#his burden truly is being so handsome all women fall in love with him
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A phoenixflare idea I may or may not explore in fic at some point: Joshua falls first.
By, oh, give or take 20 years or so.
It’s hero-worship when they meet as children. Joshua is painfully aware that Clive is the one the Phoenix should have chosen, while he’s a frail pile of embers terrified he can’t live up to expectations. Dion, meanwhile, is the strong, brave, perfect heir, who bears Bahamut’s strength so easily, so chivalrous and noble. Everything Clive should have had, everything Joshua wishes he could be - and yet beneath it all, the compelling hint of a loneliness and uncertainty Joshua knows well.
Then, Phoenix Gate. Joshua loses everything. He spends his adolescence being raised in secret and shuffled around by a cult that worships him as something close to a god. Even his closest companion cannot treat him as an equal. I’m sure he’s lonely, and as he learns more of Ultima, I’m sure he longs for someone else to share the burden.
Imagine Joshua drinking in every story he hears of Dion the Bold. Maybe he daydreams about the handsome prince sweeping in to take him away from this stressful, secretive life. Maybe he imagines them joining forces to save the world. Maybe as he gets older, other thoughts creep in, fuelled by everything he hears about how handsome Prince Dion is as an adult.
(Maybe he hears rumours that the prince does not care for women, and maybe it makes his heart flutter with ridiculous hope.)
(Maybe he also has some fairly intense thoughts about what a man with a body like Dion’s could do to him in, on, or anywhere near a bed, but let’s keep this relatively PG.)
Imagine Joshua nursing this crush for years, for more than a decade. Clinging to it like a long-lost keepsake, finding it changes with him as he grows: from something innocent to something heated to something complicated and deep.
Because when he’s old enough and strong enough to travel on his own, of course his ears still prick up at every mention of Dion’s name. The battles he’s fought for the Empire. The orders he’s been given, sometimes less than honourable. The Empire’s growing greed, first glimpsed in the treachery at Phoenix Gate, now writ large in its annexation of Rosaria - then later in the invasion of the Crystalline Dominion. The people all say Dion is a good man, a thoughtful leader, a true prince. Is he uneasy with the change in his country and his father? Does he see the shadows lengthening too? Or is he complicit, no longer the shining idol of Joshua’s youth?
And Joshua is smart enough to doubt his own motives. He wants to approach Dion as a potential ally, but can he trust his own judgement? Does he really believe, in objective terms, that Dion will help him - or is he still in love with the stories he told himself all those years?
(And can he bear it, if it turns out Dion isn’t who Joshua wants him to be?)
So he hesitates. He waits. He waits until events make it clear that the Emperor intends to pass over Dion in favour of Olivier. Joshua knows then that whatever else, Dion is not a part of his father’s scheming. Approaching him is a risk worth taking now, as long as Joshua can put aside his childish daydreams and unrequited longing, meet the man as he truly is, see past the fantasy.
No wonder he’s tight as a wire when he steps into that tent. No wonder he keeps his hands gripped out of sight behind his back. No wonder he moves like every step, every breath, every word, is one he considered beforehand. No wonder he buys himself a few seconds picking up the fallen flower, restoring it, keeping his eyes off Dion as he fights his pounding heart.
And no wonder Joshua blames himself, after the fall of Drake’s Tail, that he didn’t go to Dion sooner.
#phoenixflare#tldr version: if valisthea had cameras teen Joshua’s room would be wall to wall Dion posters#maybe he collects woodcuts instead#no one carries a torch like the phoenix#ff16#ffxvi#joshua rosfield#dion lesage#headcanon#fic thoughts#final fantasy 16#final fantasy 16 spoilers#ff16 spoilers#ffxvi spoilers#final fantasy xvi spoilers#dion/joshua
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Turkish ladies are richly dressed
It should not be supposed, however, that ladies of rich families who have plenty of servants make themselves quite such guys in the hours before custom requires them to dress for the afternoon. But the circumstance that they may wander about the premises unprepared for observation of others, is what makes the Turk fortify his house against outside eyes by truly ingenious contrivances. When they are dressed, Turkish ladies are richly dressed. In the street what one sees is a voluminous silken sheet thrown over the head and falling to the feet. This gives the woman the form of an inflated pillow tied in the middle with a string. But, in Constantinople at least, the lady after she has entered the house and has thrown off her outer shell is quite a different creature. True she sometimes still inclines to wear her hair cut straight across at the nape of the neck. She loves big figures and startling colour schemes in her dress. She has not yet found her taste oppressed by die jostling of scarlet and magenta which she uses in the same costume. But in the main her dress is cut after Western patterns when at last she dresses herself for the social functions of the afternoon.
But neither the tardy dressing, nor the social function which is like a Western Woman’s Club, nor the house that she lives in makes a home for the woman of Constantinople. A wealthy Turk’s best house is commonly a showy palace on the Bosphorus. Its front, after the fashion of Venetian palaces, is lapped by the water of the sea. Behind it delicious groves and brilliant gardens rise terrace on terrace in magnificent spaciousness. Both land and placid sea promise sweet content to all who enjoy the privileges of the place. To the men, so long as they pursue their separate pleasure in their part of the premises, the promise may be fulfilled. But rarely to the women. In one such house of which I know, there arc sixty women private tours istanbul. Place as wife or favourite or servant is assigned to each. Each has abundant food and clothing, with jewels and other adornments befitting her special station. The great rooms of the house are divided among the women according to their rank. Housekeeping arrangements and responsibilities rest upon servants alone. The ladies have time enough on their hands to make the finding of ways to get rid of it a tax upon their ingenuity.
Splendid mirrors
Books, papers, pictures there are not. Musical instruments there are, singers there are, and one can kill time with these for a while. One can dress oneself up in new costumes, and admire the effect in splendid mirrors, and then undress and don some new combination of costly robes. But this disposes of but an hour or two. One may lounge by the window and watch passing steamers and sailing vessels and fishing craft and caiques, and wonder how much Bessim Bey paid for his new boat, and note the handsome boatmen that Nazli Khanum has picked up somewhere. If a steamer passes very near the shore, the distress of the caiques thrashed about in its wake gives momentary excitement. But the wish for power to make the long days go faster—the longing for something to do, is the burden of life to every lady in that house. Quarreling with the other ladies is the sure recourse under such circumstances. When a quarrel begins it may last for days and develop into a feud that ranges the whole household—mistress or maid—in factions.
Another diversion which makes time fly is the advent of the master of the house. He is a noble looking gray-bearded man who has a past but not much future. He spends most of his time on the other side of the high stone wall which separates the house of the men from that of the women. Announcement of his arrival makes a wild flurry of excitement. There is a general rush to provide for his entertainment. There is visible expectancy of being permitted to receive him or at least of being called to hear a kind word from him. And then there is the hitter, inconsolable disappointment of the unlucky ones. But all these emotions serve after all to cause the time to pass.
0 notes
Photo
Turkish ladies are richly dressed
It should not be supposed, however, that ladies of rich families who have plenty of servants make themselves quite such guys in the hours before custom requires them to dress for the afternoon. But the circumstance that they may wander about the premises unprepared for observation of others, is what makes the Turk fortify his house against outside eyes by truly ingenious contrivances. When they are dressed, Turkish ladies are richly dressed. In the street what one sees is a voluminous silken sheet thrown over the head and falling to the feet. This gives the woman the form of an inflated pillow tied in the middle with a string. But, in Constantinople at least, the lady after she has entered the house and has thrown off her outer shell is quite a different creature. True she sometimes still inclines to wear her hair cut straight across at the nape of the neck. She loves big figures and startling colour schemes in her dress. She has not yet found her taste oppressed by die jostling of scarlet and magenta which she uses in the same costume. But in the main her dress is cut after Western patterns when at last she dresses herself for the social functions of the afternoon.
But neither the tardy dressing, nor the social function which is like a Western Woman’s Club, nor the house that she lives in makes a home for the woman of Constantinople. A wealthy Turk’s best house is commonly a showy palace on the Bosphorus. Its front, after the fashion of Venetian palaces, is lapped by the water of the sea. Behind it delicious groves and brilliant gardens rise terrace on terrace in magnificent spaciousness. Both land and placid sea promise sweet content to all who enjoy the privileges of the place. To the men, so long as they pursue their separate pleasure in their part of the premises, the promise may be fulfilled. But rarely to the women. In one such house of which I know, there arc sixty women private tours istanbul. Place as wife or favourite or servant is assigned to each. Each has abundant food and clothing, with jewels and other adornments befitting her special station. The great rooms of the house are divided among the women according to their rank. Housekeeping arrangements and responsibilities rest upon servants alone. The ladies have time enough on their hands to make the finding of ways to get rid of it a tax upon their ingenuity.
Splendid mirrors
Books, papers, pictures there are not. Musical instruments there are, singers there are, and one can kill time with these for a while. One can dress oneself up in new costumes, and admire the effect in splendid mirrors, and then undress and don some new combination of costly robes. But this disposes of but an hour or two. One may lounge by the window and watch passing steamers and sailing vessels and fishing craft and caiques, and wonder how much Bessim Bey paid for his new boat, and note the handsome boatmen that Nazli Khanum has picked up somewhere. If a steamer passes very near the shore, the distress of the caiques thrashed about in its wake gives momentary excitement. But the wish for power to make the long days go faster—the longing for something to do, is the burden of life to every lady in that house. Quarreling with the other ladies is the sure recourse under such circumstances. When a quarrel begins it may last for days and develop into a feud that ranges the whole household—mistress or maid—in factions.
Another diversion which makes time fly is the advent of the master of the house. He is a noble looking gray-bearded man who has a past but not much future. He spends most of his time on the other side of the high stone wall which separates the house of the men from that of the women. Announcement of his arrival makes a wild flurry of excitement. There is a general rush to provide for his entertainment. There is visible expectancy of being permitted to receive him or at least of being called to hear a kind word from him. And then there is the hitter, inconsolable disappointment of the unlucky ones. But all these emotions serve after all to cause the time to pass.
0 notes
Photo
Turkish ladies are richly dressed
It should not be supposed, however, that ladies of rich families who have plenty of servants make themselves quite such guys in the hours before custom requires them to dress for the afternoon. But the circumstance that they may wander about the premises unprepared for observation of others, is what makes the Turk fortify his house against outside eyes by truly ingenious contrivances. When they are dressed, Turkish ladies are richly dressed. In the street what one sees is a voluminous silken sheet thrown over the head and falling to the feet. This gives the woman the form of an inflated pillow tied in the middle with a string. But, in Constantinople at least, the lady after she has entered the house and has thrown off her outer shell is quite a different creature. True she sometimes still inclines to wear her hair cut straight across at the nape of the neck. She loves big figures and startling colour schemes in her dress. She has not yet found her taste oppressed by die jostling of scarlet and magenta which she uses in the same costume. But in the main her dress is cut after Western patterns when at last she dresses herself for the social functions of the afternoon.
But neither the tardy dressing, nor the social function which is like a Western Woman’s Club, nor the house that she lives in makes a home for the woman of Constantinople. A wealthy Turk’s best house is commonly a showy palace on the Bosphorus. Its front, after the fashion of Venetian palaces, is lapped by the water of the sea. Behind it delicious groves and brilliant gardens rise terrace on terrace in magnificent spaciousness. Both land and placid sea promise sweet content to all who enjoy the privileges of the place. To the men, so long as they pursue their separate pleasure in their part of the premises, the promise may be fulfilled. But rarely to the women. In one such house of which I know, there arc sixty women private tours istanbul. Place as wife or favourite or servant is assigned to each. Each has abundant food and clothing, with jewels and other adornments befitting her special station. The great rooms of the house are divided among the women according to their rank. Housekeeping arrangements and responsibilities rest upon servants alone. The ladies have time enough on their hands to make the finding of ways to get rid of it a tax upon their ingenuity.
Splendid mirrors
Books, papers, pictures there are not. Musical instruments there are, singers there are, and one can kill time with these for a while. One can dress oneself up in new costumes, and admire the effect in splendid mirrors, and then undress and don some new combination of costly robes. But this disposes of but an hour or two. One may lounge by the window and watch passing steamers and sailing vessels and fishing craft and caiques, and wonder how much Bessim Bey paid for his new boat, and note the handsome boatmen that Nazli Khanum has picked up somewhere. If a steamer passes very near the shore, the distress of the caiques thrashed about in its wake gives momentary excitement. But the wish for power to make the long days go faster—the longing for something to do, is the burden of life to every lady in that house. Quarreling with the other ladies is the sure recourse under such circumstances. When a quarrel begins it may last for days and develop into a feud that ranges the whole household—mistress or maid—in factions.
Another diversion which makes time fly is the advent of the master of the house. He is a noble looking gray-bearded man who has a past but not much future. He spends most of his time on the other side of the high stone wall which separates the house of the men from that of the women. Announcement of his arrival makes a wild flurry of excitement. There is a general rush to provide for his entertainment. There is visible expectancy of being permitted to receive him or at least of being called to hear a kind word from him. And then there is the hitter, inconsolable disappointment of the unlucky ones. But all these emotions serve after all to cause the time to pass.
0 notes
Photo
Turkish ladies are richly dressed
It should not be supposed, however, that ladies of rich families who have plenty of servants make themselves quite such guys in the hours before custom requires them to dress for the afternoon. But the circumstance that they may wander about the premises unprepared for observation of others, is what makes the Turk fortify his house against outside eyes by truly ingenious contrivances. When they are dressed, Turkish ladies are richly dressed. In the street what one sees is a voluminous silken sheet thrown over the head and falling to the feet. This gives the woman the form of an inflated pillow tied in the middle with a string. But, in Constantinople at least, the lady after she has entered the house and has thrown off her outer shell is quite a different creature. True she sometimes still inclines to wear her hair cut straight across at the nape of the neck. She loves big figures and startling colour schemes in her dress. She has not yet found her taste oppressed by die jostling of scarlet and magenta which she uses in the same costume. But in the main her dress is cut after Western patterns when at last she dresses herself for the social functions of the afternoon.
But neither the tardy dressing, nor the social function which is like a Western Woman’s Club, nor the house that she lives in makes a home for the woman of Constantinople. A wealthy Turk’s best house is commonly a showy palace on the Bosphorus. Its front, after the fashion of Venetian palaces, is lapped by the water of the sea. Behind it delicious groves and brilliant gardens rise terrace on terrace in magnificent spaciousness. Both land and placid sea promise sweet content to all who enjoy the privileges of the place. To the men, so long as they pursue their separate pleasure in their part of the premises, the promise may be fulfilled. But rarely to the women. In one such house of which I know, there arc sixty women private tours istanbul. Place as wife or favourite or servant is assigned to each. Each has abundant food and clothing, with jewels and other adornments befitting her special station. The great rooms of the house are divided among the women according to their rank. Housekeeping arrangements and responsibilities rest upon servants alone. The ladies have time enough on their hands to make the finding of ways to get rid of it a tax upon their ingenuity.
Splendid mirrors
Books, papers, pictures there are not. Musical instruments there are, singers there are, and one can kill time with these for a while. One can dress oneself up in new costumes, and admire the effect in splendid mirrors, and then undress and don some new combination of costly robes. But this disposes of but an hour or two. One may lounge by the window and watch passing steamers and sailing vessels and fishing craft and caiques, and wonder how much Bessim Bey paid for his new boat, and note the handsome boatmen that Nazli Khanum has picked up somewhere. If a steamer passes very near the shore, the distress of the caiques thrashed about in its wake gives momentary excitement. But the wish for power to make the long days go faster—the longing for something to do, is the burden of life to every lady in that house. Quarreling with the other ladies is the sure recourse under such circumstances. When a quarrel begins it may last for days and develop into a feud that ranges the whole household—mistress or maid—in factions.
Another diversion which makes time fly is the advent of the master of the house. He is a noble looking gray-bearded man who has a past but not much future. He spends most of his time on the other side of the high stone wall which separates the house of the men from that of the women. Announcement of his arrival makes a wild flurry of excitement. There is a general rush to provide for his entertainment. There is visible expectancy of being permitted to receive him or at least of being called to hear a kind word from him. And then there is the hitter, inconsolable disappointment of the unlucky ones. But all these emotions serve after all to cause the time to pass.
0 notes
Photo
Turkish ladies are richly dressed
It should not be supposed, however, that ladies of rich families who have plenty of servants make themselves quite such guys in the hours before custom requires them to dress for the afternoon. But the circumstance that they may wander about the premises unprepared for observation of others, is what makes the Turk fortify his house against outside eyes by truly ingenious contrivances. When they are dressed, Turkish ladies are richly dressed. In the street what one sees is a voluminous silken sheet thrown over the head and falling to the feet. This gives the woman the form of an inflated pillow tied in the middle with a string. But, in Constantinople at least, the lady after she has entered the house and has thrown off her outer shell is quite a different creature. True she sometimes still inclines to wear her hair cut straight across at the nape of the neck. She loves big figures and startling colour schemes in her dress. She has not yet found her taste oppressed by die jostling of scarlet and magenta which she uses in the same costume. But in the main her dress is cut after Western patterns when at last she dresses herself for the social functions of the afternoon.
But neither the tardy dressing, nor the social function which is like a Western Woman’s Club, nor the house that she lives in makes a home for the woman of Constantinople. A wealthy Turk’s best house is commonly a showy palace on the Bosphorus. Its front, after the fashion of Venetian palaces, is lapped by the water of the sea. Behind it delicious groves and brilliant gardens rise terrace on terrace in magnificent spaciousness. Both land and placid sea promise sweet content to all who enjoy the privileges of the place. To the men, so long as they pursue their separate pleasure in their part of the premises, the promise may be fulfilled. But rarely to the women. In one such house of which I know, there arc sixty women private tours istanbul. Place as wife or favourite or servant is assigned to each. Each has abundant food and clothing, with jewels and other adornments befitting her special station. The great rooms of the house are divided among the women according to their rank. Housekeeping arrangements and responsibilities rest upon servants alone. The ladies have time enough on their hands to make the finding of ways to get rid of it a tax upon their ingenuity.
Splendid mirrors
Books, papers, pictures there are not. Musical instruments there are, singers there are, and one can kill time with these for a while. One can dress oneself up in new costumes, and admire the effect in splendid mirrors, and then undress and don some new combination of costly robes. But this disposes of but an hour or two. One may lounge by the window and watch passing steamers and sailing vessels and fishing craft and caiques, and wonder how much Bessim Bey paid for his new boat, and note the handsome boatmen that Nazli Khanum has picked up somewhere. If a steamer passes very near the shore, the distress of the caiques thrashed about in its wake gives momentary excitement. But the wish for power to make the long days go faster—the longing for something to do, is the burden of life to every lady in that house. Quarreling with the other ladies is the sure recourse under such circumstances. When a quarrel begins it may last for days and develop into a feud that ranges the whole household—mistress or maid—in factions.
Another diversion which makes time fly is the advent of the master of the house. He is a noble looking gray-bearded man who has a past but not much future. He spends most of his time on the other side of the high stone wall which separates the house of the men from that of the women. Announcement of his arrival makes a wild flurry of excitement. There is a general rush to provide for his entertainment. There is visible expectancy of being permitted to receive him or at least of being called to hear a kind word from him. And then there is the hitter, inconsolable disappointment of the unlucky ones. But all these emotions serve after all to cause the time to pass.
0 notes
Photo
Turkish ladies are richly dressed
It should not be supposed, however, that ladies of rich families who have plenty of servants make themselves quite such guys in the hours before custom requires them to dress for the afternoon. But the circumstance that they may wander about the premises unprepared for observation of others, is what makes the Turk fortify his house against outside eyes by truly ingenious contrivances. When they are dressed, Turkish ladies are richly dressed. In the street what one sees is a voluminous silken sheet thrown over the head and falling to the feet. This gives the woman the form of an inflated pillow tied in the middle with a string. But, in Constantinople at least, the lady after she has entered the house and has thrown off her outer shell is quite a different creature. True she sometimes still inclines to wear her hair cut straight across at the nape of the neck. She loves big figures and startling colour schemes in her dress. She has not yet found her taste oppressed by die jostling of scarlet and magenta which she uses in the same costume. But in the main her dress is cut after Western patterns when at last she dresses herself for the social functions of the afternoon.
But neither the tardy dressing, nor the social function which is like a Western Woman’s Club, nor the house that she lives in makes a home for the woman of Constantinople. A wealthy Turk’s best house is commonly a showy palace on the Bosphorus. Its front, after the fashion of Venetian palaces, is lapped by the water of the sea. Behind it delicious groves and brilliant gardens rise terrace on terrace in magnificent spaciousness. Both land and placid sea promise sweet content to all who enjoy the privileges of the place. To the men, so long as they pursue their separate pleasure in their part of the premises, the promise may be fulfilled. But rarely to the women. In one such house of which I know, there arc sixty women private tours istanbul. Place as wife or favourite or servant is assigned to each. Each has abundant food and clothing, with jewels and other adornments befitting her special station. The great rooms of the house are divided among the women according to their rank. Housekeeping arrangements and responsibilities rest upon servants alone. The ladies have time enough on their hands to make the finding of ways to get rid of it a tax upon their ingenuity.
Splendid mirrors
Books, papers, pictures there are not. Musical instruments there are, singers there are, and one can kill time with these for a while. One can dress oneself up in new costumes, and admire the effect in splendid mirrors, and then undress and don some new combination of costly robes. But this disposes of but an hour or two. One may lounge by the window and watch passing steamers and sailing vessels and fishing craft and caiques, and wonder how much Bessim Bey paid for his new boat, and note the handsome boatmen that Nazli Khanum has picked up somewhere. If a steamer passes very near the shore, the distress of the caiques thrashed about in its wake gives momentary excitement. But the wish for power to make the long days go faster—the longing for something to do, is the burden of life to every lady in that house. Quarreling with the other ladies is the sure recourse under such circumstances. When a quarrel begins it may last for days and develop into a feud that ranges the whole household—mistress or maid—in factions.
Another diversion which makes time fly is the advent of the master of the house. He is a noble looking gray-bearded man who has a past but not much future. He spends most of his time on the other side of the high stone wall which separates the house of the men from that of the women. Announcement of his arrival makes a wild flurry of excitement. There is a general rush to provide for his entertainment. There is visible expectancy of being permitted to receive him or at least of being called to hear a kind word from him. And then there is the hitter, inconsolable disappointment of the unlucky ones. But all these emotions serve after all to cause the time to pass.
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RUN: Chapter I
Jeon Jungkook hops from bed to bed, sleeping with as many beautiful, rich women as he can possibly find time for. He’s young and attractive, with a silver tongue that gets him practically anything he wants. So when his friend and boss, Kim Taehyung, tells him it’s time to settle down, Jungkook takes it pretty badly. And when he finds out that the woman he’s destined to marry is, in fact, his little sister’s best friend, he is less than impressed.
You have spent your entire life trying to forget the way you feel about Jeon Jungkook. So when you find out that Jungkook is to be your husband - and that he is anything but pleased about it - your world is thrown into chaos. How can you survive a loveless marriage with the man you are hopelessly in love with?
WARNINGS: Language, some violence and eventual smut.
A/N: I changed Jungkook’s story slightly from my original story. Hope you guys like it!!! Enjoy :)
You were in love with Jeon Jungkook.
You had been in love with him, since the moment you understood what it truly meant to love someone.
The engagement party was in full swing - people chattered around you happily, congratulating the supposedly happy couple - but all your attention was on him.
You watched him from across the expanse of people wedged between you both. He leaned against the stone wall, observing, as he always did. Arms crossed, dark eyes narrowed.
You knew you probably shouldn’t watch him for long - that if he felt your gaze on him he would add it to the long list of reasons why he’d probably noticed you were in love with him years ago. But you couldn’t help yourself. He looked so handsome - so inviting - and you swore at yourself for still holding a candle to someone who didn’t see you as much more than an accomplice to his little sister.
Your best friend Nayeon had been born only a year after Jungkook, but sometimes it felt like he would treat her - and by association you - as a child forever.
“Stop staring,” Nayeon had sidled up beside you, a flute of champagne clutched in her hands, “You’re making it so obvious.”
You rolled your eyes, “You mean twenty three years of following him around like a puppy hasn’t been proof enough?”
She sighed heavily and slipped an arm through your own. Nayeon had known about your unfortunate feelings for her brother for a long time. Unfortunate because, really, in what world would your love ever be reciprocated?
Not only had you been relegated to little sister status long ago - but Jungkook was so handsome he could have any woman he wanted.
It was well known that Jungkook was Bangtan’s resident playboy. He’d made no effort to settle down in the years since turning a ‘marriage-appropriate’ age, and had done just about the opposite. Flitting from woman to woman (and coincidentally bed to bed) with an easy smile and eyes that could warm the hardest of hearts.
Eventually, of course, he would be forced to settle down. Not only was he an important member of Bangtan - he was in the capo’s inner circle. Soon Taehyung would choose a wife for him whether he wanted it or not. Because Jungkook needed to produce heirs - it was what had always been expected of a made man.
“I’ve told you to talk to your father,” Nayeon’s voice was sympathetic, “Our families are such good friends - maybe the two of you could get married.”
You felt your chest pinch at Nayeon’s suggestion. She was right, she had been telling you this for years. But you knew that speaking to your father wouldn’t change anything. Had told her just as much.
“Taehyung will choose his wife Nae, you know this just as well as I do.”
Her eyes softened and you felt yourself grow tired again. Your feelings for him were exhausting sometimes.
“Talk to Taehyung then. Your family is well-respected, Y/N. It wouldn’t be a downgrade.”
You scoffed, “For Bangtan’s golden boy? C’mon Nae. Let’s not start this again. I’m not in the mood for it.”
Your eyes moved towards Jungkook once more, but they widened slightly when you realised he wasn’t there anymore. Probably off flirting with some beautiful woman…
Your heart clenched in jealousy as it always did when you imagined Jungkook with someone else.
“Looking for me?”
There it was. His voice.
You turned sharply, eyes lifting to connect with his own. Jungkook’s face was unreadable as he stared down at you - and you wondered for a moment, if he was angry with you.
“What?” The word escaped you, “Uh… No. No. Just enjoying the party.”
Nayeon’s arm had slipped out of yours at some point.
His expression was dark and you felt like perhaps he was glaring at you. Glaring? Why would he be glaring? Your chest tightened.
“You couldn’t help yourself, could you?”
The words sounded venomous, almost. You felt confused.
“What?”
Jungkook quirked a dark brow, “Playing dumb doesn’t suit you, Y/N.”
Nayeon cleared her throat noisily and stepped between the two of you. You were grateful for her presence. Jungkook had never spoken to you like that. Almost as if… He hated you.
It was so much worse than the way he usually treated you - like a little sister he begrudgingly liked. What had you done to deserve this treatment?
“What is going on, Jungkook?” Nayeon’s voice held a note of warning.
His gaze snapped up to meet hers and he scowled, “This hasn’t got anything to do with you.”
“Like hell it doesn’t,” Nayeon growled back, eyes narrowed harshly, “Y/N is my best friend and you, regrettably, are my brother.”
“Why don’t you ask your best friend, then?” He spat the words out almost viciously, “Ask her why I got called into a meeting with Taehyung, our father and her father, this morning.”
Your heart felt like it was going to fall out of your throat.
“What?” Your voice was quiet - little more than a whisper.
Jungkook’s eyes shifted for a moment and he softened - before his face became that impassive mask again. It was the Jungkook of Bangtan that stood before you. Not your Jungkook.
Not the Jungkook that used to pull on your hair when it got too long, or the Jungkook that taught you how to swim. This Jungkook was scary, unpredictable even.
“I suppose I should welcome you to the family,” His voice had lost all of it’s anger - it was just cold now, “Mrs Jeon.”
Your heart stopped.
“I….”
“What are you talking about, Jungkook?” Nayeon interrupted and though you wanted to look at her, your eyes seemed incapable of moving away from Jungkook’s.
He wasn’t glaring at you anymore, thank god, but now his face was just blank - unmoving. You recognised that look from your own father’s face. Long ago you’d dubbed it the Bangtan face. The way coldness seemed to freeze over any warmth. It frightened you more than any anger could.
“I’m marrying her,” He said, emotionless. Like a robot, “At the earliest opportunity, apparently.” His eyes flickered for a moment, and you thought you saw something gentle, in them. But it was soon replaced by that same, cold indifference.
“Me?” You squeaked, heart thundering in your ears.
Nayeon was silent. It was the first time in a long time that something had left her truly speechless, you reckoned.
When Jungkook nodded, once, sharply, your insides twisted.
“I’m sorry,” You felt the tears burning, but you refused to let them fall, “I didn’t… I never asked for this. I swear, I had no idea.”
The conversation you’d had with Nayeon just moments ago flashed through your mind. It was so ironic you almost wanted to laugh.
“Your feelings for me have become… Increasingly clear in the last few years.” Jungkook’s tone wasn’t cruel, but you felt the chill in it, “I suppose your father realised, as did mine. Taehyung has been wanting to marry me off for years, so he was only happy to accommodate.”
On the last word, you flinched.
Accommodate. Like you were a burden being handed to him.
“I’m sorry,” You repeated, although you weren’t entirely sure what you were apologising for. Was it your inability to keep your feelings under check? Should you really feel sorry for something you couldn’t really control?
“It’s not your fault, Y/N.” Nayeon had seemed to regain some of her sense, “You know how this world works. She didn’t choose this, Jungkook.”
But you could see that he blamed you.
And in some ways you understood. It was your clear feelings for him that had caused a matrimony that he didn’t want. Jungkook valued his independence, his freedom. He’d told Nayeon and yourself time and time again that he would try to delay his getting married as much as he could. Another twenty years, at least.
And now he was saddled with you.
You had taken away that freedom he treasured so dearly, without even meaning to.
“No I didn’t choose this but I am sorry,” You felt like you might crumble to dust under Jungkook’s stare, “I shouldn’t have made my feelings so clear.”
The words were difficult to say - was it really your fault that you loved him? - but they seemed to do the job. Jungkook’s shoulders relaxed and his face softened.
“So you didn’t ask for this?”
You shook your head once, rigidly.
“Then I’m sorry for getting angry,” He said gently, his eyes roving your face carefully. He was doing that thing he always did - he was trying to read you - the same way he read everyone.
But you were like a book to him, weren’t you? So open. So obvious. So easy to read. He barely needed to try.
Jungkook had never made it as clear as he had right now, that he knew you were in love with him. You supposed you should be embarrassed - and you were, to a degree. But some part of you, a much larger part, just felt sorry.
“And I’m sorry you had to find out like this.” He added, hands moving towards the pockets of the trousers he was wearing, “But in a month’s time, you will be Mrs Jeon Jungkook.”
A month?
You felt sick - like you might throw up.
This was all you’d ever dreamed of… But you didn’t want it like this. Forced and angry. You wanted love and passion and affection. Things you knew Jungkook didn’t feel for you.
Things you’d always worried he’d never feel for you.
You were content watching him from a distance but now? Now he was up close and personal, and you could barely meet his eyes.
Without another word, Jungkook slipped away from you, probably off to find some kind of alcohol to drown himself in. In one month you would be Mrs Jeon Jungkook…
“Oh Y/N.”
Nayeon’s voice caught, and suddenly you realised you had started crying.
The man you loved probably hated you now and in a month you would become his wife. Any hope of Jungkook reciprocating your feelings for him disappeared.
It was all one big, scary mess.
//
You hadn’t spoken to Jungkook since the night he had told you about your upcoming nuptials. From the little information Nayeon had been able to gather, he wasn’t exactly thrilled at the prospect of having to marry you.
“He’ll come around,” She told you time and time again. But you could barely bring yourself to believe her.
It had been years of loving him. Years of watching him from far away and never being able to call him yours. Why would that change now?
How could it change when he probably despised you for this wedding?
You couldn’t bring yourself to hope for anything more than civility. Anything else would break your heart.
Everything about the wedding had been decided for you. Down to even the dress. You had tried things on, a mannequin for the women of your family and the Jeon family. Your mother had tried encouraging you to enjoy yourself, as had Nayeon, but nothing seemed to work.
“I’ll be married in a week,” Your stomach twisted, “And Jungkook hasn’t even looked at me since that night.”
“He’s just getting used to the idea Y/N.” Nayeon tried to convince you but it was as futile and pointless as ever.
“He hates me.”
“No he doesn’t. It’s Jungkook.”
You felt your heart pull uncomfortably. It was Jungkook. You wanted so badly for him to be yours - had spent years and months and hours thinking about it. And yet….
That would never happen.
Nayeon was helping you wrap up the wedding favours. Another thing you’d had no part in choosing. Jungkook’s mother had ordered bracelets for the women and cuffs for the men.
“Don’t you have someone else to do this?” Nayeon fiddled with the baby blue crepe paper, “I’m so bad at this.”
“I asked to do this.” You shrugged, “It was the only thing my mother trusted me with. I wanted to feel somewhat useful.”
“I’m sorry Y/N.”
Any hope of magic for your special day had been obliterated the moment Jungkook had confronted you. He would never accept this marriage as anything other than something he’d been forced into.
And he would probably always blame you for it.
“It’s alright,” You cleared your throat of the thick tears threatening to spill, “I never expected to choose anything for my own wedding anyway.”
“Still. This is meant to be exciting.”
You laughed and it caught in your chest, sounding suspiciously like a sob.
“I’m marrying the love of my life and yet… I’m miserable,” You shook your head, “Only Bangtan could be capable of causing something like this.”
Nayeon opened her mouth - maybe to tell you that her brother would come around - when a knock at the door stopped her.
“Yes?” You answered quietly, half expecting it to be your mother with yet another ridiculous demand.
The portal opened and revealed your husband to be - Jeon Jungkook - looking decidedly sheepish as his eyes met your own.
Sheepish? Jungkook? It couldn’t be.
“Your maid… Jennie. She let me in.”
You nodded and felt the questioning gaze of Nayeon flicker between both you and Jungkook. What was he doing here?
You were curious, too.
“Could I… Nayeon…Could I talk to Y/N for a minute? Alone?”
Nayeon curled her top lip, “You’re not going to be an asshole to her again, are you?”
When Jungkook gave her a look that could freeze hell over Nayeon merely shrugged. Though they’d grown up in Bangtan - and though Jungkook was as dangerous as they come - Nayeon and him still shared a relatively normal sibling dynamic.
They were both stubborn of course, with tempers that could rival even the scariest Bangtan member…. But they loved each other.
And they were fiercely loyal. A Jeon trait, you’d come to learn.
“Just five minutes okay? Then you can continue to be a pain in the ass,” Jungkook glared at his sister as Nayeon stood, eyes narrowed.
“I’ll be just next door Y/N. Scream if he pisses you off.”
She patted your hand, face still scowling at her brother. He flipped her off before she pulled a face, sliding out of the room with a quiet click of the door. When you were alone with Jungkook, your heart felt like it was going to crawl out of your mouth.
His eyes were almost warm as he turned to you again.
“Y/N I wanted to… Apologise, for my behaviour at the party earlier this month,” He seemed genuinely sorry, “And for…” He trailed off before clearing his throat again, “And for ignoring you, the last few weeks. This marriage has been difficult for me to process.”
You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.
“But I wanted to come here and tell you that… If we’re getting married to one another, then I suppose we should try to get along for the sake of our own sanity.” He stepped towards you and almost looked like he wanted to touch you, but thought better of it, “But that doesn’t - I don’t…” He paused and you noticed his eyes seemed almost sad, “I know how you feel about me, Y/N. But I can’t… Promise anything. I’ll be kind to you like I’ve always been. And we might grow closer because of this marriage but… That’s all I can offer.”
You knew what he was saying.
He was happy to be your friend. Maybe to even warm your bed at night.
But Jungkook would never love you as you loved him.
You nodded, mutely, feeling that if you said a word you might break down in tears. And you refused to let him see you that way, no matter how much your heart ached.
“I don’t want you to resent me, Y/N. But I’m not… I’m not a man of commitment. You understand, don’t you?”
You almost laughed in his face.
He wasn’t a man of commitment?
Jeon Jungkook spent every day of his life committed to the cause of Bangtan. He was willing to fight for it. To die for it.
It wasn’t commitment he didn’t want - it was you.
He didn’t have to lie to try and placate you. You were a big girl. Stronger than he took you for.
“You will never love me as I love you.” You said, voice hollow, “Is that what you’re trying to say Jungkook?”
He winced, “I’m sorry.”
The words hurt you more than if he’d slapped you across the face. He was sorry?
“Please don’t apologise,” Your chest twinged, “There’s nothing to feel sorry for.”
The way he was looking at you made everything a million times worse. You felt like a glass vase, teetering off the edge, about ready to shatter into a thousand pieces.
After a moment you cleared your throat, “How long?”
He raised a dark brow, “What?”
“How long have you known about my… Um… Feelings for you.”
Jungkook shifted, clearly uncomfortable, but you decided you didn’t really care. If you were going to spend the rest of your life committed to a man that didn’t want you, the least he could do is give you this much.
“Since your sixteenth birthday party.”
The memory seared your heart and your stomach fluttered. Even thinking of it now, almost ten years later, caused something indescribable to pass through you.
It had been a summer’s evening - you were born in late August.
Your mother had planned this overly flamboyant affair (she had a flair for the dramatics, clearly) and though you hadn’t wanted to attend, you’d done so anyway, not wanting to upset her after all her hard work.
And of course, she’d invited all the girls from Bangtan’s most powerful families including your arch nemesis at the time - Jihyo.
Jihyo was as beautiful as she was mean, and though she was a little older than you were she never passed up the opportunity to humiliate you. Your birthday was no different.
When you’d turned up in that ridiculous excuse of a dress - a frilly, pink puff pastry of a thing - Jihyo had spent all evening making fun of you in corners, and whispering cruel things behind your back.
Nayeon had threatened to bite her nose off but the both of you knew she was untouchable. Jihyo was the Taehyung’s father’s niece. She moved around the room like she owned it (and in a way she did) and it wasn’t until she made a comment about the angle of your mouth that Jungkook had stepped towards you and taken your hand.
Of course, Jihyo seethed with anger and jealousy all night.
All the Bangtan girls wanted just a little of Jungkook’s attention - but he spent all evening treating you like a princess. He laughed at your jokes, and danced with you, and even tucked your curls behind your ears.
And you knew it was only because Jihyo was a bully and Nayeon was his little sister so you were too, in a way, but it didn’t really matter. Because that evening it was like he’d plucked the moon right out of the sky and placed it in your pocket.
That was how special you’d felt.
And that was the Jungkook you fell in love with.
You nodded, once, sharply and then took a deep, calming breath.
“You don’t have to worry, okay?” Your voice was shaking but you forced yourself to move past it, “I won’t let my feelings for you get in the way of things. Ever. I know what this marriage means to you.”
For a moment - just one moment - it seemed like something close to regret flashed past Jungkook’s eyes. But it was gone before you were even sure you’d seen it.
“Thank you, Y/N.” He bowed gently and you tried to smile.
It was only later on, when Nayeon came back with a cup of chamomile to calm your nerves, and a sympathetic smile to stroke your pain, that you finally gave way to the tears that had threatened to spill since Jungkook’s arrival.
This was all a fucking mess.
//
#love#fanfic#tsundere#mafia au#mafia boss jungkook#jeon jungkook#golden maknae#fanfiction#smut#fluff#angst#jungkook x reader#arranged mafia au
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smallest joys (Henry!Sherlock Holmes x Fem!Reader)
Summary: the tree in the Holmes’ backyard as a place of great peace and laughter of all, and a moment arises for it to be a place of forgiveness and love as well.
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Female Reader
Word Count: 1.6k
Warnings: none.
A/N: thanks so much for reading and always remember that authors love to hear any feedback on stories, so don’t be shy to share your opinions. Requests are still closed, but I’m working on getting them up and running hopefully soon! xoxo (gif not mine)
Enola was perched high above the ground in the great gray tree that sat far from the house she had grown to resent without her mother there. It was difficult, the constant want of adventure and thrill that was often smothered because of Mycroft’s inability to have a semblance of joy in his life.
Throwing the shading pencil in her sketchbook and closing it with a huff, Enola heard a set of angered footsteps make their way towards the tree in which she inhabited and she balled her fists against a branch. Half expecting it to be Mycroft yelling at her for leaving the study and half expecting it to be Sherlock doing their eldest brother’s bidding in a kinder manner, one they always hoped she’d fall for.
But it wasn’t. Y/n L/n, Sherlock’s feisty assistant from London was irate with her cheeks as red as apples storming toward the tree. Without noticing Enola above, Y/n leaned against its trunk and her head fell into her hands in embarrassment.
“Did you do something stupid?” Enola inquired and you jumped ever so slightly, looking up with great haste at Enola above. The young girl was smiling down on you kindly but also with such an inquisitive mind, you weren’t sure if she truly cared or just wanted manor gossip to share with the housemaid.
“And why would you ask such a thing, young lady?” You shoved your hands on your hips and narrowed fine eyes at Enola, trying to forget why you stormed out in the first place, though that was practically impossible because you knew he would follow after an argument.
“I asked you first, Y/n. And I’m not a young lady, you sound like Mycroft.” Enola swung her feet off a branch and rested her head in her intertwined hands that laid on top of another arm of the great tree.
“What happened? Did Sherlock finally recognize your talents for discovery or did you say something stupid that angered him?” Enola asked again, more in depth than before and her eyes narrowed now at the woman she had grown to admire very much.
Y/n was always someone who Enola could depend upon. Whether it be for new books from London or a simple lesson on dust particles, she knew Y/n had many of the answers. But as of late, with her mother gone and the tension in the home only growing, Sherlock appeared to be easily angered or upset by small comments, jokes or jabs at him that were not unusual from his assistant and Enola took notice. She saw the way Y/n’s eyes fell or how she would storm out of the room, angered at either herself or his reaction to her little joys and she couldn’t quite figure out why it was always her he was getting angry at. It had never happened before they had come to stay at his childhood home to help with Enola.
“Enola, I do not want to burden you with the petty arguments of adults. It is no concern of yours.”
“If it is my brother’s fault I consider it my concern.”
You pursed her lips at the girl before indulging in your frustrations.
“Every little comment I make he gets angry at. I am not use to being yelled at by him and I certainly do not understand why he is so uptight ever since we arrived. I try to help with his inquiries about your mother but even then, my input seems to go in one ear and sails out the other! Enola, I mean nothing by this, truly, I am simply frustrated by always being second fiddle to a man who appears to need no help at all.” You managed to mutter out in a moments time and Enola understood. Mycroft was the one treating Enola the same way at the moment and she wanted nothing more than to place a metal helmet on his head and bang a stick against it to set his mind straight. The men just do not appear to respect the intelligence of the women in the house.
“I am not meant for a life of domesticity, Enola. I am sure you can tell by the way I stir a pot or fold the laundry, I like adventure and I enjoy mystery very much. I simply want Sherlock to see that too. I don’t want to lose my dearest friend over one little spat.”
Enola smiled down at you and jumped down, meeting the grass with a thud and wiped off the shards that managed to catch themselves on her stockings.
“And that is why I admire you, very much, if I may add. And are you sure you don’t love him? If friends act the way you two do, I would have to choose my friends wisely.” You chuckled, reassured her you were simply just friends and embraced Enola in a some-what motherly manner, though Enola saw it as what she’d imagined would be a best friend, or sister.
“I would tell him how you feel. Make him understand you better and believe me when I say he will listen.” Enola retracted from the embrace and shot off towards the house, leaving you in state of bewilderment and confusion but when you turned around yourself intending to watch Enola run toward the house, you were met with the man you had no more than ten minutes ago stormed away from.
Sherlock stood with one hand in a pocket and the other clutching a book to his chest and a small pout on his face. The pout wasn’t one of sadness or disappointment, but of wonder and curiosity, already trying to decipher the situation before him.
“She was quick to run away.” Sherlock observed and moved toward the tree, leaning his back against it and looking over to you, just slightly to the side of him but facing him, not the land surrounding the tree.
“Well if she knew your temper as well as I do, I would run away too but obviously that has proven to not be an option.”
“I came here to apologize.” Your eyes, ears, and heart managed to perk up at the sound of Sherlock saying the word “apologize” because it wasn’t one he had ever said before, certainly not to you or anyone else he interacted with.
“An apology? From the great Sherlock Holmes? What ever shall I do with this honor?” You faked a gasp and held a hand to your forehead in a manner that only suggested a maiden swooning. Sherlock enrolled his eyes at the joke, seeming to understand that it was simply that, and as your hand made its way down from your forehead, he captured it softly in his empty one and held it gently, yet firm and your eyes flicked up to meet his.
“I would like to be serious about this, Y/n. My actions towards you the last few days have been unlike me and I am sorry for making you feel as if your opinion doesn’t matter, because it most certainly does.”
So he had heard you short conversation with Enola.
“Your opinion I value more than anyone in this world and I am frustrated I have gotten nowhere with my mother’s case in several days. I want her to return safely and with every passing day that outcome becomes less likely.”
“If you spoke to me about your concerns earlier we may have found a middle ground Sherlock. I accept your apology but I will not forgo my jokes in any situation so enjoy the humor while I still walk this earth.”
Sherlock couldn’t help but let the smallest smirk grace his face at the comment. He knew you always took your work seriously, but humor helped with the difficulties some cases can bring and he often failed to recognize the importance of laughter and enjoyment even in the darkest times. He still held your hand in his, in which he then brought it up to his lips and kissed the inside of your palm. It was personal, intimate, and apologetic.
“I am sorry you have to put up with me. I shouldn’t be so harsh when you’re trying to brighten the darkest days.”
“If I want to leave I can, but I seek thrill too much to let you or these cases disappear from my life.”
Sherlock actually smiled and sat down against the trunk, leading you to sit beside him and wrapped his free hand around your shoulders pulling you close. Ever since you arrived at his home, intimate interactions were seldom as Mycroft would have a million harsh words about how you were not a “proper lady to Sherlock”, but it wasn’t like Sherlock would have cared anyway.
“Shall we return to this story?” Sherlock said in a low, “fancy” voice in your ear and you couldn’t help but let out a snort at his attempt to be regal.
“I sincerely hope Elizabeth slaps Mr. Darcy across the face after what he said about her family. If that does not happen, the story dies there.”
“Would you slap every man who offends you? Because if so I’ll brace for one now.” Sherlock was actually joking for once but you slapped his chest lightly with your hand and let it fall, playing with a button on his waist coat. He looked down at you, a curl from the top of his head falling onto his forehead with a spring and you smiled at the handsome man you curled up against.
“Perhaps.”
Sherlock laid a lingering kiss on your forehead and opened the book, removing the leaf that served at the bookmark and began reading in total comfort with you beside him. It was perfect until a rumble came from the bush and Enola shot up with sticks in her hair.
“So you ARE together!?”
#Sherlock Holmes#enola homes#enola holmes netflix#henry cavill#Sherlock Holmes x reader#Sherlock Holmes imagine#Sherlock Holmes one shot#Sherlock Holmes fic#henry!sherlock#henry!holmes#x reader#female reader#post#personal post#original post#original writing
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Let Me Help - Keanu Reeves x Reader
summary : during quarantine, your husband keanu worries you’ve been working too much and offers to comfort you, by helping you wind down. requested!
warnings : smut. oral sex [female receiving] loads of fluff! a very concerned keanu. x f! reader. 3.3k.
notes : this was requested by a lovely reader. I wrote this near the end of august, and touched it up a little last night for posting. I’m hoping to get back to writing some new stuff real soon, look forward to that! feedback appreciated, hope you enjoy xx :)
In the wake of the day break sun, a fatigued Keanu trudges down the wooden stairs of your shared home; a hand raked through tousled bed head locks, half executed yawn breathed off his lips. The house seems dead silent, the sound of a hissing coffee pot and keyboard clicking fingers apparent far distantly downstairs.
He’d woke up to the spot beside him in the bed vacant, and the figure that had quietly been tucked under the security of his arm all night, absent.
Normally, the morning dew would greet him with the feel of his love curled against his chest, consumed in a warm sea of silky sheet enveloped around them. Mornings like that were his favourite; where you’d hold him close, your drowsy AM gaze would open to the sight of him, his mocha eyes locked to your resting frame, limbs tangled as one.
“Good morning, handsome.” You’d quietly mumble, tinted smile groggily musing with a deeper cuddle into his chest, and he’d quietly chuckle at the way stray locks fall in your eyes, barely peeking his way. ‘Good morning to you too,’ the words would sweetly melt off his lips, peppering small, gentle morning greetings into your hair as he’d draw you closer, smiling.
Smiling at your little, personal piece of heaven you’d built.
Keanu trudges further, slow pace deliberate, swallowing tightly to the known sight he knew he’d perceive as he’d venture to the bottom of the stairs to your kitchen, where you were surely sat. He wasn’t tired, per say, yet his mood tinged a drought of sour.
You’d been working, constantly, through out the entirety of the declared lockdown in your home town. Those once blissful mornings had been rare; stolen, gentle kisses and mindless relishes in each other’s arms non frequent since the quarantine began. Not only did his lovesick heart miss you, his mind also worried. He worried far, he worried frequent-
that the women he loves with his entire heart, hadn’t been taking care of herself. Over the years spent together, Keanu had come to learn all too well. You take immense pride in your work; nevertheless, that strive for excellence often has tendency to override, to conquer each ounce of energy and dedication that courses through your veins.
He admires, loves your dedication. Yet he worries. He fears that you’ll overwhelm, burn out.
Over anything; any hinder, any instance, the sole triumph had always been you. You, your health, your safety. It’s the lone thought that matters to him, the only thing that truly matters.
Through sickness and through health; it’s what you’d both promised.
Approached to the kitchen entrance, Keanu sighs a warm smile, seeing your frame lounged against the granite wall counter, coffee pot in hand as you’d replenished your favourite noir mug. Dressed in a pair of sleeping shorts equipped with his oversize t-shirt, his heart hitches, his breath catches in his throat at the sight of you.
Each breath taken around you, capsules in a warm, heavenly kiss. Only you’d ever been able to do that to him. Only you could bring his heart to its knees, each and every day.
Soft, quietly, Keanu lingers behind your smaller figure, humming a gentle morning ease, thin lips placed to the back of your head as his arms circle your waist. “Morning, gorgeous.” he whispers, a gravelly rasp thick to his sleep awoken voice. Tinged to a curled upwards smile, his nose idles in your locks, senses enveloped by the sweet saccharine of coconut shampoo and something that resembles florals, flowers, silk and satin.
All things good, all things beautiful. All things that take his breath away.
You’d told him the day you first met; your fascination with the sun, and her flowers. Her roses, her violets, her world that breathes, only when she lights a glow, revitalising all that live under her, flourish under her.
Smiling faintly, a hand reaches behind, tangling in the dusty strands of his lengthy mane, as your other plants warmly to his arm that holds your body close by the waist. “Good morning.” You smile, turning gentle in his warm embrace, with a delicate kiss pecked to his thin taut lips. “Sleep okay?” You wonder, escaping his hold to return to your impromptu work station, situated at the marble kitchen counter. Stray papers decorate the surface, ball point pens and open laptop screens speckled about. Keanu’s smile fades, and he watches your weak frame shift back to your occupied spot.
“Didn’t like waking up without you there.” He confesses, watching the way you resume lineage to the sheets and workload below. An old, half empty cup of morning dark rests to your table side, cold; long forgotten and forlorn. It had solidified his assumption; you’d more likely than not been up for far longer than he’d originally supposed, slaved, laboured to the never ending, self assigned work load purging at your fingertips.
Thus far, avoidance had been crisp on his lips, the words that threatened to spill had seldom died in his throat before extending any further. His love for you ran farther, deeper than could be explicable. He’d always strived for you to do anything you thought was right, he’d never come in the way of you or your career.
Yet as of late, the boil, the sear of burden inside his veins threatened to leak. Through tired eyes accompanied with dark, tiresome bags, he’d noticed the toll never ending workload had begun to take on your brittle form. He’d sensed the way a part of you faded day by day, succumbing to the drudgery toil. With his toned arms crossing, and an attentive lean to the granite kitchen counter, a worrisome Keanu speaks into the empty, quiet AM air, his voice a certain echo through the gray kitchen corridors. “Baby, do you have to work today?”
You’d barely glanced his way, before continually reverting to your task below. Inhaled deeply, a sip from your mug swelters on your tongue, the bitter taste of a roasty caffeine kick igniting that acquainted burn to your tongue. A burn, something familiar, something that reminds you of there still being discipline, still being normality. “Of course I have to work, Keanu.” You’d dryly returned, tone singed with a far bitter tint than you’d intended. Yet, you’d pledged known thought that he wouldn’t let the issue die so easily. He’d press, he’d push; knowing it was the pull you’d sometimes needed.
“Hey,” Keanu barely speaks, his voice a quiet whisper so calm, so soothing, you’d nearly succumbed into his arms to the mere hint of it. His larger frame falls to its knees, kneeling beside you sat on the kitchen chair. Heavy, gentle, his breath falls dense, weightier hands collecting your softer ones in return to a gentle grasp. His lips are warm; brimmed with special affection; admiration.
Before Keanu, you’d not known the feeling of being completely, hopelessly adored by someone. He did that to you. He did that, for you.
He’d never let you forget the feeling of being adored.
A few measly kisses pepper to your hands from his lips; to your palms, your knuckles, your fingers, and with a hefty sigh, he voices his unease. “I’m just worried.” He begins, eyes connecting to yours in a knowing plead. Keanu is a man of few words; his speech proves selective; he’d never say anything that would interfere with what you truly wanted.
Yet, his heart, and yours, are old friends.
He knows you all too well, knows you’re not where you want to be. “You can understand that, right?” He asks, a gentle nod accompanying. Fixed on yours, his eyes hold your gaze. Warm, cocoa eyes that gleam with that beautiful familiarity. His eyes were something else,
something calming, something that grounds you when you’d need it most. Security.
Only to him, you could express any thoughts, any feelings, anything at all without the fear of what would follow. His heart and yours, are old, old friends. Looking away, you sigh, locking your fingers around his hand that holds your tighter. “I…I know.” You declare. “I get it. I just…” Keanu watches you keenly, his hands never letting go of yours as he listens intent.
“I just feel like…I need to be doing something. I need a routine, I need something prolific, something…productive while we’re stuck at home.” You lament, heart heavy as your deeper fears paint clouds of grey in your chest. “I need something real.” Whispering almost, your eyes fall disheartened, a frown douses your features. “Something that feels like I’m not wasting away.”
“I’m real...” Keanu explains through a quiet undertone, murmuring, eyes desperately trying to hold your fraying gaze that almost feels…ashamed to look at him. Awful feelings flood your mind, the thought of letting him down overwhelming.
“You know what I mean, baby.” You reason, head tilting to a noticeable look of blue on his darker features. With your gentle hand cupping his beard ridden cheek, your eyes sadden. You’d never want him to feel as if he wasn’t enough,
because he was everything. He was all that had truly been keeping you alright, keeping you from slipping into an overwhelming whirlwind of self destruction over this period of uncertain time.
“Hey,” Keanu assures, taking hold of your wrist that holds his cheek. “We’re real. This is real.” He speaks. “You, are the realest thing I know, baby.” And the to sound of his voice, you smile. This man, the man you so gratefully call your own, never fails to cast a smile to your lips. “Let me take care of you.” He speaks, voice thick with reason, as your brows furrow to the proposition. “Just for today. You deserve it, sweetheart. I’ll do anything you need; cook, foot rubs, massages, anything at all.” He appeals, desperately hoping you’d agree, rather than burying yourself under an endless workload for the remainder of the day. “I need you here on earth today,” He smiles, knowingly. “With me.” And to the sight of his glowing orbs, and hopeful gaze, your heart fills with warmth.
Watching his profile with a halted breath, another beat of silence follows, flows before a slight smile ultimately tugs one side of your mouth upwards, heart warming at his determination. Your lover, is something different. Something special inside him grows. Something warm, something,
that you fail to remember when,
had become a necessity.
“God, I’ve missed you so much, baby.” Keanu quietly whispers, your satin skin sprawled upon the silky sheets of your California king, hands tangled to his hair as his lips daub gentle, love soaked kisses along the silk of your body. Through a broken moan, laced with a breathy gasp, your lips barely manage; the feel of his warm mouth marking a delicate, violet bruise into the skin of your breast overwhelming shockwaves, piercing each and every wavelength inside you that longed for him now, craved to feel him closer.
When he’d insisted on taking the day to make you feel ease, you should have known right away, swift, that the first activity on the menu would be a good, much needed, passionate
fuck.
Moving from your lips, Keanu’s kisses trail gently, feverishly across the bare skin of your mid, bulkier hands palming the soft swell of your breasts, soft and tender to his touch. “Gonna make you feel so good, baby.” He assures, between peppered pecks, grazes of his lips across your skin, inching near the throb that ached between your legs. Fiddling with the flimsy material of your underwear, two stocky digits slip into the fabric, gently peeling the textile off, discarded mindlessly to the carpeted floor below.
“Ke…” You breathe, heavy, restrained. His face hovers just above your bare, exposed centre, and his arms move to plant under your thighs, urging your pussy closer to his lustful lips that begged for a taste. Back arching, your nails tangle, scratched to his scalp when his mouth delves lower, trailing a few sauntered kisses to the insides of your thighs, two sturdy fingers slicked between your moist arousal, rubbing a swell to your clit as it thrived for more stimulation; ached for his mouth to make art along your womanhood. To decorate your warm, wet haven with a symphony of his want. “Relax for me, sweetheart.” He murmurs, pressing a kiss to your pulsing clit, licking a gentle stride to the slit of your fold. With one of his hands moving to hold yours on the rippled bedsheets, his other pumps sinful fingers inside your cunt, adding stimulation. Merely a lewd moan flees your lips, eyes clasped shut as the feel of his sinfully warm tongue lapping your nectar overtakes, and you practically cry a whimper when the feeling of sheer, burning bliss coils, bubbles in your mid. Keanu has always been a giver, his skill, his expertise, his attention to detail never fail to make you feel as if a painting; a mural he paints with vibrant hues, vibrant tones; music he makes spill out your body each and every time he works you this way.
Each time he shows you the stars alike; each time he shows you just how fucking much he loves you.
The sounds of your wetness slicking his lips fill the room, laced with the searing sound of your gasping moans, yelping groans at the way his hold on your hand tightens, tongue flattening with alternating flicks between fast and slow, delicate sucks and kisses to your ached clit. Keanu works a symphony of pace, spreading your folds as needed, skilfully conjuring an orgasm to build inside you that you knew would channel you into absolute oblivion, at a mere 10:00AM in the morning.
“Please…” You beg, pleading, gazing down at the sight of your love between your legs, devouring you whole. “Please don’t stop, babe.” You drip, toes curling, spare hand clenched to the bedsheets. “I’m so close.” Hips bucking, disjointed moans squirm under his touch, his suave voice pushing your need for release further to the end.
“You sound so sexy, angel.” He encourages, circular motions firm, stubbled beard burning against your core. And to the sound of his lust thick tone, your climax washes over you with the force of a strong ocean current; one that rummages over the ocean shore, spilling strong, warm relief over each inch of your body.
As the nirvana dies, and your eyes barely open again, his chocolate gaze watches you with a smile; clearly pleased with how deliciously he’d given you the orgasm of your dreams. Glossy on his beard, your release coats in a glaze to his chin, and you bite your pink stained lips, sighing at the way he still looks into you,
as if viewing his favourite picture; his favourite dream. As if the light of every star in the universe’s dire sky had been embedded inside you.
Something special grows inside him; something so sincere, something that thrives off of nothing, but loving you so well, so good.
“Thank you.” Is all you’d managed, sighing, cupping his dark tined cheek when he comes up, offering a soft kiss to your lips as his hand still holds yours, tenderly. You hadn’t realized how desperate you’d needed relief, how frantic you needed escape from the world around.
And with a simpered smirk and wet kiss daubed to your neck, Keanu kisses your forehead, one hand still held to yours as his other strokes his meaty shaft, fully erect from the pornographic sight of you moaning, whimpering, embellished in utter ecstasy as you’d cum for him. “Oh baby,” He kisses the corner of your lips, sloppy palm tugging a few measly strokes to his dangerously thick, glorious cock; felt strongly aroused, stabbing against the soft skin of your stomach. “I’m not done with you just yet.”
The day had complied, had been spent with just you, and him. Together, through each waking minute, lost together, relishing together.
After drawing you a steamy, heavenly eased bubble bath, in which he’d joined you tenderly after your AM rumble, your dream of a man had helped wash you, massaged a gentle cleanse to your hair through soft kisses, and intimate grazes of each other’s skin.
“I love you, so much.” He’d whispered into your ear, flushy pink chest pressed firm to your back as you’d lounged against him in the soapy water; fragrant aroma of roses and lavender kissed to each sense. Bubble bath’s shared with Keanu had always been your favourite; you’d forgotten how dire you’d needed simplicity. How great you’d needed to share simple, carefree, intimate moments with him during the chaotic shambles the world held, upon these uncertain times.
You’d forgotten that your remedy, the only antidote you’d ever needed, had been resting at your finger tips. He’d been holding you tenderly each night, kissing you awake every morning. He’d been checking in on you, gently brushing strokes to your hair and offering you kind hugs when you’d needed them most.
He’d been silently, quietly forgetting to care for himself as he watched you, trying everything in his power to make sure that you’d be alright. So much, that he’d broken down in his own, unique way today, for you.
What you saw in his eyes this morning, as he begged, pleaded for you to allow him to take care of you; was something different. It was fear, it was surrender.
He’d surrendered a part of himself to you. A part you’d always hold, always keep. This morning, he’d begged you to remember it. To remember, that a part of him, lives within you, part of him resides within you.
He’d begged you to take care of that part of him today. To allow yourself to remember that you need to flourish, need to slow down, before that part of you breaks.
A piece of him belongs to you, and he’d begged you to care for it. To care for yourself; because you and him, that us that resides within you, is truly,
something else.
Something so powerful, so real.
You and him, against the world.
It’s what you’d promised.
“Baby?” You barely whisper, snuggled into his warm embrace on the snug living room sofa. With your head on his chest, both his arms wrap around your body, holding you close as you’d both gazed the blue TV screen; reruns of your favourite 90’s sitcom portrayed to the motion picture. Against your ear, his heartbeat had been calm, collected. Serene, to the feel of your skin against his, knowing you were safe; at ease, resting.
“Yeah?” He quietly wonders, a stray kiss softened to the top of your head. The sun had set, and a gentle evening glow dims in the room, moonlighted silver threatening to spill in soon. As the world outside darkens, and all living things bid goodnight; the world prepares to flourish again. To revenue a moment of calm over the silvery night, to replenish, to prosper tomorrow,
When tomorrow shall come.
“Thank you for holding me.” You whisper, calmly, sweetly, drowsily into his chest. And with a deep chuckle, Keanu’s hands smooth over your back, deep baritone of his chest sending that familiar wave of warm, complete and utter,
gratitude, soaring, flowing inside you. “I’ll always hold you.” He returns, quietly, another kiss into your maven locks, arms tightening around you further as if in fear, that you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold firm enough. And to the sound of his heartfelt confession, you sink further into the feel of him
holding you,
with every last breath. And you remember, that him, this dream, this symphony you fear might just be a dream, is the embodiment, of a thousand feelings, complied all into one. Roses are beautiful, flowers are gorgeous, the sun and her blossoms are wonderful too. But all you really need, is him. This man, that reminds you, that you too,
need to breathe.
You too, need to flourish.
➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴
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#keanu reeves x reader#keanu reeves imagine#keanu reeves fanfiction#keanu reeves x you#john wick x reader
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Scared of Love, Scared of Time - Leon S. Kennedy x Reader.
Author’s note: I made the reader as generic as possible for this one shot, as I instinctively tend to write fem!readers. I actually like how it turned out and I hope the attempt at poetic flourish (if we can call it that) is not too indigestible.
Warning: None really. It’s just angst and fluff.
“Up until I was 25, I thought the only response to ‘I love you’ was ‘Oh crap!’” Chandler Bing said this. Yes, you read right. Chandler Bing, the famous Friends character, the one who’s always lame with women and makes sardonic jokes. Funny how a quote from a fictional character can perfectly sum up your love life.
Eyes still widened in shock and disbelief, you were still staring at Leon who was staring back at you with a growing unease, waiting for an answer. Come on Y/N, say something. “Holy shit.” Seriously? Not the best answer you could have given him.
And with that terrible response came awkwardness. It settled with you and Leon at the table of the cosy little restaurant you were having dinner in and put all its weight on both your shoulders, rendering the moment oppressive and more than uncomfortable.
“Not what I expected.” Leon admitted as he let go of your hand. His ego was bruised but not as much as his heart. You could tell just by the way he was avoiding eye contact, teeth slightly gritted in a sort of sneer weirdly stretching his handsome features in a grimace. He was certainly regretting his confession and you couldn’t blame him. But come on, who says ‘I love you’ after a month of relationship?!
“Leon…” He waved you to shut up with a sad smile but it wasn’t rude. He just didn’t want your pity right now. “No, I get it, Y/N. You’re not ready and I’m taking things way too quick as I always do. Forget what I just said. It was nothing.” Lies. It was not nothing. It was something truly important to him otherwise he would not have booked a table in this romantic restaurant and be forcing a smile while fidgeting under the table right now, looking for a way to get rid the burdening unease.
“ I just think that …” But he cut you short again. “No, really, baby. That’s fine. No need for you to justify yourself. What don’t you pick a dessert?” He said before peering at the menu, almost hiding his face behind it.
But you wanted to justify yourself. You wanted to tell him that, even if you wanted to, you couldn’t open your heart to him as easily and as beautifully as he could open his to you.
You wanted to tell him you were scared, scared of love, scared of the intensity of your feelings for him, scared of how painful they could be when he was away from you and how overwhelming they were when he was with you.
You wanted to tell him you were scared to say those three words, scared of everything that would come with such a beautiful confession, scared to lay yourself bare, to appear vulnerable, scared that someone would one day take those feelings away and crush them along with your heart.
You were scared of making things real, finding refuge and comfort hidden in your armour, which was basically the only place where no one could hurt you, the only place were your fragile heart was safe. Yes, you wanted to tell him all that.
“I’m … I’m scared.” You whispered with certain difficulty, those three words being the only three words you could manage to say right now. And as the sudden lump in your throat made you realised how hard it was for you to simply mouth your fear, you understood that confessing your love for Leon was certainly something you would sadly never be able to do.
“Scared of what? My love for you?” You shook your head and pinched the bridge of your nose, feeling a small tear forming in the corner of your eyes. You quickly blinked to make it go away before it could fall or be noticed. But you were dating the most competent agent America could have ever got. With him, nothing could go unnoticed. “Hey.” Leon grabbed your hand again and your eyes met the tender blueness of his eyes. Inside them, there was no bitterness, no resentment, just sweetness and compassion. “I just need time.” You admitted.
And he gave you time, all the time you wanted, all the time you needed despite his permanent fear of not being able to live another day each time he was leaving for work.
You were not like him. You were not sharing the same recklessness or the same hedonism. You were not one to enjoy every second as if they could be your last, not one to see how limited time actually was. After all, how could you? You had not been through what he had been through to do so. You had not experienced all the horrors he had seen, had not yet realised how the clock of life could stop at any moment and how death could come knock at your door at any minute.
You were not living in the same world as him, not seeing the world as dark and as hopeless as him, not seeing how it was permanently on the verge of crumbling like a sand castle and always ready to take away everything and everyone you ever loved in its fall.
But he didn’t mind. He envied you for that. After all, he also wanted to believe he had all the time in the world to be able to actually take his time.
But then, what should have been a lovely morning happened. The smell of freshly baked pancakes and hot coffee was floating in the kitchen as the sun was slowly rising and entering the apartment through the patio door. You were home, lazily dressed in a night gown, still a bit sleepy but waiting for Leon to come back from a simple bodyguard mission in Tall Oaks where he had escorted President Benford to give a speech at Ivy University. Nothing extraordinary and nothing potentially life-threatening. His words exactly.
Guess he was wrong.
“The White House informed us last night that a wild biohazardous outbreak infected the population of Tall Oaks, resulting in more than 70 000 casualties including President Adam Benford.” Your mug of hot coffee escaped your hand and crashed onto the floor. Petrified, you could feel your heart pounding loudly in your chest and in your ears. This couldn’t be. “This resulted in the immediate sterilisation of the city in order to eradicate the virus, a military operation that surely remind us of the Raccoon City incident of 1998.” You held on to the kitchen table to provide yourself from falling to the ground. You couldn’t breathe anymore, the air not being able to leave your lungs anymore as a stream of mournful dreary thoughts was drowning you. They ultimately escaped under the shape of tears and loud sobs and moans that made you collapse on the floor. This couldn’t be. You kept repeating to yourself. If something had happened to Leon, someone would have told you. Hunnigan would have called. He was alright. He had to be.
You managed to blindly seize your phone on the table and dialled Leon’s office. Surely, the DSO would know more about all this and be able to comfort you. At least that’s what you hoped. “Come on. Answer damn it!” You cursed, tears streaming down your face. “ Leon Scott Kennedy’s office, how can I help you?” The voice was calm and professional but you managed to discern an ounce of sadness in it that immediately alarmed you more than you already were.
“ Hello, it’s Y/N, Leon’s …” You weren’t able to finish the sentence too impatient to know how Leon was doing. “Is he here? Is he alright? I’ve seen the news and…”
“Oh my God, Y/N. I thought Agent Hunnigan had called you.” That didn’t sound good and you leaned against the table leg without realising it, unconsciously expecting the bad news, feeling your small gleam of hope slowly dimming. “Leon is dead.”
Nothing else mattered. Time had just stopped the second the sentence was over and your heart had been pulled away from your rib cage along with it. And the pain was excruciating, like a thousand blades piercing your chest. What now? What were you gonna do without Leon in your life? You found yourself unable to answer that question. There was no future now. Nothing. Just void.
Your tears flowed and flowed, a never-ending flood of liquid pearls falling along your cheeks as you were crying your eyes out, begging anyone to bring Leon back to you. There were so many things you didn’t have time to do, so many things you didn’t have time to say. You wished you could go back to yesterday morning, when you were nestled in his strong arms, head over his naked chest. You wished you knew back then that you would never see him again. It would have changed everything and there would be no remorse. You would have prevent him from leaving or at least would have lingered over his face trying to carve each perfect little details of his features in your brain just to be able to forever remember them. You would have said you loved him.
A jingling in the door lock made you jump, and you looked up still on the floor, face and eyes reddened by your cries, your kneels against your chest. You didn’t really think about who could be entering your home and why and just waited for them to find you. “Y/N?” You quickly knelt, eyes widened. That voice. “Leon?” You whispered, relief warming your body.
“Baby, you’re here?” You hopped up and ran towards the door, not caring if this was a dream or some fucked up hallucinations. As long as you could see him, that’s all that mattered.
And he was there, standing in the corridor, a duffle bag at his feet. Unscathed and especially alive. “Leon!” You rushed towards him to hold him, touching his whole body with your trembling hands to make sure he was real. “You’re alive. You’re alive.” You repeated, your tears finding their way out of your eyes again as you strongly pecked Leon’s soft lips over and over, hands cupping his neck. “Yes. I’m fine. I’m safe” He managed to say before you cradled yourself against him to embrace him as tightly as you could. “I was scared, so scared. I thought you were dead. They told me you were and …” You breathed in his chest, his smell being the only thing was wanted to breathe right now. “But I told Hunnigan not …” He tried to explain.
“I called your office.” Leon briefly shut his eyes, mentally cursing himself as he dared imagine how worried and devastated you certainly had been when his secretary had announced you his death. “I asked Hunnigan to fake my death.” You frowned. What the hell was going on? “Long story.” He caressed your humid cheek, wiping your tears away. “But don’t worry. Everything is under control. But I have to go to China.”
“No.” You dared to whisper your disagreement for the first time, refusing to let him go, and your fingers tightened even more around the nape of his neck. “I have to, baby. I have to” You shut Leon up with a new kiss that you secretly wished would make him stay. “I’ll come back. I promise.” He smiled to reassure you, his forehead lightly pressed against yours. “I love you, baby.”
“I love you too.” You murmured back, feeling like a weight lifted off your chest as you offered him your heart without condition or fear.
A joyful wide smile stretched Leon’s tired features and his eyes started gleaming in happiness. You had finally said it. After so long. And it was beautiful. It warmed his heart and drowned it in exhilarating bliss as he played back the words in his head. His lips met your forehead and lingered there while his calloused fingers tangled in your hair. “My angel.” He said and you pressed yourself closer against him, looking for safety in his arms. But Leon was in a hurry. He grabbed your chin in between his thumb and index, forcing your to look at him in the eye. “Stay safe, alright? And remember, in the eyes of the government I’m dead.” You nodded, the remnants of your tears shining in your eyes and he kissed you one last time.
Then, he reluctantly let go you and grabbed his bag on his way out, watching you one last time bathed by the sunlight in the middle of the corridor. “I’ll be back before you realise I’m gone.” Unlikely but you gave him a faint smile anyway.
And then he closed the door behind him. The lock banged in the frame the same way his heart banged in his chest as a sudden atrocious weight dropped heavily on his chest.
So that’s what being loved in return felt like? Like a permanent pressure, a painful yet intoxicating force constantly crushing your heart in fear that you might possibly break the one you love if you happen to fail them. God, how terrible it was and yet how exquisite.
Tears formed in Leon’s blue eyes and he glanced back at the door for a second, burdened with the most frightening task he had ever received, protecting your heart at all costs.
And while you stood still behind that same door, terrified to never be able to spend time with Leon again, the man of your life was leaving, scared of love for the first time in his life.
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Awful first meeting & hairbrushing/braid - Eothiriel?
per usual, this ran away with me so SORRY FOLKS
–
Dol Amroth is known for its sea views, yes, but Lothiriel has always had a soft spot for its rivers.
Growing up the sole girl-child in a house full of men, she is perhaps not the most…lady-like of Gondorian noblewomen. She much prefers a horse-back ride–none of that side-saddle nonsense, thank you very much, Aunt Ivriniel–to a leisurely stroll through the city, a rowdy day spent racing on skiffs with her brothers to Ada’s friends pleasure cruises, and Valar knows there’s nothing quite as satisfying as a quick, refreshing dip in one of the cool rivers of the Belfalas instead of a constrained bath in her rooms. So yes, she quite likes the rivers and all the freedom they afford her. To escape the pressures of being a princess, to escape the responsibilities of being a sister, to forget she is “the only trueborn Lady of Dol Amroth”–if only for a moment.
She may not have fought in the War of the Ring with arms, but she has fought her own battles. Helping to keep the Coast defended in her father and brothers’ absence, keeping her people fed, trying against all good sense to keep her own spirits up–
Well. It is past, now, and she can enjoy the quiet trickle of the water and the warmth of the sun on her skin. Aunt Ivriniel would be appalled at both Lothiriel’s casual riding attire and the fact that she has abandoned said riding attire in favor of her shift, but she cannot bring herself to care, at present. Besides, she’s chosen a part of the river she knows well–removed from the more traveled paths, but shallow enough that she need not fear drowning should she fully submerge herself.
Which she does, sighing blissfully as the cool water flows over her. The sky is blue, the leaves summer’s beautiful green, and she is alone for once, with only dear Niprehdil for company. Her horse, at least, cannot pester her with questions about the upcoming feast.
“It is a lovely day, isn’t it?” Lothiriel asks, swimming back towards the bank and settling on the cleanest rock she can find to slowly dry off.
Niprehdil nickers softly in response. Smiling, Lothiriel sets about combing her hair–it will tangle horribly if she does not, and the last thing she needs to do is give her aunt another reason to scold her in front of “their” guests. As if the running of the household has not been firmly in her hands for the past three years! Besides, no one save her family knows about her habit of swimming in the river–
The sudden crunch of a branch being stepped on makes her stop her combing. The sudden appearance of a man–blonde haired, bearded, and shirtless–makes her freeze.
Muffling a surprised squeak, she rolls off the boulder, intending to crouch behind it until he goes away. Oh, why was he here? No one has ever, ever happened upon her before, not in all the years she’s been coming for her swims. This bend of the river was hers!
Slowly, she raises up on her toes to peer at the intruder. His hair gives away his heritage: one of the Rohirrim has found her sanctuary. Too late she remembers that their encampment is situated in the nearby clearing. She has met a few Rohirric soldiers before, in Ithillien visiting Faramir, but this man is unlike the rest. His height is extraordinary, even from this distance, and his shoulders are no unhappy sight either. The thought makes her blush. Aunt Ivriniel really would have cause to scold her, this time.
A whinny precariously close to her ear makes her jump; Niprhedil, having clearly sensed her distress, has ambled over to inspect her sudden descent from the rock.
“No, no, no,” Lothiriel hisses, running a hand over Niprhedil’s snout, “I am fine, go back to your grass–”
“Who goes there?”
Oh, Valar, she thinks, squeezing her eyes shut.
“I can see your horse,” comes the voice again.
Cursing herself, rivers, and nosy Rohirrim in general, Lothiriel forces herself to stand, pressing closer to the rock so that her state of undress is not readily visible. “Good afternoon,” she says, attempting politeness.
The man’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. “….good afternoon.”
They look at each other in near painful silence, long enough that she is able to take stock of 3 things: that he seems to show no sign of retreating to another spot along the river, that he has a hairbrush of his own in his hand, and that he is horribly, distressingly handsome.
“I–”
“Are you lost?” He asks before she can speak.
Lothiriel’s brow furrows. “Lost?”
“Aye. For I cannot fathom why else a lady would choose to venture out alone”
Oh, Valar. If he discovers who she is, it will be an utter disaster! Lothiriel likes her soon-to-be cousin very much, and cannot bear the thought of Eowyn thinking poorly of her. Which she surely shall, should this man report back She opens her mouth, intending to…to.to lie, to tell a half-truth, to do something, but what comes out instead is:
“And how do you know I am a lady?”
The man’s stern expression morphs into something wry. It does nothing to lessen his appeal. “Well, you do have the look of one.”
Lothiriel looks down at herself–she is mostly hidden by the rock, it’s true, but her shift is hardly what would pass for appropriate attire for any Gondorian noblewoman, especially when in the presence of a man.
“You must not know many ladies, then,” she says before she can stop herself.
The man snorts. “So you are not a lady, then? Or at least not a lost one.”
“I am not lost,” she admits, “and as to being a lady, I fail to see how that is your business.”
“You are certainly a noblewoman. And a foolish one, at that, to go off unaccompanied.”
Lothiriel bristles. “I have been exploring these woods since I was a child. I need no guide, no chaperone, no–”
“Clothes, apparently.”
“I have clothes! They are just–” She flaps a hand in their direction, where she left them neatly folded on top of her satchel. “….over there.”
The man snorts again and Lothiriel decides he is not truly that handsome. How could he be, and be so rude!
“You are lucky indeed, my lady, both that I have a younger sister and am accustomed to the mischief young women can get up to, and that I am only here to wash my hair. What would you have done if I were a thief? Or a lingering soldier from Harad? Or some other man who meant you harm?”
She scowls at him. “I am not so defenseless as you think!”
“Oh? Pray tell how a young woman of noble birth, alone save her horse, without clothes, would defend herself from harm.”
Years of prodding and teasing from her brothers has made Lothiriel slightly prone to impulsive acts, and that’s what has her flinging her hairbrush at him. Its heavy oak handle catches him in the temple. She only has a moment to see the surprised look on his face morph into one of pain before he stumbles back into the river with a mighty splash. Lothiriel feels a brief surge of triumph before it becomes clear her victim is not resurfacing.
“Oh, Elbereth!” She cries, darting towards the water as quickly as she can. It is not so deep and the current is hardly strong here, but her unexpected attack has clearly left him stunned. Irritating as he may be, she scarcely wishes drowning on the man. She dives in, the water making the burden of his weight a much easier thing than it would be on land.
He splutters back into consciousness once she’s hefted him onto the bank.
“I am sorry!” Lothiriel cries. “Really, I did not mean–I’d forgotten the handle was so heavy, I never meant to make you fall in–”
A rumble of laughter stops her panicked apology. She can only gape at him as he rolls over to lie on his back, shoulders shaking with the force of his amusement.
“…my lord? Are you …are you quite well?”
“I stand corrected,” he finally manages once his laughter has stopped. “You are adequately armed, my lady.”
That startles a laugh out of her. “I will be sure to keep a case of them on hand at the next feast. If I am accosted by a boring or pushy lord, I will have my hairbrush at the ready!”
The man snorts again, turning his face towards her with a wide smile. She smiles back, feeling much more inclined to deem him handsome anew, with his dark eyes softened by good humor and the corners of his mouth curved upward, and–
And still completely bare-chested.
His eyes dart down and back up again, and Lothiriel blinks, confused, as his face floods with color. “My lady, while I am grateful for the rescue, I think it best if you return to your rock.”
The reason is rapidly apparent: she is still in her shift–her completely soaked through shift–that is now clinging very, very improperly to her skin.
“O-oh, yes, of course” Lothiriel stutters, leaping to her feet and moving away from him, “I-I had really better head back regardless, I know my aunt will be looking for me soon. You…you will be alright, my lord?”
“As long as there are no other hairbrush-wielding noblewomen to be found in these woods,” comes his wry response, “I suspect I will be fine.”
“Good!” She cries, yanking her dress on over her head–it will be soaked through by the shift, but there is nothing for it now. “A pleasant day to you, my lord!”
Niprhedil mercifully allows her to clamor into her saddle without complaint. By the time she is settled, the mystery Rohir is standing and watching her with obvious amusement.
“Good day, my lord!”
“So you’ve said already.”
Unable to help herself, she sticks her tongue out at him, earning another deep laugh. Blushing and thanking the Valar she’s been able to extract herself without revealing her identity, she tugs gently on Niprhedil’s reins, turning her towards home.
“So am I never to know the name of my rescuer?” Comes the Rohir’s voice again.
Lothiriel’s flush deepens and she throws him a glare over her shoulder. Surely he has guessed that to do so could be damning, certainly for her, and mayhaps even for him!
“There is a higher chance of you falling in that river again than me giving you my name, my lord. This is farewell, truly.”
She thinks she catches a flash of disappointment in his expression before she presses her heels against her mare’s side and rides off.
–
“You are very distracted this evening, brother.”
Eomer winces as Faramir steps up beside him, looking far too smug and knowing in the flickering candle-light of Imrahil’s hall. He likes his almost brother-in-law, but he likes less the man’s damnable ability to read people so well.
“Perhaps I am simply unaccustomed to you Gondorians’ idea of an evening well spent.”
“Hm,” murmurs Faramir, “I suppose that could be true.”
Minutely, Eomer relaxes. Perhaps the Steward’s famed powers of perception have been addled by the flow of fine Dol Amrothan wine and Eowyn’s presence?
“But I think there is another cause.”
“He met a mystery lady in the woods today,” chimes in Eothain, nudging Eomer’s shoulder as he does so. “Hasn’t been able to think of anything else since.”
“Eothain,” he hisses, annoyed and mortified all at once. Annoyed, because his captain should know better than to say such things in front of Farami. Mortified, because it’s true.
“Oh?” Says Aragorn, appearing from seemingly nowhere at the worst possible moment. “Did I hear something about a mysterious lady?”
“Just so, sire,” Faramir confirms. “And in the woods, no less.”
There is something worrisome in Faramir’s tone.
“Rather an odd place to meet a lady, Eomer.”
“I did not intend to meet anyone. I only wanted to wash my hair before tonight’s…festivities–”
“On Eowyn’s orders, no doubt–”
“Yes,” Eomer begrudgingly admits. “She told me I was under no circumstances to smell of horse in Imrahil’s ballroom.”
“A wise woman, your sister.”
“The wisest,” agrees Faramir.
“You,” Eomer says, pointing a finger at Aragorn, “are meddling, and you,” a jab in Faramir’s direction, “are biased.”
Faramir shrugs while Aragorn grins.
“Come now, Eomer, tell them about your lady! One of them is bound to know her–”
Which is precisely why he hadn’t said anything in the first place. What if she was no lady? Or worse, what if she was already someone else’s lady, which would make his cursed, illogical fixation on her even less appropriate? But Bema help him, when was the last time a woman had surprised him like that? Made him laugh so easily? Before the War, most likely, and certainly before the Kingship that has made him such a prize for Gondorian and Rohirric noblewomen alike. Besides, if she had wanted him to find her, she would have given him her name, instead of riding off in a righteous–and infuriatingly attractive–fury.
“I have not been to Dol Amroth in many years,” Aragorn says, pulling him from his thoughts. “And am likely to be of little help in your search for her.”
Eothain turns hopeful eyes on Faramir, whose expression is far too contrived to be truly innocent.
“I may not know many ladies of the area,” he admits, “but my cousin might be of more use to you.”
Eomer cannot help but arch an eyebrow at that; Elphir, many years married, has eyes only for his own wife. Erchirion’s great love is the sea, and Amrothos knows far too many ladies to be a trustworthy source.
“I do not mean any disrespect to your cousins,” Eomer says, “but I cannot see Elphir, Erchirion, or Amrothos being acquainted with such a lady.”
“You might be surprised. As it is, I wasn’t referring to them.”
“You have another cousin?” Asks Eothain. “Bema, just how many children does Imrahil have?”
“Four. The three boys and a single daughter.”
Eomer’s brow furrows. Yes, he does think he remembers Imrahil mentioning a daughter, at some point between Pelennor and Morannon. The week remains a blur, even now, and it’s not a time he particularly likes to dwell on–no matter how grateful he is for the Prince of Dol Amroth’s friendship and Eowyn’s miraculous recovery.
“She’s here somewhere,” Faramir murmurs, before his face splits into a wide smile. “Ah. Found her. Lothiriel!”
A tendril of worry slides abruptly and unpleasantly into Eomer’s stomach. For the back of Faramir’s cousin’s head is worryingly familiar: long, dark waves of hair, raven-sheened in the candles’ glow, tumble down her back.
And then she turns, clearly searching for the source of her name and Eomer nearly chokes. For she–Lothiriel, Faramir’s cousin Lothiriel, Imrahil’s daughter Lothiriel–is the hairbrush wielding lady from the river.
She drifts over, so focused on her cousin that she seems not to notice him, saying, “You called, Faramir?”
“I did. It seems Eomer King needs assistance in locating a lady I think you know very well.”
Her brow furrows in the same adorable way it had earlier, when he’d accused her of being lost, and then she turns sharp, dark eyes on him and–
“Oh, no,” she moans. “You are Eomer King?”
Aragorn and Eothain burst into laughter while Faramir’s smile sharpens into something nearly predatory. “He is, Loth. Won’t you be a good hostess and introduce him properly to the lady of the river?”
Blushing to the roots of her hair, she drops into a quick curtsy. “I–hello again, my lord.”
“Hello,” he says, grinning despite the own warmth he feels in his face, “I am glad I did not have to go for another swim to learn your name, Lady Lothiriel.”
–
(Months later, the betrothal of Lothiriel of Dol Amroth to Eomer King goes smoothly, until–
“I cannot say how grateful I am to you for allowing me to visit your home, Imrahil,” Eomer says, ignoring the sharp pinch of his fiance’s fingers at the insde of his elbow.
“It did seem to suit you, on your last visit,” Imrahil says benignly, similarly ignoring the glare his daughter gives you. “The sea air has that effect on people, I’ve found.”
“The sea is lovely,” Eomer agrees, unable to keep from smirking as Lothiriel blushes beside him, “but I myself have always preferred rivers.”
From behind them, there is a sudden gasp and then a cry of “Lady Ivriniel!”
“Oh, Valar, she’s fainted again,” grumbles Amrothos. “We’re always telling her she needs to wear less layers in the summer months–”
“Yes, that’s exactly it,” Lothiriel squeaks. “Too many layers.”
“Too many layers indeed,” agrees Eomer, with a kiss to her knuckles.
She hits him with a hairbrush for the second time that night. Eomer can’t say he truly minds.)
#eomer x lothiriel#eothiriel#prompt response#cosmonauthill#my writing#someone stop me from writing 3K long prompts good LORD
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@thecorteztwins
I’m sorry, I couldn’t stop myself. Inspired by Pyro’s gothic romances, and that ridiculous Slate letter. Sorry also for the purple prose, I’m sure St. John is a much better writer than I am.
It had been a few weeks, and Tansy was starting to settle in to her role as governess. The manor house, which had seemed to loom menacingly at her first approach, now settled around her like a faithful watchdog, although she would not roam at night without a candle in hand. Sometimes she thought she saw flickers of movement in shadowy corners, odd reflections in the mirrors, but it was surely her imagination. She had to be strong and sensible, with a fanciful child like Rowan in her charge.
“There’s things in this house that you cannot see, child,” said old Mrs. Scragg when the two of them took tea alone at the kitchen table, far out of earshot of Lord Edgeware. “Believe me, there’s old blood in this house. But none of the spirits will mean you any harm, not a sweet girl like you. It’s the living you’ve got to fear.”
There was only one man in the house that Tansy truly feared, and that was Lord Edgeware himself – stern and cold, with a face as hard and sharp as a bare mountain crag. Tansy could barely bring herself to speak in his presence. But the rest had found a place in her affections. Lord Edgeware’s son Edgar, a beautiful, gentle soul whose eyes were haunted by tragedy of his wife’s passing. Their son Rowan, who had inherited his father’s dreamy, melancholic disposition – Tansy often had to call him to attention during lessons. Edgar’s sister, the Lady Estella, a lively and intelligent woman, although there were times when sadness seemed to creep over her as well. Perhaps it ran in the family, or perhaps it was simply living in the shadow of their tyrannical father.
She got along with her fellow servants. There was the family lawyer, Paul Bryson – every inch a gentleman, but always kind rather than condescending, and he treated her with such warmth. Bill Wick the groundskeeper, brawny and rugged, who made up for his lack of manners with open-hearted good cheer. Despite his rough manners and immense strength, Tansy always felt completely safe around him. There was Ambrose Lockley the valet, who radiated peace and calm no matter what mishaps befell the household – he was often on the receiving end of Bill’s chatter, but never seemed to mind. Mrs. Scragg the housekeeper, who spun wild stories but seemed to take a motherly interest in all the manor’s inhabitants.
Unfortunately, there was one other guest at the manor. Lord Edgeware was the only man that Tansy feared, but there was only one man that she hated – the Spanish nobleman Fernando Cortázar.
It wasn’t entirely clear what his connection was to the family – no one seemed to want to claim him. Paul said that he was the son of Lord Edgeware’s old business partner, although the two of them never seemed to discuss any actual business. Fernando seemed more interested in drinking up the family’s good wine, and cornering the maids in stairwells. Mrs. Scragg proclaimed him to be the Devil in human form, and would cross herself whenever his name came up in the kitchens.
He’d set his sights upon Tansy from the moment she’d crossed the threshold, a predatory stare that made her shiver. He was an attractive man, that much could be said. His face was noble and well-formed, and he had long scarlet hair that made Tansy think of a crown of autumn leaves. But, just as hints of cruel Winter lurked beneath Autumn’s glory, malice peeked out through Lord Cortázar’s handsome visage – a certain gleam in his eyes, cruel lines around his thin mouth. Tansy hated to be alone with him, but he seemed to track her through the house, like a hunting dog on the trail of a fox.
She had just finished putting Rowan to bed, telling him stories and stroking his hair until the poor, nervous child drifted off to sleep, when Cortázar found her again. She was in the drawing room, searching for a suitable book to pass the lonely evening hours, when he suddenly came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face in her golden hair. She could not stop herself from shrieking, pulling away with a startled jolt.
“Forgive me, my sweet, I did not mean to frighten you,” the Spaniard purred, grabbing her hand and pulling it forcefully up to his lips.
“My Lord Cortázar, please do not take such liberties. Perhaps things are different in Spain, but I am a proper English girl,” Tansy scolded as harshly as she dared, folding her arms around herself as if to protect from further assaults. He seemed to occupy a place of importance in the household, despite being disliked by nearly everyone, and she could not risk offending him.
“So you are,” Cortázar chuckled indulgently. “I apologize for such unseemly behavior, but I was so moved by your beauty that I could not help myself.”
“I am not so beautiful,” Tansy said, turning away. It was true. Her arms and legs were too slender, her eyes too large, and an old shade of blue that in certain light appeared almost violent. With her pale blond hair, she seemed almost unearthly – a fairy-like creature that could not exist among normal folk. It was her curse to bear. How she longed for a plain, simple face like a proper English girl.
“My darling, you are ethereal. You are angelic. You are la belle dame sans merci, and I am in your thrall.” Cortázar took a step forward. Tansy stepped back.
“Then I release you, good sir,” she said, attempting to walk around him, but he blocked her path.
“You cannot. That face, it haunts me. Your voice sings in my blood.” He grasped her hand and began kissing his way up her arm. Tansy wished desperately that Paul would suddenly appear. Although she couldn’t stand the shame of such a compromising position, surely he would see her reluctance. Surely he would put a stop to this.
“Please, control yourself,” she begged, managing to pull her arm away with a jerk. “Surely you should not lower yourself to the likes of me. I am but a simple governess, from a poor family. You could have your pick of any woman. Someone closer to your station.” Not she wanted Cortázar to unleash his passion upon Lady Estella, but she suspected Estella could deal with him quite easily. Estella did not suffer fools.
“Oh, I already have many,” Lord Cortázar said, waving his hand as if it were trifling matter. “My wife, she understands. And my many mistresses. But I am always looking for a new member of my harem. They would welcome you with open arms.”
“Harem?” The word was unfamiliar to Tansy, but she was more focused on what she did understand. “Did you say you are married, sir? Then surely you must cease this behavior and keep faith with her.”
“I have a wife who understands. There are many women in my house, and they all understand. I am a man of extreme passion. My appetites are larger than normal men.”
“This conversation is quite inappropriate,” Tansy said, retreating again. This time she moved towards the doors on the far side of the room that let out onto the veranda.
“Ah, you English are so prudish,” Lord Cortázar laughed, following her again. “But that is part of your charm. You are so innocent. Pure and untouched. Let me take you away from here. With me, you would not be a servant. You would live in luxury. I think my English was mistaken previously – I said ‘house,’ but I really meant ‘palace.’ You would have your own set of rooms, maids waiting upon you hand and foot, the finest foods. I would drape you in silk and diamonds, as such beauty deserves.”
“Surely you have enough women, sir,” Tansy tried.
“Never enough. You must understand, I am cursed with…certain problems. It is difficult to speak of –“
“Then perhaps you should not speak of it.”
“Oh, but I must! For you to understand. As I said, I am a man of appetite. And I am too much for any one woman. I require such extensive…..stimulation…that as much as I delight my partners, they quickly tire. My wife could not bear such a burden alone – it would destroy her health and send her to an early grave. I must look for outside conquests for the sake of my wife, so that I will not harm her with my relentless passion.”
Through the drawing room doors, the full moon shone upon the windswept moors, and just beyond that, the cliffs that overlooked the ocean. When the window was open in her bedroom, she could hear the dark waves crashing against the shore, seeming to murmur dreadful secrets. Lord Edgeware forbade anyone from venturing near the cliffs, citing the danger, but Tansy had often seen Lord Edgar staring out across the moors with a hungry, longing expression. And of course, it was forbidden to speak of the white-shrouded figure that was sometimes seen wandering through the bracken towards the sea, although she had heard servants whisper of their own encounters. Even so, Tansy was at that moment weighing in her mind whether or not to fling open the doors and run wild upon the moors, even to those dreadful cliffs, if it meant an escape from Cortázar’s company.
“It can take hours, you see,” Cortázar continued. Tansy placed her hand on the door handle. “And I am….not built like most men. I can take a woman to the heights of ecstasy, but the toll upon her body and mind…..It is like looking upon the true face of God, no mere mortal can withstand –“
“So, when will the silly girl realize her mistake and fall in love with Cortázar?” Fabian asked, putting the book down for a moment with his finger keeping his place within the pages.
“That’s not exactly the direction I’m going with it,” said St. John. He had been watching Fabian read in much the same way that he might watch someone open a lovingly gift-wrapped dog turd.
“No? Don’t tell me he’ll die some beautiful, tragic death! Or perhaps he’ll find another woman more worthy of him. Perhaps this ‘Tansy’ is not really the main character, and she’ll soon be replaced by some fiery noblewoman who will join Cortázar’s harem.”
“He’s not really meant to be the main character.”
“But why not? He’s so handsome, strong and virile! The perfect epitome of machismo! How could you put such a man in the book and not let him be the hero?” Off to the side, Avalanche choked on his beer, and had to spend a moment coughing before taking another swig.
“I mean, he’s a bit of a prat, isn’t he?” St. John suggested.
“I can’t imagine what you mean. He must be charismatic to have charmed so many women.”
“Yeah, about that. He’s also a bit of a liar.”
Fabian’s eyes widened in surprise, then he began to nod sagely, as if he’d just solved a difficult riddle.
“Oh, of course, of course. I should have seen it. He is a fraud. What a brilliant twist. You set up the image of a perfect man, then shatter the reader’s expectations. It is a shame, though, to waste such a likable character. Perhaps he has a twin brother, who really is brilliant and handsome and virile, and Fernando is copying his life out of jealousy for what he can never be. And then the twin shows up at the end and sweeps Tansy away in his arms. Why aren’t you taking notes, these are brilliant suggestions.”
“I’ll consider it for the sequel,” St. John shrugged, taking no notes whatsoever.
“So, is that really the only thing you noticed about Fernando Cortázar?” Dominic pressed. He seemed to be getting impatient. St. John preferred to just quietly wait for the bomb to go off, it was more fun that way. Although Cortéz was so unbelievably thick, it seemed like perhaps it never would. “He didn’t seem at all familiar to you?”
“Well, I am well acquainted with a handsome Spanish aristocrat,” Fabian preened, putting a hand on his own chest to emphasize the obvious. “I was flattered at first, but from what you’re telling me about the story’s development, obviously he can’t possibly be –“ Fabian stopped abruptly, realization dawning in his eyes once more.
“Oh. Oh, I get it. This is all a bit of a joke. The suave Spanish nobleman who is not what he seems. You’re making fun of that pendejo de la Rocha, aren’t you?”
This time Pyro was the one to choke on beer, while Avalanche thumped him helpfully on the back.
“Yes, yes, mate, you’re exactly right. I’m making fun of Empath, and not anyone else,” he said when he could speak again. “You should go tell him that right now. Read the book aloud to him and the other Hellions. It’ll be great.”
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A Vision Of A Wedding
Title: A Vision Of A Wedding
For: Katie @whynotcallitvanda
Rating: G
Word Count: 4,331
Warnings: None
Summary: Wedding planning isn't as easy as it seems, as Wanda and Vision found out. A story about the events leading up to their big day.
AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16048253
Fanfiction.net Link: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13071034/1/
Message for recipient: Hi! I had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope that you enjoy it! It’s set as if the events of Infinity War never happened, and (realistically) in 2020 but it can be imagined as happening whenever you like.
Made for the Scarlet Vision Exchange 2018!
A Vision Of A Wedding
It was a beautiful Hungarian summer sunrise.
The sky was layered pink and red, like streaks of paint on a canvas. The sun was emerging from behind the tall trees and shining between the leaves, illuminating the grand, floral arch and the tall figure who stood in front of it.
Vision was nervous to say the least. Not only was he about to marry the woman of his dreams, yet there was an unspoken tension in the gardens.
But their friends were all gathered here for their wedding and nothing else.
“Psst, Vizh! Stop messing with your tie!”
Vision swiftly spun around to face the table where Tony Stark was seated. He had, in fact, been fiddling with his tie for a while now. He wanted it to be proportioned perfectly, and since Wanda had insisted on him wearing a physical suit rather than one he’d phased himself, he found himself constantly adjusting it.
He then turned towards Thor who gave him an encouraging wink and a thumbs up. Although he looked very out of place in his large suit, there was hardly any other competition for the role of best man. In Vision’s eyes, Thor truly was the best man.
Next to catch his gaze was Steve. It was lucky that the super soldier was able to perform weddings; a skill he had been given back in his day. He was glancing at his watch. Steve was eager for the ceremony to take place the around dawn so that he didn’t draw too much attention to himself and his team.
The seating plan was arranged well. Vision and his fiancé had spent hours organising it together, hoping to avoid as much conflict as possible.
Sitting around the table closest to the altar were Tony and Pepper Stark, Bruce Banner, James Rhodes and Peter Parker. Vision believed that they were all somewhat family to him, and insisted that they sat together.
Next was Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes, with three places that were reserved for Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton. Wanda thought that these people would feel most comfortable with each other. With the one exception of Sam and Bucky, but that couldn’t be helped. They hadn't caused a scene just yet.
The remaining tables were filled by Asgardians (whom Thor insisted on bringing along for “educational purposes”) and another alien who appeared to be made of rocks. Vision knew better than to question it.
His fellow Avengers, however, seemed to glance back at one particular Asgardian. He had been informed that he was Thor’s (adopted) brother, Loki. So Vision had done his research and had soon found the reason for everyone’s uneasiness.
And consequently kept an eye on him too.
The sun had risen quite high when the car finally arrived. It was self-driving, provided by none other than Tony Stark himself.
First to exit was Clint. He looked surprisingly dashing in a suit, something he was presumably used to wearing as a family man. He probably attended many school events for his children and nights out with his...
Vision felt the world around him screech to a halt as Wanda emerged from the car.
She looked absolutely stunning. She wore a loose white dress with scarlet trim which fell down to her ankles. She wore a gold locket encrusted with a circular ruby (one Vision had chosen for her himself). The sleeves of the dress possessed a pink floral print, which Vision recognised as cherry blossom. Her outfit was beautiful whilst also practical, very much like Wanda herself.
She caught his eye, and the pair shared a look of pure joy.
Wanda felt a rush of happiness when she first caught sight of Vision. He wore a fitting suit which contrasted with the colour of his skin. In her eyes, he was the definition of perfection. His mere seemed presence begged her to approach.
As if in a trance, she felt her feet glide towards him. With her arm in Clint’s, she locked eyes with Vision, focusing on nothing but the man she loved. The man she was about to marry.
Once she reached the altar, she smiled at the (obviously quite nervous) Vision.
Upon admiring her once more, he stuttered “Y-you, er, you look…”
“Decent?” She prompted.
“Beautiful.” He replied.
She allowed herself a small giggle. “Says the handsome man in front of me.” She said.
He grinned in return, and the pair turned towards Steve, who nodded at their signal to begin.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate the marriage of two people who deserve all the happiness this world has to offer. They were burdened by our mistakes, and I believe I speak for all of us when I say that we were too blind by our own goals to even consider your lives. On behalf of everyone here, I’m sorry.”
“If anyone here knows any reason that these two should not be married, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
Wanda looked at the guests anxiously, and was relieved to see only smiling faces.
Steve, too, was smiling. “All in favour for this marriage?”
The “Aye”s weren’t in sync, but they were loud enough to portray their point. Or that may actually have been just Thor.
“Great, in that case, are you two ready?”
“Yes.” The pair replied, without looking away from each other.
“Alright then. Wanda Maximoff, do you take Vision to be your lawfully wedded husband? Will you love and comfort him, through good times and bad, in sickness and in health, and to be faithful to him at all times?”
She didn’t even register the words that tumbled out of her mouth.
“I do.”
Steve then turned to Vision.
“Vision…”
Steve glanced cautiously at Tony, who nodded back at him. The genius was beaming with pride.
“...Stark, do you take Wanda to be your lawfully wedded wife? Will you love and comfort her, through good times and bad, in sickness and in health, and to love and be faithful to her at all times?”
“I do.”
“Now it’s time for the exchanging of vows. Wanda?”
Wanda forced her eyes away from Vision in order to unfold the piece of paper hidden in her sleeve.
“Vision, from the moment I first saw you in that cradle I felt connected to you. At first I thought it was because of the stone in your head, but then I realised it was something more. As I got to know you I felt myself drawn to you. Every day you save the world. But you are my world, Vizh. And I promise to love you for as long as I am alive.”
Suddenly her vision became clouded and she felt the need to bite her bottom lip. Her lover brushed the tears away before they had the chance to fall.
“My darling Wanda.” Vision began, having memorised his vow by heart. “Whenever I used to see my reflection, I saw a servant for humanity. I saw myself bound by duty for this planet. But now, I feel as if I am bound to you. You helped me to accept who I am, and I can only hope I can help you do the same. If I were to look at my reflection now, I would see the luckiest man in the universe. I love you, Wanda.”
The two looked at each other, thinking about how far they had come to reach this point.
It was a very long journey indeed.
9 months earlier...
Paris was known throughout the world for being the city of romance, therefore the sight of lovers walking together on the streets was no spectacle to behold. On that particular evening, however, one couple didn’t quite fit in. To the ordinary eye, they were a normal couple enjoying the sights. But they were so much more.
Two troubled souls desperate to break away from their lives. Desperate to escape the seemingly never-ending conflict in the world. Desperate to be normal.
Wanda Maximoff was burdened with a traumatic past. Her twin brother was murdered by a robot. Her parents were killed by a bomb created by billionaire Tony Stark...
...who also happened to be her boyfriend’s father figure.
It’s funny, how life works its magic like that. If she had been asked if she had any interest in that awkward, purple synthezoid before she gained her powers she would have instantly denied.
But the more she got to know the Vision, the more she slowly felt herself be pulled towards him.
The way he was awed by everyday things. The way he attempted to cook for her. The way he would find activities to do together when she was sad. The way he was ready to sacrifice everything for her in a synthetic heartbeat..
Even then, in his human disguise wearing a casual shirt (which she had handpicked for him) he gazed with wonder at every little nook and cranny of the city. It made Wanda’s heart flutter every time she watched him.
Maybe that was what lead her to her crazy decision.
“Hey Vizh,” she said, dragging him to a corner of the sidewalk.
“Yes, darling?” Vision replied, smiling at Wanda’s enthusiasm.
“Do you know what day it is?” She asked with a cheeky grin.
Vision visibly contemplated the question, assessing whether it was a trick or a joke. It wasn’t everyday that such a trivial question would be asked to a man whose brain was literally made up of the internet.
“Today is Saturday the 29th of February. Leap day.” He answered. Upon seeing Wanda’s mischievous expression, he added “Why do you ask?” with an edge of playful suspicion.
“Do you know what happens today?”
“I must admit that I do not. Should I?”
This is it! Thought Wanda, as she carefully planned her next words.
“Traditionally, today is the day that women propose to men. And if the man refuses, he has to buy her 12 pairs of gloves.”
The adorable look of genuine confusion on Vision’s face made Wanda’s heart skip a beat. Her plan was successful thus far.
Without giving him a chance to respond, she fell onto one knee. She felt adrenaline pumping through her veins. It was a pleasant feeling, not unlike her own powers.
Vision looked at her, his face a mixture of messages. She briefly skimmed his mind to try and solve his expression, where she found he was conflicted. He was overjoyed, yet begging her to change her mind. To rethink.
It was not going to happen.
“So Vision, will you marry me?”
“Well, look who finally decided to show up!”
Vision hadn’t even fully entered the lab when he was greeted by Tony. It was almost a routine at this point. Vision would turn off his transponder and Tony wouldn’t inquire about it. Unless there was an emergency, in which case Vision would come back immediately as instructed. That was the unofficial deal between them. Vision was entitled to privacy.
The lab was far messier than it had been when he’d left it. He would often clean up after the scientists when he was in the compound as he had little else to do. Bruce would usually try to keep things organised, but today was an exception.
Judging by the way Tony Stark was frantically typing on his keyboard, Vision could only assume that the pair had made a breakthrough.
“Mr Stark, please may I have a word?” he asked, taking care to phrase the question so that Tony would pick up the hint.
Luckily, he did.
“You’ve had eight, but sure. Bruce, would you give us a minute?”
Dr Banner turned around from where he was working and looked at Tony quizzically, before shrugging and leaving without a word.
“What’s up?” Said Tony, not looking away from his computer screen.
Vision felt his body tremble, but it was in fact as still as ever. This feeling was familiar. Nervousness.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.” He said
“I’m flattered, but I’m a married man. You’d have to talk it out with Pepper.” Joked Tony. After getting no reaction from Vision, he mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “tough crowd” and focused back on his work.
“Mr Stark, do you think of me as human?”
Vision watched as Tony tensed and slowly spun on his chair to face him. He was thankful for the sudden absence of the clicking of the keyboard so that they could have a serious conversation. They looked at each other for a little while, before the man let out a sigh.
“Look, I’m going to be honest with you. No I don’t.” Tony said.
Vision’s limbs suddenly felt very heavy, and the world around him seemed to slow down. Was it anger? No, he would feel the urge to destroy something. It was more like... disappointment.
“But that’s only ‘cause I helped make you. I know your circuits and stuff, and you remind me too much of JARVIS. So no, I don’t think you’re human. Then again, I don’t think Thor’s human either. But he is a person, and so are you, that goes without saying.”
Vision found some comfort in his creator’s words.
Tony spun back towards his computer and resumed typing. It was now or never, Vision decided.
“So if I were to marry Wanda…”
This time, the silence was deafening. Tony froze and Vision braced himself for… something. Anger, shame, guilt- anything that would be directed at him.
Wanda had always mentioned wanting to swap powers so that she could phase out of awkward situations. She would literally let the floor swallow her up. Vision suddenly understood why this would come in useful.
“Say what now?”
The pause had been smaller than he had expected, lasting only a few seconds.
“I mean, would you give me your blessing if I were to get married?” Vision repeated, suddenly thinking better of mentioning Wanda straight away.
Tony let out a sound akin to a snicker. Which grew into a chuckle. Which evolved into a laughing fit. He began to laugh so hard that Vision was genuinely worried.
It ended far too quickly.
“Wait- you’re serious?”
Vision, who’s expression hadn’t changed since his declaration, simply nodded.
The billionaire let out a sigh, and slowly rose from his chair to face the synthezoid. He placed a hand on his shoulder (Vision bent his knees ever so slightly) and smiled warmly.
“Bruce owes me $10.”
“It was that obvious?”
“You’re new to all this. And yeah, it was. Come on, turning off your tracker, coming back in a really good mood... Even Bruce could tell.”
Tony grinned up at Vision. Vision smiled briefly in return before his expression melted into a frown, and he stepped backwards.
“You know that you’re supposed to be happy, right?” Said Tony, quickly growing concerned.
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, tell me what you’re thinking.”
Vision stood still and proceeded to look Tony in the eye. He rarely voiced his thoughts to the billionaire, as that role was reserved for Wanda. But there were some things that he simply couldn’t tell her. Some things that could only his creator could understand.
“It feels wrong. It feels wrong to marry her. You’re right, I’m not human and I never will be. She deserves someone she can love fully, someone she can spend her life with- create a family with. I cannot give her that. She will grow old and I will remain as I am. I don’t want her to have to go through that-”
Tony watched in silence as Vision listed numerous reasons why he shouldn’t marry the woman he loved. It was undeniable that all of his points were true and well thought out, but Tony couldn’t tell him that. They worked in a dangerous business, one where every day was a matter of life and death. It had taken him too long to propose to Pepper Potts, and he was not going to let the Vision make the same mistake.
“If you had this many doubts, then why did you propose to this girl in the first place?” He asked.
“...Actually it was Wanda who proposed to me.”
Tony snorted. He then sighed and outstretched his arms for a hug. Vision had only ever been offered a hug by Wanda, so he awkwardly shuffled into the genius’s arms. Their small embrace seemed to settle his doubts. He should have pulled away sooner, yet somehow he was satiated. Relieved. Soothed.
“You’ll be fine.” Said Tony firmly, stepping back. “You’re growing up, Vizh. It’ll be good for you.”
Without warning the lab door opened and Bruce emerged.
“Sorry to interrupt, but I just had to check if it the program synced yet.” He said apologetically.
Tony rubbed his hands together in sudden delight. “Forget it!” He said. “We’ve got a wedding to arrange!”
“Wait, wedding? Who’s wedding?”
Vision immediately turned to Tony to try and stop him from-
“Vision’s marrying the Maximoff girl.”
Telling Bruce.
If Dr Banner’s eyes had widened any further, they would have popped right out of his skull. “Wa-Wanda? Vision is getting married to Wanda? You’re getting married to Wanda?”
Bruce ran a hand through his hair.
“Great, isn’t it?” Tony smirked.
Bruce wasn’t amused.
“Oh no, no no no. Tony, are you sure this is a good idea?” He asked in a hushed voice, as if Vision couldn’t hear him. He could. Every single word. Each word was a stab to his synthetic heart.
Tony gave Bruce a pointed look.
“‘Course it is. Now come on, we’ve got to make some calls. This wedding isn’t gonna plan itself!”
Ring ring! Ring ring!
Wanda looked down at the crumpled bit of paper in her hand and prayed that the number was right. She had already encountered a wrong one and didn’t want to make the day any more awkward than it was going to be.
Her worries increased when a child’s voice answered the phone.
“Hello?”
She knew that Clint had children, so she thought there was no harm in continuing the call.
“Hi there! Please may I speak to your Dad?”
“Sure!”
Wanda heard shuffling on the other side. And then the beautiful sound of children’s laughter. She couldn’t help but reminisce on the times she had played with Pietro when they were younger. A time that was ripped away from them far too soon.
She felt relief wash over her as Clint’s voice finally answered the phone.
“Uh, hello?”
“Clint! It’s Wanda!”
“Wanda? How did you get this number?”
She felt slightly guilty to be the cause of Steve betraying Clint’s trust. But her reason was important. Besides, it had been a long time since she’d talked to Clint and she had begun to miss him quite a lot.
“Steve gave it to me. I just wanted to ask if we could meet.”
“Why? Has something happened?!”
His voice was suddenly drowned with concern. Classic Clint. Joking around one second, prepared to fight to the death in the other. He would do anything for his family, not all of which he was related to by blood. Wanda hoped that he would consider this when he answered her question.
“No, no. I just wanted to ask you something.”
“If you just wanted to ask me something then you could just do it now, seeing as you went through all the trouble to get this number.”
“No… I would rather do it face to face.”
Truthfully, she wanted to be able to skim his mind to see if his reaction was genuine.
“Look, you gotta understand that it’s not that easy for me to just drop everything and leave anymore. My kids are growing up, Nathan’s starting school… I don’t wanna miss out on anything else. I want to be the Dad they deserve.”
“Would you walk me down the aisle?”
“Yeah, eventually. When Lila’s old enough. Still got quite a while to go thou- wait what? Walk you down the aisle?!”
Wanda could hear the faint voice of a woman down the phone.
“What was that, Clint?”
“Nothing honey!”
Wanda suppressed a laugh at his sudden change of tone. “I’m planning to married this fall.” She said.
“Wanda, that’s great! Who’s the lucky guy?”
This was the question that Wanda had secretly been dreading. The last time Clint had met Vision had been in battle, and that hadn’t been pleasant for either of them. The rest of the group had been slightly sceptical at first, but had soon warmed up to the identity of Wanda’s fiancé and were eagerly helping to plan the wedding.
But Clint’s approval was the most important one she needed.
“Vision.”
A painful pause.
“Oh uh… you did think this through right?”
“Of course.”
“And he can’t have s-”
“I know.”
“And he’s a… uh…”
“He’s a what, Clint? A robot?”
She had heard the questions so many times that she was sick of it. She didn’t understand why her friends couldn’t see Vision the way she did. As a person.
“...yeah.”
“Well he’s not, Clint. I love him and he loves me. It’s as simple as that.”
“Sure, whatever you say.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“Will you stand in as my father?”
“Wanda, what sort of question even is that? Of course I will.”
Vision stood at the top of the hill and gazed down at the construction below him. New Asgard was to be a temporary solution to the homeless citizens of Thor’s home planet, and would act as a shelter until a permanent solution was found.
Said Prince was striding up the hill was hailing him.
“Vision! It’s been a while! How are you?” He said, his booming voice stretching out for what seemed like miles.
“I’m fine, thank you.” Vision replied, much more quietly in comparison. “Wanda and I-”
“Ah, Wanda.” Thor interrupted. “She’s the reason you were born, you know.”
It took every single component of Vision’s mind to avoid overthinking that statement.
“...yes. Well, Wanda and I are getting married-”
“Oh, congratulations!”
“Thank you- and I was wondering if you would be my best man?”
To be entirely honest, when Tony had first mentioned finding a best man, Vision had no idea what the job entailed. So he had done his research, and Thor was the person who immediately popped into his mind.
“I would be honoured to be the best man!”
...Except he doubted that the Asgardian knew what it was either.
“Do I have to do anything, or…?” Asked Thor, confirming Vision’s doubts.
“I believe you have to give a speech and protect the wedding rings.”
At least that was what the internet said, and he had quickly learned not to believe everything he read.
“Ah, yes. I knew that.” Thor most certainly didn’t. “Well, how hard can it be?”
“My thoughts exactly.” Vision replied. He felt relieved now that the matter was settled. As more parts of the wedding were gradually sorted out, he would be able to give Thor more details. Things were going smoothly so far.
“Is it alright if I bring a few friends?”
“Friends?” Vision couldn’t help the hint of exasperation that leaked into his voice. Time was running out, they only had a few months until the wedding and though it wouldn’t make a difference, he still wanted to return as quickly as possible.
“Just a few of my closest companions.” Said a beaming Thor.
“I don’t see why not.”
“Thank you, my Vision!”
Wanda sat in her temporary apartment, gazing in wonder at Vision’s shortlist of wedding rings. They had been at it for hours, because Vision had a very different definition of the word “short”.
“Vizh, I trust you. You can choose whatever ring you like for me.” She said, after she had almost fallen asleep for the fifth time.
“I know, but I believe all of them would suit you.” Said Vision. “There are 1,742 rings on this list compared to the millions of…”
It was the one time that Wanda felt sympathy for Stark, who had apparently also sat through this list.
“Why don’t you just get all of them? I mean, it’s not like Stark can’t afford it.” Wanda jokingly suggested.
“How is it possible to wear that many rings?” Vision asked innocently.
Wanda let out a chuckle. “No, you can’t- nevermind.” She turned back to the screen.
“Wait, what’s that one?” She said, pointing at one ring in particular.
“That one? That’s a royal ruby. Why, do you like it?”
It was quite a large gold ring, with an oval-shaped red gemstone in the middle.
“It’s perfect.”
“Thor, the rings please.”
“Of course!”
A wet-eyed Thor handed the rings over to Steve, who whispered a quick thanks.
The couple had decided to have meaningful words engraved on the inside of their rings. Wanda chose a word for her ring that immediately made her think of Vision. “Humanity”. Vision’s ring was engraved with the phrase that made him first realise his true feelings for Wanda. “Spirits lifted”.
“Now, repeat after me.” Instructed Steve, as he gave the first ring to Vision.
“With this ring, I thee wed.”
“With this ring, I thee wed.” Repeated Vision, gently sliding the ring onto Wanda’s supple finger.
“Wanda?” Prompted Steve, as he gave Wanda the second ring.
“With this ring,” she let out a breath of joy as she slid the ring onto Vision’s finger, “I thee wed.”
Steve smiled warmly at the pair, before announcing the words they had waited too long to hear.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife! You may kiss.”
The roar of applause and cheers were deaf to their ears. Wanda wrapped her arms around Vision’s neck and drew him closer for their first married kiss.
“I love you.” She said, as she pulled back.
Vision just smiled broadly, and stared at his wife, who stroked his cheek lovingly.
Even an android can cry tears of joy.
#scarletvisionexchange2018#sve2018#scarlet vision#vision#wanda maximoff#avengers#mcu#tony stark#bruce banner#steve rogers#clint barton
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Call me when you’ve chosen
This is my first ever fan fic so it might not be that great but I still hope you enjoy it! feel free to message me constructive criticism or any prompts you want me to do! I love Elu just as much as you guys so I hope I did them justice!
Follow my page for me Skam content!
Enjoy!
The boy’s laughter snaps Lucas out of his deep thoughts.
Lately all he could think about was Elliot. Elliot’s hair, Elliot’s smile, the way Elliot’s face crinkled when he laughed; memories of their short affair consumed his brain.
As much as he was mad at him, Lucas really missed hearing his voice.
“Earth to Lucassssss” Yann teased
“Sorry… what were you talking about?”
“We were talking about how ugly this damn mural is, we should probably start it soon.”
In an attempt to make Lucas feel better, the boys had planned to redo the mural together. It was a nice gesture and he appreciated it but being in the place where Lucas first laid eyes on Elliot and doing something him and Elliot were supposed to do together made his heart ache.
“yeah yeah, we can start now” Lucas said, lifting himself off the couch.
Lucas shuffled over to the mural, looking up at it sadly
Man, it really was ugly
“Lucas… you know we’re here for you right?” Arthur says as he walks up next to Lucas
“I know, thank you”
“So then tell us what happened between you and Elliot… it sucks seeing you so sad and we want to help.”
Shit. Lucas thought he was keeping it together better.
There’s nothing to sa—”
“Bullshit Lucas” Yann interrupts him “Don’t start hiding things again”
“I’m a good listener! I don’t know much about gay guys but--” Basille didn’t get to finish his sentence before Arthur clamps his hand over Basilles mouth
Lucas lets out a small giggle at Arthur, turns around to the boys and releases a sigh
“It’s not a big deal okay? Elliot and I kissed in the rain, spent an amazing night together, he told me he broke up with his girlfriend but then I saw them kissing at Chloe’s party so… that’s it. Not a big thing!”
“Lucas…. That is a big deal.” Yann says, staring into Lucas’s eyes
“I just wish he would stop giving me drawings... just let me move on already.”
“Drawings??” Basille asks confused “Is that a gay thing?”
Lucas rolls his eyes but continued
“he slipped one in my biology textbook this week, saying how much he missed me. I just don’t understand him”
The foyer goes silent for a few minutes. The boys are staring at their hands, trying to come up with a response. Just as the silence gets uncomfortable, Yann breaks it.
“He’s playing with you. I’m not okay with it, call him out! He can’t have a girlfriend and you, he’s gotta choose!”
Arthur and Basille nod in agreement
“You have to give him a piece of your mind!” Arthur says
“call him out? How would I do that?”
“text him something like, I’m not interested in guys with girlfriends. You can’t have us both. Call me when you’ve chosen” suggested Yann
Lucas digs for his phone in his pocket. When he unlocks it the conversation (or lack thereof) with Elliot is already up. Lucas had been staring at it since he got Elliot’s last text. He forces his thumbs to type What Yann had mentioned,
To Elliot: I’m not interested in guys with girlfriends. Sometimes you have to choose. Call me when you’ve figured it out.
He stared at his phone screen for a minute, trying to build up the courage to send it. Knowing that when he sends it there is no going back. Knowing that the decision Elliot makes could change his life for the better or for the worst. Elliot may have hurt him, but this uncertainty was ripping him apart. He pressed the send button and threw the phone on the couch.
“Done. I sent it”
Basille starts to clap but Yann shoots him a look and he stops.
Not even 2 minutes later Lucas’s phone chimes. This makes his world stop. Lucas and the boys just stare at it, finally Yann picks it up and hands it to the frozen Lucas
From Elliot: Where are you right now?
: We need to talk
Lucas reads it out loud. The panic starts to build.
“Oh god what do I reply??”
“Just say Foyer.” Yann says, smiling a little. “Keep it cold, do not show desperation”
Arthur shook his head in agreement, “Yeah, make him panic a little. It always works with the ladies, he’ll call soon.”
“I honestly I have no advice… I don’t know anything about women or men apparently” Basille sighs
Not knowing what else to say Lucas types out the text and hits send
To Elliot: Foyer.
Lucas slips the phone into his back pocket and claps his hands
“Alright ladies let’s get started on this mural before I go permanently blind”
It takes them an hour to get the first layer of white on the wall. An hour that dragged on forever. Lucas was constantly checking his phone and the boys were constantly asking if Elliot had called yet?
“For the fiftieth time guys, no. He has not called, and he is not going to. He’s probably just putting off the fact that he has to tell me he’s not interested, and it was never real for him” Lucas’s voice starts to crack at the end of the sentence
“well then he’s an idiot because you’re way better than whatever her name is” Basille says as he wraps his arms around Lucas’s tiny frame, pulling him in for a bear hug.
For the first time Lucas doesn’t push him off and soon all three of the boys are squeezing him so tight he can hardly breathe. He only pushes them away when he truly can’t breathe anymore, laughing as he weasels his way out of the group hug. His laughing only stops when he turns around.
“Guys…” he says but no one hears him over the laughter. “Guys!” he yells a little louder and they all turn to Lucas, suddenly all laughter stops.
Standing by the doorway was Elliot, gorgeous Elliot. The man who made Lucas’s heart skip a beat and ache all at the same time. He was wearing that brown jacket Lucas loved and his hair was a mess, he loved Elliot’s hair, especially when his hands were in it. Lucas looked down at Elliot’s eyes and noticed the boys usually piercing eyes that gave him butterflies were red and swollen, like he had been crying for a while.
“Hey” Elliot said quietly “I hope I’m not disturbing anything”
“No, actually we were just gonna head out, Arthurs…. Dog got sick” Yann lies
“I don’t have a---” Arthur starts before Yann elbows him in the side. “Ohhhh yeah, she’s throwing up everywhere, very gross”
Arthur and Yann gather their things and Basille’s because he can’t stop staring. They practically have to drag him out of the foyer. They’re almost out of earshot when Lucas hears Basille exclaim “Holy shit he’s hot! No homo though!”
Now that they’re alone Elliot takes a step towards Lucas, but Lucas takes a step back.
“What are you doing here?” Lucas whispers
“I came to talk, I made my cho--” Elliot tries to finish but Lucas cuts him off
“Do you even know how bad you hurt me? Did you even think about it? You tell me you broke up with Lucille for me and then tell me you need space?? But you don’t even take space Elliot! You give me drawings and you come up to me in the cafeteria! What kind of games are you trying to play with me?”
Elliot opens his mouth to respond but Lucas keeps going, tears forming in his eyes
“Not only that but you get back together with her! You’re making out with her while I’m being outed by Chloe to the whole school at the same party! Did you ever like me? Or was it fun to see if you could push the closeted kid out of the closet?”
Lucas finally takes a breath and stops, staring at Elliot waiting for a response. Elliot’s beautiful eyes are staring at the ground, tears rolling down his cheeks.
“I’m sorry” Is all Elliot manages to whisper, eyes still fixed on the ground
“I just… I just like you so much, you’re the first person I’ve ever felt these feelings for and knowing you don’t feel the same is… it’s heartbreaking.” Lucas chokes out
Elliot’s head snaps up, “Lucas I do feel those same things for you, I do. There’s just a lot you don’t know about me and if you knew…” He pauses “if you knew I’m scared those feelings would disappear.”
“The tell me, please just tell me”
“Lucas---”
“How am I supposed to believe you if you don’t tell me?”
The air is heavy and both boys have tears falling down their cheeks. Elliot is back to looking at the ground now so Lucas steps towards him and gently pushed Elliot’s head up so he can look in his eyes.
“Please tell me Eli, I won’t freak out I swear. I want to know, I think I deserve to know”
Elliot leads the younger boy to the couch without a word and sits him down.
“Okay I’ll tell you. Just… just don’t say I didn’t warn you okay?”
Lucas nods, staring into the handsome boys’ eyes
“I’m… bipolar Lucas. I was diagnosed at 15 and I’ve been struggling with it ever since” he says, moving his eyes back to the floor, scared of what the look on Lucas’s face was.
“Oh okay”
“And the reason I went back to Lucille is because after all these years she’s convinced me that she knows what’s best for me and that I can’t be stable without her… but now I know that’s a lie because… well because I met you.”
Lucas nods, trying to think of something to say but it’s a lot to process. He opens his mouth to say something, but Elliot is still talking
“And I was so happy with you, we kissed, and it was perfect but then you told me you didn’t need mentally ill people in your life, and I didn’t… I didn’t want to be a burden and to be honest it made me sad.”
“Elliot!” Lucas exclaims “that is not what I meant at all. My mom is schizophrenic, my dad left me to take care of her by myself when I was 15. I love her a lot but it’s a lot to handle that young. I still talk to her all the time, she just believes so much in god that I don’t want her to hate me for being who I really am. I would’ve told you but when I tell people that they give me the ‘oh you poor little thing’ face and I hate it…”
When Lucas stops Elliot lifts his head to look into his eyes.
“Really?”
“Yes, really. I could never not like you because of something you have no control over. You’re perfect to me” Lucas says, putting his hand into Elliot’s.
Lucas uses his free hand to wipe the tears from the older boys’ face, running his fingers along his jaw to his chin. Elliot leans his head in, resting his forehead on Lucas’s. All the time keeping their eyes locked.
“Eli, I really like you. Like a lot a lot and it scares me a little, but I want this to work” Lucas says, pressing a kiss to Elliot’s cheek
“I like you a lot too LuLu” Elliot says with a smile. The first smile Lucas has seen from him tonight
They lean into a kiss, it’s light at first but get’s deeper with every second. All the angst, the hurt, and all the fear has changes to passion. The kisses get deeper, Lucas slipping his tongue into Elliot’s mouth.
Elliot pushes away, breathing heavily “Can we go back to your place?”
“Probably not a great idea, my bedroom is now the living room. How about we go back to yours? Lucas says, giving Elliot a peck on the nose
“Lets just stay here then” Elliot grabs the back of Lucas’s neck and pulls him into a deep kiss
They melt into each other on the old couch and even with the springs digging into Lucas’s back all he can think is
This is perfect
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Different Is Beautiful | Minho
Requested: For the SHINee scenario request: Minho au where he works not as an idol but somewhere else in entertainment: behind the scenes/model, whatever fits your inspo. He falls for a foreigner who works as a translator. Maybe they meet by happenstance before actually working together where he gets to know her better? She’s attracted to him, but assumes he wouldn’t be since she is a foreigner. And ideally low on the angst. (No references of blushing since some of us darker readers don’t actually flush)
Genre: Fluff / Model AU
Word count: 3.9k
A lot of people are afraid of change but I truly welcome it. I’ve been studying to become a Korean translator. Four years of constant studying to earn my degree along with extra volunteer works to get a better handle on the language. Finally, I’m given the opportunity of a lifetime. I was given a job interview and the next thing I knew I was on a flight to South Korea to start my job.
I don’t start working until next week since I had to have time to settle in to my small apartment. It didn’t take long for me to fall in love with the city, especially my neighborhood. I found time to go out for jogs to relax me, along with listening to some Korean children songs. I like listen to them as a refresher from when I first started learning.
I’m jogging through the park in full concentration with no thoughts of the outside world when something hits my calves causing me to trip and land hard on the concrete floor. I sit up, taking my earphones out, I notice the scrap on the side of my knee along with concrete burns on my palms. Looking around, I find the thing that hit me was a soccer ball.
Suddenly, a man comes running towards me, “Are you okay?” He asks me in English.
I nod, “I’m fine. I’m a bit clumsy anyways so I’m used to falling all over the place.” I respond in Korean.
He raises his baseball hat to reveal more of his face which has me taking a second look to be sure I wasn’t fantasizing him. He’s extremely handsome. “Oh, you speak Korean really well.” He says with raised eyebrows.
I smile, “Thank you, I studied hard to learn so it’s always nice to hear that from a local.”
“I’m sorry for hitting you with the ball. I tend to get really competitive so I just launched it.” I chuckle nearly forgetting that I was sitting on the floor after embarrassingly falling.
“Don’t worry about it. I understand how it is.”
He extends his hand to me, “Here, let me help you up.”
I give him my hands, careful not to touch the friction burns on my palms. Pulling me up, I stand but instantly want to fall back down when the feeling of pain radiates from my ankle. I yelp, nearly falling over but the kind stranger manages to hold me to keep me from falling over.
“Did you hurt your leg?”
I nod, “Yeah, I think I landed on it.”
The man helped me to a bench nearby to sit. To my surprise, he kneels down in front of me and starts examining my leg. Pinching and rotating different sections of my leg until he reaches my ankle.
“Ow,” I clench my jaw to suppress the painful feeling.
He has a pained look on his face as if it also hurt him too. “It looks like your ankle is sprained.”
“Of course, only I could have this kind of luck.” I say laughing through the pain.
The guy laughs setting my leg down, “It should be fine after some rest. It was my fault more than anything.”
I smile at him, “It’s okay. Thank you for your help though- um I don’t think I got your name.”
“It’s Minho.” He says extending his hand.
“I’m Y/N. It was nice meeting you even though I wished for it to be under better circumstances.” I push myself to get up from the bench, “I’d better get going before it starts to swell.”
I manage to get up from the bench but once I take the first step, I nearly fall over from the pain of walking on it. Luckily, Minho was quick enough to catch me before I was able to re-injured myself.
“You’re just gonna end up putting stress on your leg, let me help you get to where you need to go.”
I shake my head, “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
“Then don’t ask. I’m offering.” Minho ran to his friends to let them know that he was going to be helping me home. When he came back he crouched down in front of me, “Get on.”
“Huh?”
He looks over his shoulder to smirk at me, “I’m not asking.”
I’m hesitant to get on his back with the subconscious feeling that I would be too heavy for him considering I’m not slim like the usual petite Korean girls in Seoul.
To my surprise, he lifts me with ease. I started clutching his shirt a bit tighter since I wasn’t prepared for him to actually carry me up on his back so easily. I also catch a smell of his cologne. Even though he was playing soccer, he still smelled out-of-the-shower fresh.
After awhile of walking, I suggested stopping at a minimarket on the way to give Minho a break from all the walking. He was sure that he was fine but I wanted to give him a breather before we continued on. He set me down in a chair near the store while he went inside.
When he returned, along with water, he had bought some first aid supplies like a pain relieving spray, antiseptic wipes, and a bandage. With all the supplies at hand, he continued to treat the scrapes on my knees then proceeded to take off my shoe and sock to bandage my ankle.
I feel a little burdened by having him do all this. Buying the supplies was fine but treating me was overkill.
I place my hand over his to stop him, “You honestly don’t have to go to such lengths for me. I could’ve done this when I got home.”
He gives me that charming smile before pushing my hand back to my lap, “It’s not a bother at all. I’m the one that caused all this so it would make me feel better if I could fix it anyway possible.”
With that being said, he continues to spray down my ankle then wraps it up almost precisely around so that it’s tight enough to compress the sprain. The look on his face is very hypnotizing since he was concentrating on my ankle the whole time.
I always thought guys like Minho only exist in the korean drama world but here he was doing all the things I’d never thought I would experience in real life.
Once Minho finished taping up the bandage, he sits down across from me as he extends his hand, “Now, give me your hands.”
I look at him in shock. I didn’t think he’d notice the friction burns on my palms but nothing seems to be missed by him.
He tilts his head, “Do you wanna argue about that too?”
Humored, I shake my head and give him my hands, palms up. Once he started focusing on dabbing the wipes, I started to feel nervous, he held onto my hand tightly. His hand was obviously larger than mine and it was basically enveloping mine as he was working on it.
He was in complete concentration that when he spoke again, it caught me off guard. “Have you lived in Korea long?”
I shake my head, “No, I arrived a few days ago.”
Looking up at me, he had a intrigued look on his face. “Only a few days? I’d believe you if you said you were here for a few years. You’re pronunciations are really good.”
I blush at the compliment, “Thanks, I’m actually here for work. I’m a translator, hence the trying hard to keep the pronunciations up.”
He stays quiet again before I boldly ask, “What do you do?”
Minho’s hand pauses for a second then answers, “Let’s just say I’m pretty famous around here.”
“Really?” I look at his face to see the corner of his mouth lifting up slight as if he’s trying to hold in a laugh, “I get it you’re trying to play a joke on the foreigner. That’s fine.”
He finally releases a chuckle before going back to applying the bandaids to the burns, “Well you’re all fixed up.”
I look at the bandaids on my palms and feel thankful that he’d take time out of his day to make sure I was okay. Even though it was his competitiveness that caused all this, most people would just apologize and be on their way. I was beginning to like this guy but I knew someone as sweet as him has to have a girlfriend already. Plus, I’m not as pretty as a majority of the women I’ve seen in Seoul being that my foreigner features are far different from theirs.
After a few minutes of talking comfortably, there were times where people, mostly girls, would stare at Minho. I can understand why considering his looks but it was almost excessive. Minho began to realize the same things since he started to lower his hat whenever a group of young girls would walk by. I began to get the feeling that he was getting uncomfortable with the extra attention.
He clears his throat, “It’s getting late. We should get going. You still need to rest your ankle if you’re gonna start working by next week.”
I agree with him as I take the plastic bag containing the remaining supplies over my shoulder before getting on his back again.
The rest of the walk wasn’t too bad since the neighborhood has less people roaming around. I started feeling disappointed that we were getting closer. Once Minho dropped me off that would be it. I would never see him again. I honestly doubt that anything like this would ever happen to me again.
The moment of truth arrives once we reach my apartment building. Minho put me down in front of the door. He turned to face me as I stare at his handsome features one more time before saying goodbye to him.
“Can you get to your apartment?”
I nod, “Yeah, there’s an elevator so I won’t struggle too much.”
“Take it easy so your ankle heals up well.”
I smile before bowing to him, “Thank you again for helping me out today. I really appreciate it.”
He returns the smile, “It’s no big deal and I’m sorry again for causing it all. Next time I’m playing I’ll be sure to think of you so I don’t hurt anyone else.”
Thinking of me? I like the sound of that.
Without warning, Minho turns around and starts walking down the sidewalk we just came up from.
“Wait, will I ever see you again?” I ask.
He gives me that heart melting smile one last time before saying, “I’m sure if fate allows it, we’ll see eachother again.” He waves at me before walking down the street until he’s completely out of sight.
I can only hope that fate was that good to me.
One Month Later…
From the first day of work until now, a month in, I’m finding it more difficult to start off as a newbie. As a new hire, you get thrown into the boring stuff that no one else really wants to do because it’s a slow topic or just not interesting.
I’m fighting the sleep this morning. A journalist company had an interview with a popular author so I was given the task to translate the writing from Korean to English. The interview is pretty boring considering the book that’s being talked about is not my cup of tea.
As of right now, my journey as a translator has yet to sail off to exciting lengths. In situations like these, I need a grand opportunity to get me up in the more exciting things like translating for corporate companies but for those kinds of chances it could take months.
I take a minute to stretch out my fingers from all the typing I’ve been doing. Playing around with my hands, I find myself looking at my palms.
It’s been a month since my luck encounter with Minho but every once and awhile I end up looking at my palms to remember how his hands felt touching mine. Apparently, fate was cruel to me since I still haven’t seen him again. I even went jogging in that same park for a chance in running into him but he never showed up again. Eventually, I just took my losses and gave up.
“Y/N.” My boss calls for me.
I stand and bow to him, “Yes, sir.”
He approaches me with an exciting look on his face, “It’s your lucky day.”
“Huh? Is it really?” The last time he said that he told me I was going to be translating this boring interview.
He nods, “You’ve heard of SM Entertainment, right?”
“Of course,” I gasp, “Am I going to meet EXO?”
“Nope,” The excitement slowly goes away, feeling like this wasn't going to be as lucky of a day as I thought. “Paris fashion week is starting soon and, of course, they’re going to be sending their top model to the event.”
“Sir, I don’t speak French.”
“I know that but they are requesting an English speaker and you’re the only one available to take the trip over.”
I nods, “I understand.”
He hands me a card, “Here’s all the information. You’re flight has already been scheduled so just be there and meet up with the people of SM. You’ll be translating for their top model so do well.”
No pressure.
“If you do well on this then maybe we can find you some more exciting work to do.”
The excitement starts pumping again as I grin widely, “Really? Thank you, sir. I’ll work hard.”
The nerves were at an all time high but this was the opportunity that I needed to prove myself worthy of better work than what I’ve been getting. I can do this. I know I can.
The time goes by quickly as I wait near the entrance of the airport. I contacted the people of SM, they told me to meet up with them by the door. Around the time they’re scheduled to be here, I notice a crowd of photographers begin to gather outside.
I peak out the side window near the door to see they were taking photos of someone, most likely a celebrity. The crowd begins to clear as the person they were following began to walk towards the entrance of the airport, I’m able to get a good look at them.
My heart begins to race as my jaw drops when I see him again. It’s Minho. I’m sure it’s him even though he’s dressed more fashionable than that day we met. He’s the top model that I have to translate for? I guess it makes sense since he certainly had the looks.
Everything about the day we met begins to make sense, the girls staring at him and his joke about being someone famous. With how much work I’ve been doing, I haven't had time to check out the top celebrities in Korea yet. Had I done that, I would’ve seen Minho’s photos everywhere.
“Excuse me,” I feel a light tap on my shoulder. “Are you Y/N, our translator?” I look at the man whose voice sounds like the one I spoke to on the phone.
I nod, “Yes, I am.”
“Thank you for being on time. I’m Minho’s manager. He’ll join us once he’s finished taking photos with the press.”
I nod again unable to form a proper response since my mind was still thinking about seeing Minho again. The nervousness starts to get to me as he finishes up posing for the cameras outside the airport. He bowed to each one of the photographers as he walks through the sliding doors where we came face to face again.
Once his eyes met mine, he raised his eyebrows with a surprised look on his face followed by a smile. His manager signaled him to come over. As his tall figure came closer, it began to set in that he was really in front of me again.
“Minho, this is Y/N. She’s going to be our translator during the trip.”
He extends his hand which I shakingly took, “Nice to meet you, Y/N.” He says.
The whole reencounter was nerve wracking but Minho didn’t go into the fact that we had met once before. We didn’t really talk to each other as we went through security check. It wasn’t until we were waiting to board the plane that he came up to me.
Minho sat down in the chair next to me. I pretended to not know he was there since I didn’t really know what to say to him. A month felt like a longer time since I saw him.
“Did your ankle heal up well?” He asks.
Finally turning to look at him, that same feeling I had when I watched him bandage my ankle up came back as I stare at his sincere face.
“Yeah, it’s fine. I was able to work like nothing after resting it.”
“That’s good to hear. I’m glad that you’re doing well at your new job since you’re the one that’s gonna be helping us out during the trip.”
“Well, I’m honored to be working with you. I kinda feel dumb that I didn’t know who you were when we first met.”
He chuckles, “Don’t be. I was more comfortable with you not knowing that I’m a model. That usually intimidates people, especially women. They tend to feel that they’re not pretty enough to being around a model.”
He’s not lying. Even when I didn’t know who he was, I kept thinking how someone as good looking as him would even bother doing the things he did for me that day.
On the plane, Minho and I were sitting apart from each other. He was with his manager talking about their schedule while I took side glances at him when he wasn’t looking. I thought back on how he said that if fate would allow it we would meet again. I start to wonder if this was actually fate or if it was just coincidence.
Twelve hours later, we were in Paris. There was a crowd of people waiting to see Minho. I wasn’t too surprised since he did his fair share of acting as well as modeling plus how could you ignore a face like his.
Once we were able to take some time to get settled in, it was time to go to work the following day. I stay close by Minho the entire time. It was my job to be near him and pay attention to the people that he was talking to. I didn’t complain though. He certainly knew how to dress to impress. When I first met him, he was in a t-shirt and shorts playing soccer and now he was dressed in an expensive suit looking so professional.
The way he communicated with people was interesting to me. He had this unique aura about him. There were nothing but compliments from him about other people that it felt heartwarming to see. His tone never sounded like he was trying to play nice. He was also sincere about it along with his sweet smile, there was no way anyone could ignore it.
There were also time where we were so close to each other that I could feel his body heat radiate against mine. It also made my mine react numerous times. I had to continue to set myself straight multiple times. I was a foreigner and he was Seoul’s most handsome model. The majority of people he was talking to were women and they were just as beautiful as him. How could I reach that level compared to him?
I was tired from the busy day. I never suspected that fashion shows actually involved so much talking. I always assumed it was about looking at all the clothes and having all the pretty people get together. A majority of the conversation were boring but I somehow managed to pull through and do a good job.
I’m in my hotel room, preparing for tomorrow’s event which will be just about the same as tonights. There’s a knock at the door. Not expecting anyone, I look through the peephole to find Minho standing in front of my door.
I rush over to grab my oversized sweatshirt since I was already in my pajamas which consists of a tank top and shorts which is way too revealing for company.
I open the door enough for me to poke my head out. Minho’s smile greets me.
“Hi, what are you doing here?” I ask.
He raises both his hands to show me a wine bottle in one and two glasses in the other, “I figured you could use a break and you’ve worked hard today.” I chuckle before opening the door to let him in.
I don’t know if it was the wine or because Minho and I had already gotten to know each other before but I was feeling relaxed and at ease. It felt like we’ve been friends so talking about anything was easy. We ended up playing truth or drink. We either told the truth or drank from our glasses.
“Minho, I don’t think I can drink anymore.”
“The bottle’s almost empty. Just a few more rounds.” He places his hand on his chin to lean on his knee as he prepares to ask the next questions, “What was your first impression of me?”
I go back to the day that I met him, “Obviously, I thought you were handsome. Then you started helping me in more way than I thought you would which made me think how thoughtful and caring you must be and that I’m jealous of your girlfriend.”
He laughs, “If I had one you would be.” Honestly, the fact that he was single made me excited to hear. “Your turn.”
A question comes to mind, a question that has been in the back of my mind ever since I met him in the park that day. “Why did you go to such great lengths that day? You could’ve stopped at apologizing but you treated me and took me home. Why?”
Minho leans in looking at me then his eyes began to lower to my lips, “I was mesmerized by you.”
I scoff, “How is that possible? I’m not as pretty as most of the women of Korea.”
He tilts his head, “Do you think being a foreigner makes you any less attractive? Whether you were Korean or not, you made my heart race. Watching you work today just proved that it wasn’t just in the moment for me. My question is, was it the same for you?”
Without hesitating I answer him honestly, “Yes.”
As soon as I tell him my answer, his lips crash over mine. Once the initial shock goes away, his hands reach up to cup my cheeks and pull me closer. I rest my hands over his chest as he pulled me into his lap. Pulling away to catch my breath, I look into Minho’s lust filled eyes wondering if this was really happening.
He shows me his signature sweet smile before speaking through ragged breaths, “You still have a question left.”
Looking at his handsome face, I ask, “Do you wanna stay the night?”
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