ago.

“Love,” Tom started, advancing towards you again, leaving you nowhere to go if you didn’t want gun grease staining your head. “I’m simply hinting that you may want to get out any last sentiments before we bleed him out on his crisp white sheets tonight.”

Your eyes widened in panic, and your words came out stuttered. “Y-you’re bluffing-”

“You so sure of that, baby?” He clicked his tongue against his teeth, leaning his head in so his face was only inches from yours. “You tellin’ me you know he’s safe and sound right now? Or does an itty, bitty part of you think that maybe, when his baby girl and best insurance policy went out for drinks, it left his ass dangling out in the open, just begging to get capped?”

Your nostrils flared and your teeth were clenched so hard together that you were sure they’d break, but you couldn’t move, couldn’t fight. You were stuck in the space of Tom as his cool breath violated your cheeks, suddenly picturing violent images of your family in a pool of blood.

Your eyebrows raised with each syllable you spoke, trying your best to conceal the incredible stress eating at you from the inside. “Get...the fuck...out of my face.”

Tom did something that almost made you combust then, swiping his thumb across the bottom of your chin, grinning, and blowing a smooch at you before finally drawing back. The sound of his lips smacking together lingered in your ears, like he not only had total control of you, but of all the soundwaves in the air.

“Look, I thought I was doing you a favor, giving you the heads up and all...I definitely didn’t have to. So if you wanna be an ungrateful little bitch about it, fine,” he stepped back, sitting down in the booth again and casually propping his feet up on the seat opposite. “don’t call him. I don’t fucking care.”

With a path to the door finally freed, you began to calculate your next move in your head, but Tom seemed to have violated your thoughts, too.

“Nuh-uh,” he tsked, looking off to the door and giving a nod as minion #2 locked it into place and stood with his arms crossed in front of it like the world’s least intimidating bouncer. “You really think we’d come all this way to tell you we’re about to kill daddy and then just let you, what, leave? Run home to his rescue?” he scoffed at the mere thought, and his worker bees in black laughed along with him. Tom gave you an infinitely objectifying once-over. “Like you’d make it that far in those heels.”

“I’d like to see them off,” one of his men said, prompting Tom to violently curse at him.

“Don’t you fucking dare talk about her like that, Harry. She’s not yours.” He was acting like some protective owner of you, which only made you angrier as you felt a dull electricity appear in your stomach.

The alcohol already in your system mixed with the adrenaline coursing through your veins made you feel fiery, out of control, erratic. You weren’t sure if you wanted to lunge at him or cry, the sting of worry pinpricking your eyelids as Tom’s smirk stayed put.

“What do you want?” you resigned, looking down and away from him, leaning against the wall behind you for support. You didn’t want to cave, but you couldn’t help it- you were paralyzed, fight or flight response warring with itself.

Tom shrugged, remaining nonchalant. “Just bragging rights, really,” he picked up an arm and ran his fingers through his tousled hair, his oversized platinum watch catching the light as he did it.

You were able to regain some composure as you responded, remembering who you were, knowing that your family could hold its own. You took a few paces forward in an attempt reclaim your pride. “Slim chance. You’d never be able kill him anyway, you pathetic excuse of a television criminal,” you spat out, seeing Tom’s expression falter just enough to spur you on. “You’re not the only one who knows things, y’know, I’ve learned all about you, too. All bark and no bite. A puppy who acts tough until he gets a paper cut and cowers under the bed.” you could feel your confidence refueling your words, and narrowed your eyes. “Maybe you were intimidating as a kid, but you don’t fucking scare me now, Holland.”

Upon the callout, Tom bolted up from his seat, swiftly pulling a handheld gun out of his belt and backing you up against the wall, barrel aimed at the perfect angle to blaze a clean hole through your head. “You little-”

Thankfully, you had friends on this side of town, and Roxy always had your back.

She tore out of the back with an assault rifle twice the size of her, firing a round of warning shots into the rickety ceiling. It shook Tom’s focus enough for you to make a break for it, running and ducking behind the safety of the bar.

“You better get to leaving before I have to mop you greasy motherfuckers off my floor,” Roxy said in her thick cockney accent, looking as intimidating as you’d ever seen her. Tom sniggered and stayed put.

“You think I’m joking?” she said, aiming at the wooden boards and landing a shot barely an inch from one of his friends’ feet.

“Jesus-!” they yelped, forcing you to stifle a laugh as you watched the scene unfold.

Three very oversized men walked out from the back of the room with their own weapons of choice to back Roxy up. Seeing they’d been outnumbered, Tom retracted his gun and looked warily at his friends, grouping up to leave the bar. He saw you backed in the corner and took an extra moment to let that cocky sneer find its way back to his face, making sure to remind you why you ran in the first place.

The group walked out unscathed, leaving behind a deafening silence until Roxy looked back at you and shook you from your trance.

“Go home, babes, and make sure your family is okay.”

As you ran outside against your better judgement, eyes locked on your car parked in the alley, an abraisive pair of hands grabbed you from behind and pushed you up against the side of the building. You recognized the sickly sweet smell of cherries and knew Tom wasn’t finished with you.

He had his arm up over your head and the other on your shoulder, evidently taking in all of your features for the first time in years.

“Time did you well, didn’t it? My god, can’t believe my little kid wife grew up to be so pretty,” his eyes sparkled with a twisted, deep desire. “We’d look good together in different circumstances, hm?” His words prompted you to spit in his face.

“In your fucking dreams.”

“Ooh, a feisty little thing. I’d watch that temper of yours, y/n, you’ll make a lot of enemies talking like that,” he said in a low voice, collecting your spit from his cheek and sucking it off of his finger.

“We’re friends forever, darling. I’ll find my way back to you.” he winked at you and sauntered away into the dark. “Say hi to daddy for me.”

Your foot on the gas pedal made an indentation on the floor of the car as you sped home, tears almost blinding you from the road, making every streetlight overhead look like an abstract explosion of color. You left the ignition on as you careened into the gated entrance of your house, kicking your blue heels into the grass and sprinting inside, yelling. “Dad? Mum? Hello???”

You almost ran head first into your parents as they rushed out of the den after hearing your exasperated calls.

“y/n? What the bloody hell is going on?” your mother saw you standing shell-shocked, taking in the fact that they weren’t chopped into pieces, and pulled you into a hug as you broke out into uncontrollable sobs.

“T-they locked me in and told me they were- that you’d be dead when I got home-” you choked out in between tears, unable to calm your breathing.

Your dad gripped his tumbler of scotch with so much sudden anger that it shattered into his hand. You could see fire in his eyes. “Who? Who told you that?”

You looked up at him and said exactly what he was expecting. “The Hollands. Tom. He- he came into Roxy’s.”

“I’m going to hang that chav from his wimpy little fucking-”

“Hon, please.” your mom said sternly while motioning to you in your sorry state, making your dad’s face a little less violently red. He took a deep, ragged breath.

“Hey, sweet pea, look,” he said, tucking away a strand of hair that had fallen in your face and was clinging to your tear-streaked cheeks. “We’re okay, alright? Tonight is an ordinary night, and our security detail is the best in the city. You stop worrying and go get yourself cleaned up, mum and I have something special we want to give you.” He smiled only to steam off and slam the door to his office, most likely to make a call to get someone, anyone, that may have had a hand in tonight’s events drawn and quartered by dawn.

You came downstairs after a long, boiling hot shower that only made you seethe more at the fact that Tom had been bluffing the whole time. It had clearly just been a fear tactic, probably done for no other reason than to fuck with you on your birthday and ruin your night. He loved crafting little games like that, this being the first time he’d come to play in person—and what made you angriest is that it had worked.

“Honey, we have a gift for you,” your mom said, handing you a silver box that was much heavier than it looked. She and your dad sat on the big sofa in the den, looking at you expectantly.

“Well, open it!” she smiled.

You undid the box, hands still shaking from earlier, and found a shiny, pitch black glock with a silver inscription in its body reading “sweet pea”, the nickname your dad had given you forever ago.

“Uh, wow, I don't know what to say...” you trailed off, picking it up and turning it over in your hand. It became surprisingly weightless, feeling like it was made to fit in your palm.

“It was mine, back in the day,” your dad spoke, seeming wistful. “Had it rebuilt and shined up for my baby girl.”

“Thank you, daddy, I love it,” you said, leaning over to hug your parents. You smiled blankly as they talked to you about the gift and how special it was, nodding at their comments...but you weren’t really listening.

All you could think about was a pair of flushed lips inches from your own, an intoxicating smell lingering in your brain; and just how amazing this gun would feel in your hand right after it had burned a bullet-sized cavity into Tom Holland’s chest.

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writtenonreceipts · 3 years

Note

Heya, absolutely love your writing!😍I was just wondering when you have the time and all, would you consider writing something about rowaelin where basically the same thing happens to Aelin as it did Lyria, but only modern au (Lyria never happened).

Thanks so much, it means a lot that you like my stuff! Thanks for the prompt. It kinda got away from me… I got in pretty deep with plot points and stuff, haha. Based on Characters from the Throne of Glass series.

Warning: don’t let the first half fool you, there’s gonna be tears and pain.

All My Love

It started at seven fifty-nine on a Friday night.

Rowan Whitethorn was hurrying through the City Park cursing at the crowds of people standing in his way. He should have remembered that the city tradition of open mike night at the gazebo by the waterfront would have made the park nearly impassible. But did people have to stand so close together?

He’d gotten of late from his at the police station and was a short walk away from his small apartment. Or what would have been short had the park not been infested with tourists and and locals alike.

The sun barely began its descent leaving the sky graced with gold and hues of pink. Heat from the record high day lingered, despite being so near the lake. Normally Rowan might enjoy the view, but there were too many people invading his space. At least he could be happy that he wasn’t assigned the shift to make sure things didn’t get out of hand.

He moved down the stone path that cut behind the gazebo and took a shortcut back to his apartment. As he dodged a running child, however, something caught his attention.

Actually, it was someone.

She stood in the center of the gazebo; her long and willowy limbs were leaning against a white piano while she laughed at something her companion said. Her long, golden hair swept down her back in soft waves. Even a distance he could tell she was beautiful. The woman patted her friend on the shoulder and moved to sit at the piano. And then she started to play.

The notes were slow, soft, gentle. A tune tumbling forth with careful measure. The song wasn’t one Rowan recognized, granted he knew next to nothing about music. Yet the longer Rowan listened the more entranced he became by the song. Slowly, he picked his way around the gazebo so he had a better angle on the woman as she played.

The sight was indescribable. In all honesty, it looked like the woman had become one with the music. She moved with each caress of the ivory keys as though she herself were dancing to the song. Her eyes shut softly and an easy smile moved across her sinful mouth.

It was glorious.

When the end of the song regretfully came, the park erupted into cheers and applause. A man came forward and began speaking into a microphone setup.

“The ever wonderful, Aelin Galathynius,” the man called out, his words were eaten by another round of applause.

Aelin. Aelin. Aelin.

She offered the crowd a dazzling smile as she politely declined to play another song. A small band replaced her, three guys and a rustic looking guitar.

Rowan watched as she descended the small steps to the gazebo. She greeted a few people with a wave or a pat on the shoulder. All too soon, in Rowan’s opinion at least, she was forgotten to the new beats of a guitar and low gravely notes of the singer on stage.

There was something about her that called to him. Rowan didn’t know what it was exactly, but his eyes easily tracked her as she moved up the path that led away from the gazebo and up a boardwalk that wrapped around the lake. Before he could think twice about what he was doing, Rowan followed her.

He caught up easily to her and his steps on the wooden planks caused her to turn around and meet his gaze. Her wide blue and gold eyes snagged him immediately and Rowan wouldn’t have minded drowning in them.

A slow smile slid on her lips as she eyed him. “Hello.”

She was confident. With that smile. With that word. With that stare. And Rowan found himself dumbfounded.

“You don’t usually play on open mike nights,” he said.

Aelin quirked an eyebrow. “You sound certain of that.”

“I would have remembered,” he replied.

She laughed and rolled her eyes as if his words didn’t mean anything. But Rowan noted the soft blush rising on her cheeks. She was flattered. Slightly uncomfortable, but that could have been from performing in front of a crown. Everything else about her welcomed his advances and Rowan took care to read each and every signal she sent him.

“Dorian forced me into it,” she said, “told me it would be good business for the shop.”

The way she casually referenced the mayor didn’t go unnoticed to Rowan, but he found himself more intrigued by the second part of her sentence.

“Shop?”

“Queen’s Place,” Aelin replied, “my bookshop. And where I teach piano lessons.”

Rowan found himself smiling at the image of her moving through a bookshop, of her sitting with children at a piano bench, at that smile brightening everyone’s day.

“I walk by it every day,” he said. He wasn’t lying, but to be honest he’d never given the shop a second glance. What a fool he’d been.

“Well, now you have a reason to actually come in.”

Waking up beside her was the one thing Rowan knew he would want to do for the rest of his life.

Curled on her side with her legs tangled in his sheets, Aelin slept soundly. Her hair was a mess and that was entirely his fault. As were the growing marks on her neck, her collar bone, lower, lower they descended.

Leaning up on an elbow, Rowan watched her sleep as the early gray light of morning filtered through his bedroom window. She didn’t stir. He watched the rise and fall of her chest, how her eyelids fluttered, and the slight pucker of her lips.

Those sinful lips.

Rowan reached a hand out and gently brushed her hair out of her face.

They hadn’t been together very long. Not when you considered how often Rowan worked and the fact that Aelin ran her own business. They were often like ships in the night. But each time they passed by Rowan was filled with inexplicable joy.

Aelin sighed softly and reached a hand out. Rowan captured her hand with his and brought her fingertips to his lips, kissing softly. A slow, lazy smile spread on Aelin’s mouth and she cracked an eye open.

“Are you watching me?” she asked.

“Naturally,” he said. He grinned as she scrunched her nose and grumbled. When she tried to regain her hand, he tightened his grip and pulled her closer to him.

Humming happily, Aelin tilted her head up to accept a kiss. A long, deep kiss to be sure.

“I love this,” she murmured against his lips.

“What?” he asked, his hands trailing down her bare sides.

“Waking up with you,” she said. She threaded her fingers in his hair as she pressed closer to him. “Mornings like this.”

It was the closest they’d ever come to admitting their feelings. Even though Rowan was certain he was in love with her. He had been from the moment he saw her in the gazebo playing the piano. He wanted to tell her of course. Wanted her to know. But he also knew what was keeping him from doing so.

His phone buzzed on the bedside table and Aelin cursed into his mouth. Rowan swallowed the word, absorbing the disappointment it held before pulling away to check the message.

“Work,” he said.

“I know.”

Rowan looked down at her with her eyes closed and hair a halo on the pillow. He wanted more than anything to make sure he’d always wake up beside her.

Maeve Valg was not the kind of person Rowan wanted to work for. It took him a long time before he figured out what it was about her that made him so uneasy. She was driven, dead strong, passionate--all good things. It took him entirely too long to see her cruelty, her pride, her bloodlust.

“All I’m saying Detective,” Maeve said as she leaned across his desk toward him, “is that your skills and specialties are remarkable. You’d make a difference to your country if you’d consider my offer.”

Rowan stared at the woman. She had to be in her mid to late thirties--and yet her long dark hair framed a youthful face, full red lips, and devilish eyes. This was the third time in as many months that Maeve had tried to recruit him for her independent security agency. Mostly because his former sergeant Gavriel--damn him--had recommended Rowan for the position.

“I’ll think about it,” Rowan lied.

In all honesty, right now was not a good time to even consider changing jobs. Not when there was a ring burning a hole in the side table of his dresser. Not when he’d spent the last four months convincing Aelin to move in with him. Not when he’d just left her side barely an hour ago and he was already craving her touch, her taste, everything about her.

It wasn’t until later that night when Rowan met Aelin at that fateful gazebo that he was finally able to push all thoughts of Maeve aside. When he was finally able to smile freely at the sight of her in a pale blue dress that clung to each and every one of her curves.

“Hey,” she said as he approached.

Whatever else she’d been about to say was cut off when he pulled her into a kiss. His mouth slanted almost urgently against hers and he couldn’t help the way his finger dug into her waist desperately.

“Hey,” he said when he finally pulled back.

Aelin grinned wickedly and he knew she was thinking about breaking into the nearest boathouse to continue that kiss. But all too suddenly her expression turned serious.

“What?” Rowan asked, heart stilling.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.

Rowan froze, terrified that she knew about the ring. “I don’t--”

“Lorcan told me about Maeve,” Aelin continued. She rested a hand on his cheek. “Rowan...that job sounds amazing.”

Blinking, Rowan fought against the rising panic in his gut. He really wanted to find Lorcan and beat his ass, but he was also concerned by what Aelin thought about it.

“I’m not taking it,” he said flatly.

Aelin scowled. “Yes you are. It’s higher pay for one. Better control over your work. Most of it sounds like a security detail.”

“I’m not taking it,” he repeated.

“Babe,” Aelin insisted, “it sounds like a great opportunity. Why not?”

Rowan shook his head and pulled away from her. This wasn’t how he wanted to do this. Not really. But with the sharpness to her eyes, the determined tilt of her chin--he had to do it.

“Because of you,” he whispered.

“Don’t,” Aelin said, “don’t put this on me.”

Rowan reached out automatically and grabbed her hands tightly in his. “It’s always been because of you.”

And then he was down on one knee while fumbling in his pocket for the ring.

Aelin gasped and whispered his name.

Rowan looked up at her, the ring in his fingers and tears brimming in his eyes. “I first saw you here. And I knew then and there that I was going to love you for the rest of my life. If you let me. Aelin Galathynius, will you marry me?”

She let out a small strangled noise that was a cross between a sob and something else that Rowan couldn’t decipher but the frantic bob of her head was enough for him to understand what the answer was.

“Yes, yes, yes,” she whispered.

Rowan slid the ring on her finger and his lips on her mouth.

When Rowan took the job he still wasn’t sure about it. But most of his friends were on the crew along with two kids who had just come back from Pakistan. They were given weeks on end together to learn how they could become a team.

Aelin liked to joke that Rowan had gained five work wives now. Rowan tried to tell her she was wrong but his words held no meaning. Not when five out of seven days a week any of the boys in the crew ended up sleeping on the Whitethorn-Galathynius couch. Usually Fenrys.

Unfortunately those nights grew few and far between as the year went on.

“How does Aelin feel about you spending your honeymoon with us?” Connall asked through an earpiece as they stood stationed around Senator Erawan’s reelection fundraiser.

Rowan could hear the grin in his voice.

“Yeah,” Fenrys added, “didn’t even have time to--”

“Stop talking.” It was Gavriel who spoke this time. Rowan could see him across the hall walking behind the Senator and his wife. “Especially about my niece.”

The twins cackled.

Rowan shook his head and contained a smile. As much as he’d been unsure about this job--it had given him some of the best friends he knew.

A gunshot rang out through the hall.

Immediately Rowan had his gun unholstered and turned to the source of the shot. Out of his peripheral vision he saw Gavriel and Vaughn cover the senator and his wife. Lorcan cursed over the comms.

“Lost him!”

“Got it,” Rowan replied. Up on the second floor, a glass balcony overlooked the rest of the hall and a shape darted out of eyesight. Running to the nearest stairwell, Rowan instructed his team on what he saw.

“Wait for backup,” Gavriel ordered, but Rowan was already gone.

He arrived home three days later to a royally pissed off Aelin.

Rowan knew it was bad when he walked into the kitchen to find three perfectly frosted chocolate cakes sitting out of the counter. One had strawberries lining the top, another almonds, and the third a chocolate cookie crumble. He was utterly screwed.

“Fireheart?” he called out hesitantly.

He heard the bathroom door shut down the hall and Aelin stalked toward him. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun and bright red splotches colored her cheeks. Tears rimmed her eyes.

“Baby,” Rowan said as he stepped toward her.

She shook her head and walked around him to the cakes. There was already a piece missing from the one with strawberries and she cut another piece off and flopped it on a plate.

“I am so mad at you,” she said as she stuffed a large bite in her mouth.

“I know,” Rowan replied.

“Fenrys told me what you did. Gavriel told you to wait and you went charging after the man.”

“I know.”

“You could have died.”

“I know.”

Aelin nearly broke the plate when she threw it down on the counter. Rowan stared into her brilliant eyes and waited for his next reprimand. “Stop saying that.”

“Alright, I’m sorry,” Rowan said quietly. He set his bag on the floor and crossed into the kitchen until he stood across from his wife. “We both knew what the job entailed. And I had to catch the man.

“I was terrified Ro,” Aelin whispered. She ran her fingers beneath her eyes and sniffed loudly. “We can’t lose you.”

“I know,” he said, moving so he stood just before her. He was going to say something else when Aelin’s words caught up to him. “We?”

Aelin let out a strangled laughing as fresh tears washed down her cheeks. She looked up into Rowan’s eyes, one hand going to her belly.

“We.”

Despite the chaos of his job and despite the chaos of his pregnant wife--Rowan Whitethorn knew that everything was going to work out in the end.

With Aelin being nearly eight months along, they’d decided together that it would be best to start over. For Rowan to leave his risky job behind and find something closer to home. They’d both spent weeks thinking about it, talking to each other, and they’d come to the same conclusion. They needed their family to stay together.

Of course, Maeve didn’t understand why Rowan would want to leave. Not that he could make her understand. Not that any of them could. Even the rest of the team had understood the decision. Rowan needed his family.

“Fine,” Maeve relented one day. She sat behind her desk looking absolutely bored one day. Running her hands over her desk she sighed. “I’ll let you go, Rowan. But I just need you for one more job.”

Rowan stiffened at the sheer pleasure in her eyes of what was to come. She tossed a folder at him. He opened it and frowned.

Archer Flynn.

A high end hooker for hire. Known especially for sleeping with Senator Erawan.

“I need him arrested,” Maeve said. She sounded as though she were requesting he buy lettuce from the store.

Rowan continued staring at the picture of the man. “I thought we were keeping an eye on Cairn.”

“Don’t worry about Cairn,” Maeve said. “Mr. Flynn is far more troublesome. Besides, Cairn is going to be taken care of.”

Rowan didn’t like the dismissive way that Maeve addressed him. Nor did he like the smile that rested on her lips.

“And just like that,” he said, “ you’ll let me end my contract?”

“Absolutely,” Maeve promised.

For some reason, Rowan believed her.

He left with Lorcan the following day, assuring Aelin everything would be alright. It was only an arrest after all.

When he and Lorcan found the apartment that was serving as Flynn’s hideout, Rowan should have known something was wrong.

The door was broken in, wood splintered across the floor. A pool of blood was rapidly growing beneath a form tied to a chair. Rowan and Lorcan rushed to room to the young Archer Flynn. His blonde hair was plastered over his brow with a mix of sweat and blood. The stab wounds in his legs and side were less than ideal. Looking at all the man’s injuries, Rowan knew there was nothing that could be done for him.

“I’ll call an ambulance,” Lorcan muttered while Rowan continued tending to Flynn’s wounds.

This wasn’t right. This couldn’t have been right.

When Flynn began to speak, Rowan almost thought it was the man’s dying breath.

“S’lied to me,” Flynn rasped, his words to muffled to understand, “to all of us.”

Rowan lifted the man's chin. “What are you talking about?”

“Cairn was always the problem child,” Flynn whispered. And then with a final breath--Flynn died.

Rowan let Flynn’s head fall. What the hell was going on?

His phone rang in his pocket but he ignored it.

“Lorcan, he’s dead,” Rowan called out. His phone continued ringing.

Lorcan reentered the room, phone pressed against his ear. The man’s dark eyes were wide and a frown deepened his already deep scowl.

“Lorcan?” Rowan asked.

Clearing his throat, Lorcan shook his head. “We gotta get back home.”

Rowan had never liked hospitals.

They were death traps in his opinion. Everyone he loved would always go in and never come back out. So for the first time in a very long time, he found himself praying. Praying that for once, he would be wrong. That for once, something good would come of the hospital. That for once, he wouldn’t be left alone.

“She was stabbed multiple times in the chest,” a doctor said, “they’re working on her now. But you need to prepare yourself.”

They baby. What about the baby?

The words never left his lips. He couldn’t bring them too. Or maybe he did say them and the doctor ignored him. Either way, Rowan’s mind was churning too much. Something had gone wrong.

“It was Cairn,” Gavriel said from beside him.

Rowan had no idea when the man showed up but he didn’t really care. He stared at a wall advertising things for sale and brochures for various recovery programs.

“He got to her somehow.”

Maeve was supposed to take care of the man. She’d said so. Rowan didn’t say the words aloud. They wouldn’t do much good. Because as much as a bitch Maeve was, there was no way she could have predicted this. No way she could have known that Aelin would be dying.

And where had Rowan been? Off doing a damn job that didn’t even need him.

It wasn’t until three o’clock in the morning that Rowan learned that his wife was dead. The baby too.

It wasn’t until three o’clock in the morning that Rowan allowed himself to cry. Silent tears.

It wasn’t until three o’clock in the morning that Rowan heard the snip-snip of heels across linoleum. Echoing through the halls.

“Oh, Rowan,” she crooned. “I am so, so sorry. You have to know I never imagined this to happen.”

“Do you know where he is?” Rowan asked.

Maeve’s brows shot in the air. “What?”

“Cairn,” Rowan repeated, “do you know where he is?”

A smile spread over Maeve’s cherry red lips. “I promise, I will help you find him. No matter what it takes.”

It wasn’t until three o’clock in the morning that Rowan said good-bye to his wife and made one final vow to her.

He would never forget.

as always, thanks for reading my dears!

tags: @tottenhamboys20 @morganofthewildfire @aelinchocolatelover @more-espresso-less-depresso-xx

#aelin and rowan #rowan whitethorn #rowaelin au #rowaelin fanfic #aelin galathynius #angst #pain #fanfiction #throne of glass #throne of glass fanfiction #empire of storms #queen of shadows #anon answered

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youarejesting · 4 years

Text

Hope in the Sheets.4

[Masterlist]

Beta: N/A Pairing: Hoseok x Reader Genre: Friendship, Comedy, Soft boy, Fluff, SMUT, Friends2Lovers,

Summary: You held many titles: his neighbor, colleague, wing-man… well, more likely a wing-woman, yet most importantly, you were his best friend. You had been friends since you were born. Between the two of you, you were younger; barely, but he never let you forget it. He always seemed to ruffle your hair and tease you, which could get rather annoying but he made up for it by treating you to things. What if a drunken one night stand between you and your best friend Hoseok leads to more complicated situations? Your reckless twenties are cut short as you find yourself suddenly responsible for something a little more.

Warning: Reference to a previous sexual encounter, pregnancy, Toxic Family.

You were sitting at the bar drinking your fourth glass of orange juice, the sweet citrus flavour was really hitting the spot. Laying your head onto the polished shiny wood you could see the dance floor lit completely. Jimin swept the floor and mopped it diligently, of course they cleaned up thoroughly when they closed the bar but Jimin prefers to clean again.

You felt a fondness blooming in your chest watching Jimin dancing around with the mop in hand. Yoongi was setting up and testing each speaker individually and testing out his equipment.

There were two hours left before the bar opened and Seokjin began ordering some food, Jimin got a text as he was putting the mop and now empty bucket away. Yoongi leaned over to read it —That guy had no shame— “Hoseok is on his way over”

“Really?” You asked a little nervous to see Hoseok so soon, you hadn’t even figured things out, you weren’t ready to see him.

“You sound surprised but we have pizza night every second friday” Namjoon smiled exiting the staff room, smelling clean and fresh his hair combed back.

A part of you happy for the oncoming pizza boxes heading your way. Seokjin began by placing a container in front of you, you opened it excited. A large part of you hoping it was some fried chicken, only to see plainly seasoned roast chicken and vegetables.

Seokjin had already started acting protective, reading the pamphlets and telling you, you can’t have barbeque, raw fish, deli meats or soft cheese. So you were enviable of their pepperoni cheese heaven.

“We haven’t had pizza night since before the renovations behind the bar, did you see the difference compare to last month when you had come in?” Namjoon added unmoving as Jimin gracefully spun around him heading towards the door unlocking it for Hoseok to come in when he arrived.

“I don’t really remember much about that night and what I do know I have tried to repress” You couldn’t help but pout looking at the plate of beans, you could eat most veggies but beans were the worst. You pushed the plate away and Seokjin pushed it back and you looked up with puppy dog eyes and he shook his head.

“He could not have been that bad,” Yoongi said, missing the exchange between the two of you, especially the way you were making rude gestures to the manager. “I have danced with Hoseok, he knows how to grind.”

“What’s all this?” Namjoon said, sitting at the table and looking over the pamphlets Seokjin was reading. “Who is pregnant?”

“I didn’t want to tell you?” Seokjin looked at Namjoon his lips pursed the way they do when he tries to keep a straight face, “but I am pregnant”

“Haha, guys can’t get pregnant” A small voice chuckled and you saw a familiar face. He was freshly showered and looking well dressed in black boots pants and button up.

“Oh everyone this is Jeon Jungkook, Seokjin and I hired him to help with the door and any rough housing” He gave a nervous smile, looking around. He opened his mouth to talk when the front door opened. Jungkook turned squaring his shoulders only to be deflated by Jimin carrying drinks “Jungkook sit down this is Hoseok”

You smiled pulling out your seat to the left and gesturing for Jungkook to sit. Hoseok faltered whilst removing his jacket for a moment, questioning why you had let Jungkook sit on your left. Genuinely sorry, you gave him an apologetic look. He laughed and walked across to the bar where he pulled out a pair of your spare shoes from his bag and placed them in the staff room. You found out last time that he was the one leaving your shoes at the bar but to actually see him do it was really sweet.

“Do you work here as well Noona?” The apprentice bouncer asked pulling your attention away from your neighbor and best friend.

“No, I just stop by every Friday for pizza night”

“But you're not eating pizza?” He raised an eyebrow.

“I will trade you some beans for a slice” you grinned and he nodded picking up a slice and turning to you and freezing “um… maybe not”

“No, you need to eat healthier,” Seokjin argued.

“But they are disgusting!” You whined letting your head fall back.

“Eat them or no ice cream” He stood up heading behind the bar for a tub of ice cream that was used for special cocktails.

“ice cream?” You almost gave yourself whiplash with how fast your head lifted.

“Eat the beans and you get ice cream!” He said sternly and Hoseok moved around the table and stole a bean. “And no help from Hoseok” huffing and putting them in your mouth grumbling as you chewed.

“That wasn’t so bad was it?” He said

“I hate it, the texture is wrong, it’s not food”

“But you did it, so what ice cream would you like?”

“Cookie dough?”

“Can’t have raw egg, I got chocolate, vanilla and strawberry”

“We have coffee too…” Jimin’s voice died out with the glare Seokjin gave.

“This house is a prison” you frowned, throwing a stray bean at Seokjin and he laughed handing you a bowl of chocolate ice cream.

“Hey are we partying tonight?” Hoseok asked around a mouth full or pizza, how could he be so damn handsome even when he is doing the weirdest things. “Ah but you haven’t gotten changed from your work uniform”

“No, I am just having dinner and heading home, tonight” you sighed “doctors orders”

“Oh well I guess, we can go out another night or something” he said being polite and waiting for you to talk about your doctor's appointment, Hoseok never pried with things like this. Jungkook was a charming young man and Yoongi asked for a dance.

It was Yoongi’s version of bonding, he held your waist and gently moved to the music and you laid your head on his chest. “You okay?” He asked the gravel in his voice was almost purr like and woke you from your daze.

“Just tired” the words mumbled as you hugged his torso, his heart beating a steady rhythm.

“You are thinking too much, no more thinking tonight, just go home and get some rest and think some more tomorrow” pulling away he looked you in the eyes taking your face in his hands he kissed your forehead. “I will support you and your body no matter the decision”

“Thanks Yoongi, I decided I’m not going to get the prescription. I think a part of me already loves them way too much” touching your lower belly, allowing yourself to be a little excited, if only for the moment.

You were worried and you should be. This was a big deal, but something about the support the boys gave you made it almost exciting. You began to day dream about a baby just like Hobi running around your apartment and cringed, taking the child to school on the bus before going to work.

Blanching at the thought, you needed to put the baby first and your life right now wasn’t good enough to support a family. It was time to stop thinking single and start thinking like a mother.

Maybe Yoongi was right, it was time to stop thinking, get through the night and plan everything tomorrow. With you in tow Yoongi led you back to the other, he placed your hand in Hoseoks and told him to take you home.

Hoseok nodded getting your coats and thanking them all for dinner, he reassured Jungkook he was in good hands and told him to relax. Hoseok helped you dutifully into your coat looking longingly at the bar you frowned feeling bad for him.

He took your hand in his warm one and walked you to the door opening it for you like a gentleman. He noticed how miserable you seemed and took your hand racing down the sidewalk until he arrived at a small convenience store.

“Wait here.” He turned to you and paused looking you over with a smile “you look really pretty today”

You visibly reddened a considerable amount enough so that Hoseok noticed grinning and ran into the shop. Watching his head pop up over the aisles as he ran back and forth, you had no clue what he was looking for but clearly he did as he raced back and forth not once appearing lost.

He emerged with a biodegradable bag filled with an assortment of midnight snacks. He opened the bag letting you peek inside. “I got all your favourites, we can go home and watch some late night telly or one of your favourite movies”

Your mood skyrocketed. Grasping his hand, swinging it enthusiastically on the way home. Hoseok stepped between you and a group of men smoking and drinking on a bench. He gave them a curt but polite ‘good evening’ and continued guiding you along.

The two of you made it to the door seeing the door had been pried open. “Again, I hate this stupid appartment, let’s hope they got bored before they reached our apartments.”

They got to their doors and thankfully noticed that they were not broken into. “We need to add a few more locks on the doors.”

“Or you know move” You laughed

“Come on the rent is almost nonexistent and the pizza shop is in sight, what else do two bachelors need in their lives.” He laughed flopping onto your couch and grinning at you upside down.

You placed the snacks into a bowl and placed it on the coffee table as Hoseok began flipping through the channels. “Knocked up is on you wanna watch that?”

The scene that happened to play was at the restaurant where Katherine Heigl announces she is pregnant and the father makes a witty clueless remark.

“No thank you,” Your tone was clipped and he thankfully changed the channel.

“Yeah it’s a bit overplayed. What about Juno, it just started?” He shrugged

“Nah,” You said, sitting beside Hoseok laying against him and closing your eyes to push back tears you were overwhelmed.

“Animation numbness?” He asked, turning on your Disney plus you laid there without opening your eyes “anything?’

“Yes” He put on his favourite ‘Peter Pan’ and pulled you up to lay against his chest sensing you were not quite alright. He sang cutely in your ear along to ‘We’re following the leader’ with the children on the television.

You got to the part where Wendy sings ‘You’re mother and mine’ before the tears started to fall. Hoseok noticed the way your chest shook against his and sat up. “Hey Little Darling, tell me what is wrong.”

“Everything.” You sniffed burying your face into his chest and he patted your head threading his hand through your hair soothing the raging emotions.

“Tell me little darling,” He whispered softly, trying to calm you and give the support you need. “Is it about the doctors, are you sick, is something wrong?”

“No nothing, it’s fine,” The finality in your voice made him go quiet, of course he was upset but he respected your decision and just held you. “I think... I might go to bed.”

The abruptness of your decision made him sit up, “Are you sure, I can stay and I won’t pry”

“I really should sleep, this is something I have to figure out by myself and then I can talk to you okay,” You said standing and he nodded standing grabbing his coat and heading to the door. Before you could shut the door he turned pulling you into a hug.

“I am here for you okay, don’t try to do it on your own, not when I am here and willing to help you, okay” he looked at you grabbing your shoulder and making sure your eyes would meet his before he continued “I will be by your side no matter what, trust me okay. I love you sleep well”

You would be lying if that I love you didn’t hit a little different, you nodded “Thank you Hoseok let me process and then we can talk okay.” Shutting and locking the door you began taking a few deep breaths. There was undeniable comfort from Hoseok’s words and it made you believe everything was okay.

Taking out your phone with shaky hands you searched for a name you hadn’t contacted in a long time, even their name in your phone was mocking you. You clicked ‘Mum’ followed by the small phone icon before placing the phone to your ear.

Your hands trembling, you didn’t know what to do. You heard your mother answer with her familiar underlying snobbish greeting.

“Good evening?”

“Hey Mum,” You caught yourself before your voice cracked, never giving your mother the satisfaction, “What are you doing?”

“Nothing, what do you need?” Her voice clipped and you bit your lip trying not to fight, this wasn’t why you were calling. You journeyed into the bathroom feeling a little sick, your mother always brought your anxiety back ten fold.

“Nothing, I was just wanting to tell you…” You squared your shoulders and stared at yourself in the mirror. It was a challenge, you were telling yourself to be a proverbial man. “I am pregnant.”

“Of course you are, you wasted your college degree by becoming a carny and now you are pregnant. I was waiting for you to stuff your life up more. And what now you need money, to help get rid of the thing, come home and we will take care of it. Maybe this will be a reminder to keep your legs shut”

“What the fuck is wrong with you, I am an adult don’t ever contact me again, because I sure as hell am never going to” You hung up placing your phone down and the sickness faded like a weight off your shoulders your mother was not a part of the equation.

Walking to the kitchen you sat on the breakfast bar stool and pulled out a book and began writing out a plan. There were things you needed to do. Of course telling Hoseok was important but you were planning without him. Because if he rejected you and this baby well then you were on your own.

It was always best to plan for the worst case scenario. A better house; the baby cannot live in a broken down high theft studio apartment. A drivers license; you definitely couldn’t take the child to school on the bus everyday before going to work and as for work you needed a serious job. You paused; these were the first important things.

Opening your laptop you began looking at houses and loans, saving tabs and looking at a driving school, there was no time to party. Texting Seokjin ideas he told you he would help you with some of the lessons and you were grateful that he would help you.

[Jimin: Hey, I thought...] [Jimin: And feel free to stop me but...] [Y/n: Spit it out Jiminie] [Jimin: I might have a better job for you, I just thought that the theme park would be too physical and at somepoint you won’t be able to lift and such.] [Y/n: Oh wow, I hadn’t thought about the lifting and standing business but I did think I would need more money and a real job, what do you have in mind?] [Jimin: You are qualified for it and it is a desk job, that pays well.]

You kind of felt good about everything, Jimin gave you an application for the desk job and depending on what you heard back you would have to give your two weeks notice at the theme park.

[Jin: As tomorrow is Saturday, How about your first driving lesson?] [Y/n: I mean sure, I have booked in to see the Realestate and I have filled out papers for a home loan, I can’t live here, it isn’t safe for a child.] [Jin: I will be there in the morning and I will drop off some healthy meals...] [Jin: I am slaving away in this kitchen so you better eat them.] [Jin: We don’t want the little one getting hungry, okay?] [Y/n: Okay, I get it. We will drive and look at houses tomorrow don’t be late] [Jin: I am never late.]

Seokjin was really getting into his role as fake father. But it made you feel like you had some sort of support behind you and that made you happy. You were exhausted laying on your single bed and decided not to dwell on things any more that evening.

The next morning Seokjin knocked on your door, upon opening he looked at you with horrified eyes, “Your front door has been smashed in, why do you still live here?” He huffed placing bags on the bench, “you better understand that I love you, look at all these dinners I prepared”

“Thank you Jin, for everything, I really can’t thank you enough right now” You hugged him and he held you a little longer than normal perhaps waiting for you to break down.

“Are you ready to go?” Seokjin said, opening the front door to reveal Hoseok standing there looking absolutely confused.

“Go where?” His voice croaked a little evidence of his recent rising.

“We are looking at houses” You said nonchalantly, “Do you want to come?”

“Sure let me get dressed,” He ran back inside and Seokjin looked at you cautiously and you nodded. The three of you got into the car and Seokjin began instructing you to drive and you were doing pretty well even Hoseok who is scared of almost everything was calm.

You all spent the day looking and discussing houses and your price range and the possibility of a home loan, Hoseok just listened. He seemed amazed by the length you were going to, just to get a home or at least that’s what it felt like.

You looked at different houses and you knew which one you could afford but you couldn’t help but dream about one of the more expensive ones that they had accidentally showed you. Even Seokjin and Hoseok saw you smile when you looked at the places.

The last house you looked at was overrun with grass weeds and trees, garbage in the yard, a broken window and everything needed fixing but it was the cheapest.

The neighbourhood wasn’t bad, but the plumbing was, there was no electricity either which meant you had a lot of work cut out for you. Nothing could compare to your dream house, it had french doors to a back porch and a large backyard with a neat garden.

After inspecting each property you went back to the real estate office and stood outside in the fresh breeze while the agent made a few calls about your loan flexibility. Seokjin went to get coffee from the Cafe just down the road and to enter the real estate office when Hoseok grabbed your arm gently and blushed apologetically, “Hey can we talk just really quick?”

“Sure Hobi,” Your eyes scanned his sheepish form and he opened his mouth but quickly shut it, “What is it?”

“Is it about the break in, I can totally understand if it is, We can find a new place together, something nicer, and with more space in a better neighbourhood.” He looked flustered he wanted to express so much he was fumbling over his words, “Just I don’t want it to be cause of something else, I don’t want it to be about me, or something I have done”

“Hoseok, I have something to tell you,” Your heart was beating out of your chest, “I got some news from the doctor and well I have to get my life in order because this is serious Hoseok”

“Oh god!” He clutched you in his arms, “Don’t say you are dying, please anything but that, I can’t live without you”

“No Hobi, I am pregnant, I have to get my life in order, I can’t raise a baby in a broken studio eating tinned food, I need a proper job and house and…” He pulled back to look at you in a mix of shock and relief “I am scared, and alone”

“You are pregnant, like really pregnant?”

“Yes, and I am pretty much disowned too, so I have no help from home and have I said I was scared because I am shaking” You sniffed tears falling and he held you

"I will be there for you" He smiled, “We can get a house together and raise a baby. Wait. Who did this?”

“I got you a smoothie cause you can’t have Coffee” Seokjin smiled handing a coffee to Hoseok and a smoothie for you. You saw Hoseok’s eyes slid to Seokjin and flick back to yours.

“Him?”

It looked like Hoseok was about to punch him when the Agent stepped out and guided us back into the office, I spoke with the bank and they said you are only eligible for the broken down bomb site of a home.

But amongst the deadly glares of Hoseok and the disappointment on Seokin’s face at the bank’s refusal to lend any more he went to speak. “What about if I add a Ten thousand dollar deposit?”

“No, No deposit I will take it. I have some time to fix it and I intend to.”

“You can’t live there, it is creepy.” Hoseok said

“I can and I will, I have to make a safe environment for a baby Hobi, I can’t sit around in our apartment and wait for someone to stab me in my sleep, I have fate in my hands and I am taking it” You walked into the realtors office and signed the forms, the house was now yours.

You sighed stepping out of the realtors and Seokjin said, “the boys and I will help you clean up”

“I can get some of the guys from work” Hoseok said, appearing more like he was trying to outdo Seokjin, instead of genuinely helping. Either way you were thankful for their help.

The clean up was going to be a huge task and you needed all the help you could get.

Tags: @brbkpop @take-u-2-an0ther-w0r1d @munchyn @unadulteratedlyunique @jinhitwhore @knjkitten

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rogerslovesstark · 4 years

Text

Not So Far Away

Pairing: Former Bucky x fem!reader, cheating!bucky barnes, CEO!Steve x AssitantReader, Mention of Tony Stark, Sam Wilson

Words: 1.1k

Warnings: Angst

Bucky could barely open his eyes, the light streaming in through the window was almost blinding. His head was pounding from the hangover he had. He groaned and rolled over to the left side of his bed. The sheets didn’t even smell like you anymore. The few clothes that you had left were all Bucky had that still smelled like you.

Every night he saw your face in his dreams, smiling so beautifully at him. You looked so lovely every night, every night he looked forward to sleeping, knowing he would be able to see you.

Bucky hadn’t realized what he had lost when he let you go, he didn’t understand the repercussions of his actions. He broke your heart, told you that he didn’t love you anymore and he cheated on you.

It was about six weeks after the breakup, he had gotten a stomach bug and had to call out of work. He called Dot to ask her if she could come over to nurse him back to health, she immediately said no, telling him that she wasn’t his mother or girlfriend to be taking care of him.

He immediately thought about how Y/n would always make soup and tea for him when he felt ill. It was the first time in six weeks where he had thought of her.

Bucky laid in bed, cuddled up in his sheets that faintly smelt like her and drifted off. He dreamt of you, in a small house, surrounded by kids, all of you were laughing and smiling. When he woke up to the eerie silence of his apartment, he didn’t know what to do.

Bucky went into his closet, pulling out whatever clothing item that smelt like you and inhaled your scent. Smelling your calming vanilla and floral scent, he broke down onto the floor. He missed you and disguised it by sleeping with Dot. He never brought her into the bedroom, subconsciously only reserving it for you. Whenever she came by, he kept her in the living room.

Bucky groaned and walked towards the kitchen while passing by the living room, he swore he saw you reading a book on the couch. Only you weren’t there, you never were. Not after that day.

What Bucky would do just to be able to hold you again for just a couple of seconds. He didn’t want to ask for much, all he wanted to do was to be able to kiss your sweet lips again. He ached to see you and feel you. His biggest regret was losing you. He didn’t know where you were or if you still worked for Steve. After that day, Steve stopped talking to Bucky. All communications went silent.

Bucky would go to the gym early, work all day, buy a bottle of liquor, come home and drink the whole bottle. Drinking helped with the dreams, made them feel more realistic like you were actually here, not god knows where.

Bucky would cry in the shower for hours after he realized what he had done. His heart torn into pieces, you were everything he could have possibly ever wanted. All Bucky knew now was pain, trying to remember those sweet sounds that you used to make in bed so long ago. Bucky couldn’t get off if he wasn’t thinking about you.

The moment he realized that he was still in love with you had horrible timing.

Dot had come over and said she hadn’t gotten her period in 6 weeks, and Bucky felt his throat close up, he didn’t want her to be pregnant. He didn’t want to have a family with anyone else but you. Bucky only wanted to see you swell with his child, to be there when you deliver his child. The realization that you were his true love hit him like a truck.

The Stark party was tonight, Bucky prayed that you would be there. It was a long shot but if he could even just see you for one moment, he would be okay. You probably looked so beautiful now that Bucky wasn’t weighing you down.

The party was in a few hours and Bucky still needed to shower all the alcohol off him.

++++

The party was in full swing when Bucky got there, he had worn a white button-up and dark grey dress slacks. He saw that Sam was standing by the bar talking to Steve. Steve looked the same, same blond hair styled to the side, his blue eyes were sparkling though.

Bucky walked up to the two men, patting Sam on the back and giving the two men a bro hug. Steve watched Bucky, he looked ill, a lot skinnier than the last time he saw him. His hair was longer than before, and the bags under his eyes indicated that he wasn’t really sleeping.

“How’ve you been man?” Bucky asked his old friend.

Steve nodded his head, just wanting to hold you tight and get you out of here. He didn’t know how you would react to seeing the man that broke your heart not even more than a year after the breakup.

“Good, good, I relocated to San Fransisco, working on the West Coast now,”

“Oh that's nice, have you missed New York?”

“Not really, it’s so cold over here, and Mailbu isn’t too far from my house,”

Bucky nodded, Steve was always so successful with whatever he was doing. Of course, he would buy a house on the West Coast and then also his Penthouse in the city.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Steve said abruptly, moving away from the bar. You were on the other side of the banquet, talking to an old friend who worked as Stark’s assistant. You looked so pretty, wearing a light blue gown that complimented your figure.

“I don’t mean to interrupt, but can I have this dance?” Steve asks you, you smiled so brightly at him. You both stepped into the crowd and started swaying to the music.

Bucky was talking to Sam when he noticed Steve walking through the crowd. Holding your hand, holding your body close to him, staring lovingly into each other's eyes. Bucky felt like throwing up, after a year of not seeing you, you were standing in front of him, clearly in love with another man.

Bucky rushed to the closest bathroom and gagged at the idea of you with Steve. His own best friend, dancing with his girl, the love of Bucky’s life. Bucky started sobbing in the stall, it felt like someone was pouring ice water on him. All he wanted to do was to hold you and tell you that he was still madly in love with you, but you weren’t his anymore.

Steve was right, he did regret letting you go.

#Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes angst #james barnes #james barnes angst #Winter Soldier #WINTER SOLDIER ANGST #james barnes x reader #Steve Rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers angst #steve rogers fluff

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cozy-the-overlord · 3 years

Text

Dances and Daggers

Summary: The Summer Festival is upon Asgard, as is the tradition of the dagger ceremony, where each unmarried gentleman chooses a lady to bestow with the honor of carrying his dagger for the night. As Prince Thor’s betrothed, Teki’s only goal is to accept his dagger with grace and hope that her violent stepfather doesn’t find fault with her in the process. But Prince Thor is unpredictable, and when he ignores his engagement on a whim Teki finds herself in a desperate situation. Luckily, Thor isn’t the only prince in Asgard…

Pairing: Loki x Original Female Character

Chapter 5: The Aftermath

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Word Count: 1,752

Chapter Summary: After her... outing at the lake with the young prince, Teki is just trying to lay low.

A/N: This week’s chapter is pretty short... I thought about combining it with next week’s, but I really liked the note this ended on, so I decided against it. Hope you don’t mind!

Thanks for reading! :)

TW: mentions of child abuse, threats of violence

Tags: @lucywrites02 @gaitwae

Read it on Ao3!

Teki stiffly swept her hands across the keys. When she woke up to find that the Queen had sent a messenger asking her if she would like to stop by to play the piano for a bit this morning, she told herself it was a good thing. She loved playing piano—surely that would make her feel better.

It didn’t.

Her back ached as she balanced on the bench, her shoulders aflame every time she moved her arms too much. The melody, usually so sweet and soothing, rattled in her skull and beat her brain. Frigga had given her a book of sheet music, but the notes swam before her eyes. Several times, she hit the wrong key, and all she could do was cringe.

Her stepfather hadn’t been pleased with her little game of hide and seek the night of Loki’s Nameday Feast. Neither had he bought her explanation that she had been in the bathroom the entire time because she hadn’t been feeling well.

It could’ve been worse. He didn’t know what she had been up to, or who she had been up to it with. Her ruined dress reappeared in her closet with the rest of the clean laundry, washed and good as new. As far as Osvald was concerned, Teki had just run off and hid somewhere like the brat she was. She couldn’t imagine what he would have done had he known she had been wandering around the place grounds in a soaking dress with Loki.

Her fingers hit the wrong key again, and Teki flinched. This was humiliating.

“Tekla.” The Queen interrupted, moving from the couch to sit at the bench with her. Teki stopped, focusing only on her folded hands in her lap.

Frigga frowned. “Is everything all right, dear?” she inquired. “You don’t seem to be yourself today.”

“I’m fine, Your Majesty. Just a bit tired.” She could feel the sweat lining her brow. It was far too hot to be wearing high collared, long sleeved dresses, but it was the only way to hide all the bruises.

The concern in the Queen’s voice was apparent. “Are you certain?”

Teki nodded, still keeping her eyes in her lap. She felt if she met Frigga’s concerned gaze, she’d be liable to start crying, and that would be even worse than playing the wrong notes on the piano.

She didn’t seem convinced, but nodded regardless. “Well then, perhaps it would be best if you went to go lie down and get some rest,” she said, reaching out to rub Teki’s shoulder consolingly. It took every ounce of willpower for Teki not to wince. “You don’t look well—I’d hate for you to be coming down with something.”

Teki nodded some more as she stood up. She wanted to tell her that it was all right, she wasn’t getting sick, she didn’t have to worry, but she didn’t trust her voice.

She was halfway down the hall when a familiar voice called her name.

“Teki!” Teki turned to see Prince Loki rushing towards her across the corridor, raven hair tousled. He reached her panting, his emerald eyes overflowing with a wild kind of worry. “Are you all right? You haven’t been at dinner.”

She dropped her gaze to the floor again. “Yes, I’m fine, my prince.” Her tone was high, artificially cheerful. “I’ve just been a bit tired.”

It wasn’t that she was mad at Loki. The little prank in the lake had been just that—a prank. He hadn’t meant it to be mean or anything, and she believed that he was genuinely apologetic, but… a lot of things went wrong when he pretended to fall off the dock.

He was reaching out towards her, his hand stopping just shy of hers. “Can—can I do anything to help?” he asked.

“It’s fine, my prince,” she repeated. “I’m just going back to my rooms.”

“I could walk you back—”

“No, that won’t be necessary” Teki interjected. Her voice came out sharper than she intended. She hated the way he flinched. “Sorry,” she dropped to a whisper. “I’m just—it’s—”

“No, you don’t have to explain. I understand.” He bowed softly. “Can I expect to see you at dinner tonight?”

“I’m not sure. Probably.” She didn’t particularly want to go, but there was no way her mother would let her skip a third night in a row.

Loki’s expression was pained. For a moment, he looked like he was going to say something else, but then he shook his head. “I’m sorry, Teki.”

“It’s alright,” she murmured. She turned to make her way down the hall, still feeling his gaze on her back.

…

Everything hurt.

Teki groaned as she tried to roll over in bed, searching for a position that didn’t press against the bruises on her shoulders and down her back. She wished her mother would take her to the healers. But her mother was concerned that they were spending far too much time down at the healing ward—she never said so, but Teki could tell that she was worried they’d start looking into their family.

“If it’s still hurting a lot by the end of the week, I’ll take you,” she had promised.

Teki wasn’t sure if she was going to make it to the end of the week.

Her shoulder twitched when she moved the wrong way, and Teki hissed in pain. She wanted her mother’s painkiller drink. Her mother had made for her earlier, before they went to dinner, but Teki hadn’t drank the whole thing—she was too afraid of passing out in front of the royal family. She was fairly certain her mother had saved the rest of it, in liquor cabinet downstairs…

For a while, she laid on her side, trying to ignore the throbbing at the base of her neck. Don’t think about it. If she woke Osvald up rustling through a cabinet she wasn’t allowed access to, she’d be even worse off than she was now. It wasn’t worth the risk. But as the night dragged on in an agonizing crawl, no relief in sight, Teki found her resolve breaking.

She could be quiet.

Her heart was thudding as she peaked out through her cracked bedroom door. The hall was silent. Holding her breath, Teki crept out towards the stairs. History had taught her that the seventh step creaked if you placed your weight on the middle, so she was careful to hug the wall as she went down. She barely dared to breathe until she reached the bottom of the staircase and slipped into the sitting room.

The curtains on the other side were just barely cracked open, the slightest beam of moonlight cutting through the darkness and contorting the shadows of furniture and belongings in an ethereal glow. The cabinet loomed in the corner, glassy eyes watching her as she slunk past the table. Teki shuddered.

The doors were locked. That was all right—Teki knew her mother kept the key hidden away at the top of the cabinet. She wasn’t tall enough to reach it on her own, though, so she pulled one of the chairs away from the table to stand on. Her back screamed in pain, but she was careful to carry it high enough so that the legs wouldn’t drag on the floor. She groped blindly across the dusty shelf until her fingers landed on the little metal key.

Teki glanced over her shoulder as she stepped down from the chair. The apartment was still. Even so, she could feel her pulse pounding in her ears as she fumbled with the lock. Please don’t make any noise. It clicked open without issue.

The metallic glint of liquor bottles greeted her. Teki squinted through the dark. There should be a mug somewhere, but the pale moonlight revealed nothing. Her heart sank. Her mother did keep the extra, didn’t she? She could’ve sworn she had. If she had done all this sneaking around for nothing…

Climbing back on to the chair, Teki ran her fingers down each shelf in a desperate search for the missing mug. There was a sinking feeling in her stomach, but she forced herself to ignore it. Maybe it had gotten pushed behind the bottles. She reached as a far as she could, but she found only glass.

Then her nails jammed against something metallic.

Teki cried out before she could stop herself. No! She clapped a hand over her mouth, anxiously eying the stairs. Only when several minutes had passed and her stepfather didn’t come pounding into the room did she exhale and turn back to the cabinet. Nursing her hand, she tried to make out what it was she had hit.

There seemed to be a small metal box hidden behind the liquor bottles. Teki frowned. What in the Norns? The meager light from the curtains wasn’t nearly enough to take a proper look. Tentatively, she slid the box from its resting place.

It was about the size of a large book, and heavy too—she could feel the contents sliding around inside as she turned it in her hands. There was a tiny silver lock embedded on the side. Her hands itched—the layer of grime engulfing the box screamed of neglect. How long had this thing been hidden away in here? Why had it been hidden away in the first place? Teki was confused.

She held the box to the light, hoping to get a better look. There seemed to something engraved on the top, perhaps a name of some sort, but the dust was so bad she couldn’t tell what it was. Probably “Áslaug,” or perhaps her grandfather’s name, “Ásvaldr.” Her mother still had many engraved pieces that had belonged to her grandfather. But then again, Teki wasn’t quite certain. The first letter didn’t look much like an “Á.” She rubbed at it with the skirt of her nightdress, her pain nearly forgotten in her curiosity. What could this be? What would her mother keep hidden from the rest of the family?

After a moment, she had cleaned it up enough to make out the lettering. She wasn’t sure what it was she was expecting to find, but there was a thrum in her hands as she held it to the light again. It took only a moment for her to recognize the name. She nearly dropped the whole thing on the wooden floor.

Steinn

This box belonged to Teki’s father.

#dances and daggers #loki x ofc #loki marvel #loki fanfic #dances and daggers chapter 5 #the aftermath #cozy writes

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chappedandfadedvds · 3 years

Text

Jan 22nd, Friday 18:30

note:

I know you just want to read, but I would just like to say that I am really curious to know how many see these posts. so... if you read this and enjoyed this, no matter when you stumbled upon this story of mine:

could you maybe just leave a like on this one?

you don’t have to, no worries. and if it is just the same names, that are already showing me their love through likes and retweets, then that is absolutely fine as well. Because I wrote this for you great souls, who enganged and made me believe that I could finish this.

thank you!

oh and if you liked my writing thus far, please check the last masterpost for this week, which I’ll post later.

__ __ __

Faint music in the background. Them on the bed, stretched out on top of the blankets. On their backs, phones in hands. Each of them caught up in their own digital world as they almost inaudible hummed along the lyrics of the song.

All the beats fell in between the silence that they shared.

Jens stared a little longer at Jana’s answer. He had felt worse with each day that had passed without his reply, which had only taken him a moment of his time, yet so much more. He turned off the screen, his phone placed next to him, before he turned his head to look at Lucas.

The younger boy was still occupied. His fingers typing away, his lips mouthing words, that Jens couldn’t hear. He had missed this so much. Had yearned to wake up again next to this boy that had struck him one bleak october morning. Remarkable how fast he had fallen, how gentle the landing had been in the end. So easy to accept and cherish.

The harder it had hurt to loose the thight grasp on him. Though perhaps he never truly had.

They didn’t even had a plan from here on out. Jens had brought it up on a call two nights ago, but had been cut off by the younger boy. The plan is to hold my hand tomorrow and never let go, Lucas had told him. The smile present in the soft pitch of his voice. Mellow. Calming.

Enough to stop his worry for a little while.

Lucas sighed and lowered his phone to his chest. The moment he faced Jens, his lips curled up and his eyes crinkled at it’s corners, the older boy forgot to breath. Still, after all these weeks.

„Hey, there. You good?“

It was barely above a whisper, yet it felt intrusive, too loud.

„Good enough.“ Jens replied vague, his gaze dropped in the second he spoke, before he was searching for deep blue eyes again. Perhaps this was his ocean to devote himself to.

„Well, Ies texted me that they should be here in, like, half an hour. I can still take them to my place. In case you don’t feel to well and need some quiet. That’s fine.“

„No, don’t worry. I’d rather have you here.“

Lucas huffed amsued, as he shifted closer, leaning in to kiss the older boy, eager to feel the lips on his. He tasted like bitter tea. And Jens loved it only for the times he got to taste it on Lucas’s tongue.

„Ies is so dumb though.“ The younger boy said, as he couldn’t help but chuckle and break off their kiss. Only to press his lips back with even more force a second later. Jens’s fingers tangled in brown locks of hair, as a hand run over his bare chest under his shirt.

„What?“ Jens whispered when he had halted for a moment to gasp for much needed air. He felt like he had missed a part of a conversation, trying to push away the pleasent fog clouding his senses.

„As if we would just make out for hours, when Lotte is around.“

„Sorry, what?“

„That’s what she implied when she texted me. Perhaps a bit more than just making out.“ Lucas explained. His expression graced by a brilliant smirk that needed to be kissed off his face, Jens thought. However it actually made him realise that Isa may not have been so wrong after all. And that wasn’t quite something he wanted in his mind right now.

He threw his head back onto the mattress, his eyes back on the ceiling. He needed his heart to calm and his blood to stop rushing down his vains. The tips of his fingers burning.

The sound of broken glass certainly did the trick. Jens suddenly sobered from his longing thoughts, as he instantly sat in bed, straightened up, listening past the music and past the rustling of sheets from Lucas moving behind him.

„JENS! JEEENS!“ The whine that followed already closed in as feet stomped up the stairs in rapid motion.

Alarms went off in his head, expecting the worse. The imagine of his mom, on the floor, hand bloodied and in tears, inmidst shards of glass and red drops.

He was already on his feet a second later, and by the door in a heartbeat after, quick to push it open.

His sister, almost infront of him, had just reached the last step. She looked fine. Unharmed. And yet a little shaken, while big eyes were staring at him in shock.

„Are you okay? What happened?“ Jens asked, a little more at ease with the knowledge that it probably wasn’t as bad as he had feared.

„I pushed the glass of the table and it broke and spilled all the juice over my homework before it fell. And now I have to write it all again.“

Jens wasn’t sure if he wanted to cry or laugh at the near heart attack and panic that he had been through just a moment earlier. Perhaps he wanted to just scold Lotte for scarying him that much.

But his little sister still looked rather frightened and close to tears herself, even if it only stemmed from her ruined homework.

He took a deep breath, not trusting his voice to sound reassuring otherwise.

„Alright. I’ll be down in a sec. Maybe you can already get the mob from the bathroom, so we can clean this before Kes and Isa are here?“ Jens suggested and watched his sister trotting back downstairs, after she had nodded and agreed.

Lucas’s arms wrapped around his middle, as he pressed his body against Jens’s back, The younger boy rested his chin on his shoulder, not without dotting his neck with a dozen tender kisses.

„This child, I swear.“ Jens laughed lightly, already feeling better again. The last couple of weeks had proven to have been a constant up and down. He could only hope that it would begin to settle now that he believed to have find some security in his friend’s and Lucas’s company. He would be fine.

Not now. Perhaps not next month. But one day.

„Okay then, let’s get this done.“ Lucas decided, while he pushed Jens forward and followed Lotte down. The two boys even managed to throw a brief glance into the mirror by the entrance, sorting their hair and smoothing their clothes out. To look decent, as the younger boy had put it.

It had made Jens look at him with a confused expression, only to be met by a shaking head and a soft giggle.

Sometimes he didn’t understand his boyfriend. And he wasn’t sure, if he ever could. He hoped he would, though.

„Look, it’s all gone.“ Lotte cried in her despair, as she hold up the three sheets of paper, dripping in apple juice. Jens had to agree, that this didn’t looked too good for her, but his main concern laid with the glass on the floor.

So while he was busy to clean that mess to their feet, Lucas and Lotte put their attention towards the table and his sister’s scattered school supplies.

They had gotten it done just in time. Right before the doorbell rang. The mop was put back. The papers on the heater next to the sofa. To hopefully dry them, and leave at least the text readable enough to copy from later.

„Bonsoir!“

The cheery voice from Isa hit them, as soon as they had opened the door. Kes next to her shouldering two large bags, while he somehow still waved and said his own greetings with a breathless smile.

„You are here!“ Lucas declared just as excited, while ushered his two best friends in. Jens was glad he had agreed to have them all spend the weekend together. He adored to see his boyfriend this joyous.

Jens was briefly enwrapped in a loving embrace by the girl, until Lotte shouted her name. And in an instant he had been forgotten.

„Aw there she is, my favourite eight-year-old.“ Isa proclaimed right next to him, before she scooped up Lotte into her arms. Both of them busy talking in rapid fire, about how much they had looked forwards to this.

A hand on his shoulder that pulled him into another hug, ripped his eyes away from the two girls. Kes had apparently rid himself from the weight of the luggage to be finally able to arrive fully and greet Jens personally. It was a little more than that, though.

„You are lucky, that this stupid boy loves you so much. I was this close to come and beat you up last weekend.“ Kes said, while he only left the tiniest space between his thumb and index finger as he gestured to Jens just how narrow he had escaped his fate, his tone light and playful. Jens, however, felt rather assured that there wasn’t an ounce of a lie to be detected behind those words.

He fortunately managed to smile through the realisation, vowing himself to better not fuck up ever again in the future.

„What, you love me? Cringe.“ Jens decided to joke instead, a cocky smirk stretched across his face. He turned his head towards Lucas, who immediately flipped him off without any hesitation.

„No. I don’t. Kes lied.“

„Shit, that hurts.“ Jens pouted in jest, his eyes blinking up at the grinning boy next to Isa.

„It should.“

That was all that Lucas had replied, before the five of them headed into the living room. All in order to give the newly arrived couple a quick tour of the house. Lotte darting right to the front to take on the role of the guide, eager to give too many details about everything that caught her eyes.

„I love you so much.“ Lucas had said a little later, when they followed the other three up the stairs, with a bit of distance between them. His fingers quick to grab Jens’s hand into his to squeeze them for emphasis.

Jens stopped them halfway up, stealing a kiss and then also a second.

One day he would feel like this, right here in this moment, at any given time. Be it when the sun was up and Lotte was ignoring him in her room, or when the night covered him in darkness and he would be missing their mom. One day he would be okay.

„I know,“ he whispered, „I love you, too.“

-End of Chapped And Faded (Jens’s Season)-

__ __ __ tagged: @odi-et-amo85, @tayspots

last note:

I can’t believe that for thirteen full weeks I kept writing and uploading this story. I have always written and almost never had found the energy or determination to finish even one of my projects.

this wasn’t easy to do, but it was all worth it to force myself through some days of it.

I did this.

I hope you all don’t mind, if I just take this moment to be proud of myself.

And I hope the more that this end is satisfactory to you.

I love you all.

Thank you.

Oh and I may have a little bonus clip on sunday.

I need to revise it, but I definitely want to take a day off.

It’s gonna jump a bit forward, but it gives a little idea on where they are heading.

#week 13 #wtfock #skam #vds #jens stoffels #lucas van der heijden #chapped and faded #the last clip #the end #i did it #wow

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peantbutter-honeycombs · 4 years

Text

The Hollowing Series: Part I

Title: Prelude

Word count: 2,980

Characters: The 11th Doctor, Amy Pond, ocs

Warnings: Platonic fic not romantic. Crappy writing?

Notes: So three? I want to say three years ago this idea came to mind. Well not this one. But I worked off that idea and came to this. I like the idea of the Doctor being around children. They’re just so innocent. But then I though what the hell let’s torture 11 and the kids and this was born. I’ll explain more later but for now Spoilers. I reall have worked hard on this it’s my first Doctor Who fic. It’s been in my head and notes for years so please be kind and enjoy. I’m going to try, try to break this in to only 4 parts. But hey I’m a detailed writer.

Special Thanks to my college buddy B, @mirkwoodshewolf, and @underskaro for tolerating my ramblish rants and beta reading the chapter.

———

Down the road aways, pushed against the hills, stood a cobblestone farm style home. The front lawn was messy, jagged and uncut. From the muddy earth sprang up wildflowers and weeds, northern marches, poppies, and heathers. It was all very wild. The pedestal of a concrete birdbath was cracked and lopsided, with vines wrapping around the very base.

A trike was tangled, hidden in the tall overgrown grass. It felt out of place among the weedy garden. The bike in contrast to the exterior of the old homestead must have been brand new. Green and black, the trike was just brilliant enough to be noticeable through the thrush.

Visible from the left lower window appeared a boy, no older than 14 but no younger than 12. He reached out toward the edges of the frame, grasping at the sangria red fabric. In one swift motion, he drew the curtains closed.

“There,” the boy said, standing back to admire his work.

The four windows of the well-sized sitting room. The warm golden light that once flooded through the glass panes, faded, leaving room to feel somewhat dark and empty.

Stepping backward, the young teen collapsed over an armrest onto a sofa. The sofa’s cushions sank under the weight of him, creating a spot perfectly tailored to the shape of his body. The sofa had seen better days. The brown leather fabric was worn, torn in some places and had a great dark stain on the Center cushion that the boy couldn’t remember ever not existing.

Dragging his legs over the armrest, he moved himself so he was in a sitting position. He stretched his right hand out, leaning his body so he could reach a drawing book on the right end table. The silence of the sitting room hugged him like a security blanket, his muscles became jello, all the stress of the day just melted off him. Being the man of the house was hard.

He became lost in his own world. He didn’t utter a word for the next fifteen minutes and barely moved from his spot for a full thirty minutes. His left hand carefully looped and curved over the blank sheet of paper, no longer blank. Every now and again he’d spin his pencil around in his fingers in deep thought, or wildly erase a thoughtless mistake. He hummed along to the song blasting through his one right earbud (the one thing he’d moved to retrieve.) nodding his head in time with the 60’s melody.

The sound of creaking floorboards overhead pressed through his exposed ear, carrying him back to reality. He could hear gentle feet beating against the wood. They were almost unnoticeable over the music. Almost.

There was a lull in the footsteps, creating silence.

They must be at the stairs, he thought, beginning to set his drawing tools away.

They always stopped at the top of the stairs and the base. The stairs of the old farmhouse were criminally steep, with each weirdly a different height than the last. They were enough to give anyone unfamiliar with them a headache. If his mother had gotten them carpeted, maybe the stairs wouldn’t have been so nauseating, but she’d wanted to preserve the house’s history as best she could.

Thump, thump, thump.

He could just imagine the little human, the footsteps belonged to crawling down the stairs. Moving down them one by one, on their knees. Sort of in a reverse way of the puppy conquering the stairs in Lady and the Tramp.

“No, go away,” he called, pressing a pencil down into its colouring box. When there was quiet he looked over his shoulder, everything from the waist down just sitting there on the steps. The figure's upper body was obstructed from his view.

“I was kidding, you can come down.” He turned back to his tidying. He heard the little feet happily stomp about, then thump, thump, thump.

Focused on organising his things, he looked up only when noticing the pair of dust stained white socks out of the corner of his eye. He blinked, somewhat irritatedly, staring at the little girl who now stood across from him.

With a great sigh, he said.

“You’re really annoying sometimes, you know that?”

A child no older than four stood before him. Her brown eyes, earthy hues of the soil after rain or bark on a walnut tree. They gave him a look that was of youthful innocence. Bright auburn hair reached down to the middle of her back, slightly covering the sides of her cheeks. Her pale skin was dotted and marked with a surplus of freckles — Sophia.

Sophia frowned, taking a step back. This made the older boy quietly snicker.

He smiles in a reassuring manner, “Hello, Soph-a-loaf.” He teased goofily pronouncing her name. The slightest smile tugged at the corners of the ginger's lips. He brought Sophia onto his lap, letting her sit on his thighs. “What’s up ducky?” He asked, brushing some of her hair back behind her ear. Sophia scrunches her mouth to one side, making a few murmuring noises. “Oh really? Sounds like you’ve had a day.”

Sophia nods. She rests her head on Oliver’s stomach, looking up at him with her sweet doe eyes.

“What?”

Her eyes darted off toward the window.

“No. No.” Oliver shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. Sophia tilted her head to one side, training her attention on Oliver’s. “Seriously the park now?” Oliver whined, backing into the cushion.

He reaches for a throw pillow and covers his face with it.

“I’m sleeping,” he murmurs from behind the fabric. Sophia fusses lightly, pressing at his stomach. Oliver grunted, but kept the pillow pressed against his face. “I’m dead,” he tried.

This time Sophia head butted him in the gut. Oliver pulled a face, bringing the pillow down.

“Bleh!” He mocked, tongue lolled out of his mouth. Sophia squeaks, swatting her palm against Oliver’s arm. “Hey, we don’t hit. Sophia, I don’t want to go to the park.” Oliver said leaning down so his forehead was against hers. Sophia kindly taps her temple against his. Oliver chuckles softly, giving her forehead a sweet peck. “Sophey Tophie.”

He lifts Sophia off his lap, setting her on the floor in front of him.

“I suppose… it would be nice to get out of the house.” His eye drifted to a calendar on the interior sidewall of the sitting room. He couldn’t remember when he circled that day. Sophia excitedly bounces up and down. “What are you a rabbit?” The little ginger doesn’t respond, bouncing her way to the front door.

Oliver rolls his eyes. Upon realisation, he sprang up from the sofa.

“Sophia, you need a coat!”

The two children squinted against the hazy Yorkshire rain. The rain was cool against their exposed skin. It felt nice, refreshing even. It ran through their hair, smoothing out Sophia’s auburn waves, mopping Oliver’s ash brown locks. It plastered small individual strands to each of their faces.

Oliver chatted away as they went down the muddy, winding path. Chatting isn't quite the right word as Sophia never spoke. It had only taken him two minutes to go off on a tangent about something or other.

Sophia, only kind of sort of listening, pedaling her hand-me-down trike. His voice disappeared into the white noise, allowing her to quietly enjoy the English landscape.

The countryside stretched and weaved as far as the eye could see. Rustic English cottages and cobblestone farm houses dotted the grassy hills. The land gently rolled up and down the valley, merging with the uneven, mist filled moors half way up the emerald green mounds of earth.

Dew, white and clear, decorated the damp droopy grass the land glittered, sparkling under the orange purpling sunlight.

The houses of the humdrum sleepy town were few and well spaced out. One could walk a good half a mile before reaching their neighbours' property. Those closer to the center of town were flats, pushed together in neat lines, occupying the space over the small, often family owned shops.

Oliver and Sophia arrived at the park in twenty minutes. Sophia having to struggle, pedaling through the mud had set them back. However, neither of the children seemed to care. Sophia hopped off the trike and clicked off her helmet, abandoning both on the pavement. She couldn’t wait to explore the soggy park.

For the next 20 minutes they hung out at the park, Sophia wandered the grassy playing field picking at wild flowers while Oliver practiced his kicks. In the following ten, Sophia ran up the stairs then went down the slide. She’d dust herself off, then go round again. The next five minutes she sat still, a bit tired, content to watch the villagers while Oliver puttered around.

“Oi! Sophia, I’m goin’ to the loo. I’ll be back right back!” Oliver shouted from the far side of the futbol field. The park had no bathroom, so he’d have to walk clear cross the road to Brews Brothers’ Pub. The popular bar had an outdoor side restroom reserved for the public.

Sophia watched Oliver leave until he became nothing more than a speck in the distance.

The quiet times brought a certain comfort to Sophia. It was the perfect time to watch people revel in the coolness of other humans’ lives. Usually the park was a buzz with townsfolk, mostly children. They melded together and dotted the public lawn like A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte. But now there was little life to distinguish the little village from Oradour-sur-Glane, France.

The night air, though cool, had a biting sharpness to it. No thanks to the rain. Sophia sniffs through her nostrils, inhaling the almost intoxicating spring air. Sitting on the bench, her little legs swung over mud coated grass. Misty rain was still falling steadily, and the temperature had dropped considerably.

Sophia wasn’t bothered though.

Reaching for a short stick she traces some shapes in the ground. She nods her head, humming a tune she couldn’t quite place.

“You know, sometimes I wonder if you actually know how to fly the TARDIS.” A voice, female with a thick Scottish accent, said.

Two foreign voices cut through the cold silence. Her eyes dart down the path. From where she sat she could hear them, the voices, bickering. About what, she had no clue.

Out of mist in the distance strode what appeared to be a young couple. The man seemed tall. His dark brown hair was long, stuck to his forehead in a droopy fashion, much like Ollie’s. Despite looking like a young man, he wore clothes that reminded Sophia of one of the town retirees; a Donegal tweed sport jacket with elbow patches, an off white dress shirt, rolled up deep blue trousers and… and bow tie?

Bow ties are for Sunday, Sophia thought, eyes narrowing at the approaching pair.

His partner appeared to be much more put together. Auburn hair, just a smidge less vibrant than Sophia’s framed a pale Scottish face. An irradiated cross expression dominated her features. Her voice wasn’t high nor low, it perfectly suited her in an indescribable way. And unlike the man to her right, she wore clothes appropriate for her age.

The pair stopped in the middle of the path, continuing to argue.

“Of course, I know how to fly the TARDIS sometimes she- she just has a mind of her own.” The lanky man argued, earning an eye roll from the ginger.

“We’re supposed to be England,” She grouched. “What about Churchill? This looks like— are we in Scotland?”

Sophia scoffed, shaking her head, tourists. She watched as the man licked a finger, held it against the wind, then popped it back in his mouth.

“No, no. I’m sure we’re in England.”

The finger crossed her arms over her chest in a cool way.

“Shouldn’t there be I dunno fighters, soldiers, something? I’m getting sheep.” She said looking round the area. She wasn’t wrong there were sheep, white puffs mindlessly grazing on the hills. When she looked back at the man, he was squatting. In his right hand he held a good chunk of mud.

“Wha—What are you doing?”

“Definitely in England. Westerdale Yorkshire, to be more precise. Right country wrong period. Does something seem off to you?” He asked, running a thumb over the mucky mud, cautiously examining it.

His partner snorted indignantly.

“Something or… someone? No don’t eat the—”

Sophia quickly pushed her head down, crinkling her nose. Adults are weird. She turned her attention to her dirt scribbles. She didn’t understand what they were on about, anyway. Hopefully they’d be on their way soon. They didn’t belong.

There’s a weight increase, bending the planks of the bench. An electric chill ran up Sophia’s spine, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. The reaction wasn’t from the cold. There was a weight increase bending the planks of the bench.

“Well hello there, I’m the Doctor. What’s your name.”

Surprise was never an emotion Sophia handled well. Her shoulders went rigid, her entire body defensively readying itself. Her sweet eyes become stoney. Her breathing felt as if it was becoming more shallow with each breath. The guarding alarms inside her mind we’re going crazy halting the thinking gears of her brain.

The man held his hands up resignedly. “No, no, don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you.” There was a gentleness to his tone, a kind of concern. Sophia couldn’t be sure. No matter something about him. She let her shoulders go loose, but the rest of her still felt tense. “Would you mind? I have a few questions.”

Sophia allowed herself to relax a little more, not completely but more.

“Doctor!” The scot’s voice rang up briefly, sending Sophia back into defensive mode. “You can’t keep talking to children you don’t know.” She sounded like a mother chiding her young child.

Her comment sparked a minor argument between the pair.

Sophia took the time to lean back and take the pair in full, particularly the man. He was a little more normal-ish looking up close. Normal enough. There was something about his eyes she couldn’t quite describe.

Sophia observed the two curiously, unaware that the fear, once crushing her chest, was steadily subsiding.

“I introduced myself this time. Oh yes,” the Doctor swiftly turns to Sophia, “this is Amy.”

“That’s not how it works,” Amy grumbled.

Her partner ignores her, keeping his attention on Sophia. “There’s something… something about this place. Don't know. I think-" He spoke fast, flaggishly moving his hands about. “Well I know it’s something. Too many ideas. Head’s bit cloudy.” He knocked on his temple.

Sophia, though a little behind, shifted uncomfortably.

“Need to narrow it down…” he trailed off. Sophia, her left palm on her thigh, absently traces along each finger with her right index. He observes Sophia with a kind, sort of calculating, gaze.

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?

Concurrently, Ollie was on his way back from the toilet. He dribbles across the park, knocking a futbol between one foot and the other. “He’s going for the full court folks.” He deepened his voice, trying to mimic the vocals of a proper sports announcer. “He’s at the 75 marker, will he go for the assist?” He sped up, using a lace touch to control the ball. “He passes to,” Oliver knocks the ball clear cross the field.

“No one.”

He’d get his ball back tomorrow. The silence made his blood as cold as the icy waters of a polar plunge, as he strode across the park to where he had left Sophia.

Everything was still hazy and cloudy from the English rain. Billions of trillions of icy drops dripped down his neck and fell off the flaps of his slicker. In this de-focused world, he could just make the outlined silhouette of Sophia.

“Sophia. Sophia?”

He goes taut, stopping in his tracks. For a moment his brain glitches. His eyes went wide, mouth falling slightly ajar. Although he was staring at Sophia, he was seeing more than he expected.

“Sophia, what do you think you’re doing?” His voice was steady, but had a sharpness to it. “Talking to strangers?” He holds a hand out, which Sophia compliantly takes within seconds.

“And you lot.” The ginger seemed taken back by Oliver’s frigidity. A tween scolding two strange grownups, one of them a Scot, bit startling. The gentleman, however, seemed off in his head, silently mouthing the same word over and over. “You can’t just be talking to people you don’t know, numpties.”

“Oi, watch it.”

Oliver’s eyes sourly narrow. “You’re not from around here, are you?” He deadpanned.

“Just passing through. Hello, I’m the—”

“You should keep passing,” Oliver interrupted. Stepping between Sophia and the pair. Sophia could only watch as Oliver spoke to the two adults. “Leave town before it gets dark.” He warned, picking Sophia up, holding her on his hip.

“Is everything okay?” The gentleman asked, stepping up from the bench.

Though his expression held a casual indifference, his skin goes colourless. He let out an understated sigh, bowing his head and turning to leave. “I have to get Sophia home. It's almost supper time.”

Sophia beats her head against Oliver's shoulder, hitting it just hard enough to make the older child wince. He rolls his eyes, but turns back to the pair. “If you are going to stay… it’s only fair.” He sounded like a toddler forced to apologise.

“I must warn you.” He let his face fall in seriousness.

“Beware what lies in the mist of the Moors.”

#11th doctor #11th doctor x child oc #doctor who fandom #doctor who fanfic #doctor who fanfiction #doctor who imagine #doctor who imagines #doctor who series #11th doctor fanfic #doctor who series 5 #amy pond #ocs #11th doctor imagine #Matt Smith #karen gillan #Paxton Singleton

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kingreywrites · 4 years

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Vigilant Heart

Fandom: Tangled

Words count: 2698

New Dream Appreciation Week Day Four: Hurt/Comfort

Summary: The situation still felt not quite right, as if she was missing something - but Eugene was warm against her and she wanted nothing more than to forget everything and stay with him forever.

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@our-newdream

Rapunzel was dancing. Slowly going around the room, Eugene's arm warm against her waist as his other hand held hers, a wide smile etched on both their faces. Nothing existed besides them and the music - and Rapunzel thought her heart might just burst from sheer happiness. She felt like she was falling in love all over again, butterflies fluttering in her stomach as she lost herself in Eugene's caring eyes. He was smiling, and his hair looked so good she wanted to put her hand in it and watch how quickly he would sputter a protest. She didn't, though - it could wait until tonight. For now, they were swirling around the room, she was laughing, Eugene was beaming and nobody could do anything to burst their bubble.

Well, nobody could try - they were alone.

Rapunzel frowned, slowing down a little, because now that she was looking at her environment, the ballroom seemed foggy and was definitely empty, except for Eugene and her. She opened her mouth but, before she could say anything, Eugene dipped her, drawing a gleeful yelp from her lips.

"Eugene," she breathed, still only supported by his arms, trusting him to not let her fall.

"Usually, you're the one dipping me," he laughed, before easily righting her up and drawing her fully in his arms.

Rapunzel melted in the hug, a warm feeling of affection spreading through her body right to her fingertips. God, she loved him. She discovered how much each day, because it seemed like her love was ever-growing, never reaching a limit. Eugene would laugh, and her heart beat faster; he would cry, and the desire to comfort him was so overwhelming she wouldn't be able to stop herself if she ever wanted; he would do something weird, or something nice, or even a random something, and her first thought was always that she loved him. So she'd touch him or hug him or kiss him, whatever could happen right then and there, and she'd think about how lucky she was to have him in her life.

"Where is everyone?" she whispered against his shoulder, the thought popping up in her head again.

"They left long ago."

His chuckle made her shiver and she smiled, even though the idea sounded wrong to her ears. Who was playing the music, if they were alone? Why would they dance, alone, in the ballroom? When had she gotten here? She tried to take a step back but Eugene tightened his hug and, for a moment, her worries dissolved.

"I love you, Eugene," she said, raising her head at the same time to meet his eyes.

"I love you too, Rapunzel," he smiled.

They kissed, and the beautiful buzzing in her head once again distracted Rapunzel. The situation still felt not quite right, as if she was missing something - but Eugene was warm against her and she wanted nothing more than to forget everything and stay with him forever.

"Something's weird," she mumbled against his lips, but instead of answering, he kissed her again.

It was weird, Eugene never pushed. He loved to talk - he interrupted their kisses, their hugs, their more intimate times to quip about something, or tell her that he loved her, or whisper sweet nothing in her ears. He never stopped talking, and Rapunzel loved that about him, loved the vibrations of his voice against her skin, loved it when he asked her permission for the umpteenth time because he loved to hear her say yes. But, since they began dancing (and when was that, again?) he had barely said a word. He answered her questions, but no more.

Something was wrong with this picture.

Rapunzel tried to take a step back again, but he tightened his hold, again. This time, she didn't accept it - she pulled until he wasn't pretending anymore, his hands' vicious grip tight around her wrist. She met his eyes, but they had lost their previous warmth, his smile a twisted grimace.

"Who are you?!" Rapunzel cried out, trying to rip her hands out of his. "Where is Eugene? Where is everyone?"

"I'm here, flower," not-Eugene soothed, the nickname like an electric shock for Rapunzel.

She was queasy, unsteady, like her whole body was revolting against the situation. "You're not Eugene," she spat, her voice so loud that the music disappeared, but not loud enough to shadow the blood rushing in her ears.

"Maybe not," the imposter smiled, his eyes flashing red, then green, changing once or twice before settling for one colour for each eye. Rapunzel remembered Matthew now, but how could she be back there? She felt as if she wanted to puke, but couldn't, her body unsettled.

"Where. Is. He?" she ground out against her nausea.

"Long gone too," the imposter singsonged - Rapunzel blinked and suddenly they were in her bedroom.

He let go of her hands and she fell harshly on the floor, immediately scrambling for the exit until she realised they were no doors. Rapunzel glanced at the window, but there were bars installed on it, like when her dad had locked her in it. Not-Eugene was still smiling in the middle of her bedroom, even when the walls shifted and the space became a weird mix of her bedroom at the castle and the one back at the tower.

There was blood near the window.

She ran to it even if there was nothing to see but this brown dried out patch that she knew was blood. She looked back at not-Eugene, traitorous tears already gathering in her eyes as she met his unnatural one.

"Where is Eugene?" she whispered.

"I think you already know the answer to that one, Flower," he answered, his voice not Eugene's anymore. "And stop mumbling, will you?"

Rapunzel could feel her hands tremble as they were hovering above the blood, the feeling of wrongness returning tenfold. She wanted to flee, because her heart was beating loudly and the simple sentence made her want to hide under her sheets like she liked to do as a kid - but she wouldn't. She wasn't a child anymore, and she needed to find everyone, to find Eugene. She tightened her fists and got to her feet, glaring at the fake Eugene.

"Who are you?" she growled, the sound foreign to her own ears. The room was still shifting around them, the movement making her dizzy - she could see things from the corner of her eye that disappeared when she looked straight at them.

Not-Eugene walked toward her, exuding something dangerous, that she couldn't quite identify. He didn't seem like he wanted to answer and, when he grew close enough, she just… jumped on him. She had no plan, no idea besides learning where Eugene was. They both fell to the ground and the imposter immediately turned them over, gaining advantage. She wanted to fight but it seemed like her arms were too weak suddenly, too frail to do any damages - even when he put his hands around her necks and squeezed.

She tried to cry out, but she couldn't. She clawed at his arms, but he wasn't moving and she couldn't breathe and-

"Rapunzel?"

-he had no right to look and sound like Eugene when he wasn't, when Eugene was probably hurt somewhere and she couldn't get to him, she couldn't-

"Rapunzel?!"

-and her tears were falling slowly, unnoticed, running silently to the side of her head, and she thought she could feel something brush them off but it didn't make sense and she couldn't breathe and- and-

"Rapunzel!"

She opened her eyes with a gasp, the pressure from her throat gone, but not-Eugene wasn't - he was hovering above her, his hand stilled, and his brown eyes full of concern, but she knew now it was all a lie. Before she could think about it, she tightened her fist, putting her fingers like Eugene once taught her, and hit fake Eugene as hard as she could. This time, his head snapped back and he yelped - which was enough for her to try to get away, only noticing that she was tangled in her sheets. She tried to get up but stumbled and fell out of the bed, crawling until her back was to the wall.

Not-Eugene hadn't gotten back up, she thought, but she wasn't sure because her heart was still beating too fast, drowning out everything. Rapunzel wanted to check the window again, or the door, but something was weird - she couldn't breathe but it seemed like her memories of the ballroom or the choking were faded, slipping through the cracks of her imagination.

A chirp interrupted her swirling thoughts.

"Pascal?" she whispered, feeling the tears still staining her cheeks. The little chameleon was looking at her worriedly, before he climbed up right to her shoulder and hugged her as best as he could. Rapunzel chuckled, unsettled - her mind finally righting itself as she noticed how much more real the room was.

A dream. Or, well, a nightmare.

Eugene's head popped up from the other side of the bed, looking a little ridiculous as he only let her see his eyes.

"Are you okay?" he asked, sounding weirdly muffled.

She nodded, wiping her face quickly. "Yes, sorry… Strange dream," she revealed, her hands still shaky and her body still thrumming with nervous energy.

"Seemed like a nightmare to me." Eugene still hadn't gotten fully up and, with her dwindling panic, Rapunzel realised that this was weird. Eugene was tactile, especially when he wanted to comfort her - he should be hugging her by now, but he wasn’t, and that meant something was wrong. Her nightmare was still way too present in her mind - and with it, the overwhelming sensation that Eugene was in danger and needed her help.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice wobbly. Worried, she got back to her knees, the dark room making it difficult for her to see her husband. It probably was around four in the morning.

"Hum, don't freak out, okay?" he pleaded, and she would have laughed at the throwback to her own words if what she saw when she climbed on the bed didn't shock her silent.

Eugene was holding his bleeding nose, with a smile that seemed much more like a grimace as he took in the horror on her face. Suddenly, Rapunzel remembered seeing him hover above her, all concerned about her, and- she had thought she was still in the dream, with fake Eugene, that she was still in danger because of him, and…

"I punched you!" She scrambled over the bed, going as close as she thought she could, and watched the dark liquid make its way down his face as his hand gingerly pinched his smarting nose. "Oh my god, Eugene, I'm so-"

"Nu-hu, no freak out," he repeated, his free hand booping Rapunzel's own nose, "it's nothing."

Rapunzel wanted to protest, to say that it wasn't nothing because she hurt him, she punched him right in the face and she knew how much he liked it - his own face that is. God, what if his nose was crooked forever?! He would say that it was nothing, because he wouldn't want to make her sad, but he'd be devastated, and then she'd have to tell Cassandra not to joke about it because it would hurt his feelings more, but then she'd have to tell the whole kingdom too, but they wouldn't listen so she would have make a law, a law that the council wouldn't approve of so she'd have to become a dictator because she punched Eugene and she had to make it right even if she didn't want to be a dictator-

"Sunshine," Eugene whispered, sounding a little like a duck since his nose was clogged with blood, "deep breaths. No freaking out allowed."

She followed his advice and breathed as deeply as she could, before exhaling loudly. His eyes were still full of concern, and he hadn't even moaned about his nose yet, so Rapunzel guessed he had seen she was having a nightmare - and it must have been bad enough to scare him into not caring about the state of his face, so really bad. She bit her lips, and her hand went to his sleep-mussed hair, feeling how soft it was.

"Let's… Let's clean this up," she proposed, unsure, and he nodded, letting her guide him to the bathroom because he knew she liked to take charge when she was worried.

She turned the light on and cringed at the brightness, then cringed at the still flowing blood from Eugene's nose, looking so much more vivid now that they weren’t in the dark.

"You pack a mean punch," he joked when she inspected the deep bruising that was already forming, "who's the expert that trained you?"

"You wouldn't like him," Rapunzel played along as she soaked a piece of clothes, "he's annoyingly cute."

"Sounds horrible," he chuckled, wincing as she brushed his nose with the cold cloth.

They needed to stop the swelling, she knew, but it didn't make her feel better about hurting him - especially not because it was all her fault. Why would she punch him? She had been scared, yes, but she should have… She should…

"Hey," he murmured warmly, "no guilt-trip either. It wasn’t your fault."

Pascal chirped his approval from her shoulder, and Rapunzel could feel herself tear up, which she found silly but couldn't stop it.

"I'm so sorry Eugene," she said despite his comfort, "I never meant to hurt you."

"I know, sunshine, I know," he soothed. "You were having such a bad dream, I should probably have given you more space instead of standing right over you. But that's okay, we both made little mistakes, that's nearly nothing!"

"Your nose…"

"My nose will be fine," Eugene announced confidently, a grimace on his lips betraying a certain nervousness. "And, even if it ends up crooked forever well… You'll still love me, right?"

Rapunzel didn't answer, because she knew she wouldn't be able to not say sorry again - instead she kissed him, because it was a ludicrous question. She didn't think there was anything in the world that could make her not love him when it felt as natural as breathing. So she kissed him, her hands going to his hair - she kissed him, until her nose bumped into his and he winced. She immediately jumped away, despite his hand on her back trying to keep her close to him.

"Stop distracting me, we need to ice your nose."

"Hey, you were the one who kissed me," Eugene answered cheekily, wiggling his eyebrows and immediately regretting it, as the pain from his nose had spread to his whole face.

Rapunzel frowned, looking at her soaked piece of cloth. "That won't be good enough, I... We need to go to the kitchens to find ice, or to the infirmary, I don't know, I-"

Eugene took her hands in his, ignoring the water slowly trickling down their arms as he squeezed the piece of cloth. Gently, he coaxed her to slow her breathing again, until she stopped feeling like she would explode from nervousness alone.

"My nose isn't broken, Sunshine," he told her, "and it’s not even bleeding anymore, so there’s no need for-"

He interrupted himself, frowning, and raised Rapunzel’s right hand in his own. With a start, she realised that her knuckles were starting to bruise too, the colours matching the ones blooming on Eugene’s face. And now that she was aware, she could already feel how stiff her fingers were, and how jolts of pain appeared at every little movement.

"No, actually, you’re right," he announced, changing his mind, "we need to ice this. And to make sure your hand is fine."

"And your nose," she added. "And my nose," he parroted dutifully. "Come on, to the kitchens we go!"

Arguably, they could have went to the infirmary first, because surely, they could get ice there too. However, Eugene knew exactly where to steal cookies, no matter where the cooks hid them and, somewhere between the first bite and him kissing the chocolate off her lips, Rapunzel wasn’t even thinking about her nightmare anymore.

#I spent 30min searching for a title because I'm an idiot #it doesn't make sense but the songs I stole it from fit so I'm keeping it lmao #kinda lost my original point with the nightmare scene but it's okay I guess #tangled #New Dream Appreciation Week #Rapunzel #Eugene Fitzherbert

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inspired-by-the-music · 4 years

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For You: 4 O’Clock

Taglist: @jineunwootrash

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All This Time

"Honestly, Yesung," I smile as we wrap up at the studio, "I'm gonna miss this. I can't believe this is our first time singing together!"

"It does seem long overdue, huh?" Yesung grins, sitting back in his chair. "We can always do this again, Lei. I'm happy to see you back in the studio after all this time!"

"You know," I sigh, "I think I am too."

I hadn't planned to return to S.M. as an artist, but I never quite ruled out the possibility. I guess I find comfort in open endings. When I first went on leave, I started working toward degrees in a variety of foreign languages— the ones I learned as an idol— intending to return to the agency as a translator.

Then, Yesung sent me a demo of the perfect duet and asked me to sing it with him. Being the perfect husband, Taemin encouraged me to do it. "One song doesn't commit you to a career," he said, so now I am here: reimagining my dream of being an artist.

The days of nonstop touring and practicing from sunrise to sunset have passed; my priorities are different now. Here in the shade with Yesung, where the light is gentle, I am comfortable. I am not ready to take the next big step.

"You're glowing, Lei; you were meant to share your voice." Yesung beams at me.

I want to tell him that I am only reflecting the light he and so many others have shone on me, but I don't get the chance. In his next breath, he asks, "How's our little miracle doing, by the way? Do you think he's expecting tomorrow's surprise party?"

As fond wrinkles form around Yesung's eyes, my heart swells and overfills with adoration. I shake my head. "No. Obviously, Mom can keep a secret. With time, Taemin has gotten better at holding his tongue. With Lucas, Donghae, and Heechul running around the house, though, it's amazing that the cat is still in the bag. I try not to question miracles."

"That seems wise," Yesung hums. "Best to enjoy secrecy while it lasts; they still have a full—" he glances down at his watch— "almost a full 24-hours to spoil the surprise!"

We laugh. Then, a joyful sort of pout— yes, I realize that is some kind of an oxymoron— pulls at my lips. I run a hand through my hair after releasing it from its ponytail. "Can you believe that Tue is turning five?"

"No!" Yesung's hair falls into his eyes when he shakes his head. "Just like I can't believe that you actually came around calling your son Tue after all those times you scolded Kim and Lucas for using that name!"

"Having two Lucases around gets confusing." I justify my change of heart, shrugging. "Plus, my boy is unique enough to justify that kind of name!"

Yesung repeats, "Unique," agreeing with a subtle nod. "He reminds me a lot of you, especially now that he's reaching that age you were when we first met."

It's strange— thinking about how much time has passed— thinking about how some things never change— realizing that some images repeat and replay.

"Really?"

Tilting my head, I study my lock screen picture. Lucas took it just last night; he immortalized the moment that Tue sat between me and Taemin at the piano in the den, and I don't know if I have thanked him enough. I squint at the photo as if that will help me see similarities between myself and my son; it doesn't help.

"I think Tue is a carbon copy of Taemin in appearance and personality," I admit through laughter. "These days, he loves to watch music videos. He can replicate any choreography— and I mean any choreography— after seeing it just once. I've never seen anything like it!"

Should the agency find out, I sometimes think and spark worry in my gut, they will set their sights on him.

There it is— the reason why I am so reluctant to return to the stage as an idol: fear of drawing attention to Tue. It was difficult enough when he was born and everybody felt entitled to see him when he was too little to decide whether he wanted to exist under strangers' stares.

What worries me most, I think, is the fact that I don't know when he will be old enough to make that decision. Five is definitely too young— Taemin and I agree about that, so we take great precautions to protect his privacy. Nobody who knows Tue posts pictures of him on social media; whenever he leaves the house, he wears a mask like we do; as Mom considers early retirement (and therefore takes on fewer group clients), her job has become primarily threatening paparazzi who consider releasing rare photographs of him.

I have never cared whether people think I'm overprotective. I know too well of the pressures that come with living in the public eye, and I will defend my son from them for as long as I can. Tue is a star, and I know it's just a matter of time until he tries to follow in the footsteps of everybody he loves. I only comfort myself with the thought that it's not happening yet; it's not happening today; it probably won't happen tomorrow.

"I've seen something like that!" Yesung's boast drags me out of my train of thought. "I don't know if you can still do this— I don't understand child prodigies all that well— but when you were a kid, you could play any song on the piano right after hearing it for the first time. Donghae said teaching you to read sheet music was like pulling teeth because you played everything by ear."

Knowing that reading sheet music is still not my strong suit, I redden at Yesung's recollection. "Tue can do that too!" I want to brag. "He's the most talented person I've ever known, and he is barely five years old. He's the most gifted person I know, and that's saying something, given how many gifted people I've loved."

Yesung nudges my ribs. "Why else do you think Henry was so obsessed with you? You both spoke the same piano language!"

"You know," I say, "Henry asked about interviewing Tue for his program about child prodigies."

"Oh yeah?" Although he knows me well enough to predict the answer, Yesung asks, "What did you say?"

"I said that he's welcome to see Tue and play music with him any time," I answer Yesung just as carefully as I answered Henry. "You know that there's nobody I could trust more than you guys— Super Junior— to lead Tue into the entertainment industry, but—"

I squirm, and my stomach knots. "You know how I am. You know that the thought of sharing Tue— no— not the thought of sharing his talent and his sparkling smile and his sweet voice and his kindness— that's not the problem. I know that the world needs more people like my son. I just—"

After all this time, my voice still trembles when I think about how cruel strangers are to good people. "I just wonder how well the world treats people like him. I wonder how much the world deserves people like him."

Yesung rises from his seat to embrace me. His chin rests on the top of my chair. "I don't think anybody understands that anxiety better than your Mom."

And it happens again: my love for Mom grows. My beautiful Mom. My kind Mom. My Mom who stood in the wings, my Mom who stood comfortably in my shadow. I always thought she was naturally aware of when to hold on and when to let go, but maybe balance was challenging to her too.

Hearing Yesung describe our shared fear makes me imagine that I have grown to resemble Mom. Tears fill my eyes. I am always sensitive; especially about Mom, and especially around Tue's birthday.

Before the first tear can fall, he is running to me, crawling into my lap, and holding my face in his hands that are so small, so soft— uncalloused and young. "What's wrong, Mommy?"

Because the tears evaporate so quickly, I almost believe that they never existed. For a moment, when I cup Tue's rosy cheeks and give him my truest smile, I believe that I have never cried in my entire life. "I was just thinking about how much I missed my beautiful boy! It's all better now that you're here!"

Tue giggles when I push his dark curly hair out of his face and kiss his forehead. He's especially cute these days because he likes his hair long; he likes for the ends to tickle his dimpled chin.

"I missed you too! I asked Daddy to bring me to see you and Uncle Lucas and—" his eyes— the feature that most closely resembles Taemin's because they contain all of the universe's stars— widen in time with the growth of his smile. "Great Uncle Yesung!"

Tue transforms into a reincarnation of my childhood self when he abandons all thought in admiration of Yesung. He leaps out of my lap and runs into Yesung's laughing embrace.

It's beautiful— thinking about how much time has passed— thinking about how some things never change— realizing that some images repeat and replay.

I consider that on my walk to the doorway, where Taemin stands, watching the scene with a smile. His fingers trace absentmindedly at the ribbon on his wrist that hasn't faded with the passage of time. The color hasn't faded since he restored it on that night by the lake.

"I'm sorry if we interrupted your work," Taemin says softly when he catches me staring. "I told Tue not to just run into the studio, but you know how he gets when he's excited: just a teeny tiny bit disobedient. Or a teeny tiny bit forgetful."

After teasing, "I wonder who he gets that from," and earning a chuckle in response, I assure Taemin, "You didn't interrupt anything. Yesung and I are done with the song. We just got to talking."

Maybe Taemin noticed the tears before Tue carried them away, or maybe he hears that longtime blend of anxiety and craving for peace that almost always reveals itself in my voice through our conversations. His brow furrows as he wraps an arm around my waist. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Yeah," I answer immediately because I always want to talk about everything with Taemin. I told him once that I would grow to trust him with everything, and I have; for better or for worse, I hold nothing back. Watching Tue throw his head back laughing as Yesung tickles his ribs just below his armpits, right where he knows he's most ticklish, I condition, "Later though. Smiles and laughter for now, please."

Taemin doesn't press the issue. In the beginning, he was always in such a rush, determined to force intimate conversation, no matter my discomfort. Now, he must realize that there is nothing I will keep from him forever. Now, he must understand that everything will come to light when we lie together under the moon. He no longer races to the rising of the moon or the rising of the sun; he lives in every moment. I admire him for that.

Taemin smiles and winks at me before fixing his sight on Tue. "Hey little dude," Taemin says during the brief break in Tue's laughter, "Mommy is done for the day, and she wants to hang out with us! What do you wanna do?"

Tue runs to us from Yesung's side. He reaches for Taemin, knowing well that his father will waste no time in lifting him onto his shoulders.

"Alright." Taemin squats so Tue can climb on easily and so he doesn't hit his head on the doorframe. It's funny to watch Taemin, who was once spoiled rotten, who is still a bit rotten at the core, literally bending to the will of a small child. "What's the plan, kiddo?"

Tue wastes no time pretending to think about his dream activity. Although he sees his namesake almost every day, he declares, "I wanna see Uncle Lucas!"

Trusting that I still memorize my best friend's schedules, Taemin glances at me. Luckily enough, I still know where Lucas is at all times. Some people jokingly call it twin-telepathy, but it's only through my nagging reminders that Lucas ever gets where he needs to be.

"He's downstairs teaching a dance class with Mark." I look down at my phone again; I couldn't hide my smile at the picture even if I tried. "It should be wrapping up soon, so—"

Taemin cheers, "Off we go!" and runs toward the elevator. Tue squeals all the way down the hall, and I wish more than anything that I had been ready to record this moment.

Before following my boys, I linger in the studio to tell Yesung, "Bye! Thank you for everything!"

"See you tomorrow!" Yesung waves both hands. "You're welcome for everything! Never forget that I'm proud of you!"

I smile because it is impossible to forget what Yesung has told me since we met.

. . .

Although Taemin, Tue, and I stand quietly at the back of the room, Lucas notices us immediately.

"Hey!" His booming clap disrupts the class, and all eyes fall on us. "There's my mini-me!"

It doesn't matter that Tue is identical to Taemin (apart from the wavy hair he inherited from me); Lucas has called him "mini-me" since the day he was born. That's just a consequence of naming my baby after my best friend. It's a consequence I can live with.

It doesn't matter that Tue sees Lucas almost every day; they always greet each other with wide smiles and open arms as if they have been separated for lifetimes. That's just a result of the bond they share.

Sometimes, I think that Tue was born not just to fill my every void and fade every scar. He was born to be the best friend Lucas always deserved. He was born to teach Taemin that he is much more than an idol. He makes us better just by existing. I have never loved anyone so much— with my entire heart, my entire soul, with every part of me that has ever existed and will ever exist.

I run a hand through Tue's hair before Taemin passes him to Lucas. This transition of our most beloved person into the arms of another dear friend occurs without the arguments that gave me headaches at the start. We have accepted it by now: Lucas is Tue's favorite person on the planet.

I don't care much to challenge that title since it means so much to Lucas and since I know from experience that the role of the mother is special on its own. I don't know much from experience about the role of the father except that its absence painful in more ways than words can describe; I don't know much except its absence leaves a void that most will try to fill with anything; I don't know much except Taemin is doing a good job, and I tell him so every day.

Now, I tell him by reaching for his hand and lacing our fingers together. This— holding his hand— has always been my favorite act of affection. It's crazy to think that, once upon a time, I would have hesitated— I would have refused— I would have denied the desire to reach for him outside of our hotel room and our home.

Sometimes, like now, Taemin looks stunned when I touch him. He flinches as if my touch is frozen or scalding or electric, but then he smiles and melts into me a little more. Every time I think we're done melting into each other, when I think that we already blended to create the perfect human being, we take another step together.

"Hey!" Tue leans over Lucas's shoulder to look him in the eyes. "It's big-me!"

"Sh," I instruct quietly, bringing a finger to my puckered lips. "They're practicing, baby. We're guests, so we have to be quiet."

Generally, Tue is a well-mannered boy. He just forgets proper etiquette when excited, and nobody excites him quite like Lucas. Turning slightly pink in the face, Tue nods and brings a finger to his puckered lips too.

Moments of correction are always short-lived because Tue takes instruction well. I wink at him, and he winks back. The thing is— Tue has inherited Mom's lack of facial coordination, so he blinks both eyes.

The sight makes Taemin laugh. When I was a kid, I would have wanted to cry if someone (especially someone as beautiful as Taemin) laughed at me. Tue's lips don't tremble in preparation for tears, though; his lips curl into a gap-toothed smile. Oh, there's another thing my baby gets from me: a gappy smile! It looks much cuter on him; I almost hope he never corrects it with braces.

Because Taemin laughed, Tue laughs. He always copies his father.

Raising my eyebrows, I give Lucas a look that clearly means, "Aren't you supposed to help Mark with this class?"

Lucas understands. Maybe his understanding is the result of (fake) twin-telepathy or— more likely— it is the result of having known each other for eternities. Securing his hold around Tue, Lucas softly sings, "Priorities change, Lei."

Because I completely restructured my life for Tue— and that's much more significant than ditching the last five minutes of a dance practice— I can't argue with Lucas. I can only nod.

At the front of the room, Mark announces, "Alright guys, we're done for the day! Great work!"

I hope that he hasn't ended practice early because we have caused an interruption, but it's hard to stay worried when Mark's trainees break into excited chatter. The atmosphere in this room is unlike anything I experienced as a trainee. People like Mark, people like Lucas— they have changed this place. They have brought light into the rooms, and I— I think I want to help them.

Then, I look at Tue, and I know that I don't want him to spend his days sitting alone by the vending machine. I don't want him to spend his days sitting in the corner while I teach trainees. In no way do I resent my childhood; I just want to protect Tue from the loneliness that darkened too many days.

Life is about finding balance, I think. Balance between Lei the idol and Lei the human. Balance between Lei the fearful and Lei the brave. Balance between Lei the skeptic and Lei the romantic. Balance between Lei the individual and Lei the wife. Balance between Lei the idol and Lei the mother. Balance between Lei of the past and Lei of now. Some of these, I have mastered. Some of these were easier to achieve than others. Some of these are a daily struggle. Some of these remain a mystery.

I'm trying, though; that's enough for me now. I am proud of who I am now. I am proud of who I will be tomorrow.

I wave to Mark, thinking that he has always had the best influence on others. Smiling, Mark waves back, calling "Happy Early Birthday, Lucas Tue!" (and receiving a chipper, "Thank you, Mr. Mark Lee!" in response) before I follow my family into the hall, led by Taemin's hand, with the sea of trainees.

We sit at the table by the vending machine. It's much smaller now than it is in my memories. Maybe that's because I've grown so much; maybe that's because my family fills it with energy so bright that I don't notice the empty seats.

Sitting in Lucas's lap, Tue asks, "Did you know tomorrow is my birthday?"

Lucas gasps, "Tomorrow is your birthday?"

Taemin laughs at how Tue's face contorts in utter bewilderment. His lips part, his brow furrows, and his skin is painted a flustered pink as he whines, "I don't know! Is it?"

Because everyone has been so quiet in discussing birthday preparations around Tue, he must not realize the date. "Tomorrow is May 29," I tell him, "so you're gonna turn five years old!" I wiggle five fingers toward his face; he laughs when I tap his nose with one of my fingertips, throwing his head back against Lucas's chest.

"What?!" Lucas cries; Tue laughs harder at the overreaction before Lucas even prods at his ticklish ribs. "Five?! That's crazy, man! That's older than me!"

Tue sputters, "No— no it's not! You're way— way— way older than five!"

"I am not!" Lucas argues, dropping his jaw to feign offense. "You know who is way older than five, though?"

As if sharing the same brain cell, Lucas and Tue settle their sights on Taemin, who, tightening his grip on my hand, drops his jaw, taking genuine offense. “I am not! I’m the biggest baby at this table!”

When Taemin crosses his arms over his chest and pouts his pretty lips, nobody thinks to argue. Lucas and Tue snort, failing to contain their laughter at Taemin’s expense. I so badly want to laugh with them, but I want more to kiss Taemin, so I peck at his lips.

At the kiss, Lucas and Tue do not squeal in disgust like most little boys would; they squeal in utter delight.

. . .

It’s hard to find an alone moment with Mom in our full house, but I find one after Taemin and I tuck Tue into bed. Mom is setting up Finding Nemo decorations around the pool. We chose that theme for Tue's party since it's his favorite movie.

Even wearing her pajamas with her hair tied up in a messy bun, Mom looks beautiful among the moon and stars. "What's going on, Lei?" She drapes a cloth over a fold-out table. "You're wearing your pensive face."

I try to laugh at myself by saying, "I'm always wearing my pensive face."

Because I have yet to tell Taemin about my conversation with Yesung, my worries are a tangled knot at the forefront of my mind. It's a messy business, untangling the knot, and it's always easier with Taemin's help.

Tracing my finger along Nemo's little lucky fin on the table cloth, I prod at the knot on my own. "I'm just wondering how you knew when to hold me close and when to let me stand in the spotlight."

Mom stills to meet my eyes. "I know I wasn't perfect," she prefaces. When I try to disagree, she interrupts. "I'm human, Lei. I did the best I could, but I know I could have been better. Anyone can see through hindsight, in any situation, that they could have been better. They should have been better."

Mom has this way of speaking that nobody can replicate. She acknowledges faults and shortcomings through a lens that is never degrading, never belittling. She looks at the past in such a light that does not inspire regret but instead inspires a better tomorrow.

I admire Mom for that. I want to be like her. After all this time, I have not grown out of aspiring to be like Mom.

"When I think about how you used to sit alone at that table by the vending machine before Lucas walked into your world; when I think about how you used to cling to the wall in the corner of every room; when I think about how I used to hear you crying in your room at night when you thought I was asleep— when you thought your radio was loud enough to drown out your tears with SHINee's voices—"

Mom's voice wavers, and her gaze crashes onto the table. Now that I see her so affected by past pains even in the happiest stage of life to date, I understand: it was never easy for Mom. She just carried the burden where I couldn't see it.

"I always wondered if I was doing the right thing. I wondered if the spotlight found you because you walked into it or because I nudged you toward it. When you became a trainee and Donghae told me that Sehun said people were being cruel to you—" Mom bristles— "you don't know how much I wanted to pull you out of the agency. You don't know how badly I wanted to take you and hide you someplace where nobody could hurt you. But—"

Mom laughs— genuinely laughs— when I wrap my arms around her, thinking, knowing that a place without pain does not exist (at least not on earth). It's enough that she wanted to take me there, I think. It's enough that she wanted that place to exist for me.

She asks, "Do you know that part in Finding Nemo where Dory tells Marlin, 'Well, you can't never let anything happen to him. Then nothing would ever happen to him'?"

I nod. Even though Tue often falls asleep in my lap by that part of the movie, I know it well.

"Quickly— maybe instantly— I realized that you are too special not to share with the world." Mom cups my face with both hands. She kind of pinches my cheeks because they are still full; they still make me look very much like a child. "This world would be a sadder, duller place without your light shining in it. I decided that if anyone out there tries to dampen your light— well—"

Mom smiles, so I smile too.

"I would work a million times harder to keep it burning."

. . .

When I tell Taemin about my conversation with Yesung in the studio and my conversation with Mom under the moon, he says, "That's all very beautiful, baby. It almost makes me want to cry. But I still think Tue is way too young to be an idol."

I have almost drifted to sleep with my head on Taemin's chest because the steady beat of his heart has always been one of my greatest comforters. I lift my head to narrow my eyes at him. "How did you gather from any of that that I want our son to be an idol?"

Taemin squints, trying to make out my features in the dark. "I don't know! It just seemed like you were coming to terms with letting him wander into the spotlight, and I thought maybe it was my turn to be the voice of reason!"

Even without the slightest aid offered by the pale moonlight, I would see the smirk curling his lips. "The last time I was the voice of reason was during our first New Year when you dropped your dress—"

"Let it go, Taemin!" I chastise, wondering how and why I let his sentence get that far before rolling my eyes. "That happened how many years ago?"

"I don't know. Time is all relative anyway." Taemin probably feels like some kind of genius or the mysterious picture of a soulmate he was at the beginning. "It happened how ever many years ago, and it's still one of my favorite memories! It never fails to make me smile."

I shake my head and lay on my back beside him. "We're way off track. Anyway, I completely agree: Tue is too young to be an idol. The agency wouldn't even let him audition until he turns ten. Even then, I'm not going to suggest that he audition. I'm not going to actively nudge him anywhere near that path."

Moments pass in silence. Taemin rolls onto this side to trace patterns on my stomach. In addition to calming me, this gentle affection helps him organize his thoughts.

"I think we should cross that bridge when we come to it," he says, as usual. "Obviously, I want to support him in anything he wants to do. I won't really know how to help him if he wants to be a doctor or a lawyer, but— well— think of how much we can guide him if he wants to follow in our footsteps."

Taemin makes a good point. Having two idol parents might make Tue a target for bullies— I know that having a manager for a mother made me one— but cruel people will justify their actions with any excuse. What makes Tue stand out could double as a strength; I know having my particular mother made me stronger. Similarly, Tue could turn to me and Taemin and Mom and Lucas and his entire network of well-wishing idols for advice, and we would all be equipped by our experiences to help him in some way.

"I'm so glad I have you." I roll onto my side so that my face is level with Taemin's and I can clearly see the night sky reflected in his eyes. "You embody that perfect balance between listening and advising. You always have. I love you so much for that. I always have."

He smiles, and my heart flutters. "I'm glad I have you too. Thank you for trusting me and listening to my advice. I love you so much for that. I always will."

Taemin creates the perfect atmosphere for honesty. With a glance, he encourages me to carry my darkest thoughts into the light. It feels like he is carrying them with me; they are less heavy this way. That's why I admit, suddenly on the verge of tears, "I'm afraid that I haven't made my love for Tue clear enough."

I have rarely cried since taking a break from being Lei the idol. My outburst must send Taemin back in time to the very start when I first cried to him under the moon's watch— to the night when the moon became ours. Back then, he was so careful. He resisted the destined desire to touch me, to embrace me, because he didn't want to frighten me. Now, he moves instantly, instinctively, to hold me.

His lips meet mine for a second. After just a second, he tries to part, but I need him. I need him, and that hasn't scared me in so many moons. I need him, and I bring him back down to me and hold him here until we have kissed most of my worries away.

We always keep a few worries because Taemin says they keep us safe. He thinks my talent for spotting danger is, in moderation, one of our greatest strengths. I'm good at seeing a storm cloud from a million miles away; Taemin is good at making a hurricane feel like an overdue summer drizzle. That's why we are the greatest team to ever exist.

"Tue knows you love him," Taemin assures me in a whisper against my lips. "Anyone who knows you— anyone who knows us knows that we weren't really breathing until Tue took his first breath."

That's not to say that life wasn't worth living before Tue existed. Just like my life was as happy as it could have been before Lucas, and it was happier once he laughed and painted the world anew; just like my life was as happy as it could have been before Taemin, and it was happier once he handed me the moon; my life was as happy as it could have been before Tue, and it was happier once he breathed.

Tue's breath gave me every beautiful wonder I never knew existed— the heavenly traces on earth that nobody can see with the naked eye until they have seen and felt and loved their child.

"Does the world know?" My mouth hurts from frowning. "These past five years— have we done the right thing by keeping Tue off of social media? The agency issued the briefest statement about him, like, a week after he was born, and I don't even know if they mentioned his name. Mom deletes all leaked traces of him from the internet. Any time interviewers are bold enough to ask you about him, the agency pressures the network to cut the clip."

They do all of these things at our request.

Taemin wipes the tears spilling from my eyes as I wonder, "When Tue gets older, what will he think about the fact that his parents said nothing about him where the world could hear?"

"Hopefully he'll understand that his parents loved him enough to protect him until he was old enough to protect himself," Taemin answers in a tone that does not belittle my fears in his effort to quell them. "It's not like you've been active on social media at all these past five years, Lei. If Tue ever asks, and I doubt he will, we can explain that you spent all of your time with him while I—"

Taemin's voice falters.

One of his biggest insecurities— maybe you could call it a regret— is that while I walked away from my career the moment I felt Tue's life, he hadn't deviated much from the course he had been on most of his life. I never pressured Taemin to make a career shift in any direction; at every opportunity, I expressed my belief that there is no right or wrong move when finding the balance between family life and work. Needs vary, and I believe that people can adapt to almost any situation.

Taemin's pace has changed somewhat over time. Early morning practices with Jongin became scarce after Tue was born; now, they are almost obsolete. He says that he likes to be home for breakfast and early morning cartoons.

He isn't as excited about promoting abroad when Tue and I can't tag along. As you can probably imagine, some trips cannot function as family vacations. He swears that video calls before bed are not enough to fill the void in his day when we aren't there.

He doesn't look forward to awards ceremonies like he once did. We agreed that Tue shouldn't attend events where strangers' cameras abound. He says that even if we did attend, he would be expected to sit with his group, not with us.

The studio isn't his second home anymore. Whenever he has to stay later than expected, he comes home with a million apologies, a bouquet of roses for me, and a new toy for Tue. At this point, Tue has an entire colony of plush Nemos on his bed; he sleeps cuddling every single one. It doesn't matter how often I tell him that he has nothing to apologize for; he apologizes and apologizes and I know he will apologize again.

I know that he feels torn between his roles as Taemin the idol, Taemin the husband, and Taemin the father. I just don't know how to help him. He made so little time for Taemin the human being that, sometime during the first week of May, he had some kind of emotional breakdown at the studio that compelled SHINee to delay the release of their new album.

Deciding that he didn't want anybody to blame Taemin for the postponement, Jinki offered to take the heat. He told Mom, "Issue a statement claiming that I'm suffering from a gluteal strain after an impromptu breakdancing battle!"

Jinki's Rationale for the Gluteal Strain Story:

"The key is to tell a lie so outrageous that nobody can doubt it! Nobody will question a story about a literal pain in the butt!"

Anyway, that's why Taemin and I have swapped roles lately. He is taking his first break from being an idol to spend time with Tue. While they watch movies and play the piano and work through those online pre-school activities, I am dipping my toes back into the world of recording. I don't know yet what I will do in terms of a career, but I know that Taemin will return to the stage revitalized. He is remarkably resilient, born to shine.

Knowing I can't alter Taemin's self-perception, I card my fingers through his hair and praise him anyway. "Taemin, Tue learns so much about hard work, passion, and dedication from you. He truly admires you in the purest way. He doesn't see the distinction between his father and his idol because you fulfill those responsibilities so well—so much better than I ever could— so much better than I was willing to try."

I kiss the crown of Taemin's head as he buries his face in the crook of my neck. "We're so proud of you. Don't forget that."

"Thank you," Taemin mumbles against my skin. "I haven't forgotten. I just— I'm so proud of you for being Tue's mom, but I'm sorry if I pressured you to walk away from your dreams to carry my weight here—"

"Taemin." I nudge him until he looks down at me with wide apologetic eyes. "You didn't pressure me into anything. You didn't pressure me into anything at all."

He looks unconvinced, judging by his pout, so I explain, "I have so many dreams! To be a genuine artist, to be a loving daughter, to be a reliable friend, to be a comforting wife, to be an inspiring Mom."

I wrap my arms around Taemin's waist and hug him closer. "I heard once that growing up is a process of letting your dreams die one by one, but I disagree. Every day that I'm with you, I discover a new dream I don't think I have to choose one over all the others. I just have to find balance. And we'll find it together; that's what we always do."

Finally, Taemin smiles. I smile. We can breathe again.

He lays against me, and our chests rise and fall together. We melt a little more, and I— I can't tell where he ends and I begin. I can't remember a time when we were separate beings. I don't ever want to remember.

"Do you want me to go on Instagram live to say that my wife and son are everything to me? Or should I air footage of one of Tue's baby albums? Or should I post videos and pictures from life with you these past five years? Or should I read our story where anyone can hear?"

Between each question, Taemin has kissed me. His lips hover over mine as he begs, "Tell me what to do, Lei. Tell me how to make your dreams come true, and I'll do it. I'll do anything."

He doesn't understand that I am already living my dream. I don't know how to make him understand.

"Just kiss me again," I instruct softly. Sweetly, Taemin complies. "And let's think about something special we can do to love our son on his birthday."

When Taemin and I tiptoe into his room early the next morning, we expect to find Tue fast asleep, snoring into his pillow while clutching a Nemo plushie. Instead, we find him lying with his belly against the floor, kicking his bare feet int he air while doodling on a piece of paper.

While Taemin sits before Tue, I sit beside him and ask, "Can I see your drawing, baby?"

Tue has never denied me access to his art before. I love seeing the smile that curls his lips whenever I express interest in his creativity. "Yep!" His enthusiastic nod sends his unruly morning curls flopping. "But I'm not just drawing something, Mommy."

Taemin's brow furrows as he tries to decipher Tue's handwriting. He is at a disadvantage because a.) from where he sits, Tue's letters are upside down, b.) the note is written entirely in English, which still isn't Taemin's strong suit, and c.) Tue has chosen to write with the palest yellow crayon in his arsenal.

Sweetly, Taemin asks, "What is it?" Leaning forward, he sets his elbows on the hardwood floor and props his chin in his hands.

Tue delights in the opportunity to explain anything from why he thinks the sky is blue to why he thinks roses are the prettiest flowers to why Finding Nemo is the best movie ever. His face lights up at Taemin's question.

"It's a letter to Mr. Mark Lee!" Tracing his little fingers along his letters, Tue reads, "Thanks for saying 'Happy Birthday' yesterday. I forgot my birthday. You didn't. You make me very happy!"

Tue turns the paper so Taemin can read it. "And look! I drew me here and Mr. Mark Lee here, and we have big smiles and party hats!"

When Tue gives Taemin his gappy smile, I can't contain myself. While Taemin takes the paper from Tue's hand, my heart explodes as I pull Tue onto my lap. Holding him around the waist, I pepper his forehead, cheeks, nose, and chin with kisses; he giggles all the while.

"You're the sweetest boy in the whole world, Tue!" I boast, and he beams at the praise. "Who taught you how to write 'Thank You' notes?"

"I dunno!" He shrugs his shoulders. "Probably you or Daddy. You and Daddy teach me everything!"

I raise my eyebrows, giving Taemin this look that means, "I told you so. He knows that you're a great father. I told you so!"

Taemin probably doesn't notice. He smiles at Tue as he returns the paper to his baby soft hand. "You're going to give this to Mr. Mark Lee the next time you see him, right? I bet getting a letter like this would make him very happy."

At that suggestion, Tue's face burns crimson. In many ways, he is one of the most confident, outgoing people I have ever known; in others, he is even more bashful than I have ever been. In five years of knowing him, I have yet to figure out how he manages that degree of duality. Considering that Tue is forever charming — whether bold or shy — I am inclined to believe duality is another quality he inherited from Taemin.

As he leans into me and hides his face in my shirt, Tue entrusts his paper to my hand. "Can you give that to Mr. Mark Lee, Mommy? I want to make him very happy, but I can't give it to him! I just can't!

Maybe I should gently nudge Tue out of his comfort zone, especially since there is nothing to fear about approaching Mark. Maybe I should take this chance to teach him that self-expression is nothing to be embarrassed about. I can't do it, though. As precious as he looks with rose-colored cheeks, I can't darken my baby's blush.

"I'll give it to him," I promise, urging him to lift his head to meet my bright smile. "He'll love it! Now go to Daddy, alright? He's gonna help you get dressed."

Looking down at his pajamas donning Nemo's face, of course, Tue pouts. He crosses his arms. He really looks and sounds like Taemin when he whines, "I don't wanna get dressed!"

"Well, you have to," Taemin says as he scoops Tue into his arms. Carrying him to the closet, Taemin responds to Tue's whines, "If you don't get dressed, I can't take you to your surprise!"

As I walk to the door, I hear Tue squeal, "Surprise?" Taemin laughs at his reaction. Tue's squeal and Taemin's laugh are the reasons why I smile when I walk downstairs to tell everybody that the birthday boy is on his way.

. . .

I push the curtains aside and from my side of the kitchen window, I watch Donghae carrying Tue on his shoulders in the pool. Following Mom's instruction to "Behave! At least around the baby!" Heechul stands beside them, donning a smile for Lucas's camera.

The sight is especially comforting considering how annoying Donghae and Heechul were at the beginning. Apparently, when nobody was listening, Heechul told Tue, "Call me Grandpa, and call him—" he pointed a finger at Donghae— "Grandpa 2."

Tue was too young and too sweet to understand that Heechul was up to his old shenanigans of competing with Donghae, so he followed the instruction faithfully, much to Donghae's dismay.

"Don't worry," Tue said to Donghae's frown, flashing him a big toothy smile. "I'm a 2 too!"

I wish I or Mom or Lucas— since he has appointed himself the family photographer— had recorded the smile Tue sculped onto Donghae's face. I would love to carry a picture of it with me so I could show it to you and everybody I meet, saying, "This is my son's mark on the world, and it's the most beautiful mark anybody has ever made. He is five years old, and he has never hurt a living creature. He is five years old, and he makes smiles wherever he goes."

My mental images of Tue's gappy smile and those he leaves in his wake are among my most prized possessions. I am admiring them when Mark walks in through the back door, carrying an empty bowl.

His eyes widen as if he has interrupted something. He beelines to the refrigerator, muttering, "Your mom said there's more watermelon in the fridge."

Glancing down at the platter of snacks I have assembled, I frown at the utter lack of watermelon. "I should have known that we would need more watermelon with you and Tue eating at the same place at the same time."

Mark laughs, dropping the empty bowl into the sink. "Well, what can I say?" He grabs the bowl of sliced watermelon Mom prepared last night and tosses a slice into his mouth. "Little man and I have good taste!"

"Speaking of little man—" I smile at Mark's nickname for Tue as I close the refrigerator door and point to a pinned paper— "he wrote this for you."

After setting the bowl onto the counter, Mark takes the page into his hand. He doesn't have to squint to make out the letters. "He's writing 'Thank You' letters? To me? At five years old?"

I can't help but smile at Mark's awestruck expression. "You made his day, and I guess he wanted you to know."

Mark's slack-jawed expression transforms into a radiant smile. "Can I keep this?"

"It's for you," I repeat, nodding, "so I think you're supposed to keep it. See the little faces at the bottom?" Mark nods, so I explain, "The artist says the big one is you and the little one is his latest self-portrait."

Mark smiles at the paper once more before folding it into his pocket. As we grab our snacks, we walk together to the back door. We stop once Mark asks, "Before we go back outside, can I ask you something?"

"Yeah." There's something petrifying about Mark's quiet voice, so I hope my smile will encourage him to speak up. "What's up?"

"You know how I'm working with the trainees?" When I nod, Mark continues, "As far as I'm concerned they're all set talent-wise. I only really work with them on dancing and rapping— Taeil is the vocal instructor."

Based on what I saw in the final five minutes of dance practice yesterday, I agree. It seems that the trainees get better with each generation. "They seem like they will make excellent artists one day."

"They will!" Mark beams, seeming as proud of his trainee's progress as he is of his own achievements. "I've been thinking about how else I can help them grow, and I think maybe we should spend time talking about, like, emotional wellbeing."

"That sounds like a good idea." I, for one, could have benefited from learning about that as a trainee.

"I'm glad you think so," Mark says slowly, "because I kind of want you to help me with those conversations."

My jaw drops. "Me?" By no means have I ever considered myself an expert on emotional wellbeing. "Why?"

Mark's head goes aslant; he looks at me as if challenging me to look at myself. "When I think of strength, I think about how you carried yourself in training when those girls were mean to you. I think about how you stayed best friends even when people watched you and whispered. I think about how you didn't fall apart when the media used to speculate about the idol who never debuted. I think about how you held your head high when people criticized you for dating, then marrying, then having a baby with Taemin. But mostly— " Mark smiles — "I think about how you changed your whole life for Lucas Tue. I can't think of anyone better to teach the trainees that as much as we love music, as much as we love being idols, there is a lot more to life than the spotlight."

I blink, wondering how, when, and why Mark became so well-spoken. My gaze falls onto the snack platter in my hands. "I— I don't know how to teach anybody that."

Mark sighs, dejected, and I compulsively admit, "But I want to learn. I would love to learn, Mark."

Before Mark can reply, Tue runs in through the open back door, asking, "Mommy, where—"

His voice falls flat as his eyes widen at the sight of Mark. "Mr. Mark Lee," Tue stutters, "I— I—"

Before Mark can reply, Tue runs back outside.

Mark looks at me, raising his eyebrows. "What did I do?"

Making my way out the door and into the summer sun, I explain, "He's being bashful because of that letter. He gets into shy moods from time to time."

"Oh, okay." As we set our snacks onto the table, Mark asks, "Wait, did I hear you right? Did you mean that you would help me with the trainees?"

From their sunchairs nearest to the snack table, Lucas and Taemin look up. Tue has concealed his flustered face against Taemin's chest, and he doesn't perk up at the sound of Mark's voice; he retreats further into Taemin's embrace.

Taemin meets my eyes. Although he is reluctant to pressure me with vocal encouragement, he offers a gentle smile that seems to whisper, "Go for it. You can do anything."

Lucas, true to who he has always been and always will be, is much louder about his support. He lowers his sunglasses. "Wait, you're gonna help me and Mark with the trainees? As in, we're having a mini ot8 SuperM reunion?"

Mark glances at me with apologetic eyes as he pops another slice of watermelon into his mouth. Once upon a time, I think I would have glared at anyone for putting me on the spot like that. Depending on who it was, I might have even scolded them. I can't bring myself to scold Mark, though; I can't bring myself to glare at him, and I don't want to try.

"I'll help," I decide easily, "in any way I can."

I guess I don't want to disappoint Mark's perception of me; I want to live up to it. I guess I want to believe Yesung— that I am meant to share my voice. I guess I want to believe Mom— that I can make the world a happier, brighter place with my light shining in it. I guess I want to be to the trainees who Mark is to them, who Mom has always been to me: someone who works a million times harder than the light dampeners to keep their light burning.

Tue lifts his head from Taemin's chest to cheer, "You can do it, Mommy! You're the best helper!"

As I sit by his side, Taemin raises his eyebrows, giving me a look that means, "I told you so. He knows you perfectly. I told you so."

"Thank you, baby," I wink at Tue. I whisper in his ear, "Mr. Mark Lee loves your letter, by the way."

Tue smiles and lays his head back on Taemin's chest. When he closes his eyes, he looks exhausted. I think he falls asleep in an instant.

Lucas follows Mark to the pool, I think, for fear of waking Tue with his booming voice. Thus, Taemin and I are alone with our son again, even at the bustling party hosted in his honor.

Taemin asks, "Are you happy today?" in a voice so quiet that I think he's whispering sweet nothing to our sleeping boy until his eyes rise to meet mine. "I remember you said, once upon a time, 'Life doesn't always go as planned, and I think that's okay as long as you like where you end up.' And I'm wondering again if you like where you ended up— if you like where you're going next."

My heart always flips when Taemin quotes our story. "I recall saying, 'Anywhere with you is where I want to end up.'" I reach for Taemin's hand— the one closest to me, the one that isn't secured around Tue. "I still feel that way, Anywhere with you is where I want to go next."

Taemin flashes a sparkling smile before puckering his lips, wordlessly daring me to kiss him. Because I am no coward, I accept the dare before he can even blink. And just when I think that this moment is too beautiful to pass, I hear it.

The snapping of Lucas's camera capturing us in a photograph.

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musedblues · 4 years

Text

Always Something There To Remind Me [Part: 6]

summary: Home is where the heart is. You're working on finding yours. After a handful of misfortunes, your old friend Joe helps to unravel life's greatest mystery while adding a bit of extra grief to the mix.

w/c: 3k

a/n: Oh my God, I did it. I finished something I started. I sincerely hope you all enjoy the finale of this story, I tried to make it happy as I could manage. Thank you lot for reading this far and for all the support along the way. Here it is... THE END!!

tagliast: @im-an-adult-ish @mrsmazzello @lettinggosthehardestpart @the-moving-finger-writes @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @sherlollydramoine

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one year later...

"When are you gonna come visit me, huh?" Gwilym whined like a child, via facetime. "That's... a very good question. What do you think?" Joe rose a brow, turning his face from his phone screen to look right at you. "Huh?" All your attention had been focused on scribbling music notes onto sheets of paper.

"The weather is finally nice again. We should take a trip!" Joe quipped, and you saw Gwil nodding in encouragement from the phone propped on the kitchen table. "Oh, please! It's about time I take you pair on a tour of my city." Gwil imagined on your behalf, coxing you to dream along. He'd stopped in New York a handful of times, usually just to see you. It was about time you hit up his haunts... You had the money, and you could make the time. The savings from your shifts at the flower shop were a great start, but after leaving your hometown to move in with Joe, you'd landed an even better job.

When you started roaming the city for places that were hiring, a nice woman behind a bakery countertop informed you that her husband might be able to help you out. She scribbled his business address on a sticky note, and you left to follow the directions. And when you discovered where you'd been led too, all you could do was laugh out loud.

It was the piano bar. The one Joe had taken you and Gwil too the first weekend you stayed over, with naugahyde seats and a very nice Steinway. With a deep breath, you stepped inside. It was still early in the afternoon, and there weren't many patrons lazing about the lounge. You moved to the opposite end of the bar from where its only customer sat slumped over a beer. Behind the counter was the same friendly older man with the German accent, whose eyes lit up when he saw you. You wondered, for one fleeting moment, if he somehow remembered you too. "What'll it be for ya, then?" The man set down the glass he was cleaning and looked to you expectantly. "Actually, I heard you were hiring." You grinned. The older man lost his smile but the sparkle in his eye remained as he let out an "ahh," of understanding. "You any good?" He wondered, leaning against the counter. You took a beat to peer past his shoulder at the rainbow of bottles that lined the walls. Some were drinks you'd never worked with, but you had years of experience otherwise. "I'd have to renew my license, but I think-" "Oh no," The man frowned, softly interrupting you. "No, I'm looking for someone to play in residence." He nodded toward the small risen velvet stage where a baby grand sat in waiting. Your heart leapt to your stomach and back up again. "I- I haven't played in years." You meant to think it, but you said it out loud. When you turned back to look at the man behind the counter, his sly smile was back. He insisted you an audition, practically begging you to go and play something. As you stood in deep thought, he spoke up again. The man decided you could work behind the bar until you got the guts to play something. So for a week you mixed drinks and worried over what to do next. The last time you touched your keyboard was a lifetime ago, when you sold it off to pay for groceries. But you were living in another world, now. One where you ended your evenings alongside Joe, arguing over what to cook for dinner and laughing over his well thought out debates of why it was perfectly okay to have pizza four nights in a row. He was silly as ever, in fact, his wit seemed sharper than before. But unlike in high school, when he'd test the limits of how mad his dumb pranks could drive you, he knew when to draw the line. Joe knew when to stop laughing and listen, but never lost his smile when gears shifted. After those first few long nights of laying out all your pent up thoughts and feelings from over the years, after telling every story you could each think of; those late-night conversations didn't end. You listened to each other ramble over silly things, unimportant things. But in the midst of it all, Joe was good at reminding you of your worth.

If it hadn't been for Joe's encouragement, you wouldn't have ever played the piano again. Through his persistence, you understood that an opportunity had presented itself and that you had nothing to lose by taking the chance. So you did. You warned your new boss that you didn't have much practice, but he sat patiently as you got the guts to play through most of Erik Satie's Gymnopedie no. 1 as the sunset. When the open sign flickered to life, you stayed on the bench. After then, you played almost every night, and even helped mix a drink or two when the occasion called for it. You'd settled into such a familiar routine at the piano bar without missing a single day, surely you'd earned a bit of a break, right? And how could you say no to Gwilym? His puppy dog eyes were even more convincing over facetime. /// "Oh yeah, I have a surprise for you." Joe sleepily grumbled like it might have been any other passing thought. "What, you're overtaking Gwilym as the tour guide?" You chuckled, setting back into the airplane seat as Joe's head fell to your shoulder. "No. Something much more exciting." Joe let out a little laugh, drifting to sleep soon after he said so. The plane had barely taken off. But Joe had been so busy planning this weekend-long trip to London that you were almost certain this was the most rest he'd gotten in weeks. Sure, Gwilym had been on the other end of the phone helping decide dates and times and reasons, but Joe was like a soccer mom competing to plan the best Disney World itinerary of the decade. He said it was because this was your first big trip together. But of course, you could have walked down the block with Joe at your side and been just as ecstatic to join him there, hand in hand. The sun rose over the clouds through the plane window, and Joe was heavily snuggled against your side, keeping you grounded a mile above land.

At first, when kisses still seemed new, and every trip to the market was an adventure, you wished you'd loved each other like this much sooner. But you decided everything happened at just the right time. You belonged together, but you wouldn't have been brave enough to accept that if you hadn't lived a few uncomfortable lives apart. After everything, coming back to each other seemed expected.

Your mother, though, acted as if the second coming of the Lord Jesus Christ had occurred when you first told her you and Joe made it official. She actually ran across the street to recruit Mrs. Mazzello in asking you one thousand embarrassing questions, but even that seemed like any other day. You spent the majority of the plane ride thinking back to those little moments, letting your mind wander. You thought of the last time you were in London, feeling glad to be headed there with Joe, for a change. Gwilym was lingering near a row of empty seats in a bustling waiting area, grinning from ear to ear. You were the first to greet him with a big hug. Gwil, to you, was a fresh start. A new friend from an old place, who came into your life at the exact perfect time. "Bore da!" Gwilym cheered, like a kid fresh from school. “I leave you all this time to practice and that's the best you've got?" You laughed at Gwil's charming efforts in keeping your silly challenge of speaking in a "secret" language. He was never any good at remembering the rough phrases you passed on to him, but he tried all the while. "I tried teaching him how to say 'welcome back' but we agreed I should be the one to say it." A familiar raspy voice cut through your attention focused on Gwil. Joe broke out into a dance in the place he stood, beaming at you. "Surprise!" He called, as you turned away from the men to lock eyes with one of the best friends that surely ever existed at all. Tegan was casually sipping on an iced coffee, holding back a massive grin. Her icy eyes were free from streaks of black makeup. Her dark hair was a little shorter than she used to wear it, but her smile grew bigger than ever before, and she was here. You lunged toward the girl, wrapping her in a hug she'd been practicing for the same as you. Joe was still dancing. "This was your surprise? How'd you pull this off?" You laughed, connecting the dots with what Joe had said as your plane took off. He went on to explain how the idea just sort of came to him when he started planning the trip. Joe had called Tegan one night while you were at work, and after making sure Gwil was alright with your dearest friend crashing the party he'd thought up, the three of them started scheming right under your nose. Gwil explained how Tegan's flight had been scheduled to land an hour earlier than yours, and how he didn't mind the sudden strange company one bit.

You were well and truly surprised, and you made sure to thank the lot of them for thinking up such an exciting idea.

"Thank you," Tegan's tone floated low and serious past her smile as she reached out to hug Joe, for the first time ever. But there was such an air of familiarity between the lot of you that this too, felt like another day out of the life you were meant to be living. /// "God, I'd love if he'd toss me around like a rugby ball." Tegan sipped from a spiked lemonade, propped up on her elbows as her gaze focused on Gwilym tossing a ball to Joe, who was coaching his friend on proper pitching etiquette. "How romantic." You snorted, reaching for some cherries from the basket of snacks you toted along. Gwilym had led you all to his favorite beach where pockets of sand and tall grass made perfect spaces to enjoy a bit of quiet nature. Of course, you couldn't help but set up a speaker to play a list of everyone's favorite summer tunes. Just loud enough to cover up the sound of your chatter with Tegan, who had some new fantasy about Gwilym to blurt out every other minute. "I know it's not Wales, but it's nice to have you back, even for a minute." She turned toward you, setting her drink aside. you tucked your feet away from the hot sand and admired your friend as she peered up at you. "I'll always come back for you." You halfway joked, but nodded in assurance. "If my flirting pays off, you and I might see more of each other yet," Tegan informed peering at the boys near the shoreline. "Those two seem like the most inseparable of us all. We'd be like sister wives." You laughed, silently wondering when your life became one big full circle. Tegan joked about her little crush, but as the day went on it didn't seem so silly. When your friend wasn't looking, you noticed Gwil stealing glances all afternoon, tripping on his mother tongue, your secret language out the window.

The radio crackled with some chime saturated pop song, birds dared to scuttle toward your picnic.

"I can hear the wedding bells now," You joked, looking toward the radio, laying on your side to face your friend.

"Yeah, those are clearly for you." Tegan pointed out.

"Maybe." You responded with your first thought, conditioned to be wary of the future. But when you caught a glimpse of Joe laughing with his best friend near the water, you realized you didn't have to be weary any longer. "Okay, probably." You corrected, out of some primal fear of keeping Joe at a distance ever again. "But not yet. You know he and I decided to take things slow."

Tegan let out a chirped laugh, causing a nearby bird to fly off.

"Yeah, that's what you keep saying." She subtly stressed how your actions seemed to be contradictory. How you and Joe agreed to ease into a relationship together. But being together seemed like a glass of water after being stranded in the Sahara. You moved into his place in the blink of an eye. You abandoned the guest bedroom to share his long before moving in.

"It's hard to waste so much time when there is a lot we have to make up for." You reasoned. Tegan hummed in understanding right away, but then she sat up a little more, looking back to the horizon.

"I know what you mean. It's like... where has he been all my life?" She dared to speak as Gwil was approaching dangerously close to the two of you. After bursting into giggles and assuring Gwil you weren't talking about him, he grabbed a bottle of water and scurried away with one last glance over his shoulder.

You and Tegan went on planning a double wedding, to save money and time and innovations, naturally. Through fits of laughter, she decided to run the free bar, and you happened to know a pretty good wedding photographer.

And before you knew it the night had turned navy blue. You rented a hotel where each separate room was connected by a door near the entertainment center. You and Tegan claimed one room for yourself, taking turns showering and swapping clothes, like you used to.

The four of you ended up at some all-night joint who catered to a bunch of miners who traveled through at odd hours. The neon sign was a beacon and you all split plates of food and told embarrassing stories. You could have stayed there laughing all night if Tegan hadn't suggested adding drinks to the mix.

So you headed back to your shared suits, filing into one room and setting up shop for a late-night of laughter.

Tegan dropped Joe into learning how to mix a drink at the mini bar, cursing in welsh. You laughed from the place you settled on the balcony, and Gwilym took a seat beside you with a smirk.

"Why didn't we all just go to Wales?" He wondered aloud. You'd been making fun of him for being so lost when you and Tegan traded secrets.

Your first thought was to keep poking fun at Gwil, to say something about he'd get lost navigating the street signs. But you trusted the guy enough to tell him the truth. When you glanced inside to make sure Tegan and Joe were still occupied making a mess at the minibar, you leaned closer to Gwil and tried to make a very long story as short as possible.

Under the dim patio light, you explained how you moved to London after graduation, met a guy, moved to Wales and wasted too long with him. How you felt stuck. How he died and how you went back home to Joe where you belonged. Gwilym listened quietly, running his fingers over the stubble on his jaw as you capped off your story with how glad you were to have scored such a valuable friend in Tegan, through it all. "Guess you really don't need my tour of the city after all, huh?" Gwilym shrugged, realizing you were already pretty familiar with the back alleys. "Of course I do. I'm dying to see this place from your perspective." You grinned. Gwilym had a way of making everything seem newer, more exciting. But the question he asked that kick-started your conversation hung in your heart a little heavier as the evening went on. When you'd become overloaded by everything the day had to offer, you decided it was time to call it a night. You pulled Joe into the room meant to be for you and Tegan, hardly thinking of anything but how badly you longed for a quiet moment alone with the guy. You didn't speak, you just curled up and laid together. And if she noticed, Tegan didn't seem to mind as her laughter existed somewhere behind the door you locked her out of. You could even hear Gwilym singing Christmas carols in the warm summer night.

Your eyes grew heavy as your breathing synced with Joes, chests rising and falling in time. Everyone you loved was right where they ought to be.

The nightmares had gone away, but you must have had one. It happened like it used to, some heavy feeling rising in your chest and causing your eyes to shoot open when you hadn't even realized you'd fallen asleep.

The laughter and music from the other side of the door was gone, and the rising sun was casting a purple shadow through the curtains.

You were drawn to the window, trying to drown the sickening worry rising in your throat. You stood focusing on the sun sparkling over the waves. Watching far away people walk their dogs, and kids chasing each other. You were so lost in the scene that you were almost startled to have been interrupted.

Joe had woken up and joined you, snaking his arms around your middle and resting his chin on your shoulder. You felt safe enough to speak your mind.

"What if I don't ever go back to Wales? Is that selfish? What if I want to, but just can't do it?"

You'd lost so much there. You left so much behind, things you loved. Things you never got to say goodbye to. You realized that some of the things you'd planned on keeping now, could disappear just as well. Days like this could slip away no matter how desperately you clung to them. Nothing lasted, good or bad. You spent the morning worrying over how to exist between those epic highs and tragic lows.

"I heard something once," Joe spoke up, keeping his loose hold around you. You rested your head back against his shoulder as you watched the waves crash to shore, a safe distance away. "Something about how there are only so many cutting patterns used to make puzzles. There was an artist who took different pictures and put them together because the puzzle pattern matched up. So you get funny little pictures, like, a train with the legs of a horse. But others were hard to tell apart. Like different mountainscapes blending together."

Joe rambled, looking at the same view as you.

"Life is like that, ya know? Things might not always make sense but they go together whether you like it or not. I'm not saying you should do anything you don't want to do. But I can promise no matter what puzzle you decide to put together, I'll be there to help fit in the pieces."

"God I can feel my teeth rotting, Joe," You elbowed him in the ribs as you spun to face him, because if you didn't joke about how sappy that was you would have surely burst into tears.

"I love you too." He rolled his eyes before leaning in for a gentle kiss, your own secret language.

Joe gave something that you were terrified to lose. And you were glad it was him. No matter where you wound up, you'd find his humor in places and the color of his eyes in things.

Joe was your destination. His arms remained open, inviting, even though you never truly strayed too far from his reach.

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"Together, we can live with the sadness I'll love you with all the madness in my soul." - Bruce Springsteen.

#joe mazzello #joe mazello x reader #joe mazzello fanfic #joe mazzello imagine

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