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flowercrowngods · 1 year

Note

Suggesting/Requesting Eddie having a crush on the valiant knight Steve Dustin goes on about, not realizing it's Steve "the Hair" Harrington and the way he reacts when he realizes they're the same dude. Cue adjustment period.

hi! first of all thank you for the prompt 🥰 i slipped and kinda decided to take your ‘valiant knight Steve’ quite literally and made this a medieval/regency au with knight steve and bard eddie, kinda enemies to lovers. it totally got out of hand, so this is part 1, with all my apologies to your original prompt 🤍🌷

Eddie smiles as the fields and forest that surround Hawkins come into view, kissed by the early afternoon sun with more affection and richness than the city probably deserves. It looks different this time of year, the green seems deeper than he left it, and nostalgia paints him a picture of glory and welcome that would make any traveller linger at the sight.

He knows it’s only the magic of coming home, the thrill of having been gone so long that he needs to learn his town a-new, and the curiosity of a poet that makes his heart beat faster; but it’s his life’s blood to embrace all of that. So he spurs on his trusty horse to make it home even just a minute sooner.

The people’s reactions to his arrival come in multitudes, though Eddie can respect the healthy dose of mistrust with which they regard him. He has made a name for himself after all, a bard more than a jester these days, but most people don’t tend to forget the pretty face they chased out of the city on multiple occasions.

He lifts his head in greeting as he passes the elderly Wheelers as they’re tending to the flowers lining their windows, and grins with glee at both the disapproving scoff and the wary nod he gets in return.

He’s in good spirits. Great spirits, in fact, the sun shining down on him, welcoming him and lighting familiar paths for him to tread again after years of absence. Hawkins will see his glory, his success, his victory, and it will pale in jealousy and regret. They cannot chase him away this time, not with the title of royal bard and winner of the bardic competition three years in a row.

If his travels have taught him anything, it’s that he is pettiness acts as a wonderful motivation.

Of course, he shall also see his friends again. One of his saddlebags is half full with their letters that have accumulated over the years, all of which Eddie has kept for reasons of muse and a heart entirely too soft for his own good.

Most of all, though, even more than proving his worth and success to his city and its people, it is curiosity that brings him home.

Dustin and his friends have been mentioning a most valiant knight, waxing poetic about his glorious deeds and his kinder heart — or, as poetic as they get, which is hardly at all. Which consequently made Eddie write no less than five ballads about the stories they told him, three of which have made it into songs yet, one of which he was made to play in every tavern on his long journey back to Hawkins and to Princess Nancy herself on more than one occasion.

The Knightmærs, as he calls his little collection of poeterey, his pride and joy about a man he has yet to meet. Tales about maidens saved and brothers defeated, hearts stolen and retrieved with the gentlest gestures, and children protected against the evils of night, expecting naught but friendship. And friendship he got.

If Eddie’s heart picks up yet another notch at the thought of meeting this knight as the familiar city walls tower before him, he allows it for a second before announcing himself to the guards. They looked wary upon his approach and blanch now as they hear his name; Eddie does not hide his laughter this time and preens as he is told to ride on.

“Oh, Hawkins, old friend,” he mutters under his breath, not even bothering to hide his smile. “You and I shall have so much fun, shan’t we?”

~*~

He barely makes it to the home he has been sharing with his uncle since the ripe age of twelve with minimal fuss, unsaddling his horse and guiding her to the trough, when he hears it.

“Eddie!”

Halting in his motions the currycomb, he looks up from the rusty brown that shines red like embers in the sun and spots Dustin racing down the street towards him.

He lowers the comb and steps around his horse, grinning at his rapidly approaching friend.

“Why, good day to you, young traveller, what brings you to my humble abode?”

Dustin doesn’t falter in his approach, doesn’t even slow down, and Eddie braces himself for impact. Years of experience have made him quite practiced in handling tackle-hugs, but Dustin has grown quite a bit since he last saw him, and they both stumble backwards when Dustin’s arms wrap around Eddie in a way that seems to press all air out of his lungs. Eddie laughs as he hugs his friend back with as much ferocity.

“I’ve missed you! I was writing to you this morning when I remembered you said you’d come this week. I didn’t think it would be today!”

“I came as soon as I could. Such is the Munson way, or did you forget?”

Dustin shakes his head and finally lets go, though Eddie yearns for another hug. It’s been too long. The boy has grown. He’s hardly a boy anymore, though he shall always remain as such in Eddie’s heart. He smiles and ruffles Dustin’s locks, realising with a pang that they’re almost of a height now.

An ache like homesickness settles in his gut and wears on his heart heavily.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, smoothing out the curls he’s put in disarray. “It’s just been too long. And I’ve missed you, too. You’ve grown quite a bit since last we talked.”

“I have!” And he looks so proud of it, too, preening a little under Eddie’s faux scrutiny, and it’s what makes him pull Dustin against his chest again.

Eddie continues taking care of his horse, feeding her, combing through her mane, making sure she has as much comfort as he can provide after their long days of travel. Dustin sits on the fence and watches him tend to her, feeding her the occasional apple when he thinks Eddie isn’t looking. He hides his smile and pretends not to see.

God, but he has missed his friend.

Their twosomeness is rudely and entirely too quickly interrupted by Lord Harrington of all people, who hurries down the street in search of Dustin.

Eddie never did like the lord and his pompous appearance coupled with his rude personality. He always acted like a prince among men, subject to many a jest in Eddie’s younger days. On one memorable occasion, Eddie managed to steal the lord’s clothes and swap them with his own, making him walk about in linen rags and torn-up trousers.

Days later, all of his lute strings ripped just as he was getting ready to play at the tavern, and he never messed with Harrington again — even though there was a parcel three days later with new lute strings and his old clothes he had made the lord wear. No note attached to it, because Lords didn’t stoop down to converse with lowly peasants even for revenge.

So, seeing Harrington now on the very first day of his being back, it sours Eddie’s face and his humour.

“Why, Lord Harrington,” he speaks before the man can get a word in. “To what do I owe the displeasure of seeing you here? Have you suffered a fall from grace yet, or was it a hit in the head that left you disoriented, bringing you to my humble abode?”

Harrington frowns at him, though Eddie deems to detect confusion more than distaste.

And then he has the audacity of not even answering to Eddie’s ruse, simply ignoring him and instead turning around to Dustin.

“Dustin, Master Clarke is expecting you. I will not cover for you once more.”

“But—“

“Spare me,” Harrington says, hands on his hips now, and Eddie is starting to feel defensive over Dustin. How dare his lordship come and steal his best friend away when he hasn’t even been home for an hour yet?

Before he can get so much as a word in, however, Dustin is already jumping from his perch on the fence and trudging towards Harrington, rounding the man and leading the way up the hill towards the castle.

“I’ll come back later, Eddie,” Dustin says over his shoulder, and then he is gone, rounded the corner, out of his sight.

Harrington, however, lingers. Eddie raises his eyebrows in question and challenge, and the Lord scoffs a little. It’s like he wants to say something — but what could it be? What could Lord Harrington have to say to him, years after they last saw each other?

He does look stunning, Eddie has to admit with a grudge against his self and his integrity. The golden light of the afternoon sun catches in his hair, likening it to strands of gold that kings and queens pay alchemists across the world to procure. Eddie, for a moment, feels like he has found it in Lord Harrington’s hair and the skin of his face, but he quickly snaps out of it, cutting off that particular train of thought before it can run away form him.

“I hear you are a bard of great renown these days.”

The words catch him off his guard, for Eddie was sure that the Lord would not attempt to converse. Yet it seems that propriety still has a tight grip on him.

Does Harrington like his ballads, his plays, his poetry and sonnets? Has he heard them? Or has he heard of them? Has word travelled across the countries, telling of Eddie the Bard and his brave-hearted muse his soul yearns for and his quill bleeds for?

Eddie is not sure which option thrills him more, but whichever one it is, it makes him smile, feeling quite bashful and yet proud.

“So you hear,” he says, approaching the stiff Lord. “What exactly is it that you hear, my Lord?”

He swallows, following Eddie’s steps with his eyes, turning his head when the bard circles him slowly. “I hear you sing of beasts slain and brothers banished, a knight at the heart of your ballads.” Eddie smiles at that, knowing that Harrington has at least heard of two of his Knightmærs. I hear it sounds like mockery, the knight but an object of your hyperbolic fascination and flowery imagination, his pain and bravery nothing to you.”

He stops dead in his tracks, his feet planted right before Harrington. The Lord looks like he is taking personal offence to his works, and it irritates the bard.

“And what, Lord Harrington, would you know of fascination, pain and bravery? I cannot imagine you have faced a lot of hardship in your life, and the only acts of bravery you had to chance upon were mislead in the name of false honour.”

“False honour,” Harrington repeats, his words like poison, sharp and dangerous as the sword’s blade at his hip. “You would know something about that, I imagine, telling stories of which you have no idea. Immortalising glory where there should be sympathy.”

Eddie studies him, the frown between his brows, the hard line of his jaw, set and calmed to keep more words from spilling. Imposing, this Lord is. A sight for sore eyes even in his purely misplaced anger.

Eddie huffs, his eyes travelling between the Lord’s where they are standing so impossibly close.

“Sympathy,” he repeats. “Nobody, my Lord, wants a ballad of sympathy. It is glory that the people seek!” He steps back from Harrington, gesturing with his arms as he dramatically recounts the lessons he has learned over the years, passionate for his craft. “Glory, heroism, heartbreak and love! Yearning and longing and deeds of an aching heart, that is what the people want to hear. That is what deserves to be immortalised in art, in poetry, in song! I shall forgive you for being so painfully unaware of this, my Lord, but I shall not stand to be in your company much longer, calling my work lacking or a mockery when it is borne out of nothing but loyalty, fascination and love.”

They are close again, because Harrington did not step back when Eddie approached him once more, his feet planted like a tree, fierce and strong and unbudging.

It is intoxicating, though Eddie blames half of it on the passion and the rage, on the bravery that possessed him to send the Lord away, or the fierceness with which he came to his muse’s defence.

Harrington swallows again, his eyes wandering over Eddie’s face once more, lingering at his lips, both their jaws set in determination and perhaps a sudden tension.

“Forgive me for insulting you with my company,” he speaks at last, his voice nothing but a rasp. “You will find there is an irony to your words soon. I shall not rob you of that discovery. I ask you do not take it out on our mutual friends when you do, Munson.”

And with one last glance, Harrington turns on his heel and hurries up the hill, too, leaving Eddie puzzled and quite dazed upon the lingering warmth of their close proximity.

When did Harrington become so handsome? There was a fire in his eyes that Eddie got to witness for just the blink of an eye, but he wonders where that comes from, what it means, and what other secrets he holds.

Perhaps, if he cannot meet his muse, the knight Dustin has only ever referred to as Steve, Harrington might serve to inspire a ballad or two himself.

~*~

Harrington catches his eyes on more than one occasion over the next days. Eddie is invited to the castle to play for Princess Chrissy, though she greets him like an old friend and makes him sit close to her at the banquet. Right beside Harrington, who merely nods at Eddie, his fists clenched as Chrissy asks the bard about one of his ballads — the one about the valiant knight slaying a horde of monsters to keep the kingdom’s children safe.

The Lord must really hate Eddie’s work. It fills him with spiteful glee, for some reason, and he makes sure to play and recite all of his Knightmærs that night. Harrington excuses himself when Eddie hasn’t even made it halfway through his songs, and he doesn’t return that night.

He takes personal offence now and vows to make the Lord’s life as difficult as he can.

But still there is no sign of Steve.

Eddie is starting to get frustrated.

He was supposed to be here, stand tall and proud with a smile on his face upon seeing Eddie, sweep him off his feet, make him swoon, dare Eddie to fall in love with the face long after the name.

His mood is sour, and only sours further when Harrington rounds the corner and stumbles upon Eddie who is tuning his lute for tonight’s banquet. The annual royal tournament is set for the next morning, so everyone is in a good mood.

Well, everyone except Eddie. And Lord Harrington, by the look on his face.

“Munson,” he says, straightening before he bows his head in greeting. “Forgive me, I was looking for some quiet. I shall look somewhere else.”

And, somehow, that is enough to snap his patience that was already wearing thin. “Why can you not stand being in my presence, sir?” he asks, rising from his seat. “Does it disgust you so to be around mere peasants?”

Harrington looks taken aback, shock and confusion clear on his face before a frown takes its place and washes away all further emotions.

“It is not your presence that bothers me, nor the nature of your birth.”

“And yet you leave every time I so much as strum a tune, Lord Harrington, ready to throw both caution and propriety to the winds. Leaving me to wonder what it is that I have done to deserve such treatment.”

Eddie finds himself walking closer and closer to the Lord, coming to a stop not one foot before him. He is drawn in by his presence, his charm as alluring as his cold silence. Everything about Lord Harrington intrigues him, horrified as he is to admit it. But with Steve not around to catch his eye and captivate his heart and mind alike, he simply has to find inspiration elsewhere.

And the way Harrington’s face is taken over by a dangerous expression is the most inspiring, alluring thing he has seen in a while, even though it is directed at him.

“How can you have the audacity to feign confusion over my disdain, bard,” he hisses, and Eddie shivers slightly. Harrington does not even have the sense to step back, staying right where he is, so close, so improper. “How can you pretend it is not my life you have taken and made your own, singing songs and telling stories, making into nothing but a jaunty tale recited by drunkards with no regard to the blood it was written in.”

Eddie blinks, not quite catching up with the point Harrington is making.

“What—“

“You sing your ballads, your histories, your Knightmærs like you know what they mean. Making a mockery of me, stealing from me every chance to tell my tale in my own voice, in my own tempo. Entire kingdoms will know before I will have had the chance to wake up from a nightmare, and they sing about it, sing about pain they did not have the misfortune to suffer, sing with a smile, with booming voices because you make them. And yet the only one without a voice remains the one who slew the beast.”

Lord Harrington speaks to him as though he takes offence at the content of Eddie’s ballads, offence at the reality of their background. But what right does he have to take offence when his songs are based on heroic deeds, recounted to him first hand by his very best friend. What right does Harrington have to question the truth behind them?

“If it is a matter of truth that concerns you, let me reassure you, my Lord, that all of my ballads are based on true events. I ask that you do not call me a liar, no matter how great your dislike of my craft.”

“It is not a liar that I call you, but rather a thief.”

Eddie gasps, offended now. “What do you suggest I have stolen, then?”

“A person’s right to their own story. To their own nightmares. A man's right to flee from the horrors he lived through, acquainting every tavern in this kingdom and the next with his horrific and desperate deeds.”

“How dare you call his deeds horrific,” Eddie hisses now, feeling protective over his knight. “How dare you accuse me of ill intent when every word out of my quill is written with nothing but love and admiration.”

“For whom?” Harrington challenges, disdainful and cold. “Only for yourself, your vanity, your overgrown sense of artistic ambition.”

“No,” he shakes his head, hands clenched into fists as he finds himself incredibly close to Lord Harrington, their faces only inches apart now. “It is love for this person I have never met, whom my dear friend has told me about. A man who has kept me awake at night as I was pouring over letter after letter, hoping he should be well. It is a love so strong it has to be turned into art, into song, love that should be sung in every voice of the kingdom.” He scoffs, stepping back to catch his breath. “I do not expect you to know such a love when all you have in your cold heart is disdain for all things beautiful. You would never know bravery if it looked you in the face, you would never know love if it was the very fabric that makes this world. It would slip through your fingers, my Lord, for you would be busy yearning for the day your life found its meaning.”

He is seething, heaving breaths, out of control over the words tumbling out of his mouth. Insulted in his pride and his muse, offended, hurt. Confused, still, as to why the Lord hates his songs with such vigour.

“Is that your opinion of me?” Harrington whispers, though even in that toneless voice of his lies so much that Eddie cannot begin to decipher.

“Yes,” he whispers back, the fight leaving him now, the very air sucked out of the room they share. “I believe I made that clear just now.”

Harrington takes one step closer once more, but Eddie does not budge.

“Then I suggest you forget that knight of yours,” he says, quiet and final. “And forget the idea you have of love. To love someone is not to turn his nightmares into song. To love someone is not to look him in the eye and insult his very existence even further. You love yourself, your craft, your mind. But you do not love him. You would not recognise him if he shared the same breath as you.”

Eddie huffs, just barely able to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “And what makes you so sure of that, Lord Harrington?”

A smile twitches his lips, though there is no mirth, no glee. “You have just proven it to me, Mr Munson.” He takes a step back and evades Eddie’s eyes. “I believe you should return to the fest now. Good night.”

And with that, he turns around and leaves.

Eddie finds himself rooted to the ground, air returning to the room now but still he is unable to catch his breath, staring ahead as he is.

Words echo in his mind as the picture paints itself and a horrible, horrible realisation dawns on him.

You will find there is an irony to your words soon.

How can you pretend it is not my life you have taken and made your own?

But you do not love him. You would not recognise him if he shared the same breath as you.

You have just proven it to me, Mr Munson.

But… There is no way. There is no way that Dustin’s friend, Dustin’s knight and protector, his saviour, Steve, should be the same as Lord Harrington with his careful, quiet, disdainfully quirked eyebrow.

Except, Lord Harrington collected Dustin from Eddie’s home, speaking with him in a tone filled with such familiarity, they cannot be mistaken as anything but friends.

And Lord Harrington had listened with such rapt attention when Eddie played his jaunty tunes and the well-known classics at the banquet days ago, looking like he enjoyed Eddie’s play. His face had only soured when people started requesting his newer original songs, his fists clenched upon the opening chords of The Knight and His Nightmare, leaving the hall altogether when people requested more.

You sing your ballads, your histories, your Knightmærs like you know what they mean.

Eddie’s heart falls when he realises what he has done. How blind he was to the frowns and the tension, how deaf to the hints and insinuations, how ignorant he was of the pain he inflicted on Lord Harrington. Lord Steven Harrington. Steve.

His Steve. And yet not his at all.

He falls back onto the bench, dazed, as the weight of his realisation settles inside his chest.

onwards to part 2

#steddie #steddie fic #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #honey i’m so sorry you gave me a rather clear prompt and i went and disrespected it but i hope this is fine too??#this is also the part where we remember i’m german and am using this language like lego bricks on a playmobil set #dio words #this wasnt meant to be so dramatic but uh. apparently i write miscommunication tropes now. pride&prejudice made me do it #i am planning on a part 2 but i do not control the brain #knight!steve harrington #bard!eddie munson #bard/knight

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judasgot-it · 19 days

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Ulterior Motives

A quick fic in celebration of me finishing this semester, and with one of my fav Tecchou frames (i love my husband mwah)

Scenario: Passing class is literally impossible when your professor has a nice ass. So in order to pass, you show him your tits

[Reader is an adult here. also NSFW warning but like it's really not explicit.]

This course had been a nightmare - it was the second time you had taken this class, and your second attempt was just 'barely passing'. Straight C grades across each test and paper, it almost made you want to scream.

It was nearly impossible to pay attention to your lectures when your professor wore tight pants and button-up shirts, like a whore. He was like candy for your eyes, walking around the front of the room and pointing at the board with his authentic Kyu Gunto sword.

Jesus. What a nerd.

How were you supposed to take notes on the history of pan-Asianism when he didn't even know how geeky he was? And when his shirt couldn't even contain his shoulders?

It was so distracting.

Of course you were close to failing.

Last semester had sealed your fate - you had failed so badly that he asked you to personally take the course again, discussing personal study groups and even asking 'Is everything alright?'

No, nothinh really was. But you can't go up and say 'Professor Suehiro, you're too distracting' when it's just his face.

Professor Suehiro was either ignorant or a masochist, forcing you to watch him stroll across the room and talk about the Russo-Japanese war with a warm voice; you prayed he didn't notice how much you shifted your legs.

Why did you sit in the front again? It wasn't a full class, half of them had dropped out throughout the semester, you could have always sat in the back if you really wanted to.

But god.

Every time you made eye contact and saw the spark in his eyes at the passion for his subject - it made you so happy you had a few more months with him. It was hell trying to focus when he looked at you, but it was so exciting each time he did.

Fortunately, it was the last day you had with him. Which meant that the man who tortured you with his existence would be just another page in your life.

Unfortunately, it meant passing your final exam.

You were pretty sure you were going to pass. This time you had studied and really tried, which was better than you could say than last semester - you had stayed up the entire night and got...distracted. (Professor Suehiro had a public Instagram. Of course, you were obsessed)

But you had a card up your sleeve this time. If you failed, then you had a photo of your tits with your number on the back.

It was pretty obvious what the implication was. You spent time trying to position the camera right, getting the right bra and lighting so you would look as fuckable as possible.

Hopefully he didn't notice that your apartments floors were from the 18th century and belonged in a horror film. It was hard to make the photo attractive when you had such a poor workspace.

Parts of you were really hoping he would call - if you can't use your brain to get through college, surely you can use your body, right? Professor Suehiro was attractive, you would have slept with him anyway, grade or not.

The smarter part of you was screaming at you - this was weird. It's really weird, actually.

But you needed every card you could pull to pass.

So against that small intelligent part of your brain that was beaten to death by regurgitating the semester's course material on the exam, you snuck in a photo of your tits and number into the stapled-together papers, praying to god that at the very least, dealing with the consequences later.

"Oh. Hello Y/n."

Professor Suehiro smiled gently towards you, shuffling papers that you were sure was among the hundreds he had to grade. His hands were elegant as he moved them around - his veins were so beautiful you wanted to bite them.

"You emailed me about my exam? Is there an issue?"

The smarter part of your brain was winning now that you were released from your test anxiety - right after you had left the room, it had won and had stayed winning, making you wish you had never left that stupid photo.

"Not exactly. I did wish to congratulate you on passing this semester - the minimum you needed was a 30, and you scored a 52. That brings you to a 79 as your final grade, if you're alright with that."

His deep voice drawled out the numbers, having them languish on his tongue as he looked down on you.

It was hard to maintain eye contact, so you stared a little past him, observing how his shirt was unbuttoned just enough to show the definition of muscle between his chest and collarbones.

"C's are A's for me. I'm happy enough."

It was like a piece of your anxiety left - finally, this class was over. After you walk out of this room, you would quite possibly never think of the Meiji era again. Ever.

Or the sexiest man alive, which was frankly a little disappointing.

"Are you sure? Student's ask me to round their grades usually, so I offer extra credit."

The brunette tilted his head like a puppy, his golden eyes calculating something as they grazed your form.

Today was one of the few outfits you had worn that wasn't revealing - you weren't even wearing a bra, instead opting for a large shirt and a jacket in order to avoid the discomfort.

Maybe he noticed? Fuck. You hope he noticed.

"What is it?"

Maybe it was a date. Or something better.

Was the photo actually paying off?

"I can text it to you if you'd like, you seem to prefer that."

You couldn't tell if he said this with sarcasm or not, but you nodded anyway. He smiled a little - maybe it was the right thing to say?

Casually, he pulled out the photo you left him, staring at the front for a long, hard moment. His face didn't tell you anything about what he was thinking, but you could feel your face warming up in a normal amount of shame, as his eyes turned to look back at you.

Silently, he turned the back of the photo around, typing in your phone number. His face cracked into a smile, his cheeks chasing his eyelashes as they pulled into little crescents.

"Oh! Yea."

Professor Suehiro wasn't well known for understanding social cues, but you could feel his knuckles graze against your chest, with only your thin T-shirt to protect you.

He was definitely far too close into your personal space.

"I don't think you meant to leave this."

His fingers tapped the photo against your chest, causing a furious red to spread across your face.

"Right. Um...you can keep it, if you want."

Why the fuck did you say that?

The older man just took the photo and stared at it for a moment again - it was so embarrassing, feeling like your chest was some sort of science exhibit.

His golden eyes moved back towards you again, after torturing you for the last few minutes.

"Thanks. Nice bra, by the way."

"I appreciate it, Professor Suehiro."

Was that a compliment or just a statement? His voice was hard to really know anything by, and his face currently didn't say much - he was just the same handsome guy who had been torturing you for half a year with your existence.

"Just call me Tecchou."

He leaned in closer, deciding that your personal space was his own as he fixed the collar of your shirt, tugging it around your neck and dragging his fingers across your skin.

What the fuck was that extra credit going to be?

This is very self indulgent but like *shrug emoji* anyway im gonna be a bit more active now I guess

Also edited cuz who is letting me post this while fucked up?

#bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #tecchou x reader #bsd x y/n #tetchou x reader #tecchou x you #tecchou x y/n #tecchou suehiro x reader #professor!tecchou #should i make that a tag #idk

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milkywayes · 5 months

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dreamt a cipher

a shepard/garrus post-destroy ending longfic.

[AO3 link]

I’ve debated a while about when to start posting this. Now it’s the new year, and I’ve been working on Cipher for over a year and a half, and I’ve waited long enough to start sharing it with you all. I’ve decided it’s finally time to start uploading while I work on the final chapters.

I started writing this before I ever drew a single piece of fanart for Mass Effect. It’s all the things that were bouncing around in my head after choosing the destroy ending with a mostly-paragon Shepard—consequence and responsibility and self-recrimination; her relationship with Garrus and with herself; their ties to each other and how much weight they can bear; their differing perspectives and how they slot together—all that fun stuff—compressed into a story, a place, a narrative.

I believe in the power of love, and I promise a happy ending. They’ve just been taking the long way to get there. Feel free to yell at me in the meantime.

A huge thank you to @callista-curations for her meticulous and invaluable beta work, and to @that-wildwolf and @gammaraydeath for being the best hypemen I could ask for!

A more detailed list of warnings can be found on AO3.

I've posted the full cover art here.

────

Summary:

Pairing: Female Shepard/Garrus Vakarian Rating: M (subject to change) Important Tags: post-destroy ending - angst with a happy ending - slow burn (of sorts) - arguing - reconciliation - survivor guilt - minor original characters Her own personal Noverian peak. That’s what it was supposed to be. Nothing but the discovery: no distractions, no comfort, no windows looking out—no familiar faces. But it's starting to look like her winning streak might have ended in that pile of Citadel rubble, if it ever extended that far to begin with. ──── “How does the Earth idiom go? No use beating a dead—” A long-suffering sigh. “What was it again?” “A dead horse. And yet, you’re here. Beating it.” Pot, kettle. She wishes he’d just fucking say it.

-> AO3.

Read the start of Chapter 1: Constant Velocity under the cut!

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The overhead lights flicker as they always do when the data screens are up and running. It’s not something one gets used to, even so. It stings at her ocular nerves—or something like that, anyway, somewhere along the delicate wires that extend from her eyeballs into her brain—but her focus on the data doesn’t waver.

“In that case,” says Shepard, squinting against the ache, “what we need is salvage from a relay outside the immediate burst zone. Four jumps away. Five, if possible. There’s no point to any of this if we can’t scrape together a control group.”

She glances back at Elsawy, who so far hasn’t made it more than a meter into the room. She nods without looking up from her omni-tool; orange shimmers off her shiny, black hair, giving her the uncomfortable air of a Cerberus operative. Not the worst comparison, except that Miranda would waste no time letting her know if her logic took a faulty turn somewhere. Elsawy’s just as likely to agree now and write a message detailing all her crap conclusions later.

Leaning her hip against the conference table, Shepard shifts her weight off her left leg, bites down on the sigh that almost manages to slip out. Once in the clear, she grouses, “Where the hell is Meyer? He’s the one that called this meeting.”

As it is, it’s three people in attendance and she’s the only one talking. She could’ve achieved the same results with a voice call from her quarters, where she could elevate her leg in peace and without witnesses. In the dark.

“Lab Two,” answers Elsawy, finally ripping her attention off the omni-screen and gracing Shepard with a second of eye contact. Maybe in another life she could appreciate the effort—Jesus, as if she hasn’t had her fill of lives already. “We’re close to a breakthrough on the initial output patterns. Sorry. He’s been feeding his data to me.”

“Right.” She blinks once, twice, in time with the flickering. It doesn’t help; it never does. “I’ll swing by later, then. Anything else he asked you to relay?”

“Just that, Commander.” Elsawy is mumbling just enough that her voice has to compete with the drone of the air vents. The translator takes a second to filter out and amplify it. The result is less than perfect: “More salvage—” bzzrt—“bigger picture, you got it.” She narrows her eyes, and Shepard raises a brow. “Left leg or—” bzz!—“left hip?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Commander.”

“It’s nothing relevant,” she says pleasantly, forcing herself to stand up straight again. There’s a brief tremor shaking up her hamstrings; she waves a hand to distract from it. In the frenzy of the lights, the movement looks jerky, nervous. She soldiers on. “Old field injury. Unrelated. Anything can set it off.”

Funny, kind of, since it’s that very leg that ends in the most perfect, cooperative example of a foot she’s ever had the pleasure of treading on. It’s cloned; a replacement. Not the only one either. They should’ve just done away with the whole limb, but she hadn’t been consulted. Same with her trick shoulder. Not even Cerberus had managed to get that one back on the straight and narrow.

“I’d rather you bring it up with the doctor,” replies Elsawy. This is, apparently, what it takes for her to finally speak at a reasonable volume. “If we manage to fill even one of the data gaps…”

“I know,” she says. “I know, and I’m telling you, it’s unrelated.”

-> continue reading on AO3

#mass effect fanfiction #shakarian #fanfic #shakarian fic #oh GOD. here it is. I'm BIRTHING this baby like Shepard birthed grunt #I'm so nervous but I am really proud of this story so Take it.#cipher tag

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azulyrae · 1 year

Text

❛ —— 𝐈 : The Pawn.

his life had been but a recurrent and miserable passing of time; plagued by the constant questioning regarding his value; the nagging behind the point of his meaningless existence and the place he occupied in the reality in which he was inserted. azriel had not lived; rather survived, doomed to loneliness despite the amount of friends he had made. one could not be overjoyed with such a fate; one could not see the point to insist on the stubbornness of life, if one could not share it with a partner.

after five centuries, azriel had felt the bond snap inside his heart; a dagger that tore the flash of the muscle; whose blade twisted and spilled his blood. for once, his agony was but self-inflicted; the pain, a consequence of the emotional absence of [name] archeron, his lightning bolt. azriel had been a lonesome wanderer, grasping to an abstract concept and companion that had finally found him mid-travel. and after quiet ponder and the insistence of his mate’s sisters, the shadowsinger decided to steal her from the tortuous path of self-sacrifice, and led the queen and king of their chess game to quite an experimental and potentially catastrophic game.

the first chapter of onyx sword of sorrow.

check the original post to be aware of the trigger warnings.

azriel/fem!archeron sister. reader with mind control & the ability to shapeshift.

word-count: 10K.

“I long for you; I who usually longs without longing, as though I am unconscious and absorbed in neutrality and apathy, really, utterly long for every bit of you.”

― Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena

The leisure room’s stillness brought the male comfort. His thoughts, once a swirl of revolt, were reduced to mere pondering. The sound of his pacing, incessant during the first half-hour of his arrival, ceased with the time spent in silence. Azriel sat on his most favored elbow-chair: made of charcoal-colored leather; with enough width to accommodate his wings; the one further from the hearth; and had not left since then. The hollow pair of his eyes were fixed on the peeling brown-paint of the walls near the shelves — even if they did not perceive a thing.

When he had reached the familiar space of the House of Wind, Azriel scurried to the least frequented room and enclosed himself inside. By then, the sun held itself with pride in the middle of the day sky, burning and fierce, while a warm whiff entered sporadically through the opened doors of the balcony and the wind swayed the linen curtains. The Shadowsinger poured himself a generous amount of aged scotch with ice and proceeded to lose himself in mute and almost betrayed speculation.

The male didn’t need, nor did he ask, for the eventual reports of his shadows regarding the time passage. Azriel could deduce the lingering of his presence according to the light’s position. Although he had drowned the first dose of whiskey inside a luminous room, by the time his twentieth one doused his sore throat, the full-moon shone, its bright light a rival to the countless stars in Velaris’ night sky.

The House lit the hearth at least three hours prior, and Azriel commanded it to extinguish the flames. It wasn’t the first time, and the Spymaster doubted it’d be the last too, in which he wasted precious periods of his day staring into the meaningless and oppressive void; seconds and minutes and hours converging into a single unity until Azriel could no longer discern, nor notice, their passage. Pale and ethereal, the weak moonrays entered the ambient — that grew more frigid as dusk arrived — and the peeled pattern of the old tint could scarcely be seen in comparison to the daytime’s. But Azriel would’ve been able to point each furniture with precision, or move without hesitation, for he knew every centimeter that constituted the House of Wind’s extension. More than all, the Spymaster could’ve reached a particular point of the leisure room even if he was tied and blinded.

His sight burnt figurative holes in the untouched chess board, still secured inside the store’s package, despite the fact that it had been gifted to her months before, during the Winter Solstice. It rested under a pile of unwrapped presents, each thoroughly thought and given by a member of the Inner Circle. His High-Lady, Mor and Elain had spent weeks trying to convince her to join them for the Winter Solstice, their promises of amusing and private festivities not fazing her in the slightest. So, before their departure, Azriel had told Clotho to leave their gifts somewhere in the library where she would see them, for not a soul managed to learn where she had ventured to. When he returned and found the damned pile, Azriel felt a sudden wave of rage trespass his very being. Because the Spymaster lacked Cassian’s patience, such an offense was not ignored.

Azriel was left both enchanted and wary once his eyes fell upon her figure for the first time. Prythian was close to war against Hybern then, and they were in dire need of allies. In order to contact the Mortal Queens, Feyre had resorted to her sisters, and though she’d granted them an overview of their personalities and shared past, the female was particularly vague regarding the older one. The Spymaster was half-expecting fidgeting and condescending women, quite uninteresting and avoidant. However, she held none of those said characteristics.

With briefness, she had informed Feyre of the occurrences the sister had missed after her return to the Fae Lands. Their father sailed to where she theorized to be the farthest west, and with the man gone, her, the oldest — [Name] — was in charge of their coin, the employees, and their mansion’s maintenance. Feyre once confessed that was it not for one of her sister’s sacrifices, she would never have survived a single winter to wield a bow. The fact alone granted the said woman great respect amongst them all, though her identity was only confirmed when Azriel and his brothers faced that force of nature.

Feyre had advised — rather threatened them — to maintain a certain and specific distance. The three were given no further details, yet, were all glad to adhere to her orders. Still, with her clear avoidance regarding the topic and the deep sorrow in her eyes whenever she covered her older sister’s brief character, Azriel had managed, to a certain extent at least, to connect the pieces of the puzzle. And with what he presumed to be a precise knowledge, the Spymaster expected a strong, yet secluded woman; one who’d offer her home out of consideration for Feyre without engaging with their troubles any further.

How wrong he was.

When the soon-to-be High-Lady informed the three sisters of their need, Nesta’s discontentment came in brisk and sharp words, while Elain remained silent and, in fact, quite nervous over the prospect of a discussion. But all [Name] had asked her sister was whether she’d need anything more. As if offering Feyre her home was no bother; as if she was willing to offer her entire being, if it meant granting the youngest sister a solace of her own.

She led them to the private office upstairs, and Azriel absorbed the small glimpse of her ferocious spirit, overwhelmed by her scent and presence in every centimeter of the room. A shelf took over an entire wall; there were countless maps of the Mortal Lands plastered on a mural, most with colorful arrows traced with either red or blue paint, as if to showcase hot and warm currents; and an enormous table placed on the center, with pages whose scriptures varied from long, handwritten notes to numbers and formulas Azriel himself couldn’t understand, despite the five centuries he’d lived. The chessboard was the last thing he saw. It was placed in a corner, a melancholic sight to a male as himself, who adored the strategies and competition the game’s matches granted him. [Name] had no opponent; no friend she could invite to play against.

The Spymaster had then noticed the clear loneliness of the Archeron sisters. He could still remember Feyre’s haunted and paranoid figure, resorting to self-isolation for she was not taught to accept the offering hand of potential allies. The parallels were absurd as [Name] fished a silver-necklace from her dress’ collar, using the small key hanging from it to open one of the many drawers from the center table. And from the inside, the mortal pulled a detailed plant of the mansion’s entire extension. She was distant, her words were sharp and matter-of-fact. Yet, the older sister was analytical and prone to listen, quick to action and unafraid to voice her opinions. Despite their five centuries of experience, [Name] somehow managed to catch on to a concept or idea the brothers oversaw, and didn’t hesitate to point clear errors on their strategies, nor was she embarrassed to acknowledge possible improvements regarding her schemes. And once Azriel noticed the manner with which Feyre’s eyes shone with pride and admiration; how close they held one another when the female was to return to Velaris; he knew [Name] had, unbeknownst to her, passed some of her coping skills to the younger sister.

During the first reunion with the mortal queens, they were all left with a sour instinct and anticipation. Yet, [Name] was the single one immediately sure of their betrayal, as if, somehow, the female grasped onto aspects of their stances and personalities the others overlooked. It was her certainty that drove Rhysand to order Azriel to return regularly to the Archeron mansion until their next scheduled reunion. While his High-Lord was off to the Summer Court, the Spymaster was inside that same private office, studying more recent mansion-plants that [Name], somehow, convinced the architects to let her borrow, as Nesta watched them like a hawk with an untouched novel in her hands.

As expected, [Name] was indeed detached and blunt; disdainful, even, when annoyed. The surprise of it all, whatsoever, came with the fact that she was also hotheaded. [Name] seemed to him as a powerful fortress. Her words coated in sarcasm, voiced with little forethought or regret; her ruthless honesty and logic. She was not warm, nor was she raised to. Instead, [Name] was reliable. The tree that never bent; the castle built on a mountain rock, impenetrable and magnificent. One would not imagine that under such coldness hid a chaotic thunderstorm. A well-phrased insult and he could almost catch a glimpse of her lightning; an arrogant grin to prove her wrong and he could see a twitch in her plain features. Azriel, surprisingly, noted that he quite enjoyed the act of annoying the oldest and provoking a reaction. Even better, for his own personal and secretive satisfaction, the male also proved to be great at it.

But once those banters were put aside, one would notice that [Name] wasn’t cruel nor prideful, and whenever Nesta grew tired of their technicalities, with Elain assuming the chaperone’s position instead, Azriel managed to strike less task-driven conversations.

He learned that [Name] first engaged in chess matches at the ripe age of seven, when, bored to no end, she saw their old mansion’s chief of cuisine play by himself. The man taught her well, and what he could not answer, she searched for in books. The mortal was dutiful to her studies, quick-witted and with keen observation skills that, combined to her well-chosen words, left every single one of her father’s late investors at her disposal, regardless of her young age. And when they weren’t lost in provocations and meaningless competitions related to who could come up with the most logical and efficient strategies to the possible outcomes of their encounter with the Mortal Queens, Azriel enjoyed sharing stories of Prythian with [Name], covering the continent’s territories, and listening to her theories. His favorite part of the whole interaction was noticing how the woman’s eyes would shine with anticipation, her imagination running wild at his words. He noticed then, her endless fierceness; how her core shook with thunder and catastrophe. There was more than the simple desire to learn more of the world; there was rage for what she would never see, resentment for her mortal limitations, and grief for the one she could’ve been.

Although he didn’t quite consider her a friend, Azriel wasn’t blind to their similarities either. The eldest of their respective families; the ones assigned to the ugliest, most dutiful aspects of their homes; the paranoid and distant personalities that granted both of them a fearsome first impression. He had no doubt she would’ve made whatever sacrifice, gone whichever length necessary, to free her sisters from related burdens. And — she had once said — if the trail ahead required her to taint her hands red, [Name] would comply, wash them after the process was done, and repeat the cycle for as long as it was needed.

Azriel had spent his almost half-six centuries of miserable existence yearning for a twin-flame; one that would be more pure and moral, empathetic and sweet, less prone to brutal logic and violence. The Spymaster once believed that if Morrigan, the female of pure altruism and resplendent strength, was to bless him with reciprocal love, she would purify the darkness within him; adore him until he learned to see himself through her perspective. Yet, during those comfortable conversations, Azriel couldn’t contradict the inherent truth of the fantastical feeling of being thoroughly understood. Although he remained sick and twisted, a vile creature built on hatred and violence and revenge, the male found that [Name], with her bottled rage and strength; her obstination to understand various concepts; to surround herself in theories and studies and schemes; to gather private informations from possible threats just in case; was a more comforting companion than a pure, immaculate female could ever be.

Azriel had no expectations, whatsoever, to match the mortal’s good heart. He caught a glimpse of her paperwork once, and noted that she was investing part of the re-gained family’s coin in business in less fortunate regions to increase the employment tax. Feyre had also told them that her sister learned not one, but three different languages in a decade, to communicate better with the foreign investors, and to aid the illegal immigrants that worked for their family at the seaport. And though it didn’t seem possible that [Name] could understand and match his struggles, during the quietest moments of dawn, Azriel liked to pretend otherwise.

Duties, however, were a constant call, and the Shadowsinger was assigned to spy on the Mortal Queens, rather than to return to the Archeron’s household. The bitterness on his tongue lingered through it all, both from the unforeseen difficult character of his mission, and from the sudden thought of Cassian visiting the mansion by himself. However, whatever infatuation Azriel labored for her, grew cold during the aftermath of Hybern’s mischievous plan.

[Name] was the first. She was chained, and struggled in her fight as the males threw her inside the Cauldron. The sight of her desperation was overbearing. He had wanted to slash those who held her in half; needed to protect her from the rising waters of her past. His sudden response to her screams was what granted him a week-worth of time spent on a sickbed, for the single movement to reach her had been enough for the poison to spread. Hybern was astute enough to catch on to the female’s importance to her sisters; he knew that, by destroying her fighting spirit, the other three would soon follow. However, the Cauldron expelled her after no more than half a minute, as if whatever happened between their brief encounter, whatever it saw in her, was too disturbing; vile; dangerous. It didn’t wait for Hybern’s soldiers to grab the borders and turn it, throwing the female on the ground in the process.

No, the Cauldron moved on its own, the pitch-black water stinking of surprise and desperation when the artifice fell and the female arose, reborn. Hybern himself had been shocked and afraid. For the months that ensued, Azriel wondered if his poisoned mind had deceived his sight, for he had met the sister’s eyes then, and stared into the thin pupils of a dragon; he wondered whether the poison was to blame for the devastating tug on his heart, the brief light that sliced through the darkness of his core and shook his very being with its power.

However, when he next saw her, [Name] was a High-Fae — taller, her movements more fluid, and a stance that was both terrifying and compelling. Yet, it was the sheer strength and promise of violence that undid him. The eyes that met his own were determined and hostile, challenging and commanding, as if [Name] noted her enforced physique and decided not to hesitate if the time urged her to use them. She was desirable and breath-taking as a mortal, with hypnotizing complexions, too; a woman aware of her attributes and influence and unafraid to use them as she saw fit. But being a High-Fae made her more lethal, a fantastic and splendid female granted with the means necessary to pursue her goals, to back up the violence hidden under the sarcastic retorts.

Azriel’s knees nearly buckled. He wasted precious centuries pitying himself, for he had been assigned the burden of aggression. His hands were scarred and eternally tainted with blood, vile things that were the living proof of his fate. However, [Name] embraced the future the Mother drew; she’d be the serpent and the bite and the venom; she’d be the tortuous pain that preceded death. And if that meant protecting herself and those she cared for, the guilt would be non-existent. Nothing but twenty-five, and the female made peace with the demons that had been plaguing him for five centuries.

She had a pile of books clutched against her chest, and maps that depicted what seemed to be the detailed territory of every Court and Faerie Realm of Prythian, rolled up and secured between her biceps and forearm. His shadows began to hum a soft and low ballad, dancing around their bodies. The Spymaster waited for [Name] to recoil, yet, she stared at the dark-tendrils of smoke with slight curiosity and the gleam of something else. Her eyes moved between his shadows, in a manner he learned to be those of her scheming. The hall in which the Spymaster stumbled upon [Name]’s renewed powerful figure seemed to diminish as he, enchanted, stepped closer. However, the curiosity that pooled in her eyes a second prior turned into hard-steel, a sense of despise and deception covering the grateful stare. Azriel noted the silver-blue color of the dragon’s eyes; the thin pupils of a violent storm retributing his entranced glance. His steps ceased; his shadows recoiled; and Azriel managed, a tad too late, to mask the hurt from his features.

The male wasn’t sure of what he had done wrong. Nevertheless, despite his initial surprise, and after a more attentive glance, he managed to find the hidden signs under the fearsome veil of those hard-expressions and astute irises. [Name] was in a disheveled state, with purple bags under the tired eyes and a mark between her eyebrows, of what he presumed to be left by constant worry. Azriel found himself wordless, sent into a foreign state of near-fidgeting. Ever since he’d left the burdens of a green-boy behind, Azriel had ceased to be nervous around females. He was desirable, confident, and managed to seduce them just fine, with no need for a repertoire filled with poems and romance quotes. But with [Name], it was as though the green-boy had returned, now laughing at his matured silence and nervousness. He yearned for the previous camaraderie, but had no clue of which phrases to use in order to reach it.

His hesitation wasn’t well-received. The female’s grip on her books grew tighter, and a sudden, powerful scent filled the air as she said: “If there’s nothing you wish to tell me, clear the way.”

He remained glued into place. Even if the Spymaster attempted to move left and grant her a free passage, his body had turned into nothing but a wayward bag of aching bones. For Azriel had words unsaid, his muscles were stiff and unnatural. He closed his fists in frustration, aware that his eyes were a pool of hatred. Not even his shadows ought to move, paralyzed in the scarce space between him and the female.

“You’re looking like crap,” he lied, for [Name] hadn’t demanded him to be true in his statement, only to speak up.

[Name] didn’t flinch nor showcased hurt, as if she’d found the real aspect of his thoughts somewhere within his cloaked expression. He wouldn’t confess his desire to hold what he presumed to be quite a heavy pile of books; to help her find whatever information she was searching for; to offer the distraction of a long and well-pondered chess match. Yet, her eyes flickered with acceptance and sorrow, the fate of a self-imposed loneliness one thought to be worthy of.

“I don’t need your help,” [Name] said. Grasping onto the late thoughts of lending an aiding hand seemed as though trying to capture water with a closed fist. Whenever the male found himself close enough to the instinctive wish to help, it slipped through his fingers as a volatile liquid. Despite his best efforts, Azriel caught himself fighting against the sudden lack of free-will, for, once again, nor his mind or body were his own. “You won’t offer to help me, either. I’m perfectly capable of managing on my own.”

“Of course you are,” he agreed in a haze, his words sounding slurred and disconnected.

The Spymaster hated himself for being susceptible to that treacherous manipulation; hated her for wielding it, too, and displaying all but a small remorse in the process of stealing his freedom. He connected the lines then; from the venomous scent of power to the abrupt fear of the Cauldron when it had expelled her. A hypnotizing voice, one that managed to control even his intangible companions. He wondered where the limitations of such power were placed, while fearing there were none. The previous concern related to whether or not he should propose to carry her books seemed small and meaningless in comparison to the inescapable authority he was trapped under. He, instead, began to fear for his entire Court, for there was nothing besides, perhaps, her sisters, capable of stopping [Name] from stealing Velaris from under their noses.

“I have no intentions to cause harm,” she said, waving his worries as though they were a nagging fruit-fly. Opposite from the female’s previous statements, this one didn’t feel as a demand of her part. The well-justified suspicions remained rooted in his mind, instead of slipping through his consciousness before he could even process the thought.

However, what scared him the most was the fact that [Name]’s mental-powers surpassed those of a daemati. The Shadowsinger never once left his mind-barrier unattended; it had been a wall of revested, pitch-black steel, ever since he learned of the existence of those able to read his thoughts. He was sure they were intact, and yet, she slipped inside as if it meant nothing.

“Meaning you draw the line at generalized battles, but find it acceptable to read one’s mind without their verbal permission,” Azriel retorted. The male crossed his arms against his chest, the anger overpowering the modest shine that accompanied the beating of his heart. The Spymaster looked down on her, resorting to the glance he used to terrify his opponents and prisoners. He had noticed a tad too late that his stance mirrored his father’s, and both disgust and regret enclosed his once arrogant and spiteful stance.

But rather than recoiling, [Name] raised her chin, the eyes of the dragon returning with a barely-contained rage that matched his own. “I was thrown inside a Cauldron without granting them permission to do so; I was Made and kept hostage inside a Fae-house I’m not allowed to leave. My youngest sister is gone, and I wield powers that are directly connected to emotions I’ve spent my entire life repressing. I can’t control whose minds I can read. This place is cacophony of thoughts and fears, and I would’ve given the entirety of my lost riches to be mortal again; to not hear the suicidal and terrified intents of my sisters.”

Azriel felt a sense of shame creeping up his spine. Even if his anger of her commands for him to remain distant, and ignoring his every nerve rebelling against doing so, had lingered, the Spymaster found quite a soft-spot upon hearing her point of view. She seemed pained and confused, a lashing animal that adorned herself with claws and fangs, scales and poison, because she failed to envision a different perspective. The sudden reminder of Feyre’s tendency to self-isolate and self-sacrifice, and from who she’d taken said characteristics, went as a brisk breeze, refreshing his consciousness for too little: since the acknowledgement of [Name]’s pain meant he’d want nothing but to reach for her and help, and the female had denied him that right.

He had never resented her more, doubted he ever would. The pressure, placed upon his jaw because of the effort to struggle against those commands, was quick to bring an ache. The Spymaster had no doubt that soon, the too quiet hall would be filled with the sound of the crack of his bones.

“I can manage by myself, I don’t need nobody,” she repeated, the slight mark reappearing between her eyebrows as her expression shifted into one of obstinate confusion.

Despite the order, Azriel’s insistence prevailed; his words were near to spill, that fucking, stupid offering to carry her books, but the scent of her hypnotizing power managed to inebriate his senses at last.

“I. Don’t. Need. Nobody. It’s my tragedy alone to endure.”

The resistance must’ve faded from his features, for the female’s eyes returned to their normal appearance, and she passed through him. Their shoulders touched — Azriel’s bare muscles brushing against her clothed skin — and a terrible shiver went through her. The female gritted her teeth, searching for that armor of nonchalance and uninterest.

“I don’t need nobody,” she said, his back facing her own. “But Elain does. She’s lost, and I’m sure you owe me no favors, but my sister treated you well during our scheming afternoons, and isn’t the one to blame for my character.”

He hadn’t felt compelled to reach for Elain, enough an indicator that [Name] was but giving him the right to choose for himself whether he wished — or not — to keep an eye on said sister. As it seemed, [Name] didn’t care to wield her voice if the consequences fell upon her shoulders alone, but refused to drag others into her labyrinth of thunderous hatred. Azriel didn’t answer, and his shadows were in a mingled commotion of confusion as their desire to check on the female was countered by her own command to be left alone.

Rhysand had then approached from where he, for sure, observed their interaction. The male was quite conflicted, noticing the rebellious instinct Azriel couldn’t conceive. Instead of flying to the balcony, to then winnow to the River House, they decided it was less bothersome to dialogue inside the nearest, more private room of the House of Wind: that being the leisure room. His brother updated him of the most recent occurrences — those he’d lost during the week under an induced sleep — and Azriel himself was left puzzled at the end of Rhys’ report.

[Name]’s commanding powers bloomed after Feyre’s departure to the Spring Court. Upon failing to find the youngest sister, she invaded the private reunion of the Inner Circle — Rhysand, Morrigan and Amren, the three conscious at the time — and demanded to be informed of Feyre’s position, leaving them all aghast with their willingness to answer. Azriel observed, through the mental glimpses Rhys offered, the internal fight of his brother’s brain, and how she had, too, crushed his desire to uphold that particular information. A High-Fae whose mind was closed to the daemati, wielding a tongue that could put even a High-Lord to his knees. She suddenly was a threat twice as dangerous and unapologetic, willing to use her power whenever underestimated, and Azriel’s wariness increased with the fact.

However, [Name] hadn’t needed to repeat her orders until then. Her powers had been enough to intoxicate the minds of two of the most powerful Fae alive, and an ancient creature, at the same time. With that in mind, both were left to wonder why Azriel, out of all people, showed such resilience against her commands, and though the possible answer seemed obvious, the Spymaster refused to nurture such hope, especially since he wasn’t sure where his trust was placed with the Archeron sister.

Azriel maintained his distance. He, indeed, began to check on Elain. At first, the male did it as both a taunt and a peace offering. Yet, despite his efforts to grasp [Name]’s attention, she had enclosed herself inside the House of Wind’s library, the books she borrowed being supervised by Clotho. And with all honesty, Elain was rather a comforting companion, her silence matching his own. The female indeed was in need of someone; someone who had no expectations, nor judged her mad for her incoherent mumbling. She grew to be a friend, one that had catched on Azriel’s ragged breath when he laid his eyes on [Name] for the first time in days; who had then begun to state the burdens of her sister and how, although used to loneliness and with her heart buried deep within, she was desperate to see the day where her duties would no longer be overpowering, while also terrified with the idea of leisure. Azriel understood her better then, and was given the confirmation of their similarities once again. Yet, that meant nothing, for the female continued to avoid them all.

Her situation improved in the slightest when Feyre returned, and their shared conversation later-on influenced his High-Lady to encourage [Name] to accept Morrigan’s help. The females spent the next months vanishing during most mornings, whereas [Name] was nowhere to be seen later on, deciding to spend the remnants of her day lost within her studies inside the library.

Morrigan, who was Azriel’s loyal friend — and once, the biggest love he knew — understood his anguish. And though she seemed to empathize with [Name]’s motivations as well, the female made sure to keep him attuned on both [Name]’s physical and mental evolution. She kept most things to herself, of course. And considering the amount of time the two spent together, it was half-expected for [Name] to be a modest swordswoman; though she did improve, it became clear that they were discussing other things, too.

When the War was declared, [Name] abandoned her months of quiet isolation in the library or private training sessions with Mor to help them strategize and scheme. Azriel glimpsed the storm underneath the long period of sorrow and concern; fell victim to the same banters and competition and even went as far as to share a deep and meaningful conversation outside the Archeron’s sisters tent. At the time, Elain had just been rescued, and although the three of them slept inside, [Name] refused to do the same, choosing to guard them instead.

Azriel’s tongue felt heavy and useless on the morrow, when he attempted, once again, to offer his help. The male thought of a dozen synonyms and different speech forms to bypass her command, but they were all in vain. And even if she learned to control the mind-reading aspect of her powers, Azriel’s efforts must’ve been crystal clear, for she rose from the ground, her steps crushing the autumn dried leaves, and repeated: “I don’t need nobody.”

He grew tired and revolted then. It was easier to obey her desires when one had given up on contourning them. The last battle came, and Azriel’s mind was set, for he refused to keep walking around those walls’ borders, to venture on the female’s stubborn need to retract herself and put on a veil of feigned detachment. The Spymaster would no longer care, no longer offer help. And it was only when the dragon emerged from the battlefield — dark scales with blue and silver undertones — that he’d noticed those weren’t his desires, but the consequences of her command inside his mind. Though he was once resolute, a second later, the male wished for nothing but to claim the skies with the magnificent flying serpent. Considering the quickness with which his mind changed, Azriel grew both scared and amazed at the extension of her will. It was the first time he’d experienced what Rhysand and the others must’ve felt during her first morning at the House of Wind; the first confirmation that her imposition worked differently on him, as if he was made to pass through the venom curtain and sit close to the female behind it, granting her the companionship she didn’t deem herself worthy of.

At the time, the sight of the dragon was magnificent: the shadow of a flying serpent, covering the sunlight; the strong scent of ozone that hang in the air as the creature flew to the open sea, where Hybern’s fleet was seen in the horizon; the open jaw — one the size of a grown Illyrian warrior — that breathed not fire, but lightning. [Name]’s rage had resulted in the screams of a thousand soldiers, their pained cacophony reverberating as the water — the best conduit for electricity, he’d soon learn — helped murder whoever intended to plunge against them through the sea. Yet, the sight of the Fae’s eyes after such occurrences wasn’t at all welcoming. She was broken; shallow; tired. Even if he could still catch a glimpse of the brilliant and breath-taking dark scales under the common flesh, there was something amiss. Not guilt, but perchance, a sense of adamant worry and disorientation, as though she had no idea what to do next.

Azriel waited until the Inner Circle returned to Velaris. The Archeron sisters were granted the offer to find a home of their choosing, and although Elain agreed to live with Feyre, Nesta found herself a decrepit apartment in one of the poorest districts, while [Name] had insisted on staying in the House of Wind. It made sense. Between the three Made females, [Name] was the one that did not need to face the ten thousand steps whenever she wished to leave; she could shift into whatever winged-animal she saw fit, and fly to whichever path she meant to take. Although Morrigan and Feyre were quite harsh with both him and Cassian, warning of the consequences were they to invade her personal space, Azriel was glad — and hopeful, even — that she decided to linger for more than just the desire to resume her constant visits to the library, or the wish to part ways from her sisters. The future was promising without the war and the perspective of peace, and he’d have enough space to return to that old camaraderie.

Or so he thought.

The female gave him a single glance and repeated those four fucking words. Their first dialogue was built on sarcasm and bad manners, both mistrusting one another and wishing to test their motivations and boundaries. Of course the bond would sing the loudest then. Not when the dragon emerged or when [Name] was Made; not during their heartfelt conversation outside the tent; but when he was mad with anger at her obstination, wishing to grab her shoulders and shake her to her senses. Still, a malicious sense of victory, one his entire family would disapprove of, glowed with the unprecedented truth. [Name] enjoyed being several steps ahead but could not have predicted their mating bond in a thousand years. She wasn’t aware that with the unilateral snap, her commanding powers lost considerable strength against his mind.

So, when [Name] said she didn’t need his help, Azriel had answered: “Of course you don’t.”

Ever since then, in between the not-at-all accidental stumbles on different routes of the House, he made sure to pretend. Pretend to be at her words’ mercy; pretend to be affected by her commands. All in the while decreasing their late distance with poisonous phrases and acts of his own, that [Name] was quick to retort. However, he didn’t expect her latest one to be so vile and spiteful; never would’ve thought his mate would be so cruel.

Nuala and Cerridwen’s report was but a kneaded ball of paper, falling victim to the Shadowsinger’s unmatched anger. He stared at the pile of unwrapped gifts. Feyre had given her older and most admired sister a personalized chess board: the pieces had the texture of a dragon’s scale, and each group-piece was represented by a thoroughly designed flying serpent; the board was made of enhanced glass, and the structure underneath was a pitch-black pattern of the lightning of a violent storm crashing against the stones of a dozen mountains. Rhysand chose a long leather coat, its shoulder pads with silvery-blue spikes as those she had on her dragon back. Elain gave her a beautiful vase of colorful dragon-flowers, one he knew [Name] began tending to. Amren picked a silver necklace, the pendant with — according to her words — a blue kyanite, the rough stone carved as if to resemble a dragon head. Cassian bought three books, one being his most favored about battle strategies, and the other two — personal recommendations from Clotho, who said she was searching for the subject, and couldn’t find nothing close to it in the library — of The Story of Prythian’s Currency: Volume I & II. Whereas Morrigan was more subtle. The female said she’d give a gift related to her past experiences, one it wasn’t made to be seen by their curious eyes.

Each of the previous gifts stood in the unwrapped pile, but Azriel’s was nowhere to be seen.

He spent months trying to come up with something. It’d be the first Winter Solstice with his mate; the first gift he’d give her. Since his memories were no longer lost in a haze, the male was brought back to their first true conversations months prior. [Name] told him she had learned how to properly wield daggers and throwing knives, for someone had taught her, and she trained tirelessly ever since. Morrigan complimented that aspect, too, commenting that [Name] had quick-feet, with an agility that was made for close combat. So Azriel gave his mate two sai daggers. The butt-end was of dragons’ heads, designed in a way as not to hinder her moments; the grip was made of cool and weightless leather, with an undertone of dark blue, and one silver-colored bolt of lightning on both sides of the material; there was a stone in the middle of the wing-base — the shade, the same blue of his Siphons — and the steel from both the wing-base and wings had the pattern of scales. The shaft had a thin scripture written in the runic-language of Ancient-Fae — a courtesy of Amren, who, he was sure, felt the bond between them — that said: “The bolt that cuts through darkness, the light that breaks the night.”

Azriel placed an order to the smith for a set of throwing knives too, and this time, instead of choosing a dragon, Azriel went for two swallows taking flight and staring at one another, placed at each side of the guard. However, he prided himself more in the pair of personalized sai daggers. The Spymaster knew the Inner Circle would pick the dragon alone, for they didn’t know that at each dawn, [Name] shifted into a white and blue swallow, small and silent, and ventured through the night skies, returning on the morrow under the same form. What better metaphor for such a fast, small animal, if not throwing daggers? Regardless, he found her choice odd. Why would one prefer to be a swallow, instead of an eagle, or even a dragon? He came to the conclusion that perhaps [Name] and her unspeakable past did not wish to be perceived; after a lifetime of being placed on top of a pedestal, attracting both admiration and lust from those who stared from underneath, it seemed as though she was glad to be a merely invisible bird, rather than a devastating creature. He respected that, but nevertheless, [Name] didn’t seem to have enjoyed the gift.

When Azriel searched for the sai daggers and knives, he wasn’t sure what would’ve hurt more. The prospect of finding them yet wrapped, or in the same state as the rest of those on the pile. He never once thought they wouldn’t be there at all. The Spymaster left clear and severe orders to his shadows, and despite his companions’ wishes, they weren’t allowed to search the House of Wind — especially [Name]’s room — for the gift. Hope was an unreliable feeling, and nurturing it was a direct step into disappointment. Rage and resentment, however, came easier. Azriel was sure that his shadows had disobeyed him, and were desperate to share their information. Yet, he didn’t welcome it. Instead, the male fell straight into the rabbit hole of his duties, making it all the easier to ignore his mate. Summarizing it all, said decision was what brought him to that current dismal state, and guided him to the emptiness of the leisure room.

Not two weeks had passed since the Winter Solstice, and Azriel was already assigned to infiltrate Montesere’s barriers. Considering the land’s history of allegiance with Hybern, and the infertile political situation between the Courts after the Wall between Fae and Mortal Lands fell, his brother and High-Lady’s concern regarding Montesere’s silence was well-based. At first, the Shadowsinger thought it’d be an effortless task. Yet, during his first attempt, he was met with a barrier that countered each and every power he had at his disposal.

The male had faced such a bothersome obstacle before. The Mortal Queens once wielded a similar protection; one that had avoided his net of spies and his own shadows for months. Azriel still remembered the consequences of his failure; the fatal mission that had him laying on the floor with poison in his veins; that left Cassian with ruined wings and pain written all over his near-unconscious expressions; the yet-human Archeron sisters being thrown, one by one, inside the Cauldron. The fatality that led [Name] to her current state, one he failed to foresee and prevent.

There was a small knock on the ebony door. A crevice — all but large enough for the head of a winged-Illyrian warrior to pass through — presented Azriel with the sight of his brother, his ever-present grin appearing as soon as he laid eyes on the Spymaster at the elbow-chair. Azriel’s previous thoughts were put on hold, his surprise apparent, and his shadows moved around him, their whispered words sounding hurt and worried: “We warned you, we warned you.” But the male, once again, didn’t hear a single thing.

Those occurrences weren’t rare, nor something he was unfamiliar with. Azriel found himself frequently tangled within them, as if his thoughts were a labyrinth with deviant entrances and constant, creative traps, he never seemed to dodge. The worries and self-loathing gave way to a frozen and profound lake; the water was corrupted, viscous, carrying a darkness Azriel himself wasn’t used to. Avoiding those traps felt as though walking with heavy boots on the thin ice that covered such a lake. He was bound to fail — to fall, — and once Azriel was captured by it, he scarcely attempted to swim, to leave; no light could reach him there, no sound or positiveness, it was a place not even his shadows dared to enter. The Spymaster wasted hours inside it, and only managed to leave it once an external presence pulled him from the putrid waters of his thoughts.

As Cassian had done, entering the leisure room and choosing the elbow-chair in front of his own. His brother glimpsed at the near-to-be empty scotch bottle, an eyebrow raising in the process. The male seemed to believe Azriel had more than enough, for he grabbed it from the center-table and gave it a gulp directly from the bottleneck.

“Are you kidding me?” The Spymaster complained, his voice a mixture of both frustration and anger towards his brother. Azriel wouldn’t dare to pour himself more after that, finding it unhygienic; all in the while, Cassian was quite aware of his brother’s antics, and drank it on purpose.

“Don’t be all selfish, Az,” the male mocked him, drinking another mouthful of the scotch. Azriel rolled his eyes, placing his empty cup on the center-table with unnecessary strength. “You’re done for the night, at least.”

“I’m not even drunk,” he argued. Cassian — the bastard — shrugged.

“That’s because you have a high alcohol tolerance,” his brother’s eyes narrowed. He placed the bottle on the ground, near his feet, and sat with a straightened back. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Azriel, in fact, didn’t. His scarred left hand clutched the kneaded report, the sound of paper ringing through his ears. That stupid piece of scribbling what was led him to that position in the first place. The Spymaster flew to the house his High-Lord and Lady shared, filled with a modest amount of shame. The twins had been surveilling Montesere’s magical barriers for almost an entire month, searching for a pattern, hoping to catch on to an immigrant or some poor other bastard attempting to leave. Azriel held that strategy to no hope, aware of the fact that it was doomed to failure. Yet, facing the predicted truth gave him a sour tongue.

Once he told the dreaded information, a reunion was summoned. However, with Cassian at Windhaven and Morrigan returning from Valahan, Azriel had a few hours ahead of him to wait for the reminiscent members of the Inner Circle, and decided to accompany Elain in the kitchen. The female, for sure, must’ve been feeling quite lonely since the twins’ departure to Montesere, and Azriel didn’t mind talking to her either. Elain, after all, was a terrific and attentive friend, with observant eyes and the willingness to listen. The Spymaster thought her thoroughly underestimated during most times, and made sure to let her know that he was, too, willing to train her if she ever thought needed.

Although he expected not much from the conversation at hand, Elain had trapped him a few minutes in. At first, the female repeated the familiar questions he’d been mostly glad to answer. However, at some point, Elain moved to place the trail of dough inside the oven, and her voice had reverberated from where she knelt.

“How is she?”

Azriel knew who she was referring to. Considering the male’s seen proximity with the oldest Archeron sister, and the fact that she barely left the House of Wind, Elain had but few choices besides the one to ask for his words regarding her sister’s state. During the past months, however, Azriel made sure to avoid [Name], and had no answer besides the honest truth no one wished to hear: she remained the same.

The entire Inner Circle grew worried. During the first stages of the War, [Name] spent hours inside the library, hovering over a pile of books, studying every subject regarding Prythian’s history and territory; memorizing each drawn line of the borders; trying to predict their enemies’ movements, and coming up with retaliations to those, too. She also had a peaceful relationship with the priestesses, and after [Name]’s self-isolation, Clotho was instructed by both Feyre and Rhys to send a weekly report regarding the female’s behavior. It wasn’t ideal, but his High-Lady’s heart rest assured that her sister was, at least, within physical reach.

Those weekly-informations were scarcely enough. [Name]’s dragon form, and how she had saved them all to some extent during the last battle, couldn’t be forgotten nor ignored. Of course, the female’s acts to protect her sisters during poverty — and before that, even — weren’t overlooked by Rhysand, either. His brother had the bigger sense of gratitude between them all, and weren’t for Feyre and Elain, Azriel would state that he was the most eager to help [Name] somehow.

Despite Azriel’s attempt to change the subject, stating that he hasn’t been to the House much and that Cassian was a much better option to inform her, the female didn’t allow him to run. Elain insisted that [Name]’s self-isolation tendencies came from the fact that she, after the War, had no perspective. The female was taught to be of use to her sisters; to provide for them, no matter the cost; to be the anchor in which the three youngest ones could rely on during hardships. However, Velaris had changed that need for the better. And Elain was sure that, despite the fact that [Name] was glad the younger pair found solace and comfort and didn’t need her to sacrifice herself any longer, she was also lost and alone. Without her duties and the position of command that she was placed on at a very young age, [Name] was left to deal with the memories and consequences of her life’s decisions all by herself.

Azriel had lost it then. He’d been attempting to reach for his mate for months, and all she did in response was demand him to leave her alone, going as far as to use her hypnotizing voice to achieve such an end. And once he voiced his discontentment and the fact that self-isolation was [Name]’s choice, their first discussion ensued. Elain, shockingly, had snapped at him. Though she remained quiet on behalf of [Name]’s past, the female’s words were forceful and precise. She covered her sister’s relationship with both their parents and how she chose to be there for the three of them, while denying them to do the same for her; Elain pointed most of [Name]’s personality, and during it all, Azriel’s retorts grew short, since the male was again reminded of how much he related to his mate in levels he dared not confess.

His silence wasn’t wasted either. Elain argued that [Name] needed to be of use, to feel that she was protecting her sisters somehow, in order to accept her healing process. Azriel feared that the female found out their mating bond then, but no sooner that doubt was discarded and he regained his calmness, Elain’s next phrase threw that out the window.

“You should train [Name] to be a spy and assign her to Montesere.”

Azriel’s mind went blank. His rage was nearly blinding. He didn’t care how Elain had learned of his struggles regarding Montesere’s barriers, for all he saw was [Name] — his mate — under a complicated position, thrown into a territory they had no intel of, somewhere no one could reach.

“No.”

He refused to wear a more active and demanding voice with the members of his family. Azriel hated the possible wariness it could cause, for the sound of itself was enough to make their prisoners wet themselves in terror. But Elain didn’t falter. She gritted her teeth, meeting his gaze, her eyes a shade of silver, and continued to defend her sister.

“[Name] speaks four languages and is learning the Ancient Fae speech by herself. She has a commanding voice that worked in a room filled with High-Lords, can shift into different mortal-shells, a lightning dragon and smaller animals and beasts, too. She’s smart, light on her steps, and has enough physical training to face stronger opponents,” Elain closed her eyes for a second, as if trying to avoid the memory of a particular vision.

Azriel was reminded of the Seer’s words when she still lived in the House of Wind, staring at the window with no emotion plastered on her face: ‘The scaled-beast of myths that flies through the airway, destined to rescue those lost in dismay. The bolt that cuts through the darkness, the light that breaks the night.’

“All she needs,” continued Elain, the familiar brown back into her eyes, “is guidance.”

Because [Name] was meant for so much more, was so much more, than the astute, self-sacrificing and scarred oldest sister. Because regardless of Azriel’s unwillingness to train her, his mate’s destiny was calling to her; growing closer to her calves with each passing day. And with, or without the Spymaster’s interference, she’d have to face it.

Azriel sighed, the prospect of it all bringing a sudden headache that made him crease his forehead. “I’ll ask Rhys—”

“Rhys agrees,” his brother said, entering the kitchen. Azriel turned, half-betrayed by his shadows, who didn’t warn him of his arrival, and half-shocked with himself, for it had been a long time since he’d been so invested in an argument, he failed to hear a third person’s approach. “Do you agree, Feyre darling?”

His High-Lady entered the kitchen, striving for Elain’s freshly-baked biscuits. She shared a knowing, yet proud, look with her sister, and hummed her approval, giving Azriel an apologetic smile. Cassian, Amren and Mor entered soon after, and the Spymaster learned that their argument was, in fact, heard by all of them. Nevertheless, once the [Name] topic was cleared, the reunion began. After it was clear their kitchen wasn’t big nor comfortable to accommodate the entire family, they all moved to the living-room — Rhys didn’t want his office to be filled with biscuit’s crumbs — and covered other worrying subjects, such as the Mortal Queens’ sudden silence; Mor’s first week at Valaham; Lucien’s eventual reports about Jurian and Vassa; Nesta’s condition, and the twins’ report. Azriel was but a shell of himself during it all, his mind drifting to Montesere and [Name]’s training, the inevitable destiny that awaited.

Once the gathering was over, Azriel barely bid his goodbyes before winnowing the closest he could to the House of Wind. Rhys’ voice entered his mind as soon as he landed, his question the same as the one Cassian had made: “Do you want to talk about it?”

His brother would understand the dilemma the best. Rhysand had stayed an entire month without news regarding Feyre’s well-being when the female acted as a spy inside the Spring Court. Azriel wished to ask him how he had managed it; how could it be possible, or at least bearable, to wait in Velaris as his mate was risking her life somewhere he couldn’t reach. But their situation was different. Rhysand could’ve winnowed to the Spring Court to assist Feyre if the female was in need; Azriel had his wrists tied against one another, aware that if [Name] managed to enter Montesere’s barriers, he’d have no news, no way of learning whether she was safe.

So, he gave Cassian the same answer he gave Rhysand: “I’m fine, there’s no need to worry.”

And as the latter, Cass respected the boundary drawn between them, didn’t question any further. Instead, he stared with curiosity as Azriel rose from the elbow-chair.

“Where are you going?”

“To give [Name] the great news.”

“It’s four in the morning.”

“She’s awake.”

Azriel didn’t care enough to continue that game of pretense, one where he didn’t voice his certainties regarding the female’s state in order to maintain their mate bond in utter secrecy. Considering Cassian’s lack of reaction — besides the clear amusement — the Spymaster was sure most of the Inner Circle’s members already had their suspicions.

“Good luck!” Cassian taunted as Azriel left the leisure room. The male’s hands grew sweaty with anticipation, and he rubbed them against the cloth of his trousers.

[Name]’s decision to continue living in the House of Wind came with an inevitable change of rooms. He had to walk up one extra floor, for the female chose the bedchamber placed on the hallway above the one he and Cassian shared, and his shadows began to move with a mischievous lack of control once they noticed the Spymaster’s intentions.

Azriel knocked on the door, announcing his presence through the shadows that peered inside. Not a second later, he heard [Name]’s frantic steps, and she, as expected, didn’t seem as though awakened from slumber. Her eyes were suspicious, and the female was dressed in traveling clothes. She didn’t care to state otherwise, nor to hide her provisions and backpack placed on the corner of her room.

“It’s a little late for a visit,” [Name] stated, although not surprised. Instead, the female seemed to analyze him, trying to find out why he was there in the first place.

“It’s a little late for tracking,” he mocked. If she was anyone else, Azriel would’ve supported his shoulder-weight on the door, a foot pushing against the crevice, inviting himself in. But [Name] left him wary of his words and acts; with a sense of unknown anticipation. Azriel felt, once again, as though a green-boy unaware of a female’s tastes. [Name] placed him on a chess board, and Azriel was left under the impression that she needed but a single misstep of his to steal his king.

“It was a spontaneous decision,” his mate answered, unresponsive as his shadows reacted to her voice-tone and began to flutter closer, like small and innocent butterflies.

“So was mine.”

“Bold statement coming from someone who’s been ignoring me for months,” she bit. Azriel didn’t allow his surprise to rise to his features. Both managed, after all, to wear a veil of nonchalance despite the implications behind their words.

“Bold judgment coming from someone who commanded me to do so.”

“You never seemed to listen,” [Name] answered, waving her hand.

“Were you sad that I did, for once?”

Her stance changed, if only for a mere second, but he caught on it. Mother be damned, he tucked that information closer to his heart than he should have.

“What are you doing here?”

“Your sisters are worried.”

[Name] accessed him, aware of the low blow; the mouse-trap he placed on the board. She ignored it. “They’re welcome to visit me anytime.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What are you doing here?” [Name] repeated, and Azriel was caught by surprise. Her commanding voice was, at least once, only triggered if she used an imperative phrase. The Spymaster never saw her use it as a question, which meant that she had been training somehow, it was only left for him to find out in whom.

Azriel was physically close enough to the point where pretending to be affected by her demand was useless. She would’ve noticed the absence of haziness coating his eyes; the overall alert state of his body. The male moved his pawn, the information he kept a secret for so long, finally clear for her to see. “There’s something we need your help with.”

Her eyes grew wide, a slight shift in her scent that indicated neither fear or anger, but excitement. Azriel felt a sudden tremble that went through his entire body. The fact that [Name] now knew would change every single damned thing between them for the better. The Spymaster could already anticipate the fierceness of their future competitions, her obstinate glance and taunting grin, the quick-pacing of his heart. Mother be damned, he already yearned for the sight.

“You’re immune,” she pointed out with slight wonder, clearing the path for him to enter the room.

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Long enough.”

“This isn’t an answer,” [Name] bit, her tone assuming one of annoyance and anger. He forgot how good he was at bringing that side of her to the surface. Never again, Azriel decided. Never again would he be departed from her long enough to forget of their banters.

“It’s the one you’ll get,” he insisted, kneeling near her backpack. “Where were you planning to go?”

His mate grew quiet, as if pondering her next movement and the consequences it would cause. She seemed to decide whatsoever, judging the odds favorable. “The Mortal Lands.”

Azriel’s back stiffened. He had no doubt that the adaptation was rough, but he didn’t suspect, not even once, that she could’ve been missing her late home. The male rose from the ground and away from that pack, as if the object was forsaken — wrong, — turning to stare at her instead.

“Why?”

“I have unfinished business,” [Name] ignored his disheveled state, staring at him as though he — and his entire social-circle, for that matter, — were stupid for thinking she had left nothing behind after twenty-five years of living in the Mortal Lands. “Something that, coming to think of, I could use your help with.”

Azriel gave her a stare most would cower from. She returned with one most would lose their confidence against. The male envisioned that damned board, memorized the position of his pieces, and made his move. “I presume your sisters weren’t informed of your plans.”

“Obviously.”

“So why,” he taunted, moving closer while still leaving enough space between them, “would I cross my High-Lady’s wish, and help with whatever it is you came up with?”

[Name] crossed her arms against her chest, reading in between the lines of his expression and coming to terms with his words. “It will be faster with your winnowing, but this isn’t what you wish to hear, is it? You want to strike a deal.”

He grinned, victorious, as her eyes trailed to the paintings on his forearms and exposed shoulders. His knight was so close to her king, he could almost hear the check-mate coming from his lips, even if that was all but a metaphorical game on a metaphorical board.

“You’ll help me get to the Mortal Lands, then what? What am I supposed to do?”

“Train with me outside Velaris. You’ll be the Court’s spy, and once judged ready, I’ll assign you to a mission in Montesere.”

[Name]’s eyes narrowed, as if seeing the plastered map of Prythian on her mind. Azriel had no doubt the female had studied the land’s expanse and history, had no doubt she wasn’t clueless, at least not entirely, as to why the Night Court needed someone inside the magical barriers. There was a gleam there, and her lips curved with the same malice she wielded during their strategizing, when she saw something he didn’t; when she was sure he wouldn’t be able to counter her movements. Azriel shuddered then, not with fear but with expectation. It had been ages since the last time his mate showed enough patience and will to strike, to enter a mental competition. That game of theirs, filled with taunts and strategies and low-blows, was exciting; the type of conjunction between a sense of immaculate victory and determination upon defeat one could only find when their competitiveness was perfectly matched.

One [Name] forgot she enjoyed until Azriel invited her to play again.

“As I see it, I’ll do as I’m told and then be given a reward,” she said, moving left to her murals. [Name]’s room was a bigger version of her late office, with books and maps and annotations plastered wherever the eyes could reach. His mate grabbed a white powder from the inside of a drawer, its scent sleep-inducing, and Azriel was left aghast at her abilities; her potential. “That doesn’t seem fair, especially considering that you might need me, but I don’t need you. Not crucially, at least.”

“Put me to sleep, and once I’m awake, I’ll inform the entire Inner Circle of your intentions,” the male answered matter-of-factly, because there was not a chance she thought that plan would lead somewhere.

“Then, what? You’ll follow my trail, because I could command everyone else to turn a blind eye? Where would that lead us, if not the Mortal Lands?”

“I’d find your trail before you even managed to reach the Day Court,” Azriel answered, his words filled with well-based arrogance. [Name] inserted two fingers inside the small, glass-made pot, and smudged her digits with the white powder. The female grew closer, and his shadows danced around her neck and waist; her thighs and arms; all of the places Azriel himself yearned to touch, but didn’t dare to.

“I don’t think you’re understanding your position. A dragon might be easy to find but what of a beetle? A serpent? What is a sparrow-hawk in the Autumn Court, if not a single bird between many others?” [Name] discarded the powder, and repressed a smile at whatever his shadows had whispered. “I’ll vanish and tend to my business, and you’ll have my sisters’ wrath and a lot of frustration to take care of.”

Somehow, a knight drew closer to his king too. Azriel’s smile was bitter, sleep no longer hazing his senses, as he glimpsed the situation, noticing the inevitable siege that had formed around his pawns. “I would’ve managed nevertheless, but this isn’t what you wish to hear, is it? You want to strike a deal.”

He purred those words — her words, — and [Name]’s grin widened, voicing the phrase that would grant her a plain upperground. “I’m sure my sisters came with the training aspect, so I’ll follow along, if only for their sake. We’ll train outside Velaris, and once I’m judged prepared, you’ll winnow me to the Mortal Lands.”

“And Montesere?”

“I’ll go there after we see to my business, not a heartbeat before.”

The feigned training would grant coverage to their departure to the Mortal Lands. Azriel wouldn’t need to report his dismissal to either Rhysand nor Feyre, and [Name] would leave the House of Wind, as it was expected. Their small venture would prepare the Spymaster for the idea of leaving his mate, by herself, near Montesere’s barriers; perhaps he’d even find another possibility until then. He offered her an opened hand, the sign of his agreement.

“That’s a deal,” said the Spymaster. [Name] touched his palm with her own, seeming to anticipate a shudder that didn’t come. Azriel’s shadows tangled itselves in between their hands and stretched arms, accompanying the route of their tattoos, shielding the male’s gaze from his terrible burnt scars.

“That’s a deal,” she repeated. He felt as those words drove the magic to his back; traced the mark that seemed to form the letter S, from the bottom of his waist to his right shoulder. A dragon, his shadows had informed, surrounded with the illustration of scars left by a lightning strike.

Somehow, Azriel knew her back had been marked, too. And his first chess match against his mate had ended in a draw.

general notes: i am deeply thankful for all of the support this story has been given since the very first time i have posted about it. the entire thing is wrapped up in my mind, and i am so excited to see your further reactions to [name], that became such a beloved writing of mine. regardless, thank you once again! i hope you have enjoyed this bible of a first chapter. xoxo <3

taglist [comment to be added]: @nyotamalfoy @rachelnicolee

#acomaf #acosf #acotar #acowar #azriel #azriel / reader #azriel imagine #azriel imagines #azriel x reader #acotar x reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x y/n #azriel x you #azriel x female!reader

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stargirl-writes · 7 months

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[chapter three] the secret history of anakin skywalker

common ground

pairing : assasin! reader x anakin skywalker

word count : 2.1k

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sypnosis

you have only known one truth about this war, the republic and the seperatists are two sides of the same coin. but now, your master count dooku has disposed of you after your consequent failures. his betrayal fueled your thirst for revenge. and in the cruel twist of fate, you have found yourself with an arrangement with the enemy. general anakin skywalker is willing to do what it takes for the republic to win, even if it meant dealing with you, his nemesis.

chapter summary

a clue tipped by the jedi council leads anakin skywalker back to your cell. now his anger has passed, he wants to clarify the terms of your new alliance.

on the way to nal hutta, anakin skywalker steers the conversation to his fascination over your beliefs— which legitimizes the doubts he's been having about the republic.

warnings : involves spoilers for star wars 'the clone wars' episodes 15-16. i also used some lines from 'tales of the jedi' episodes 3-4, so spoiler warning too?

notes : hi doves! i'm going to try to update every week on wednesdays pst 😄 a lot of talking for this chap but we'll be back to more action on the next one i promise !

likes, comments, reblogs are highly appreciated!

"Remind me again how the Jedi Council tracked Hardeen so quickly?" You asked.

The sniper had been identified. Rako Hardeen. You recalled the name as a bounty hunter you probably have commissioned before.

"I don't know" Anakin Skywalker answers, too casually to have been a lie.

You sigh, you'll have to trust the Jedi Council's clue, despite your doubts.

Like Skywalker had promised, he appeared in your cell the moment he got a lead.

When he enters— you can't help but brace yourself, half-anticipating the voracious Jedi to come swing a lightsaber again. It's hard to shake the feeling entirely when only yesterday, he was so latched with a rage that almost killed you.

Even Skywalker acknowledges your reaction. You caught him looking at your hands— as if he was checking if it trembled. Like he was expecting you to be scared.

But in the light, he no longer looked... dangerous. No trace of the unstable warrior, or the angered boy. You allowed yourself to breathe evenly.

You'd never forget what he was, what he's capable of. What he'd been trained to do—what he almost did.

But at this moment, he was... fine.

You tugged your hair back, tying it away from your face. If you were to head at Hardeen, who managed to kill a jedi, you can't have your hair be a distraction.

"Nal Hutta, that's where they say he is" Skywalker briefs.

You nod in comprehension, tucking your hands in your pockets, feeling awkwardly empty. You wished you had your satchel, everything you'd need would be neatly prepared in there.

You turn to face the jedi— giving him a long look, wondering whether it would be worth the effort to ask for your saber back.

It would be stupid to go to a fight with nothing.

"If you want to find a low life, you'll have to start at a saloon" You began as casually as you could. "Unfortunately, Nal Hutta isn't really fond of me" You said with a deliberate slowness, just in case he hadn't caught what you were hinting at.

Skywalker crosses his arm— you prayed to every God for a small mercy.

But then he spoke "Lucky for both of us, you're a master at escaping" with his lips curling to the side.

"Though I admire the attempt"

You rolled your eyes. "C'mon, you have to give me a chance to defend myself"

Skywalker's playful grin melts, and your heart thuds, your thoughts reduced to a list of words; dangerous, unstable, full of rage.

He looks down like he'd find the words on the ground.

"About that" He begins. You recognize the expression on his face as a semblance of shame, or regret, perhaps.

"I'm not going to hurt you" His eyes pressed on yours "So stop looking at me like that" He exhales.

His words made you flinch, you glance awkwardly behind him, unsure what to say.

Skywalker seems to see your reluctance and his jaw clenches. "I was wrong to accuse you, I don't know what came over me, it was like all that anger..." He drifts off

Your eyes narrow at his hesitation. Maybe he's not yet made peace with the rage he displayed. Maybe he thinks denying it would not bring it to life.

"I overstepped, I won't do that to you again."

He moves towards you— determined to commit to this informal apology. His blue eyes continue to study you, waiting expectantly. You could almost feel his gaze on your skin.

"Alright" you answered.

You wondered if it had been the right thing to say. You could push away your anxieties, for now. Utilizing Anakin Skywalker would prove to be at a larger advantage than trying to pursue your revenge alone.

Besides, he's already doing this alone. Away from the Jedi Council and the Republic's righteousness.

You pondered on his moral code— you definitely have never seen any jedi exhibit such blurriness.

But perhaps your old master was right when he taught you that you can get any man to do anything— if you convince them it is moral.

You could almost laugh at the irony. You and him were the same— in that manner. Driven by the need for justice.

You for yourself, and he for his fallen master.

Though the thought of being in the same room as him will always make you uneasy, you'll have to adapt.

Skywalker's gaze softens. "I realize we have to set some terms if we were to work together"

"I'm surprised you thought as much" You couldn't stop the retort from escaping your lips. "My freedom. I told you I want a full pardon"

Skywalker leans his back to the wall behind him.

"But since, apparently, I'm not in Jedi or Republic custody, that is no longer a possibility" You proceeded.

"Clever" He remarks "But not to worry, wraith, I can take you out. Besides, to their eyes, you're still on the run"

You raised an eyebrow, not quite following what he had planned.

"If somehow, I had found you and theoretically killed you, they'd be off your tail" He says cajolingly.

"That's your brilliant plan?" Your voice raised in disbelief.

"Tentative" He defends, pursing his lips. "Of course, I could still choose to turn you in if things go south"

You sigh. A full pardon will grant you peace outside the war. A fake death is not secure. But then again, you can't just... try to appear as some twisted hero willing to aid the Jedi to atone for all you've committed. It doesn't equate...

"Right"

"You don't trust me, that's the smartest thing you've done yet, seeing you rarely reason" You didn't back down from spiting.

"But, you'll have to trust my decisions, even when you don't trust me." You named your term.

You waited for him to react, but he only nodded.

"And Dooku. You'll leave him to me" You stated finally.

Anakin Skywalker studies you. You curse the Gods for enabling him to access the force, for allowing him to know the grief that was fuelling you.

Then the silence hung, too prolonged— too tense.

"Now will that be all or should I take a pen to write your long list of demands?" He says light heartedly.

Looking up, you forced a smile"My weapon would be nice"

Skywalker smirks "Absolutely not"

A ship waited for the both of you in the hangar.

You tugged on the robe Skywalker gave you to conceal your face. Skywalker did not bother to find one your size, you recognized from the color that it might have been one of his, so the robe hung past your knees and just above your ankles. You can't find the point to complain, as long as it does its job.

The hatch opens and you step inside, the Jedi following closely behind you.

Skywalker sits down by the cockpit, starting up the engines.

Soon, the ship exits Coruscant's atmosphere and jumps into hyperspace. You sat down to the seat next to him, Nal Hutta is in the outer rim territories, it would take some time.

You could feel Skywalker studying you. He didn't really take shame in staring.

You tried to brush it off, but when you can no longer stand it, you speak up "Something in your mind, Skywalker?"

His lips curl to the side, as if he was amused by how he was irking you. He leans his back against his chair, facing you.

"No, I was only wondering why exactly you aren't welcome in Nal Hutta"

"It's a long story" You answer.

"It's a long flight, delight me"

You blink, an idea of wanting to jump in outer space instead of enduring his intense gaze crossing your mind. Not satiating his curiosity would just mean he'd keep finding other ways to annoy you.

"It's Huttese territory. Dooku thought assigning bounty hunters is below him, so he sent me to find them. Because the credits are high, they'll compete" That much you could say.

Skywalker tilts his head, "Then what, you didn't meet your end of the deal?"

"No" Your eyebrow raised at his presumption. "I needed to hire who's most competent and I had to filter out the... excess. Think they took it personally"

He huffs a laugh. "Right"

The silence hung, Skywalker's gaze falls to the interwoven stars zooming past as the ship travels through space.

"It doesn't make sense that Count Dooku would want to kill Obi-Wan. I always thought he somehow had some reservation for Master Qui Gon's padawan" He ponders.

"Why the sudden need to go so far?" His eyes painted grief.

You pursed your lips, unsure whether it'll console him to know Dooku is just plain heartless. It felt like it would only add to his anguish.

"My master—" You pause.

"—old master" You clarified. "does not like appearing weak after a loss, so he'd counter attack to fiend strength"

"So, he really has abandoned you then?" His eyes narrow in focus, registering what you said, perhaps thinking you were the 'loss' Dooku suffered.

"Umbara was a crucial supply route. Millions will go into famine. If he wants the Confederacy to believe in him still, he'd have to find a way to keep their faith" You answered, the images of the fallen city plaguing your mind.

"And his solution is to kill a jedi?" Skywalker's voice was covered in spite. "I don't understand why you'd want to follow him"

You swallowed, "I fought for the Alliance. Not for Dooku"

Skywalker shifts in his seat, eyes intent on you. He was so close you could make out the two new scars by the end of his chin. "And what, now you want to appear as some twisted hero by killing your master? Won't that just guarantee the Seperatists will fall?"

His words stung. Your shoulders tense and your fingers grip the insides of your robe.

"You're a soldier, I wish I had your simplistic view" You retorted. "Why do you think so many systems allied themselves with the Confederacy of Independent Systems?" You deflected.

Skywalker does not answer.

"These systems, most of them are not developed enough to have a government. So they do not have someone representing them in the Senate, and when they do, these Senators live lavishly in the Coruscant, corrupting their planets of its resources." You lead on.

"Besides, the Republic only caters for the systems who can afford to have a government. The very reason the movement was even born is because they hoped to reestablish a system that would care for all. That would serve the people of the republic not the senate and its senators."

Skywalker's jaw clenches. "Waging a war will not solve the problem"

"Yeah?" You challenged his view, "And I suppose we can trust the Senate to hear us above their own interests?"

Recognizing the subtle manifestation of his doubt, you pressed on "The corruption in the Senate fails the ideals of the Republic it represents, I'm sure you've taken notice" Your eyes dared him to contradict you, but he looks down.

"And the Alliance will find a way to have someone else lead, it'd be best to, Dooku's strategies are not really helping in communicating the reason for our resistance."

You lean back on your seat, taking a moment to breathe more slowly. You fought for the Alliance, it was something you once believed in.

Maybe, he really thought it was just plain black and white before.

"I still don't think leading with violence is the answer" He makes up his resolve.

You sigh. It would be hard to make a person who grew up sheltered with Jedi ideologies to understand.

It would be easier to accept that the 'Seperatists' Alliance is purely wrought out of wanting to usurp the current Republic, that it is inherently evil. The truth of it being a united movement of people hoping to find salvation from famine, slavery, and death is unsettling.

You don't expect Anakin Skywalker to understand; the Maker granted him an excess of obliviousness you wished to have.

"This is a war" You answered plainly, not denying your side's faults.

"Yeah, no kidding"

The board lights up, indicating you were nearing Nal Hutta. Skywalker presses on the controls to take the ship out of hyperspace and soon after, you land on the planet.

Your mind went over Skywalker's hesitance. Perhaps, he wasn't so blind to completely dismiss the Senate's corruption. At least, his sense of justice isn't entirely based on the Republic.

You don't intend to enforce your beliefs to him, only to make him admit to the truth of the hypocrisy of the 'good side' he was fighting for.

And this exchange resonated that he is not entirely closed off to the idea of it.

He's not impersuadable. And for that, you'll go with him.

taglist : @etheriaaly @nyaaaaa008

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#tshoas #anakin skywalker #star wars #sw #anakin x reader #anakin x you #star wars anakin #anakin #anakin fanfiction #anakin skywalker fanfiction #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker fic #anakin angst #sw anakin #anakin star wars #graciella's

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lutawolf · 5 months

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The Sign Commentary Review Ep 3

I'm saying fuck it and doing this commentary anyways, even though it's way late. (my kid got into a car accident. Fuck this year.) Anyways I think I'm hilarious so here we go.

Home dude really just let Tharn get kidnapped and looks so lost about it. Hahah! The friend group drinking at the idea of Phaya and Tharn having sex. So dead.

The way these coconuts are stirring up Phaya. And why did his brain go straight to shower. He is so obvious and doesn't even care. Then races out to call the man. Like, are you just now realizing what is going on. This is real life drunkenness, I swear. When Chalothon shows up in the camera feed, it's a total audacity of this bitch moment.

Good news, Chalothon is not having any luck controlling Tharn either. The faces Phaya makes at his phone.

HAHAHA! Phaya's face when he gets back to the table and sees all the guys. He went from being on top of the world to a no good, shitty day real fast. Poor baby, lol.

Phaya's book collection has me jealous. The music playing while he is visualizing the girl. Especially with those subs (mysterious music playing). 🤣🤣🤣 The whole scene with the sister, omg. (mysterious music) (footstep sounds) (footstep sounds) (mysterious music) Phaya's eyes shifting as if in panic. All very dramatic.

Grandma is so pretty!!! She's hilarious too.

Somebody got romance on the brain! I mean, I'm only guessing, between the closeness and the subtitles telling me that romantic music is playing. Then dreams of cuddling Tharn. Cute! I like how the lighting makes them look like they are underwater.

Boy woke up so confused. "I must have thought about him too much." Ya think?!?

Phaya is a talented artist. He has a lot of art of a boy also a side profile of a female. The one we can't see clearly makes me think of the dragon from the water. Is the cat a Cha Kla? Cha Kla is a mythological cat from Thailand. Legend says that the Ch Kla are terrified of humans and will hide from them, but if they are seen or touched, that person will eventually die. However, they are usually black, where this is white with black surrounding it.

Grandma, "Are they twins?" Then Phaya goes on to fill her in on everything. These two have a very close relationship.

"Did I do anything weird last night?" Boy, that is a loaded question. Ya'll Yai is adorable. He is for sure one of my favorite side characters.

Doc... I'm having doubts that I'm gonna like you. You've barely talked, but you have slime ball written all over you. And what is up with Tharn saying that him and Phaya aren't that close??? Clearly he isn't that close to the Doc if he is hiding stuff.

Nong Khai!!! Nong (low area like a swamp) Khai (lost) is situated on the banks of the majestic Mekong River, one of the world’s longest and most iconic rivers. It's also a very important pilgrimage for Buddhist because of a revered Buddhist stupa that dates back to the 16th century and is believed to contain relics of the Lord Buddha. You know what else it's known for?? Nagas. These mythical creatures are semidivine beings that are serpent shape-shifters. Whether it is a human form, full serpent, or half serpent, half-human form, the Nagas can take up whatever shape they prefer. They are a strong and attractive species, who are regarded as guardians of treasure which resides in the underwater kingdom of Patala-Loka or Naga-Loka, a stunning place decorated in gems.

Now I'm really excited!

💜💜💜 I'm dying. "She's gorgeous." "I know that, but she's also very scary. I'm afraid of her." This honestly makes me like him even more. NGL. They are pretty close with the Abbott. Aww, poor Yai getting ganged up on. *Snickers*

Clues! "While you’re staying here. Let me warn you about something. Make sure you often meditate and dedicate the merits to those whom you have wronged in the past. So that it would help lighten the consequences of your karma. Got it?"

"Is he still not free from them? They’ve been after him since when he was born. That’s why he had to live at the temple. What do they want from him? Why are they so vengeful?"

Shot to sad Abbott and sad Tharn.

Phaya asking the Abbott if he remembers him. Give me answers! Give me! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh, Finally!!! It's come out that he is the boy that was saved by him!

And we crash again. That's so fucking sad, is this why he thinks the people he loves dies??? "Everything has already been destined. His life is written by the karma he did in his past life." This is so fucking sad. But wait! There is hope! "His destiny has been entwined with someone since his past life. That person will lead him to experience bad things. But it is also that person who would be able to free him from his karma."

Okay, so the Rocket Festival they are talking about and why the date is significant. The Rocket Festival is usually celebrated on the weekends in the middle of May, just before the start of the crop plantation period (the rainy season). This ancient festival is a merit-making ceremony which involves firing home-made rockets towards the heavens to captivate the rain gods and hope for a good monsoon season before the crop plantations take place.

"Whether you’d be free from those whom you have wronged in the past... depends on whether you’d be able to find the owner of this amulet tonight." Damn, that's not ominous. Poor fucking kid.

Ahhhhh, this is when his visions started! No thoughts, he just dives in. This boy does not deserve to have to pay for his past life! I absolve him! You live by a river, and you're just shaking him? Fucking turn him over and smack his back!

Past, Phaya is so puppy dog.

Wait! You forgot to give him the amulet!!! Dumbass kids. Always forget the important part. I mean... Well, I guess saving a person from drowning is the important part, but you know what I mean! Oh good, Phaya found him.

"So, he would probably live for a very long time. But you have to be careful though. If both of your destiny are entwined like what I think... You would eventually find each other again."

And clearly, Yai has always been the way he has been since forever.

Naga! He dreams of Nagas! Usually the festival associated with Naga is the Naga Fireball Festival. Which is celebrated in the fall or Buddhist Lent period. In this festival, people gather along a certain stretch of the Mekong River, to witness glowing red 'fireballs' shoot up into the sky. The number of fireballs sighted can range from hundreds to thousands. The local people attribute this phenomenon to the mythical 'Phaya Nak', a giant serpent that they believe resides within the river.

Okay, I'll shut up now and get back to the show.

"He doesn’t know how to swim. But he still wants to go and play near the riverbank."

"Grandma, I really heard someone calling me there last night."

That's just a great kid. We almost saw the Darwin Theory in action. The stupid shall not inherit the earth. Gee wiz, I hear disembodied voices, let's go investigate near water where I can not swim. This is like me hearing a gun shot and going to check it out. No, I don't want to die, I'm not that noisy. The unknown can stay unknown. Phaya as a kid was so soft and shy. Boy has he changed!

WTF is not wanting to take the amulet. Don't be an ungrateful asshole, kid. Tharn takes no shit, even as a kid.

"What you saw wasn’t a dream. It was your karma." "Are you saying that... they are those whom I have wronged in my past life?"

We're getting closer to answers! Ahhh, we're talking more about the Naga!!! So Tharn was a Naga in a past life??

"You both are destined to help each other Trust each other. Only then, you would be able to free yourself from your karma. Your kind hearts are your best weapon. And remember to always trust each other. Help each other. And you both would live a happy life, like you’ve always dreamt of." Sounds simple enough... (dumdumdum aka thunder sounds)

Oh snap! We got some bad weather! Okay, so Naga have different classes. From the general Nagas who have large bodies like great serpents with a crest on the head and strong poison to the celestial ones who have several heads with lethal poison and supernatural power such as disguising themselves more than just as a human being. Furthermore, certain ones can effect rain. The power to bring rain or cause drought by stop giving it. Some beliefs say they can disguise themselves as rain clouds and/or rainbows. That is why the quote for the Rocket Festival is "How much water will the Naga give this year."

Ohhh, who could this be? The king of Naga? There are a few options, so I won't hazard a guess just yet.

Can I just say that I'm loving that Phaya is chasing after scared Tharn. Yai and Phaya hugging like they didn't just get drunk together the night before. 🤣🤣🤣

"It was quite dark, so I didn't know he actually looks like this." OMG, I'm Dead. Hahaha Yai... I can see why you and your gf fit together.

Ahhhh I'm loving this so much!! You see the Naga decorations on the bridge?? This is in association with their connection to rainbows. The rainbow signifies the bridge between earth and the underworld. Sorry if this shit is boring, you guys! Like I said earlier, I'm way late, and so I'm just writing about what I find interesting. Because I refuse to force beliefs on my children, I give them books on world religions and beliefs. I read it so that I can help them as they read what they are interested in. I find all this stuff so captivating.

The way Yai looks at his girl. So sweet.

Okay, I see what they are doing here with the dream, but I'm dead. That hair and his facial expression. Like he is seconds away from laughing at himself. I would love to see BTS of this part right here.

Look at Phaya just calling Tharn out. Like Bitch, try and run from me. "Why didn't you want to tag along with us."

Isn't that where he was sitting when he had the vision? Phaya, you wish he was hitting on you, lol.

Not matching clothes!!! Tharn bitching all the time but damned if he didn't put on the matching clothes.

He left her cause she was naga! What!

Yes, he is telling you that you are the cause of his bad dreams. But he still wants you to stick around so nevermind.

I love these fools. I love grandma. Now everyone knows that Phaya is the boy that was saved.

I like Sand.

"If what you said is true, Yai and I both love you like our own brother... but we’re still safe and sound."

"Don’t let what the Abbot has predicted come true." Grandma come back! Explain this to me...

Hahah! Tharn is so sassy. "Did you use this kind of story to hit on the girls in France?"

See, no hiding for Phaya. He just straight up tells Tharn that he likes him. I think evil jellyfish is a new favorite nickname for me. I really want to read this book but it's like 15 bucks. Crazy!

AHHH! They finally kiss!!! "And this is called a goodnight kiss."

Tharn's face when Phaya says goodnight. Bless the poor boy. Well fuck, we getting stormy weather over a kiss? What the hell is gonna happen when they do more!?! I think I liked it better when the sex just woke up the evil twin, not cause destruction of humanity. Tharn is cute but I don't know that he is Noah Arc worth it kind of cute. Just saying.

Running scared! But that's okay cause Phaya is very willing to chase. Even tackle.

"Do you want to get hurt?" Phaya over here like, yes please. With a cherry on top. I love the cockiness of both of them. I adore when Phaya puts his tongue in his cheek. These two! Thank you Saint! You are a blessing amongst men. I really enjoy this kind of foreplay. No punches were pulled. Noticed Phaya is wearing the talisman.

Ahhh, it's the forcing him to submit and then telling him he is a good boy for me.

I’m Police Major Akkanee Assawawaisoon, your team leader. Yay! He is back!

I love these coconuts. Tharn going and sitting by your brother, Phaya is going to kick your ass again.

Ahhhhhh. I'm so excited for this saturday!

#the sign the series #the sign bl #phayatharn #luta talks the sign #coconuts mafia

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devilruin · 2 years

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Invertito La Giustizia

Pairing — yandere capitano x gn reader

Summary — you've never been disloyal to the tsaritsa — you have never stepped out of line, caused trouble, or tarnished her ideals, because you know better than anyone else that the one time you do will be the last.

Warnings — general yandere warnings, mild violence, vague mentions of captivity

Post Type — full length work

Word Count — 1.7k

Author’s Comments — (capitano lovers come get your food!) who's a fatui fucker? yep that's right it's me. please hyv let him use the electro skirmisher model…

Within Zapolyarny Palace, there are many secret passageways. Some lead outside towards the night market, while others lead deeper into the ice, evermore closer to celestial blasphemy. Each corridor looks the same — tall icy walls, with the occasional hanging lamp for light — and if you’re not careful, you’ll end up walking in circles for hours on end. These uniform halls serve a dual purpose as a maze for those led astray (often with negative intentions), and as a trap for foolish trespassers. Which is why Her Royal Highness had all the written records of this frozen labyrinth destroyed long ago.

“These stupidly complex passageways are going to be the death of me I swear…”, letting out a deep sigh, you press your back against one of the frozen walls, and slowly sink to the floor. Being a low-ranking member of the Fatui had its perks — a tidy place to stay with regular warm meals and hundreds of people to socialize with is hard to pass up as an orphan. Yet in all of your years here, the only friend you have is Alyona.

Alyona, the absentee.

The chilly wind has your teeth clattering against each other, and you click your tongue in irritation. Anger fuels the strength in your legs, and you quickly stand, ready to move at a moment’s notice. You take two steps forwards before your left knee buckles under you, leaving you kneeling at the foot of a lamp. The candle’s flame sways languidly, almost as if it’s laughing at your predicament.

“I swear once I find her…!” , your gloved hands bundle into fists, stretching the thick leather till it cracks, yet you’re far too ticked off to care. Just the idea of wandering around these identical pathways for another two hours, looking for Alyona in a frozen maze, makes your blood boil with rage. Why do you have to be the one to find her again? She’s always ‘missing’ from her squadron anyway, so why do they care where she is now? Another deep sigh drags through your lips, as giving up was never an option — your legs follow your mind’s order to ‘get up and continue searching’.

The deep passageways begin to merge and dissipate within the blink of an eye.

“Tsaritsa, I wish I had a map. It’s so annoying to crawl around like a mindless cockroach. There’s nothing special about this place anyway, so I don’t see why — oof!” A sudden impact cuts off your stream of complaints. Whatever hit you was far too warm to be a wall, yet before you can turn to identify the object, it latches onto you with incredible force.

“There you are [First]!” It’s Alyona, her eyes brimming with excitement as she wraps her arms around your shoulders. “I was looking all over for you, you know?”, she bats her eyes and teasingly squeezes your upper arm, hoping to get a reaction.

Even though you’re exhausted and irked beyond belief, you gladly welcome her affection with a light chuckle. “That’s my line, you troublemaker! Honestly, do you even know how…” Half-heartedly, you ‌begin to give her a piece of your mind when a calm, deep voice beats you to it.

“What are you two doing here?”

Immediately Alyona and you stand as straight as a board. In front of you is one of the eleven harbingers — larger-than-life figures that run the Fatui like a well-oiled machine. There’s no telling what consequences might follow should you disrespect them.

“Lord Capitano, sir!”, even though your voice is still slightly hoarse from yelling, you salute first, and Alyona messily copies your action. Like a child mimicking their parent, the results are sloppy: she holds her elbow too high (it should have been level with her shoulders) and the cleanliness of her suit leaves much to be desired. Still, she hurriedly follows your actions. The two of you hold the salute like sculptures, and as your lungs burn from holding your breath, the primal urge to flee swims through your fear-induced mind. Out of all the people you could have run into, it just had to be him; ‘The Captain’ of the Fatui. As the main military leader within the Fatui, he’s well respected for his decisiveness in the field, and strategic planning off the field. To see his imposing figure standing before you, scanning your face for any traitorous signs, sends ripples of shame down your spine.

Capitano seems unimpressed by your demonstration of a proper Fatui salute, having seen an actual one at least a few dozen times per day, and moves closer instead.

“I’ll ask again.”, this time his voice is still, and the pressure he gives out is suffocating. The air around you feels thin, making you gasp for oxygen in the enclosed space. “What are the two of you doing here?”

His tone of voice clarifies that there’s no room for lies; there’s no way to worm the two of you out of this one. Your only choice is to confess, to tell him that the two of you were…

Alyona quickly lifts her head to respond, “[First] and I were heading towards the barracks, sir!” Willingly, she places the spotlight on herself — confidence oozing out of her every pore — choosing to burden herself with a major role. Like an actress on stage, she must recite her lines perfectly, as a single mistake would reveal her little performance.

Capitano’s eyes seem to crinkle behind the darkness of his mask, and as he shifts his weight to one side, his head slowly rocks back and forth. At this moment, he has become a judge within this court of ice. One of his arms smoothly crosses itself over his torso, his large palm wrapping around his upper arm as he silently considers the validity of her statement.

“Were you now?”, his feet twitch with every syllable, almost as if the deadliest poison laces his words. He’s undoubtedly displeased with your behavior, and you’re positive that he is silently ruminating on your demise. The palpable tension in the air coils around your neck, threatening to squeeze out what little breath you still have. Yet before the depths of terror can swallow you whole, there’s a slight tug at the hem of your jacket. Alyona’s small, shaking hand had reached out and grabbed you, reminding you of the most important fact: you’re not alone.

Courage bubbles up from deep with you, helping you find the resolve to look directly into his eyes and respond. “Yes, we were sir!”, your words come out clear, like a cleanly cut crystal. It’s a stark contrast to Alyona with her hidden right hand — still trembling from Capitano’s piercing gaze. His intense stare scrutinizes the both of you, skeptical of your true intentions.

He won’t fall for it. He knows better than to place his trust in the words of lowly grunts.

“Then…”, he pauses, visibly disappointed with your reactions, “Why are you in the Eastern Wing of the palace when the barracks are in the South Wing, Sergeant Alyona and Sergeant [First]?”, it’s only a single sentence, yet it rips away all forms of security.

You had lied.

To him.

Neither of you can formulate a response that will save you from the hole you’ve dug. The best that you can do is buy time with your stammering. “That is…”, you really wished you could come up with something, anything, to placate his anger. Yet, all excuses fell short on your tongue.

“Do you have no explanation for your actions, including answering a commanding officer dishonestly?” Capitano throws out one last line — morally thinner than a strand of spider silk — for either of you to hold on to. It’s a meager attempt at fishing out the truth, yet it’s painstakingly obvious that it does not matter.

“I see… very well, then.”, his baritone voice reverberates within the confined space. Mind evidently made up as he strides into your personal space. Before either of you can react, a wide, black gloved hand snaps upwards, harshly grabbing Alyona’s upper arm.

“I will tell Pantalone to transfer Sergeant Alyona to Sandrone immediately.” Alyona’s legs lock into place, while her eyes frantically shift around, looking for a way to escape from his clutches.

“My Lord, you couldn’t possibly mean…!”

“You have tarnished the honor of the Fatui far too many times, Alyona Chepliev.” There’s no room for arguing with him, and instead of wasting her breath on excuses, she spins on her heel to face you.

“[First]! Help me, I don’t want to go to Lady Sandrone! She’s…” Yet before she can finish her pleading, an agile chop connects with the side of her neck, and knocks her unconscious. Capitano barely spares her a glance as he throws her inanimate body over his left shoulder.

“As for you…”, he silently trails off, obviously contemplating what horrible designation he should assign to you. He could leave you with Il Dottore, where he would subject you to a myriad of gruesome experiments. Or he may throw you into the hands of Pierro, who will exploit your every weakness in the name of ‘victory’. Either way, you’re doomed.

“From now on,” your teeth grind against each other in anticipation, “You will be under my command.” Your disbelief is in bold letters across your face, as you crane your head upwards with a matching pair of full-blown eyes and a slack jaw.

Capitano takes your silence as acknowledgement of his judgment, still walking a few feet ahead of you, when he continues his verdict on your transgressions.

"I will thoroughly embed the meaning of honor, to both oneself and one’s god, into you. Once you are free from the confines of your weaknesses, then I will acknowledge you as one of mine.”

“However, know this Sergeant [First]…”, swiftly, he turns on his heel, coming face-to-face with you in a blink of an eye. The encompassing air stills for a moment, sending a biting chill through your veins. One of his clawed fingers reaches out, quietly stroking the apple of your right cheek. He’s close enough to see and feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, yet it brings no comfort to your shaking figure as he gives you one final warning.

“There will be no second chances.”

𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭, 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐞, 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞, 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤(𝐬) 𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐬. 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤(𝐬) 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐀𝐈 - 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬 (𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨) 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠.

#✒️— syl writes #🫀 — full-length #🩸 — capitano #gn reader #tw;captive #tw;darkcontent #tw;violence #tw;yandere #yandere genshin #yandere genshin impact #yandere capitano #yandere capitano x reader #yandere genshin x reader

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psychedelic-ink · 6 months

Text

We Fall Like Snow ║ Part ⅠⅠ

After the events that took place at the Cliff Beasts set, needless to say as his bodyguard (and friend) you became overprotective of Dieter. You have all your worries under control until you accidentally flip over a young fan by grabbing her wrist, causing the media to stir with speculations as to why. Luckily Dieter's family arrives in the nick of time, scooping you both from New York to their cozy cabin; however, winter wonderland can't last forever and you need to face the consequences of your actions sooner or later.

pairing: Dieter Bravo x bodyguard!ofc; Amina Addams, written in reader format

chapter summary: Going on a trip with Dieter and his parents? More likely then you think.

word count: 4.9k

chapter warnings: some family drama, mentions of past bullying, but mostly fluffy moments

**dividers by the amazing @saradika

“I think we all expected some drama to drop when Dieter Bravo was cast as one of the main heroes of the upcoming movie ‘Abyss Burning’ but surprisingly enough this drama isn’t about him but his female bodyguard,” the voice coming out of the phone’s speaker is pleasant, engaging. Your stomach drops at the spoken sentence. “So let’s start at the beginning–”

Dieter comes at you from out of nowhere and yanks his father’s phone out of your trembling hands. Your instincts kicking in (as if those same instincts haven’t caused enough trouble already) you reach out for the device but he’s already across the room, giving the phone back to his dad, a glare directed at the poor unsuspecting man. Mrs. Bravo looks somewhat aware of your distress, her gaze softens with kindness, she smiles when your eyes meet.

Dieter stands like a wall between you and his parents.

“Maybe you two should go out to the balcony, the weather’s nice,” Dieter says, tone full of implication. “I’ll talk to you guys in a sec,”

Mr. Bravo parts his lips, but before words can form, Mrs. Bravo ushers him out to the balcony and closes the door behind them.

You hadn’t realized but you were holding your breath, only now letting go.

“The last thing you should do is watch drama channels,”

The couch dips with Dieter’s added weight, you look down at your hands and witness the constant twitching of your fingers. The ever distressing sound of jingle bells ring loudly in your ears. Despite your focus being elsewhere, you hear him sigh. You feel him curling his fingers around your left hand, pulling it to his lap. You perceive your hand to be detached from the rest of your body, nothing but a lifeless limb between Dieter’s fingers.

“My mom taught me something when I was little, supposedly it helps when you’re feeling nervous,” he says. “Open your palm,”

Life returns to your skin with his touch. His fingers are warm. Heat seeps back into your skin, you can feel again, you move around your fingers before doing as he said. Dieter starts to draw patterns into your palm. It’s ticklish, the sensation forces a smile against your lips.

“She told me that I should write my name letter by letter into my palm and that it would calm me down.”

Dieter is already staring at you when you lift your gaze. His smile is soft, which surprises you. Usually his smiles were wide and broad, full of happiness, be it fake or real. This expression is a gift, a gentle reminder that you’re someone close to him. His forefinger continues to dance along your palm, blood simmers pleasantly underneath your skin. Slowly, you realize that these aren’t random patterns.

It’s your name. You half had expected him to write out his own name.

He repeats it, the tip of his nail catches along your palm, a shudder spreading throughout your body. Dieter’s gaze drops, his cheeks dusted with a beautiful shade of pink.

“Breathe,” he reminds you. “Just breathe and focus on the letters, I promise you’ll feel better,”

Your eyes flutter shut, vague shapes caused by light moves like shadow-play beneath your eyelids. Your mind slowly comes together, you push away the thoughts of gossip. Instead you focus on yourself, on Dieter. You remind yourself of how close your lips were to his, your breaths mingling, your bodies seeking eachother’s heat.

You bite the inside of your cheek, hard. The sharp pain clears your mind. Dieter’s finger still moves. You feel him drawing another “A”. Deep down you know you can stay like this for hours, for eternity. His finger, despite the lack of sexual connotation, makes heat to pool between your legs. You know that this will be the closest you’ll ever get to feeling him against your skin like this, so you allow yourself to postpone the moment of parting.

Time stretches, you imagine his fingers moving up your wrist, tracing the curve of your muscles until he reaches your shoulder and from there, to your neck.

Your body stiffens, goosebumps settle across your skin. Dieter traces an “I”. How long does he plan on tracing your name like this?

You fear that he can hear your thoughts echoing in the silence. You fear that he can see the pleasure written along your body. It’s a nasty feeling, one that coats your tongue with the taste of bile.

When you open your eyes, his gaze lifts in a way that convinces you that he knew the exact moment it would be too much. As if he knew the moment you would resort to opening your eyes. His smile is still there.

“Feeling better?”

“Yeah. Thank you,” his finger retreats, regrettably so. “I like that little trick. It’s nice,”

“Mrs. Bravo is a wise woman,” Dieter’s smile cracks into a grin. “Speaking of, I should probably check on the happy couple,”

You nod, “Yeah, okay.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

You will never be able to forget the look of concern he’s giving you. The crease between his brows is deep, eyes focused like you’ve never seen before. You fight the urge to scoff. You can’t believe it, Dieter Bravo of all people is actually worrying about you. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

You smile and nod, your thumb unconsciously pressing into your palm when he finally turns to leave.

You can see only a small fraction of the balcony. You witness Mrs. Bravo hugging her son, you see Mr. Bravo looking sheepishly at Dieter, his lips mouthing out words you can’t hear. Wanting to give them at least a bit of privacy you look down to your palm.

Your nail had left a crescent shaped mark. You smooth over it, you repeat the motion again and again, with each swipe of your thumb you feel your heart rate escalating. Anger bubbles in your chest. You were fine just a moment ago, this whole thing wasn’t that big of a deal. So what if drama channels were talking about you? So what if everyone was making speculations? You know the truth. You know it was an accident.

When you inhale, the breath you take is shaky and short. You close your eyes, then open them again. There’s an ache in your chest, you breathe and it hurts, you breathe again and again, wanting the pain to disappear.

You mutter out a curse and look back to the balcony, Dieter has his arm around Mrs. Bravo’s waist and Mr. Bravo’s hand is on his son’s shoulder. They must be close. Who would’ve thought? You really should’ve asked for their names before grabbing the offered phone to search what people were saying about the incident. Your gaze drops to your palm, the mark is gone, you remember the trick Dieter recently told you about.

Sighing, you start to drag your thumb in the shape of an “A”. You follow up with the other letters but it doesn’t make you feel better. Maybe I’m doing it wrong? You look back to Dieter and then to your palm again. You write something different for your second try. After each letter you feel your cheeks getting warmer and warmer.

You start to feel better.

The balcony door slides open and Mrs. Bravo is the first to come back inside. You blink dumbly at her, your thumb still moving across your palm. Dieter notices and you stop.

Now that you were aware who this couple was, you take your time observing them. Mrs. Bravo had Dieter’s eyes— though it would probably be more accurate to say that Dieter had his mother’s eyes. Her gaze sparkled more compared to his. Her hair a light shade of brown with soft, honey-like highlights between them. You spot a couple of grays pouring between the honey, making you believe that your initial assumption that her hair was dyed was actually wrong. The soft locks stopped right below her neck, slightly curling at the ends. She has a delicate gold chain around her neck, wrinkles at the corner of her eyes.

“Amina,” she calls out to you, smiling wide. “Why don’t you come with us?”

“Mom…” Dieter cuts in, giving you a chance to understand what Mrs. Bravo was asking of you. Sadly, you still have no clue. “She doesn’t want to come with us. I barely want to go. The only reason I agreed to go is because we’re blood related.”

“Your cousin Everett is also joining us,” Mr. Bravo chimes in. “Didn’t you say that you missed him?”

“Like I said; Blood. Related.”

“Dieter, stop it.” His mom’s voice is sharp and clear. “Of course she would want to come. It would be good for her nerves and you said yourself you missed Everett,”

“Me missing him doesn’t make my point any less valid,”

His father talks over him, both parents ignoring him completely.

“Besides, isn’t she your bodyguard? Doesn’t she have to come along? You two have a contract right?”

“Yes but that’s not how it works–”

When the three begin to chatter among themselves, words getting a bit loud and heated, you raise your hand like a kid trying to get the teacher’s attention. You clear your throat.

“Go where exactly?”

“See, she needs this more than you think!” Mrs. Bravo proclaims triumphantly, her gaze moving from Dieter to you. “We have a cabin up in the mountains. It’s a lovely spot, near a ski resort so there’s people but not enough that you feel suffocated! We go there every year,”

“Except for last year,” Mr. Bravo cuts in, eyeing Dieter.

“It’s not my fault, I was working.”

“We would be happy if you came along,” Mrs. Bravo says with the most mother-like tone she can muster. You’re flustered, skin warm and tingling as she stares at you with hopeful eyes. Normally, you have no problem with telling people no —if you did your job would be a lot harder— but as her gaze zeroes in on you, all the excuses you could come up with die on your tongue. You nod with a shaky smile, telling her that you would love to tag along. “Fantastic! Dieter promised to show us around so you can pack during that time. We’ll come pick you up at about 9 PM. Dieter has your address right?”

“Y-Yeah,”

You’re overwhelmed at how fast she’s talking. Satisfied with your mediocre answer, she turns to Dieter.

“We’ll wait for you downstairs dear. Say goodbye to your friend!”

Both parents shake your hand before leaving, Mr. Bravo winks at you while mouthing a sorry, and follows his wife out the door.

It’s only you and Dieter now. The room is eerily silent.

He groans and falls to the couch, his one hand covers both his eyes, an exasperated sigh leaving his lips. You can’t help but giggle, sitting next to him you touch his shoulder.

“Sorry about that,” he groans out. “I can make up something if you don’t want to go,”

“Nah, your mom’s right, it might be good for me.” Your eyes move towards the door, you can still feel their chaotic energy crackling in the air. “I don’t know what I was expecting your parents to be like, but it definitely wasn’t that,”

Dieter peaks at you from between his fingers, you can see the corners of his smile exceeding the frame of his hand.

“They really are something else. I think they like you,”

“Really?” You sound genuinely surprised.

Dieter’s hand falls to his side as he lets out a hearty laugh, he looks beautiful like this. His head thrown back and a smile as bright as the sun crossing his face. Your heart swells.

“Do you think my mom invites over every woman, or man, she sees next to me?” he shakes his head. “She’s definitely planning something, I’ll tell you that much. I should warn you about my dad though, he doesn’t have much of a filter.”

You hum, “Reminds me of someone I know,”

“Har har, he’s much worse. Believe me.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” you gently hit his shoulder before getting up, Dieter looks at you confused. “You should get going, and I should go and pack,”

“Ah, yeah, I guess you’re right,”

Dieter walks you to the door, muttering about needing to get dressed first. He leans against the door frame, the gap suddenly looks small with him filling it, his broad shoulders filling the empty space in between as he crosses his arms.

“I’ll see you tonight then,”

Just as you proceed to move away, Dieter closes the door but remembering that you had a job to do, you push it back open.

“We’ll be making it back to the premiere, right? You can’t miss it,”

“Of course,” he says calmly. “Shannon would have my head if I missed it.”

The drive starts out full of excitement and laughter. You and Dieter are sitting in the back while Mr. and Mrs. Bravo are sitting up front. It doesn’t take you long to learn that Mrs. Bravo was a fan of Taylor Swift —and pop in general— which you find endearing.

While singing along to the lyrics of Love Story she turns to you, eyes gleaming with mischief. She asks if you know about Dieter’s singing and that he always wanted to be a singer. Then she proceeds to tell you how she caught him in the act of performing a private concert often while he was blow drying his hair.

Honestly you aren’t sure what surprises you more, Dieter singing, or the fact that a man who forgot to feed himself constantly used to blow dry his hair.

Dieter attempts to hush her but it’s too late, you already know his dirty little secret. Grinning, you beg him to sing. He refuses, a warm blush flaring across his cheeks. You don’t mind him denying you, you know that sooner or later you’ll make him sing.

After the first three hours, the inside of the car gradually becomes more and more silent. The music shifts from pop to something more slow and instrumental, Mrs. Bravo’s snores accompany the music. Meanwhile, Mr. Bravo is focused on the road, his body relaxed as he holds the steering wheel with one hand.

You’re looking outside, eyes following the silhouettes of trees. It’s colder now, an uncomfortable chill spreading from your hands and feet. Instead of opening your bag and wearing your sweatshirt you hug yourself. Your eyelids are heavy with sleep, you find it difficult to think properly.

“Hey,” Dieter whispers to you, his breath warming your neck. “Look, it’s snowing.”

He’s right, it was.

As you look up to the night sky, Dieter shimmies closer. Thick white flakes flutter down from the darkness, making you smile. Snow always makes you smile, regardless of the situation. It has you feeling that child-like wonder again. Your heart beats fast, cheeks warm as your hands and feet continue to freeze. Wanting to tell Dieter your enthusiasm for the weather, you turn, only to find his face an inch away from yours. With shock you jump back and hit the back of your head against the hard glass.

“Fuck,” you hiss out in pain. Your hands move up to touch your head but Dieter is faster. His hands cradle your head, pushing you down, he lets out a silent whistle.

“Shit, that sounded like it hurt. Are you alright? You’re not bleeding are you?”

Seeing that you are only mere inches away from his crotch, you slap his arms away and scutter back until you’re flushed against the cold car door. Your chest heaves. He blinks at you with an eyebrow raised. You take this opportunity to rub your head, wincing at the way it stings. Dieter attempts to move closer but you glue him in place with the raise of your hand.

“Stay there,” you grunt, your voice unwillingly thickening with anger. “I’m fine, you don’t need to do anything.”

“I was just trying to help…”

“Well, don’t,”

Dieter, as if lava suddenly formed between you, shuffles back until his cheek is flushed against the glass. His breath spreads and fogs up the window. Nails digging into your palms, your turn to face the dark scenery outside but as you move, your eyes linger on the rearview mirror.

Dieter’s dad is looking directly at you, not much emotion going on in his brown eyes. Great, I managed to piss off his dad. Guilt rising in your chest, you worry your bottom lip between your teeth and turn away, hoping that Mr. Bravo had done the same.

Your head still throbs but you lean down to pull out your phone and sweatshirt from your bag. Soft snores come from your side. Lowering the screenlight, your gaze snaps to Dieter. His cheek is completely smushed against the glass with his lips parted. You envy the way he looks so relaxed, but then again, he’s always been like that. You don’t know how he does it. No matter what happens, he always manages to come out on top relaxed.

It’s kind of annoying now that you think about it.

You scroll through your phone. A terrible idea really, and see that your follower count had shot up while you weren’t looking. You have thousands of comments, mentions, and a couple of hundred messages. You sigh and roll your eyes at the same time. Within the silence the sound comes out louder than it should and with panic your eyes search the reflective surface of the rearview mirror. Luckily you don’t see two very similar looking eyes staring right back at you.

You set your Twitter and Instagram accounts to private.

A lot of people assume Dieter is a bad actor.

Sure, he’s been in a couple of shit movies when he was younger, but honestly, did everyone really think that every production Brad Pitt was in was fucking perfect? Of course not. But god forbid Dieter Bravo does a couple of bad blockbusters. Those are the ones the world decides never to forget. It doesn’t matter really. The world can think what it wants, he knows that he can act. He gets paid extra to do cameos and now he’s actually in a movie with a script he kinda likes.

The world can think that he’s shit, but the proof that he can act is happening right here, in his parents’ car.

You are totally convinced that he’s asleep when in fact he is very much awake.

Dieter didn’t understand your reaction. He just wanted to check and see if you were bleeding or not, the hit had sounded painful. But then your reaction made him feel as if he was doing something downright heinous.

You two are friends right? Isn’t it normal for friends to check up on eachother? Is this one of those social cues that he has trouble understanding?

Maybe you weren’t friends.

No, that can’t be true, she protects me

Under contract

Shut up

Dieter listens to the sounds you make. You shuffle, open up your bag and pull something out. A light burns through the roof before you turn down the screen light. He knows what you’re doing. You’re checking out the gossip. Naughty girl.

He told you not to do that. He knows how easy the masses can get into one’s head.

You sigh, then throw your phone back into your bag. Shuffles and soft grunts echo in the silence. She’s putting her sweatshirt on. Now that he’s thinking about it, it is kind of chilly in the car.

The glass touching his cheek probably isn’t helping.

He continues to realistically snore until all sound slowly fades like the slow finish of an applause. One by one the claps would slow down and stop, the sound taking the shape of a bell. Dieter knows exactly what’s going to happen; first it would be you who falls silent, then his dad would turn off the radio, and lastly Dieter would stop his snoring, burying everyone in silence.

Ever since he was a kid, Dieter had done this—pretend to fall asleep. He’s not sure why he started, or why he does it, but there’s something peaceful he finds in it. He listens to the cars whooshing past them, the sound reverberating the car, light momentarily burning his eyelids…then the silence follows again, until another car passes them by. He hears his dad clearing his throat once in a while, sometimes his bones crack whenever he rolls his shoulders.

Poor old man. I should take him for a massage.

His mom shifts in her seat, and whenever she does, his dad looks over checking to see if she’s alright. Dieter can’t see, but he knows that’s exactly what’s happening. As someone who figured out at a very young age that the best way to correlate with others was to mimic them, Dieter’s observation skills have always been off the charts.

He’s seen the way his dad looks at his mom a million times, full of unadulterated love. It's a look that has always warmed his heart since he was child, then his fondness of the tender moment shifted into something envious, an ugly feeling.

Now, he just tries to ignore it all together.

He’s always been an outsider to people’s emotions, never the cause of them. Except for the moments he got someone in his bed. Dieter enjoys those moments where someone rakes their nails across his back and tells him how good he’s making them feel. When that happens he’s the only reason for whatever they’re feeling, which is pleasure— mostly.

Slowly, he feels the Sandman sprinkling golden sand into his eyes. His eyes water when he yawns. He looks up to the sky one last time before hugging himself.

It’s still snowing.

You wake up to the marvelous scent of coffee.

Looking around the car with narrowed eyes, you see that Dieter is getting back into the car with two coffee cups and a brown paper bag. Last night’s awkwardness completely eludes your mind as you move towards him and take the coffee from his hand. You rub your right eye as you take a sip.

“Morning beautiful,” Dieter says to you stoically, his voice deep with unsatisfied sleep. “We’re almost there.”

“Good morning dear,” his mother chirps at you, she grabs the brown paper bag from Dieter and pulls out a blueberry muffin. “I hope you slept well,”

“I did, thank you Mrs. Bravo.”

She waves her hand in a dismissive manner and shakes her head. “Please call me Adaline. Mrs. Bravo sounds way too formal, isn’t that right love?” He directs the question to her husband.

“I don’t know about that honey. It always gets me excited when people call you that, it’s a nice reminder that you actually took my name,”

Adaline lets out a laughter that you can only describe as being beautiful. Your cheeks feel warm witnessing their love and you take another sip of your coffee. Dieter stuffs a kit kat bar into your hand.

“Darling, it’s been so long. How can you still get excited about that?”

“I wasn’t aware love had an expiration date,” he starts the car and looks at you through the rearview mirror. You suddenly feel very anxious. “By the way, before you start calling me Mr. Bravo, I have a perfectly fine name you can use; Claus.”

“Claus?” you repeat.

Claus raises an eyebrow, his lips curl up with amusement.

“Something funny about it?”

“No no,” you reply with haste. “Just…you know…with Christmas nearing and all–”

The couple bursts out laughing. You’re not sure whether you should be embarrassed or not but you take this time to push the coffee cup between your legs and struggle with the wrapper of your kit-kat bar. Dieter groans, yanks it from your hands, opens it, then gives it back. His eyebrows make a flat line.

For a brief moment you fear that his anger is directed at you but you shrug the feeling away when Dieter addresses his dad.

“Dad don’t–”

“Sorry Amina, dear. We’re not laughing at you. Claus’s name has always been a source for some funny memories. Especially nearing Christmas,” Adaline says, cutting Dieter off. She lets out a sigh that is followed by a giggle. “In fact, when Dieter was a kid–”

“Mom!”

“Don’t interrupt your mother, Dieter.” His dad warns.

You can’t help but chuckle at the way Dieter pouts and leans into the seat with his arms crossed. You only feel slightly bad for him. Adeline continues her story.

“As I was saying, when Dieter was a kid he would tell everyone that his dad was Santa Claus! It was adorable really, he would always be extra nice to his dad during the holidays. ‘I know I’ve been good but just in case’ he would say while baking Claus cookies. I would help, of course, but he would never let me have any,” she smiles fondly at the memory, eyes glossing over.

“But one day he came back home crying, poor thing. Apparently one of the kid’s called him a liar and the rest of the class laughed at him. Honestly, I know you shouldn’t say mean things about kids but that class was full of rotten children. Dieter never could get along with them–”

“Frankly I’m glad he didn’t,” Claus interrupted, eyes fixated on the snowy road. “I would be more worried if he did get along with them.”

You feel Dieter getting smaller and smaller next to you. His mother nods at Claus’s words and takes a bite of her muffin. Your heart feels heavy in your chest, you can imagine it so vividly; A small Dieter , his hair ruffled and face bright with Christmas joy, telling his friends that his father is Santa Claus. Excitedly, telling everyone that his father can bring them all the best presents —because that’s just how Dieter is, he gives and gives and gives until there’s nothing left of him. A shell, until he fills himself with smoke— only to come back home a sobbing mess crying to his parents.

You feel like you’re witnessing a crime at how vividly you can see it all playing out. Him, playing alone at school, his young gaze glancing around to seek anyone that would spend time with him. Him, being bullied for having an overactive imagination and a good heart. Anger pounds in your ears, your fingers twitching uncontrollably around the half empty coffee cup.

“Anyway,” Adaline says between bites. “Furious at this, Claus dressed up as Santa Claus and went to the school. He gave all the children coal! All the parents were furious, so were the teachers, but the principal seemed not to mind as much so nothing happened,”

“You should’ve seen their faces.” Claus grins.

“Yeah dad, thanks, you’re a true hero,” Dieter rolls his eyes. The cold snap of his voice makes every hair on the back of your neck stand up. “After that I became the kid who was crazy enough to think his dad was Santa Claus to the kid who snitched on Santa Claus and made everyone get coal. They definitely cherished me after that.”

His sentence hangs heavy in the air. A cheerful morning ruined by the ghost of Christmas past. The back of your throat feels tight, stretched like a bowstring. You shuffle anxiously in your seat, the silence needles into your skin as you pay special attention not to face anyone. Your turn to the window and glance outside; the sky is a marvelous blue, snow covering every patch of soil. You see small white flowers above the snow, a patch of green within the cold. Words of excitement reach all the way to the tip of your tongue but you bite down before you can say anything.

Jingle bells ring again.

You see the ski resort that Adaline had mentioned before the trip. It seems close enough to walk but far enough so that the constant clatter of people won’t bother the locals. The car comes to a slow stop.

“When’s Everret coming?” Dieter asks.

You assume he does this to relieve the tension in the car, which you’re grateful for.

“He should already be here,” Adaline answers.

Claus doesn’t say a word, he simply stops the car and gets out. A moment later you hear the trunk door opening. Dieter mumbles something but you don’t understand, it sounds foreign. He sighs and all the lines on his face deepen. Much like his father, Dieter also doesn’t say a word when he leaves you and Adaline alone in the car. Worry crosses your face. He didn’t even glance at you before getting out of the car, you only needed a look. A sign from him that everything is alright.

Unrelated to your job, you’re also his friend and it’s been like that for a long while. But his life outside of the stage was a mystery to you. He didn’t enjoy talking about his childhood, and conversations about his family were always a fleeting one. Despite the constant eyes devouring his life to the bone, Dieter only shared what he knew other’s wanted to see; his sex life, his flirts, the insane grandiose parties, his fame and fortune.

With the corner of your eyes you notice both father and son carrying the luggage to the cabin’s door. A tall man with blond hair comes out to greet them.

Your eyes snap to Adaline as she sighs. She doesn’t meet your gaze, but smiles anyway.

“Don’t worry, dear. They’ll be just fine.”

You start to trace letters above your palm.

#dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x oc #dieter bravo x fem!reader #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo x ofc #dieter bravo x fem!oc #the bubble fanfic #christmas fic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic

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prodagustd · 1 year

Text

plan a | myg

Summary: After not seeing Yoongi for almost threee weeks, last night he showed up drunk at your doorstep and begged you to listen to him one last time.

this is part five of so it goes: series masterlist

< part four final part >

—pairing: rapper!yoongi x reader

—rating: +18

—genre: friends with benefits (kind of? they're in love) to lovers, angst, fluff, smut aaaa

—warnings/tags: cursing, mentions of alcohol consumption as a coping mechanism, emotional constipation, short smut scene, unprotected sex, dirty talk etcetc

—words: 8.5k

a/note: HIIII friends!!! its been so long since a posted a full part of this series, this chapter was going to be much much longer but I decided to cut it in half and let this part sink in. I wanna thank all of the love songs that helped me write this chapter and all of you for waiting for me!!! As always, feedback is very appreciated :)

Change didn’t have to be drastic.

You remembered Yoongi’s words from a few months ago while you tried to keep your eyes open in the darkness of Nayeon’s room.

There was something you had to remind yourself during these last three weeks, the same thing you were trying to recall at that moment: you didn’t need Yoongi. It was true, you didn’t physically need him, you weren’t an extension of him, you were your own person. But on the other hand, you were in love with him, and you wanted him oh, so badly. The last displeasure that your heart could bear was feeling a certain burning in your chest when you realized that you had gotten used to him.

You grew used to the warmth of his chest when he fell asleep next to you, his humming when he was cooking, the cold of his pale hands and the way he sneaked them under your shirt to keep them warm. The number of mornings you'd spent talking in bed without wanting to get up had been too many not to miss the strands of his hair in your hands. The amount of his expressions that you had memorized were enough to get you used to him, so one day when you woke up and he wasn’t pressed to your back and his arms weren’t wrapped around your body, you realized that change, this time, was drastic.

Well, this was bad, but mostly awkward. Were those the consequences of your actions? You had always seen Yoongi as a collected person, he never overreacted, he always thought twice before acting, so when Jungkook posted that picture with Taehyung you never imagined that he was going to come and look for you, too drunk to even stand on his feet. Yes, you hoped for a text, maybe another call, but in the first place, the plan was bound to go wrong; If he had called or texted you, what would you have done? And if you had answered, what would you have said?

Yoongi didn’t call or text, instead, he came here and vomited all his words on the floor of your living room, you didn’t know what was worse. You felt so stupid when you realized that you weren’t ready to see him, you were planning to avoid Yoongi for the rest of your life if that meant that you didn’t have to talk to him ever again about this, but now he was right across the hallway, sleeping on your bed just like every other day, and if you held your breath long enough, you swore you could hear him breathing. It was like he fell asleep the instant his head touched the pillow, meanwhile you couldn’t sleep the whole night thinking of him on his knees, saying that he missed you.

You turned your head to the left and stared at the closed blinds. You saw a little bit of light coming through them, indicating to you that it was time to get up and take a shower long enough to put your thoughts in line and decide what you were going to do.

On the other side of the hallway, Yoongi stirred in bed and fought to come back to sleep, but the headache that hit him when he opened his eyes prevented him from it immediately. He hugged the pillow close to his chest as he let out a muffled curse. He had washed the sheets twice since you left, yet they still smell like your shampoo.

It was a matter of time until Yoongi realized that those weren’t his sheets, that was not his bed and that was not his bedroom. The memory of last night fell like a bucket of cold water over his head, reminding him of what he did and what he said. He tried to open his eyes again and saw that he was under your lilac covers, hugging one of your pillows thinking it was you. But you weren’t in his arms, he could hear the sound of the shower coming from the bathroom.

What. Had. He. Done?

It was not difficult to figure out, he had fucked up, again.

As drunk as he was, it was easy to remember everything he said and the fact that you didn't like it one bit. The image of your face the night before was presented in his memory as if it were a sentence, he could tell you were angry and he could tell this was bad.

The reason why it had taken so long to come looking for you had been simple, he didn't know how to do it. Many times he had thought of talking to Jungkook and asking him how he should make the first move since he was your best friend, but he remembered what Namjoon said, Jungkook took your side, and the more he thought about it, the more he realized he was on his own.

Being on his own didn't always mean a bad thing, in this situation it might have meant that he had to take responsibility for his own actions, to be a man and face his mistakes. But in case it wasn't already obvious, things had gone wrong, he hurt you (again).

After a few minutes he noticed you were taking too long in the shower, he knew you were trying to avoid him as much as possible.

He tried not to startle when he heard the door of the bathroom being opened, followed by the sound of your dragged feet and low murmuring. Scared for his life, he decided to do what any brave man would do, pretend to be asleep until you come looking for him.

You wrapped a towel around your head and put on the same pink pajamas you were wearing last night, slowly gathering enough courage to look him in the eye. It was okay, you reminded yourself, it was just Yoongi, the same Yoongi who fell on his knees and made a fool of himself last night.

When you finally decided to confront him, you found him lying on your bed shirtless. You looked down to your feet and found the black shirt he was wearing last night, you grabbed it and threw it over his head, making him jump in his place. “I know you’re not sleeping.” You said. He quickly sat straight, wasting no time in dressing up again.

“I was.” He argued with a raspy voice.

You hummed in response. “Yeah, sure.”

Crossing your arms over your chest, you observed him rub his face with his palms, clearly hungover. His eyes were red and tired from the lack of sleep, even from the point you were standing you could tell he still smelled horribly like beer. He raised his head and looked at you like a lost puppy, but you didn’t have time to pity him, he was the one who decided to get drunk and come here.

For a moment he thought how funny you looked with the towel on your head, but the expression on your face said nothing of the sort. “Don’t look at me like that.” You warned him.

Yoongi had a feeling you weren’t going to be nice to him today.

“You are angry at me.” He confirmed.

“Should I not be?” You scoffed, “You are an adult, Yoongi, and yet you behaved like a child last night.”

Strong start, he thought.

You weren’t angry like, I’m mad because you ruined my notes angry. You were angry like, you made me cry and then you showed up drunk at my doorstep angry.

“I know I did, but-” He tried to explain, but you were quick to interrupt him.

“No, I don’t think you know.” You paused. He shutted his mouth, not daring to say another word. He was beginning to understand how this conversation would go. “Have you, for just a second, stopped and asked yourself how I would feel when I saw that you came looking for me?”

You waited for him to answer, but Yoongi’s heart skipped a beat.

“I was drunk.” Was the only thing he could manage to say.

“So that’s a no.” You said, feeling your words stacking up your throat, ready to vomit them. “Well, it wasn’t nice, that much I can say.”

Yoongi kept silent, scrambling on his head to find the right words to say, he didn’t want to say something wrong and have you get angrier at him, but you seemed to know exactly what you wanted to say, you even practiced in the shower.

“I couldn’t sleep last night.” You continued to say “I keep doubting if I should just tell you to leave, I didn’t know if this is the right thing anymore”

“Do you want to do that?” He asked, his voice was barely heard. Yoongi knew he couldn’t blame you if you suddenly decided that you didn’t want to speak to him anymore, he knew it was fair, he could only hope you wouldn’t do it. That was the thing about you, you had certain kindness in your heart that would never allow you to do that, Yoongi thought it was too much kindness sometimes, and he deserved none of it.

You took a seat next to him on the bed, turning your back at him. “I was not sure.” You answered, clasping your hands on your lap “I keep thinking about everything you said. It was not fair, Yoongi. It’s not like we don’t know each other, you didn’t just hurt me, you broke my heart.”

Yoongi suddenly felt his blood pressure drop, his soul leaving his body within an instant. That was not what he expected to hear. That was the only thing you needed to say for him to finally feel like a complete asshole, but he had it coming; a stake through his heart for breaking yours.

Then, he started stumbling with his own words “That was not-It wasn’t… I didn’t mean to do that-”

“Then what was it?” You asked, turning your head to look him in the eye. “I just want you to be honest with me.” He felt uncomfortable under your piercing gaze, feeling hostage of your eyes and his own mistakes, feeling hostage of the fact that he had broken your heart.

At that point, he was already a ball of nerves, his hands were sweating and his throat was dry —maybe that was just the hangover—. He tried to run away from you for three weeks, now he knew he couldn’t escape anymore. He was the one who decided to do this anyway, when he was very drunk and completely consumed by his feelings in the darkness of his bedroom. There was no plan B, plan A was just to tell the truth.

And how fucking hard was to tell the truth.

Yoongi sighed, “I made a mistake.” He admitted “Countless mistakes, actually. Starting from the top, I lied to you, I said a bunch of bullshit just because I was scared… I’m sorry, this whole thing terrifies me.”

You cocked your head to the side, looking for another kind of explanation in his eyes, but his gaze was fixed on his hands, unable to even steal a glance towards you. “Why?” You asked “I mean, why were you scared? I’m not… I would never hurt you.” Your voice came out as a whisper, low enough to make Yoongi’s heart clench in torment, he couldn’t help but hate himself for making you feel like you were the one to blame.

He filled his lungs with air and exhaled, thinking of a proper way of articulating his next words. Any kind of confidence the beer had helped him build the night before was gone the moment you decided to look him in the eye. Your eyes were two pools of sadness and he couldn’t do anything about it, it was wrong to even consider touching you, so he stayed in his place, holding his beating heart in his fist.

“That never crossed my mind.” He said “But I didn't know if I was willing to take the risk of you being with me and then finding out I'm not… worth it.”

You shook your head, as if you were trying to ward off any kind of empathy for the situation. Yes, he was hurt, but you couldn't ignore what he did to you. “What made you think that?” You murmured.

“Well, I’ve been told.” He tried to joke, chuckling nervously.

Silence followed his words. There was no need for Yoongi to explain that, you already knew. You had millions of questions regarding the ex girlfriend topic, but it was a line that you didn’t know if it was okay to cross.

Yoongi had told you that Dasom was the cousin of Jin’s girlfriend, Jin was a long time friend of his and at some point in his early twenties, his friend introduced her to him. Yoongi had told you she was not easy to deal with, she was rude and unapologetic, but Yoongi never talked about her like she was a bitch, he always talked like he just forgot the good things about her.

“I’m not her, Yoongi.” You dared to say, making him shift his eyes to yours.

He sighed “That I’ve been told as well, but it seems that my mind doesn’t understand that.”

You could feel offended by that, but you needed to understand him first. “So… What does your mind think about me?” You asked, your voice came almost timid, making Yoongi’s skin crawl. The question seemed silly, but you were serious.

Yoongi is reminded that you wanted him to be honest with you, but the question was a bit tricky. The answer sounded selfish in his head, he was sure it sounded the same way out loud.

“It says… that you didn’t like waiting for me.” He confessed. You raised your eyebrows in surprise, just a second ago Yoongi sensed that you were starting to become less angry, but now he was afraid that you would slap him in the face.

You turned your body to his, crossing your arms over your chest. You still looked funny with your pink pajamas and the towel over your head, but your face looked angry and upset. Yoongi would have laughed if he hadn't screwed it up so much. “It was a lot more complex than that.” You said, raising your voice like you were about to scold him, just like the night before “I told you I waited for you many times, but when I saw that nothing was changing I started to get tired. You told me you wanted me, then you said a bunch of bullshit and then you came looking for me. You can’t throw me away and come pick me up again three weeks later.” Yoongi sat quiet on his place, swallowing all of his words “I waited for you, but at the end of the day I feel fucking stupid for doing it.”

He couldn’t help but feel that no matter what he said, he was wrong and you were right, and the worst part is that it wasn’t too far from that.

“I’m sorry-” He choked out.

“You already said that.” You cut him. Yoongi couldn’t help but scoff.

“I’m trying to apologize.”

“Then do it.” You spat, pointing one finger to his chest. Yoongi felt like you just made a hole on his shirt.

He took a moment to organize his speech, you could see in his face how much he was struggling not to fuck up again, his hands hugged each other, his thumb strongly pressing over his knuckles “Fine, alright. This is not me… excusing myself, okay? I just want to explain everything.”

He looked at you and he suddenly realized both of your knees were touching, but you didn't move away. He looked for confirmation in your eyes, but you just nodded, signing him to keep talking. “The other day I told you I can’t make any promises, some part of me still feels that way, but the other part of me knows that I’m just scared. That doesn’t make it okay, I know… And you’re right, I acted like a child and not just yesterday, that night too. I said horrible things to you but I need you to know that they weren’t true and that I was completely wrong. This, whatever it is, it wasn’t your fault, it wasn’t anyone’s fault, it just happened. I’m sorry for making you feel like it was a bad thing.”

You felt a bit guilty when you watched him fighting to find the right words. You knew how difficult it was for Yoongi to express himself, if he was there trying to explain himself it had to mean something, right? You wanted to believe that, but you didn’t know when to let your guard down.

“The other night you said that you know that Dasom broke my heart but it wasn’t broken just for her, it was broken for my family, my mom, my brother and the friends that walked away because I put her first. I’m sorry for waiting so long to tell you this,” He continued to say “I wasn’t sure how to do it. I know it’s pathetic, I had to get drunk to be numb enough in case you didn’t want me anymore. I had to lie to you to protect myself and that was the last thing I ended up doing. I know you, I know you preferred to avoid me but I couldn’t bear it anymore. I’m sorry, I really am sorry for all of this, I’m sorry for pushing you away and I’m sorry for breaking your heart just because I was scared, and selfish, and fucking dumb. I was terrified of coming here and have to admit that I’m a coward.”

“Yoongi…” You spoke, rushing to stop him.

He just ignored you. “No, I mean, you were right that night. I treated you like you were crazy or something and then I wanted to fix everything, but I needed to think. I needed all this time, I don’t know if it’s too late, but I just couldn’t help but wonder, what if you decide to stay with me and then two months later you realize that it fucking sucks?��

Now it’s your turn to be left completely speechless. You thought there was going to be no place to feel bad for him, but you did anyway. That was naturally you, showing empathy in situations where other people would have just turned their backs. And this was Yoongi you were talking to, you understood his heart was broken too, you would have been an alien if your heart didn’t break just a little from seeing him so nervous.

His question was about an impossible scenario, you wondered how his mind came up with that.

“What would it suck?” You questioned, because it was the only thing you could do.

“Wouldn’t it?” He laughed, rubbing the palms of his hands on his face “You think about it all the time, I know you do, we’re different. I don’t like waking up early like you, I don’t know how to take care of plants. I’m an aries venus and you’re a taurus venus.” You blinked, his last comment making you scoff. He stopped abruptly to look at you to verify if you were really laughing at him. “I’m not joking.” He said, shaking his head “I’m going on tour in a few months and you still have to graduate. You said it yourself, we’re not compatible. What if you wake up one day and you realize it was just… sex?”

You snapped a glare at him “Is that the impression you have of me?”

“God, no. That’s not what I mean.” He rushed to say “This is the thing, I see the kind of girl you are and my mind tricks me into thinking you would never want me.”

You frowned “Like I’m too blinded by… your dick and that it doesn’t allow me to see that you’re actually a bad guy?”

Well, Namjoon was right when he told Yoongi that you were going to understand him just fine.

“No? I don’t know, maybe a certain part of it. Maybe you’re too good to see that I’m not going to make you happy.”

You looked around, wanting to burst into laughter for some reason. Yoongi noticed that the expression on your face finally softened, but you can’t utter a word yet.

“I…” You sighed, “First of all, it was never just about the sex, are you kidding me?” You murmured “We shared things together, even if we’re different, I don’t care how different we are, I actually like the things that set us apart.”

Yoongi felt his heart softening.

“What do you mean?”

“Uh… You know, if it wasn’t for you I would still be too caught up in the routine, you make it different. Last month we were planning a trip to the beach and we had to wait for summer, I was waiting for that. I waited for a lot of things, sometimes I thought I was being too obvious.”

“Like when?” He asked curiously.

“Like when I told you I missed you after not seeing you for two weeks.” You answered. “Or when I said that you didn’t have to be jealous because I wanted you, that kind of stuff. I was saving your seat the whole time, didn’t you realize?”

Yoongi blinked, feeling once again like a dick. He was aware of the amount of times that you hinted how much you wanted him, but his mind worked in a strange way, you were kind to every single person you knew, why would Yoongi be different? He was so inconspicuous among the people you loved that he thought he would never be able to have a stable place in your heart. He saw you gave a piece of it to every single person you met, but he wanted it whole. He wanted you whole, not just pieces.

“I baked you cupcakes for your birthday.” You said, bringing him out the loophole of his mind.

“You didn’t.” He reminded you.

“I bought you cupcakes for your birthday.” You corrected yourself “Chocolate cupcakes, with frosting on top, and they were the most expensive. I paid good money for them and I wouldn’t have done that for everyone.”

“What about Nayeon? Or Jungkook?” He asked, suddenly feeling more confident to get closer to you.

“I would have done that for them too, because they are special to me.” You said “I even thought of not doing that for you because I was afraid that you would realize…” Your voice became small at the end of your sentence, Yoongi’s heart shook in his chest like it was defrosting after all these weeks.

“That I would realize what?” He dared to ask, a smirk tugging from the corner of his lips.

“I’m still angry at you, don’t make me say it.” You warned.

The tension in the room eased, but he believed you. You were still angry at him, he didn’t know how long you were going to be angry, but he knew he could wait for that time to come. He moved closer to you, testing if it was okay to approach you. You stayed in your place, observing his every move, waiting for his next step.

“I wasn’t lying on Nayeon’s birthday.” He breathed out.

“Weren’t you?” You whispered. His proximity made your stomach flip like it was the first time he was this close to you, it made you incredibly anxious. A sudden spark appeared in your eyes, it felt like a punch in Yoongi’s guts.

“I wasn’t.” He confirmed. “You’re the only one I want.”

You hissed, taking a moment to think about it a little bit longer. “You want me” You said. “But… Do you trust me?”

“Trust you?” He repeated, a confused expression marked his face.

“Yes…” You affirmed “Is it okay to ask if it would be possible to not think of your past when you see me and just… trust me?” You paused for a second, letting him take your words one by one.

He seemed taken aback, he surely didn’t expect that question, it didn’t even cross his mind.

“Trust you in… what?” He questioned, feeling smaller under your gaze.

“In everything.” You explained, “I understand what you’re feeling and I don’t want to sound like I’m pressuring you to do something, but if you want me I need you to trust me that I want you too, that I think that you’re a good guy and that I’m not going to leave, even if we’re different, even if your mind tells you that.”

Yoongi was not sure of anything lately, these past few weeks seemed like a blur to him, gaps filled with music and work, the sound of his phone notifying him of a hundred missed calls, sadness and anger and Namjoon coming to visit him and putting him to sleep by the end of the night. They were filled with you and the sound of your voice that echoed in every corner of his apartment, and the image of your body under his and that damn video he recorded before flying to Japan, the smell of your shampoo on his sheets and the unbearable memory of you crying because he had hurt you. He was not sure of almost anything, just that he fucked up, but he knew he wanted to trust you with all his might.

Yoongi didn’t know what to say, or maybe he did but he didn’t know how to. There were certain feelings or words that he would never allow himself to say out loud, like when you think of something hurtful but you don’t say it out loud because you know it’s bad, it was the same with love. When he thought about how in love he was with you, he never planned on telling you because he thought that sooner or later the love he had for you would hurt you.

You seemed to have changed his mind, but how should he say it?

He thought this was not the time for burying his words or saving them for another day, so he just told you.

“I made you a song the other day.” He confessed, taking you by surprise. You looked at him wide-eyed, observing him leaning his back against the wall and his shoulders drop “I started writing it one night but I couldn’t finish doing it, so I just did the music and it was done in three days, but when I had to continue with the lyrics I realized I didn’t want to finish it.”

“A song?” You asked, he nodded in confirmation “About what?”

“A goodbye song.” He murmured “I was very drunk, very sad, but it made me think, I really didn’t want to write you a goodbye song, I wanted to write you a love song, I never made one of those. So I had a plan, I needed to make things right before making you a love song.”

You couldn't ignore your heart fluttering, no part of your body seemed to be under your control anymore. “This was your plan?” You managed to ask, scared that he might hear how loud your heart was beating against your chest.

“Of course this wasn’t my plan.” He groaned, covering his face with his hands. “This was… plan b.”

“Very effective.” You laughed “I’m guessing plan a was a bit difficult, then. What was it?”

“To tell you that I love you.” He breathed out “A lot, too much. So much that everyone noticed it before me, so much that it made me act like an idiot.” You felt your heart skip a beat, the tip of your fingers and your whole body tickling. It was almost embarrassing how weak you became when you were with Yoongi, you tried hard to put on a bad face and call him on his shit, but the second you saw his eyes full of regret the tiny you begged you to forgive him, to ease his pain with a kiss on the forehead, and now this? If this had been more like a fight, he would have already won twice.

The look on his eyes tore apart your soul, but he continued to talk regardless.

“Being in love with you terrifies me because everytime I see you I see a nice person, and yes, you make me want to be a better person too, but what if I can’t?”

“You are a good person already…” You murmured.

“Well, I do want to trust you and I do want to believe you, but I’m not easy, baby. I have never been easy.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes and turning your whole body to him, grabbing his face between your two hands and bringing him closer to you. You startled him, leaving him speechless.

“You’re too…” You said between gritted teeth.

“Too?” He whispered.

“Stubborn.” You spat. “I’ve been seeing you for almost nine months, I think I learned a thing or two about you. I know you, Yoongi, there’s no need for you to make a powerpoint introduction of all your insecurities and why I should not be with you because of them.”

“Are you sure?” He asked, you managed to steal a smirk from him. “I was about to take out my laptop.”

“I’m not kidding!” You exclaimed, squeezing his cheeks even more. “I’ve been saving you a seat for too long, it’s time for you to realize that I’m in love with you, and love doesn’t come with warnings. I’m a big girl, I know what I’m doing.”

Yoongi shut his eyes close “You’re so corny…” He whined.

“Shut up!” You said, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him closer to kiss his lips. You kissed him roughly, fast and almost desperate. He caught your waist with both hands and pressed you against his chest, not willing to let you go. Yoongi knew you weren’t wearing any lip gloss that morning, but he swore he could taste the strawberry on your lips.

Somehow, your heart sighed in relief, and his did too. Even if you didn’t know if everything was completely alright, you felt like it was fine for now.

You pulled back, trying to catch a breath, but with the aim of asking only one thing “But since when?” You uttered.

A bright and big smile was plastered on his face, he didn’t want to answer that, but to keep such a detail away from you felt almost like a crime, he knew you would insist.

“There’s this one time,” He said, “when we went to that party with Jungkook and I wanted to go home. I didn’t tell you because you were having fun but you just knew, you brought me here and we drank tea. In the kitchen bin I saw a pregnancy test and you told me that Nayeon had to take it that morning but it came negative.” He said, listing the events of that night.

You laughed about the accuracy of his description, clearly remembering the gossip session. “I remember that.”

“Yeah, that was it. I think I felt it before I knew about it, and then I tried to deny it.” He said, there was a certain regret that filtered in his voice.

You squished his face between your palms. “It’s okay now, you don’t have to deny it.”

“I know.” He nodded, pressing his lips together like it was yet hard for him to believe such a thing. Old habits die hard after all.

“And I’m not going anywhere, okay? I’m not anyone else, I’m just me, and I love you.”

Yoongi almost saw hearts forming in the color of your eyes, looking at him with the love of the whole word encapsulated in just a glance. For the first time in weeks, he felt relieved. “You’re just you.” He said. “Thank God, then.”

When he tried to approach you to kiss you again, you grabbed him by his shoulders and stopped him. “Stop, you smell horrible. You can’t kiss me again until you take a shower and brush your teeth.”

“Why are you ruining this moment? You are mean.” He complained but obeyed anyway, getting up from the bed. He shook his head in disapproval and began to wander your room in search of a set of clean clothes, finding some old shirts that you never returned to him and a pair of boxers. Just like that, Yoongi was back in your room like it was part of it from the start.

He left to take a shower, leaving you on the bed waiting for him.

After a few minutes you heard the shower stop and the sound of the curtain being opened, followed by Yoongi’s voice calling your name, which immediately caught your attention; Yoongi almost never called you by your name, for some reason he was used to call you by pet names or just the word baby, so when you heard every syllable of your name being yelled from the bathroom, you headed towards it.

Behind the door was Yoongi already wearing his clean clothes, his wet hair falling like a curtain over his confused face. “I can’t find my toothbrush.” He explained. You blinked, remembering that there was no such a thing as Yoongi’s toothbrush in your home anymore, but didn’t say anything, letting him draw his own conclusions. Yoongi understood within an instant, squinting his eyes at you and pointing at you with his finger. “You threw it away!” He accused you.

“Of course I threw it away.” You said with no shame whatsoever “And you should be grateful that I did because Nayeon wanted to keep it to use it on a spell to curse you.”

Yoongi frowned “Curse me?” He asked. You nodded without hesitation. “To kill me?”

You snorted. “No? So your dick wouldn’t get hard for a year.” You corrected as you looked for another toothbrush on one of the drawers. You found a pink one that you haven’t used yet and handed it to him. He grabbed it, but looked at you with horror in his eyes.

It sounded like a joke, but Nayeon was very serious about it. She said that her aunt tried it with her husband when he cheated on her but didn’t know if it worked. She insisted and said that you didn’t lose anything by trying, but you said no ultimately, not because you had mercy on Yoongi, but because it terrified you to do such a thing alone and then doing it wrong, afraid of summoning an entity and having it chase you forever.

Nayeon offered to pay a witch to do it instead, but there was no way you were going to spend money on cursing Yoongi’s dick.

“I guess she doesn’t like me very much right now.” Yoongi said, putting toothpaste on the toothbrush and beginning his task.

“She is not your biggest fan.” You pouted, patting him on the back and turning around to leave him alone in the bathroom now that your mission was over.

As you were laying in bed waiting for him, you felt the lack of sleep slowly catching you, making you struggle to keep your eyes open, but he didn’t delay too much, coming back to bed to hug your waist and rest his head on your shoulder, burying his nose on your neck. Now he smelled nice, like soap, shampoo and toothpaste.

“I have a question.” He murmured against your skin “About last night.”

“What?” You said, turning your head to him.

Yoongi took a second to formulate the sentence. “Mmm… Were you on a double date?”

You wanted to laugh, but you couldn’t. For no reason at all you would allow Jungkook’s plan to be revealed, it was a secret that you must take to your grave. If Yoongi ever found out about it, he would laugh about you and never, under no circumstance, let you forget it. So no, you won’t ever admit it.

“That wasn’t a double date.” You said, trying to play it cool.

“That looked like a double date to me.”

“How so?”

“Jungkook was with Bora, they are a couple, and you were with…” He tried to explain, but Taehyung’s name got stuck on his throat.

“Taehyung?” You said, finishing the sentence for him.

He rolled his eyes. “Whatever his name is.”

“Taehyung.” You repeated. Yoongi scrunched his nose like the sound of your new friend’s name was making his teeth hurt. “He's a friend of Bora, and it wasn’t a double date, that was just me hanging out with friends.”

There was not a happy look on Yoongi’s face “So he’s your friend now?”

“Maybe? I met him yesterday and he’s a really nice guy.”

“Okay, I don’t want to hear more of that.” He shook his head, coming back to rest his head on your shoulder as you laughed.

“More of what?” You questioned “I don’t think I owe you any kind of explanation.”

Yoongi didn’t know if he wanted an explanation, in fact he would have preferred to be hit by a train rather than imagine you laughing with another guy the way you did with him. But you were right, you didn’t owe him an explanation, which made Yoongi insides twist. Yes, you forgave him; yes, you said you loved him, but you needed him to be clear, maybe just for the sake of torturing him, but he didn’t care as long as it was you doing it.

“You can stop being mean with me.” He said, making you laugh harder. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you from now on if you keep being like this.”

“I don’t know.” You snuggled closer to him, if that was even possible “What are you going to do with me?” You teased him, there was a flirty tone in your voice but Yoongi didn’t hear it quite clearly, he was feeling absolutely defeated. He knew this wasn’t it, this wasn’t the end of his sleepless nights overtaken by nightmares and the sound of Dasom’s voice asking him to leave, but he preferred to think this was more like a beginning, and you were right there, looking at him with eyes full of love. You didn’t seem like you were about to leave.

“That depends on if you’re still mad at me.” He wanted to know, just in case.

You pretended to think about it. “Mmm… No, I don’t think so. I’m happy right now.” You confessed. “But don’t make me angry again.”

“Fine, I won’t, but I want to make sure, you know? Before someone gets ahead of me and asks you first.” He said, trying to sound unbothered. “Would you be my… Girlfriend?” He asked, the question coming out of his mouth uncomfortably, making one of your brows crease.

“Why do you say it like that?” You questioned. Yoongi groaned, annoyed. He was dumb if he thought you were going to go easy on him.

“Like what?”

“Like it’s a weird word.” You kept going.

“Because it’s a silly question!” He admitted.

“You’re digging your own grave, Yoongi. May I remind you there’s a long line of hot guys wanting to make me their girlfriend?” You tried to push him away, but he grabbed your waist tightly, keeping you pressed against him. “And yet you’re here saying it’s a silly question? I expected a declaration of love.”

He squinted his eyes at you, remembering what Namjoon said the night he came to his house to visit him, “You managed to make a girl like that stay with you and you let her go?”. You were the prettiest and smartest girl he knew, and even if you were joking he knew there were probably plenty of guys like Kevin who hoped you forgot about him just to give them a chance.

“I did declare you my love.” He justified himself “I even tried to kneel for you last night.”

“That was not a declaration of love, that was embarrassing.” You said.

He frowned “You’re so rude, honestly. There’s a line of girls waiting to be my girlfriends too, you know?” He tried to joke, but you just turned around, turning your back to him.

“Fine.” You said bitterly “Go ask them, see if they can stand you.”

Yoongi started to laugh then, wrapping his arms around your torso and squeezing you. “I’m joking.” He said, but you just groaned. You felt one of his hands coming to your cheek and turning your face to his, kissing your lips softly. “C’mon, baby, let me make you my girlfriend once for all.” He whispered “I didn’t care about the line of girls, anyway. I just want you, I always wanted just you.”

His words made your cheeks turn red pathetically, you felt your face getting hotter and your heart fluttering inside your chest.

“You’re so cute.” You said, turning around again and grabbing his cheeks just to kiss him again “Of course I’ll be your girlfriend, what took you so long?”

Yoongi sighed. “Don’t remind me.”

There was a beat of silence in the room where you pulled him closer to your body and curled your legs to make space for him so he wouldn't fall of the bed, Yoongi took the opportunity to fall asleep in your arms and you followed him shortly after, feeling like you were sleeping on a cloud.

It would be hard for Yoongi not to remind himself what he did or what he said, maybe he would still have to deal with some confusing thoughts in the next months, maybe he would still wake up in the middle of the night after replaying some ugly memory from the past, but he wanted to make sure that you were going to be there sleeping next to him just like that morning, he wanted to trust that your smile would be enough for him to forget about it just for a minute, he could handle the rest of his demons himself.

The following morning Yoongi kissed you goodbye because he had to check up on Holly, but he promised to come back the next day. Only when you were alone you texted Jungkook, who called you immediately when he read that his plan had worked, he had put you on speaker so Bora could hear that he was right, Yoongi had indeed come to your apartment to look for you because he thought you were on a date. You had explained to him that Yoongi was drunk and if it weren’t for that, he wouldn’t have come, but Jungkook refused to listen to you take all the credit away from him, he was a mastermind (he was not).

You remembered that you owed Taehyung a text as well with an update of the situation, but you were disappointed when you found out that his luck wasn’t the same as yours. Taehyung insisted that it was okay and that he expected it anyway, but you still wished his heart could have a relief.

On the other hand, you did not say a word to Nayeon and asked Jungkook not to mention it to her either. Yoongi was lucky that she wasn’t here last night because she would have punched him on the face and then sent him home walking, so considering that you knew you had to think a way of telling her that from one day to another Yoongi was suddenly your boyfriend, that he had come and apologized and told you he loved you, and worse, you had to tell her that you forgave him and that you told him that you loved him too.

You didn’t seem too worried though, two days later you began to forget that Nayeon was supposed to come back that night. It started with the afternoon rain and then, Yoongi’s classic plan to watch a movie on the couch, except for the fact that you weren’t going to watch that movie, you figured that out before him.

In your defense, you were in a haze. You were feeling like a teenager from the moment he came back, he walked through the door and greeted you like he just came back from the war, lifting you in the air and kissing you against the wall. You had an undeniable attraction for each other’s bodies, even though he had missed more than that, he missed you in every way. He missed the way you buried your nose on the skin of his neck, he had missed your soft kisses, your bad jokes and the way you bickered with him, but that afternoon it was impossible to ignore the elephant in the room, and you had missed him as much as he missed you.

When you wanted to look back, you already had taken his shirt off, your pajama shorts were already gone and it was already too late to stop when he decided to rid up your shirt, telling you to keep it there up your chest to kiss your breast as he pushed your panties aside to bury himself between your legs.

In the past weeks there had been no time to even think about sex, only then, under a fuzzy blanket and under Yoongi’s body, you realized how much you missed him in that way.

He thrusted in and out of you, burying his face on the crook of your neck and whispering non stop how much he missed you.

There was no point in hiding that you missed him too. You had missed the way he kissed your neck and whispered bold words in your ear, you had missed his hands on every part of your body, you had missed the way he commanded you and the look of satisfaction on his face when you obeyed him.

Maybe the worst (or best) part of Yoongi was that he knew exactly how to take advantage of you, he knew exactly what to say to make you crumble apart under him. He used sweet words and showered you in praises, he kissed, bit and sucked your neck until he left a mark, he pulled your hair and made you look him straight in the eye as he drilled in and out your pussy.

“Didn’t you miss this, baby?” He asked, starting to thrust particularly hard this time. “Missed having my cock this deep inside you?” He continued to ask, voice airy and almost crazed. He felt like he was fucking you for the first time, hearing your sweet moans and seeing your tits bounce in front of his face like the first time. You moaned in response and nodded repeatedly, shutting your eyes close when you felt one of his hands traveling up your chest to roll one of your nipples between his fingers. “You’re so good, baby, being a good girl and taking me so well. You deserve to cum all over my cock, do you want that, baby?”

You clenched your walls around his cock, making it obvious how much it turned you on the way he was talking. “Y-yes, please.” You begged, too over the edge not to “Please, please, don’t stop.”

He scoffed, leaning forward to kiss your open mouth, moaning in your mouth as he slipped his tongue past your lips without further warning. “Mmm, I’m not stopping until I fill you up.” He said, making you let out a loud whine when he gripped your thigh to try to fuck you deeper. He quickly noticed that he had found that sweet spot of yours that made you cry and whine, milking his cock like the good girl you were. Just the thought of his cum dripping down your cunt was making him go crazy, but neither of you realized that time was ticking.

To start, Yoongi didn’t really like quickies, he was planning to fuck you all night until all you could remember was his name and the feeling between your legs as he pounded inside you, it was the only thing he could think of as the room began to be filled with the sound of your high pitched moans and your hips crashing with each other. That, and the fact that both of you were completely gone were the reason why neither of you heard the sound of the keys or the door opening. You could only get out of the trance when you heard a loud scream in the middle of the living room and the sound of Nayeon cursing as he ran to his bedroom.

Fuck.

Nayeon had come back.

Yoongi stopped dead in his tracks the second he heard your friend, but she already saw and heard enough. Removing himself from inside you abruptly, he looked at you with the most horrified look on his face, asking for an explanation.

It was certainly not the first time that Nayeon had heard some suspicious activity, but she had never seen anything of the sort, and Yoongi was never the kind to be careful of not being caught, but this time was different. Nayeon hated Yoongi for what he did to you, so he was trying to avoid being seen by her, he knew that now she probably wanted to eat him alive.

You helped yourself sit straight by grabbing his shoulders, a shiver ran down your spine “I forgot.” You said in the tiniest whisper he could ever have heard. Any trace of your climax was gone in just a second, your big eyes shined with worry in the darkness of the living room as your face quickly became as red as a tomato, Yoongi thought you were about to start crying of embarrassment.

“You’re kidding.” He wanted to laugh, but he knew better than making you angry at that moment. Instead, he helped you to put back on your shorts.

“This is your fault!” You whined, pulling up his boxers and pushing him out of your way.

“How is this my fault?” He complained “You were the one screaming for my-”

Did Nayeon hear that?

You wanted to cry.

“Shut up!” You cut him, getting up and shaking your head in denial. “I’m gonna… Talk to her.”

“Yup, you should do that.” He agreed, picking up his shirt from the floor.

“You should hide in my room.” You ordered him.

“Hide?” He questioned, already dressed. “I’m gonna need to take a cold shower after that.”

You rolled your eyes.

“If you get out of my room before I finish talking to her I’m never touching your dick again.” You warned.

Then, Yoongi’s smile was whipped out of his face. He nodded, following you towards the hallway to hide in your room like you asked.

taglist: @rvelvett @kimseokjinbangtan @minmin2022 @minvlush @bids97 @cowboylikevicky @jiimtaee @jjkmspace @localmoonchild @youre-on-your-ownkid @tarahardcore @kookstempo @yoongimentita7 @jwlmnbt @almosttoopizza @floriiansgrave @damn-u-min-yoongi @starbtslove @bastard--bunny @pelicanpizza @deliciouslydisturbed365 @g0lden-sunset @side-effectss @iwishselena @rosquilleta @funsizemarsbar92 @cosmiclatte-world @miss-jupiter @linosluna

#fic: so it goes #fic: plan a #yoongi x reader #yoongi one shot #min yoongi fanfic #yoongi fanfiction #yoongi fanfic #min yoongi x oc #min yoongi one shot #min yoongi x reader #yoongi x oc #bts x reader #bts au #yoongi au #suga x reader #suga x oc #suga fanfiction #suga fanfic

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heydusfa · 7 months

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There's A Place

📍 DEMO (soon)

CONTENT WARNING: Project contains explicit language and sexual content. Viewer discretion is advised.

There's A Place (TAP) is a light-hearted slice-of-life text-based game set in a world where supernatural and non-supernatural beings live in harmony.

Want to check out a werewolf band? Earn a sweet bonus from a location brimming with potential? Hook up with a phoenix who dislikes your company? [Insert other plot logic gaps and coding nightmares]? There's A Place waiting for you…

"With just a tap, find a place that's more than apt"

There's the jingle that greets you at work almost everyday. With a tap, you find yourself moving to Serenia in your mid-20s to work at There's A Place, an event venue agency. Tengus almost losing it as a traffic marshal. Neon-lit diners with lamias serving alongside robot waiters. Werewolves manning beachside services. Nothing's out of the ordinary when you're living in the capital. But you're here to work. And with work comes great challenges, like that pesky sales target seemingly out of grasp. Luckily, there's a friendly (well, mostly) cast of characters to accompany you. Some pursuable, some will pursue you, mostly supernatural. Will you go places with your corporate achievements, new contacts, or both?

A customizable MC: Choose your species, appearance, and personality.

5 love interests & 3 side interests: Go places with a vampire, tengu, werewolf, mermaid, or witch. With a phoenix, another tengu, and a half-elf possibly dropping by. TAP shall not be responsible or liable for any consequences arising from interest development.

Lots of locations to explore: Upsell, upkeep, upfront full payment please. Discover new locations to make money off. Satisfy your clients with attractive deals. Maybe even explore each other's bodies while you're at it?

A new dev everything 🤡: Just, manage your expectations. Have none!

⚠️ Probably bland and boring, not by design but by ability. Not for those wanting to delve deep into supernatural lore or looking for angst/drama-loaded relationships, sorry. There are plenty of tasty ones out there!

Alipha Nyseth • 29F, Vampire • Looking for a wedding venue

Known as that gaming influencer with an ash blonde choppy lob, Alipha's well-loved for her humorous gameplays. With how chill and composed she is, one might wonder if she's really related to her siblings. You first met her under the setting sun, warm amber eyes following your every move.

Kaizer Okubo • 25M, Tengu • Looking for a venue for his company's D&D

Kaizer's ever-changing fashion style is a stark contrast to the permanent mischievous glint in his brown eyes. His quick wit and reliable grin earns him high trust with his company. His gaming expertise parallels his love for food, though you may know this from an interrupted dinner.

Maeve Raydon • 26F, Mermaid • Looking for new experiences

Extremely hands-on, be it at work or with friends. With her can-do attitude and attention captured by new ideas every other second, Maeve is a whirlwind of wavy hair and toned muscles. Her upbeat personality is only bested by her bright smile when she had asked for your preference.

Penn Tzeyk • 23NB, Werewolf • Looking for a baby shower venue

When they're not working up a sweat in their trusted athleisure wear, they're uploading a new baking video inspired by a family member. Penn's dark brown skin is often caked with flour and food colouring, a look they're proud of. They shrugged it off when you bumped into them and their cake.

Thaddeus Qerlart • 25M, Witch • Looking for a payrise

Usually described as a hard-ass despite his soft, chubby build, Thaddeus keeps a distance from just about everyone. His cranky mood may be attributed to long hours at work. All he wants is to live comfortably with his loved ones and maybe a cat?

Ages are in human years for most of our understanding.

the above is subject to changes. a short project to hopefully kickstart everything else. inspired by reddit user Professionalarsonis' writing prompt. some artistic liberties were taken. feedback / thoughts / whatever welcomed :)

#if wip #interactive fiction #twine game #twine if #there's a place #tapgame

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keepingsecretstokeepyoutk · 1 year

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High Infidelity - full lyrical analysis ✨

I’ve been thinking about Taylor’s recent steps towards coming out on the eras tour all day, especially her reading of Seven (it’s really been sinking in today on a new level). And in light of her making a clear declaration to her fans about hoping they can accept her, about how they might meet a new version of her that doesn’t match their romanticized idea of her…I want to share my full lyrical analysis of “High Infidelity”.

At a glance: I essentially see this song as a metaphor for her fans finding out who she really is and reacting like a spouse who has been cheated on. She equates her closeting to “infidelity” and imagines the aftermath of revealing her truth, grappling with both the part of her that harbors guilt about the “lying” and half-truths she’s engaged with to stay hidden, and with the part of her that is hurt and frustrated with those who have effectively already rejected her by way of refusing to see what’s right in front of them.

This song has a lot going on, so I’m just going to walk you through my thought process:

My understanding of this song hinges on this lyric in the chorus: “your picket fence is sharp as knives/ I was dancing around, dancing around it”

This line, with it’s suggestion of a suburban setting, gives me some context for the two verses, which to me read as two different situations, both in a domestic setting.

The first verse reads to me as being from the perspective of a younger narrator, (not necessarily Taylor, but an allegorical young woman), maybe a memory of being a teen, at her parents’ house. The second verse reads like the same narrator, as an adult, living in her husband’s house/marital home.

The fact that Taylor has made it very very clear that these songs are autobiographical, and this is her most vulnerable album in years, makes the following lyrics that much more intriguing.

Verse 1:

“Lock broken/ slur spoken/wound open/ game token/I didn’t know you were keeping count/ Rain soaking/blind hoping/you said I was freeloading/ I didn’t know you were keeping count”

“Lock broken/slur spoken” = someone barges into a room with a closed door, and swears. I picture a homophobic parent walking in on their daughter making out with/being intimate with her secret girlfriend, and the ensuing fight.

“Game token” sounds like her sexuality was then something that then got played against her, to make her compliant in other parts of her life. “You’ve disappointed us enough haven’t you? You better x” x could be making perfect grades, being a high achiever in some other way, doing this family thing that makes you uncomfortable, but most of all, x equals staying closeted, hiding the family shame.

“You said I was free loading/I didn’t know you were keeping count” Her family continues to treat her differently after this revelation, just tolerating her presence, treating her like a stranger in her own home, a tenant instead of a daughter. Maybe at some point she thinks things might change or might be starting to get better but has a blow out fight with one of her parents and they say something to the effect of “how dare you when I allow you to keep living under my roof” making her realize that they aren’t going to change and that it’s not healthy to stick around, so she resolves to leave.

Verse 2:

“Storm coming/good husband/Bad omen/Dragged my feet right down the aisle/at the house lonely/good money/I’d pay if you just know me/Seemed like the right thing at the time”

“storm coming” means the consequences of getting found out/ outed. The same allegorical woman from the first verse married a man that she didn’t love because she was afraid of living her truth and the potential consequences (= the storm). But doing so has left her lonely, isolated, and empty, and she regrets her decision.

I think Taylor is using this narrative arc outlined in the verses to tell her own story.

The first verse represents getting found out by the public, likely referencing kissgate. “Lock broken” then is a metaphor for her secret life being revealed. “Slur spoken,” representing the disapproving party, likely references her homophobic fans. In addition, given the lines about game tokens and keeping count, she may also be referencing her manager/team/record company and their reaction to her “jeopardizing” everything she’s worked for and hundreds of people’s jobs by being so “reckless”, when really they were just interested in continuing to make millions off of her, and found a way to use this guilt to control her.

The second verse would then represent she and Karlie deciding to get into serious bearding contracts in 2015 to avoid the “storm coming”.

“Good husband/Bad omen” acknowledges that the choice to “take a husband” in the form of their beards, set them up for trouble in the future. A bad omen fortells what’s coming, and Taylor and Karlie likely both knew that while their lavender “marriages” would serve them well for the time being, they would also bring with them unknowable complications and inevitable strife, especially if they one day decided to come out. Their bearding up to this point had been shortlived pr stunts, but Karlie marrying someone and Taylor carrying on a beard narrative for 6+ years is a more complicated web to untangle.

Thus, “dragged my feet right down the aisle”.

“At the house lonely/Good money/ I’d pay if you just know me” the well-placed line break allows this lyric to represent both the financial security they get by staying closeted, but also how Taylor would pay good money to be truly known and accepted by her fans.

All of this brings us to the chorus, which steps outside of the allegory established in the verses which provide a backstory for the emotions expressed in the choruses.

The chorus has three parts: two parts that are mostly repeated with each chorus, but with two lines that change with each repeat of the chorus, and a third part that is made up of two longer lines, which sonically contrast well with the short lines in the verses and the first two parts of the chorus, meaning these two longer lines punctuate the song and underscore the content of the two lines.

Chorus Parts 1 & 2:

“High infidelity/put on your records and regret me/ I bent the truth too far tonight/ and I was dancing around/ dancing around it/high infidelity/ put on your headphones and burn my city/ your picket fence is sharp as knives/I was dancing around/dancing around it.”

Chorus Part 3:

“Do you really want to know where I was April 29th?/ Do I really have to chart the constellations in his eyes?”

(In the second chorus, the second line of the third part goes: “Do I really have to tell you how he brought me back to life?”)

“High infidelity/put on your records and regret me/I bent the truth too far tonight/I was dancing around/dancing around it”

The chorus is Taylor imagining fully coming out, and some of her fans reactions.“High infidelity” would be referring to Taylor “lying” to her fans, who have a close parasocial relationship to the person they believe her to be, and who might feel “betrayed” if they found out Taylor was hiding a big part of who she is. “Put on your records and regret me” imagines then either listening to her old albums, hanging on to their idea of her, her use of male pronouns, etc, or maybe hate listening to her music, seething about how “fake” she was the whole time they “supported her”. Or maybe they’ll listen to other music, trying to drown out her songs (which they’ll never be able to do because they’re burned into their memory).

“I was dancing around it” refers to everything we have occupied ourselves with in this corner of the internet for a number of years: all of her signaling, her Easter eggs, her bait and switches, her clever word choices, disgusting her truth in plain sight. She has included bits and pieces of her truth in her lyrics, but not been direct.

I see the coupling of “I bent the truth too far” with “I was dancing around it” as both acknowledging the lies that went too far (Grammy gate, betty gate) but also her saying, “I’ve been trying to tell you” (I gave so many signs)

Part two of the chorus: “High infidelity/put on your headphones and burn my city/your picket fence is sharp as knives/I was dancing around, dancing around it”.

“Burn my city” - Cities typically burn in literature or in real life when the masses riot/are enraged. I think this shows Taylor’s real fear that if she were to plainly come out, her fans would burn her memory/empire, and disown her and their journey together. However, fire also symbolizes cleansing, a new beginning, or a change of power, so while this visual could demonstrate her fear of losing everything and no longer being “on top”, it could also echo the optimistic fire symbols we’ve seen recently (lover house burning, her staring at the lighter with vengeance and excitement in her eyes, and her smiling while her castle burns in bejeweled). This layer offers the song an irreverent tone, one that echoes her spoken performance of Seven, which to me sounded like she has made peace with the fact that she may lose some of her fans when she fully comes out.

“Your picket fence is sharp as knives” sounds like Taylor expressing the pain that others expectations of her have caused her. To me it sounds like her saying “I may have lied, but you were keeping me prisoner in that fantasy of me being the perfect all-American woman”. We have already heard her express this in this album cycle, her exasperation with the marriage rumors, the 1950’s shit.

This dynamic between closeted pop star and fans parallels a narrative of infidelity in a traditionally gendered heterosexual relationship. The wife that has cheated out of a desperation to be seen and appreciated, imprisoned by her picket fence which represents the sexist expectations put on her to perform as a perfect wife. Taylor has lied for the same reasons. Because of the gendered expectations put on her as a woman, that forced her to tell her audience what they wanted to hear, lest she suffer “the storm.”

But what then does the third part of the chorus refer to?

“Do you really wanna know where I was April 29th/ Do I really need to chart the constellations in his eyes?”

Taylor is continuing with the metaphor of infidelity to allegorize a “discussion” with her fans post coming out. With this lyric, a confrontation with the cheated-on spouse, She says, essentially, “do you really need me to spell it out for you? Do you really want me to detail something you clearly want to be in the dark about?”

Taylor is pointing out that this lie has been a two-way street. Anyone closely following her and willfully believing her bearding narrative at this point is consenting to denial and social artifice, both of which we happen to also associate with picket fences and American suburbia.

This allegory of Taylor as the cheating trophy wife, and her fans as the absent or unappreciative husband, goes deep. In both cases, the relationship was doomed from the start, to the fault of both parties, and larger social structures. The wife likely married a man with red flags, and played the part she thought she needed to play to find love and stability. The husband didn’t bother to dig under her performance, by spending time with her and truly getting to know her; he was comfortable with her being the “perfect woman” poised and done up, a good homemaker. Society at large enforced both of these choices.

Taylor played the part she thought she needed to in order to be successful, perhaps past the age she was powerless to do otherwise, and her fans didn’t want to see the real her once she started to reveal it; they were happy with their idea of who she was, partially because it had been fed to them, and partially because once that idea started to loose merit they refused to take notice. Society at large dictated the part Taylor should play, and enforced the heteronormativity that allowed her fans to continue believing her public narrative when it became flimsy at best.

The choice to employ the cheating allegory also seems to suggest that Taylor is underscoring the moral gray area of her situation - not the fact of being closeted, but the extent to which she has gone in some cases to protect her career and her loved ones. (Again, this brings to mind undeserved awards given to certain people, and the collateral damage of her queer fans being targeted by straight fans, etc.) There is no absolute right or wrong, no wholey innocent party. The wife had her reasons to cheat, Taylor had her reasons to lie, but still some regrettable moves were made, which left Taylor feeling regretful - or at least yearning for a life without the hiding and deceit.

This point places this song squarely within the larger themes of this album - namely, Taylor reflecting on the choices she’s made along the way in her closeting journey, and the uncertainty she has over whether she’s made the correct ones. As with other songs like Dear Reader and Anti Hero, her writing here maintains an ambiguity that belies her inner turmoil about her choice to prioritize her career over her personal life. She states again and again that she is, at least in part, the architect of her own misfortune, even if she built it for survival.

This song is an outstanding example of what I love most in Taylor’s writing. When you can’t tell a story outright, you have to tell it in allegory, when you can’t name a feeling, you have to describe it, either viscerally or in elaborate symbolism, which, when executed by someone with her talent, makes for unmatched storytelling.

#gaylor #taylor swift #bearding #closeting #kaylor #eras tour #midnights

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