#like. the image of a skirt that doesn’t fit quite right on you because your hips and waist are about the same circumference. so it’s like
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i’m sure someone on here has said this before, but i think cis tiktok really took “feminine in a masculine way” and ran with it without realizing that the appeal of being feminine in a masculine way to genderqueer people, especially afab genderqueer people, isn’t just looking hot or whatever. it’s specifically the discordance of being perceived as masculine and performing femininity.
Like, you see cis women on tiktok with the caption “trying to be feminine in a masculine way!” and then they’ll wear these super femmey suits with their hair back and like. that’s cool i guess? i’m glad you feel confident. but the angst that genderqueer people feel over wanting to be feminine in a masculine way is derived from how this feeling almost seems like an impossible goal. like, femininity is standard for women, so when people perceive you as a woman and you dress feminine there’s no perceived deviance at all. you’re just dressing and acting like how a woman should, according to the audience of people who see you on the street. The part you feel that you lack when you say ‘in a masculine way’ is the part where your femininity gets to be nonstandard.
there’s almost a kind of grossness to when cis men in particular do femininity. it ranges at times from “haha ironic comedy, isn’t it so WEIRD and WACKY when men wear skirts???” gross to something almost demonic (like how men wearing makeup were treated at the height of the satanic panic). there’s like, falseness. like the femininity is separate from you somehow, as a facade, and that there’s some kind of clash between the femininity and the person underneath. and i’m not saying those are good things- the opposite, it’s really, really bad that we treat gender deviance this way. but the longing for this experience as an afab genderqueer person is the longing to exist in a role that is non-normative without sacrificing the things we love about femininity, and to be able to be feminine without having that related back to some quintessential nature of your gender as determined by broader society. I honestly feel like Natalie Wynn described this really well when she said that for her, as a woman, there’s no “de-dragging” where the womanhood falls away from her and she ceases to be feminine in a way that a drag queen might after a performance is over. I think what genderqueer people want when they want to be feminine in a masculine way is to have that ability, to have their femininity be a costume that they can take off at will.
anyways all this to say that i don’t think cosplaying as modcloth-workwear girlboss is going to help me achieve my gender euphoria goal of old church ladies sneering at me in derision every time i wear a dress. although honestly that is a great idea for a drag queen character
#this is an extremely funny post for me to make as someone who has denied the non-binary accusations for as long as i have#like girl you are not fooling anyone with the she before the they in your pronouns. be real#oc#non-binary#genderqueer#feminine in a masculine way#obviously i don’t speak for all genderqueer people#but like. i’d love for femininity to be something i can take off when i’m not longer in the mood for it#and not something that people view as being ‘inherently attached to my essence as a woman’ or whatever#i don’t have an essence of a woman. i have like. a poorly functioning intestinal tract#the thing that is inside of me is slimy organs. please stop ascribing gender onto my nasty weird little body#there’s honestly something so alluring about giovanni pota he’s spiky pink mullet and stubble and black nail polish#like. the image of a skirt that doesn’t fit quite right on you because your hips and waist are about the same circumference. so it’s like#mismatched???#and then the idea of wearing eyeliner but having like. stubble and acne#UGH. and like. dresses that have built in cups but you don’t have a bust? to fill it out???? auughhhh i wish i didn’t have a massive rack#like my body is SO traditionally feminine in figure i have such an hourglass silhouette and like the long legs and shit#and like. i feel like i look great maybe 40-45% of the time#i love filling out a fit and flare dress when i’m going out to hang out with lesbians and feeling very sexy in that context#but i don’t want that to be permanent yknow. there’s a restriction there that i despise#giovanni potage. idk why that corrected to pota he#considering potage is a word. fuck autocorrect
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when I kissed the teacher 💋
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner/Fem!Reader
Word Count: 3338
A/N: fits into the touch tank ‘verse! All characters are consenting adults (and not to spoil it, but Hotch isn’t really a professor so it’s especially okay <3), Smut! Office sex. MDNI
Also I feel like I didn’t describe the sex position super well, so here’s a visual (link image is N S F W!, it’s drawn so it’s not pure porn but. It’s sexual)
Divider courtesy of @animatedglittergraphics-n-more
There’s a rush of excitement in your veins as you smooth your hands over your outfit, walking down the hallway to the onsite lecture theatre at Quantico. Dr. Hotchner is guest lecturing today, and you’ll be damned if he doesn’t notice you.
The bottom hem of your skirt sits well above your knees. You’re wearing your favourite blouse, holding some books in your arms, which are folded across your chest. Your tote holds a handful of pens and a notebook. The lipstick on your lips is your favourite shade. A diamond tennis bracelet adorns one of your wrists. In short, you feel like a million dollars, and you look like a billion.
You can tell that you’re late by the fact that the hallway leading up to the door is completely empty. When you walk in, and take a seat in the back row, your suspicion is confirmed. Professor Hotchner doesn’t look up at you, caught up in the concept he’s explaining. You take a minute to set up your notebook and take the cap off your pen. It’s one of the ones with a feathery doodad on top, and you can’t stifle a smile when you watch it bobbing in the air above the page as you write the date.
“So, based on those traits, we were able to determine that the unknown subject was disorganized, driven by passion, and prone to making mistakes. Each of those assumptions was correct, but which aspect of the wider profile was an error? Someone who isn’t familiar with the case, please.”
A tall young adult with blonde hair raised his hand, and Professor Hotchner called on him.
“The assumption that they must have been part of a wider criminal network?” He offered.
“Yes,” Professor Hotchner replied. “Can you tell me why that was a significant error we made?”
“Well, there wasn’t much evidence for that part of the profile, aside from the fact that there were a lot of crime scenes for a single individual.”
“And what is the lesson there? Someone else, please.”
Someone you couldn’t quite make out in the front row raised their hand, and the professor nodded in their direction.
“Don’t assume the worst?”
“Well,” Hotchner paused. “Sometimes it’s helpful to assume the worst, because it forces you to confront a minimal loss scenario, rather than a completely effective solution. Has anyone ever heard the expression ‘when you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras’?”
There was some scattered nodding throughout the room.
“Right. So in the field, statistics matter. For instance, the vast majority of arsonists are young males. Knowing that information can help you narrow down the suspect pool quickly, which is key when response time is important.”
He clicked over to the next slide, and you grimaced, seeing the gutted remains of what had once been a lecture hall.
“However,” Professor Hotchner said, taking a dramatic pause as the students considered the image. “It’s important that you don’t make a habit of ruling out zebras, because every now and again, you’ll see an unsub who doesn’t fit the stereotypical profile for their crime, method, location...”
Something pink caught his eye, and he glanced up at the back row, where he saw you, dutifully taking notes with a completely ridiculous pen. You looked up when you realized that the room had fallen silent, making eye contact with him. You gave him a dreamy wave, resting your chin on your hand.
He looked away quickly. “As I was saying...”
The rest of the lecture continued fairly successfully. At one point, the professor was stumped by a question from a student, who had asked how a profiler was supposed to know the difference between a horse and a zebra when the hoofbeats are all you have to go on. He’d paced the room for a minute or so, considering his response.
“I would say that it takes practice. The main takeaway is that you shouldn’t jump straight to zebra, but you shouldn’t rule it out either, until you have a strong reason to do so.” He looked at the student who’d asked the question, a small smile causing his lips to turn upward. “But I wouldn’t know. I’m not a biologist.”
Scattered laughter broke out in the auditorium, and he pulled back the sleeve of his suit jacket to check the time.
“Alright, I’m sure you all have places to be, but if there’s one piece of advice I would give you all, it’s that there are no perfect answers, which, honestly, makes lecturing on this topic a little difficult. You’ll make mistakes, no profile is ever flawless. But, most of all, remember that the profile doesn’t need to be perfect to work. A lot of the time, research, police work, autopsies, all come together, and it’s the details from those, combined with the profile, that enables us to limit harm.”
He cleared his throat and glanced up at you again, pressing his lips together tightly before looking somewhere else in the room.
“Thank you everybody, have a good weekend. I have a few minutes for questions-”
The end of his sentence was overtaken by the sound of students chatting, packing their bags, and clearing the aisles. You stayed put, watching a line form between his lectern and up the stairs, almost stretching to the back of the lecture hall.
You sighed lightly, waiting for the line to abate before you joined it. The other students were lucky that the professor was being so generous with his time. It had been half an hour, and the last three students were still waiting patiently for their turns. Most of the interactions had just been handshakes, futile attempts at networking. Even with the best intentions, he’d never remember their names, and besides, it would be unprofessional to give any of them a leg up. The BAU was a selective group, and for good reason. Very few of the students who had an interest in profiling would actually be good candidates for the unit.
At long last, the professor was finishing up with the last student. You made eye contact with Hotchner, shooting him a small smile before pushing the tip of your pointer finger between your lips, under the guise of soothing a papercut. You made sure to drag your finger out of your mouth torturously slowly, emphasizing the way your lips parted. He’d know exactly what you were getting at.
He cleared his throat and tore his eyes from yours. “I’m very sorry Patrick, but I really need to get back to work. Besides, I think you’ll be able to find most of the answers on the FBI website, if the hostage negotiation stream is something you’re interested in.”
Patrick stuttered, nodding and quickly leaving the room. Professor Hotchner had perhaps been a little curt, but you could tell he was tiring of the schmoozing from the look he shot you, eyebrows raised.
He said your last name affectionately. “Would you mind if we take this to my office? I think another class is scheduled in this room in a few minutes.”
“Of course,” You said, gesturing for him to go up the stairs before you.
“No, after you,” He insisted. You crossed your arms.
“I’m sorry, Professor, but I have a rule not to let men walk behind me.”
Your comment clearly flustered him, and he cleared his throat, a blush coming over his cheeks. He confined his eyeline tightly to the ground.
A few minutes later, you were seated in his office, the professor in his leather armchair and you sitting on the edge of the desk.
“Sorry there are no other seats,” He apologized, still struggling to make eye contact with you.
“It’s no problem,” You said sweetly, letting your legs swing.
“What did you want to talk about?” He finally looked up at you, his eyelashes framing his dark eyes beautifully.
“I was wondering if you could help me revise the notes from today? I missed the first few minutes and I hate leaving them incomplete,” You explained sheepishly.
You leaned all the way back on his desk, letting your back rest flat against it as you reached to the floor for your notebook. You heard him take a sharp exhale at the way he was suddenly in the right place to look directly up your skirt. He pressed his lips together tightly, looking away as you popped back up, spine upright again.
Opening the book to today’s page, you held the book open with one hand, propping it up on your lap, pointing to the notes you’d made. Sure enough, he walked you through each of the notes you’d taken, telling you where you’d missed a key point. As you did so, he pulled his chair in closer to the desk, one of his hands coming to your thigh, where he rested it casually. If you put the book down, he would have been face to face with your barely-covered pelvis, given how much your skirt was riding up.
You played with your hair for a moment, nodding as he explained the principle of minimal loss. In a breathy voice, you asked, “And that’s where the trickle, flow, gush strategy comes into play?”
He noticed your emphasis on those three words, and swallowed. “Well, yes. Sometimes the minimal loss principle is used outside of hostage situations, but trickle, flow, gush is only ever used in hostage scenarios.”
Undoing the top few buttons on your blouse, you leaned forward, emphasizing your breasts. “That’s so... interesting.”
His hand, the one on your thigh, started to move incrementally towards your hip, taking the skirt with it as he went. You set the notebook aside, finally, and waited for his reaction.
“Professor?”
“Yes?”
“Would you care for a practical experiment in profiling?”
He sighed and leaned back in his armchair, drinking in the sight of you on his desk, skirt bunched up around your hips, blouse no longer modestly buttoned.
“We tend to make a rule of not profiling profilers,” He explained, but in all honesty, you were watching his hands slip from the arms of the chair to his lap, where he folded them over his crotch.
“One sentence, just tell me if I’m telling the truth,” You begged, spreading your legs slightly. He couldn’t help the way his jaw slackened as he realized what you were revealing. This whole time, his whole lecture... you had nothing underneath that tiny, tiny skirt.
Suddenly, he was standing over you, disrupting the height difference that had left you, for once, looking down at him. He placed the tip of his index finger on the beginning of the inside of your thigh, just by your knee.
“Go ahead,” He breathed, close enough that you could feel it on your neck. He pressed a soft, chaste kiss there, trailing down your neck at an excruciating pace. Once you were moaning softly, he started tracing his finger up the inside of your thigh. You had the distinct feeling that once his finger and mouth crossed paths, you might burst into flames. Such light, delicate touches that they were almost ticklish.
You grabbed his tie tightly in your fist, pulling it so he had no choice but to face you.
“I want you to fuck me, more than I want anything else in the world.”
From the immediate reddening of his face, you could tell he knew you meant every letter of what you’d said. It must have been almost intimidating to know that you were being completely earnest, almost frightening to be wanted so badly.
“So, Professor...” You sighed, before pulling him in by the tie and licking a stripe up his stubbled cheek, “True or false?“
“True,” He said, his baritone cutting right through you. It was his straightforward, factual tone. There was no room for argument or misinterpretation.
You let go of his tie and laid back on the desk, leaving your legs dangling over the edge, your hips at the perfect height, resting securely on the desk.
You heard the sound of a zipper being undone, and looked up to see him draping his blazer over the back of his chair. He was standing between your legs, taking you in like a painting at a gallery, cocking his head from side to side.
“You’re ethereal,” He said plainly.
“Fuck me then,” You replied.
It was bold, but you knew that after the lecture, and the way you’d been teasing each other in the office, you’d be able to take him. You were soaked, leaving your core dripping, feeling hypersensitive to the slight coldness of the room.
He pumped his hand up and down his cock, and on any other day, you’d be happy to watch him pleasuring himself: the pure masculinity of his huge hands fisting his length... But today, you needed it.
“Please,” You whimpered.
“Just putting on a condom,” He murmured quietly. In the hush that came over the room as you admired each other, you heard the wrapper landing in the plastic-lined bin under his desk.
He gave your hip a squeeze, and you nodded. He nodded back, and nudged your legs wider apart. There was already a delicious stretch in your inner thighs from how you had to open your hips to create space for his strong frame. Once he was satisfied with your position, he started to ease into you, guided with one of his hands.
Your breathing immediately became shallower, and you felt yourself clench tightly around the very very tip of him. He moved his hand away and guided your legs into the air, letting your ankles rest against the front of his shoulders. He gripped your thighs for leverage.
He pushed in further, and you moaned loudly. You both knew the office floor would be empty, so neither of you made any attempts to stay quiet.
“You’re so big,” You said, grinding your hips towards his and whining softly at how it pushed his length even further into you. He gave a short thrust, and it knocked the wind out of you.
He moaned your name softly and whispered, “I don’t think I can keep up the act. What do you need, baby?”
“Please just fuck me, don’t worry about taking it slow,” You breathed. “Please, just give it to me hard.”
He huffed a short laugh, breaking character temporarily to cup your cheek affectionately.
“I love you,” He said tenderly, his mouth setting into a firm line as he leaned into the second part of his sentence, “But I’m going to fuck you like I want to break you.”
And with that, he pressed the rest of the way inside, his mouth dropping into an ‘O’. His sigh was almost pornographic, and he looked up at the ceiling. You weren’t sure if he was praying or just trying to become accustomed to the feeling.
“You’re so tight,” He hissed. “Gonna fuck you open.”
True to his word, he set a brutal pace; slow but deep, slamming his hips into yours, pulling out halfway, slamming in again. It left your brain in a tailspin, with stars behind your eyes. He’d switch it up by pulling almost all the way out, leaving you begging and writhing, grinding your hips towards his, and then he’d push back in slowly, watching your reaction to every inch, your brows pinched, eyes screwing shut.
“Touch your breasts,” He said. “Wish I could, but I’m a little,” He breathed, fucking into you hard. “Preoccupied.”
With each thrust, shit was tumbling from the desk. You couldn’t bring yourself to care, the crashes to the floor only a small part of the soundtrack of his thrusts and your shared sounds. When his groans gave way to something more akin to whines, you knew he was getting close. The desk was scooting across the floor with the force of it all.
“Can you finish like this?”
You knew it was a question without judgement, so you weren’t ashamed to shake your head.
He stroked one of your legs affectionately. “I’m going to drop this one so I have some room to work,” He said under his breath.
You nodded, and he gently eased your leg down, making sure it was slow enough that you wouldn’t cramp or stretch too far in this strange position. With one of your legs in the air, and the other wrapped around his hip, he lowered his free hand to your labia. He pressed his cock almost all of the way into you, and traced his thumb around your stretched opening, making you aware of how much of him you were taking.
“So deep,” He groaned softly. “Feel how well you take me?”
He brought his thumb around to the top of your slit, tracing it in wide circles, gathering some of your wetness and using it to lubricate your clit as he made his circles narrower and faster.
“Like that?” He breathed.
“Up and down,” You whined breathily. “I’m so close, Aaron.”
He moved his thumb up and down, flicking your clit under his thumb. Your reaction was immediate, your legs shaking around him, held in place by his steadying hand on your upright leg.
“Aaron, Aaron, Aaron,” You chanted, eyes rolling back.
He moaned, the ragged sound getting caught in his throat. You heard your name echoed back to you in his deep baritone, and the sound, and his continued attention to your clit, sent you deeper into your orgasm. Whether this was still the first, or the second, you were unsure. Your legs shook against him, and he pressed kisses to your calf as he spilled himself into the condom, muffling the sound into your skin. You were starting to come down just as he came, so you watched as his face crumpled, almost as if he was about to cry. He panted heavily and opened his eyes, looking directly at you.
It was cliche, but you really felt that he was staring straight into your soul. His face broke out into a wide grin, and he eased out of you quickly, before you became too sensitive. With the utmost care, he helped you bring your other leg back down, rubbing your thigh gently to discourage any aches from setting in. His warm hands felt wonderful on your skin, and you moaned softly. Once your body felt like it was back on the right planet again, you grinned and he smiled right back at you, leaning down to press kisses all over your face.
“I love you,” He murmured.
You hummed affirmatively, running your hands over his back, still clothed in his button up and tie. “I love you too.”
He disappeared from your eyeline for a second, and when he helped you to your feet, you saw that he had laid out his suit jacket and pants on the floor of the office.
“It’s not a bed, but...” He blushed slightly, hand coming to the back of his neck. You kissed his cheek and lay down as he took off the condom and pulled on his briefs. He loosened his tie and lay down beside you. The ground was undeniably hard, but for now, the warmth of his clothing beneath you was enough. He pulled you into his arms, wrapping them around you so you were snug against his chest. Happy, you nuzzled into him, feeling his comforting natural scent fill your nose.
“If I doze off, you have to wake me up,” You craned your neck so you could look at his face. He gave you an affectionate squeeze, but he was already almost lost to the sandman. He hummed softly, his breath evening out.
You snuggled into him. You’d both wake up soon enough, since he was right, this wasn’t much of a bed, but for now, you couldn’t imagine doing anything other than resting your head back down on his chest and letting yourself be held, but more importantly than that, completely and utterly loved.
#aaron hotchner#aaron hotchner x reader#aaron hotchner/reader#hotch/reader#hotch x reader#my writing#hotch smut
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Behind the weapons and skins of Overwatch: an interview with Blizzard's concept artist David Kang
Q: That reminds me of your recent creation, Palanquin D.Va. How did you come up with the idea?
A: I grabbed a lot of Hanbok pictures online as references, and I have also seen my family members wear Hanbok quite frequently when I was a child. I put a lot of effort in making it the right Korean attire, and had my concept art pre-approved by Blizzard Korea before developing it further. D.Va acts a little like the princess figure, so I thought Korean Gama would fit well with her image. I was glad to hear that the Korean community liked it. Also, the traditional Hanbok has a long skirt, but I shortened it for D.Va because she is a mobile character that runs around a lot. I wasn’t entirely sure if that would be okay, but there wasn’t much issue about that, so I think it turned out alright.
Q: Can you tell us about the most challenging ones among the skins you’ve worked on?
A: I think the most challenging skins are the nationalistic skins, like D.Va’s Palanquin skin. I did a lot of research on the clothing, and I wanted to get it right so that it doesn’t offend anyone in Korea. [...]
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New fic *test*
New Bio!dad Bruce story? I’m testing out this first chapter, and if I like where it’s going I might add it to my growing pile of WIPs. If I have inspiration, I might as well use it. Because of life events stressing me the hell out, I’m throwing any writing plans out the window and I’m purely gonna write to destress right now. Whether that means updating THG or not, or continuing Maribat March, we’ll just have to see how this all pans out. Things are subject to day-to-day change.
I got inspiration from this from rereading my day 1 story for Bio!dad Bruce Wayne month from last year. I’m just gonna change a few things.
—*—*—*—*—*
For once, an unfamiliar face attracted the attention of everyone who caught even a glimpse of them. It wasn’t even because of the person themselves at first, but their dress. The skirt like the most fantastical of storybook ball gowns, fluffy layers of satin over a luxurious petticoat, with a stunning pink floral pattern whose busy appearance was tastefully offset by a shorter, sheer layer of leaf green tulle artistically weaved and somehow sculpted over the floral in order to tame it. The effect turned what should be a grandmotherly pattern into something softer, sophisticated and youthful and yet also reminiscent of fairytale princesses. Over top the short layer of green tulle was an even shorter later of white tulle, almost invisible except for the elegant embroidery of crystal-white vines that twined all over it, connecting the green below it to the bottom-most floral pattern and oddly adding a layer of childishness instead of maturity. At the waist of the dress was a dark plum pink satin ribbon, to separate the elaborate ballgown skirt from the bodice. Attached to the simple ribbon was a large brooch of fabric flowers, with a single plastic ladybug in the center.
The bodice of the dress came up into a cheongsam neckline, but was sleeveless. It was a simple design, of half green and half dark pink, with a white border separating the two. The white border had expertly done embroideries in a soft silver thread that would only be visible close up, the images the thread made being that of fairies and ladybugs dancing around one another.
It was, all in all, a stunning display that made the small eurasian woman wearing them look like absolute royalty. Perhaps a long lost fairy princess. Her black-blue hair was even done up in elaborate looping braids and a braided bun, with silver and green pins that further completed the regal ensemble. And yes, while the expertly done dress was what initially captivated her current audience, it was not what kept them from leaving her alone. That was all her personality, bubbly and bright as her blinding smile. It was a sunny disposition that very few people present had any exposure to at all, and it drew them like a sunflower to the daylight. They could not help but flock closer, or even just stand back and keep themselves turned to her presence. Already she had been at the gala for two hours, but there was no issue. She just kept proving her generosity, admitting she had donated both a dress and a suit of her own making to the charity auction that would begin soon, one of the main attractions of the gala. She skillfully charmed the more snooty of the attendants, and artfully twisted her words so that they felt compelled to donate more money that they truly had no use for. Later, they would remember their donation and wonder what compelled it, but come up with no satisfying answer.
And yet she was entirely unaware of her more silent audience, who stood back and observed. Truth be told, every one of them was glad to not be the center of that attention for a change, to have room to breathe for so long at an event where usually that commodity was so scarce that it demanded a fierce competition for. Compared to her garden of color, they were all shadows in shades of blacks and blues and whites, with a touch of red here and there that was entirely too thematic for their home city. The one who sported a royal blue suit tilted his head at the scene they were all calmly witnessing, his bright azure eyes glittering.
“She’s like magic,” he mused, clearly enchanted despite having not said a single word to the woman. “Perfect socialite. She’s kind, generous, she made that dress and the ones she donated to the auction herself so she’s obviously got an intimidating amount of skill for her age. She even tricks those old fuddy-duddies into spending money. It’s like a dream come true!”
“I don't trust it,” the one to his right said, a man just a few inches shorter in a classic black suit with a red dress shirt underneath. He absently swept his bangs away from his face as he narrowed his eyes at the woman. “It seems too perfect. She doesn’t have any identifiable character flaw, except maybe being a little clumsy and too energetic. She does babble a little… but nothing that actually suggests any depth besides her just being— good. That’s impossible, and I don’t trust it.”
“Tt. I agree with Drake for once. She seems entirely too comfortable with this setting, despite her blushes and rambles,” the one who spoke this like was taller, clearly a teen in the middle of his growth spurt. He, too, wore a plain black suit but his had subtle charcoal embroidery and he wore an emerald-green dress shirt under it that made his matching eyes gleam dangerously. “It seems almost playacted. Expertly so, but nonetheless not entirely genuine.”
“Wow, not many pick up on that. I’m gonna give your observations a solid eight out of ten. They’re all perfectly sound, but not quite complete,” a new voice made all of the silent group stiffen— somehow they had been snuck up on. The newcomer smirked at them as if having fully expected their reaction but still being pleased at being able to evoke it. This was yet another stunner; far too much color in her outfit to be a Gotham native, and far too much skill in the construction for it to signify anything less than extreme influence. She had bright golden-blond hair that was coiled into a low bun, with her bangs artfully curled and arranged to display her crystal blue eyes.
In contrast to the garden-themed dress of the Eurasian woman who had garnered their attention at first, this newcomer was wearing a pantsuit. It was all in a dark honey-gold, in a stiff fabric with construction that made it lay entirely in perfect, straight lines and hug her form in the right places. Black embroidery decorated the long, flared sleeves and pant legs and dripped around the square neckline like a faux necklace. A cape made out of the same material as the rest of the pantsuit was draped on one shoulder. It started out as the same honey-gold color, but it became a gradient as it faded to a solid black at the ends. Gold thread embroidery decorated the solid black bottom of the cape in delicate, deceptively simplistic swirls. The top half of the pantsuit was clearly inspired by military garb, simultaneously rigidly constructed yet fitted, with circular onyx buttons going down the center of the chest and a thick metal belt, all in swirling silver and black, sat perfectly clasped around her waist. It was far more solid-colored and simplistic compared to the fairytale dress in the center, but no less show stopping and luxurious. It simply showcased an entirely different attitude, almost as if the two women could never get along if their personalities matched their outfits.
“And who are you?” The man who had been the center of the group of shadow-like adults spoke up, back straightening to milk every speck of his generous six-feet-and-three-inches of height. This was none other than Bruce Wayne, the host of this annual charity gala. And normally, his current stance would either intimidate or utterly charm whoever it was directed at— but not this pantsuit-clad blond warrior. Her smirk merely widened, and her blue eyes took on a slight shade of teal as if trying to mimic the dangerous ocean depths.
“I am Chloe Bourgeois, the daughter of Andre Bourgeois, the mayor of Paris, and Audrey Bourgeois, the Style Queen. It’s nice to meet you again, Monsieur Wayne,” she introduced herself imperiously. “I also happen to be the best friend of the girl you were just staring at.”
Bruce nodded, but had trouble reconciling this clear powerhouse of a woman with the bratty and entitled preteen he had met years ago, at the last gala she had attended with her mother. “Of course, I didn’t recognize you at first Chloe. You’ve grown a lot since the last Gala I saw you at.”
Chloe wrinkled her nose, clearly not appreciating the reminder. “I was a bitch,” she admitted easily, seemingly not at all bothered by the confession. It caused not only Bruce but also the oldest three of his sons, who had all also met her in the past, to blink in silent shock. “Things have changed. Paris is apparently the perfect chaotic environment right now to promote emotional growth and smack spoiled kids over the head with reality,” she shrugged. Part of the reason her and her whole class had even been able to come to the Gala in the first place was the fact that Bruce wanted to offer the most attacked group of Parisians a respite and some support from their crazy lives. The fact that even Gotham seemed sane in comparison to Paris was a bit of a hard hit for both involved parties, but in the end everyone understood that “more sane” didn’t always equate with “less dangerous.” Considering all that, Chloe had no reason to sugarcoat the situation in her home city. “But it wasn’t easy at all, and Marinette was largely responsible for my improvement too.”
“Marinette?” The heathen who somehow got away with attending a gala in a black leather jacket over a dress shirt and suit pants asked, raising a brow. Chloe nodded.
“The girl you were just goggling at. Marinette Dupain-Cheng, the class president and resident workaholic. Does she ever sleep? Nobody knows,” Chloe shrugged.
The blue-suited man, Dick Grayson, shot a suspicious glance at Tim, who was standing to his right, as if he was worried his brother had made a female clone of himself just so he could continue to work hard and never rest. Tim ignored him and sipped from the thermos of coffee he had somehow snuck in.
Bruce cleared his throat to bring the focus back onto himself, and shot his most charming smile at Chloe. “They would have known who she was, if they had read the brief information I gave them about your class. But they never do listen to me,” he complained with good humor. “But back to the original topic, Miss Bourgeois, do you care to correct us on how our observations are lacking?”
Chloe laughed easily, smiling and nodding to indicate Marinette, still stuck in a circle of socialites and not seeming the least bit worn out.
“Of course. First; She is not completely acting. She really is like magic sometimes— disgustingly kind, generous, far too willing to help just about anyone for just about any reason. She’s one of the best people I’ve ever met, as much as it pains me to admit it. But she is exaggerating her personality a bit and hiding the parts she doesn’t want anyone to see, so there is a little acting involved. Just not as much as you seem to think,” Chloe then waved her arm in a flourish as if she were presenting Marinette to them. “In short; behold Mari Dupain-Cheng, the ridiculously likeable, disgustingly cute, extremely philanthropic mask that she shows everyone at public events like this. You don’t see any of the insomnia, or the anxiety, or the self doubt. Just the parts she wants you to see, accompanied with a smile to blind you to everything else,” her all-too-deep blue eyes settled back on Bruce then, a knowing glint shining in them. “Don’t you think that’s ridiculously similar to Brucie Wayne for you, Monsieur? Utterly, ridiculously, similar?”
Bruce grit his teeth. He hadn’t expected anyone else to know about his exceptionally well hidden secret, not even his kids had caught on or found his buried evidence yet. Yet his heiress comes up, nearly flaunting her knowledge in his face with all too many unspoken questions and criticisms.
And her cryptic words had succeeded in making all of his kids look at him with extreme suspicion. Shit.
“What are you saying, Miss Bourgeois?” he cautiously prodded. She hummed noncommittally before dropping the bomb all too casually;
“I’m saying I’ve seen her adoption papers, and you won’t be able to run from her for long Monsieur Wayne. As soon as she gets an opening, she’s going to pounce,” Chloe’s eyes glittered dangerously again. “And nowadays, Marinette doesn’t ever let people escape her. Your problem with adoption has created a rather unique problem, you know. You’re at fault for a large majority of her self confidence issues, and I want you to know that I am not going to forget or forgive that anytime soon.”
“Bruce,” Jason’s voice was dark and threatening. “What is she talking about?”
“Something we don’t want getting in the tabloids,” Yet another new voice popped up, allowing Chloe to smugly sink back into the background.
Somewhere during their discussion, Marinette had ambushed them.
“Chloe and I are very good at locating all the reporters in a room and distracting them, but we’re not infallible and this event has far too much coverage,” Her smile reeked confidence and charm, but this close all the Waynes could see the doubt hiding in her bluebell eyes. “Since I’m about to turn eighteen, I figured this would be as good a time as any to finally confront you. I want to make it clear that I seek nothing from you, except the occasional contact. I would like to keep in touch, if nothing else. But if you are adverse to that… then at least answer my questions after the gala,” her eyes developed a hint of carefully controlled desperation. “Please.”
Bruce met her eyes evenly, trying to read her. But she was difficult, simultaneously too many emotions to sort through in her demeanor and much too little. After an extremely tense moment of silence, his voice came out barely above a whisper:
“You do not want anybody to know?”
And hell, if she didn’t recognize the hidden vulnerability in his voice as the very same she heard in her own far too often. In a much tamer version of her own rambling, he went on:
“I can keep it silent if that is what you want. But I want you to know that I will not be adverse to you admitting it anywhere. I don’t expect you to change your name, but I would not be ashamed of the truth getting out. I am not ashamed of it, of you.”
Marinette’s smile grew a little watery. She had to clear her throat to keep herself from tearing up. “Maybe eventually, but not yet. I… I want to stay a little more anonymous for now. It’s one thing to be a well known designer with good connections. It’s an entirely different thing to be…”
“A Wayne?” Bruce finished, ignoring the daggers that were being stared into his back. “I understand completely.
“Father,” Damian’s voice was all sharp edges and rapidly suppressed panic. “What. Is going. On?”
Marinette shot him an apologetic smile. “Apparently, eighteen years ago, his prerogative was to put the child he actually knew about up for adoption when the mother died in childbirth,” her voice was once again only barely loud enough for them to hear, since she didn’t want any eavesdroppers. “Imagine my surprise when I find out he completely flipped sides only months later.”
--*--*--*--*--*
Hey, so please share your feedback on this. This is just to test out a possible new bio dad, multichapter fic and this is the opening scene I'm trying out. If you like it, please tell me what you like about it and please suggest titles for the story! I love you guys' feedback so much!
#maribat#bio!dad au#bio!dad bruce wayne#platonic daminette#platonic jasonette#platonic dickinette#platonic timinette#platonic timari#mlb x dc#ml x dc#maribat fic#platonic brucinette#older sister Marinette
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merry christmas @spider-sprig! i was your secret santa! i hope you enjoy your gift 🥰
~~~~
It hadn’t been a problem at first.
Or at least, it hadn’t been a problem that Sasha had recognized. Back then, back when he was still trying to be his father’s perfect daughter, his mother’s perfect image, he had buried any feelings he could’ve possibly had and left them in the ground to rot. Pretending to love the jocks in his class had been easy, until it wasn’t, and he had Anne break up with them for him so he wouldn’t have to face the fact that he kind of liked the dumb ones. At the time, he didn’t understand why he felt that way about liking boys; after all, wasn’t that what he was supposed to do? Like men?
But he liked girls too. Soft ones, ones that reminded Sasha that he could be more than a jagged shard of glass, shattered into pieces over and over again. There had always been something special in the way he cherished Anne’s soft heart, listened to Marcy’s eager ramblings with a fondly exasperated smile. Something about them, the girls that chose him, the ones that continued to choose him… it was enough. Sasha could pretend he didn’t like boys when he was around them, and even though liking girls wasn’t a part of being perfect Sasha Waybright, at least this felt easy, comfortable.
It took years, many years, for Sasha to fully come to terms with who he was. Who was he if he wasn’t his parents perfect daughter? He didn’t want to be perfect, he realized; he wanted to be himself, no matter what. Anne and Marcy didn’t choose him because he was perfect, they chose him because he’s Sasha, and something as flimsy as gender or as freeing as sexuality won’t change that.
So he switches up his pronouns, he changes the way he dresses, he accepts labels. Anne passes him a book one day long after their time in another world, one that she had used to get through school at a young age when she had first transitioned. It’s hard, she had said, but freeing. And there is something freeing in the way he cuts his hair and flirts with the football team and the other cheerleaders, and it’s okay. Everything is okay.
So Sasha is bisexual. That, too, is freeing- the admittance of something that should be so simple but the world has made so complicated. It’s as easy as breathing; he is bisexual, and that means he can flirt with whoever he wants. He is bisexual, just like Anne is a lesbian and on the aro spectrum - though Sasha, admittedly, has to research what that means - and Marcy’s unlabeled and firmly proud of it. He is bisexual, and when Marcy gifts him with a matching set of pronoun and sexuality pins for Christmas - you don’t have to wear them out in public, they had said, knowingly, but there’s something so special in just having them - Sasha had nearly started sobbing because for once in his life, things are making sense.
~~~~~
It hadn’t been a problem at first, which is why, reasonably, the problems start after Sasha’s figured himself out.
Everyone in his life has been - for the most part - supportive. His parents hadn’t understood, but have they ever understood Sasha? They came around though, because it wouldn’t fit their image to be bad parents, even though they were still fighting with each other and playing tug-of-war every other weekend for custody rights. Sasha’s long accepted that his parents wanted a child as act of publicity more than they wanted to be nurturing parents. He didn’t need them to be nurturing; he had Anne’s parents for that.
Still, he goes to school and when people aren’t whispering about the scars that have been carved into his body - the most noticeable the one on his face - they’re whispering about him and the fact that he doesn’t wear the frilly pink skirts anymore, that he’s dropped the cheerleading team - though he still does acrobatics on the side, because that part had been exhilarating and he’d miss it too much to quit completely - that he’s with Anne because they’re friends, or with Marcy because they’re both so visibly queer, or anything else they can gossip about.
There was a time when the Sasha of old would gossip right back, spread nasty rumors that would take out the reputation of over half the school, would smile thinly and manipulate everyone so that they’re on his side unconditionally. That Sasha died in Amphibia, leaving behind a version of himself that he can be proud of, that Anne and Marcy can be proud of. He doesn’t spread any nasty rumors, he doesn’t spread gossip. Instead, he packs up his stuff and goes to Anne’s house.
Anne’s house is a safe haven. Anne’s house is where Anne lives, and it’s where Marcy lives too now, in order to finish schooling in the same area- it was the only argument they were able to make to their parents to stay in Los Angeles. Anne’s house is where Anne’s parents live, and they’ve been nothing but supportive the entire time Sasha has known them. Anne’s house is a place where sleepovers were held, and memories were made, and even now, Sasha sits on Anne’s bed and knows that he’s safe here, he will always be safe here.
Anne takes his hands now, and she’s painting his nails in striped pink green and blue, because the only way Sasha will let himself feel vulnerable around her is when they’re doing something dumb and mundane and there’s no focus or attention on him. “Anne-” he starts, cautiously, because there’s something bitter lodged in his throat and fuck, he’s promised them both that he would talk about his feelings more so that something like Amphibia never happens again, but why is it so hard? “-what if I’m not really bi?”
Anne, for her credit, never once pauses. She casts one single look at Marcy - who is playing on their switch off in the corner, lost in their own little world, the way they usually are during these discussions - before simply moving onto the next finger. “Why do you ask?” She finally says, and Sasha’s gaze follows the way Anne methodically coats his nail in blue polish. “You know I’m not really the best when it comes to… who we like, and that stuff. It took me so long.”
“Who else would I talk about it with?” Sasha snorts, and then laughs something bitter and hollow. “I just… you know, Becky was talking the other day-”
“-since when does Sasha Waybright listen to gossip?”
“-let me speak. Becky was talking the other day, and… I dunno. What if I only pretend to like guys because I don’t want to be a failure to my parents?”
He’s expecting Anne to laugh, or nod along and agree. He’s not expecting the way she just raises an eyebrow at him, bold and expectantly.
He squints at her. “What are you looking at me like that for?”
“Is that what you think? That liking guys makes you less of a failure to your parents?” Anne switches to green, delicately handling Sasha’s hands like they’re made of glass, and maybe they are. Hasn’t Sasha Waybright always been made of glass?
“No? Maybe?” Sasha groans. “I don’t know. I didn’t think like that until Becky started whispering.”
“What does Becky know? Everyone knows that Becky only became a cheerleader because she couldn’t get friends otherwise.” Anne snorts. “If I’ve learned anything in the past few years, it’s that you don’t gotta pretend to be something else for other people, and nobody else can dictate your identity except yourself. Are you bi, Sasha?”
Sasha thinks about it.
“Yes,” he decides, expectantly wiggling his other hand so that Anne finishes– she had paused to stare at him. “I am.”
“Then that’s that!” Anne smiles, and then she pulls back, examining her work. Sasha’s fingers glitter in the light, and it’s their colors, which is the only reason he let Anne paint his nails at all. “What do you think?”
“They’re perfect,” he says, and perfect is such a tainted word coming from his lips but he thinks Anne knows what he means. This is perfect.
#kasey writes stuff#sasha waybright#its not super obvious but sasha is transmasc bi#anne is transfem lesbian#marcy is nb#i tried to incorporate as many of your gender/sexuality hcs as i could remember sprig so i hope you like it!#it definitely turned more into a sasha character study but#i am a lesbian and wanted to make sure i was writing sasha right first and foremost#<3 <3 <3
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Aim For The Heart | Chapter 3: Plan B
Pairing: hitman!jk x female reader
Genre: E2L, romance, drama, angst
WC: 5.1k
Warnings for this chapter: language (jk will continue to have a potty mouth), a gun, attempted murder
Tag list; @hopekookies @moonchild1 @barbellastyles98 @teresaisla @ggukkieland @mwitsmejk @scuzmunkie @sugaslittlekookies @jaebeomsblackgf @moon-asia
summary; Jeon Jungkook is an infamous hitman, known for his inability to fail at whatever job is thrown his way. At least, up until now. Y/n, a kind-hearted and full of life teacher, is his newest target. Jeon isn’t sure who would put a hit on this seemingly innocent girl, but fortunately, that isn’t his problem. All he has to do is pull the trigger.
Previous → Next
"Excuse m-me, sir."
Jungkook turns and his heart stops in his chest when he sees the wide eyes of a horribly familiar girl staring up at him.
You're clutching a piece of paper in your hands as a smile spreads on your face when you look at him closer. Jungkook blinks a few times, the rest of him frozen in horror at being caught.
"Th-This is for you." You hold out the paper.
Jungkook takes it limply, his eyes never leaving yours.
When the initial shock leaves his body, he tears his eyes away from you and looks down at what you gave him. He squints in confusion at what he sees. Then he looks back up at his target.
What the hell is this?
"Uh-"
"I hope it isn't c-creepy. I j-just thought it might make you s-smile." You brighten when he looks back down at the picture.
Jungkook swallows thickly.
On the piece of notebook paper, is a terribly drawn picture. But that isn't what's gotten his attention. On it, is an image of what he can only guess to be himself, sitting on a bench.
He looks back up at you, "Um, I don't understand..." His voice gives out on him as he fights the urge to bolt. Everything about this situation is telling him to run. You know him. You've known he was following you.
But you aren't outright telling him that you know...
What the hell does he do now?
You smile shyly, a small blush creeping up your cheeks. "I know it m-must seem weird. But p-please let m-me explain."
He nods uncertainly, forcing his feet to stay planted where he is.
"Ok," You wring your hands together and he watches in confusion as you blink a few times. "O-Ok, I like to d-draw. And sometimes when I d-don't have anything else to draw, I draw p-people. Then I give them the p-picture as a present to make them h-happy!" You bounce a little on the balls of your feet.
"But-..." Jungkook scratches his neck. "When did you do this?" He's starting to think maybe he's out of the line of fire. Perhaps he jumped to conclusions and you don't suspect him of following you at all.
You put a finger to your chin as you think about that. Then you tap your cheek, blinking hard a few times. "Mmm, I think it was Wednesday? Maybe Thursday..." You start mumbling to yourself.
Jungkook raises a brow, watching you curiously.
He looks around, no one seems to be paying attention to the two of you. Good, he can't be seen as one of the last people to be with you.
You suddenly speak up again, drawing his attention back to you.
"W-Well, anyway. I decided to m-make it and give it to you b-because you looked sad. Are y-you lonely?" You look up at him with big eyes and he blinks, looking away for a second to regain his composure.
Damn, she's nosy.
Jungkook clears his throat and looks back at you, "I'm not lonely. And as much as I appreciate the thought, I don't need this." Then he shoves the picture into your chest, making you flinch and grab it.
"Have a good day." He says curtly, then he turns and walks as quickly as he can away from the situation.
After a minute of walking, Jungkook breathes a sigh of relief to be out of that. He messed up. Now he really needs to get this done quickly before the target figures anything out for real this time.
The relief is short-lived though. A second later, he flinches when he hears a voice calling out to him and the sound of feet running.
"Wait! Mister, p-please wait!"
Jungkook pulls his hat down further and picks up his pace, trying to find a crowd he can lose you in.
He's squeezing in-between people and pushing past others, ignoring their sounds of annoyance. Then a hand grabs the sleeve of his jacket and he internally groans.
Shit, she's fast.
Jungkook shakes you off of him and turns to glare at you.
"What?" He snaps.
You blink and cock your head to the side for a second before straightening it out, a crooked smile forming on your face.
"I w-wasn't able to introduce m-myself." You state simply.
Jungkook audibly sighs, "Look, I'm busy."
"Oh." Your face falls and he resists the urge to roll his eyes.
You look at the ground for a second, then you look back at him, your eyes bright again and the smile back on your face. "P-Please, take the picture. I have n-no room in my bag f-for it."
Jungkook sighs again and snatches the picture out of your hands, "Fine. Happy?" He waves it in the air before folding it and sticking it in his jacket pocket.
You nod happily, "My n-name is ____."
I know.
"Alright." He looks away, trying to give you the hint that he's done with the conversation.
"What's y-your name?"
Gosh, she never shuts up, does she?
"Jungkook."
...
...
...Fuck.
Why in the literal hell would he say his real name just now?
He wasn't thinking. He just wanted you to shut up.
You see the look of pure panic on his face and laugh to make him feel better, "Nice t-to meet you, J-Jungkook." He must have trouble talking with people, you think.
"Ok, well yeah, it was nice to meet you. Thank you for the picture. Goodbye." He turns and all but runs off, finally disappearing into a crowd.
You watch him go into the big crowd and you smile, he was so kind.
Giggling and looking down at your fingers, you turn and start making your way home.
_______________
Jungkook hauls ass all the way back to his place, constantly making sudden turns and glancing around to make sure you're not hot on his heels.
When he finally makes it up the stairs and into his apartment, he locks the door and yanks his shoes off, hurling them at the front door and flinching when they slam against it loudly.
There aren't enough curse words in his vocabulary for him to scream into his pillow that would satisfy him right now. He starts to shake, the adrenaline pumping through his veins as his brain goes into overdrive trying to figure out what to do now.
He's never been caught.
Not once.
He's never even been close to getting caught.
In and out, one and done.
That's how it's always been for him.
Jungkook takes his hat off and tosses it onto the tiny dining table, then he walks over to his bed and flops onto it, face down.
"I quit." He mumbles into the comforter forlornly.
Then he lays there for a minute, contemplating everything.
"I can't quit..." He mutters to himself a second later.
It's impossible.
He can't quit.
He just needs to get it over with tonight.
No more hesitating, no more distractions, no more overthinking.
It doesn't matter that she saw his face and knows his name. She'll be dead by morning anyway, and it's not like her friend is here for her to tell anything about him to.
Once he's calmed himself down enough to think clearly, Jungkook gets up and moves to his closet to pull out the safe. He puts in the code and it swings open when he gives it a little tug. He takes out the gun that he failed to use the other night, then he unloads it, pouring the little bullets onto his bed. Jungkook counts them before reloading them, then he dumps them out again, counting them before once again reloading them.
He does this whenever he needs to think, it helps him concentrate.
When he's unloaded and reloaded it four times, he's finally able to take a deep breath. He sits on the edge of his bed, his head hanging for a minute before he lifts it and stares at the wall.
_______________
When you get home, you kick your shoes off and head straight to the kitchen to grab a snack. You grab a little drinkable yogurt and grin as you open it up and take a sip.
Then you move to sit on your couch, still gently sipping your yogurt.
When you're almost halfway done with your snack, you pull out your phone and text Mina.
You 4:32- Mina, I met someone today ^-^
Then you toss your phone next to you and grab your TV remote, turning it on you quickly find the drama you're currently binging and you hit play.
After a few minutes, you hear your phone bling. You pause the show and grab it to see Mina has answered you.
Mina 4:40- YOU WHAT? WHO
You laugh quietly and you're typing a reply when a picture of you and Mina making silly faces pops up on the screen and the ringtone you made special for her starts ringing. You answer it quickly, laughing when she shouts through the phone immediately.
"WAS IT A BOY??" She shrieks, almost breaking your eardrums.
"Y-Yeah." You can feel the blush creeping up your neck at her next words.
"Is he cute? Is he single?"
"M-Mina!" You cry in embarrassment, "It isn't l-like that."
You hear a disappointed sigh leave her lips, "Well, what is it like then?" She asks in curiosity.
"I gave him a p-picture that I drew. He t-took it, Mina! He didn't say I was c-creepy like the other girl did." You're grinning from ear to ear.
She laughs quietly as she realizes what this is about. "Ohh, so you drew a picture of him and gifted it to him?"
"Yup!"
"That's so sweet of you, ____. And he actually took it?"
You nod, then remember she can't see you.
"Y-Yes, he took it. He said th-thank you, and he told m-me his name!"
Mina laughs again at your excitement, "What's his name?"
"Jungkook."
"Ohhh," There's a teasing hint to her tone, "Sounds like a name fit for a cute guy. So, was he cute?"
You bite your lip then whisper, "Uh, yes. He was c-cute."
"Awww! ____ has her first cruuuush!" Mina shrieks again and you shake your head.
"No, Mina. I d-don't have a crush on h-him! I just thought he was n-nice. He seemed like he would m-make a good friend." You pull at the hem of your skirt, your knees tucked up to your chin.
You hear her giggle on the other side, then her tone turns serious. "Ok, you're right ____. No man is good enough to date my sweet best friend. Don't you dare pursue him until I get there and give my approval!"
You roll your eyes, "I'm not going to p-pursue him at all, silly."
You two chat for a couple of minutes, then you let her go because you both need to figure something out for dinner soon.
You decide to finish the episode of the drama, but you can't resist and watch a few more after it. By the time you're able to peel your eyes away from the TV, the sun is starting to go down. You rub your eyes in confusion, I didn't realize how many episodes I watched.
You stretch your arms above your head and yawn, "Ah, I should g-get some d-dinner," You stand up to go to your kitchen and scrounge around. You come up with a few pieces of celery, half a jar of kimchi, and one hard-boiled egg.
You scrunch your nose at the emptiness of the fridge. You'll just have to go to the grocery store tomorrow. But until then, you decide to just go out and get something to eat for dinner and maybe find something for your lunch tomorrow.
You pull your tennis shoes on and grab your bucket hat, plopping it onto your head. It doesn't go with the rest of your pastel outfit, but you don't really care. If it's comfy, then it's a win for you.
Then you take your bag and sling it over your shoulder. Remembering to lock the door, you leave and head down the stairs.
_______________
Jungkook thanks the man at the food stand as he takes the fishcake skewer and hands his money to the man. Then he bows and turns to make his way through the crowds of people that always come out at night in Seoul.
He finds a bench in a park a little ways from the hustle and bustle of the city, so he sits there and takes a deep breath of the crisp evening air. Jungkook takes a bite of his fishcake, chewing it thoughtfully as he goes over the new plan of action in his head.
A few people pass by while he sits there, one of them is a small girl with her mother. She reminds Jungkook of that little girl, Mi-Rah, from the other day. His throat constricts when he remembers the child's words to him. Then he scoffs and takes another bite of fishcake, chewing it aggressively. If that annoying kid hadn't distracted him, he wouldn't be sitting out here right now trying to come up with a new plan...stupid.
Jungkook finishes his food, then he stretches his long limbs out, grunting from exhaustion. This hit is really taking a mental toll on him for literally no reason at all. He can't wait to be done with it.
He rubs his hands together and stands up, stretching a bit more before heading in the direction of the target's home.
He's going to finish this.
Tonight.
When Jungkook is a few blocks from her apartment, he slows down and glances around before slipping into the dark alleyway from the other night. Once he's in the dark, he slips the gun from his pocket and checks the bullets. It's an obsessive thing at this point, but it makes him feel more secure.
He slides the last bullet back in, then-
"Jungkook?"
The gun clatters to the ground with a loud sound as Jungkook whips around to see the one person he doesn't want to see at this moment.
Gosh fucking damn it all to hell.
You're standing there, looking up at him from under your bucket hat. Jungkook scans you quickly, noticing you're still in your light yellow skirt and pink blouse from earlier. You have some bags in your hands as you smile at him.
You don't seem to have taken notice of the fact that he literally just dropped the gun he was going to shoot you with. So, Jungkook quickly kicks it to the side, relieved when it slides behind a bag of trash.
"Uhm, hi...____, right?" It takes all his willpower not to fumble over his words after being caught for the second time on the same day.
You nod happily at the fact that he remembered your name, "Yes! F-Funny to run into y-you again!"
Jungkook chuckles dryly, "Yeah, what a coincidence."
You gesture to him with one of the bags in your hands, "D-Do you live n-near here?"
Jungkook's nose twitches, but he keeps a straight face. "No, I just...I was out for a walk."
"Ohh! Night walks are th-the best."
"Mhm.." Jungkook looks around, trying to figure out what he should do. Maybe he should just do it now...yeah, that's the best idea.
"So, what did you buy?" Jungkook asks suddenly, gesturing towards your bags.
You take the bait instantly and brighten, bending down to place your bags on the ground so you can show him.
The second you aren't looking, Jungkook crouches and grabs the gun from behind the trash bag he kicked it towards.
"Well, now. L-Let me see." You're crouched on your heels, looking through the bags. Jungkook cocks the gun and raises it, his finger on the trigger.
"I've g-got an apple, that was from the k-kind old woman at the fruit s-stand-"
He's about to pull it when another voice rings out in the alley.
"Miss ___! Is that you?"
Jungkook quickly brings the gun down, switching it to safety and stuffing it into the front of his pants. Clearly, he isn't thinking straight right now.
You look up at that moment and glance behind Jungkook before a smile of recognition lights up your face. "Ohh! Mr. Ch-Chang! What are y-you doing out this l-late at night?"
Jungkook bites his lip in pure frustration and turns to see an older man smiling at the pair of you. "I was taking my trash out, and I thought I'd heard your voice coming from over here."
You grab your bags and scoot past Jungkook to greet the older man properly, "It's s-so nice to see you. It's b-been a l-long time!"
Mr. Chang smiles and nods, "It has indeed. And who is this handsome young fellow?"
He looks around you at Jungkook, who screams internally, not knowing anything that could make this situation worse.
"That's m-my new friend, Jungkook."
Oh, ok. So, that makes it worse. Good.
Not only was his plan foiled, but this old man now has a visual and a name to put to someone should anything happen to you.
Great, just great.
"Ah, it's very nice to meet you, Jungkook." Mr. Chang holds out a shaky hand and Jungkook takes it and gives it a shake. "Oh, this one's got a good shake." The old man winks at you and you laugh.
Jungkook forces a smile onto his face.
He's always been good at charming people, that's what makes him so good at his job.
"It's nice to meet you too, Mr. Chang." He says politely.
"Well, very good. Very good. What do you say we all get out of this creepy old alley? Let's get into the light." Mr. Chang leads you and Jungkook out until the street lamps pour golden artificial light onto the three of you. Jungkook wants to flinch away, it feels like the light is exposing all the dirty little secrets he's got hidden away.
But he remains stoic.
You and the man exchange a few words before Mr. Chang clears his throat, "Alright dear, I really am an old man, I must be heading to bed. Jungkook," Jungkook looks up from where he was staring at the ground, "Hm?"
"Be a good lad and walk my young friend home?" He looks at Jungkook with such kind and trusting eyes that Jungkook finds himself looking away.
"Of course." He mumbles.
This man doesn't suspect a thing. He has no idea that the guy he's asking to protect his friend is the one that was about to kill her for a hefty price, and would have if he hadn't been interrupted.
"Thank you. You two stay safe and I'll see you again, ___."
"Goodnight, M-Mr. Chang!" You wave to him as he slowly makes his way around the corner. Then you turn to Jungkook and smile.
Jungkook briefly wonders if your cheeks ever get sore from smiling all the time.
"I l-live this way." You raise an arm to the right, the bag hanging from it dangles. Jungkook nods, then he starts to walk. You need to jog to catch up to him, his long legs take huge strides as he hurries down the street.
The walk is silent, you sensing that Jungkook isn't really in the mood to talk. But it takes a lot of willpower for you not to start asking him different questions to get to know him more.
When you've finally reached the stairs that lead up to your apartment, you huff in a breath.
"Hoo, I'm so t-tired." You laugh.
Jungkook looks at you, his face unchanging.
You hold up a bag, "Would y-you mind carrying th-this up for me? I'm sorry, it's gotten so h-heavy during the walk. And I n-never walk that f-fast."
Jungkook takes the bag with a sigh, then he turns and hurries up the stairs, leaving you to huff and puff up them slowly behind him.
When you reach your door, Jungkook sets the bag down on the ground and turns to leave, "Have a good night." He mumbles.
"W-Wait!"
He turns back to you, biting back another sigh.
"Th-Thank you...for today." You say softly, a hint of a smile on your lips.
"No problem." He says quickly before hurrying down the stairs and disappearing around a corner.
You unlock your door and bring in the bags, lugging them to the kitchen to start unpacking them. As you put the stuff you bought where it belongs in the kitchen, you think back on your day.
It's so crazy that when you were so lonely without Mina, you were able to talk to someone new! A spark of hope comes alive in your chest that maybe you've just made a new friend. Hopefully, you'll see him again and you can learn more about him.
You're so curious to know more about this dark and lonely stranger.
_______________
Jungkook opens the door to his apartment, walking in slowly.
He shuts the door and locks it, then he pulls off his shoes and drops them by the front door. After that, he walks over to his bed, pulls his pants and shirt off, then climbs into bed.
Wrapped up in his covers, Jungkook stares straight ahead into the darkness.
"How the hell am I going to do this?" He whispers numbly.
His head is spinning with new plans and everything that's happened today, but he can't grasp a single one of those thoughts as they race by.
Hours pass by as Jungkook tries desperately to get his head clear enough for him to focus. Eventually, he passes out from pure exhaustion, falling into a fitful sleep.
The next morning, the sun slips through the blinds. The birds are just starting to sing their morning songs, their pretty little voices waking up the rest of the world.
Jungkook shoots straight up in bed, "That's it!" He shouts, then he claps his hand over his mouth, remembering how thin the walls are in this apartment complex.
A smirk spreads across his face as he takes his hand down, "Ah, thank goodness." Jungkook almost laughs out loud in relief at finding another solution.
He jumps out of bed and runs to the shower. It ends up being the shortest shower he's ever taken, he doesn't have any time to waste.
When he gets out, Jungkook grabs a bottle of chocolate milk and a banana before hurrying to get dressed and out the door.
_______________
Jungkook arrives at the school before you, so he gets a paper and sits on the bench, as usual, waiting for you to appear.
It only takes ten minutes of waiting until he spots you across the street. Jungkook smiles to himself and waits patiently. Sure enough, you glance across the street and see him looking at you.
You feel a warm spark in your chest when you see your new friend sitting on the bench across the street from the school. You wave happily, delighted when he smiles and waves back. Then, he stands up and jogs across the street until he's standing right in front of you.
"Good morning, ____."
"Hi, J-Jungkook!" The smile on his face makes your cheeks warm as you look down at your feet.
Then you look back at him, "H-Hey, would you l-like to hang out t-today?" You ask suddenly, but hopefully, afraid he might turn you down instantly.
Instead, Jungkook's smile grows and he nods, "Sure. I'll meet you out here when you're off work."
"O-Ok." You grin at him, not expecting him to agree so fast. Then you look at the time, "I have t-to go. I'll see you l-later."
He waves as you turn and hurry into the school.
Jungkook can't stop the smirk from coming as he watches you disappear into the doors of the school. If you insist on talking to him and making him your friend, then he'll just have to go along with it.
_______________
"Alright, m-my little ducklings! Time t-to pack up!" You clap your hands to get their attention. They all listen immediately, moving to get their bags put together and ready for home.
A few minutes later, the school bell rings, signaling the end of the day.
The kids squeal with happiness and you feel your own rush of excitement, remembering that you have a new friend to spend the rest of your day with. The kids get into line quickly and you give them each a punch in their reward cards as they file out the door.
The second you step out of the school, leading the line of little ducklings behind you, you glance across the street, but you don't see Jungkook sitting there.
You try not to think too much about it and focus on getting the kids into the correct lines for the busses.
You wave to Joon Woo as he climbs into his father's car. He and his dad wave to you and smile before driving away.
Then you look across the street again, but there still isn't any sign of Jungkook.
You bite your lip before turning and walking into the school.
Gathering your things, you think about all the things you and Jungkook might be able to do to pass the time. You're so consumed in your thoughts that you don't notice the knock on your door. The second time the person knocks, louder this time, you hear it.
"C-Come in!" You call out, sorting the last bits of the worksheets that the kids did today. The door opens and Mr. Baek from class A walks in.
You look up and smile at him, "Good afternoon, Mr. B-Baek. How can I h-help you?"
He glares down his long nose at you, "Did you give any thought to what I said last week?"
"Um..."
What did he say last week...?
Oh...
"Oh, uhm. Mr. Baek, I still d-don't understand."
"What do you not understand about it?" He snaps.
You flinch, then set down the stack of papers and stand up while grabbing your bag. "I th-thought maybe you'd had a b-bad day-"
Mr. Baek scoffs loudly, cutting you off.
"You aren't that dense, sweetheart."
The way he says that makes your stomach turn, "Ok, I'm s-sorry that you're upset. I h-have s-somewhere to be. If y-you'll excuse me."
You move around him and hurry out of the room before he can say anything else. You really aren't sure what's gotten into him, but you're going to avoid him until he's over it.
When you walk down the steps to the school, you look around, but Jungkook isn't anywhere to be seen. You try not to let it get to you, this has happened before.
The only person who has ever followed through on plans with you is Mina.
You blink a few times, then you start making your way home.
"Going home so soon?"
You turn to see Jungkook standing behind you.
A smile spreads on your face at the sight of him. "I thought y-you'd left." You say slowly.
He shakes his head and steps closer to you, " I always keep my promises."
You feel your chest lift at his words, finally someone that isn't going to leave you hanging. Then you readjust the bag on your shoulder, "W-What would you like t-to do?"
Jungkook frowns when he notices something off about you. He knows it's none of his business and he doesn't really care, but he's curious.
"Did something happen?" He asks, taking you by surprise, "You look kind of upset."
At that, you smile bigger, "N-Nothing happened! I'm f-fine."
"Ok." Jungkook doesn't buy it, but he doesn't push you any further. He doesn't care enough to.
"So, w-what did you w-want to do?" You ask again, relieved he doesn't continue to ask you what's wrong.
"You pick." Jungkook gives you a small smile, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.
You decide to ignore that and clap your hands together, "W-Well, I'm hungry! How about we g-get some food?"
Jungkook nods, "Food sounds great, do you know any good places?"
You laugh and try to send him a wink, though it's the worst wink he's ever seen. "Oh boy, I know e-exactly what we c-can eat."
Jungkook gestures forward, "Lead the way."
The two of you talk about the weather as you stroll through the city, making your way to one of your favorite food carts. You don't have much to talk about besides that. You're trying to come up with some questions to ask him once you've got your food.
Once you arrive at the steamed bun cart, you break into a little run. Jungkook watches you skip over and jump in place once you're in line.
She acts like a kid.
He shakes his head but hurries over to you anyway.
You tell him all your favorite kinds and he suggests you get them because they sound good to him too. When you take your card out to pay, Jungkook beats you to it. He hands the man some cash before you can even blink.
"Oh, y-you don't have to do th-that."
"I know." He says simply, thanking the man once he hands him the bag of buns and his change.
You two walk to the park that he had followed you to the other day and find a spot on the green grass. You plop down and pat the spot next to you, indicating that he should sit as well. Jungkook sits down and hands you the bag.
"Th-Thank you for b-buying it." You whisper shyly.
Jungkook shrugs, "No problem. Which one should we try first?"
"Um, the pork ones a-are really g-good." You say, taking out the two pork buns. You hand one to him and he immediately takes a big bite, making you chuckle a little.
"Mm, you're right. It's delicious." Jungkook says around a mouthful of food.
You nod, glad that he likes it. Then you start to eat yours, thinking about which question you should ask him first.
"So, how long have you been a teacher?" Jungkook asks you suddenly.
You swallow the bite you were chewing, "I j-just started at the b-beginning of the school year in A-August. I graduated from c-college last year."
Jungkook nods knowingly, "That's good. So, you must be around twenty-two?"
You nod, "I am t-twenty-two, yes. How o-old are you?"
"I turned twenty-three in September," Jungkook says before taking another bite.
"Oh, n-nice. And what d-do you do f-for work?" You ask politely.
Jungkook swallows the bite that feels like it's stuck in his throat at your question. "I work for a small business. I just take care of client's needs and stuff."
You smile, "That's a g-good job."
He nods, finishing off his last bite.
"It pays the bills."
Why is he suddenly uncomfortable? There's something about you that makes him nervous, but he can't tell what it is.
No, this is on his terms. This is all part of the plan, he just needs to play along. He needs you to trust him.
Jungkook glances over at you as you stuff more food into your mouth.
This is gonna be easier than I thought.
______________________________
a/n: thank you so much for all the support so far! I hope y’all liked this one
#jeon jungkook#jungkook fluff#bts fluff#bts reactions#bts#bts smut#jungkook smut#bts jungkook angst#bts angst#jungkook scenarios#BTS jungkook#jungkook#jungkook fic#hitman!jk#jungkook x reader#jungkook x y/n#bts x reader#bts x y/n#kim seokjin#min yoongi#jung hoseok#park jimin#kim taehyung#kim namjoon
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Jughead (2015), Issues 1-6: Discussion and Commentary
"I am like unto a god, Archie Andrews. Respect me as such."
Recently re-typed and ready to go, here is a broad discussion of the first volume of the Jughead reboot comic series. I was originally going to review each issue individually, but given that the first six comprise one story arc, I decided to do the whole volume in one go. That means this is a bit crunched for time and therefore not quite as in-depth as I wanted to go! But I encourage you to read the comics for yourself, if you are able.
This will not be spoiler-free, for the record! The images here are taken from my own copy using my phone, so they're not the best quality! But they also aren't especially crucial to this commentary, so you'll have to bear with me.
I just really like the inside cover art for this volume, alright (it's also the cover of issue 5)? I can't help it, I'm aro, I see heart imagery and something in my brain goes haywire.
When we first meet Jughead at the beginning of Volume 1, he comes off as lazy and apathetic, at least on the surface. After an all-nighter of playing video games, Jughead is dragged to school by Archie. There, they find that Betty has started a new campaign to save Fox Forest, a beloved local greenspace that is being threatened by Veronica’s wealthy father, Mr. Lodge. Jughead is… not very interested in Betty’s cause, to put it politely. It’s not that he doesn’t care about Fox Forest, but he does not believe that Mr. Lodge would be convinced to change his mind by a petition. He tells Betty as such, and she remarks that he lives a very hollow life.
“Man, you’re so cynical,” Archie tells him. “Is there anything you’d actually fight for?”
The answer is yes. What ultimately gets Jughead to fight for something? Food—well, kind of, but we’re getting ahead of ourselves.
When Archie and Jughead get to class, they learn that the principal of Riverdale High, Mr. Weatherbee, is being replaced out of the blue by a new guy called Stanger. Stanger is a stiff, serious type, and he immediately starts making changes: new uptight teachers, a strict dress code, new bootcamp-esque curriculum, and most importantly, supposedly nutritious slop to replace the food in the cafeteria.
This sends Jughead down a bit of a rebellious path—he’s not a rule-breaker, but he’s perfectly comfortable with bending the rules in his favor while narrowly skirting around getting into trouble. He starts selling burgers in the cafeteria, with the proceeds benefitting Betty’s fundraiser for Fox Forest.
(Hell yeah, Jughead, unionize that student body! Sell those burgers! You have nothing to lose but your chains!)
This stunt gets Jughead on Stanger’s bad side immediately, and a slowly simmering feud between them ultimately boils over when Stanger plants a knife in Jughead’s backpack to get him expelled. Thankfully, his dad is able to talk his sentence down to a week’s suspension, but that doesn’t stop his friends (and his mother) from worrying about him.
As an aside, I’d like to take a moment to appreciate Mr. Jones.
“Something’s off here and I’m not sure what it is, but I am sure Jughead didn’t bring a knife to school. My boy’s weird, but he’s not a criminal.”
I really like this line from him to Betty. He clearly knows his son and is willing to stand up for him, and it’s comforting to me, especially viewing the story through the lens of Jughead being aroace, that Mr. Jones is not at all bothered by his son being a bit on the strange side, as long as he’s still a good kid. Nothing but respect for Forsythe Jones II in this house.
Something fun and unique about this volume in particular is that in every issue, Jughead either falls asleep or passes out, and has an elaborate imaginative dream about the events of the story. In one he’s a pirate, for example, and in another he’s visited by a descendant of Archie’s from the future, who belongs to the time police. But towards the end of the volume, the line between these daydreams and reality seem to blur for Jughead. He comes to the conclusion in one particular nightmare that Stanger is trying to brainwash them all into becoming mindless agents for his evil organization—and then he realizes he may not be that far off from the truth.
Jughead brings this realization—that Stanger is using the school as a sort of training ground for secret agents—up to his friends, and understandably, they aren’t convinced. They worry that the compounded exhaustion of multiple all-nighters playing games and the stress of being suspended has started to get to Jughead, but he vows to prove it to them.
I mean, damn, Betty, that kind of hurts. (Don’t worry, Betty is actually a good friend, as I’m sure we’ll get into later in the series.)
To make a long story short (and to avoid spoiling the entire plot for those who haven’t read it!), Jughead does find proof, and once he does, his friends are immediately on board. They are ultimately able to save the day, and once it’s revealed that Stanger and the new teachers are ex-CIA trying to brainwash the students (no, seriously), Mr. Weatherbee is re-instated as principal and things return to normal.
I’m leaving out a lot of nuanced details, mostly for the sake of time, but there are a lot of surprisingly weighty moments to this first arc, and Zdarsky’s character writing is incredibly endearing and funny, while still hitting the serious moments when it needs to. There’s an interesting underlying commentary in this arc about military recruitment and U.S. propaganda; Stanger says that he specifically chose Riverdale because the students are so average. There’s something to be said here about the way the military industrial complex preys on average or underprivileged teenagers to convince them to serve when they feel they have no better path to take. It’s an almost funnily serious commentary for Zdarsky to make with a seemingly silly and off-beat comic series, and I respect him for that.
(If you recognize this panel, it’s because it appears on the page where Jughead’s asexuality is canonized. What a good page. So good that nobody ever points out this panel.)
By the end of Volume 1, we see that Jughead maybe isn’t as apathetic and careless as he seemed to be. Sure, he got up in arms about food of all things in the beginning, but it stopped being about food very quickly, once he realized that something truly messed up was going on. And it bothers him, deeply—at one point, the gravity of the situation begins to weigh on him so heavily that he nearly gives up entirely, convinced that there is nothing they can do and that they ought to just lie low until they make it out. But he does end up making things right, with the help of his friends, and in the end, he does decide to help Betty out after all. It’s the least he can do, really. You do get the impression that although Jughead’s friends often don’t take him seriously, they’ll always have his back when it counts—and he’ll do the same for them, even if he’ll insist on being a bit snarky about it.
(That slightly cynical attitude is still there, though, and truthfully, Jughead wouldn’t be the same without it.)
To close out, I am just going to share some of my favorite panels/quotes that didn’t fit elsewhere, including some choice Aro Moods. I hope this (admittedly brief) discussion of Volume 1 convinces you to read the comics, and to join me again when I cover the next arc. Until then, cheers to Chip and Erica.
Jughead’s attitude towards Archie’s romantic problems will never not be funny to me. He’s just like “RIP to you but I’m different.”
Kevin. :/ Kevin come on, man. Mr. Zdarsky, sir, this is character assassination. (Jughead’s face in the corner is a reasonable reaction.)
This one’s gone around so many times before (as have a bunch of other aro moments that I don’t think I need to bother re-posting here), but I just think it’s neat. Don’t worry, Betty lets go.
Aaand lastly, I just really like this line from Jughead. “The world is out of our hands, pal. You just gotta make your own weird way in it.” That we do, Jughead. That we do.
#my god the pain i went through to write this#aro#aromantic#aro jughead#ace jughead#aroace jughead#long post#jughead jones#ooohhh i'm gonna make shitterdale stans sooo angry#jughead comics#techno's jughead reread#<- tag for this little series#op
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At Your Mercy, Princess Justice
This could not be happening.
Expelled. The word rang in her head exactly as Mr. Damocles has said it. Expelled.
Her friends were all glaring at her. Mr. Damocles looked incensed. Behind him, Adrien stood by with a distressed look on his face. Her parents were embracing each other, not even looking at her.
And of course, Lila was right there, doing her absolute best to look like an innocent victim in all of this.
This was absurd.
Just ten minutes ago Marinette had been sitting in class with everyone else, and now she was expelled? Just like that? Without anybody even bothering to listen to her side of the story? Without anybody checking to see if there was anything to verify Lila’s claims? Without proof?
She’d known for quite a while now that when it came to bullies, she was on her own. It was that way with Chloe, and it was that way with Lila. Nobody, not her parents, not her teachers, not her classmates, had ever stepped up to help her. She’d had to help herself. So why was it that when she was the one accused of bullying, Lila wasn’t also on her own?
It was so unfair. And Marinette knew this school wasn’t fair, had known it since the moment Chloe had first gotten out of punishment by threatening to call her father, but still she felt stunned at this level of blatant injustice.
She locked eyes with Lila, and the girl smirked at her before quickly taking on the innocent act once again. Nobody saw it.
This could not be happening.
“I demand you leave campus at once!” Mr. Damocles shouted, pointing an emphatic finger at the door. “You will not be allowed back on these school grounds!”
This was absurd.
Marinette stared at him for a moment, and then took a breath and walked to where his finger had pointed. The locker room door.
She was stunned. Her mind was reeling. There were so many emotions whirling through her head right now that she couldn’t even discern them all. What she knew for sure is that she was definitely upset.
She reached the locker room door and put a shaking hand on it to push it open. When she did, she really didn’t even have time to react. All she saw was a brief flash of purple, and then—
It was something she’d never experienced before, and that made sense as it was probably an experience unique to these specific circumstances. It was the experience of another mind making contact with hers. Not colliding, not melding, but making contact.
Like she said, it was a completely unique experience to her. Since akuma victims didn’t retain their memories, Marinette had no way of knowing what to expect. She had no idea what it felt like to be akumatized. Not until now. She hadn’t expected it to be like this.
Her mind made contact with another’s. Hawk Moth’s. The surface levels of their minds touched, and they shared. Hawk Moth felt anger. He felt loneliness. He felt desperation. He felt a desire to have enough power to change things.
And so did Marinette. She was furious at the fact that she was just wrongfully expelled. She felt abandoned by everyone she’d thought she could trust. She felt desperate for someone, anyone, to actually care about her and her side of things. She wanted to be able to fight back against this, but knew that nobody had been willing to listen to her before, and they wouldn’t listen to her now. Not unless she could make them.
Their emotions resonated with each other. Connecting with somebody on this level, experiencing a whole new level of empathy, immediately sparked a sense of camaraderie in Marinette. He understood her. He believed her. He empathized with her. He wanted to help her. And his emotions coincided with hers, so Marinette wanted to help him too.
She wanted to help Hawk Moth.
This mental connection shared his awareness with her and her awareness with him. She could tell he knew where she was and what had upset her, and the fact that he just knew, that she didn’t have to try to fumble through an explanation to him, was incredible. She also knew where he was; she could see it through his mind. It was a large, dark room, but for a single window that let sunlight shine in. She didn’t know what had upset him, and she couldn’t find out. There was no digging or pushing with this connection. The surfaces of their minds had made contact, and they shared awareness but not thoughts.
Princess Justice, she was aware of him saying. It seems the innocent aren't to be believed anymore. Deception and lies being spread is reason enough to be upset, but what’s more, nobody is interested in learning the truth. Everyone around you is content to condemn you to a wrongful punishment without a second thought. However, I can give you the power to enact true justice, and in doing so show them how unjust they really are. I only ask for one thing in return.
The desire intensified. The desire for justice to prevail. The desire to have the power to change things. He was right there with her. He believed her. He wanted to help her. He was on her side even though no one else was.
He wanted the power to change things. He wanted the Miraculouses.
She wanted the power to change things. She wanted justice. Justice for her. Justice for him. Justice for everything.
“Justice will be served, Hawk Moth.”
Power surged through her. The mental connection, the contact of their minds, was vital as they cooperated with each other.
It was the work of both of them. Hawk Moth was the source of power. He directed it to her, and he directed her how to use it. She shaped that power around her in her desired image.
She wanted the power to enact justice. She got it.
She wanted a weapon to fight with. She got it. Her purse, the item the akuma had merged with, morphed into a long, silver sword.
She wanted armor to protect her. She got it. Shining silver armor formed around her body. A breastplate that was shaped to fit her perfectly, and curved around her sides and back to protect her torso entirely. A skirt made of plates of silver armor, with pink fabric connecting the plates to make it flexible enough to comfortably move in. Bright silver boots that came up to her knees and covered her kneecaps, and yet were somehow light enough for her to easily lift her feet. Gleaming silver gauntlets that came up to her mid-biceps, protecting her arms without prohibiting movement.
She wanted a helmet to protect her head and cover her ears. She got it. A shining silver helmet formed around her head, covering her hair and ears, but not her face. A mask joined it, silver and pink, and shaped a little like a butterfly.
He wanted her to no longer be Marinette. He got it. Princess Justice came into existence.
Wanted to write a perspective on being akumatized, because it’s always kind of vague in what Hawk Moth does and doesn’t know, and I came up with my own explanation for it even though I just know its because ML doesn’t care about continuity. To be clear, Marinette got upset over being wrongfully expelled and not anything to do with Ladybug, so Hawk Moth doesn’t know she’s Ladybug.
And while we’re being clear, Hawk Moth didn’t go Scarlet Moth for this like he did in canon, just sent an akuma to Marinette, and it flew through the door as soon as she opened it, so she didn’t get any chance to fight it off like that. As for internally fighting it off like Ms. Bustier or Chloe, well, sorry I didn’t go for that.
(Also to be clear, Marinette’s internal monologue said she’s always had to stand up for herself against bullies, but there’s technically one exception to that and that’s Alya.)
#ml salt#miraculous ladybug#ml fic#at your mercy princess justice#akumanette#long post#fyi i don't put the read more higher up because it'll break the link if i ever change my username#i don't want people to read three paragraphs of the fic and then get disappointed because of a broken link
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Unique Dark Academia Fashion Ideas
By now I think we all know that silk shirts, oxfords, and old blazers are staples of Dark Academia fashion. Here are some ideas for fitting your wardrobe to the aesthetic that I haven’t seen a lot of.
Tops
Silk button downs are great, but if you want something perhaps less fancy and simple, here are some ideas:
Cardigans. Specifically, tighter button down cardigans. While they are very similar to silk shirts, they aren’t quite as eye catching, and usually not as bright. I have a cream silk blend cardigan that I’ve been wearing under blazers instead of silk; it’s warmer, for one, and doesn’t make me feel so pretentious when my classmates are all in sweatpants.
Cotton. Especially for warmer months, a good cotton shirt looks great tucked in a pair of high waisted shorts or trousers. I would suggest one with buttons as an accent, to avoid it being too plain. You can also roll up the sleeves for peak “disgruntled professor/lawyer” look.
Sweaters. I don’t just mean a black turtleneck here. Turtlenecks are of course great for winter and fall, but other sweaters are great also. I especially would suggest sweaters with interesting weaves or embroidery, as without the turtleneck they often need a little something extra to dress it up. There’s also the classic look of putting a button down underneath and pulling the collar out. For colors, jewel tones are always best in my opinion: deep reds, emerald greens, midnight blues. But you know yourself best, and if your hair looks great with cream, or light blue makes your eyes pop, go for it. Be sure to tuck over sized sweaters into your bottoms to avoid losing your figure.
Bottoms
Bottoms are a little easier, as they’re usually not the statement piece of an outfit, especially in dark academia. Still, high waisted, pleated, 100% linen trousers are hard to find in thrift stores, so here’s some alternatives:
Black jeans. Personally, I avoid low waisted pants like the plague. Unfortunately, it’s hard to find high waisted suit pants in thrift stores, especially ones with the tighter fit that I prefer. Often, I go for my pair of good quality, 100% cotton, extremely high waisted black skinny jeans instead. Avoid jeans with rips or that aren’t a uniform color. I definitely would suggest black if you’re going to wear jeans, though that may be my inherent dislike of blue jeans talking.
High waisted pants of any kind. When it comes to tucking shirts in bottoms, you want a high waist. I can tuck the bulkiest of sweaters easily into my jeans, because they are high waisted and made of a thick material. Thin, flimsy material is hard to hide the lines of your tops in, and lower waisted pants often can’t hold the hem long before the top gets untucked.
Skirts. I prefer more masculine clothing, but I do have quite a few skirts that I wear on occasion. And good lord, if they aren’t the most comfortable pieces of clothing I own. Specifically, long flowing skirts made out of 100% silk, cotton, or wool. Wool is great for winter months, and adds an extra layer of protection from the cold. Cotton and silk is best for the hot summer time, and if you’re having trouble with staying in dark academia fashion when you’re sweating out of your fingernails, consider skirts. A long skirt can dress up something like a t-shirt if you do it right. Sandals, a long breathable skirt, and a tied up or tucked in shirt is a great go-to when the sun is sucking away your soul.
Shoes
I still don’t own a pair of oxfords.
Boots. I’m a boot person. For dark academia, I would avoid taller boots; ankle boots or calf-length boots are the way to go. Go for leather, and tighter fits. A great way to pull your outfit together is to match your shoes and your belt or bag, and well as the hardware. If your belt is black with a silver buckle, go with black boots with silver accents. Try to avoid mixing metals (silver with bronze, etc.) if at all possible.
Ballet shoes. I don’t own any, but personally I think they’d be a great alternative to simple flats; especially if you lace the silk ribbons up your shins a bit. These are definitely best for summer months though, I would not recommend during the winter.
Accessories
A single accessory can completely change your outfit and aesthetic. Personally, some of my most used clothing pieces are not what you’d call dark academia. My go-to jacket is a bomber jacket with patches, and my usual boots are heavy Harley Davidson biker boots with metal caps. Here are some accessories that can turn your everyday outfit to something more dark academia-esque.
Suspenders. I would recommend suspenders for everyone honestly. I was having trouble with a pair of trousers, because I needed to keep them high on my waist and tight to tuck in my shirt, but they had no belt loops. Suddenly I realized someone had solved the issue centuries ago, and used my suspenders. It worked perfectly, and also added a whole new level of dark academia to my outfit. I like using them in a subtle way though: under a jacket or blazer usually, that I might take off if it gets hot and just so happen to show off the suspenders underneath. Or, never even take the jacket off and just let people get subtle looks at them. Drawing attention to suspenders makes me feel like a douche for some reason; maybe it’s the images of fedora tipping that flood in.
Satchel or book bag. I know this one is a staple, but listen. Buying leather satchel changed everything for my look. I might have a bomber jacket, skinny jeans, and biker boots but a satchel thrown over one shoulder shifts everything about my appearance. If you are able to buy one new, Amazon has some great options under $100 dollars. If not, keep your eye out whenever you go to the thrift store.
Hair accessories. Try silk ribbons. Pull your hair back with them, braid them into your hair, or use them as headbands. Learn how to braid metal cuffs into your hair if you’re up for a challenge.
Scarves. Scarves are such an easy way to dress up an outfit, as well as keep you warm. I would suggest long, silk scarves that have enough width that you can style it around your head/hair, which I think is a great look that also keeps your ears warm. Jewel tones are definitely suggested here, especially if you’re wearing all black it’s a great statement.
Jewelry. If you’re religious, I would highly suggest jewelry with some sort of religious symbolism. Religious imagery is something I defiantly associate with dark academia. If you have any jewelry pieces that were passed down to you, try them. I like rings a lot, but for my right hand I cover all my finger with heavy steel rings that cover my knuckles (for punching purposes). On my left hand, I have rings from my family. I would again suggest not mixing metals, though it can look eclectic if that’s a look you like.
That’s all I could think of at this moment, but feel free to add your own or message me! Go forth and dress to make yourself confident, whatever that may look like.
#dark academia fashion#dark academia tips#dark academia#clothing tips#dark academia clothing#grey academia#light academia#dark academia ideas#dark academia inspiration#fashion#dark academia aesthetic#dark academia style#my posts#thewinedark
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Winter Court Wedding
By: SassyShoulderAngel319
Fandom/Character(s): A Court of Thorns and Roses Series/Rhysand
Rating: PG/K+
Original Idea: This has been in my head for a few days and I had to get it out of my head so I could write other stuff XD
Notes: (Masterlist)(By Character)(About Me) 2,356 words... yup it ran away from me again. This one pretends Tamlin isn’t a terrible person so we get Rhys instead 😉 @itscheybaby
^^^^^
“Rhysand?” I called through the town house.
“Yes?” His voice was coming from the kitchen.
I went downstairs, holding the box I’d found in our room. “What’s this for?” I asked, indicating the heavy fur-lined black cloak with silver embroidery of the moon and stars up the sides.
“Can’t I give you a gift just because I want to?” His smirk was almost too casual for me to believe him.
“You know I prefer coats in Velaris,” I replied. “So there’s something going on.”
He sighed, wings drooping. “Alright. You caught me,” he muttered. “We’re going to the Winter Court.”
“What for?”
“Kallias and Vivane’s wedding.”
“Didn’t they get married like an hour after he got back from Under the Mountain?”
Rhysand folded his arms, tucking his wings against his back a little tighter. “Yes,” he said carefully, “but they’re hosting a formal reception for their court, as well as for the other High Lords. I’m sure Kallias doesn’t actually want to invite us, or any of the other High Lords for that matter, but Mor and Vivane are really good friends and I don’t think he wants to harm that relationship.”
“So Mor’s coming with us, then?”
“Unfortunately, no. She has to put out a fire in the Court of Nightmares.”
“Literal or figurative?”
“Figurative. Keir is pitching fits again.”
“Ah. Same old, same old, then.”
“Pretty much.”
I decided to change the subject.
“So, the cloak is to keep me warm in the Winter Court climate, I’m assuming.”
“Yes. Hopefully without damaging your dress. Sometimes your coats rumple the skirts. While we’re in Velaris—and anywhere in the Night Court that’s not the Court of Nightmares, really—I don’t mind. But you know what we look like to the other courts. The image we present.”
Wealthy, dangerous, ruthless, powerful Night Court High Fae. Immaculate and pristine. Never even a hair out of place. Always in control of every situation. The High Lord who always got what he wanted, his thunderstorm of a High Lady by his side. Nary a trace of the Illyrian half-breed with self-worth issues and the Autumn Court runaway who’d never belonged anywhere.
“I know,” I said.
Rhys approached me and pulled the cloak out of its small box. “Besides,” he said, slinging it around me, “it does look rather fetching on you.” He bent his head and pressed a kiss to my neck.
“Charmer,” I teased.
He laughed. “I could say the same about you.”
I wrapped my arms around him. “I missed you, while you were… gone.”
Even though he insisted he was fine, I still did my best not to mention Under the Mountain. The secrets he’d been forced to keep, the things he’d been forced to do to keep me and the rest of the Night Court safe. We talked about it when he needed to, and I would always be there for him, but I didn’t need to force the past forty-nine years on him.
Rhys put his arms around my waist under the cloak and buried his nose in my hair. “I missed you too.”
“So when do we leave for the Winter Court?”
He knew I was changing the subject away from what I didn’t want to bring up, but he let me. “Tomorrow. We may stay overnight, we may not.”
“Shame Mor’s not coming with.”
“Agreed. She’d love to see Viviane again.”
“We’ll find some way to reunite them. How about that?”
“I think it sounds delightful. We’ll put them in a sound-proof room so we don’t have to hear them squealing into the late hours of the night.” His sarcasm was not lost on me. I chuckled. We swayed in place for a bit. “Let’s go get prepared for tomorrow, darling,” he said.
“Okay,” I agreed.
—
I already miss the Northern mountains, I thought at Rhys, wrapping the beautiful new cloak tighter around me to suppress a shiver. Even they aren’t as cold as this.
He hid his amused smile with a lazy smirk, boredly surveying the Winter Court ice waste around us as the reindeer-pulled sleigh whisked over the snow. I agree, he thought back, but it’s not for very long.
The small tiara I’d chosen to accompany my gown was like I’d wrapped an icicle around my scalp. The metal of it practically frozen to my skin.
The sleigh turned a corner.
“By the Cauldron,” I breathed.
The palace was made of ice. It towered into the sky with sharp jags and icicle towers, hexagonal walls filtering sunlight from behind. White-furred bears patrolled the battlements alongside the soldiers. All of whom sported white hair and pale blue uniforms. Snow was falling, but there was only a scattering of clouds. The High Lord’s magic, then, probably.
It might be a good idea to close your jaw, Rhys advised, no sarcasm present. We have an image to maintain while we’re here.
Right, I thought.
The sleigh driver pulled us up to a half-circle drive of packed snow. At the apex of the half-circle were two massive doors to the palace, wide open to the deep blue gloom of indoors. After slowing to a stop, we gave the driver a curt but polite thank-you and swept out of the sleigh. I caught Rhys flicking a finger before offering me his arm. What magic did you just do? I thought at him.
Tipping the driver. It’s polite but I definitely don’t want to be seen doing it. Would ruin the monster reputation I’ve spent centuries building. An image accompanied his reply—of a cheeky wink. I sent him back nothing but laughter.
An attendant—a young “lesser” faerie female with skin the color, texture, and reflectiveness of powdered snow—guided us inside. It was a lot warmer within the ice-crafted walls than I would have expected. I almost wanted to remove my cloak. The attendant looked absolutely terrified of us. Rhys and I barely acknowledged she was there, both keeping impassive expressions on our faces. I wished I could reassure her that everything was alright—that we were friendly—but I knew why I couldn’t.
She led us up what technically counted as a spiral staircase—despite it being hexagonal and not perfectly circular—to a suite of rooms. “His Lordship hopes you will be comfortable here,” the attendant said.
“Thank you.” A curt dismissal from Rhys. She scampered away.
Once she was gone and the doors closed, both of us relaxed. “I hate acting like that,” I muttered.
“Me too. But every High Lord puts on a face,” Rhys said. “You remember Helion. He seems terribly prickly and temperamental in public but is quite amusing and kind in private.” Rhys sat on a white sofa embroidered with sky blue winter flora and a few snowflakes.
“I do remember Helion. I also remember wishing you’d given me a warning about it. I was ready to punch him for being so rude to you.”
Rhys winked at me. “That wouldn’t have been nearly as fun,” he replied. I rolled my eyes. “Well, love, there’s nothing to do but wait until the reception. We did arrive a little early.”
“Four hours is ‘a little’?” I joked.
All I got was a shrug. “I like making statements,” he replied casually. “I arrive when I wish and I don’t care about their scheduling. Usually I would prefer to show up late to make it seem like I really don’t care about whatever it is they’ve had the courage to invite me to, but sometimes it’s more fun to arrive much earlier than planned and make that everyone else’s problem.”
I laughed. “You do a good job of making your act seamless.”
“Centuries of practice, darling.” He lounged on the sofa but patted the seat next to him. I sat beside him. It was almost warm enough inside to remove my cloak, but not quite. Rhys’ body heat was helping make up the difference. “You look beautiful, by the way.”
I grinned. “Thanks. You’re quite stunning yourself.” Black jacket, immaculately embroidered in silver and gold, deep midnight blue shirt underneath buttoned all the way up to hide his tattoos, black slacks with a single ring of silver thread around the ankles. It had taken me an hour to convince him to wear a blue shirt instead of black. But it really brought out his eyes. Dimmed the blazing, powerful violet just enough to reveal that his irises were actually blue.
“I’m always stunning,” he replied.
I smacked him in the chest with the back of my hand. “Arrogant,” I accused.
He kissed me. “You like it though.”
I rolled my eyes.
—
The ballroom was enormous. Pillars of glimmering ice reflected faelight bobbing around the ceiling. It was lightly snowing inside. Winter Court High Fae and faeries milled around, talking, eating, drinking. A line extended away from the bride and groom. Well-wishers offering their congratulations.
Rhysand wasn’t going to bother waiting in the line. I knew that. We’d approach from behind or from the other side, offer our regards, and then leave.
But not immediately.
The ballroom was warm enough that I passed my cloak to a waiting attendant. My gown was so dark violet it was almost black. A bell-shaped skirt dotted with beads in the shape of stars swished over the ice floor, lightly dusted with snow. The gown’s sleeves barely capped my shoulders, but the long black satin gloves that ended two inches from the bottom of the sleeves helped keep my arms warm. The bandeau tiara had three dark amethysts glinting among the white diamonds.
The finery wasn’t terribly comfortable, but I knew the effect it had on others.
Rhys and I wandered the ballroom, mingling only occasionally—and only if the other party dared approach us first.
Including High Lord Tamlin of the Spring Court and his charming bride-to-be, Feyre Cursebreaker. Both of them looking happy and healthy and more in love than ever.
“Didn’t expect to see you here, Rhys,” Tamlin said begrudgingly. His eyes flicked over to me. I didn’t have to be daemati like Rhys to know what he was thinking. The whispers of the other faeries milling about followed me the moment we entered the room, and Tamlin was likely in agreement.
Freak. Unnatural. Witch. Lightning was not meant to be harnessed by magic like that. She doesn’t belong in any court.
I thought about snapping something at Tamlin, but Rhys cut in smoothly, “We could hardly miss an important function such as this, Tamlin.” He inclined his head at the female on Tamlin’s arm. “A pleasure to see you again, Feyre.”
“Wish I could say the same about you,” she replied dryly.
Rhys tsked, but didn’t say anything to her. “Enjoy the party,” he said to both of them instead before pulling me away. I waved at Feyre, letting an apology touch my expression. Her glare softened a moment and she lifted her fingers as though to wave back, but thought better of it.
I turned away. She’d saved Tamlin and freed the other High Lords and their courts from Amarantha. She gave Rhys back to me—and I couldn’t even give her the thanks she deserved. Electricity crackled in my veins. Rhys jolted slightly as I shocked him. No one else would have noticed.
Easy, he thought at me. What’s wrong?
I let him into an antechamber in my shields, to see what I thought and felt without having to explain. Thoughtful silence followed. We’ll find a way to let you thank her. For us both to thank her. She gave me back to you, too.
Thank you, I thought at him.
Of course. I felt a loving caress against my shields. I sent one in return.
Rhys took me through the crowd, occasionally offering greetings to the High Fae and faeries who didn’t cower as we passed. Rhys’s damper on his power had been loosened. Not released completely, but relaxed—allowing tendrils of darkness to drift from him like shafts of steam. It was an intimidation tactic. He did it a lot.
“Kallias. Viviane,” Rhys said as we approached the bride and groom. Both looked resplendent. Viviane in her simple but no doubt expensive gown that glittered like powdered snow under the moonlight. They turned to us. “Morrigan sends her regards and regrets that she couldn’t make it.” Those words were directed at Viviane. She smiled at the both of us. More warmly at me than at Rhys.
“Congratulations to you both,” I said with a genuine smile. “You deserve to be happy with one another.”
Kallias gave me a cold stare. Wondering where my calculating, ruthless High Lady mask was, no doubt. But I did want them to know that I was happy for them. That I was happy they’d found one another after Amarantha.
“Thank you,” Viviane said before Kallias could reply. She reached out and took my hand in both of hers. “And thank you for coming.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Rhys said smoothly, smirking slightly.
“We left our gift on the table with the others,” I said softly to Viviane.
She gave me a warm grin. “Thank you. Thank you, both.”
I returned the grin and Rhys bade a curt goodbye to Kallias before we retreated back into the crowd.
“Care to dance?” I asked.
“With you? Always.” He smiled at me. For a moment I forgot we were in another court. All I could think of was him. All I could see was those blazing eyes—that lazy smile. His warmth against me.
I didn’t realize I must have been showing that on my face because he leaned down and kissed me. “The rest of tonight is going to be so much fun,” he whispered suggestively, giving me that playful smirk he always had when he knew we were both going to get what we wanted from each other before the night was over.
A shiver that had nothing to do with the Winter Court chill travelled down my spine. Excitement. “Oh, I think it will be,” I replied.
#Winter Court Wedding#Rhysand#Rhysand Imagine#Rhysand FanFiction#ACOTAR#ACOTAR Imagine#ACOTAR FanFiction
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Color in RWBY’s Designs
I’ve been trying to reblog this post for a good 10 minutes, and Tumblr just refuses to let me, and I don’t think I’m blocked, so @strqyr , have a reply
...
Okay, ignoring the out-of-left-field (hah) pivot to politics that cropped up in the comments -
I’m not an artist, but I do follow a few that discuss character design and have attempted some recolors myself, and when it comes to the various designs and colors of the RWBY girls, it’s not so much about the in-universe importance of color, it’s about the more meta principles of character design. Once again, I’m not the most qualified person to talk about this, so excuse me if I get something wrong or ramble.
In visual mediums, a character’s design, more specifically their silhouette and their colors, is what makes them stand out and memorable to an audience; in a lot of cartoons and anime, you’ll likely be able to recognize characters by their designs long before you remember their names, and even if you don’t know their names, seeing the silhouette or even color palette of that character can bring their image to your mind. For example, I haven’t seen an episode of Sailor Moon in my life, but show me Usagi’s silhouette, and I can tell you exactly who that is. I can show you this, and I would bet that 99% of you can tell me what character this is meant to represent despite it literally just being 5 rectangles.
(On a slight tangent, in action shows, colors and the smart placement there-of are doubly important, as they help with keeping track of a character as they move through a cluttered environment and interact with other characters, and keep track of how they move their bodies in that space. To use a specific example from RWBY itself, check out the Nevermore fight from Volume 1 - despite all the debris flying around the screen and the amount of wide shots, it’s easy to keep track of how the characters move around the screen. Yang’s gauntlets help direct your eyes to her punches, and the splash of red in Weiss’s collar makes sure she doesn’t turn into a white blob moving around the screen.)
RWBY specifically is a show that quite literally advertised itself and its character on the premise of color. The show is named not just after the main characters, but the main characters’ colors. The first trailers were the Red, White, Black, and Yellow trailers. Their original designs, while of course using other colors in the palettes, give an overall impression of red, white, black, and yellow, making the characters pop against the stark black, red, and white backgrounds of the trailers, as well as stand out against the background characters that were literally empty black voids of silhouettes. Their initial character designs are tied completely to them representing a specific color, and this color gimmick also makes the girls stand out as characters. Ruby’s red cloak and ruffles, Weiss’s white side ponytail and dress, Blake’s black bow and tuxedo vest, and Yang’s fiery yellow hair and gauntlets are instantly recognizable from a glance, and that’s a sign of good design that makes them distinct.
So, when you get to the later volumes and suddenly the characters are wearing less and less of their original, iconic colors on top of getting new silhouettes, it makes them start looking less and less recognizable as the characters they were originally designed to be, and more like completely different characters. Lets look at Blake and Weiss as an example. If you’d never seen RWBY, could you tell me if these were the same characters?
Alright, let’s fill in the details.
They look like two completely different pairs of characters. It’s not even the clothes themselves, but the colors and shapes of their clothes combined with the radically different hairstyles make the V7 designs look very much unlike the original designs. The girls got alternate outfits in V2, but they all fit the general silhouettes and color schemes of their typical outfits, and were still very much recognizable as the main team, just with new clothes. Such a drastic shift in what types of clothes and the colors they wear in V7, on the other hand, makes them look like different character designs. If you’re going to change what a character is wearing to something very different, keeping the colors consistent helps with keeping them recognizable as the character they are.
Now, changing the design of your character beyond the specific clothes they wear isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Characters change as they progress through a story, and in visual media, changes to character design can be used to signify how they’re changing or how they’re reacting to their environment and new situations. For example, in the S2 premire of Avatar, Zuko cuts off his distinguishing topknot to represent his fall from a Fire Nation prince to an outlaw on the run, and in season 3, the GAang don red Fire Nation clothes as a disguise, ditching their usual blue, orange, and green clothing. In the Owl House, Amity dyes her hair purple to represent her making her own choices rather than letting her family control her life (and I picked this up from gif sets, without having even seen the show). Design changes, even to hair and color, can be used to represent change - and RWBY has managed to do this fairly well in the past! For example, Weiss’s V4 design is very different from her original design - her sleeves and collar are tight rather than poofy, her colors are muted and overrun with greys and blues, her whites are mostly hidden and her red is nowhere to be seen. This works, though, because it represents Weiss’s current situation - she’s being controlled by her father, her individuality represented by her whites and reds being driven out, and her dress is mostly tight against her wrists and neck, like shackles and being chocked. It’s a good way of showing a character’s changed situation, while keeping her recognizable from her side ponytail and poofy skirt remaining the same.
The latest redesigns of Team RWBY, however, don’t do this. They change radically, in color, hair, and clothing shape, and there’s no clear reason why. Why do they change how they look so drastically? What prompted them to style their hair so differently, to cut it so short? Why have they decided to choose different colors to wear? To circle back to the initial post, what part of their character development has changed them from the color they were representing to the color they’re now representing?
For more specific question/examples - what prompted Blake to cover herself in a heavy white coat in V4, when she was heading to a tropical island to recover? Why does she wear a bright white coat for official Huntress business when she’s meant to be a ninja? Why does she cut her hair so short? Why does Weiss cover herself in blues and greys in V7 when blues and greys were used to show her unhappiness and imprisonment by Jacques, rather than returning to lots of whites? Why does she go from a sleek ponytail to a thick heavy braid? Why does Ruby replace her cape and start styling her hair differently? Why does she go from a poofy skirt with ruffles to a very sleek, low volume skirt? Why does Yang not wear any yellow anymore? Why do none of them seem to wear anything suited for the cold? None of these questions have real answers. We can speculate all day, but at the end, that would still just be speculation.
Why does Lillie in Pokemon change her hair and clothes? To prove that she’s not just something for her mother to control and dress up to her ideal of beauty; that Lillie can make her own choices and is ready to stand on her own two feet and do what needs to be done, rather than relying on Repels and the player character.
Why does Blake cut her hair and start wearing so much white? ....
Why does Persona 5′s Akechi’s palette switch from bright white, reds, and golds to dark blacks and purples? To show the tearing down of the Detective Prince façade to the true darkness underneath.
Why does Weiss start wearing so many dark blues and greys? ....
I could go on, but I think I’ve made my point. Things just change on RWBY, key aspects of their designs like their hair and colors, and for the most part, there just seems to be no reason given to change. I’m not saying things like colors can never change, clearly they can, but for character design, especially in a show so heavily focused on colors and how characters are represented by their colors, it’s not a thing that should be taken lightly; if a character has grown so dramatically that the manner in which they express themselves as a character has changed, like the original poster is implying it can, it should be clear to see why this character has changed in this manner.
Without a good reason for it to change, it feels unnatural, like the character isn’t the same character - so when RWBY’s colors seem to be changing without good reason, creating designs that don’t look right for the character they’re meant to be in the situations they’re meant to be in, it causes people to want to revert back to the original palettes. Not because they’re denying individuality of the characters, but because the characters are no longer designed like the individuals they once were, and artists want to bring that individuality and striking design back through the use of the colors these characters use to define themselves.
#rwby#art#long post#please my more artistic mutuals#please correct me if i'm wrong#i'm not an artist
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hate everything
— summary: the heir of a fashion brand and a modelling company has nothing to do with a duchess, but xu minghao spends more time in her castle than anyone else she ever knows. perhaps, his presence is so perpetrating that even after falling in love and breaking her heart a thousand times, he stands. she may hate everything, but she doesn’t hate him.
— title: hate everything
— pairing: xu minghao x reader (ft. joshua hong)
— genre: heir!au ; duchess!au ; royal!au ; strangers to friends to lovers!au ; slowburn!au
— type: angst ; fluff ; romance ; drama ; suggestive ; humor (with a happy ending though!)
— word count: 25,984
December 17th. Five years ago.
To wear a dress is a tradition. No matter how harshly the fabric tightens around her ribcage, or how badly her legs ache whenever she has to bend over and place another faux kiss on a person’s cheek. To have something as expensive as the cloths that drape over her should be a blessing, the quartz pink lace of her sleeves falling off her shoulders, a corset placed on her waist to become an image to look at—a product, maybe. The skirt leaves more to the imagination, flared and eccentric, and she’s starting to wonder if someone would realize if she only slipped away from these hells that should’ve been crafted in Hell—
Royals are used to this. The children of those enigmatic individuals train the entirety of their lives to be three things: charismatic, beautiful…and fake, overall. One would know when she’s an outsider; part of it but also a branch of the many more important people in her family-line. Therefore, her Father being a Duke and his daughters becoming, inherently, Duchesses of their own shouldn’t be of higher importance than anyone else in this goddamned party, but they are. Because, over everything, they are there for something—to be coquettish and courted, find a man of wealth of the highest society to decide either of them is worth their time.
She pushes her chest forward when her Mother steals a glance at her, quirking an eyebrow in the process, silently telling her to act like a lady. Maybe, Princesses are used to this, but she’s not quite ready to call herself anything remotely close to that. Instead, she brings her cup of lemon water up her mouth, opening her lips a bit wider so her immaculate lipstick doesn’t get ruined and scrunches up her nose as delicately as possible in the process. The children’s table is filled with snacks and sodas, and she can’t help but feel envious of such exquisiteness.
The high ceilings showcase twirls of gold and blue, curling onto themselves to give the view of a wider space. Instead, the white and champagne walls are covered in pictures of the real Royals. Her family, though not as close, definitely more wealthy and more important than she is, mingling and chatting as if it’s their job. It probably is. Some people stay at the center, dancing with glee, finding more people to talk to, all of status. Not that she does anything other than stay seated on her designated table and let her sister do her job.
Socialize, in this case.
Socialize and find some connection that will leave her family in a better position.
She breathes in softly, her fingertips playing with the itchy fabric of her skirt, feeling the strands of her hair start to hurt against her scalp after holding up such hairstyle for so long. This is not who she is, but it’s who she is designated to be. Normality has not been set for her, neither has fame made its way towards her. She is nothing more than just another dot in a world where she doesn’t quite fit in—Royal, but never a known Royal. It’s up to her to make herself become a paragraph, more than the simplistic end of a sentence.
When she feels the presence of someone behind her, she doesn’t think much. Around five hundred people, if not more, have attended the main castle’s grand event and, of course, there is not of space left. But when a soft breath mingles on the back of her neck and a manly scent, almost musky, makes its way through her nostrils, she realizes whoever this man is has decided to get close to her specifically.
“Why aren’t you enjoying yourself?” There it is, that voice, dulcet, soft, breathy into the air as he tries to whisper only to her over the music. It reminds her of words written on the back of her notebooks in high school and crushes that were destroyed by the imminent existence of graduation. The schools she attended to, since the beginning of her life, had been considered the best of the best but the only good thing she remembers is—
“Joshua.” The name comes to her easily, and she doesn’t even have to turn around to see one of the many Princes of a land not too far away from hers. Well, not hers—her family’s, or something of the like. Joshua is, technically, perhaps the fifth in line if he were to ever reach the throne, and he spends most of his time out of his small land than doing Royal work. “What are you doing here?”
Joshua holds a glass of what seems to be wine on his right hand, his brown hair pushed away from his youthful face. Only twenty and looking like he owns the world, and perhaps, he does. A fitted suit falls on his slim body, his waist accentuated, the back of the jacket trailing a bit downwards, its rich black color contrasting well with his olive skin. His eyes fold romantically at the same time his lips curve onto a smile. “Hi.” He says first. “Well, uh, I was invited? Isn’t that the only reason why I would be here?”
“I haven’t seen any of your brothers here.” And most people would say that they don’t know the names of all the Hong brothers, but she does. It comes with the number of times she has spent keeping her sighs locked in front of Joshua, a daydream that has been unattainable for the entirety of her life. “That’s—I figured you wouldn’t be here.”
“Now I’m here.” Joshua breathes out, taking a sip of his wine. “Why the long face?”
“Ah—” Her hands indeed come grasp at her cheeks, eyes widened as she tries to come up with an excuse. “I don’t really like parties, that’s all.”
The statement has his eyebrows raising, youthful above all. “That’s a big statement.”
“There’s a lot of people here,” She says, hands coming to rest on top of her dress, curling around one another only not to reach out for him. Not that she has ever heard of Joshua being a lover of many girls, but…he has never quite shown signs of wanting to be with her. “And no one really wants to talk to me, so. Also, the drinks…I don’t like them. I’m hungry, too—”
Joshua’s smile transcends into full-on laughter, throwing his head back just as he extends his hand forward. “You just haven’t gone to a good party.” He says, waving his fingers into the air. “Come on, stand up.”
The feeling of his hand sliding into hers feels like the satin covers of her bed, slipping away from her in a rainy morning when the maids ask her to join them for breakfast. When her family is not around and she gets to enjoy the solitude of being both warm and cold. Joshua does as much as interlocking his fingers with hers, and she both wants to smile and die at the same time. “What—? Why?”
“I’m taking you to a good party.” Joshua decides out of the sudden, walking with grace as they move towards the entrance, but she has to stop him at that moment, heels digging onto the tile flooring in a way that almost has her falling.
“J—Joshua…” She chuckles a bit when he looks at her over his shoulder, finishing the last few drops of his wine. “My family is here with me. I just can’t leave like that—”
“Tell your sister to cover up for you.” Joshua says, shrugging his shoulders. “Come on, we both know we’re Royals…but we’re not that important in this event. If we leave now, we still have the rest of the night to enjoy.” His words are calm, like everything he does, never does he look like he fears the world may eat him alive for his actions. “Besides, I’ll make sure to take you home safe and sound.”
One of those opportunities that falls from the sky, graced by heaven, suddenly seem to be covered in a veil of doubt. Her family would love for her to go out with someone of importance like Joshua—but parties aren’t her kind of thing. She has gone to many of them as she has grown up, drained herself of all possible social skills because of how tough it is to try to be liked by everyone. “…Are you sure this is a good party?”
“Listen,” Joshua breathes out, a pout on his lips. “My oldest brother is going to get married in January and my friends want to throw a birthday party for me before I have to go back to my land. That’s all that’s going on.”
“But, your birthday is on December 30th—”
“And I’m leaving on the 21st.” He tugs at her hand then, and maybe, this is enough to tug at her heart strings, as well. “Come on, we haven’t hung out since I graduated and that was almost two years ago.” Knowing how to speak, because someone like Joshua Hong has taken charisma classes since the day he was born, perhaps, he adds: “I’ve missed you. It’s all up to you, of course, no pressure.”
Missing him is something she has done, as well. With every arranged dinner with someone that she doesn’t like, and every moment she spends wrapped in between her blankets watching romantic comedies, in the rare occasion that she exchanges her historical films and enthusiasm for something more of the like of youth. Joshua Hong is someone she met when she entered her teenage years and has become, instead, her longtime dream.
“…Only if you take me home before three in the morning.”
Joshua nods. “I can do that.”
“And if you promise we’ll grab something to eat on the way there.”
“My friends are waiting for me outside. I can ask them go get some drive-through on the way to the mansion we’re hanging out at.” He always has a solution to life, so simplistic and sure of himself, and maybe that’s what drags her closer to her sister, asking her to cover up for her as her heels click against the floor. Now, the least of her worries is how pompous this dress is, but how nice of an opportunity has settled on her lap instead.
Throughout her entire life, she has had a conceptualization of love that feels like a fairytale. If she didn’t get to live the entire fairytale of being a Princess, then she may as well expect to get a Prince in return. The way the wind blew on his hair as he talked to his friends, taking small bites of the fries they shared, his eyes glistening when he looked at her—it all felt like love. The young kind. The one that makes her feel like she only has one more day to live and he’s willing to give it all to her. His jacket rubs her skin when he gets her closer to her, music blasting loudly, and for once, she’s not the daughter of the Duke and Duchess, or another Duchess in that raunchy Royal stance—
She’s just another person in this world.
“…Hey, you okay?” The question breathes in between the two, the limousine able to take up the group of six people. Joshua, however, only seems to have eyes for her. Maybe, it’s that little string of hope that tells her that the butter-like words and the fluttery feeling inside her chest mean something. They have to. “I’m here for you if you need anything, okay? If you want to leave, we will.”
So far, nothing seems to bother her. Instead, she lets him wrap his fingers around hers, sending a hum his way. “I like this. They’re nice.”
“They are.” He conquers, looking out the window once again. Petrichor and a Prince, the sprinkles of the unwelcomed rain now becoming a mere memory. His lips wrap around a tranquil smile when he says: “You’re an adult now. People become nicer as you grow older.”
But that’s not what she has heard the maids at her small castle say. People only grow worst with time, like weeds—they hope someone falls so they can hold onto them. Twenty and ready to bite into the world with expertise, she accepts his words as truth. “I see.” She conquers. “Maybe, I’ll get to know people like that now that I’m going to university.”
“Didn’t you want to go for history in university?” Joshua asks, and she remembers the talks that they used to have when he was a senior in high school.
“That’s the dream.”
“Say: That’s the plan.” Joshua corrects. “If you make it a certainty, you won’t have time to hesitate.”
That may be the key to happiness—not hesitating, not doubting, not blinking twice when a man like that offers her his jacket and holds her hand like he never wants to let go of her. Joshua has become a plan, not a dream. “That’s the plan.” She whispers, earning a chuckle from Joshua.
“Good.”
###
The wicked, Mother used to call them. Those who live their lives for anything other than socializing in the most antique of ways are considered to be outcasts. From Royals, one can only expect utmost beauty—from normal people? The raunchiest. Those go to cheap parties. Those drink horrid alcohol. Those embark in love stories that only last mere months, and drop their secrets out at the appearance of whatever person seems trustworthy enough. Mother always considered people less than her, but she never understood her. Why is it that out of this group of six people she should feel better? Because she doesn’t enjoy a party? Because this mansion is bigger than her own and hence, she has to find something she is better in than the owner of said house?
The son of the owner of the house, Zhang Wei, barely pays attention to the pristine flooring or the worker that trails right behind him to serve him another glass of wine. He’s twenty-one, the oldest of the group, and somehow, so lost in his own world that he doesn’t notice anyone but his own phone. According to Joshua, he’s not as much of a lightweight as others, and the frown perched on his enigmatic and perfectly crafted face comes from the longing of his lover, living seas and seas away from him. Zhang Wei is a sight to look at when he’s seated on the red, leather couch of his living room, the clean wood under his feet looking dirty with how shiny his designer shoes were.
Heejin is the drunkest, as of now, twenty years old just like Joshua, long hair cascading down her back as she insists on holding onto Kyle, one of her closest friends, whose bottle-like glasses make his brown eyes look much smaller. Finally, Seungcheol has lost himself to the karaoke machine nearby, taking the bottle from the worker’s tray to bring it up his lips, taking a nice swig of the alcohol before smiling brightly. Life is good for all of them, so why should she judge?
“Let me help you out,” She doesn’t notice the reason behind Joshua’s words, or why he places his glass of rosy champagne in between her fingertips as he drops to kneel in front of her. His fingers softly glide across the bottom portion of the fabric of her skirt to showcase her feet. “You’ve been fidgeting since we got here. I’m sure Zhang Wei’s sister has a pair of flats that is more comfortable for you.”
“Ah, they were supposed to make my legs look better.” Though, that doesn’t seem to phase him, lifting a thoughtful eyebrow that reminds her of the times she would catch a glimpse of him studying in the school’s library. She’s free from such place as of now, thankfully, for the only memories she wants to keep include Joshua and some history classes in between.
“No one can look at your legs with this cupcake you have for a dress.” He jokes and her laughter rips through her even when Seungcheol’s singing voice covers all sources of it. “Besides,” Joshua starts again, throwing her white shoes somewhere on the wood, clicking obnoxiously. “Your legs are already good as they are.”
It’s in the magic of acceptance that a true gentleman earns a heart. Somehow, Joshua reminds her of the men in the shows her maids watch. Damn, she spends a lot more time with them than she does with her Mother. “You say?”
“I confirm.” Joshua finishes, settling himself down on the seat beside her before taking his cup once again. “Besides, it’s not like I could not notice. You always dress the prettiest for all the events we go to.”
She has to giggle at that. “Thank my stylist.”
“Why do you doll yourself up so much?” Joshua asks, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s not like it matters. What other people think of us, that is.”
Oh, and that’s only one of the many things she loves about Joshua. How in syntony and acceptance he seems to be with the fact he’ll never reach the throne. “Mother says we should always look our best. You never know who you’re going to find.”
“Are you looking for someone?” Joshua asks, eyes inspecting her vision, lips wrapping around the glass in a way she wishes would rest upon hers. A first kiss from him would be a symphony to dance to, a bite onto the cleanest of apples. “Like—”
“No.” She replies quickly, interrupting him in the process. “Well, no—ah, not really. Depends…”
Joshua chuckles. “Depends on what?”
“On, well…” On you, Joshua Hong. “Depends on the situation. I’m not looking, rather…waiting.”
“Waiting,” He repeats, a gush of air blowing towards her face straight from his mouth—alcohol in his scent. “Yeah, that sounds like you. You’re the person anyone would love to wait for.”
“Am I?” She asks, trying not to sound impressed. Flirty, she aims to be, but she sounds far more robotic than intended. “Oh, wow.”
A laugh that doesn’t make it out his mouth accompanies his next statement. “Go look for a pair of shoes with Heejin. At this point, we all have to dance to Seungcheol’s singing.”
“Okay, but wait for me, okay?”
The connotations of such sentence only fall on her later, opening her mouth to say something before Joshua smiles widely. “Isn’t that what I’ve been doing for a while?”
Heejin doesn’t even have to be called by the time she wraps her slim arms around her shoulders, placing her cheek against hers as she speaks loudly. “Ah, I love all of you guys so much.” Her voice trails with the amount of alcohol inside her body, her cheeks tainted in a deep red, her nice profile cold to the touch. “Who are you again?”
She has to give a tight-lipped smile then. “Care to help me find a pair of shoes? My heels were killing me and I need something comfortable.”
“Ah, of course!” Though, even through her drunken hues, her sweet personality comes through and shines a light. “…I know exactly where to find shoes here.”
“Good.” Heejin clings to her hand with glee, moving her to the spacious and curved set of stairs as she throws a glance over her shoulder to look at Joshua. The man, however, simply lifts his hand to greet her, leaving her with a small—
“Have fun.”
She’s meant to be having fun, she reminds herself as she roams the mansion for the third time because Heejin can’t quite concentrate when she is this drunk. She’s meant to be having fun, she says in a low breath, when Heejin opens as many doors as possible until they reach the one that belonged to Zhang Wei’s sister, apparently not there at all. In the faint distance, she can hear Joshua’s voice singing into the microphone, epitome of youth, somehow calling out for her attention because she should be there. Wasting ten minutes of her time with him just for a pair of shoes just doesn’t sound like the best idea.
“Shua never mentioned you. It’s the first time I hear about you.” Heejin says, and she doesn’t know if her words are meant to prick or not, but they do. For someone as important to her as Joshua not to care enough to talk about her hurts. Maybe, this group of people are just not close enough to him, and that’s why he doesn’t talk about her. “Are you a Princess?”
Heejin trudges inside the sky-blue room, bumping onto a few things, dropping her jacket on the bed and she immediately picks it up. They can’t leave anything behind that tells anyone they were there taking shoes, after all. “Ah, no,” She says, following after her towards two huge, white doors. “I’m the daughter of a Duchess. That technically makes me a Duchess, too—”
“So, a Lady.”
“Yes, a Lady.” The doors open gleefully, gates to heaven that welcome a spacious wardrobe. Shelves in pristine white, bathed in bright lights, hold different types of jewelry and shoes, all organized by color and by brand. “What about you?”
Heejin may be surprised about her curiousness, twirling her brown hair in between her fingers after absentmindedly trying to put it up on a ponytail. She fails, too drunk to even do that. “I don’t have a Royal title.” She starts. “None of us besides Joshua do.” But she doesn’t forget to put some penny for her thoughts. “My dad owns four hospitals in different continents. My mom is…I don’t know, I think she’s a fashion designer. I haven’t talked to her in so long.” Though, the champagne in her system must not let her linger on the thought.
“…I see.” She mumbles, a smile on her face. “Ah, and what happened to Zhang Wei’s sister?”
“She’s at university.” Heejin replies, moving away from the walk-in closet and towards the balcony. Opening the doors wider, she now starts to unzip her dress, her eyes widening in the process. What the fuck is this girl on? “Uni…it’s overrated. It wants to make us all feel dumb. I failed my exam—”
“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t get naked.” After rushing towards her, she trails the zipper up once again, keeping the red, taut fabric against her body. The harsh breeze of the balcony moves her just as much as Heejin does when she pushes her off her. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I want to go for a swim.” Dare she point towards the pool some good meters down that balcony, on the fucking second floor, and definitely with a good space in between its railings and the pool itself. The lights must be catching the attention of her drunken mind. “It’s going to be fun. Come on, I’ve bungee jumped, this is going to be just as easy—”
“Heejin, no.” She says, tugging at the woman’s arms when she leans her weight against the railing. “It’s dangerous. You could fall and—”
“I’m not going to fall. I said I’m a professional—”
“Heejin!” She never raises her voice. The last time she did so, she ended up being told to act like a Lady, anger flaring through the room. This time around, however, fear replaces the highness of her tone. “You could split your head in half. Don’t. I’ll take you to the pool if you want to.”
“I’ve done this before. Don’t be a prude—!” The whine on Heejin’s voice gets more persistent, and even when she pushes Heejin’s back towards her chest to bring her away from the balcony, the young woman’s toned legs flimsily move to push herself away.
“Joshua!” She calls out in a scream, in hopes of having someone support her with whatever the hell Heejin, the now discovered daredevil, wants to do. “I’m calling Joshua and we’ll take you to a swim, just—” More moving around from Heejin, perhaps trying to get away from her grasp. “Joshua! Come help me out here!”
Why is it that he’s gone when she needs him the most? Fear clinging at her throat, heart beating, eyes staring at Heejin as she slips away from her hands and works on taking her dress off again.
“Stop it, Heejin! Get over here!”
The doors of the room open with a harsh bang, thoughts of Joshua listening to her clouding her mind in a second, still battling to keep Heejin’s dress up the woman’s body. Instead, she watches a young man barge into the room. The short strands of his black hair done a mess from the sleep that still lingers on his features, a straight nose and plush lips that accompany somewhat aloof eyes, that only manage to widen a fraction when he watches Heejin on the balcony, using only one hand to tug at her wrist and bring her inside the room.
“I was trying to sleep and you were being loud, Heejin.” The soft timbre of his voice is surprising, the black t-shirt on his body reaching his hips, the rest of his legs covered in pajama pants in plaid figures. He must know Heejin far better than she does. “What did you think you were doing?”
Heejin stares at the man in front of her when he sits her down on the soft, almost cloud-like mattress, bringing one hand up before waving it across his face. “Minghao, I didn’t know you were going to be here today.”
“It’s been a year since I started living here, Heejin. Use another excuse.” The man says, putting down Heejin’s hand with a soft touch before turning to look at her. “She was causing you trouble?”
“She was trying to throw herself into the pool from the balcony.” She says, well aware that it sounds like an atrocity, but she can’t bring herself to say anything but the truth. Her fingers twirl against one another under the weight of his watchful gaze. “I’m sorry we woke you up.”
“…You better.” He breathes out, though the initial annoyance of his entrance seems to be dissipating. “I’ll make her something to eat and then, I’ll ask Zhang Wei to take her home. If he’s not too drunk.” Minghao seems to be deep in thought at that, shaking his head in the process. “Who am I kidding? I’ll call a cab.”
“Okay.” She adds, a small smile on her features as she moves towards the door, shoeless, with her hair done a mess, and with the sleeves of her dress somewhat disorganized after so much tugging and pulling with Heejin. “I’ll go look for Joshua and ask me to take me home.” Though, she stops herself, turning around to look at Minghao. “Wait, why should I leave Heejin with you? I don’t even know you…”
“…I’m Zhang Wei’s cousin.” Minghao indicates, asking Heejin to stand up soon after before walking behind her, as if dragging her away from the room. Though, what surprises her the most when the door closes behind all three of them is that he manages to say her sister’s name, quirking an eyebrow in the process. “Yeah, you both look alike.”
With Minghao walking in front of her with more certainty, definitely knowing this mansion like the palm of his hand, she stutters out an answer. “And how do you know my sister?”
“I’m good friends with her.”
“I have never seen you with her.” She retorts, not quite trusting how knowledgeable this man seems to be about everything. Even Heejin grew quiet when around him, following after his every step.
“Your sister says you’re not around much.” She can’t deny that, either. For her, she’s always being prepared to find someone that betters her title—and that takes a lot of socializing and going around with her parents. “Shouldn’t I be the one who is suspicious about you? You were inside my cousin’s room and I don’t even know you.”
“I came here with Joshua and Heejin was looking for something there.” She excuses herself, leaving out the obvious—she was there to look for shoes, and Minghao may have not noticed just because of the length of her dress.
Just when they reach the bottom of the stairs, she expects to see Joshua already there—at the edge of his seat, ready to know what happened. Instead, he’s laying back on one of the many couches in the living room, his glass on one hand and his phone on the other, avidly talking to someone in a low tone, even over the music.
“Tell you something,” Minghao instructs, taking this time to show some expression on his youthful, innocent face. He may be eighteen or nineteen at most. “I’ll call a cab for you two, as well, and you’re going to go home. It’s late and you’re too drunk. This can only go wrong.”
She thinks about it for a moment, and she crosses her arms over her chest when she calls out for— “Joshua!”
The man pushes his phone away from his ear, smiling softly when he asks: “Yes?”
“I want to leave.”
“We were going to an after-party, though—”
“I want to leave.” Something of the like of pride flashes through Minghao’s face when he takes his phone in between his hands.
Joshua breathes out softly, blinking at her as if he’s trying to study her, before saying something on the phone and hanging up. She’ll never know who he was calling. “Okay, we’re leaving. There’s no need to get harsh.”
With one arm around her shoulder and a kiss to her temple, she figures out she forgives him for not appearing at the balcony.
Because Joshua is that. A silent conversation in a cab as he texts someone for an after-party, mainly because he wants to enjoy his youth as it barely begins. He’s the promises he breathes out, the words that he says, the comfort that comes with being with him—because he’s known, and he’ll always be. One day, he could even be her home. It leads to nothing, as of now, but something about this night tells her that the quietness in between the two will sort into something else. Tranquility, maybe. The tranquility that she has never gotten in that castle she lives in.
His fingertips trail down her arm when he presses one last kiss to her cheek, opening the door to the cab and getting back inside after she stands in front of the castle. The fountain by the entrance welcomes her as quickly as the guards do, and she can’t look at Joshua without needing to go back with him. Instead, she stares at the time in her phone.
Three in the morning.
Three in the morning and she watches Joshua leave to another party, and the Duke’s car parking out and way from the castle. Once again, she’s left in solitude—it’s in her blood to wait for people to arrive to her, for her nights to be filled with the questioning of what could have been. What’s not enough, and what does not meet the expectation of those around her, for them to always want something else.
It’s three in the morning when she gives a smile to the guards, trying to forget the feeling of the concrete under her bare feet, and once again, she’s greeted with the usual. A compliment on her liveliness, even at such a time.
It’s three in the morning and she’s lying.
###
August 3rd. Three years ago.
Dinners always go like this.
First, a sip of the richest drink. Fruit directly from mother nature, crafted by the hands of those who work for her.
Lips moistened, the fork and knife cut through whatever is served. In the rare occasion her Mother is not looking at her, she mixes the vegetables with the main course, adds a bit more of sauce. She lets herself enjoy it at those times.
Two chews, slow, steady, and she nods at whatever the Duchess says. The table is long enough for her to feel like she’s miles away—in this family, it always feels like that.
When she swallows, she always tries to look for a middle ground, something that doesn’t make the food go up her esophagus out of nervousness. When her eyes connect with her sister’s, she finds it. The only person in that entire table that knows her well.
Then, it’s inherent. She looks for the Duke, her Father, blocks every thought of her mind that wonders if his long trips and getaways include another family, an affair, or if he’s simply doing his job. Trust earns itself, and it lacks, thereof.
The process repeats itself until her plate is finished and she can excuse herself away from the table.
Her name is called, catching her attention away from the plate underneath her. Tomatoes sliced to perfection are left on the white ceramic when she connects gazes with her mother’s—eyes the same shade as hers, but much colder. “…How’s everything going with Joshua, my love?”
Maybe, her family was never of a higher stance in the Royal timeline because they deserved it. The only way she becomes a loving matter in this castle is when Joshua’s name lingers in between, and she can’t hate him for it. Kisses shared underneath the moonlight sealed their relationship long ago—after that December they saw each other last, and he continuously texted and called her, opting to go visit her on January to make it official. A relationship that most called expected, while she thought of it as a blessing.
Placing the fork and knife down, she interlocks her fingers together, catching a glimpse of her favorite maid and, perhaps, her best friend, Hana, standing a few meters away from her mother. Instead, she decides to answer as simplistically as possible. “We’re doing excellently, Mother.” Though, that much is not a lie. Joshua’s been working on investments to depart, or grow away, from the Royal family, and that has made him spend more time in her land rather than his. “Two years and still going strong, that has to say something.”
“It does not say much.” The Duchess says, extending her gloved hands towards her Father before resting it on top of his extended hand. “It feels like he’s not so sure about you, honey. Your Father asked for my hand after nine months of dating. If a man is sure about what he wants, he’ll make it happen in a second.”
The shots are fired, then. Though young and full with the will to keep up with her duties as a Lady, her Mother aches for more. It’s in the line of women like them—marry someone of importance, and after her relationship with Joshua became serious, all the hopes of marriage fell on her shoulders. Her sister, on the other hand, had managed to go for university…just like the two of them had dreamt of doing. History slipped away from her hands, and she doesn’t think she’s making history of her own.
“Mother,” Her sister says, an eye-roll to her statement. “Just let her be. Not everything has to end with marriage.”
“I—I think…” She stutters, wetting her lips with a bit of the orange juice in front of her. It does nothing to ease her nerves when under the gaze of the Duchess. “I think Joshua and I are fine as we are. We still have to live this part of our lives and marriage is such a serious thing—”
“Love.” Her Mother interrupts, cutting through the air with certainty. “You need to be someone of importance. I’m not going to be here for you forever…and you must find the strength to keep going. Richness. A kingdom. Something. We have given you education, now you must harvest your future.”
Though, she has never thought of her future as one that revolves around a man. It shouldn’t be like that. For, the times that she doesn’t spend with Joshua, she does a lot more than what anyone can see—study in the library, bask herself in books, do some appearances in the local schools to teach about history. The real kind. The kind that teaches people to be kinder, to want to change the world. Their land may be small, but while she is there, they won’t lack the proper information to continue growing as a society.
“Right?” The Duchess asks the Duke, and the man can only hum.
“That Joshua guy…he’s nice, but if he hasn’t asked for your hand in marriage, at least as a promise, I can’t see this going anywhere.” But, what does the Duke know about relationships? He’s barely even here to start with—
“That’s why you should try to be better. Make him notice how good of a wife you could be.” That’s what she has always been—a trophy. Words that are knives and cut right through her. No matter how much she takes in one morning with the stylists to doll herself up, or how precisely she tries to speak, there is always something else to try out. A new posture. A new class. Anything to be able to take a man’s attention. Sometimes, the tip of her tongue itches to just say: fuck that.
“I think he likes me as I am, Mother.” She replies, her hand tightening against the fork and the knife to continue eating. She’s hungry, so she may as well continue biting on her food even if she’s talking with her family. “I don’t have to be better.”
“Then, he’ll leave you.” Her mother says, as if it doesn’t hurt. As if the thought of Joshua just taking his things and going back to his land, for real, doesn’t pierce through her and leaves her breathing ragged, obstinate. “Darling, he’s always going back and forth. Business stuff, sure, but still…in one of those many trips, he’ll find someone he’ll deem better.”
“If he loves me, I’m his only option—”
“Men don’t work like that.” The Duchess spites, though she is quite thankful that she has vegetables inside her mouth, moving softly with her chewing, because she would have inherently said what everyone knows in this castle, even the workers. It’s not men that don’t work like that, it’s your man. “He’ll get bored pretty soon.”
“If that day comes, I’ll move on.”
“And do what?” The Duchess asks. “Recite the entirety of our land’s history to children for the rest of your life? Come on, darling, I taught you better.” But most of the things she learned came from the workers, the maids, the butlers, the people that lingered around her while her family was socializing— “You have to seek for a title. A Prince’s Wife, and he has been making far more money recently—of his own, too. Joshua is the perfect image of the man you have to marry.”
“Can’t we just stop talking about this?” Her sister questions, throwing her napkin on the table. “Really, it’s fucking annoying. She can do what she wants—”
“Language.” The Duke mumbles in between bites of his meal, never once lifting his gaze. Not like he cares. She continues staring at her mother, the woman shrugging her shoulders.
“It’s her choice.” But those words don’t sound like they would come from the Duchess. “But that man is the only man that she has loved, and the only one that has loved her. If she doesn’t get married now, she’s going to lose it all. Richness. Love. Opportunities. I’ll just sit back and watch it happen, then.”
Hana clears her throat, moving towards her side before dragging the plate away from under her gaze. Not that she does much, leaving the fork and knife in the air as she tries to think of who she is. What she has become other than a people pleaser, leaving all thoughts of her dreams behind to live for others— “Lady, you have finished your plate. May I give you another serving?”
She hadn’t even realized, but instead, she stands up. Moving the fabric of her black dress down her thighs, she juts her chin forward. “I’ll eat in the kitchen.” She replies, lowering her gaze when her Mother quirks an eyebrow at her. “May you please ask the chef to make me some mashed potatoes? I’m craving that.”
“Of course, Lady.”
Though, she can’t give more than a few steps behind Hana before she hears her Mother calling out her name. “You’re not leaving like that, are you?”
Sometimes, she likes to believe there is regret in the Duchess’ voice, that something in her strict way of being means that she cares. Probably, she does—cares about the status of her daughters, more often than not squinting her gaze at her slightly younger sister for being…in love with too many people. Instead, she tries to follow after her words, lowering her face the slightest to press a kiss to the crown of her head. Her scent doesn’t feel familiar. “May you have a nice meal, Mother.”
Her heart only feels heavier after those words.
###
September 20th. Three years ago.
His breaths mingle in the oxygen around her, though not clear under the golden lights of the event hall’s bathroom. His chest presses against her back, each muscle curving and contorting to match hers—and it has always been beautiful, how Joshua seems to be made just for her. With his eyes closed, eyebrows furrowed to utter perfection, his teeth do wonders on his bottom lip, capturing it until it turns red, only letting go of it when he opens his eyes and pulls away from her, leaving her vacant. His lips flutter against her neck, that spot that he knows makes her ticklish, but somehow always slips his mind.
Joshua, over everything, prides himself on how good he is at hiding. Living a normal life while being a Prince comes easily for him—never once missing the opportunity to be young and free. With the mirror right in front of them, she tries to remind herself that she is a Lady. Golden, creamy dress falling off her shoulders, the see-through sleeves loose yet tightening around her wrists, small dots littering around the fabric. Her boyfriend pulls the skirt down after he zips himself, up, as if that does something to hide the fact that her hair is done a mess, her pink lipstick has suddenly disappeared (if she doesn’t count the remaining bits on her chin), and there is the tiniest layer of sweat on her forehead when she clears her throat.
The image on that mirror is of a woman sedated by a physical connection. Not of a Lady, per say. Not of the conceptualization that the castle has given her.
And she loves it.
It was not something she had done—afraid that someone would walk in, too much of a pillow princess for her to ever think about even doing anything outside of the bedroom, but trying it out just came to her head. There, in Joshua’s land, visiting a ball and not being the center of attention of people’s judgement, the thought of conversations they had in the past slipped inside her head and she ended up dragging him to the nearest bathroom. For a moment, Joshua seems to be happy, arms wrapping around her waist as she does quick wonders on her purse to grab her lipstick.
“…The best part is that I had to listen to Chopin as I did that.” The joke appears in between them as a whisper and she can’t help but chuckle, taking the tube of lipstick and smearing a bit across her lips.
“Nothing sexier than Chopin.” She speaks out, not quite remembering the moment that said piano expert’s music played from the ball on itself. Whatever. Instead, she concentrates on making herself look more presentable. “But we have another issue at hand.”
“What?” Joshua asks, chin pressed to her shoulder as he stares at her. With time, he has only gotten better—eyes more profound, lips rosier, voice more of a lullaby than anything.
“You need to stop doing this.” She instructs, lifting her upper lip the slightest to show bite-marks, the most subtle of darkening spots that come from the deepest of his kisses. “It’s hard to hide and it’s embarrassing because anyone could notice.”
“It’s not noticeable.” Joshua conquers, a pout to his voice. He pulls away the slightest then, fixing the collar of his shirt, silence falling in between them until he frowns deeply. “Babe, what the fuck?”
Annoyance lingers on his tone, and she has to look over her shoulder to see what bothers him. One glance at his face says nothing, his neck is not littered in hickeys—for, she is not much of a fan of marking him in any way. Lower, she realizes what the issue is, her pink lipstick ended up on one portion of his white button down. “Oh shit, sorry.” That’s all she can manage to say, but Joshua sighs instead.
“This is an expensive shirt, babe.”
She has to roll her eyes at this. “Everything you own is expensive, Shua. I’m sure it’s fine—”
“I have to talk to some investors in, like, twenty minutes. This is not a good look.” One last glide of her lipstick should be enough, she tells herself, sparing Joshua a look over her shoulder before sighing.
He wasn’t saying that when they got to this bathroom ten minutes ago. “I already said sorry,” She starts. “Besides, we have water here. We can just pat it out and see what happens—”
A smile appears on his features when she opens the water faucet, droplets cascading in a rapid motion before he closes the tab again. “Babe, this is a Louis Vuitton.”
She quirks an eyebrow then. “And you’re Joshua Hong. They’re just names, what’s the matter?”
“You don’t just pour water on it.”
Though, she has spent enough time with the maids to know the basics about washing clothes or taking a stain out in a rush. “Joshua, how do you think they wash clothes? With water—”
“I’m sure it’ll only ruin it more. Like, drag the stain or something.” Joshua replies, always thinking ahead of himself as he closes the buttons of his golden jacket, staring at himself in the mirror. He fixes the strands of his black hair that had fallen out of place in his forehead before clearing his throat. “I’m sure that would do.”
He’s not wrong, but— “Then, why start that whole drama about your Louis Vuitton shirt?”
“It wasn’t drama.” Joshua whispers, turning to look at her before running his hands over her arms, her legs trying to regain their composure to walk in those high heels. “I just—I’m very nervous, okay? I’ve been doing well with my investments, but it’s the first time I try to invest in something that isn’t music related.”
She lets him touch her, because there is something magical about Joshua. Knowing that he was a first—that she was lucky enough to get the person she liked on the long run, maybe the comfort and familiarity of him. Joshua spends days in his land and days in hers, basks in her presence in both sides, makes it known that he is trying to secure his future, build an empire for himself. Not a single minute goes by without the man thinking what to do next. He’s always had it together.
Crossing one leg over the other, she grasps his face in both of her hands, inspecting who should be hers. What, sometimes, he calls hers. Why is it that the name itself seems to sound lovely to her but doesn’t fit him at all? Joshua Hong is not hers. He is inherently his.
“You always do great.” She whispers, one step forward before meeting her lips with his. Kissing him always feels passionate, like he can’t get enough of her—but time passes too quickly when he does. Rushed, he is, eager to taste more, to have more. For someone as quiet and posh as him, Joshua knows what he wants. When she pulls away, breath taken away, she hears the soft lull of the piano outside. “Besides, there’s nothing to be nervous about. You’ve gone over what you were going to say a bunch of times and you’ve met up with them before. This is only the last step.”
“The last step is always the hardest.”
“But whatever the outcome is, you can always say you tried.”
Joshua opens the door to the bathroom then, the apples of his cheeks lifted when he asks: “Since when did you become so wise?”
Maybe, the words of the Duchess had gotten to live inside her head—what if Joshua did not feel the same as her? What if all those kisses, nights of passion, comfort, were only livelihoods for him? Ways to spend time in her land? Ways to feel like he has a home to go to even when he’s always around, from lands to countries. “I don’t know. History books make you sound posh sometimes.”
“Remind me to start the habit of reading.”
He always says the same thing, a resolution of each year they’ve spent together—but it never happens.
The public loves them. They adore the way Joshua seems to shield her from any eyes with a hand around her waist, or how he seems to take care of her utmost necessities—if her glass is empty, or if she’s hungry. What they don’t know is that this is not the realistic version of them. It’s the happy one—that one that bathes in longing after not seeing each other for an extended period of time, the happy couple that is not so happy because they avoid arguments at all cost. They don’t know that she’s wary of the eyes that linger on him or the way he talks about his life as immaculate. He hasn’t gone back to his castle in years. There is a part of him that doesn’t speak about the heartbreak that came with knowing he was last in line when it came to being a possible King.
He never talks about that. Closed-off. Perhaps, masking it as something he’d rather ignore. Joshua likes covering it up with a veil and let it dust, while she loves talking about her utmost feelings whenever she can. Hana, for example, is an excellent listener as well as a storyteller.
She wishes she had a better dress by the time they get to the center of the room to dance, burgundy walls and brown tiles, gliding against her heels and leaving her legs to touch the coldness of the atmosphere surrounding them. Something longer, perhaps, to feel like a Princess when Joshua is looking directly into her eyes. He smiles then, pulling her closer to whisper something onto her ear.
“Hey, you’re stepping on me.” He says, a chuckle following after his statement before pulling away the slightest. “Skipped those dancing classes, didn’t you?”
“You’re just invading my space, that’s all.” She replies, a bit of embarrassment in her tone when she pinches his shoulder. “Stop talking like that. You’re also not Prince Junhui from the eastern lands.”
He shrugs, something that irks her endlessly. What’s with this overconfidence tonight? “It doesn’t matter.” He conquers, looking down at his feet after. “Try not to ruin my shoes, too, okay?”
“Shua!” She yells in a whisper, eyes widened. “You’re being an ass right now.”
But, as per usual, Joshua gives her one of his enchanting smiles, leaning down to press a kiss to her lips that sneaks a few gasps and sighs of content from the couples watching them. One of the most gorgeous and awaited lovers for the night. “You know I’m just joking,” Though, sometimes it doesn’t feel like it. “And I love you just as you are.”
“I love you, too.” She tells him, a flutter to her chest, but why is it always hard to believe him?
###
September 25th. Three years ago.
“My Lady!”
Hana’s dulcet voice has aged with time, she realizes, a tad different from the unrestrictive strength of her energetic self twenty-something years ago, when she was assessed as her maid and protector. She’s a little bit over her fifties as of now, her short hair bouncing with each step she takes towards her, the length of her black skirt making it difficult for her to walk through the green fields at the entrance of her castle. With wrinkles covering her features and a thin layer of sweat living on the bridge of her nose, her eyelids and her neck, she realizes one thing.
Or two, rather.
One, she really missed home.
Two, she really missed her mom—Hana. The only woman that had grown alongside her, heard about her crush on Joshua when she was a teenager, gave her advice when she went on her first date, and would click her tongue whenever she spoke about some of the issues they had and pushed to the very back not to be talked about.
“Hana!” She breathes out, letting her luggage fall down on the floor to be taken by the butlers, arms extending to encage the taller woman in between her grasp, basking on the familiar scent of oil from the kitchen. “I’ve missed you so much.”
Though, the woman pushes her weight away from her, a mocking smile on her rounded features. “Ah, I doubt it. You were with your boy, the apple of your eye, Prince Joshua.”
“The love is different.” With one arm around her shoulder, she starts to walk forward. “How have things been in the castle?”
“Pretty dull without you, actually.” Hana includes, lowering her body when a few branches come across their way. She rests her hand on Hana’s head, just in case, aware of how important this woman is for her. Not a single line shall shatter the vase of stone that is Hana, fundamental to anything she does. “Though, we have had visitors to keep us entertained while you were gone.”
Some days that she is not unhappy about missing, actually. “Visitors? What were they this time?” She prompts. “Another businessman? Are we talking aristocrats or—?”
“An heir, actually.”
“Like Joshua?”
Hana hisses through her crooked teeth, licking something on the inside of her cheek in a way that brings a smile up her features. They are getting closer to the park by the side of their little castle, perched there for the two sisters to enjoy while they were younger—thus, nowadays used for the gossiping and chattering needed to coexist in such a harsh world like this. “Not to make you feel bad, my Lady, but I would not compare this young man to Prince Joshua. I don’t make the choices in your life, but Prince Joshua is as bland as the chef’s chicken water after he washes the meat.”
For a second, she tries to think how others would. What about Joshua Hong seems to be bland? His lack of expression, perhaps, his preparation, the way he always seems to fit in with everyone. If a lot of people like him, that must be that Hana is on the wrong.
“He is not bland.” She says, letting her dress trail on the green grass, not caring if the fabric gets stained. “Mind you.”
“Oh, I am minding me.” Hana says, moving her neck slightly as she lets go of her. “There is nothing substantial about the man is all I’m saying.”
“Why?”
“Darlin’, I know you love him…” The maid says, twirling her fingers around the necklace that rests on her sternum, all the angles of her body highlighted by the action. “But I have this little patting, bickering bird on the top of my head that gives me the feeling that he’s not the love of your life…and you’ve given up so much for him.”
Rather, she has given up a lot for everyone. Mother was over the moon the moment she confirmed her relationship with Joshua, fingers threaded with his, promises made a reality. Father? He didn’t care much—said what he had to say, only to leave. Education be forgotten for the duties of a Lady, for becoming the perfect example of what the real Royal family should have been like. That meant that her dreams of studying history went down the drain, replaced by endless hours of eternal love for Joshua Hong.
Sometimes, it is tiring.
Tiring to a plus-one.
To be the woman of a man. Someone’s someone.
She lets it go. If she has to be someone’s, she’d rather be his.
“That’s what I always tell her.”
The sound of her sister speaking to her has her perking up, a smile appearing on her features to cloud any moment of rainy thoughts that translated onto her face. Eyebrows well raised, shoulders way back, she extends her hands to grasp her sister in her hold, only to be met by crossed arms and a strong frown.
“And it fucking disgusts me that we planned on going to university together and now I see her beyond happy for spending some days with her long-distance boyfriend.”
She spits it out as if it is venom, as if every meter that separates Joshua and her physically have becoming everything and the factor of their issues. “I’m sorry,” She puts her hands down, a bit of a bite on her tone. “I hate that I have been pushed to be like this, but this is what I was meant to do—”
“S—Since when going after a man is what you have to do?!” Her sister asks, the wind moving the flowers on her dress as she steps forward, fingers curling around the air like a vice, a threat to their conversation. “I expected you to come here having broken up with that asshole!”
“He isn’t mean to you, why call him an asshole?” Born under different circumstances, her sister never waited a second to speak back. She always thought of her as the light of her days because of that—a word would never go unspoken by her. However, this time around, it hurts. Expected romanticism has translated into real love, what was once looking for a man has now become expecting for him to come back.
It’s devastating for her sister, apparently. “Because he took my sister away.”
“What are you talking about? I’m here.”
“Barely.” Her younger sister spits out, curling an eyebrow on her forehead. “What is it about you right now that connects to your old self? You spend every given second trying to follow after Mother’s awful rules of marriage and it’s starting to look pathetic.”
“Don’t talk to me like that.” One step forward has Hana grasping her by the forearm, but she tugs at her. “I’m your older sister, I get to make my decisions without having you question me as if I’m some fucking child.” She spits out, looking up and down her sister’s features before the woman scoffs.
“And what? Are you an example for me?” She asks. “You’re nothing like an older sister anymore. It’s about time you wake up and realize the world is not going to change for the better if you marry a man just because you have to.”
“Who said we’re getting married? He hasn’t even asked—”
“Has he talked about it?” Her sister asks, only to have her shaking her head.
“I don’t see why—”
“Has he talked about the future with you? The longtime future when his cheeks are saggy, his hands are wrinkly, his voice can’t sound the same—?” She stops, jutting her chin forward to further emphasize her words. “Has he?!”
Her chest heaves up and down, trying to recoil in a memory that doesn’t exist. Joshua has never talked about such thing. He doesn’t even know if he wants to get married or not.
If I ever get married, he has said.
It has never been: if we ever get married…
When we get married? No.
“No.” The answer rips through her throat in a way that makes her ache, though her tone is soft. Her sister smiles sadly then, flaws pointed out to her when she shakes her head.
“Then, he’ll never ask.”
“Give your sister a break, she just arrived here.”
That voice sounds oddly familiar, but the time in her head doesn’t go back to the time it sounded against her eardrums until she looks up at the man that pulls her sister away from her. The oxygen goes back to her lungs, only to be stolen by him—wavy black hair curling against his forehead, straight eyebrows and monotone eyes still looking breathtaking on him. Something about the guy that saved Heejin, Xu Minghao, as tranquil as ever, relaxes her on the spot, beauty beyond what transcends through him…but in the lake that patters each drop to create him, mellow and peaceful.
His jacket moves with him, black as coffee, his oversized white button down on his chest making him look more elegant. Since the last time she saw him, perhaps hanging out with her sister like he always does as her best friend, he has grown quite a bit.
“Minghao, you’re a guy.” Her sister says, turning to look at her friend, much taller than her. “A man will make plans with you only if he wants to keep you long time, true or false?”
Minghao keeps his straight expression, though a glint of pity appears on his irises when he interlocks his hands behind his back. “Ah…I’d say true.” An answer from a man has her heart dropping to the floor. Not that she wanted to get married right now…but knowing that Joshua did not even consider an option, according to popular opinion, made her feel undesirable. "But, then again, that shouldn’t be something to criticize her for. Every sailor decides which ship they want to sail."
At times, she wonders if the ship that has already sailed will make her happy. “He is right.” She includes, finally connecting her gaze with Minghao’s when he turns to her. “Thank you, Minghao.”
“Just…this is none of my business,” He raises his hands in the air momentarily, letting them drop to his side in a gracefully dance. “Be careful.”
His cousin is good friends with Joshua, and the sentence alone scratches at the insecurity inside of her. “Why should I?” She asks, trying to keep levelled, though her eyes feel like they’re permanently blinking under the weight of her tears.
“Sometimes, when a man doesn’t express a lot of emotions is because he doesn’t actually feel them. It’s the same for both men and women—overthinking is just too much thinking at times.” The advice rushes through his lips, though his voice is calm. One step forward brings him closer to her, pulling the sleeves of her dress down to keep her warmer, fingers barely skimming over her skin in a way that has her looking down at the connection in between the two. “Welcome back, Lady.”
She breathes out her name, looking into his eyes in the process. “You never call me Lady.”
“Maybe, I’ll call you Princess one of these days.” Minghao retorts, a shrug coming after. “Does it change you as a person? Whether you’re a Princess, a Lady, or just plain old you?”
She thinks for a moment, shaking her head. “No, it doesn’t.”
“Then, it isn’t worth it to marry someone just for a title. Or push it, rather.” Minghao finalizes, lowering his face to smile up at her, soft and strong, something so inherently him. Epiphanies, perhaps, made into a person—contradiction over contradiction that complexes him beyond her understanding. She’s an intelligent woman, just not intelligent enough to figure him out. “Come on, a smile?”
His voice is much too soft, and it’s only broken through when her sister scoffs. “Come on, Minghao.” She says, nearing them with dragged steps. “I think I’ve bothered her enough. The smile won’t be real if you get it out of her like that.”
One look at her sister tells her that she’s sorry, but instead of awaiting the moment she says so, she gives a small smile. “I’m here to prove you wrong, aren’t I?” She retorts to the youngest.
“Much to my distaste.” The youngest answers, tugging at her friend’s blazer. “We’re going to study, want to tag along after you’re done unpacking?”
“I’d love to.”
###
October 10th. Three years ago.
He’s out again.
And it’s not the fact that hundreds of people get to see his smile, the brightness of it and how blinding it can become, that has her seated in front of the castle, phone placed in between her fingers, grasping it to her chest as if one simplistic ring of the device could make her feel alive again. It’s not that Joshua has the most beautiful set of eyes she has ever seen—and she has always wondered if they’re emotionless, or he’s just really good at controlling what he feels. That’s not what has her jealous.
It’s not that Joshua always dresses to the nines, loves feeling like he is the most watched man in the room—but never says it. Mighty may be the person that gets Joshua to confess something with much of a reaction, even a surprised gasp. He relishes in keeping levelled, while she feels too much. Another press of the button on her phone tells her that it is twelve at night and Joshua is still out.
He has been out all day.
She counts the texts again. Sent by her? Twenty-three. Sent by him? One.
It was seven in the morning, and Joshua had the audacity to send a picture of himself, sprawled in his bed when he’s here, in the same land as her, one hand covering his forehead, fingers threading through his dark locks, half-closed eyes and a dizzy smile. He said ‘good morning’, and the burn in her stomach told her that she had fallen in love again.
He never answered to her ‘good morning’, her ‘good afternoon’, her ‘hey, you just saw my message, why aren’t you replying?’. The ‘haven’t you eaten?’ that mocks her.
Keep sucking ass, Lady. It looks wonderful on you.
Wealthy enough to throw the phone against the concrete under her, she wishes she had the lack of composure to do so. To feel all the hatred and uselessness that racks like books inside of her, mocks her for being able to stand so much. A boyfriend of years that doesn’t even answer her texts, that had planned going out with his friends upon landing on her land just because he wanted to meet up with them. Now, when he said he’d be with her at seven, he continues to be in some raunchy club with his friends.
Seven is the worst fucking number in the world right now.
Doubts clash against her ribcage when the flimsy fabric of her nightgown clings to her skin. Her hair, less from perfect, suddenly becomes an insecurity. Her eyes. Her nose. Her lips. The way she had let go in comfort for him—in the feeling of acceptance that he had once bathed upon her but now bites her back. What if he’s in that club with one of his friends? What if one of those friends are interested in him?
She swallows thickly, trying not to scream when she hides her face in between her legs, but she does. Harsh enough to be heard by someone, but not someone in the castle. What kind of Duchess is waiting for her boyfriend in front of a castle, dressed and ready to sleep, only to be left behind like some toy?
She grabs the phone again, and types with all the will in the world—
To: Shua.
I deserve better than you.
But she deletes it.
She can’t tell him that.
She doubts him, but questions the jealousy that creeps up on her as well. Maybe, he is just having fun—his world shouldn’t revolve around her.
When she stands up, her mind is only set on grabbing something to eat. Call it a third dinner, perhaps, but she needs to concentrate on something else. The entrance doors of the castle open up for her like magic, all thanks to the guards, as she makes her way towards the kitchen. A good cardio away from her, but the smell of the leftover baked potatoes that lay on her refrigerator calls out for her attention even from meters away.
Though, upon entering the kitchen, someone else has half of his body placed inside the refrigerator, long limbs grabbing something in his hands that he can’t quite decipher. Not her refrigerator, but the one designated for her sister’s food instead—used by her chef, and apparently, by Xu Minghao.
Her body splays against the marble island by the middle of the kitchen, the low yellow lamps making her eyes hurt…or is it that, maybe, Minghao in his university-student form is really a sight to look at? His hair is pushed away from his face, haphazardly in the process, like he didn’t have time to do it. Some glasses rest on the bridge of his nose and the red turtleneck sweater on his body is as bright as the apples that he holds in between his hands. Two on each hand.
“Am I getting robbed by Snow-White?” The question leaves her, though in a badly joked manner, before she could fully think about it. Maneuvering his feet up, Minghao closes the refrigerator’s door with one swift motion before laughing at her words.
“That’s your sister’s fridge, and we have a final tomorrow that I feel like I’m going to fail.” Minghao confesses, putting the apples down on the island before leaning his weight forward. Everything about him feels like a silhouette of what could be in an art museum. “Something about math being part of a business major’s life just doesn’t sit well with me.”
For what she can remember in the times she has seen Minghao and her sister studying together, he is— “You’re excellent at math, though.”
“…I guess.” Minghao says, biting down on his lip. “I’m good at a lot of things, if I do say so myself, but there’s that gut feeling that tells me I’m going to fail.”
“Why so?”
“The professor hates me, for one.” The enigma instructs, extending his palm on the island to draw little circles on the surface. Had his hands always been this pretty? “I told him that one of his equations was wrong and that was all it took for him to have my head on the next test.”
Shaking her thoughts away from Minghao’s hand, she looks up. “But you corrected him, that means you were smarter than him.”
“It means he made a mistake. We all do.” He finalizes, ready to grab the apples on his hands and say his goodbyes until she interrupts him.
“…Do you think we should forgive people just because they make mistakes?” She asks, making Minghao stop on his tracks, his back turned to her as she plays with her hands. “As in, forgive them every time they do?”
“Not always.” Minghao, always one for an answer, debates as he turns around. “Some mistakes are worth standing someone for. Others are just not.”
“What kind of mistakes would you apologize?”
“Forgetting something, for example.” Though, he doesn’t seem to be thinking deeply about it. “Or…if someone accidentally ate something I left on the fridge or something like that. I’m not one to forgive people for deep shit.”
“Conceptualization of deep shit?”
“Mhm, depends.”
“Not everything in life is relative, Minghao.”
“But, oh why, it is!” The heir conquers, looking at her for a second before smiling softly. “What we see is not what we really think it is.”
“And how do I know what it really is?”
“You listen to what your gut says.” He says. “Life is difficult, but we have the answers inside ourselves to make the right decision for us.”
For a moment, she wants to pretend like her gut has always told her Joshua is the right man for her. But, that’s not the truth. The right man didn’t open doors for her, but loved to be with her whenever he could. The right man didn’t spend every single second with her, but made every minute they spent together the reason why she misses him when being with other people. The right man made her feel unique—like that one imperfection on her skin isn’t worth that much thinking from her, or that the curves or lack of in certain places aren’t something to hold onto as if they conceptualize her.
The right man doesn’t spend an entire day not answering to her texts.
The right man chooses to visit his girlfriend first when he has spent weeks without seeing her.
The right man doesn’t leave her standing, on her nightgown, inspected by a man that studies her eyes from too close, shoulders going up and down with each breath before his smile erases and he says—
“This is about Joshua, isn’t it?”
Not having the heart to deny it, she nods. “He hasn’t answered in the entire day.” She admits, hard to say it out loud without feeling judged. By his actions, nonetheless. “…And, well, he did say yesterday he was going out to the beach with his friends from here once he arrived, and that he’d be going to the club after that, but he said he’d be here by seven—”
Minghao’s jaw tightens, placing his hands on her shoulders to make her turn around. “Then, go to bed—”
“What if he comes home?”
“He will not.” Minghao boldly replies for what he thinks of Joshua’s thoughts. “Not only has he stood you up, but he preferred going out with his friends than meeting up with you, his girlfriend, when getting to your land. I think that’s enough for you to go to sleep or cut ties with him immediately.”
That makes her stop on her tracks, no longer moving towards the stairs but instead, thinking about his words. Leaving Joshua, that is. “…I can’t.”
“Can’t you or don’t you want to?”
The question weights her down. Both sound pathetic at this point. “I don’t know.”
“I’ll tell you what it is,” Minghao stands in front of her, fixing the glasses on his face before sighing. “You’re waiting for him to change. That, one day, he’s going to wake up and choose you over the world. You think about all those things that people say about people just needing to go through phases, and you think this is a phase—”
More than anger, disdain bubbles up inside her. “He is young, maybe this is a phase—”
“It’s not.” Minghao says. “He chose them over you. He chose partying over you. That has to say a lot about what he thinks of you.”
“…I guess.”
“Think about it.” The heir concludes his advice with that, putting an apple up to his mouth before giving it a big bite. “I’ll go study. See you later.”
With that, he leaves.
###
October 11th. Three years ago.
She liked delicacy, but that never meant she liked it when people thought she was made out of glass. Invisible, easy to break, easy to taint when breathing against it—she’s strong, even if the hits of life have left a stain on her one too many times. Punches to be taken just for the sake of it.
Let the glass that represents her be broken, at the edges that people managed to ripped but never broke her entirely. Her first friend, a young boy that flew away from the land when he was six, and left her with the memory of him. Her second friend, a young girl when she was nine, that pushed her around to make her feel miniscule—always better than her, prettier than her, smarter than her, with nicer clothes than her. It was over after four years. Then, five years went by of people that were not that good either, always coming back with that sense of hope that told her…one day, the right people will come around.
What if they never did?
Because the right man is standing in front of her at this moment, the smell of lasagna cladding the room and making her feel disgusted. Thick sauce, white and red, with meat. It all deserves to be trashed down, like the rest of the gifts Joshua carried all the way here on his forearms, his face void of any imperfections even when he must have knocked himself out yesterday with as much partying as he did.
The right man, Joshua Hong, has taken a piece of her. That edge that keeps pricking her whenever she passes by, and she never falls asleep like how it happens in fairytales. Needle-deep, it makes her wonder of his whereabouts. Makes her tighten her fists against the fabric of her dress, cross-legged on the bed as she watches him open one bag.
“I brought you something—”
“You never answered.”
Joshua stops then, leaving the plastic white bag on her cream sofa before smiling at her. Once he nears her, seated in front of her, Joshua places both of his arms around her waist, face to face with her. “But you didn’t speak, babe.”
From the moment Hana let him inside her room, just five minutes ago, she had not been able to organize her thoughts. Her guts tell her that there is something inherently wrong with this—with Joshua and how he is acting.
“Not speak?” She breathes out, each word more pointed than the other, looking up at him from a tilted position. “Is my lack of speech really an issue when I texted you like crazy last night? Called you just to see if you were okay and alive or breathing? Is that silence to you?!”
Her voice raises, enough to have Joshua pushing himself away from her, eyes widened when he replies: “Hey, I told you I was going out. That’s not—”
“What kind of boyfriend goes out with his friends when he had not seen his girlfriend for weeks and she’s right there, waiting for him—?” She asks, willing to break at that moment. If Joshua has to smash her body into pieces with one throw of reality at her, she’ll take it. “Really, Joshua? Don’t you have some sense of guilt in you?”
“I was doing business.” Joshua says, always too little, never enough, returning to the packages of gifts before scoffing. “It’s not like I didn’t remember you—”
“What?” She asks, getting closer to the bags on her sofa. “Some gifts are supposed to make me feel better?”
“I guess. I was thinking of you when I bought them.” Never does he lift his tone the slightest, and it irks her.
Placing both hands on her hips, she nods. “I’m at the wrong here, because my boyfriend ignoring me for an entire day and, over that, deciding to make business in a beach and a club is supposed to be a normal fucking thing—!”
Before she could lift his hands to grasp her head, Joshua connects his fingers to her wrists, keeping her in place to look her in the eyes. “Stop it with the dramatics. I don’t have to ask you for permission to go anywhere.”
“Oh yeah, you don’t.” She says, voice inherently low. “But it’s really low of you to prefer that over spending a night with me. An entire day, even.”
His back faces her at that moment, taking the gifts out of their confines as he speaks. “Well, I’m here right now, I don’t know why you don’t settle for that.”
Settle.
When has he ever settled for her?
Instead, she covers her eyes, tugging at her skin in a way that would have had her mother swatting her palms away. She can’t do it right now. “Joshua Hong, listen to yourself for a second. This is unfair for me.”
“Don’t you think I want to see you every day?” He questions, though she can’t see him she feels his lips resting on her momentarily. “I want to see you at every given second of the day…but I have other important things to do.”
Other important things to do.
The worst part is that he says it as if she’s not important.
Though, that’s not true. The worst of it all is when she lets go of her face, vision filled with stairs and blurriness, but mostly the picture of him in front of her, finally, when she says:
“I understand.”
But her gut feeling tells her she doesn’t.
###
April 23rd. One year ago.
The birds chirp freely for an early celebration, sunflowers mingling against her cream dress. Today, the big gowns are changed for something more simplistic—a prideful sister that embarks into a new road of success when looking at her sister graduate. In something that she likes, first and foremost, and definitely as if she was a Princess with the big celebration that Mother prepared. Though, for someone that complained that her youngest studied too much and lacked a man because of that, it surprised her that she had even planned anything at all.
Yesterday was the real event, students gathered together for one last time to close one of their chapters of adulthood. The last one in the educational stance, for those not approaching further education. Her sister preferred something more private then, asking her to tag along with Minghao to have some drinks and talk about life with people with as much power as them, given the university that she goes to, but with less of a stick up their asses. Good was an understatement for how well the night went.
Taking the cherry from her drink, she tosses her head back, relishing on the dulcet taste as the shadows the sun creates on her skin rest on her chest. Dress in the color of cream, off the shoulders, just tight enough to make her look like the adult she is, but loose enough to let her breathe. People mingle by the center, children bustling around, parents talking in between themselves, and Mother making herself the center of attention, even when her youngest sister is by her side.
A lot has changed for her sister. Meanwhile, nothing has for her.
One can only take so much scolding from their parents about not getting married, but like her sister had once said, Joshua is not quite ready. She doesn’t know if he’ll ever be ready, but letting go makes a tingle go down her spine—perhaps, one day, he’ll want to. The possibilities are what make her stay, but it’s what makes her doubt the most. Downing the rest of her drink, she tries to think of something else other than the man talking business with some people in the corner, pristine as the day she met him and promised herself that it’d only be a tiny little crush.
“Enjoying yourself?”
The sound of that voice is oddly familiar. She remembers it more slurred yesterday’s night, throwing his gown somewhere on a couch to relish on drinks and good memories. Now, Minghao voices out his thoughts like he normally does, as if he had not been hungover this morning.
Letting the birds do their music when she looks at him, she shakes her head. “My juice is finished. Joshua can’t stop talking business with those men and you…my friend,” She lets her gaze go up and down his body, the sunflower shirt making her smile widely. “Are probably spring made person with that shirt.”
Tugging at the black fabric of his blazer to show the shirt, a few buttons opened to showcase his sharp collarbones and the hint of curved, yet slim pecs, Minghao looks down at himself. “I wanted to look the least professional I could.” He confesses, returning his gaze to her, though a bit squinted because of the harsh sun. “Your boyfriend may be perfect with business talks, but I am not. I can only pretend I am interested in what someone in saying about themselves until I actually tell them straight on that their lives aren’t that important.”
Hiding her laughter behind her glass, she drops the seed of the cherry inside before sighing. “Well, you’re a heir. You were prepared to be a businessman. I think that’s what makes you less interested in that.”
“That and years of studying.” Minghao finishes, taking a bite of a cookie he found on the food table nearby, munching for a few seconds before talking again. “Besides, Joshua has expanded far more than I have. My family owns an haute couture fashion brand and a modelling agency, it’s way different from Joshua’s musical takes.”
And then again, she has always wondered why she has never seen Minghao with some tall, skinny model that hangs on his arm like a beautiful match for him. “I don’t know…” She answers, puckering her lips when looking at Joshua. “At least, you don’t like the socializing but love the fashion aspect of your business. Joshua…he loves socializing with people nowadays, even if he doesn’t speak much. He just has to hang around people.”
“That’s what going out to too many parties does to you.” Minghao says, grabbing another cookie before offering it to her. “Cookie?”
“With chocolate chips?” She asks, already taking it in between her hands before taking a big bite. “I imagine how disturbed those businessmen would be if I went over there to hug Joshua and they’d saw a piece of chocolate on my teeth.”
“Devastated, perhaps.” Minghao says. “I doubt they have ever had a woman actually show themselves naturally to them. No posing. No falseness. Just plain old reality.”
“Do people really show themselves as they are in the business industry, though?” Rhetorical at most, she questions, shaking her head in the process.
“They don’t.” But, something seems to glisten in his eyes. “But you do.”
“Not really—” She tries to defend, heart picking up at the way those brown eyes look at her as if she’s different. “Mother has made my life miserable until I became the perfect image of what she wanted. Well, not really, I am not married yet but—”
“Even so,” Minghao interrupts her. “You may have to go around and throw some pleasantries to other people, but that doesn’t make you faux in any way.”
“It does.”
“No, you’re one of the most genuine people I have ever met.” Those words have her looking at him as he walks backwards, pushing his hair away as he chews on a new cookie. “It just so happens that you think being nice is not a personality trait a person can have, even yourself.”
“Well, I haven’t met a lot of nice people—” And still, she keeps around them.
Minghao, on the other hand, waves his hand in the air. “Nice to meet you, then. I’m Xu Minghao.”
The smile on her face is forever petrified after that.
It must be a pleasure for Joshua’s business associates to see her smile so brightly, his hand placed on her waist as she holds onto his chest for leverage. Perhaps, she loves the way he sees her the most when he is around people—as if he has seen the answers to all his prayers on her very own irises.
This time around, Joshua impresses more than usual. A bowtie, hair pushed away from his face by some gel, and a black suit that leaves everything to the imagination. Nothing quite creative there, just plain old classic that makes him look good enough to desire.
“You two seem to have a great relationship.” One of the businessmen says, his beard practically connecting his chest to his jaw, rounded glasses on the bridge of his nose, wrinkles giving his age away, perhaps making him look older. “I remember when I was like that with my wife. Lots and lots of good times, you know?”
Joshua looks at her chuckling, pleasantries over all, and she stares back as he lets go of her waist. “Well, then we’re lucky, Mr. Kim,” Joshua says. “Because she is going to be my wife soon.”
Her face falls then, just like Joshua’s hand does to search for a box inside his pocket. People around them start to go quieter, watching the movements he does as he opens the velvety box with carefulness.
“J—Joshua—”
Both of her hands come up to her mouth when Joshua shows the ring. Rose gold with one big platinum diamond in the middle, surrounded by medium sized speckles of brightness. She’d count around thirty diamonds, all engraved around the ring that reads his name on the inside.
Her name is breathed out, as if it’s poetry—never one for romanticism, it takes her aback that he has gone back to that breathy tone that once enamored her. He doesn’t drop on one knee, instead pushes the ring halfway into her finger before asking.
“Will you finally become my wife?”
Say no, her guts say, wrenching, wanting nothing more than to run away. The right guy would have never done this—
But the time she has waited for him, the years she has spent liking him and the will to continue with this just for the same of accommodation has her nodding slowly, extending her hand even more to let the ring fully engulf her finger. Fit like a glove.
“Yes, Joshua, of course.” She says, cheers coming soon after when Joshua wraps his arms around her, pressing a kiss to the curve on the bridge of her nose before leaning down to capture her lips in one of those overly-passionate kisses of his.
The last person she sees before closing her eyes to kiss Joshua is Minghao, a tight-lipped yet tranquil smile on his face as he claps slowly. It almost feels like he is saying…
Glad you found the wrong one for you.
###
August 1st. One year ago.
Joshua’s land has always been different to hers.
More up North, this time of the year welcomes its freezing cold, perspiration coming from every window, words tangled by the smoke that leaves people’s lips, and, of course, how to forget the marvelous fog that barely lets her look out of the window to sip on her cup of tea as people rush around to show her yet another color scheme for the wedding.
Greeneries are mostly what she is used to seeing. Not mountains, not hills, definitely not the lack of flowers that has her pushing herself away from the window to look at one of the workers in Joshua’s castle. Upon her visit, the wedding preparations have resumed, and with Joshua somewhere in the castle preparing for a presentation tomorrow, she’s left to make decisions on her own.
“Lady, Lady, Lady!” The overexcited, chirpy, and tall woman with the fringe in front of her moves it away to showcase her color scheme, all tones of the rainbow making her squint her eyes harshly. God, she’s tired of this. “You said you wanted yellow for your wedding.” Of course, because it reminds her of sunflowers, and there has never been a flower more beautiful. Home has sunflowers. Her grandmother’s castle had sunflowers. Hell, sometimes she likes to pluck one inside her hair. “But I need to know which shade you want for the overall theme—”
“Sunflower-toned yellow.” She says, bringing her cup up to her lips only to be met with lukewarm tea. She likes it piping hot, but no one seems to listen to her around this castle.
“So, is that like a toasted yellow?”
“Have you seen a sunflower before, Yerim?”
“Of course.” The older woman says, pushing her hair off her shoulders before looking down at the color scheme. “But are we talking Dead Sunflower-toned yellow or—?”
Okay, fuck this.
“Just—” Raising her hands in the air, she takes one of the many papers that Yerim had displayed. “I want this yellow.”
“That’s not sunflower yellow, My Lady.” Yerim instructs, going after her as she tries to get out of that living room. Not that it should be called that way, each and every single moment of certainty she had to get married to Prince Joshua now seems to die down upon the appearance of the wedding preparations. “That’s pee-colored yellow.”
“…Yerim!” She speaks a little too loud, startling the woman when she places one hand on the railing of the stairs, ready to go up to Joshua’s room and embark in a trip down the sets of history books he keeps in his shelves. “I don’t mind if it’s pee-colored yellow. I just want it to be yellow.”
Yerim puckers up her lips then, perhaps annoyed but unable to say it. “Well…don’t come around and tell me I didn’t tell you when all your invitees tell you your decorations look like pee.”
“I’ll be glad to hear them say it.” The sarcasm drips from her tone, releasing a sigh that has her feeling guilty. The woman is only doing her job, but the doubts of not knowing how this wedding is going to go—or perhaps, that she doesn’t fully believe Joshua is settling down for her, has her fuming internally. “Yerim? Sorry for acting like this. You know better than I do, and I am so thankful with your job.”
“Not to worry, Lady. I dealt with each of the Hong weddings and you have been the kindest.”
Damn, she can’t imagine how the others are. Instead, she decides to give her a soft smile. “I’ll be up in Joshua’s room if you need me.”
“Check his pee and see if that’s the color you want!”
“Yerim…”
“Yes, My Lady?”
“You’re pushing it.”
Missing her land is something she would have never thought she’d do. She doesn’t miss the situation she normally finds herself in, trying to please her parents and the landers alike, but that is far from what makes her ache when she looks around the castle, trying to remember the way back to Joshua’s room. Hana would have already been by her side. Her sister would have come visit, finally independent and away from the castle. Maybe, Minghao could tag along, her best friend over everything and anything—
Through the elongated hallways, with white walls and squared floorings, she finds the door to Joshua’s room on the far end, near the elevator that would have made it much easier to go up instead of using the stairs.
Instead, she opens the door with quick motions, not surprised to see Joshua seated in front of his personal desk, spacious enough for it to be considered the size of an office, a contract up to his face as he sports his best set of glasses. With the buttons of his shirt half undone, and his trousers hugging his legs nicely, she guesses he must be done with his online presentation.
“How was the presentation, love?” She asks, not missing a beat to go to the shelves next to Joshua’s office, surprised to see the width and tallness of some of them. Dark wood, bright under the sunlight, and filled with books like a library would have them.
Joshua finishes reading something on the contract before looking at her. “It was fine, babe.” He says, though, something in his voice tells her he is about to complain. “I thought I could make myself clearer, but I am not very good with introductions.”
She looks through the history books, trying to get to one she hasn’t read. Maybe, she should catch up on his land’s history. “You do just fine. You just get nervous.”
“I just don’t know what to say—”
Her fingers graze the spine of each book. Read. Read. Read. Read. “You’ll learn with time. You’re still young.”
“I’ve been in this business for years.”
“Well, you started extra young, and you’ve gotten so much better.”
“I guess, but—”
The spine of one book stops her from listening him, Joshua’s name written on it. She gets it out, surprised to see another book fall backwards, the number two following his name. When looking at the cover, she realizes that this is his diary—written there, only for her to see, is Joshua’s diary. Followed by a sequel, and then a third book, and then a fourth—
“Joshua, I didn’t know you used to write diaries.”
Those words are enough to have him up his feet, perhaps a little bit too slow for seduction, but quick enough to have him closing the book before she reads the first page, lifting her chin with his finger when he moves forward, making her walk backwards in the process.
“Old, stupid things that I used to write when I was younger. I stopped writing them years ago.” Joshua instructs, a movement on his eyes to sense his nervousness, though his lips are distracting when they land upon hers. His arms grasp around her waist, bringing her closer until he was waltzing around with her, sending her closer to the bed. “I used to write about you, too.”
“You did?” She asks, the voice of hope that comes when she realizes she likes Joshua for a reason. Most of the time, she doesn’t get to see it—but it exists there.
He hums, biting her bottom lip before letting her fall on the bed, the mattress jumping a bit at her weight, though she doesn’t pay attention to it, vision centered on him when he whispers. “Yes, about how beautiful you are…” His knees plant on the bed, right in between her legs, arms extending on each side of her head. Now hovering over her, he looks down at her lips. “And how much I wanted to do you on my bed.”
“Joshua!” She chuckles, hiding her face in his neck when he says those words. “You don’t get to say that!”
“I do.” He replies, pecking her cheek before descending for another kiss. Somehow, those diaries are left forgotten for a moment—whatever he has written in there is his business, after all, and with some chapters about her in those books, she can’t ask for anything else.
###
August 4th. One year ago.
When sunflowers rest in between her hands to pick the organic, natural decorations of her wedding, she doesn’t expect her human sunflowers to have surprised her with a flight to Joshua’s land.
Minghao. Hana. Her sister. All in that order.
Truthfully, she has never been more thankful for Hana. For a woman that only got to marry once, only to lose her husband soon after, she surely knew about wedding preparations. Everything that she had not been able to explain is now being jotted down by Yerim, seated on a bench in the corner of the flower shop, not once losing focus.
Her sister, however, despised the atmosphere—giving the excuse of going to grab something to eat before disappearing completely. Perhaps, she’s doing something she really loves doing, playing tourist and rummaging around the land of the Prince she hates so much.
However, one person fits perfectly in this boutique-like flower shop, his white t-shirt something simplistic for him, but the brown pants reaching his waist and the beige cardigan something to remember. His hair moves thanks to his hand, picking up another bouquet of flowers—roses, this time around—, smelling them, and putting them down.
“How’s the family, Minghao?” She asks, far more comfortable with him than she was four years ago. Minghao raises his head then, giving one of those smiles that make his cheeks plumper before shaking his head.
“Mom and dad love the retirement; I can tell you.” Minghao whispers, the adoration in his voice not making her jealous. She wishes she had a relationship like that with her parents, but over everything, she is happy for him. “And I am absolutely thrilled to be picking up calls like crazy.”
“Those people are lucky they get to talk to you.” She says, looking at the cherry blossoms in one little vase before clearing her throat. Better swallow her pride now before he leaves. “I missed you.”
Minghao remains quiet for a few seconds, his hand rubbing against her back soon after. “I missed you, too.” He replies, a sweet lullaby when he sighs softly and goes over to pick another bouquet of flowers. “How’s Joshua?”
“The question of the day.”
“It wouldn’t be me if I didn’t ask.”
“Why?”
“Because Joshua is the reason you’re here. And you’re the reason I’m here. It’s a connection.” Minghao instructs, elbowing her side to get a few words out.
There is only so much she can take out of their relationship right now. No fights, thankfully, but the lingering voice inside her head tells her that it is not enough. Spending hours in his bed, twisting and turning, breathing out his name like a mantra, letting him kiss her until her lips ache isn’t exactly what she imagined for a lover. Conversation, silence even, can be even better at times.
“Ah…alright, I guess. We haven’t had a big fight in a while.” She says, letting her fingers play with the flowers as she walks sideways, followed by Minghao. “But there’s this lingering feeling that tells me there’s something he is hiding from me.”
“How so?” Minghao asks, studying her expression as she speaks. She will never understand how observant he is.
She stops on her tracks, Minghao’s chest colliding against her back and making the two of them stumble a bit. His hands wrap around her waist, keeping her in place as they both apologize at the same time. When he lets go of her, perhaps a bit nervous at the same time, she can’t help but chuckle. “Well, I—I discovered some diaries in his bookshelf. His. Like seven. The moment I mentioned them to him,” A snap of her fingers has Minghao looking down at her hand, the rose-gold band making a wild appearance. “Boom, he was trying to shut me up. Whenever I bring it up, I end up…” She pushes her lips together, not wanting to say much.
“You two end up fucking.”
“Minghao!”
“What, can’t a Lady fuck?” Minghao questions, laughter shaking her when the man shakes his head. “But that’s not something he should be doing to shut you up. Tell him that.”
“But what if it’s nothing?”
“Then, why wouldn’t he want to tell you?”
“Ugh, Minghao.” Pressing her index and middle finger to her temples, she sighs. “You need to stop making sense. You are too intelligent for my own good.”
His tan skin glows under the rare sunlight when he chuckles, shining brightly when he shakes his head. “Sorry, I’m just trying to be a good friend. That’s all I can do.” Though, the last sentence seems to have something else to do with them. She breathes in deeply, biting her bottom lip when Minghao rubs one thumb against her cheek, once, before pinching her cheek. “Check those diaries, or get it out of him. I don’t trust it.”
“Don’t you trust it or him?” She asks, trying to bring a smile up her face but Minghao shuts himself up.
“I think you know the answer.” He finalizes. Instead, he turns to the set of flowers. “Maybe we should go for white flowers for your bouquet? Since the wedding is going to be yellow themed and all. Bring some contrast—”
###
August 10th. One year ago.
The picture was flawless in her head. One of those dreams that she can’t recall if had been a reality or were just part of her imagination. Joshua, the new boy in the school, would fall so head over heels for her one day that he’d kiss the ground she laid upon. He’d make a rose out the words he told her. He’d turn chivalry into his way of speaking, love her for who she truly was, with so much adoration that each year would be stronger. Each and every single year, they’d grow into a sweet tune of comfort that could only come with so much love that she’d feel at ease. Not complete, for that was all her doing, but something of the like of that.
Then, years later, she should have imagined that there were risks to take with such a happy ending. Seated on that spacious desk, with Joshua fast asleep on the bed, she uses the light of her phone to illuminate all seven diaries. Three in the morning and a good reader, she thinks she can get through them—or, at least, skim through the most important stuff—, before he wakes up. It’s that sense of craziness and curiousness that bleeds out now that Minghao is back to her land that she truly feels like she needs to act upon the words he says.
The first few readings are cute. Joshua at fourteen, a bit dreamy eyed, a ton of stupid, and clearly not in love with anyone. She even finds herself trying not to laugh at some of those, at the notes he wrote on paper for his love for music, and all of the like.
Though, when Joshua turns sixteen, everything changes…and it’s not the presence of someone like her that does it.
Heejin comes up a lot in the first few pages. Beautiful, delicate, daughter of a businessman Heejin who owns a bunch of hospitals. Long dark hair, a beautiful smile, and carefree nature. Heejin who stole his first kiss. Heejin who went out on a date with him. At first, she believes that this truly comes with the passage of time. So what if Joshua had a little thing when he was a teen with Heejin? Now they’re much older, still friends, but he has been in a relationship for so long—
Second book, Joshua is seventeen. He has his first time with Heejin.
Third book, Joshua starts his relationship with her and it’s at this moment that she can’t stand reading that woman’s name—
“I wonder if I will ever feel like how I felt with Heejin with her.”
Joshua tends to make a lot of mistakes on his diaries, scraping them over with lines before continuing, but this one line came with so much confidence that she finds herself looking for more. That’s only the third book, there needs to be more.
Her eyes itch by the time it’s five in the morning, going through the fourth diary and feeling tears welding up quickly. Joshua speaks about not getting over Heejin, speaks about the uncertainty of his feelings—writes his name down with what seems to be love, initials and all, thinks of her as beautiful. As the most beautiful. Lusts and loves, adores and worships. Joshua’s goddess has always been Heejin, and it only further intensifies the feeling of hatred inside of her when she continues reading.
It’s by the sixth book that she realizes Joshua does not only love Heejin, but he also started seeing her again on the 8th of October, last year.
Seeing her like he would when he was younger.
Even better, now he’s wiser, a bigger liar, a bigger asshole.
She doesn’t know what takes over her, but she questions a lot of things. How dare he? First and foremost. How dare he take her first kiss, her first time, her entire train of thought? Make her lose her dreams, concentrate on him, lead him on as the front-man while she was in the background? How dare he write a hundred texts to her saying how much he missed her, how he wanted to kiss her, how she was the most gorgeous woman he had ever laid his eyes on, when he had always wanted Heejin?
How dare he keep bringing Heejin to every event? And how does Heejin even dare ask her for updates on her wedding preparations when she has seen it all? Seen the man she is about to marry fall so deeply in love with her that he’d risk a long lasting relationship just to be with her again, that he’d use her just to get over her, just to get over the fact that Heejin wanted to be free and while that was what made him fall for her, it’s also what kept them apart?
How dare he say that he had written hundreds and hundreds of pages about the beauty of her when there is only two?
The chair clanks against the floor when she stands up, abruptly, taking those two pages and crumpling them at the same time that she hears Joshua gasp away.
“Babe, what are you—?”
He doesn’t have the time to finish his sentence, the ball of paper ending up in between his lips as he fidgets to get away from her, whining in the process. “Shut the fuck up, I don’t want to hear any of your bullshit.” For the first time, she forgets she is a Lady. Tonight, she is someone sleep-ridden and heartbroken. Enough tears had been dropped for this man. “Thank you for those two little fucking pages in your diaries about Heejin, I very much appreciate my goddamned fiancé being head over heels for someone else.”
Joshua gets the crumpled paper out of his mouth, throwing it to the side as he stands up. “I can’t believe you read them—” And above all, there is a bit of resentment in his tone. “What about my privacy?”
“What about my dignity?” She asks, tears brimming her vision, but she won’t let them drop again. “You and your best friend have been having fun behind my back, but that’s not the worst part—you’ve used me to get over her.”
“I—I didn’t use you!” Joshua tells her, extending his hands forward before sighing. “Babe, can we just talk about this? I swear I didn’t use you.”
“Don’t swear.”
“But, I really do swear—”
“Don’t swear!” She screams, her throat hurting at the ripping motions of her vocal cords before shaking her head. “Don’t swear when I know it’s a lie—”
“Everything with Heejin has always been impossible—”
Yet, he still wants it. It has always been her. “So, you decided to be with me instead? I was the second choice?”
“No, God—” Joshua says, lowering his weight until he is kneeling in front of her. Never had he kneeled for anyone, a Prince above all, not even for his proposal, but now that he has been caught, he’s crawling like an ant. “I’m so…so sorry.” Kisses scattered across her thighs, enough to have her eyes closing tightly.
How many times has he done this for her?
“You were always the first choice! I just…I didn’t know how to…You…You were so in love with me, I didn’t know how to react.”
“So, instead of telling me you didn’t feel the same, you went on and cheated on me.” This time around, she pushes at his shoulders, soft enough to pull away from him before giving a few steps back. Her fingers wrap around that band, the one that she had been so doubtful to put on, and for a reason. “Take your ring and never talk to me again, Joshua Hong.”
“Hey, no, no—!” Joshua says, for the first time in his life lifting his voice, tears clouding his vision when he reaches for her wrist. “Don’t leave me, babe, you have given me everything.”
“And you gave me shit in return.” She finishes, shaking her head as she rushes out of that door. She can hear footsteps behind her, quickened, but she moves with the need to breathe. If she doesn’t get out of there as soon as possible, get on a plane and go back to her land, her lungs will contract so badly they will stop working—
When she reaches the entrance, she doesn’t hear Joshua rushing behind her anymore. He has stopped searching, stopped running, and it doesn’t surprise her.
It was never her he had been looking for.
###
December 22nd. Eight months ago.
The only time she has gone out of her room since arriving from Joshua’s land has been to grab pen and paper.
In fairytales, when a member of the Royal family locks themselves up in their rooms, it’s for a Prince to find them. What a surprise, it is, that she has locked herself to avoid anyone seeing her after making a fool of herself with that man for so long. The first few days, her Mother complained about Joshua calling her and telling her that she had broken off the engagement, calling her stupid for even letting go of such a man. Chivalry is dead, she said, and she believes it may be. With the passage of time, the only people that tried to get to her were Hana, her sister and Minghao. Only Hana managed to greet her, for she didn’t have the ability to face those who had seen her such in love with a man like that.
The pen glides across the paper with ease, her utmost desire coming to life now that she has become a mess of reading and writing. She knows what she wants, knows that it isn’t what she had. Being Joshua’s plus one had never been her thing, but the parties before and the pleasantries were much worse. This time around, she lets those professional words and charisma that she had been taught speak for herself, opting out of the Duchess position.
Perhaps, no one will care. It’s a certainty that not a lot of people remember her anymore, but she doesn’t want to be a Royal anymore. She will live here as long as she can before moving on to something else. That’s as much as she knows, but it will be more difficult once the news goes along. With one final movement of her wrist, she signs the letter, putting it inside an envelope before turning around to look at Hana standing by the door.
With her hands interlocked in front of her, Hana looks at her with worry. “Don’t mind it,” She says, standing up and letting her pajama pants drag against the flooring. Fuck all those dresses she used to wear. “I personally asked for you not to be fired. I know you need the job.”
“I—I won’t go anywhere if you don’t go.” Hana says, voice much stronger than intended before cowering onto herself. “You’re like my daughter, I can’t leave you now that you’re all saddened—”
“Ah-ha.” She tuts, moving her index finger from side to side before giving her the envelope. “I am not going anywhere without you. I’ll see what I can sort out for us with the money I have saved until I can give us the life we deserve. No more of this bullshit we have gone through.”
“Language.”
“Well, I am not going to be a Lady for much longer so…” Once again, she drags herself inside her bed, her home for the past few months, plopping her thumping head down on the pillow before smiling dizzily. Hana opens the door to the bedroom, and she watches the shorter woman about to leave until she asks her. “Hana?”
“Yes, sweetie?” Hana retorts, turning around with a much more dulcet expression than the worried one she had sported earlier.
“Will I ever feel better?”
“Of course, sweetheart.” Hana says, taking the brief time to go over to her to press a kiss to her forehead, speaking against the skin. “You’re only one step away from happiness.”
“How about a hundred?”
“One big step, then.” Hana concludes, moving over to the door and closing it with some last few words. “But closer than you were before, honey.”
###
August 15th. Present day.
She has figured out that not a lot of people look up at her window to see if she’s there in that damned castle. It’s as though once she became an invisible matter, no one cared.
Books read, words written, and she still has a lot of work to catch up with. While locked in that room, she has managed to do something different with her life—past the drama that followed her departure from her title, and some speech through the walls to be able to stay for a few months while she gets her life sorted out, a new light has appeared in her life. Not that new, if she’s honest, she has always imagined herself doing something like this, but being a teacher’s assistant in one of the educational spots in the land wasn’t exactly out of her mind even when she was a Duchess. It’s tiring, revising tests is starting to worsen her vision, but it’s so worth it.
Most of the time, she spends it by the window, seated on the straight couch there, legs extended as she feels the weather of the day bask her. Today, it’s awfully gloomy for her land, fog coming up to people’s faces and blending them in when they enter the castle. None of them stare at the opened curtains of her window, neither do they care about her existence. With a sigh, she returns to the task at hand, revising one more test before she gets lost in the real dream that had always been part of her.
Studying history, technically, as a career.
Honesty is the best policy and she knows she got this job, partly, because she used to be a member of the Royal family. She still is, in what blood consists of when pumping against her arteries and keeping her alive, but she no longer holds that sense of pride on it. It’s been months since she has last seen her sister, not because she doesn’t want to, but because she needs to heal. Become the woman that would be powerful enough to eat the world alive, contrary to her brittle self.
Signing herself for a university interview feels odd. It’s been a while since she has been out in the world, and perhaps, she doesn’t miss it as much as she makes herself believe. She had put herself out there too many times before, fired by the bullets that ripped straight to her heart and made her recoil to herself. What are the odds of everything going alright if she tries again?
When she looks down the window, she sees two figures that she misses deeply. Her sister, whose hair is longer, sporting an all-black outfit that makes her look both professional and youthful, lips tainted a deep red. Minghao, by her side, is speaking to her as she rushes towards the entrance, holding an envelope on her hands that she can only imagine is something for her Mother. Nonetheless, Minghao is left behind, enough for her to inspect him from afar.
Minghao’s hair is much longer than remembered, a green shirt under a gray suit that somehow looks great sported by him. From a distance, she can see him inspecting around, from the gardens to the entrance, to the people bustling around before looking up. His eyes connect directly to hers, the first person on the passing days turned months of her solitude, on lockdown.
Had his lips always looked like petals of roses? She questions herself, watching him purse his lips as he lifts his hand to wave at her softly. Glasses cover his eyes for the most part, tainted thanks to petrichor, but he sees her. Knows exactly where to get her, texts ignored by her as a way to put the pieces of her heart together and he waited.
She doesn’t wave back, instead resting her hand against the window, tapping her fingers against the surface as if she was able to touch him. Minghao had always made her feel better, no different in the way a smile sneaks up on her features and sits there to stay.
The man mouths, pointing at the place he is standing by: “Want to come down?” She reads, concentrating on the flower on his lips, the noir poem of his existence that somehow has turned dulcet.
Though, she is not ready, shaking her head in hopes of slowing down the process of Minghao getting too close to her. She still needs time. “Not today.” She says, lips parted enough for him to understand every word before he nods.
“Some other time?” He breathes out, only understood by her when he repeats it again and without the hint of doubt, she replies:
“Definitely.”
With that, Minghao sighs deeply, a cloud of smoke gathering by his nose before giving a few steps forward, opening the weighty doors of the castle and closing them behind him. Her heart is racing by the time she looks at the empty spot he left behind, suddenly much brighter than the gloomy day.
###
Minghao knows where she is, and he makes it known.
Somehow, studying feels even worse when there is pressure on her shoulders—trying to get into university like a normal student, not like the Duchess she used to be. With her back hunched, she sits on her bed, readying herself for the moment three weeks from now when she’ll have to face the world again, and not only that, get judged by it again, but for something else, her intelligence, perhaps.
Breathing the answers into the air about this certain question, she stops when she realizes she has forgotten someone’s name. It passes her enough to have her closing her eyes tightly, cursing herself for not being able to remember. She used to be so good at this, but it seems like she has lost some of the talent she had, or the confidence that had once been within her when it came to history.
Two taps at her window make her lift her gaze, heart shaking in fear of what it could be. Birds passing by, perhaps, her room is high enough in this castle for it not to be reached by anyone, but the persistent sound follows her even minutes later, something thrown at her window before leaving her in silence, repeating the action only seconds after. It’s only after the fourth time the noise comes by that she stands up, anger raking through her when she goes to the window.
Opening the window, she looks around, lowering her weight the slightest to be able to inspect the sides. Left, nothing. Right, nothing. The castle looks the same as it did earlier, birds gone to other portions of the garden, but just as she’s about to push herself back inside her room, she hears her name being called, a tone not dulcet enough, but somehow warm in the way he speaks.
When she looks down, she is not surprised to see Minghao. Well, part of her really is—whenever he has the time, he makes himself be known, reminding her that he is there for her. Notes left under her door, that she reads when she gets the time. Books that he places outside of her door, never once knocking, but mouthing to her from the window to check the outsides of her room. It has been like this for days, perhaps even weeks, she has lost the passage of time when it comes to him.
She leans her weight against the windowsill, quirking an eyebrow at him. “What were you throwing at my window, Minghao?” She asks, not a single tone of annoyance in her voice anymore, and Minghao takes this moment to cross his arms behind his back, the yellow sweater on his body highlighted because of this. Yellow has always been her favorite color.
“Pebbles.”
“You could’ve broken my window, then.”
“If that’s what it takes to get you out of there, I will.” Minghao shrugs his shoulders, always too honest for his own good, and that’s what she adores the most about him. He pushes one of his legs forward and back, a dance of nervousness that only goes past his lips when he decides to let it go. “It’s been months. I want to see you.”
But she doesn’t feel quite ready. What if he suddenly realizes that she has played with time for far too long, that each step she takes she doubts, that right now, she doesn’t know where she starts or ends, or if she even started at all? “I’m isolating myself until I get my mind together—”
“I understand that, but—” Minghao lifts his hand to cloud the sun that basks on his face, making him glow. He has always had that with him, that’s for sure. “I could help you if you’d just let me.”
She chuckles at that, interlocking her fingers as she speaks to him. “Why?”
Minghao doesn’t hesitate, and that’s something to envy. Hardships of her life, all the pain and tears, suddenly seem to be left in the past when he smiles softly at her, like he does, never quite showing his teeth and yet, saying everything she needs to hear. “Because I miss you.” He tells her, loud enough for the people around them to hear, or perhaps, no one cares about them. It’s better if they don’t.
“I miss you, too.” She breathes out, wanting nothing more than for it to be heard. She misses one of her closest friends, her sister’s best friend, her confidante. Over everything, she mixes Xu Minghao. “…We’ll see each other someday, I promise.”
“Someday soon?”
“Sooner than you think.” She tells him, lowering her gaze to avoid his penetrating gaze. “I’ll text you…ah, we can text and sort something out.”
“I’m okay with that.” Minghao says, though, when she looks at him again, he is looking down at his watch. “I have a meeting right now, so I have to go. Check outside your bedroom, okay?”
Patience follows after him as he moves away from the castle, but she isn’t quite as patient anymore. Scrambling to close the window, she walks over to the door, opening it in one swift motion, being met by one of the workers in the castle, holding up a tray filled with her favorite food, two red apples reminiscent of him, and of course, a note from him.
“Until we meet again – Xu Minghao.”
She can’t wait.
###
Never was it her virtue to wait for the right time, the perfect moment. This time around, it isn’t any different. Instead of waiting for the day of her university interview, she texts Minghao much sooner—asking him how his day went, thanking him for all the pleasantries, gratefulness above all, and when he answers, there is nothing that stops the conversation.
It was only a matter of time until she decided to meet him again, and when he said he planned on having a picnic meeting with her—not a date, mind her—she thought it was perfect. With the moonshine draping against the curtains of the castle’s living room, the world in silence as it’s well over dinnertime, she tugs at the fabric of her dress. It has been a while since she has worn one of those, even when she hated them to bits, but this one makes her feel at ease. One that Hana made for her when visiting her sisters, the time away giving her inspiration for her favorite Duchess. Short, yet flowy, in a daylight sky blue that has her feeling a bit too bright for the night.
Everything on her is much cheaper than what she was set to wear as Duchess, but the movement of her feet is more lightweight the more she reaches the door. Minghao had said he was waiting for her outside, but each step falls harsher than the last. Not only will she meet with Minghao, who has very much grown onto himself as a person, physically and mentally, but it is the first time she will be out of the castle in months.
Maybe, she should stop.
Shame is an emotion she tries not to feel, but her life has been set, plotted, written and read according to what other people said. With her hand connecting to the doorknob of the entrance door, a few guards sparing her glances before looking away, she wonders what people would say. The Duchess is out again. The ex-Duchess. The one that left Prince Joshua for a supposed cheating scandal. Maybe, too old to study in judging eyes, or too privileged to do so.
It almost makes her stay, but she tugs at the door before she could even think in any other way.
There, in the usual spot that gives her a clear view of him from the window, is Xu Minghao. A businessman by now, owner of very big companies, an heir that knew how to divide his life perfectly. With his back turned towards her, he only notices her when the door closes, the moon making perfect shadows on his face. Maturity had taken over his features, his hair falling down his forehead, and surprisingly, a full smile appears on his face when she nears him, arms taking a mind of their own to wrap around Minghao’s slim frame.
Never had a hug felt this good, as if she belongs in these arms—unjudged, unashamed, without a hardship in this violin tune of line that only dizzies her. Minghao doesn’t waste much time to wrap his arms around her body, hiding his face on the juncture of her neck before breathing in deeply. His eyelashes flutter against her skin, as if taking all of her in, the tickling sensation nicely welcomed when she tugs at the fabric of his white sweater, tucked inside a pair of stylish, painted jeans, with figures that she hasn’t quite detailed.
“I’m so happy you’re back.” He breathes out, taking her face in between his hands when pulling away and, as always, his thumb rubs against her cheek, pinching it soon after when he lets go.
“I never left.” The confession weights with guilt on her chest, because she did. Months of not talking to him just for the sake of healing, when he could’ve been there by her side while she did so. “…So, picnic time?”
“Yes.” Minghao replies, extending his arm for her to take before walking side to side, the fabric of his sweater rubbing against her bare forearm. “Read the books I gave you?”
“All of them.”
“What did you think about—?”
Lips pushed together to keep himself silent, Minghao is not a man of many words—not until he is interested, and what a surprise it is that not a single moment in that lake, as they gave bites of each other’s foods, he seemed to stop himself from talking. It’s at that moment that she realizes she is necessary for some people in this life, and likewise with him, or rather, not necessary…wanted, desired, wished to be there.
There’s no better feeling.
###
Water always makes her feel better. In all forms and shapes. Knowing there is something deeper than what she feels, something stronger than her and yet, feeling so weak against her fingertips, gives her the force to know she has been through worse than waiting for the response of a university. Though, that doesn’t mean she doesn’t spend most of her time helping the maids around the castle, trying to find something to do that distracts her before she goes absolutely crazy.
Hana has always been a bit strict when it came to certain fabrics, and only now she realizes how difficult it is to wash a gown by hand, much more her Mother’s, that seems to be never-ending as four people, including her, try to get it washed. She knows Mother won’t use it again, but she doesn’t have the heart to remind that to the groups of people working for her. It would only make them feel worse, and she’s there to feel better.
The laundry machine roars behind them, though she pays more attention to the faint sound of music playing in the background. Water drips down her hands when she rubs the fabric against itself, trying to get rid of any stain or smell, though there is a party in between the staff. Candles lit up, cake sliced, a song too upbeat for her danced by her workers. Some are buzzed, even in this early moment of the day, for it’s the ex-Duchess’ birthday.
Her birthday and it doesn’t quite feel like it.
In the past, she liked her birthday, but today, she feels nostalgic. Only getting older, but not getting anywhere—well, she’s in the process, but it feels like her growth will last forever, and she’s too impatient to wait for it. Smelling like smoke, detergent and soap, she thanks the few people that gave her such pleasantries, that congratulated her as if they were part of her family, because they are. Careless, she isn’t, and even though the smile on her face is weakened, it means well.
One day, she’s going to hold onto every birthday as if it’s the last—one never knows, but somehow, today, celebrating is not in her vocabulary. It hasn’t been in a while.
“I think someone is looking for you.” Hana says, already reaching for her hands with a towel to wipe them away from the soap and water. She widens her eyes, unaware of why Hana is so rushed to get her out of the laundry room and towards the living room. “Oh my, darling, why are you this untidy?”
“I was doing laundry, Hana, that’s why.” She replies, looking down at her black tank top and leggings, not looking like how she used to be on a normal day, always prepared for an event. “Why? I get to be comfortable on my birthday—”
Hana stops her as they are reaching the living room, turning around to release her hair from its confines on a ponytail, tugging her shirt down to show more of her cleavage and using that towel to wipe all the droplets of water from her body. “Because you will want to look good for this visitor.”
She scoffs. “I don’t want to look good for anyone other than myself.”
Hana stops rubbing at her skin then, lifting her hands in surrender before looking at her pointedly. “Okay, look like a mess, but when you do regret looking like one in front of this visitor, I am going to say that I told you so.”
“If that happens, have my heart.” Her hand extends on top of the left portion of her ribcage, moving forward with her slippers sliding against the tiles, resounding obnoxiously as she reaches the main area by the entrance. Spacious enough to be considered a house of its own, but the closer she gets, the more noticeable the person by the door becomes.
She stumbles back slightly, though the smile on her face is more taken aback than angry. Minghao stands there, a bouquet of sunflowers in between his hands and a small black bag holding tightly onto his fingers, turned white under the pressure of his gift. With a deep green turtleneck, a leather jacket and a pair of ripped, oversized, light-washed jeans, he looks more like the birthday person than she does.
“Minghao? What are you doing here?” She asks, once again retreating at the sound of her slippers. Fuck, once they’re wet, they sound like they’re smacking against the floor far more than usual. Still, she keeps walking forward, Minghao giving her a once-over that goes unnoticed, mostly. “Not that you’re not welcome, but you said you had a meeting with your PR team.”
“I did, but now I’m here.” Minghao finalizes, giving the bouquet of sunflowers to her before she looks down at it. One note reads her name, written in his expert handwriting, a brief ‘happy birthday’ wit a heart making her feel more at ease than ever. Who cares if she looks a little bit unprepared? “Happy birthday.” He says, one arm wrapping around her shoulder to rest his cheek against her head. She chuckles at that, enveloping her arm around his taut waist to take the warmth of him, the hug sideways and yet, meaningful.
“Thank you. It hasn’t been exactly the happiest, but it hasn’t been sad either.” She conquers, pulling away from him before pointing to the kitchen. “Want me to serve you some coffee?”
“Do you have tea?”
“I do.”
“Let’s have tea while we wait for the cake I ordered for you.” Minghao replies, going after her towards the kitchen. Though her grin is perceptible, she can’t help but groan.
“Goodbye to my night of sleep with the amount of sugar I’ve eaten today, and it’s not even night.” She says, going over to the shelves to look through her repertoire of tea. “Black?”
“Yep.” He pops the ‘p’, the chair creaking under his weight when he splays his gift on the island, unable to stand straight. “But, before you start, I brought you something—”
She stops then, moving towards him before taking the black bag in between her hands. Gifts are not something she enjoys regularly, much more because she was bathed in them instead of being given sentimentalism, but from Minghao, she finds it hard to deny that she is head over heels with the idea of him giving her something.
“Thank you.” She says, opening the bag as she speaks. “It must be heavy; your fingers are all red.” Though, her words come to a halt when she gets a canvas out of the bag, the plastic falling on the floor when she inspects it in front of her line of vision. Blue merges into a moonlit sky, railings of a balcony crooked yet enigmatic, strokes made from his heart and soul, a pool underneath, the doors open ajar. She knows this place.
Minghao explains it for her when she can’t find words to say, reminiscent of the first time they met. He was, what, eighteen or nineteen then? “That’s the place in which we met,” Minghao whispers, pointing at the canvas. “Well, where you met me. I always saw you around the castle, but you never paid much attention.”
How could she not? She will always blame herself for not getting to know Minghao sooner. Still, she lifts her gaze, unable to voice out what she truly feels. Adoration. “Why didn’t you just try to talk to me?”
He shrugs, pulling the sleeves of his jacket down before taking it off, draping it on the island in the process. “Way back then, I thought you’d never connect with me. We wouldn’t be, well, good friends or anything, in my head.” Minghao tries to come out with proper answers, crossing one leg over the other. “I am glad I woke up that night.”
“Because you met me?”
“That,” Minghao says, resting his hand on his palm, his index and middle finger parting on his cheek. “And that you noticed me.”
“You painted this?” She asks, only to receive a nod from him. Looking at it once again, she can’t believe he remembers the balcony of his cousin’s house that perfectly. He moved away from there years ago, after all. “Minghao, I am the lucky one for getting to know you, not the other way around.”
“Ah, perception. Another thing of life that is relative.”
“…There you go.” She chuckles, knowing fully well that said words belong to Minghao. Always thinking ahead of what is in front of him, so realistic that it almost becomes complex to understand. She puts the canvas down on the island, taking the time to wrap her arms around his shoulders and rest her chin on his shoulder. His hands hesitate to rest on her waist, getting closer and closer until he engulfed her completely. “I’ll put it up in my room. Thank you.”
The tea that brews later will never be as warm as his presence, as his smile, the way he seems to remember things about her that she even forgot telling him. Xu Minghao is not only a realist, but the only reality that she is happy of living.
###
While she had never noticed just how loved Minghao was around not only businesspeople, but with normal individuals as well, it seemed like the world had put him on a pedestal. A deserved one, at that. Earning himself the opportunity of a documentary for his strenuous, gorgeously planned work in the business industry as one of the richest heirs in the entire continent. Not that she was told beforehand, but when Minghao texted her to join him while he recorded around the land, she took her textbook and followed after Minghao’s staff for the rest of the day.
The sun beams down on him, in the middle of the bustling city with the cameraman, Jeon Wonwoo, on one knee as he tries to get a good shot, the rest of the team working with the lights, with the microphone, making sure that everything Minghao wears is still on place. The high-waisted striped pants and the button down a standard for fashion just by looking at it, yet so incredibly creative that she finds her breath stolen the moment she saw him earlier. Never had she been able to look at Minghao this closely, or this sentimentally, when he raises his head and answers one of the questions one of Wonwoo’s team has as he walks, showing the land that had welcomed his business after he moved in here.
Small as a land, but productive for him as a businessman.
This time around, Minghao doesn’t have a camera hanging from his neck and she has long forgotten the textbook that rests in between her arm and her ribcage, walking behind the team to hear Minghao’s answers, must of them have been simplistic enough, something for him to showcase how it was to move in here, how he grew internationally, what he wants for his future and what he imagined in the past. All equaling to something Minghao could respond easily, his own photographer taking pictures of him from afar for the previews of the documentary.
He props his sunglasses down on the bridge of his nose, quirking an eyebrow when Wonwoo, instead of one of his team, is the one to ask him a question: “What is the most important lesson you have learned in your life?”
Minghao giggles a bit to himself, as if a million thoughts crossed his head and he couldn’t pick one. When that smile settles on his face, she details him. Rosy lips and brown eyes that capture her when the apples of his cheeks become prominent and he answers: “Be patient. Work hard for what you want. What is meant to be for you, will come to you even if it’s the last day of your life.”
The way he looks over his shoulder, his eyes twinkling behind those expensive yet flimsy pink sunglasses, tells her a million things and none at all. Not that she minds it, this uncertainty doesn’t dull in insecurity, but rather blinks with curiousness. Her heart, against her ribcage, begs for an answer…but maybe, in another life, she’d let that one voice inside of her speak with confidence. This time around, she knows better than to ponder, than to hang onto that smile that makes her feel a thousand things all at the same time. For once, she doesn’t think Minghao as a friend that she wishes to keep by her side, but she sees him as something else. Attractive, for once, a pull so strong that she finds herself stopping when he looks ahead once again, taking the questions like a champion.
Bullshit.
This is absolute bullshit.
She’s not this kind of fool, but why is it that she now realizes that Minghao has one of the best eyes she has ever seen and that, when with him, this feeling of attraction doesn’t make her feel disgusted? It doesn’t make her feel brittle or insecure, but the experience tells her not to give that step forward.
She doesn’t like Minghao. It can’t be.
She’s not able to like anyone after what happened to her.
Whatever this is, it isn’t what she is thinking. What’s the use of falling if it’s not going to be real? Minghao was just looking over his shoulder, there is no way he would have waited for her—
Love never waits. People never wait. They’d rather have someone than not have anyone at all.
Besides, it’s not like Minghao is not a handsome man. There is no way that his heart kept with only one person for this long.
Yeah, she’s just assuming, and assuming is never good. Minghao has his heart well reserved, given to someone that she doesn’t know, and she can’t feel that way for someone who has treated her so fairly, such like a friend. She doesn’t need another reason for a headache, not when her life is sorted out or halfway there. Love is a waste of time, just a touch of lips, souls and bodies that brings to nothing at all. A game that no one wins.
With that in mind, she keeps walking, listening to Minghao and feeling each portion of her heart ripple with electricity. He’s a charming man, she’s not the only person that sees it, and definitely she isn’t thinking of him in any other way that isn’t as friends.
###
The first test in university is always the worst. Just seeing her classmates’ grades has her throat getting dry, seeing all the people who have failed—and those who have barely passed is just enough of a headache to have her closing the laptop momentarily, only to have the person beside her sighing deeply, taking a seat next to her on her bed to open the laptop again, pressing on the spacebar with rapidness as he wraps one arm around her.
Minghao is not her leverage—she has learned never to lean on someone, but what a blessing it is to feel him next to her when she is at her worst. Woken up at night because of the worries for this one text, he’d always reply to her midnight worries, albeit a bit annoyed at times, but caging it in because it’s her. She’ll never understand how he does it, being this nice and not asking for anything in return.
“Come on, whatever the grade is, it’s not a definition of who you are.” Minghao says, pressing his index finger to her adjacent temple, looking for her name through the masses of people in the picture. “Besides, what you learned will stay here and that’s what will keep on with you. No matter how many people did better or worse than you, you still learned, and that’s the important part.”
She lays her head on his chest, the fabric of his simple shirt rubbing against her cheek when she breathes out through her nose. “Yeah, but I studied so hard.”
“That’s what matters.” Minghao says, leaning his weight forward before pointing towards the laptop screen. “Besides, you’re the best grade in your class.”
The sound of those words shadow everything that has gone wrong in her life, light like him, in the way he says it so plainly but means the world to her. She lifts her gaze then, tears that she planned to drop gone in a second when she takes his face in between her hands, her head still pressed to his chest when she pulls his face down to look straight into his eyes, showing a lot of her teeth in a smile that plasters her happiness into the air. “Minghao, are you kidding me?!”
“I would never.” Minghao smiles back, looking down at her lips before returning his gaze to her eyes, clouds of pink rain scattering across the apples of his cheeks and if she is not mistaken, the lullaby in the ballad of Minghao’s heart turns into an upbeat tune. Something that she would hear in a club or in a party, rushed beyond her understanding, making her raise her eyebrows when she lets go of her face and his face stops flushing.
“Your heart is racing.” She says, awfully aloof in her deliver and Minghao can only let out one of his nervous giggles, nodding in the process.
“I am usually good at controlling my heartbeat.” He confesses, one of his hands resting on her shoulder, rubbing circles there yet not moving her from her spot. “But I am not doing so great today.”
“Why do you have to control your heartbeat?”
“…Well,” Once again, he smiles, this time around pulling himself away from her to take one of the cushions on her bed, playing with the fabric, fisting it in between his hands. “I normally have to do it around you.”
Does Minghao have to control his heartbeat around her? Why would his heart race on the first place?
At the mention of such words, she opts not to take the answer out of him. If Minghao said what was possible that existed between them, she wouldn’t know how to act. Her gut tells her to step forward and place his hand on her chest, show him that it has been weeks since her heart has started to go crazy for him. Instead, she goes for the easier route, the one that isn’t accompanied by heartbreak.
“Either way.” Minghao finishes, pushing his weight off her bed before clapping his hands together. “Now that we know you’re a genius, we should go and grab something to eat, don’t you think?”
Is that something else falling from his eyes? That glint that she has always talked about, always gushed about internally, perhaps it could mean something…just like it could mean nothing at all. Who knows? She doesn’t answer.
“Yeah, let’s go.”
###
Three months pass and her heart doesn’t want to shut up. It dances to its will whenever it sees Minghao, just like it does now that he is seated across from her in the sofa of her new mansion. His hands extend on each side of his body, inspecting the place with certainty, with the eye of a critic because he was the one that helped her the most with the decorations. All props should go to him.
Hana has her own room, locked away and excited to be able to start anew and not have to work for anyone in the process. Not that Mother was too pleased about her decision, but she could not bring herself to care, not when Minghao nods to himself and hums in the process, a big smile taking over his face.
“It’s perfect for you.”
The rows of bookshelves, the vintage atmosphere, the delicacy that meets both feminine tones and real masculine ones, they all come together with pinches of yellow, her favorite color. Minghao doesn’t notice it, the way she isn’t even inspecting the mansion but looking at him instead, taking the seat beside him and placing her arm over his abdomen, taut and contracting thanks to the action.
“And it’s all thanks to you.”
“No, no. I helped you decorate,” Minghao corrects, turning to look at her before sighing. “This was all your doing. You bought the mansion. You planned what you wanted. This is years-worth of dreaming given to you by yourself.”
Always finding the perfect words, Minghao manages to engrave himself inside her head. Not that he has ever left, the cause of her dreaming, also the cause of her absolute denial. It’s in the fact that she fears getting hurt that keeps her away, that ignores the way his eyes trail down to her lips from time to time, how he stops himself each time is beyond her. Maybe, he senses more than what she actually realizes, and it’s at this point that she notices that Minghao won’t ever talk, do anything, even remotely speak about what he may feel about her if she doesn’t get it out of him.
She has known him for years, and never had she felt this…lukewarm. She used to think that love was meant to be feral, rip at her, bite at her heart, make her feel heartbroken but in love at the same time. It’s what she saw, it’s what she believed in. However, with Minghao everything has always been different. She doesn’t hate herself in the process of liking him, neither does she think of herself as less when being around him. All the kisses she has given in the past seem to be forgotten when she tries to think of giving him a kiss.
If she has to die, she wants her last kiss to be with Xu Minghao. Those petal-like lips engulfing hers to give her hope of knowing that whatever life she got to live, she made the best out of it.
Which is why, for the first time, without thinking and with an intake of breath, she whispers out the words that she had not even internalized. Certainty clouds her, it’s so full of confidence even in its mumble, that she finds herself surprised by what she feels, the way her eyes want to concentrate on everything about him.
“I like you, Minghao.”
She is a woman of words. It’s what she has read, what she has expected for her. Big confessions, grand apologies, bunch of excuses and lies, people that kiss up to her even if they don’t mean it. Minghao loves the silence of patience, waits for the right moment to let those words fall down on him like rain, his features softening, the slightest bit of surprise passing his wide eyes before he leans forward, just a breath away from her, but he stops.
He stops because he knows she likes words, and they both compromise silently at that moment.
“I’ve liked you for a long time.” He tells her, lowering his weight slightly until their lips are centimeters away from each other. “Can I kiss you?”
With a nod of her head, she realizes the difference between the kiss of love and the kiss of desire is huge. Not a lot of pressure, he seems to melt against her, softly parting his lips to relish on the sentiment more than the quickness of it all. Minghao splays his hand on her waist, bringing her closer when he uses his other hand to touch her cheek. A rub of his thumb against the skin, and a soft whisper of her name against her lips once the contact is finished.
It doesn’t take a lot of words to know then Xu Minghao loves her, and after all this time, she may say one thing…
She hates a lot of things, but she will never hate him.
#the8 scenarios#minghao scenarios#seventeen scenarios#seventeen#minghao#the8#seventeen au#seventeen fluff#seventeen angst#minghao au#minghao fluff#minghao angst#heir!au#duchess!au#there we go one of my best tries at modern royal!au lol
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School House Blues
Fandom: The Mandalorian
Collection/Series: Western AU- Putting Down Roots
Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Identifying Reader
Writer: @writings-of-a-hufflepuff aka @hufflepuffing-all-day-long
Warnings: N/A
Request from Anon: Hey so I saw your post that said requests for certain characters were open and I was wondering if I could ask for a din djarin x plus size reader with this prompt please? : (19th c) I’m the town’s school teacher and you’re the gruff wanderer/traveller/cowboy/outlaw/etc. That’s come to town. You help me fix the school house and wrangle the little demons I teach. I was thinking the kid could be one of her students! Thank you so much in advance ♥️♥️
Summary: When the bounty hunter strolls into your little mining town you don’t think much of it, but with a little boy in his wake and your school house in disrepair, he becomes more than just a passing visit, but a welcome constant.
Notes: You know me too well, Western AU/historic AU Din is so good as a concept and ughhhhhh this was so wonderful to have requested and I hope desperately that it’s good!
Reader isn’t really specified as plus size just because it didn’t really come up in the story? Although she is described as being quite soft and sweet in appearance.
Archiveofourown
He comes into town with one hand clenched around his horse’s reins, guiding the bay and white creature with a bounty hogtied swearing and cursing over its rump, and the other hand holding a little boy of no older than six at his hip. It’s quite the sight, one that momentarily distracts you from your grief at the fact you’re teaching your children out of a saloon now since your schoolhouse was burnt to the ground.
He’s imposing or he would be if the little boy wasn’t smiling up at him with big brown eyes. It’s hard to be imposing when you’re clearly the world of a small child and it makes you smile from the porch of the saloon. You’d been organising the boxes of donations the townsfolk had put together, since all your books, slates, chalk, paper, pencils, and the like had burnt in the fire, when he strolls past. He glances over at you and tips his head, hat dipping over his chestnut eyes and it flusters you for a second when you finally see his face.
He’s handsome, incredibly so, too handsome to be in your small mining town you think. Deep brown eyes, a prominent nose and plump lips set in a perpetual pout. His jaw is sharp and his beard and moustache are trimmed neatly, despite the bruising on his face and the layer of dirt from the road he’s truly beautiful, a thought that flusters you further. The small boy sat comfortably at his hip and playing with the fabric of his suspenders is adorable, soft round cheeks and large brown eyes, but he doesn’t look much like the man and you’re curious what the story is there.
The boy is old enough to be in school with you, to sit and learn his letters and to read while the older kids move on to learning about science, history, mathematics and poetry. There are a couple of children his age in your class, Timmy and Mary-Beth, both just getting the hang of gripping a pencil correctly. You wonder if he won’t be joining your class soon or if he and his guardian will be out of town before you can even consider preparing for a new student.
You watch the man hitch the horse outside the Sheriff’s office, the one that’s not got a sheriff at the moment. You hope he’s not looking for quick pay, the lawman that resided in the Sheriff’s office at the moment was just there until they could find a new sheriff. He’d have to telegram out to get the bounty money. Your last sheriff had up and left after being shot at by a couple of drunk miners, he’d decided that was enough and quite the same day. The town had been a little more unruly since and it was beginning to make you and some of the other townsfolk uneasy without someone to keep the peace. The temporary lawman had been lazy and uninvolved thus far. It was after the sheriff quit that your schoolhouse burnt down and you weren’t sure it was coincidence.
You watch the man place the boy on his feet and say something quietly to him before brushing his hair fondly. He grabs the bounty off of the horse, and slings the man over his shoulder. It’s impressive that he doesn’t struggle up the steps to the office even with a fully grown man thrown over his shoulder, the little boy follows after him as he goes inside.
You return to your organisation. There aren’t that many books, not like you used to have. But, while you wait for some of your teaching associates across the country to send you items, they will do. There’s enough paper and some slates for all your students to practice their writing and get their work written down which is a relief and even a globe that the general store owner, Mr Hewitt, had found in a back cupboard for you to have.
You’re trying to lift one of the boxes of books when he comes back out again, the little boy still trailing behind him, but this time something shiny is pinned to the man’s blue shirt. You don’t think too much about it as you struggle to lift the box, your heavy skirts not helping you move much, hindering your progress and causing you to trip each step forward you take.
You hear his boots on the wooden stairs before you see him, he towers over you, as he takes his hat off, more polite than most men in town. You get a better look at the shiny thing pinned to his shirt and realise it’s a sheriff’s badge. The same one the old sheriff used to wear, you look from it to him and then down when you hear a little giggle. The little boy is still following after him, a sweet smile turned on you this time as he leans around the man’s legs to watch you.
“Miss, I can take that.” He gestures to the box in your hand, it’s not a question, and it’s straight and to the point. But, you’re grateful for the offer and hand it off to him without complaint. He’s stronger than you, that’s clear to see, his arms thick from years of hard work.
“Thank you…” You wait for him to tell you his name, trailing off as you lead him into the saloon that has been set out for the school day. There is a black board at the front, tables and chairs littered around the room, the liquor shelves have been emptied for books to replace them.
The fact that Mr Karga had offered the saloon for the school was a miracle and while many in town grumbled about their favourite place of vice no longer admitting them during the day time, most were supportive of the decision to help the kids continue their school. Nevarro wasn’t a large town and mining was its main source of income, but the children deserved a chance to do more than just become miners and the school helped them do that. You helped them get into colleges on scholarships, to find jobs as clerks and apprentices in other parts of the country.
“Din Djarin.” It’s a nice name, rolls of his tongue like honey. He doesn’t smile, not really, not properly, but there’s a little crinkle at the corners of his eyes that soften his face and make him seem warmer somehow.
“And this little one?” You smile at the little boy as he begins to bravely step out from behind his guardian to greet you with a smile. He is a quiet boy, not the usual talkative sort you find with a six year old, but who knows what he’s been through even at this young age.
“Grogu, he’s my…” He furrows his brow, clearly thinking hard on the right word. That alone tells you he is not his son by blood, a small fact that makes him even more interesting. Not many bounty hunters would take in a small child. “Son.” he finally says. Deciding it is the best term. Grogu isn’t his by blood, Din knows this, but the little boy he’d found all alone surrounded by death, was slowly becoming like a son to him. Aliit ori'shya tal'din. Family is more than blood.
“Will he be joining my class? I run the school, currently we’re based here...in the saloon. Not my ideal place to teach but needs must.” You gesture around you to the makeshift classroom. You don’t like that the place still stinks of liquor or that at night it goes back to being a saloon where people drink, gamble, and fight. But, you don’t have a better place right now and the children need somewhere to learn. You can teach in any building, even if you dislike this one.
You fit the image of a school teacher he thinks. You look like a respectable young woman, dressed appropriately, all neat and proper. Your hair pulled up and pinned away like it’s supposed to be. Everything about you is proper. Part of him wants to see you become ruffled, stop being so demure. It’s a thought that makes him frown at himself, the thoughts inappropriate especially towards a lady like yourself.
“Yes. We’ll be staying for awhile. What happened to the school house, Miss…?” He took on the job as sheriff the moment the lawman offered it, the pay was good, gave him his own accommodation and it meant he could settle down for a bit, give the kid an actual childhood. Bounty hunting was something he was good at but it wasn’t exactly safe to do with a six year old in tow. At least this job used his skills catching lawbreakers and put them to use in a place the kid could grow up. It helps that the teacher of the town is pretty too, he thinks.
You give him your name before answering his question, “Well, after the last sheriff quit, the schoolhouse burnt down and along with all the things we had in it. Luckily it was at night and none of us were in the building. Burnt right down to the ground, nothing left…” You say it with a heavy sigh, thinking of that sweet little schoolhouse. The white painted wood, the familiar rows of desks with names carved in them, your favourite collection of university level texts at the back for the older and more advanced kids to explore. You had been teaching in that schoolhouse for the last five years and in a way it had become a second home for you, if you weren’t at your own little home, then you were in the schoolhouse marking work or planning lessons for the coming days.
“Anyone know what caused it?”
“No. We didn’t exactly have the mind to investigate and if it wasn’t an accident it was probably just some drunk who didn’t know any better. But, we make do and Grogu,” You crouch down next to the small child, moving your skirts to do so comfortably, “will fit right in, I think, don’t you?” The little boy smiles at you and giggles, before hiding behind his father’s leg again.
“Have any plans been made to rebuild the schoolhouse?” Sheriff Djarin it seems is very straight and to the point, his tone isn’t unkind or aggressive, but his words are clipped, short, brusque as if he’s not quite used to being more flowery or saying much. You supposed a bounty hunter didn’t typically need to say much, but you hope he’ll become more comfortable with talking, at least to you, as time goes on.
“No...i’ve been trying to put some pressure on the mayor to get it done but...he just doesn’t seem to care all that much now there’s a temporary solution.” You say as you begin unpacking the box that he brought inside, exercise books are brought out and sorted into piles, ready for the children to write their names on the covers and start afresh.
He frowns, brow furrowing deep, lips turned down at the thought of the schoolhouse just never being rebuilt. It’s clear to him that saloon isn’t the place for a school and it’s even clearer that you are distressed with your new working arrangement, that you miss having a building that is entirely your own and entirely dedicated to teaching young minds.
“I’ll sort something out. Is class starting soon?”
“Yes, not...not long now.” You double check the clock realising the kids will begin arriving in less than an hour and you feel wholly unprepared for the first day of school since the schoolhouse burnt down.
You watch him crouch in front of Grogu, hand ruffling his hair fondly, “You’re going to stay here today, get some learnin’ in ya. I’ve got things to do, but I'll be back later, promise.” You’re surprised and warmed when he puts out his pinky finger for the kid to grab, a little promise that seems to you like something more. You wonder if the boy was scared of being left again, if this was Din’s way of reassuring his new son that he wasn’t going to leave him. The little boy wraps his whole hand around Din’s pinkie not quite understanding how the promises work yet.
“Have a good day of teaching, Miss Y/N.” He nods his head at you, grabbing his hat as he walks out the saloon with a purpose. The hat is placed on his head the moment he’s out of the doors and it’s that little element of politeness that surprises you. He carries himself like a gentleman but looks like any other rough and tumble man wandering the west. But it’s his treatment of Grogu that confirms the sort of man that he is.
I’ll sort something out. You smiled to yourself realising that perhaps the new sheriff would be the best thing to happen to this town in a while. Someone who actually got things done for once.
“Do you want to find your seat? Maybe do some drawing before class starts, Grogu?” You ask the little boy smiling at him as he nervously shifts from foot to foot, looking back out the doors as if hoping his father would walk back in. It’s clear he hasn’t had to do this before, be separated from him and left with a stranger, but you put on your softest smile and gentlest voice and wait patiently for him to nod his head before offering him your hand.
He takes your hand and you help him get settled into his seat, you decide to put him near the front so you can help him easily and get him settled near you. He only knows you after all, and you think being around all the kids and far away from familiarity might be too much. You give him some paper, scrap bits that you don’t need anymore and a pencil leaving him to draw while you get ready for class.
---------------------
The school day goes...well, it’s hectic and your hair is frizzy and falling out of the updo you styled it in that morning by the end. The children are unsettled in this new environment, the older kids, those nearing adulthood frustrated by the younger kids who can’t seem to focus or be quiet. Your brain feels too large for your skull and you sigh out a goodbye to your students as they leave out the saloon doors, one or two shoving through the swinging shutters much faster than needed.
Grogu is the quietest of your students, sweet and attentive, he doesn’t speak a word, but follows your instructions well. He is behind on his writing letters and reading, that much you know from working with him, but he’s a quick learner and applies himself with a determination you rarely see. He doesn’t always play well with others. At lunch time you’d noticed him stealing food from the other children. It continued despite giving him your own lunch knowing his father hadn’t had time to prepare him something after coming straight into town and getting to work. He doesn’t share well either, but seemed to understand when you sat him down and talked to him about it. You suppose that being away from other children and only travelling with your father figure who would share his food with you without a thought, it must be confusing. The manners that he now has to observe, the rules of society that he’s never had to worry about until now. He looks suitably admonished despite the gentle way you chose to talk about it with him, that alone makes you think he’ll likely stop stealing the children’s cookies and be more willing to share.
“David, careful!” You call out when one of your older students nearly gets trampled underneath the sheriff’s horses’ hooves as he runs across the thoroughfare without looking.
“Sorry, miss!” David calls back over his shoulder, still storming ahead your warning lost on him.
You sigh heavily and rub at your temples, stress enveloping you. A tug, swift and sharp on your skirt has you looking down. Grogu has a hand fisted in the fabric, pulling to get your attention. Once he has it, his arms open, hands up towards you, opening and closing, a universal gesture to be lifted.
It surprises you, he is...quiet and reserved. You expected time to be needed before he was comfortable with you in any respect, especially after having to tell the boy off. Instead, he lets you lift him to your hip, hands reaching for strands of your hair and twisting them, surprisingly gently between his chubby little fingers.
You watch your students run in different directions through town, their books and lunch pails in tow. Some stop on the open green, playing games together before their parents demand them back home for dinner. The warm little body in your arms is a soothing presence and the boy almost looks like he wants to say something, but just makes a soft cooing sound instead.
“Not much of a talker are you, little one?” He almost shrugs his little shoulders before looking up at the sound of heavy footsteps and clinking spurs. The sheriff leads his horse up to you, eyes following David with a shake of his head. Clearly, just as bemused as you at his lack of common sense.
Grogu smiles and giggles happily at the sight of his father, arms reaching out for him. You pass him over to Din, trying to ignore how close you get to the man to do it. He radiates warmth and smells woodsy mixed with some sort of soap he must use. This close you can see little birthmarks dotted across his neck.
You step back once the boy is settled in his arms and smile, soft but tired. “Sheriff, how was your first day on the job?”
He gives you a humoured smirk, one you’re not expecting, it takes you aback slightly. He looks...charming, approachable. Little dimples at his cheeks that soften his features in a way that makes you want to step closer. With a huff, not quite a laugh, he says, “Eventful.”
“That makes two of us, sheriff.” He notices the tired creases beneath your eyes, the once unrumpled appearance now dishevelled, hair coming out of its updo and blouse and skirt wrinkled and creased. You look like you’d had a rough day and he hopes Grogu wasn’t part of the cause. He still hadn’t figured out how to discipline the kid, he always turned those big brown eyes on him and he just couldn’t tell him no.
“Din. Call me Din.”
“Then you should call me Y/N.” There’s a moment of silence. You stare at him, at the way his hat casts shadows over his face, at the gentle hold he has on Grogu, the open top buttons of his work shirt and the dig of suspenders into his shoulders. He stares back at you. The gentle softness of your cheek, the marks that make your skin your skin and not someone else's.
“We’re going to start building the schoolhouse as soon as the wood shipment gets here, I sent a telegram off today to get some good lumber in.” It surprises you in the most delightful way. When you said the mayor had been dragging his heels you meant it, but you hadn’t expected this new face to come in and make a start on what the mayor had been reluctant to do.
“We’re?”
“I’ve convinced some of the men around town to pitch in and I know a thing or two about building.” In truth he’d intimidated more than persuaded. Most of the men were lazy, and had more concern for their own vices than for helping out. But, a mixture of convincing them they’d get their saloon back and reminding them that he was now the town’s sheriff seemed to get a few of the stronger and more skilled townsfolk to agree to help.
“You’re the sheriff. You shouldn’t be building the schoolhouse, Din. You’ve got more important things to do.” You feel bad that he’s doing this, being quite so involved, when he’s starting a new job, one that takes up most of his time. Being a sheriff is a full time job, almost 24 hours a day 7 days a week. He has people to keep in line, criminals to catch, laws to enforce, and building a schoolhouse wasn’t on his list of priorities. It’s sweet and makes your heart ache oddly, but you feel guilty for adding another thing to his plate.
“This is important, Miss...Y/N. The kid can’t learn in a saloon forever and you can’t work here forever neither.” He can see how desperately you want your schoolhouse back and something in him wants to provide that for you, to care for you. He tells himself it’s also for the kid, that his son deserves a proper schoolhouse to learn in. That all foundlings, all little children deserved a place to learn, like he had growing up in the covert.
“At least...at least let me and the children bring food and water down once you get started. I...you’ve not even been here a whole day and you’re already doing more than anyone else ever has...Thank you, Din.”
“It’s my pleasure, meg ba'jurir” You do not understand what he calls you, but you recognise that cadence, the rhythm of the language. Can almost see the symbolic nature of the alphabet. It surprises you that he knows what you’re sure is Mando’a, having only heard one other person in your life ever speak it. Mandalorian family groups were uncommon, but where they were they seemed to keep people in order, to value community. It made sense that he would take on the job of sheriff, adopt a child not of his own blood, if that were the case.
You bite your tongue and don’t ask, you don’t know him and it is too personal to ask about his upbringing, culture or heritage. Perhaps, after you know him better you can ask, but you can almost hear your headmistress at school reminding you about manners and decorum even in a little mining town.
“He didn’t...he didn’t cause any trouble today did he? He’s not used to being around others or...we’ve been on the road for a long time now.” He looks down at the little boy sitting at his hip, who’s playing with the metal star on his shirt. He knew that Grogu could be difficult, sweet, adorable, hard to say no to, but undisciplined and not used to the rules that people usually abided by.
“I...I did have to have a word with him today…” You can already tell Din’s disappointed. He clearly loves the boy, but part of loving a child is wanting better for them and getting in trouble isn’t part of that.
Din sighs heavily before catching the boy’s eye, “Ad’ika…”The boy clearly knows what’s going on and hides his face in his father’s shirt, suitably embarrassed about his behaviour. You think that’s enough to probably deter him from stealing from other kids in the future. You also think you might bake him some treats and use them as an incentive to work hard. You suspect bribery would work well with Grogu.
“He paid attention beautifully and he’s already doing so well with learning his letters, but he’s...he’s quite…” You try to think of the best way to say that the boy just can’t resist taking other children’s food.
“You don’t have to spare my feelings, Y/N. You can tell me.” You look Din in the eyes, deep brown meeting your own and sigh out before speaking.
“He likes to steal the other children’s food. I gave him my lunch and he still tried to steal Charlie’s cookies and Mary Beth’s macarons. I know he’s probably used to food being a thing he can just have since you’ve been travelling as a family unit…”
“Osik... I forgot to give him lunch. I am a terrible father…” Din looks at his feet, free hand rubbing over the scruff on his jaw. You feel the instant need to reassure him.
“You’re not a terrible father. You just came into town this morning, immediately took on a job, and instantly went to work. You’re not a terrible father.” You hesitate, but reach forward anyway, a hand on his arm giving a quick reassuring squeeze.
“Vor entye, Y/N. Thank you. Have you eaten?”
“Oh…” You hadn’t really thought about it, that you’d given your food to Grogu to stop him going hungry and that you’d spent all day teaching with little more than the porridge you’d made yourself that morning to keep you going.
“Don’t even think about lying to the sheriff.” You did in fact consider lying to him, but the look he gave you reminded you of an overbearing mother hen who wouldn’t let you get away with it. Combined with the fact he was indeed the new sheriff, you felt it best to stick to the truth for now.
“No...I haven’t.” You admit, feeling suitably admonished by him and a little guilty for even considering lying about.
Din adjusts Grogu on his hip and nods his head behind him towards the street, “Come, I’ll buy you dinner at the café.”
“You don’t have to, Din. I can make dinner at home.” You think back to the soup you were going to make that night, and even though you haven’t the energy in truth to make dinner, you can’t ask him to buy you it. It is too much and unnecessary. Any good teacher would have made sure their students were fed.
“You kept my ad fed in place of yourself. I’m buying you dinner.” His voice left no room for argument and so you found yourself following after him across the street towards Reeva’s Café.
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Din’s presence in town becomes apparent very quickly. He does not allow the men to wander drunk through the streets, start fights, or harass women. He does not suffer law breakers or those who cause the peace to break. He is swift, effective, and there isn’t a member of town who doesn’t respect his authority even if some don’t particularly like having to listen to him.
For you it is a refreshing change. You don’t worry about the children wandering around town in the evenings or about walking out of your home at night. You don’t worry about your meager belongings being stolen or a fight breaking out in the saloon on an evening and ruining the few bits you have for the school.
He is quiet and polite, not much of a talker, but everything he does shows a man of honour and good morals. He is sweet with the children as well.
It had become common place for him, while waiting for the lumber to begin the schoolhouse, to come into the saloon while you were teaching. He said it was because the day time left little for him to do as sheriff, but you think he just enjoys helping with the children. They make him smile. A real smile.
Sometimes he just sits with his son on his lap and helps him with his letters, other times he wanders between tables helping those who need it or using his presence to quiet the children after an exciting lunch break. Reminding them to respect you, their teacher, and listen.
Your favourite, and the childrens’ favourite times were when he’d sit down and tell them stories of his travels. For a man who didn’t speak much, Din Djarin was a natural born storyteller.
That’s how you found yourself taking a step back, sitting on one of the saloon bar stools off to the side as Din took your place at the front of the class. He had an ability with the little ones that amazed you, none were ever scared of him despite his height, posturing or the guns holstered at his side and slung over his back. He always managed to make them smile and laugh, always got their curiosity going and inspired them equally. He made it a point whenever he talked to your class to share stories of both men and women he’d met who’d done amazing things, you could tell he was trying to get the girls in your class to see they could be more than housewives or washerwomen and you appreciated it.
“So there I am standing toe to toe with the biggest grizzly you’ve ever seen…” He gestures with his hands, standing at the front, arms out front to show just how large this grizzly bear was. His voice took on a different, more dramatic quality then normal. Grogu clapped his hands from his seat on your lap, the little boy having grown increasingly comfortable around you.
“Now this grizzly has to be 8ft standin’, and he’s the angriest bear you’ve ever seen and i’m sure that’s the end of me. I’m about to become a grizzly bear’s dinner, Sheriff Djarin stew!” You laugh along with the kids at the prospect of Din becoming stew for a grizzly bear, you’re never sure how much is fiction or truth in his stories, although part of you wouldn’t be surprised if they were all completely true. He was...he always seemed larger than life despite being so quiet. Like some sort of figure out of a western story.
“When out of nowhere, charging between me and this mean grizzly, comes the largest bull moose I've ever seen…”
“What’d you do?” Mary Beth pipes up, big blue eyes open wide.
“Well, I got the he-” He stops himself looking at you, you raise an eyebrow reminding him that cussing around the children would not do well for him, “-out of there as quickly as I could! One thing you should never do is stay around to fight a grizzly, never ends well to go toe to toe with one. That moose was being kind and giving me a chance to get away.” It amuses you that he always manages to twist a moral into the story. This time about kindness and helping those weaker than yourself, along with a healthy dose of not getting into situations with angry grizzly bears of course.
“Well, I think it’s time I let Miss Y/N, get on with her mathematics lesson.” Groans and grumbling rises up from your students as you place Grogu in his seat and begin making your way to the front. You watch Din frown at them, hands on his belt, leaning into one hip more than the other. He is the perfect picture of a disappointed father. Lips twisting downwards, pulling on his moustache.
“Hey, now! Miss Y/N always makes your lessons fun so don’t you start giving her trouble or else i’ll have to stop coming in for story time.” It’s a threat that promptly has them settling quietly in their chairs and getting their books and pencils out.
You rest a gentle hand on his arm when you reach him, quietly telling him thank you. It’s heavy with meaning. Thank you for being there for the children. Thank you for providing them with stories. Thank you for always settling them and reminding them to respect me. Thank you for thinking about the schoolhouse. Thank you for settling the town and keeping the peace.
He just nods at you with the smallest hint of a smile, enough to make you feel the tiniest bit flustered as you watch him walk to the chair where he’d left his hat, holsters, and lasso.
“Say goodbye to the sheriff, children.” You tell them as all of you watch him make his way to the doors. He stops before them and tips his hat at you all with a smile, but the moment he’s out the doors it drops and in his place is the hard sheriff who won’t stand for trouble.
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Once the lumber comes in and the plans have been drawn up and approved by yourself, at Din’s insistence, the work begins. The schoolhouse design had been run past you because Din didn’t want to miss anything that was needed or that would help you teach. He had told you not to worry about size, scale or cost, that the community was pitching in and that the mayor had found a fund tucked away somewhere for the school. The fund miraculously appeared after Din had a long meaningful chat with him.
He wouldn’t tell you that he’d made threats against the mayor about digging up some of his dirty laundry, but he had. The mayor had a lot of skeletons in his closet and also a nice stack of credits he was sitting on in his own personal mayoral vault. The fact that the mayor had been so reluctant to rebuild the schoolhouse when he easily could have almost made Din see red, but he didn’t think it would look good if he beat the man to the curb as sheriff. He was supposed to be upstanding and law abiding, if he wasn’t why would any of the townsfolk be?
A few days into the project you decided it was time you made good on your promise to come to the site during lunch time with the children to bring water and some food. You and the children collect pails of water and the baked goods you’d made the night before, trudging through the streets. You held Grogu on one hip, the small child the slowest of his classmates, and carried a heavy pail of water in the other, so heavy your shoulder slumped down on that side to accommodate the weight.
The children were happy to help, after all, many of their fathers and older brothers were working on the school site and it was a chance in the school day to see people they cared about. You were also sure they wanted to ask the sheriff a multitude of questions and beg for a story, but you’d reminded them that they weren’t there to get in the way or interrupt the work, just to offer food and water.
You’d reluctantly admitted to Reeva that you found the sheriff attractive, after the older woman badgered you day in and day out about the time you spent with him. You could admit he was handsome. His eyes were deep brown and spoke more words then he often did. He had both a look that could intimidate and also soften into something warm and safe. The beard and moustache he sported made him look ruggedly handsome and his shoulders were broad and wide. He looked like he’d stepped out of a story book or from an illustrated newspaper short story. Rugged but clean, dangerous but kind.
You had to admit though that this was your favourite look on him. As you came upon the building site he was busy sawing a plank of pine in two. His shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow exposing his strong forearms and thick wrists. His suspenders had been flung off his shoulders, resting at sides no longer covering the strong back that was tensed as he worked. The top few buttons of his shirt had come undone, almost indecently so to show a pronounced collar bone, strong neck, and dark chest hair and the brown hair on his head had begun to curl from the sweat he was working up. It shouldn’t have been attractive. He should have looked like any other man working up a sweat, you shouldn’t have wanted to wipe his brow and brush your fingers through the curls of his hair. But you did.
Taking a deep breath to compose yourself you look down at the little boy at your hip, “Should we go say hello to your father?”
“Papa!” He clapped his hands at you in confirmation. You’d slowly learnt that papa was one of the only words he said, you weren’t sure if he chose not to speak or simply couldn’t. But, given his increasing aptitude with writing his letters, you thought it likely that he simply chose not to speak.
The call instantly has Din’s head popping up from his work like a startled deer and you watch as his eyes roam across the children until he catches sight of his son at your hip. The smile that lights his face is so bright that it’s almost blinding, there is a longing you feel whenever you see his happiness to see Grogu. Some deep part of you that desires that sort of family bond. He loves his son so deeply, it doesn’t matter to him that their blood isn’t the same and part of you wants desperately to be part of that love and happiness.
“Children, hand out the food and water, will you? But be careful!” You remind them as they run towards familiar faces, it is still a building site after all, and the last thing you need is a child getting hurt in any way.
Din finishes sawing the plank before striding over to you, hand pulling a rag from his back pocket to wipe the sweat from his brow. You look...radiant. The summer sun shining over you, causing your skin to glow, your hair to shine. Your smile is as soft as your eyes and you're gentle in the way you hold his son to your hip, like he belonged there. Like the two of you belonged together. Din can admit that he enjoys your company more than he probably should, he can even admit that a part of him deeply desires you, wants you to join his family unit, become part of his aliit. You’re tender and kind to all the children you teach, your children as you often call them, and you’re incredibly kind to Grogu who you treat with more understanding than most school teachers ever would. You keep order in your classroom through kindness and mutual respect, not through fear or punishment. The maternal shine to you draws him to you in a way that, had he not been Mandalorian, he might be ashamed of. But, family is everything to him, Grogu is everything to him and if he is to put down roots here, he can’t help but consider putting down roots with you.
It’s a silly thought though, you’ve not known each other long and he isn’t well to do or gentlemanly. You’re far better educated than him, kinder than him, and it is a pipe dream that he doubts will ever come to fruition. It doesn’t help that he struggles at times to even talk to you, let alone make his feelings known.
“Miss me, Ad’ika?” He calls to the little boy, carefully pulling him from your arms when you offer him. If you allow yourself to, you can almost imagine he’s taking your own child from you, that the two of you have formed some sort of family. But, you are just his son’s teacher and he is just the sheriff of your small town.
The boy babbles at him, not real words, nonsense, or attempts at words that don’t translate, but you can see that improving. Can almost imagine what settling down here can do for the boy, give him a chance to learn, grow, make friends, and find some stability and safety.
“He’s been itching to come over all day, they all have. I was struggling to get them to focus on their history lesson.” You had 15 children all desperate to get out of the saloon and visit their fathers for lunch. It had been a...very difficult lesson to say the least and you still felt a little frazzled.
“History?” The boy tugs at his father’s hair and you watch him wince as he speaks, pulling little chubby hands from brown curls.
“The fall of the empire and the rise of the republic. Not the most riveting subject for them I'm sure, they much prefer when I tell them about different societies rather than politics.” You want to say like Mandalore and the Mandalorians because you want to draw him in, desperate to have more of his time even when he’s already doing so much for you. You enjoy the odd hour here and there when he takes over your class and becomes the teacher, where you can just sit and listen, learn yourself.
“Mandalorians believe that our history is our future. We learn it as soon as we can walk.”
“So it is Mando’a you’ve been speaking?” It warms you to see him open up to you like this. He is a private man, quiet, and insular. While he can yell with the best, and demand attention, can intimidate and even persuade, it’s all part of his job. The face he puts on as sheriff. He is quiet about himself, sharing little and not so often. You revel in the trust placed in you wherever he tells you a little something more about himself.
“You noticed?” Most people don’t even know Mando’a exists, let alone recognise that the words he slips into his speech are such. He finds they slip out more around you, than with others. He’s comfortable with, he is happy to share himself, his culture with you and it...it is a startling discovery about himself. He has been insular and closed off for longer than he would like to admit.
“I can’t speak it and I..I don’t know it well, but, I recognise the cadence. I grew up in Naboo and there was a Mandalorian there, she used to speak it when I would sit and practice my letters with her.” Atin’a Caivass was a kind woman to you even if she could be hard. She had been one of your teachers, always pushing you harder, to do better. Yet, it had never felt frustrating or like a chore, the Mandalorian had always made it a desire to impress her, but also to prove to yourself that you could. She had always been kind to you and the other children, gentle but firm, like you were one of her own. You saw similarities with how Din treated the children. He was kind and gentle, but never overlooked an opportunity to firmly correct their behaviour or mistakes. A perfect balance. Not too soft and not too harsh.
“You never learnt?”
“She was very protective of it and I...I was always too afraid to ask.” You confess. You had always been fascinated with it, like any young child when faced with a new language, but you had always believed it something sacred, and had worried that you would offend her if you asked to learn. “Ad’ika? What does it mean?”
He can’t help but laugh at your pronunciation and sounds it out for you, “Ah-Dee-Kah, it means little one.”
“Ah-dee-kuh?” You are even more beautiful, he thinks when you butcher his language, trying so hard to get it right that your eyebrows scrunch together and your eyes crinkle at the corners.
“Ah-Dee-Kah” The little one squirms in his arms and he places him on the ground, only to watch him plunk himself on his bottom and play with the dirt. He had always had a fascination with dirt and rocks, more so than any of the toys he had actually brought or made him.
“Ah-Dee-Kah”
“Perfect.” You smile blindingly at his praise and he wonders if he can forgo his job as sheriff and simply teach you Mando’a every minute of every day. “You can always ask. If you want to learn. It’s nice to hear it from another person’s lips, not just mine.”
“I would like that very much...maybe when you’re less busy? You’re rather booked up at the moment, what with being sheriff, storytime for the children, and building a schoolhouse. You’re a busy man, Din Djarin.”
“I like to keep my hands busy.” You look down at your feet before looking back up at him, unsure how to respond to what you were sure was meant as a perfectly innocent comment. Din almost swears, osik, once he realises how that sounds, lifting hand to the back of his neck to rub it.
The silence that you fall into isn’t uncomfortable necessarily, but feels almost solid, like a physical thing and not just the quiet that comes with two people not talking for a moment. There’s a tension there that is not wholly unpleasant but hard to describe or pin down.
Seeming to remember the pail of water you’re carrying you place it in front of him, “Water, so you can clean off or if you’re thirsty. There’s some pastries somewhere as well, to keep you all fed...Can’t have you keeling over on us or else we’d never get our schoolhouse.”
You take a step back and cast your gaze around, making note of where each of your 15 kids are. You’re caught watching Jerome splash water on Annie, about to go and tell him off when you hear splashing much closer to you.
You thought he couldn’t excite you more than he already had. Thought that Din Djarin couldn’t possibly tempt you more, cause your well-mannered sensibilities to crumble further. You were utterly, terribly, ridiculously wrong.
There’s something to be said about the man pouring half a pail of water over his head to rub away the sweat and dirt from a hard day working in the summer sun. He flicks his head back, long neck outstretched as water droplets fall like mirror glass over his tanned skin. His hair sticks to his skin, kissing it in a way you realise you desperately want to and his shirt clings to broad shoulders with the familiarity of a lover.
You spin back around away from him flustered, determined not to look as you march towards Jerome. You decide in that moment that perhaps it’s best not to bring pails of water at lunch time. You might just not survive to see the school built.
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For the next two months your routine features lunch time trips with the children to bring water and sometimes food to the men building the schoolhouse, and the odd afternoon story time hour when Din feels confident enough to leave the others to continue working without his guidance. Each day the schoolhouse comes together more and more and each day you fall a little bit more in...in whatever these feelings for the sheriff were.
You also have the startling realisation that Grogu has wormed his little way into your heart in a way that none of your other students have. You have a soft spot for the little boy, especially as he becomes more vocal, begins to say more little words, including the delightful name ‘Miss Y/N’.
Din is a temptation in himself, each time he teaches you another word or phrase in Mando’a and his lips wrap around syllables or every time he works hard to build the schoolhouse muscles pulling taut underneath the weight of wood. He tempts you in a way that no one ever has and you can’t quite explain what it is about this man that makes you desire to be in his presence, to kiss him, to hold him, to be close to him both physically and emotionally. You want to know everything about him, to understand him better than you understand yourself.
In some ways it is a relief when the schoolhouse is finished and in other ways it feels like a loss. Part of your routine, part of the day where you always see Din was no longer needed or necessary.
When you bring the children over at lunch time, it’s to show them the finished building, the one they’ll be in come Monday morning once you have the time to move all the books and other odds and ends into it. They’re all excited as are you, to see it...it strikes you in the heart so badly that you can’t move your feet, can only stare at the building with tears in your eyes.
It’s beautiful. Not large, but larger than the old one. Freshly painted white, with a school bell hanging out front. It strikes you that this isn’t just a schoolhouse, but it’s your schoolhouse. Din had been adamant about building it for you.
“Children, why don’t you go inside and take a look? You’ll be here on Monday!” You wave them all off as they run ahead and up the wooden steps, throwing the door open none too gently. “Careful! We only just got it!” You call out and receive a series of sorries back.
“Shall we go find your buir?” You look down at Grogu, who’s hand is holding the heavy fabric of your skirt. He smiles up at you and nods his head with a quick little ‘papa’ that has your heart warming.
You hear him before you see him, “Now don’t go breaking the tables when we’ve only just put them together, girls!” Already laying down the law to 3 of your children as you enter the schoolhouse. They had seemingly been swinging on tables in a most ill-mannered fashion that has you putting on your teacher-face and raising an eyebrow at them from behind Din. They promptly stop and return their feet to the floor with an abashed look.
“Sorry, Sheriff. Sorry Miss.” They call to you both before scurrying away in hopes of avoiding punishment, leaving you, Din and Grogu alone in the main room for the building. You let it go. It isn’t an issue, they need to learn to respect things, and not damage them, but that does not have to come at the cost of punishment when a quick look and a reminder does enough.
Din spins at them calling out to you, faster than he seems to have expected, looking decidedly dizzy for a second before the mask of sheriff falls right back into place.
“Y/N, how do you like it?” He opens his arms wide and gestures to the main room of the schoolhouse. A large blackboard already nailed to the wall at the back, rows of tables and chairs set up so every child could see you. A desk at the front for your things. It is sweet and fits your needs infinitely better than a saloon ever would. You even note the bookcases along the walls, enough space to place many of your books for the children to have easy access for when they wish to learn something more than you could teach them.
“It’s...it’s wonderful, Din. It’s beautiful. I...I can’t thank you enough...I...I’m a little lost for words.” You can feel the happy tears starting to pool in your eyes again, the gratitude making you a little bit emotional. “I don’t think I can ever repay you for this.”
“You...you don’t need to repay me, Mesh’la. This...you and the children deserve a school, a place to teach and learn. You don’t have to thank me or repay me for doing what the damn mayor should have done in the first place.”
You nearly don’t do it. Nearly let that fear that wells up inside you and the proper manners, the belief that you were about to be far too forward than was ladylike, stop you. But, you think back to his kindness, his gentle nature, the calm and order he’s brought to town. The son of his that you have a large soft spot for. The handsomeness of his features, the sharpness of his profile. The gentle hand he always places on your back as he helps escort you somewhere. The respect he shows you at every turn and his willingness to share his culture and upbringing with you. You think of all the things that make up the Din Djarin you know and you think of what he has come to mean to you.
With a silent prayer and an apology to your late headmistress for being more forward than is ladylike, you push yourself forward and into him. Lips soft and chaste lifting to meet his, only briefly. You do not push for more than a second of contact, but it is enough, you hope, to get the thought and intent across. That he is someone you would like to get to know more, that he is someone you could happily be courted by, even marry one day.
He doesn’t even have time to blink, it happens so fast. One minute you are standing a few steps away from him thanking him, the next your lips are pressed to his in the shortest sweetest kiss he’s ever had the pleasure of being on the receiving end of. It takes another second for him to realise what’s happened before he’s reaching a hand out to cup the nape of your neck and drag your lips back to his for a significantly more substantial kiss that leaves you a little breathless.
When you pull away from each other you don’t go far. Din presses his forehead to yours, hawkish nose pressing into your cheek, a soft touch that grounds you with his presence. The hand at your neck, rubs a soothing thumb across your skin. Your own have chosen to grasp at the suspenders over his shoulders, to keep in close proximity.
“I’d very much like to court you, Miss Y/N.”
“I think i’d like that, sheriff.”
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Mando’a Translations
Meg Ba'jurir - roughest way I could get to someone who educates or a teacher with meg being who and ba’jurir being educate
Osik - Shit
Vor entye - Thank You
Ad - son
Ad’ika - Little one, term of endearment for small children
Buir - Father also Mother basically parent.
Mesh’la - Beautiful
Aliit - Family (Clan)
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#din djarin x reader#din djarin / reader#din djarin#the mandalorian#the mandalorian reader insert#reader insert#readerinsert#western au#putting down roots#din djarinxreader#din djarin/reader#female reader#female identifying reader
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Hi Simon, I wanna ask you for some advice if that's alright, you seem very wise so maybe you could help ? I have a bid problem with self image and clothing in particular, I feel anxious wearing things that I think are pretty, maybe because I have an unusual taste compared to other or maybe because my family makes fun of me when I do, you seem pretty comfortable wearing whatever you like, did you have a problem with societal pressure ? If so, how did you get over it ? I always try to keep in mind that what I wear is my choise and I shouldn't care what others think. But it's kinda hard when everyone around you says you should. I think I should be able to wear a hoodie in the summer if I so choose and yet I still have family members argueing that it's wierd and I shouldn't. And as much as I'd like to pretend that it doesn't affect me, it does. It kinda sucks actually but hey sometimes life just sucks. Did this become a vent ? Maybe. Sorry, feel free to delete this, thank you for your time
You internalize the things people say. Try turning it around immediately. Someone mocks your clothes? Turn it back around.
“Wow that pattern is really loud!”
“So are you.”
“Don’t you think that skirt is too short?”
“Oh yes. Just like my patience.”
“That color washes you out!”
“I wish it could shut you up.”
And so on.
One way to stop caring about what people say about you is to make real the fact that their opinion is just that—an opinion, and it’s just theirs. It also doesn’t matter to anyone but them. They can make you feel like everyone is glaring at you, but in fact it’s just their opinion and it’s informed by their own anxiety. They worry about being mocked, so they mock you.
“Your wardrobe is just full of odd pieces.”
“Oh my, you’re absolutely right. Will you please come to my home and go through everything in my closet and tell me how I can look like a Stepford Wife? While you’re there can you also make sure my music collection and pantry match your specifications! Wouldn’t want to be too original!”
Or of course the classic:
“That outfit is so _____”
“Good thing you don’t have to wear it then!”
Frightened, crowd pleasing, unoriginal worrying bullies do not make good measures of creativity. They are agents of conformity.
Let me tell you a story.
I know most people don’t know this, because they think of her as a fashionable and controlling matriarch, but Queen Victoria was actually quite a terrible dresser. She didn’t like wear fashionable clothes like Napoleon’s Eugenia. No. She dressed in flounces and ruffles and had streamers and large brocade flowers, and wore head gear seasons behind. The woman was likely either color blind or simply didn’t care. Perhaps both. She was constantly mocked for it. She didn’t care and couldn’t be pursuaded. Her dressers hated it—fitting her with a hat that clashed with her dress, or a dress that was covered in tiny flowers like a school girl. She was made fun of by the French, the German, the Belgium...even Emily Bronte made fun of her.
But here’s a few things you don’t know about her. When she married, she chose a white gown. That was unheard of. Most women didn’t even own a white gown, because most women got married in what they owned and no one could keep a white gown clean. Instead rich colors were worn. But when Victoria wore a white dress—something highly unusual, suddenly everyone had to have it, and to this day women are mocked for not wearing white.
So too with mourning attire. The traditional period was only a year and a day. Victoria extended that time and wore black for the rest of her life, after the death of her husband. I think it was simply easier for her, but all of England followed along. Suddenly women were wearing black all the time, and it went on so long all the jet mines were booming, mining the rocks to put in necklaces and rings. Black became a color of female empowerment and austerity. It still permeates today, when you see Goth Culture mimicking it.
And then there’s colors of “half-mourning” like purple. In 1862, Victoria wore a bright purple gown, dyed with the brand new Mauveine, the first coal tar dye. She wore it the same year Eugenia was seen in the color, and before the end of the 60’s that color was everywhere.
It swept every country. It was so common thay buy 1869, I had a vest made of a mauveine silk, and I was quite proud of it.
But Victoria didn’t care much for clothes. She wore a hat that made her look like a cabbage. She was constantly bedecking herself in loads of jewelry and would have scoffed at Chanel’s edict to “remove one thing” before leaving. She was not a person of fashion. She wore what she liked...
And look what happened to the world.
So wear what you like. Start a new trend. Tell people to shut up, as if you are a monarch and they are tiny little peons who worry too much about what others think.
Express who you are. Have fun. Life is too short to care about these things and in twenty years, are the people who mock you going to remember or care what you wore? No. And if they do? They are likely not people who have good opinions.
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Sister’s Day
Summary: Sometimes when you’re sick, you’re not actually sick; or Nesta doesn’t want to go out with the Inner Circle and instead of being left on her own Feyre, Elain, and Cassian opt to stay with her...
Read on AO3 and fanfic; General Masterlist
~
Her sisters keep looking at her. She can see their not-so-subtle glances as they casually reach for the shelf next to her or explain that they need to grab a book somewhere behind. The light is dim, you’ll hurt your eyes if you read in the dark. It’s been a few hours, try a snack.
They’re ruminating, she decides as Feyre stares deeply at where she sits on the armchair and minds her own business. Yet there comes Elain with a plate full of cookies and the gaggle of the rest of them entering the large foyer.
Feyre does this on purpose, she thinks, making the estate’s library in the center of the living room. Perhaps, Feyre knows that if she wants her older sister out in public, she must entice her with solitude.
Truthfully, they’ve been this way since her and Cassian’s inevitable return.
She supposes it’s her own fault, for giving them the cold shoulder, for being oddly quiet about her life in Illyria. Cassian doesn’t tell them anything, which doesn’t help, and Nesta likes watching them squirm enough that she simply stares ahead, a curious gleam in her eyes as they ask her a question she will not respond to. All of them try to ask, even Amren who outright questions whether she’s back to her old self.
Nesta scoffs, old self. She has not changed. All she’s learned is to hide herself better or reap the consequences.
But something must be different about her, because Feyre and Elain will not leave her alone.
She sighs, pursing her lips as the bedraggled gang set themselves into the chairs nearest her. Cassian taking up the whole loveseat, Mor hiking herself onto the desk as Azriel goes to the window, his shadows following. Amren sets herself up on the coffee table, puzzles already strewn about in pieces and Rhysand… he goes to Feyre as he always does. Nesta resists rolling her eyes as they do that thing they often do where they talk into each other’s minds. Do they actually think they’re being inconspicuous?
Cassian looks to her casually, but she does not meet his gaze, opting for sinking further into her seat and hiking her book up to her knees.
“Well, I think we should celebrate your return with a night out at Rita’s,” Mor offers brightly.
“That seems more like a celebration for you,” Azriel admits, his tone light even in the deep, sardonic notes.
“Maybe it is. I quite frankly am glad your back,” She points to Azriel and Amren, “these two were no fun while you were away. And those two—” Mor points to Feyre and Rhys who both turn at the same time, “well, they were the same.”
Cassian laughs, and Nesta sinks further in her chair as they talk around her. Talk as if she’s not there as if she doesn’t really exist. Just another book on the shelf, another window to peer out of. As nameless as one of the puzzle pieces that bedeck mahogany lines.
“You are coming with right? No excuses this time?” Mor asks, her eyes pleading. The sound makes Nesta want to cover her ears, and she has to clench the pages of her book to keep from sighing out right.
Cassian shrugs, his lips upturned and Nesta thinks he just... fits somehow. In the way that Nesta can’t.
And why wouldn’t he when this is his family?
She has her books, her grimaces, her words, but she doesn’t have… that. These are not her friends, and her sisters only sort of like her. Obligation at the very least, pity at the best of times. Nesta squeezes the hard cover until she feels the bindings start to tear.
What is with their fascination with Rita’s and going out?
But Elain tugs on her sister’s sleeve, and Nesta blinks up at her slowly, lost as much in the words of her feelings as the sentences in the book. Her spine goes straight without her knowledge, her chin lifting until she peers into warm brown and Elain swallows.
Nesta feels guilty for the look.
“You haven’t been out with us in some time…” She starts, “I’ve missed you.”
It wasn’t my fault, she wants to say, but the strangers in the room are staring at her. She can feel their eyes move like a match of wits and daffodils. Which one will win—the lovely fawn or the wily serpent that bites before she’s fed?
Feyre interjects, “Come to Rita’s with us!”
She claps once as if it is a fantastic idea, and Cassian tilts his head perhaps knowing better after all these months. His eyes glaze over hers, and she can read that look. Nesta turns away in answer.
She hopes the chair will engulf her as she sits back, her book open and waiting for her to join back into the world that she can’t not belong to. Even Amren waits for a nod of her head, and Nesta is tired of them. Go away, she wants to yell. Leave me alone!
“I doubt you’ll run into any of those males you slept with,” Amren sniffs, because she’s never really forgiven her for that argument on the sidra.
She can feel the static as the room dulls into a harsh hum and the others go oddly quiet. Stiff and straight, Feyre whips to the tiny ancient one. “Quiet,” she demands.
My, my, what a loving family you have, Nesta thinks. But she doesn’t back away from the challenge, not when they seem to agree with their sweet, dear friend.
“If I don’t,” she smiles, her eyes burning, “I’m sure I can find one before the night is over.”
Wrong answer, because Elain jumps and hugs her side, her cheek squishing into the chiffon. Nesta stiffens at the affection. “Oh! We’ll have such a good time. Won’t we Feyre?”
Her youngest sister nods but doesn’t look convinced. Still, Feyre smiles strangely at her and Nesta sighs, a headache forming behind her eyelids at her seemingly professed agreement. Elain noticing that Nesta’s tea has gone cold, goes to refill her cup, and before she can say she doesn’t need another cup, Elain is gone. Leaving her to a pack of wolves.
Nesta lifts the book to her face, ignoring the not-so-subtle glances her way, and begins reading once more.
He grabbed the sides of her face, his palms warm against her skin. He trailed his hands down her neck until they stopped at the ties of her bodice. She could see the blush already blooming at her breasts…
Cassian coughs. She looks up to see him smirking. That teasing grin that usually makes her hands clench and her temper flare red with blood.
Nesta quickly looks back down.
Her blush already blooming down her neck.
~
“It would be good for you to get out girl, show your face around here. Mother knows the city must have forgotten what you looked like.
Then maybe you all shouldn’t have sent me away; she thinks as she looks at herself in her midnight blue gown. The fabric shimmers as she moves, and stars seem to be imprinted where the fabric drips and drums. It is the most… scandalous dress Nesta’s ever worn.
It isn’t her own, and she’s surprised she even fits in one of Feyre’s dresses. Though she’s gained weight, it is not nearly enough to fill out her previous figure and she’s always been smaller than her little sister… except at the bust, where Nesta feels she’ll spill out if she trips even slightly.
Elain remarks that she looks beautiful as Nesta stares into the large mirror on the living room wall, but all she thinks is liar. Liar. Liar. Oh great pretender, you can’t pretend well enough.
Mor sweeps down the stairs with Feyre, her revealing dress a putrid red that looks so bright it hurts her eyes. Feyre is dressed in no more than cobwebs, but Nesta shakes the feeling away that women must be protected in fabric, because lace is armor and men are beasts out to prowl.
The Illyrians understand this as traditional as they are. The females are always dressed in sleeves and gowns to the ankle, but furs also adorn their skin… Because the furs are harvested by them, she remembers. Cut by them, woven by them as if to remind the males that they wear animal pelts because they are ferocious themselves. Regardless of whether they captured the beasts that stomp in the woods.
Starve then, she heard one female say. Starve then, to that husband who refused her. What were men in a world where women supported the living?
But this is a power, too, Nesta learns. These gowns, the skin that is bright and burning, the legs that go on for miles. Just like sex. Just like money… Choice and freedom hidden where skin is revealed and skirts part softly.
Oh, great pretender, pretend just a little longer.
Feyre pauses in front of Nesta, looking her over with a pleased expression and Nesta wants to claw that image off her face, but Elain sets her hands on Nesta’s shoulders, her own gown pink and pretty and light. The embodiment of spring in Nesta’s endless winter.
I am not myself tonight, she wants to yell. Who am I?
“I knew that dress would look good on you.” Feyre smiles, “I know it’s not what you usually wear, but I’m glad to see you in it.”
Nesta smiles, gritting her teeth.
“Are you all going to just stand there or are we actually leaving sometime soon?” Amren asks, leaning at the edge of the doorway.
Mor and Feyre give each other knowing glances, and Elain grins sweetly as they all walk ahead of her out onto the porch where the males are waiting, laughing, and huffing that they took forever to get ready. “Not all of us can just roll out of bed and throw on a clean shirt.”
“Rhys took longer than any of us combined. Be honest.”
Nesta swallows the apprehension as she steps out to the porch and immediately she wishes she had a jacket. She refuses to go back in and get one, because she knows if she goes back in she will not come back out.
But Cassian, takes off his own jacket, the fabric warm and soft, and sets it around her shoulders before she can say one word. The others pretend not to look, but they look… the curious, cautious stare that alight in questions that neither Nesta nor Cassian will answer.
Mor taps her heeled foot and crosses her arms. “We ready to go?” She asks, raising a brow.
Cassian gestures forward and they all move as a herd through Velaris nights.
Nesta marks every landmark she passes as if she is leaving behind a clue as to how to get back. She can hear the others laughing and joking, but she doesn’t comprehend any of the words. She looks to the cosmos. The sky swirls with purples, blues, and milky white and Nesta… feels small.
A dot on a map. A fleck of dust in the air. She grasps the edge of Cassian’s jacket, pulling it closer to herself and it smells like him. Pine and wood burning.
“I wish all nights were like this,” Feyre says breathlessly, looking to the stars.
“They are,” Rhysand jests. Feyre elbows him in the stomach, and Rhys jumps away, only to reel back in. A tether connecting the two.
“That’s not what I meant, smartass. I mean that it feels nice we’re all together again.”
At the words, Nesta stops. Her feet pause and the others keep going. She watches them go and go and go and her eyes start to burn. Her fists clenching, her teeth gritting, her eyes blinking over again.
And yet, they walk. They don’t even notice her gone…
She’s a tiny fleck of dust.
Nesta turns back towards the estate, sniffling as she quickly wipes her eyes. Angry that she is crying without a reason to cry.
The dress is suffocating, and her hair is tight around her head. Her eyes burn but not her heart, not her soul. It seems that the wind has snuffed the flame out and only whispers are left.
Pretend no longer, it says.
It’s Elain that rushes after her after the storm has settled. She pulls her by the shoulder and stops as she sees her face, probably red and blotchy. The others are miles away, but at least Elain is here…
“Go,” Nesta commands softly, for she can never be truly mean to her sister.
“Nesta—” She starts, moving her hand from her shoulder down her arm.
“I don’t feel very good.” She replies and Nesta looks to her sister. At the warm brown that looks comforting…understanding, and she wonders if Elain would ever truly understand the back and forth like waves coming and going in Nesta’s head. That make her feel as if she’s downing. Alone. Unafraid, perhaps accepting that this is her life. But always drowning. “Please just go.” She repeats, and at last gives her a small smile for reassurance. “I have a headache that’s all.”
As an afterthought, Nesta takes off the coat, crossing her arms as the cold seeps into her skin. “Give this to Cassian for me?”
Elain nods as concern is written all over her face, but she heeds her older sister’s instructions. And with one more glance behind, Nesta joins the darkness and Elain joins her group of friends.
~
“Where’s Nesta going?” Feyre asks loudly, panic in her voice without realizing that she is nearly breathless.
Cassian takes a step closer to her. Practically his own younger sister who’s in need of comfort, but… there’s someone else who needs comfort. He can feel it. He can see it as Elain comes back with his jacket in her hands.
Elain doesn’t look at them as she answers, settling for staring out into the sidra where the colorful faelights reflect across the water. “She says she doesn’t feel good so she’s going home.”
Cassian watches as she hands him his jacket, still warm from her skin and Elain looks defeated. All of a sudden tired and far away. “She told me to give this back to you,”
He grips the leather in his hand until he can count all of the folds that form in its fabric. Twelve.
Twelve folds. Twelve minutes she’s been gone.
He swallows down the worry, the fear that makes him want to rip the jacket apart, and the plain…sorrow that starts blooming like moonflowers decorating the sidewalk.
“Maybe I should try—” Feyre starts, but Elain shakes her head solemnly.
“She says she has a headache.”
The sisters look at each other as if the statement puts an end to their trying. Mor lays an arm around the girls and sighs, speaking softly—comforting. “Come on you two,” She frowns slightly, “Nothing a night of dancing can’t solve.”
“And a huge bottle of liquor,” Amren adds, “Maybe two.” Though she is equally reserved, as if the night has suddenly gotten darker and they can longer see as many stars.
Cassian wants her to see this. He wants Nesta to know this.
When she is missing, they miss her. Her sisters miss her. Amren misses her. He doesn’t want to leave without her, and… Cassian for the first time, since being back, understands. Because when she is missing, he suddenly feels very alone.
He closes his eyes, his wings rising to catch the breeze, and when he blinks awake his friends surround him. Azriel giving him a look that’s almost apologetic for the stoic shadowsinger. He can hear their laughter begin again, the lights getting brighter with every step, and Rhysand cracks a joke that Amren groans at, but makes Feyre laugh.
They are alive.
He is not back in the war. Not in Illyria. Not in any nightmare. But he’s alone… because she’s alone, and he can’t leave her. He can’t.
“Come on, Cassian, keep up!” Mor calls after him, but Cassian steps back, looking behind, practically seeing Nesta’s figure in the shadows.
“Nesta’s sick,” he responds matter-of-factly and the rest stop in front of him, a few feet ahead. Mor’s brows crease, her lips tilting down.
“You heard them; she has a headache.”
“She’s doesn’t feel good,” Cassian reiterates. “I have to go take care of her.”
“You don’t have to…” Rhys mutters under his breath.
“I want to,” He proclaims, sternly.
Feyre steps forward, her hand dropping from Rhys’s grasp. “Are you sure? Once Nesta gets a headache, it doesn’t go away very fast. She usually doesn’t want to see anyone.”
Cassian huffs a laugh, counting all the bullshit lies that Nesta must have told all these years. Headaches, my ass. She’s probably already back sequestered in some chair with a book in her hand. “You see Feyre, I too am like a headache—”
���By the Mother,” Amren complains.
He can see the look Azriel gives Mor, Mor’s smile straining as she says nothing. Rhys grasps Feyre’s hand as if he can’t stand one moment without touching her, and he leans his head back, sighing as he waits for the implication of a fight in the air.
Cassian won’t give them one. Nothing they can say will convince him to continue on to Rita’s and leave Nesta behind.
But, Elain steps forward, walking towards him.
“I’ll go with you,” She gasps.
Cassian doesn’t know how Nesta will feel about that given her silence towards her sisters, but if Nesta will not go with them, they will go to Nesta.
Elain breathes deeply, her eyes glancing to the midnight blanket set atop them. “It’ll be a sister’s day. Like old times,” she answers softly, laughing as she adds, “Except of course with you, Cassian.”
He can feel more than see Feyre stand straight, her grip tightening on Rhys’s hand. The air turns stale in the wake of their decisions, and he can see all of the doubts already forming in her head. Cassian understands these thoughts, too, for he was once inadequate to the rest of the world.
Yes, that was still a sore spot for them wasn’t it?
But Elain gestures to Feyre, her head tilting towards her baby sister. “Unless you’d rather go to Rita’s...” She adds.
Feyre’s raises her brows, but the look of shock passes quickly, and she reaches out her hand as Elain extends her own. She gives Rhysand a small, satisfied smile at having been included, before nodding to Elain. Rhys lifts the side of his mouth, but the happiness doesn’t reach his eyes.
It does not go unnoticed by any of them.
~
Nesta is dressed in pretty silk pajamas, the only pants he’s ever seen her wear. Her hair is loose and golden brown as it falls down her back, a casual, alone type of look. In which, he means that she would not look this casual if she wasn’t alone.
She hangs by the door, her eyes glazing over one, two, three of them in disbelief and something akin to irritation burns in those pale blues. At the look, Cassian wants to kiss her head in fondness, combing her soft hair with his fingers until her face is red with a feeling she’ll play off as stubborn anger.
Cassian sighs inwardly. He misses Illyria.
She crosses her arms. “Why the hell are all of you here?”
Cassian pushes past her, ignoring her question and surveying the living room as if the answer is obvious. “We’re here to take care of you. Since you’re sick.” He pronounced.
He eyes the bright lamp in the corner, the glow lighting the armchair, where a book lays flat on the seat.
Tsk. Told you so, he tells himself.
Cassian whirls to face her as Nesta stands next to her sisters, her hands on her hips. That Who do you think you are? look permanently painted on her perfect face. “Have you checked your temperature by the way? Taken any medicine? I’m positive I saw some in the main bathroom down the hall.”
“What?” Nesta demands, shaking her head.
He places his hand on her forehead and she shakes him off, her mouth dipping to a frown. “You must be sick if you can’t follow what I’m saying.”
“You must be a lunatic if you can’t understand I don’t want you here.”
“People who don’t feel good,” He offered slowly, “need to be taken care of.”
“In the murder kind of way?”
“In the ‘Nesta, there’s medicine in the main bathroom’ kind of way,” He answers haughtily. Cassian can feel Elain and Feyre’s eyes on them, the back and forth of their gaze as if their conversation is a battle and they aren’t sure who is winning. If he was a betting male, his bets would probably be on Nesta... but more so because she’d appreciate the gesture and less because he was losing.
She frowns, perhaps concluding that he in no way will back down from this. Nesta should know after all these months that Cassian cares too much for his own good and plus... he quite likes the look Nesta gives him when she gets pissy.
“Okay, but how come there’s three of you?”
Feyre opens her mouth to answer, but Cassian beats her to it.
“Why? Did you miss us? We were only gone for a few moments.”
“That in no way equates to what I just said--”
“We’d be happy to start following you around. We wouldn’t want you missing us too badly.”
Nesta reaches her hands up as if she’d wring his neck. Her eyes point daggers, and Cassian isn’t ashamed to admit shivers run down his spine, but it is certainly not from fear.
“I swear Cassian, if you bother me one more time—”
“You’ll what? Tell me, sweetheart, what you can possibly do that will make me leave when you so graciously left us all out in the cold, wondering where you went?” His eyes widen, waiting for her answer. Cassian cups his ear, tilting his head towards her as he starts to hear the tapping of her foot.
“I didn’t feel good,” She explains, crossing her arms once more.
“And as we’ve established, we’re here to take care of you.”
She gives him a bland look. “Fuck. Off.”
Instead, Cassian turns towards her sisters. Elain and Feyre standing dutifully behind the eldest, most beautiful Archeron. “Your sister’s words warm my heart,” he teases.
“Now Feyre if you could go get the medicine that Madja left,” Cassian orders brightly, “And Elain if you could heat up some water for tea. Nesta prefers peppermint.”
The two nod, but Nesta scoffs, “And, what exactly are you going to do?”
Cassian smiles, his grin wide as Nesta glares. “I’m going to make french toast.”
Feyre looks at him confused, and Elain tilts her head waiting for an explanation, but Nesta… Nesta’s eyes light up in the way that he knows she’s pleased and is trying her best to hide it.
Nesta raises her chin, sniffing at his words, as if they don’t mean too much to her, but he knows. Sweets are Nesta’s favorite food group, and french toast is her favorite food. He’s made it more times than he can count in that little cabin between the mountaintops and nothing can convince him that she’s not secretly rejoicing.
“Fine,” She answers in that dismissive way of hers, moving to her reading corner in a flourish and sitting on the chair as if it’s her throne. She picks up the book, her eyes widening as she reads the first sentence.
Nesta looks back up to him sheepishly... nonchalant and all too familiar.
Cassian smirks, wondering if he perhaps is the luckiest bastard alive.
~
When Nesta’s upset, he learns, she will make up stories.
It makes sense to him since she reads so many books.
Cassian can’t recount exactly when he’d heard her lie the first time, somewhere in between the glaring insults and the wine drunk days. In Illyria, he could count them all from I left my jacket at Emerie’s to it clearly wasn’t me when your wings knock everything off the shelves when you move!
He smiles as he remembers, flipping the bread on the hot griddle. The smell of vanilla and cinnamon reminding him of cold winter days and harsh moonless nights. As much as he misses Illyria, not much has changed since those months in the mountains.
Briefly, Cassian hears the sharp tone of Nesta’s grumpy antics.
“At least take a couple drops,” Feyre demands, aggravated.
“I don’t know what child you’re speaking to but point that spoon somewhere else.”
“Elain!” Feyre calls, as he can hear Nesta huff.
“You can’t just call Elain and expect me to--”
Nesta goes silent, and in a second Cassian can hear the clink of a spoon and the sound of Nesta gagging.
When Feyre speaks, she seems oddly satisfied. “It looks like I didn’t need Elain’s help after all,” she sings, laughter in her voice.
He looks at Elain who surveys the living room. She wears a soft smile and when she looks over to him her eyes are alight with mischief. “I think she’s mad,” Elain mouths.
Cassian can only smile, looking slightly to the living room and imagining her face, her ire.
He wonders, then, what it must have been like growing up as Nesta, being a part of a group of sisters who so obviously care for each other. Never to forget that they love one another. Never to be completely forgotten, and always, always unconditionally loved.
Not for the first time does the guilt settle in the pit of his stomach. He once wonders how anyone could love Nesta... Like a gods-damned idiot, he’d said that to her. Not because he truly believed it, but because it hurt to be denied by her.
Realistically, Cassian knows that he doesn’t have to worry about it anymore, when they’ve squashed this topic months ago, but still… He feels guilty hearing Feyre’s laughter, seeing Elain’s bright eyes, knowing that he too denies his friends in favor of spending time with her.
He would do it again... In a heartbeat. In one breathless moment.
How does she not see it? He questions. How does she not know how much they care for her? Because he knows. He can see it plain on their faces.
But when Cassian takes the sweet bread off the griddle, and onto a large plate for the four of them, he can tell she doesn’t suspect a thing. She sits with her book on the lone chair, while her sisters gather at the table, and he can almost see the distance between them. As if Nesta has set her book high in front of her nose to make a barrier between her and the rest of the world.
Cassian leans against the table, raising a brow.
“Are you going to sit there all day, or should we eat these ourselves?”
Nesta lowers her shield in favor of the offense, “If you touch mine, I’ll castrate you,”
Cassian shrugs, frowning for a moment contemplating the threat, tilting his head back and forth as if he is actually weighing his odds. She does know where he sleeps.
“Fair enough,” He responds in answer.
They eat until the whole platter is gone, but not before Cassian tries to steal a bite from Nesta’s plate, just to piss her off even more. She raises her fork as if she’ll stab him with it, and Cassian secretly wants her to try. If Nesta will not train with him and grant him the ability to see her skills with a sword, he will assess them elsewhere.
“Are you two always like this?” Feyre asks, abruptly. She looks to Elain as they both turn to her and Feyre looks shocked she’d spoken the words allowed.
Cassian opens his mouth to reply.
Nesta drops her fork.
The chair shrieks as she gets up from her chair, and she makes her way back to her podium where Cassian thinks she will sit there like a living statue, perfectly safe in her stony façade. He almost feels offended that she dismisses them so quickly.
Sighing under his breath, Cassian begins clearing the plates. Feyre and Elain help, whispering to each other something Cassian chooses not to listen in on, because he’s staring at her. Always her.
By the time, he’s out of the kitchen, blankets and pillows lie in the center of the room, the plush carpet underneath it all.
Elain and Feyre jumble in the kitchen in what smells of chocolate and cinnamon, and Nesta is left to her own devices in this strange, decorative landscape.
She doesn’t really fit in, he notes.
Not because she doesn’t look the part, but because she doesn’t act the part. There’s something odd about her movements, her looks, the way she carries herself. This room is casual… colorful… homely, and Nesta is rigid, straight, and her eyes, the bright grey, reach out to him.
“You’re staying?”
Cassian nods his head, that grin back on his lips. “Yes, I’ve just been informed it’s sister’s day, and as an honorary sister myself, I feel I’m allowed. Do you want me to leave?”
She looks up at him and at her perusal he lifts his wings higher. Primping, he thinks, like a gods damned fool.
She shrugs one nonchalant shoulder, looking away and back to her book. Almost too casually. Cassian can’t help the giddy feeling that erupts inside of him, that says Nesta wants him here. Nesta wants him to stay. Even if the words never come out of her lips. He has learned to read her beyond spoken language.
But Elain and Feyre come back in the room, and he notices how she tenses up. Her eyes turning molten and hard. Her lips tightening into a subdued scowl she tries to hide behind pages.
It makes his heart ache in ways he doesn’t know how to fully explain.
~
Nesta knows he’s pretending to sleep. He lays on the couch, his large form draped over the heavy blue, his wings not sparing any of them as she pushes them away where they fall at the top of their heads.
He snores occasionally for good measure. Loudly and offkey. She thinks she’ll tell him that later and let him remark how she’s judgmental even amongst sleeping patterns. Well, Nesta does warn him early on that she wouldn’t be any nicer.
She shifts on the hard floor, bumping her shoulders into her sisters. The heat of them making her want to throw the blankets away. She lies in the middle. Feyre to her left, fiddling with a string on the woven cloth. Elain to her right, scooping her arm into her own, until she cuddles close, tucking her head in. Nesta doesn’t know how they convinced her of this.
At first, she’s too engrossed into her book to notice, lost in seas and a sea captain that is reminiscent to Cassian and his ample physique. But also, by the way his hair is cut at the shoulders and how the wildness exudes from his smile. She will never tell him this of course lest he tease her more than he often does already.
Nesta thinks it must have been her fault, though, because the next thing she knows she’s being pulled to the carpet, being offered hot coco, and they’re all in pajamas. Feyre owns a large enough house, she wants to remark. They don’t have to sleep in the living room, together like they still live in that washed out cabin.
But then they’re asking about her book, and Illyria… and if she made any friends. Poking and prodding and… they look interested enough. So, Nesta tells them. Stubbornly at first, and then in more detail as they ask more questions, answers them until she’s sure she has never talked this much in all of her short life.
All good things must come to an end, though, and they lie complacent and quiet while Nesta looks to the ceiling. She counts every color in the painted swirls. Golds and blues and—Cassian snores.
Nesta lifts her head, ready to smack him with a pillow, but Elain giggles softly.
At the sound, Nesta turns to her sister, but Elain is looking at Feyre, a fond look on her face. Her baby sister smirks slightly, holding her grin tightly in her cheeks.
She gazes at them both, suspicious.
It’s Elain who treads carefully, “Cassian is… awfully sweet.”
Oh, gods.
Nesta sighs, rolling her eyes. His head is only going get bigger.
Feyre shifts to her side, laying her head on her hand. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like anyone.”
Before Nesta can look appalled and answer back that she’s never said she “liked” Cassian, Elain replies.
“She liked Tomas.”
Nesta doesn’t say a word, but even unconsciously she knows Cassian tenses. He knows all about him, can probably pinpoint exactly when the pin drops. She can feel her fists clench between the fabric. Would it rip like her dress that day, she questions.
Feyre scowls, disapprovingly. “Tomas was a—He was a—”
“Poor excuse for a human,” Nesta says, her voice drawing from her throat like music.
Nesta refuses to say anymore, and her sisters seem to take her sudden silence as a plea to drop the subject.
“Oh,” Elain finishes, but perks back up, “But Cassian is--”
“Nothing like Tomas, thankfully,” She answers forcefully. “And that’s all I’ll say about either of them.”
Nesta sees Feyre give Elain a look. Pitiful Nesta, they probably think. Shutting everyone away, can’t bother to hold a conversation.
She lays on her side, wishing she was on the outskirts of them both so she can turn her back on both of them. But the floor is hard and it hurts her shoulder, and she is forced to turn back and begin her venture with the ceiling anew.
“I’m glad your home,” Feyre whispers after some time, as Elain squeezes her arm in what feels like an agreement.
You wouldn’t be if you hadn’t sent me away, she thinks. But instead of answering, Nesta closes her eyes, and pretends to sleep.
~
“How was my performance? Ten out of ten?”
Elain continues to comb Nesta’s hair as she sleeps. But instead of commenting on his question, she smiles up at him, far more teasing than he’s ever seen her.
"You like her,” She says, not a question at all. Feyre whips towards Elain, giving her a look that seems baffled that she outright says what they’re both thinking. “You get on each other's nerves. You argue incessantly. You have an act for pissing her off that’s rather impressive. But you like her.”
“Is that your seer skills?” Cassian drawls.
“That’s my sister skills,” She answers brightly. Elain shrugs a shoulder, “Well and anyone with eyes can tell.”
“It’s true,” Feyre interjects. “Nesta may deny it, but… something is going on between you two.”
“You are both too nosy for your own good.”
“But then again, I’m not hearing a denial. Am I Elain?”
Elain laughs, shaking her head. “I haven’t heard one yet. It seems he might have really fallen for our big sister. What do you think? Should we allow her hand?”
“I think Nesta has more of a say in that than us. Maybe we should wake her so she can decide? What do you think, summer wedding?”
Cassian huffs, sitting up on the couch and crossing his arms. “You two think you’re really funny.”
“I think your antics make us laugh,” Feyre replies, smiling wide. “Why don’t you just tell her? Assuming you haven’t.” Feyre back tracks, looking to Elain in fear. “You haven’t right? Did she reject you?”
Cassian groans, taking a throw pillow from the couch and throwing it at Feyre. It hits her square in the face. Feyre scoffs, reaching for the pillow, ready to throw it like a javelin, but Elain lifts her hands.
“Stop!” She shushes, checking on Nesta who tosses the blanket in her sleep. The medicine Madja left had left Nesta drowsy and she had quickly fallen asleep after the sister’s kept her talking. Cassian doubts she’ll wake anytime soon.
But Feyre drops the pillow, pointing viciously. “You got lucky.”
Cassian grins victorious. Feyre lifts a brow.
“Why?” She prods, as if the question is her payback. “Why not stop this charade?”
Cassian doesn’t know how to answer. He’s almost afraid Nesta will wake and scold him herself, but she rests peacefully where she’s tucked in tightly once more.
He can’t help the fondness that appears on his face, he can’t help most of what he feels for her. She was a surprise, after all. A happy one. But he wasn’t looking for her, the female of his dreams. He didn’t think she even existed.
But then… Here she is.
She gets under his skin, warms his blood in ways that are both invigorating and infuriating. But Nesta… they understand each other. In ways that no one else could or dared to try. They see each other, accept each other. The ugly in spite of the good. The good in spite of the ugly. Every single part.
So, when Feyre look at him expectedly, Cassian asks himself truly what is he waiting for?
They’ve slept together, though he will not tell them that. He’s sure she’d maim him if he did. They live together… sort of now. Her stuff is still in his house in Windhaven. There’s bookshelves and wallpaper and tiny glasses that Nesta says she likes. And, he is always near her. They spend nearly everyday together, and when he’s not near her, he thinks of when he’s going to see her, what he’s going to say. He enjoys hearing her rant about her stories and he wants to know all of her thoughts. What does she think of Illyria, the conflict, the treaties, but also about the new bakery down the street?
Truly, they’re together. Aren’t they?
But… not really.
It’s different in Illyria. It’s different in Velaris. It’s easier in Windhaven. It’s infinitely harder surrounded by them, when Nesta doesn’t like his family and he’s not all too sure they like her.
“I’m waiting for… the right time.”
Feyre blinks and Elain frowns and Cassian is sure he looks baffled at his own words… Right time? Didn’t he want more of it?
Wasn’t he losing it every time he didn’t make a move?
Huh?
“But aren’t you just wasting time?” Feyre concludes, “Wouldn’t it make more sense to just tell her how you feel and damn the consequences?”
Elain tilts her head, her gaze squinting at him. “Haven’t you waited this long?”
“You sister does have a say in this you know. She could very well take the lead and confess. I certainly wouldn’t stop her.”
Cassian watches as they give each other a bland look, something that calls Cassian an idiot without saying it aloud.
“Nesta reads romance novels,” Feyre offers obviously, as if that is answer enough.
At his confused gaze, sweet Elain rolls her eyes. “Nesta is… hopelessly romantic. Even if she doesn’t seem like it. She always has been since she was young. And she’s very traditional, if you haven’t noticed. Won’t dare to wear pants, not that I do either, but I’ll try new things, new foods. It took Nesta three months to even try a bit of jam on her toast when I first started cooking.”
“It took her three years to stop putting her hair up in those braids. Two seasons for Nesta to go into restaurant down the street, three to go shopping for new clothes that weren’t corsets and long gowns.” Feyre argues. “She needs to be very comfortable to do things that are unfamiliar to her… But she’s comfortable with you.”
“We can tell,” Elain smiles, lifting a shoulder. “She seeks you out when you enter a room, her eyes follow you. She won’t talk to anyone, but she’ll argue with you easily. Even seems to enjoy it. Nesta makes sure that I make blueberry muffins on Monday’s, the same day that you come back early from training… I probably wasn’t supposed to tell you that but here we are.”
Cassian looks down at Nesta, her nose red and her lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. Gods, he loves her doesn’t he? And… she loves him?
Negative. Impossible.
But not impossible…
Because she… cares for him? He thinks. Maybe. He’s not certain.
But what he is certain of is her sister’s knowledge of all things pertaining to her.
“You pay a lot of attention to Nesta’s actions.”
Elain looks to Feyre, “Is that surprising? She’s our sister.”
“I just thought… I don’t know.”
“No, what?” Feyre pleads, “That we didn’t care about her. Did Nesta say that?”
Feyre sighs. “She’s never going to forgive me for sending her to Illyria.”
Cassian grimaces, but shrugs a shoulder. “I don’t know about that, but she’s—Nesta’s trying her best. Perhaps, it’s not the right time,” he repeats back to them, a smug look on his face.
Feyre does hit him with a pillow this time.
Elain frowns, staring at Nesta’s pale skin. “How do we help her?”
Cassian and Feyre pause their antics, and stare at Elain in her yellow cotton dress.
“I think only Nesta can tell you that. Maybe ask, first?”
“And if she says nothing?”
“Then be there for her and… try again.” He answers, softly. “Nesta reads romance novels, yes, because she’s a romantic at heart, but she also reads because the books are there. They are always there, when she’s alone, when she’s upset, when she needs to escape there’s another world. More characters, more stories to rely on because sometimes this world and the people in it aren’t very reliable.”
Cassian gets up from the sofa, as the Archerons look to him where he stretches, striding to the lamp. He looks to them both and then to Nesta.
He’d be someone she could rely on, Cassian promises himself. All of them could rely on him. He’d take care of this little family he now belongs to—wants desperately to belong to…
“Make a world she doesn’t have to escape from,” He calls out softly.
“Now get some sleep.”
He reaches to turn off the lamp, as Elain lays down content with the answer. Feyre gazes up at him, her lips titling upwards, raising a hand in goodnight. And he watches them both, cuddle up to Nesta, tucking her in to their embrace as if they’ll protect her from the world.
Cassian hopes they know Nesta, without a doubt, would travel to the ends of the world for both of them.
~
Tagged: @cassianscool @fatimafares123 @rotstamp @nestalytical @my-fan-side @pizzaneverdisappoints @courtofjurdan @nahthanks @nestable @soitsgorgeous @arin1030
~
This is way longer than I thought, but it was really easy to write surprisingly. I think either I have more skill or I make things way too complicated on a regular basis.
I really, really loved writing this in-between stage of Nesta and Cassian being officially together. Having some sort of connection that they haven’t worked out fully yet. I absolutely loved writing Cassian hopelessly devoted to Nesta, but I wanted it to be subtle, a quiet sort of devotion.
I have a fascination with writing Nesta done with everyone, because well she has a right to be, but also because she reminds me so much of a Darcy character from 2005 Pride and Prejudice where she’s just a hopeless, awkward bean whose so inherently introverted that she can’t stand to have people around her and then ends up being rude for no reason, but also has that complexity about her where she secretly does want people around her but she doesn’t know how to ask for it or create the boundaries that she’s comfortable with. It’s always so interesting writing Nesta. I’m going to miss it when the book comes out. SOON! But hopefully, I get more content to write and not less. I’m still thinking of finishing “Queen of Monsters” regardless of the book, since I’ve written so much of that. I just haven’t posted it and I need something to hold me over for the next one.
The next one-shot (provided I write it) will be actually about the Inner Circle trying to get closer with Nesta, because they figure that they’re kind of making a line between all of them if they don’t start including her. But Nesta absolutely does not like being around them and is almost grumpy the whole time. I think it’s funny. But you know, maybe it does helps… you never know.
Anyways happy reading! And it’s almost the release date woohooo!!!
Reblog, like, comment, let me know if you want to be tagged on the next one.
#nessian#nesta archeron#cassian#feyre archeron#elain archeron#acosf#acofas#nessian fanfiction#acomaf#acowar#acotar#vidalinav
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Terraqua Week Day 6 (Free Day)
Summary: Terra and Aqua are getting married—and Ven is the Bridezilla.
|| Word Count: 9,058
Read on AO3
A/N: @terraquaweek I could have never written this without my dear friend @localcryptideli. We talked about this wedding years ago, and I promised to write it. It’s here, three years later, blending their headcanons with mine and I couldn’t be more proud of it. <3
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
the threads that tie hearts together
Terra never once considered in his entire life that his wedding preparations would include the perk of mice squeaking in his ear—but he here is, in the tailor’s studio, getting re-fitted for his tuxedo, with Princess Cinderella’s team of seamstress mice on his shoulders, measuring the length of his arms. His muscles were too big for the previous suit.
Ven refuses to hire a proper tailor, and instead rents out the parlor so the mice could do their work in private.
Lea sits on a nearby bench by the shoe shelves, the top button of his shirt open, jabbing at his Gummiphone. He’s quite popular today, pinged every two minutes. Isa and Roxas share a mirror, trying to get the mechanics of their bow ties right.
Terra is getting married.
The thought. Married. Soon. Yes. Damn. He can’t cry right now.
Terra stands in front of a mirror and bends his elbows to see how the fabric moves. The mice are tiny, three of them in skirts. They’ve developed an efficient obstacle course of threads all down his entire body, a network so the mice on the floor can deliver them supplies—spools, sewing needles, thumbtacks, measuring tape—in a jiffy.
Lea groans, squeezing his Gummiphone. “This twerp is going to turn me into a serial killer.” He yawns, possibly for the fortieth time.
“Not an ill-fitting job, all things considered,” Isa says from across the room.
“I do appreciate your sarcasm.”
“Who’s bothering you?” Terra asks, lifting his collar so the mouse on his left could thread through it with a sewing needle.
Lea snorts, slaps his knee and leans forward. “Did you not know your buddy is a monster?”
“Ven?”
“Oh, he’s a joy.” Lea holds his Gummiphone up as if he’s about to make a speech. “Come help me pick out Aqua’s flowers. Now. If you could.” He glances at Terra, then back at the phone. “He writes that in all-caps.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t mean to be so pushy.”
“The other day, he called me to model the bride’s dress because Miss Aqua couldn’t be bothered to come to the fitting herself.”
“Master Aqua was away on a mission,” Isa explains.
“Isa took photos of me in it—” Lea scrolls through his phone, but stops. “Oh, I can’t show you before...” He clicks his tongue. “It’s very nice. Very bridal.”
Terra is sure that’s true, but the image of Ven hanging his head so much on someone else’s wedding is worrisome. Last night, he fell asleep at dinner. “I think Ven is taking on too much stress.”
“Lea,” Roxas says, snorting a chuckle and giving up on his bow tie, “you should show him the texts.”
“Gladly.” Lea stands to shove the Gummiphone into Terra’s face. Out of the history, a couple of messages stand out.
Ventus
I got 500 cake flavors come taste them with me
Ventus
Which cologne do you think terra should wear
COME SMELL
i need a second opinion
Ventus
Do you have aqua’s flowers yet?
remember
we want orange roses and bluestars
Ventus
Aqua isnt here im freaking out
Youre closest to her body type
HELP
After all that, Terra feels as though he’s being watched by several microscopic eyes. One of the mice squeaks with urgency, and he straightens one of his arms. “I don’t know what to say... Why doesn’t he talk to me directly?”
Lea purses his lips as though this is a secret not worth sharing. Roxas is the one to step forward, a knowing grimace plastered on his face.
“He told me that he doesn’t want to bother you with anything.”
That doesn’t sound entirely false but not true either.
“That’s ridiculous.” Terra tests the bend of the elbow to fiddle with his bow tie. It’s already done but something about it doesn’t sit right. “He could come to me for anything,” he says with a low voice, wondering if there’s something he’s missing. Terra has also been a mess. He’s getting married. Holy stars.
Isa huffs out of frustration, turning away from the mirror, his bow tie undone. He studies Terra’s suit. “I don’t like it.”
His straightforwardness is well appreciated. Aqua would probably smirk at the sight of it and stare at his neck the entire ceremony. “I don’t either,” Terra says.
“Smart man.” Isa smirks, and tugs Terra’s bow tie to undo it. “Let’s change it.”
Lea snorts. “You might want to ask permission from he-who-shall-be-slapped.”
“It’s my wedding,” Terra says.
“So you think.”
He-who-may-be-slapped enters the tailor’s parlor through the front entrance, announced by the bell of the ring. He’s perfectly dressed in his ringbearer’s/best man’s/maid of honor’s suit, vest fitted, bow tie sublime, sleeves coiffed. He sees what Isa is doing. He gapes.
“Hey guys,” Ven asks with a frustratingly shaky voice. “What are we doing?”
“They are unbecoming,” Isa answers, wrapping a traditional tie around Terra’s neck.
“Oh.”
Sometimes, speaking to Isa is like getting clocked in the stomach. By the looks of Lea’s expression, chewing on the edge of his Gummiphone, it’s well deserved.
“Okay,” Ven says, with a tight smile. He takes the tie from Isa’s hands. “Do they match?”
“A hello would be less rude,” Terra says. “Hi, Ven. Can we talk?”
Ven glances up. “Later. There’s lots to do.”
Lea inhales sharply. “Hey, Ven. Here’s an idea. Did you know you could tame cicadas to sing in harmony on command?”
Ven whips his head around. “You can?”
Isa brings a hand up to hide a smirk and Lea passes him a subtle wink.
“Picture it.” Lea opens his arms. “From nine until eleven at night, they gather in the bushes. They mutter, a light dusting of atmosphere on a peaceful summer night.”
Ven’s eyes grow wide with obsession.
Roxas comes near. “You can also make them glow.”
“Like stars in the bushes,” Ven whispers to himself.
“Come on, guys,” Terra says, unimpressed. “Leave him alone. We’ve got better things to do.”
Ven snaps himself out of it, but not before pulling out a notepad and writing notes. He eyes Terra over, nudging him to open his arms and pinching the sides of the suit. Ven draws them in by the measure of a finger and pulls pins out of his pocket, like he’s been expecting to use them, and marks their places. “Jaq Jaq,” he calls, “where’s Suzy? We need to make sure these ties look right. Oh, and we need two extras—we have to ship some to Riku and Sora.”
Some mouse squeaks in reply.
“I can help her carry things.” Ven gives a flash of a smile and then hurries off.
Out of earshot, Lea gives Terra a look. “Anyone able to talk to mice is a crazy person in my book.”
Terra glares back and quotes, “‘You could tame cicadas to sing on command?’”
“He needs something to obsess over. How else am I going to get peace?”
“This is going to bite you in the ass,” Roxas says, wrapping his new tie over the neck and having a much easier time.
“Ventus may very well task you with hunting and gathering the cicadas,” Isa says, a tie already in place, immaculate.
Lea groans and Terra feels it’s well deserved.
Well deserved… the suit may be. The future wife, maybe not. The suit is a glove for every finger with no excess. It makes him a good-looking groom, a nice addition to the closet for any special occasion. The bride is beautiful, no matter what she wears. She is loyal, patient, strong, intelligent, loving, funny when she’s stern, too good for him, a divine gift he didn’t earn and he still can’t understand how she said yes.
“I hope you’re laughing at the face of my misery,” Lea says.
Terra knows that’s sarcasm. Weddings are headaches, emotions are terrifying and Terra needs Aqua like a sip of medicinal tea to calm down.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The others squeal when they walk into Le Grand Bistro. It’s sunset, the city lights already ignited and giving it the glow of evening fairies welcoming the moon. They’ve just discussed dresses—Xion requests a pantsuit instead, which looks stellar—and they can choose their own styles so long as they all wear the color of night. Simple, elegant. That’s the kind of effect Aqua prefers. Thank goodness they’re almost done. Aqua couldn’t handle more hands in her hair and she rejected the flower crown that would have come down on one side to compensate for the lack of length.
She fiddles with the ring—a thin, intricate design weaved around a small, blue stone—as a waiter escorts them to the kitchen. On days when she doesn’t have missions, she wears it.
Aqua is getting married. Some part of her wonders about the surreality of it, like it’s a dream or a picture she created in her mind when she was a child, at the altar with a faceless person next to her. Sometimes, it feels like she is already married. Terra has always been with her. Every day in class. Every day strolling through the woods. Every day sparring, sharing meals, bickering and laughing. Her best friend, her confidant, her rock.
There is something about nearly dying that challenges perspective. When they both thought they’d never see each other again, it made them realize there’s more to it and there’s been more to it for years. The emotional intimacy that strengthened after the fact. The physicality of it, when he takes her to bed. They argue differently, they laugh the same. Terra has always been with her, so what is the difference between being with him and being married to him? A part of her is eager to find out. The other is already at peace, a kind of joy Aqua has always wanted.
Ven is in the kitchen, talking with Remy (responding to Remy, who is naturally unintelligible). Plates of cake pieces sprawl out on the table, eliciting oohs and aahs from the others, all patient like they’re waiting for Aqua’s permission to take a small bite.
Aqua reads through the description of flavors—strawberry, fudge, angel food cake with blueberries, red velvet, even coffee. “The one we requested isn’t here.”
“You mean…” Ven pulls out his notepad and looks through his notes. Remy climbs onto Ven’s head, squeaking and pointing to a bowl of flour and eggs, unmixed. “Dark chocolate and rum?”
“That would be correct.”
“A spicy cake? Are you insane?” At his shock and at Aqua’s denial, Kairi helps herself to a spoonful of vanilla. “This is a wedding, not a club!”
“My wedding, Ven.” Aqua isn’t annoyed, but amused. Ven has such strong opinions about for some reason.
“Try this one.” He holds up a plate of a decorated piece that honestly looks delicious. “Triple chocolate, with the rarest berries found in the woods, matured at thirty-five degrees Celsius for a week.”
“Burnt cake?” Kairi asks with a smirk.
“Not the cake, the berries.”
“Oh,” Xion gasps, with need in her eyes. It takes a nod from Aqua to grab a fork and have at it. She approaches each piece with so much excitement— Aqua wonders if there are flavors here she’s never tried before in her short life.
“What will the final cake look like?” Naminé asks, the only one not to dive forward. She’s so gentle, so serene. When they were trying out dresses, everyone was saying what a beautiful bride she’ll be one day if she chooses.
“Perfect,” Ven says, like it’s the most obvious thing. “It has to be perfect so it will look beautiful. Painted like a night sky, with stars everywhere. You got that, Remy?”
Remy glares at Ven.
“I want,” Aqua starts, and when Ven frowns, she smirks. Sometimes, for the sake of maintaining control, she has to play dirty. “Rosewater and cardamom.”
Ven sticks his tongue out in disgust.
“Terra needs something to enjoy,” Aqua insists. “These are all too sweet for him.”
“Terra is the bane of my existence.”
“By the way, I don’t know if I want King Mickey and Queen Minnie to officiate.”
“You are way more difficult to deal with.”
Aqua and Ven have a staring contest as the others talk about their favorite flavors. Ven, a glare, a challenge to outwit her. Aqua, a calm knowing that she’s going to win. Ven relents.
“Fine,” he stresses. “Remy, change of plans. We’ll need some damage control. Let’s add some”—he writes into his notepad—“fruit pastries, sweet cheese with chocolate—”
“Triple chocolate,” Kairi adds.
“Custard and kiwi,” Xion says.
“All good choices.” Ven writes them down.
“Sea salt ice cream?” Naminé says, lifting a shoulder. “Everyone else eats them, I hope to try some.”
“Ven.” Kairi slams a hand on the table. “You need to add marshmallows covered in hazelnut and chocolate.”
“We need all the chocolate,” Ven agrees. “Call it revenge on this nasty cake.”
Kairi cackles, but it’s nothing malicious. They’re young and excited about the wedding, their suggestions a way of helping. Aqua takes it all in stride. The small details don’t matter, only the intent, and letting friends have fun deciding makes the entire process easier. What’s bothering her is Ven. He’s exhausted from taking it all too seriously. Aqua assumes the best intentions, but she doesn’t get it.
“You know what would be really cute?” Xion says. “Little petit fours shaped in your symbols.”
Ven blinks. “What symbols?”
“Oh, the Keyblade Master symbols.” Naminé claps her hands. “That would be so lovely.”
“In different colors,” Xion says.
“Each a different flavor,” Naminé adds. “Maybe the same colors as your Wayfinders?”
“You two are geniuses.” Ven taps his notepad. “Remy, we gotta get to work.”
Remy stomps a paw and squeaks vigorously.
“No worries. You’ll get paid.” Though it seems that’s the last thing on Remy’s mind.
“Ven,” Aqua says softly, pulling him aside as the others brainstorm ideas. “I don’t think we can afford all this.”
“Sure you can,” he says too confidently, though she and Terra were the ones to save up their munny. “Don’t worry,” he stresses when she’s not convinced, giving her a squeeze on the arm. “You asked me to bookkeep your finances”
“Reminder that I did not ask you to take full responsibility. Remy can’t do all of this alone, he’s going to need you.”
“I’ve got plenty of time, and we’ve got plenty of budget.”
Aqua does not know how that is possible. After the dresses, the refitting of Terra’s tux, the decorations… sure, since they’re using the ballroom in the Land of Departure, they saved on not having to rent out a venue, but the original plan was to have a small, intimate wedding in the woods, something private with just the three of them, minimal decorations necessary, all plucked from nature.
All of this is out of their price range.
Ven goes back to the table, back to the stovetop and oven where he follows Remy’s instructions and mixes the flour in the bowl with some milk. He doesn’t assuage her at all, like he knows something she doesn’t.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Home should be a solace but not when it’s the wedding rehearsal.
Ven has ushered in movers from different worlds to carry in artifacts, all decorations, all star-themed. Terra has yet to see the ballroom, but the amount of people rushing through the hallways makes him nervous.
Ever since Terra called Riku in the dead of night (in a panic, needing someone to talk to, alone in the kitchen with a cracked mug of tea), blabbing about tripping on the way to the altar, or cutting the cake clean through the table, or stepping on linen and ripping the curtains, or dropping his plate of food, or looking like an idiot on the dance floor, or worse—forgetting his vows—he hasn’t lived a moment of peace. Sora won’t let him.
Terra finds it hard to breathe. What if he chokes on his vows and accidentally offends everyone?
He stays far away from the workers—it’s for the best. No one needs a huge bull stampeding in a china shop, destroying everything.
Lea crosses the hallway on his sixth trip and enters one of two entrances to the ballroom, vases of flowers in his hands. Terra peeks. From the looks of it, Ven did a fantastic job.
The ballroom, once gold, now looks like the set of night. The ceiling is covered in blue with twinkling lights. The table linens are also dark, with napkins and silverware sets a solid gold. Glass windows that take up one entire side to the ballroom are bare of curtains—the wedding is planned for after sunset so they’d be declaring their vows under the stars. Two navy blue carpets come in through both entrances of the ballroom, meeting in the middle and then straight to the altar at the far end. The point is for him and Aqua to enter together, like equals. With her in a bridal dress, she’ll look like a light in the darkness.
Through the doorway, Terra can see Riku and Sora, the latter making motions with his arms as if he’s flapping like a bird. Terra lets the door close so they don’t notice him.
There are fears he’s never voiced.
What if she realizes she doesn’t want to get married to him after all? At the altar no less?
Oh stars, what if he makes a terrible husband?
What if he neglects her?
What if, years down the road, she realizes after a slowly oncoming epiphany that she isn’t happy and regrets it?
Tonight is the party, tomorrow is the wedding, and Terra still has no vows. He pinches his nose hard enough to distract him from crying. He’s already cried five times in the arc of three hours.
Footsteps—light, brisque, confident, hers—approach him, and Terra embraces her in his arms, taking her in with a needy kiss. She smells like home, she lets him breathe again.
“You look like you’re about to fall apart,” she says, stroking a thumb on his cheek.
“Not if you’re my glue.”
She snorts, smacking him on the bicep. “What did I say about the puns?”
“Shower you with them.”
He kisses her before she can roll her eyes—
—and gets interrupted the moment Ven peeks out of one door.
“What’s with the hold-up?” he says.
Terra breaks from the kiss, casually noticing how Aqua is patting his shoulder, as if to warn him. “What’s with your attitude?”
Ven pouts like he’s about to choke and slaps the notepad to his forehead. “No one listens to me. I said baby blue and champagne on the napkins, all shaped to form the constellation of Juno… and they gave me yellow. I am gonna complain so much.”
“There are worse things?” Terra says and Aqua shakes his shoulder as another warning.
Ven snaps his eyes open. “Get into position, we’re starting.”
Aqua stands behind one door and Terra goes to the other, waiting for the cue to enter. On the other side, Ven is speaking out loud, organizing people and where they should stand. Grooms and bridesmaids will enter the altar from behind and gather together, leaving the carpet only for the star couple (no pun intended). He interrupts himself, raising his voice about vases that match too much and Terra can imagine him pointing across the room.
“I have to tell you something,” Aqua loudly whispers from the other side of the hall.
Terra runs to her and wraps an arm around her waist. Touching her is a panacea. Despite knowing there is still a possibility she’ll rethink this entire relationship, it seems unreal, like a nightmare.
“It’s about Ven,” she continues, keeping her voice low even though they’re the only ones in the hall.
“Lea threatened to slap him.”
She frowns.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Don’t you think it’s too expensive?”
“I don’t know. Ven doesn’t tell me how much anything costs.”
“It’s way more than we have saved up.”
Terra gapes. “Then how—?”
Aqua stammers, fiddling with her fingers. “I looked into his books.”
Terra melts into a breath-heavy laugh, careful to keep his voice out of it. “Reading people’s diaries? Aqua, I thought I knew you better.”
She blushes. “I didn’t mean to, but I was worried.” Now Terra is worried. Her expression is too serious. “Ven has been doing side-missions and hustles for months just to earn enough to hire the best chefs and tailors, to buy linens and all these flowers and carpets—”
“He wouldn’t.”
“He did.”
“Why?”
“I think it’s because he wants us to be happy.”
“We are.” Terra doesn’t appreciate how he doesn’t sound confident, scared he’s assuming too much on her behalf. “How could he just…”
“We were stuck in darkness for so long and he couldn’t help us.”
“But that’s not his fault.”
“He feels he is the weakest and wants to compensate.” Aqua grimaces and she blinks back tears.
“I feel so guilty.”
“I feel worse.”
“Why?”
Aqua bites her lip. “I’m still attached to the idea of a small, intimate ceremony in the woods. Just the three of us. Does that make me a horrible person?”
“No. Our wedding has become a spectacle. Maybe pointing that out makes me terrible, too.”
She groans. “I found a book. I left it in your room. It’s very last minute, but there are some ancient rituals in there that I found so beautiful… the exchanging of rings is beautiful, too, but modern and there are some lost traditions from our Keyblade history that I’d love to do instead... if you could take a look?”
The way she smiles, stars. Ancient, modern, he’d do anything for her. “Sure. I’ll read it tonight.”
Aqua winces. “He’ll be so angry with us.”
Terra squeezes her hand. “He wants us to be happy. Think about that.”
One of the doors burst open, and Lea sticks his head out. “Kindly stop being an ass and don’t keep your guests waiting anymore?”
They start: Terra at one entrance, Aqua on the other, entering the ballroom at the same time, where guests will watch them approach one another, like the shadow of the moon to a star. They meet at the point where their lanes merge into one.
Terra offers his arm—
“Nonono,” Ven warns, running up to them. “You can’t meet her like this. You must bow at a forty-degree angle.” Ven scans the room frantically. “Here, I have a ruler.”
After that hiccup, Aqua finally takes Terra’s arm, walking down the single aisle, where guests can ogle at them. Their groomsmen and bridesmaids take pictures with their Gummiphones for their arrival at a wall of flowers.
Sora has his hands behind his head and snickers when they reach the end. “I made sure the carpet is ironed out so she doesn’t fall with you.”
“I’m going to kick you in the shins,” Terra says.
He snorts and wipes his nose. “I’ll kick you back.”
At the altar, Ven is too excited to stop rambling. “We have to make sure that you arrive here, at this spot, at exactly nine-thirty so we can finish the vows at ten because...” He frames the windows with his hands. “We’ve got a perfect spot for star sighting so we need to be on time.”
“Do you mean, right after the wedding ceremony?” Aqua asks.
“Before the reception, yup. We’re walking out to the balcony, we’ll watch the meteor shower where a new world will be born, then we’ll come back in for supper and dancing.” When he notices their stupefied faces, he continues, “I spent three weeks finding the right angulations so you can witness a unique astronomical event, and we’ve got a miracle of a spot right here so we can’t be late.”
“It’s a wonderful thought, Ven,” Aqua says, her voice shaky.
“Okay, now you get into position and face each other.” He points and they follow. “Next, Mickey and Minnie will talk some stuff, you know, all official, and then you say your vows.”
Terra freezes up. “Our vows.”
“Yeah. That’s what I said. You ready?”
Terra hesitates and Aqua speaks for him. “We’re keeping those a secret until tomorrow.”
Ven pauses, then shrugs. “Fair enough.”
Aqua doesn’t let Terra have another thought, leaning forward to kiss him in front of everyone (aahs and awws elicited), and ending the rehearsal.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
“How do you get your skin so clear?” Kairi asks, though the warm glow of the fire makes for spectacular lighting.
They’re camping in the woods near the waterfall, equipped with warm blankets and pillows, a bowl of cookies, and toasted marshmallows on sticks; Aqua’s vision of a bachelorette party. No gifts necessary.
“Mountain spring water does wonders for you,” Aqua says.
“I’ve read in a magazine,” Xion says, crawling out of her sleeping bag, “that some people like to put mud on their faces to get clean skin.”
“Why?” Naminé asks, chewing on a marshmallow.
“Something about the properties. Lots of good minerals.” She walks over to the creek, digging her hands into the dirt and smashing it into her face against the shocks and cries of the other girls. “If mountain water is good for you, then that must mean this mud is magical.”
“Is that true?” Kairi says, though she’s asking no one. She hurries over and joins in on the mud-mashing, running fingers over Xion’s face in places she’s missed.
With globs of mud in their hands, they bring over the excess to the camp.
Xion offers it to Aqua. “For beautiful skin on your special day?”
“It’s our job to pamper,” Kairi says with her hands out so that Naminé can scoop up the mud on her own.
Aqua tries not to chuckle too loudly. It’s adorable. “Okay,” she says, and Xion gets to work, massaging it into her skin. It smells unpleasant, earthy and mukky. She closes her eyes and tries to relax regardless.
“I think we’re supposed to keep it on our faces for at least a half hour,” Xion says, rubbing more on Aqua’s nose.
“This will make us prettier?” Naminé asks.
“Cleaner,” Kairi says.
Naminé blinks, already covered in the mud and hesitating to put on more. “But we look dirty,” she says quietly.
“Can I request something, Miss Aqua?” Xion says, patting her fingers onto Aqua’s forehead.
“Certainly.”
“Can you tell us the story of how Terra proposed?”
Kairi jumps and squeals, and Naminé claps her hands, both of them chattering please, please, we’re dying to know.
“We’re around a fire,” Kairi says, as if that’s a convincing argument. “We’re supposed to tell stories.”
“I feel bad for asking,” Naminé says. “You’re very private, and I don’t want to intrude…”
Aqua reads her face. “But you’re curious.”
Naminé pouts. Xion’s eyes go wide, and Kairi nods excitedly. Everyone is guilty as charged.
“It’s a simple story, I guess,” Aqua says, crossing her legs and watching the fire. It’s not often that she talks so openly about the details of her relationship. The two of them together is something people know, but never knowing where they come from and why, except for Ven—even then, there’s so much he never pries to. Watching their reactions is a little overwhelming. She rubs the stone on her ring. “Terra made the engagement ring with his own hands, but he took months to propose.”
“I remember that,” Xion says, sitting on her chair and smiling. “It annoyed Lea so much that he offered to set you both up just to get it over with.”
Aqua laughs. “I’m grateful we had it to ourselves.”
“Was it romantic?” Kairi asks.
“Not at all. I… knew he was up to something. I know him.” She lifts a shoulder. “He was burning breakfast too often, he couldn’t look me directly in the eye, and he left on his own to do more missions than usual. I took that as though he had done something wrong. The last time he was that clumsy and avoidant, it was because he accidentally cast Firaga in the library and was trying to hide it. Or when he broke the oven. Or when he offered to do my laundry but didn’t know how to treat my fabric and ruined my clothes.”
“He sounds like a clumsy oaf,” Kairi says.
That makes Aqua smile. She loves that oaf. “He is. The general rule of thumb is that a clumsy, avoidant Terra is usually hiding something.”
“So how did the proposal happen?” Naminé asks.
“I cornered him—”
Kairi snorts.
“—and he blurted it out.”
They giggle, Kairi acting out how that may have looked and Naminé holding her hands over her heart in a show of genuine affection.
Aqua smiles to herself, a finger to her lips. It might be her favorite memory, her standing her ground and demanding to know what was going on.
Terra, looking all around the terrace except for her face, guilty, guilty, guilty, pulling a box out of his pocket and stammering for a cohesive sentence. Well, I don’t know what to say, he had said, like a child getting grounded. I-I’m sorry. I’m dumb, I’m a big lump of a human being. He paused, his cheeks rounding up like he was about to vomit. Will…will you marry me, anyway?
It felt like racing in a train and pulling all the stops, crashing. He got red in the face, tears welling in his eyes and she realized he took her silence as rejection. Aqua had to hold his forearms, and all she could utter was a soft, I genuinely thought you burned down a building.
Terra’s eyes went wide. Do you mean you’re not mad?
Of course not. Why would I be?
So… He licked his lips, reaching for her but not touching her, forgetting that he had the box with the ring inside. What do you say? I mean, you don’t have to give me an answer straight away. I mean, I just thought you would… you know… because… He sighed. Yeah.
Aqua finally laughed, and kissed him on the cheek. Of course I will marry you, you beautiful dork.
The laughter quiets around the fire. They’re waiting for Aqua to continue her story.
“Then he drops the ring.”
They howl, melting into a blissful exchange of cheers and gossip, a vibrant hearth brighter than the one keeping them warm.
“I had hoped to propose first, actually,” Aqua continues. She shrugs. “The end.”
“That was beautiful,” Naminé says, wiping her eyes.
“If Sora hears about this, he’ll never leave Terra alone,” Kairi says, grinning something mischievous.
“I don’t know what love is supposed to look like,” Xion says thoughtfully, gazing at the sky. “But it sounds sweet.”
In Aqua’s opinion, the proposal was perfect, him scattered on the ground frantically searching for the ring, her on her knees helping him. How he slipped it on her finger, how they kissed for an hour in the dirt, unaware that they were dusty, unaware that anyone else existed in the world.
Aqua nods, mostly to herself. It aches to be away from Terra tonight but it burns her insides to see him tomorrow and finally do this. Aqua wants to sleep and get this night over with but she doesn’t want to sleep so she could see the sunrise, knowing he’d be up early watching the same thing.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Bachelor parties aren’t fun.
Sora is whooping about a cannonball, the water splashing when he makes contact. Ven and Roxas race to the lake, testing who will be the first to dive, the first to swim across and come back. Considering the expanse of the surface area, they’ll be gone for a while and the barbecue will get cold, but maybe it’s for the best. It’s not the right time to talk to Ven right now, not when all of them have a moment of fun (except for Terra, the only one here thinking about tomorrow). Lea and Isa prefer to relax, sipping drinks on their chairs by the lanterns erected onto the sand, speaking quietly about memories, about chores, about home and what ifs.
Terra sits by himself, the thin booklet Aqua gave him on his lap, tucked under layers of parchment. It’s titled The Way, no author. She was right: old Keyblade rituals are interesting, almost possessive, their focus on the literal binding of hearts. They’re from the Age of Fairytales, and Terra realizes as he reads through it that ancient Keyblade wielders were for some reason obsessed with the loss of memory and the prevention of it. The rituals sound painful, too—maybe Aqua has developed a mild taste of macabre from her time in the Realm of Darkness.
All Terra has left to do are his vows. His stupid, dorky-sounding vows. He should have accepted the simple, “I do.” He shouldn’t have waited until the last minute.
He’s tried dramatic.
You are my other half, my heart, my breath of life, my sky, my angel, can we keep our souls together?
He’s tried poetic.
The mountain will thirst if not for the water—
He’s tried being honest.
I don’t know why you love me, but I’ll do my best to make it up to you.
All dumb.
Terra groans into his hands, eyes wide in existential blunder.
“Keep doing that,” Riku says, setting a chair next to him and sitting down, “and you won’t be able to blink again.”
“I’m not finished.”
“But if you don’t sleep, then you’re more likely to have accidents.”
Terra gapes and almost whacks Riku on the side of the head from the sight of his constricted smirk. “You’re so mean. I called you one time.”
“In a huge panic talking about causing mass destruction of a wedding the worlds have never seen.” Riku shrugs nonchalantly. That’s his state of being—too cool for anything, too sensitive for everything. It’s refreshing. “It was the funniest phone conversation I’ve ever had.”
“I’ll never call you again.”
“Not in the middle of the night, please no.” Riku bites a forkful of steak. “Is it cliché to tell you to speak from the heart?”
“This entire conversation is cliché, but here I am, living it out.” Terra stares at his messy pages, where he pressed the pen so hard that it left ink blots.
“You could do the very committal thing and tell her you love her fifty times.”
“All the guests would leave by the time I reach twenty-five.”
“More like fifteen.”
“Ten.”
“Disaster.”
Terra grimaces, not entirely comforted, but not entirely anxious anymore, either. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
“It is a big deal, I’ll give you that,” Riku says, more serious. “I don’t have any advice.”
“None of it makes sense. Be honest, but not too honest. Be loving, but don’t make it cheesy. Express yourself, but hold back on certain things. Do make it personal. Don’t expose personal details. How am I supposed to know how to do it right?”
It would be easier if there are no witnesses. If it’s just Ven, if Aqua is the only person he’s talking to, if he could simply say, You’ve been my best friend for as long as I can remember. I know I’ve fucked up. For as long as I live, I’ll never do that again. I will never take your forgiveness for granted.
And if she doesn’t want to be with him anymore, there’d be nothing he could say to make her stay.
“I think if Aqua was the kind of person who expected you to do it right,” Riku says, looking out to the lake where Ven and Roxas are swimming back to their shore, “you wouldn’t be marrying her.”
Terra bends the pages, exposing the cover of the thin, leather bound booklet. There are no vows he could use in there, except for the officiator declaring their hearts intertwined. “Thank you,” he mumbles.
“Sorry I can’t be of more help.”
Riku pats him on the shoulder and leaves him alone to take a walk, Sora begging him to enter the water. Terra flips to a page where he’s repeated I love you, I love you all over, each in different calligraphy, like doodling, like losing his mind and procrastinating the night away, hoping that any moment, inspiration would drop bricks on him.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It’s time.
The strangest part of the day is waiting it out in her bedroom until it’s her turn to show herself. Over the years, her bedroom has been a reflection of her personality. The cleanliness, the artifacts from her home world long ago, the size of the bed, the furniture—they all stayed the same. What’s come and gone were the paint colors, the bedsheets, the art on the wall, the smaller vanity mirror. Her bedroom is her old life, and she sits in front of the mirror in her bride’s dress, about to start a new one. For now, they both collide, as though her childhood doesn’t know her.
The cape dress is simple, plain white with the neck scooped across the collarbone. The sleeves slit at the shoulders, draping over to the floor with the rest of the train. Aqua couldn’t have asked for something better. She completes the look with the ring, a jeweled hair pin on one side, and an armored choker. Makeup is minimal.
Aqua is surprisingly calm and the sun is going down.
Her Gummiphone buzzes with a text message.
Terra
Let’s do it
Aqua sighs, not texting back immediately.
Aqua
I don’t want to break Ven’s heart
Terra
I’ll talk to him
We can both get what we want
I already stole some flowers from the wall
Don’t think he notices
She chuckles, moving a hair strand behind her ear. She hasn’t noticed that her stomach has been a knot, from excitement, from nerves, from anticipation. The sun takes so long to set. Terra is the warmth of a tight blanket.
Aqua
Will this label me as a runaway bride?
Terra takes a long time to answer, giving her the impression that he must have been distracted and forgot to reply.
It buzzes.
Terra
The shame
Aqua
What will they think when they find out the groom seduced her to it
Terra
The scandal
when they hear how she met him secretly at the creek
an hour before the ceremony
It sounds like an action plan. Aqua picks up her bouquet of orange roses and bluestars from her vanity table, heading out the door.
Aqua
I want Ven there
Terra
Definitely
I love you
Aqua
I love you too
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Terra finds Ven in the dining room, taking inventory of an indulgement of sweets and a feast of meats, fritters, and rice. The wedding cake is as tall as his body, a dark blue with smacks of gold glitter in the shapes of galaxies, large stars framing each layer, and topped with two halos. Ven is mostly dressed in his vest and tie, the suit missing. By comparison, Terra is overdressed, a groom ready for his encore.
Ven sighs when he sneaks a cookie the shape of the Keyblade Master symbol into his mouth, as though Terra’s presence reminds him of disappointment.
“I couldn’t tame the cicadas,” he says morosely, like he’s apologizing, and for a moment Terra second-guesses what he’s about to do. Ven eyes the white rope curled around Terra’s shoulder. “What’s that for?”
“This may either cheer you up or piss you off,” Terra says, dropping The Way on the counter.
“I don’t like how you said that.” As Ven flips through pages, he frowns, chewing on the side of his lip. “Are you... not happy with the wedding preparations?”
Terra inhales, caught off guard. “Of course I am. Happy, I mean. It’s… huge. It’s a giant ordeal.”
“And you don’t like that,” Ven says quietly, stroking one of the pages with his thumb.
“I think there are things we’ve always wanted to have privately.” Terra sits on a stool, but Ven won’t look him in the eye. “And we want you to be there. We can do it now. We’ll be back in time for our guests.”
The booklet shakes in his hands. “I messed up.”
“From my point of view, I’ll be eating very well tonight. There’s nothing to compensate for.”
Ven closes the book. “I just wanted to do a good job.”
“If you allow Lea to slap you, he’ll forgive you.” Terra smiles, but Ven doesn’t join him. “We’re still doing your grand ceremony—that, we could never pull off on our own. But we also want something tiny and ours, and we won’t do this without you.” Terra takes Ven’s hand and squeezes it, before glancing at the cake. “I hope it’s delicious.”
“It’s disgusting so you’ll definitely like it.”
“See, I can always count on you.” Terra stands up. “Now come on. You wouldn’t want us to be late for the bride.”
Terra takes him to the creek, not far from where Aqua hosted her bachelorette camp, where the sound of rushing water is gentle and the creek splits into two directions, one that would drip off the side of a cliff and one that would join a massive river downstream. The trees huddle close in the clearing, a soft shadow from the fierceness of the setting sun, like a pocket of protective magic in the middle of the forest.
Ven gasps. “You stole my flowers.”
“Please, you didn’t even notice.” Terra had built an easy wooden arbor before the crack of dawn that morning, an arch weaved with orange and blue flowers, spotted every so often with green lilies. He showered right after so no one would suspect.
“Let’s take it over there.” Ven points to a short boulder against a tree nearby, a good photo op. They pluck the arbor up from both sides and plant it in front of the boulder. Ven takes stock of the sight. “Not bad.”
“Thanks!”
“I take credit for the choice of flowers.” Ven rolls the rope into a tight circle, layering it on the boulder with each loop in equal circumference. He splays the book open and studies. “It’s kinda creepy,” he says though he gets no response and he doesn’t ask for one.
Terra shoves his hands into the pockets of his tuxedo and waits. Aqua isn’t here yet. The vest constricts his breathing, the thicket suddenly feels humid, and Terra wipes his cheek, realizing that his heart is beating fast. Time sped up to this moment and dropped him here without warning. Now it’s slowing down out of pure, unjustifiable spite to torture him in the final hour.
“You okay, dude?” Ven asks.
Terra lifts his face to the sky to keep the tears in his eyes. “If I cry now, I think I’ll cry for the rest of the night.”
Ven snorts. “No one would be surprised, trust me.”
But it’s not working. He’s two seconds from sobbing. “I don’t know. I…” He scoffs. “I can’t believe it’s happening. I’m expecting her to never show up or brush me off last minute when she realizes what we’re doing—”
“No.” Ven approaches Terra like he’s about to punch him in the stomach to make a point. “Don’t think like that, she’d never do that.”
Ven has good faith and better timing. Aqua approaches the other side of the clearing, the fabric of her dress gracefully making waves with every step, the foliage fluttering light and shadow on her figure. She holds her bouquet in one hand and a framed photograph tucked under the other.
It shocks Terra.
He can’t stop the flow of tears. He covers his shivering lips and the drip of his nose, his face twisting from the sight of her—brilliant, like she’s made of stars, a gift walking the earth.
“Terra, are you okay?” Aqua asks, rushing to him now, the train of her dress bouncing behind her.
In the flash of an instinct, Terra runs to meet her, tripping over a branch and landing right into her arms.
“You’re—” Terra sucks air in, his heart shoving itself up his esophagus. “Y-you’re s-so beautiful.”
Aqua uses her pinky to wipe his tears. “So are you.”
“Let me help you.” He takes the frame—a portrait of the Master, bordered with a white ribbon—and walks her to the arbor. Ven takes the portrait and places it on the boulder, their little family tied together, fractured in glued pieces, now and always. Before they start, Terra asks Aqua to pose under the arbor so he can take a picture of the trees and the flowers surrounding her. Beautiful.
“How do we do this?” Terra asks when he finds his voice again, still trembling. Aqua stands to the side to take her place. She’s beautiful.
Ven takes the book in his hands. The description of this ritual covers at most two pages. “Well, it’s archaic. It’s from the Age of Fairytales but it sounds like we will intertwine your hearts—but in an intense way, like we’re sewing them together.”
Aqua holds her bouquet to her chest. “Shall we start?”
Terra chuckles too hard, gasping for breath. “Simple as that.”
They wait for Ven’s cue, who also has no idea how to do anything. Ven clears his throat, shrugs his shoulders, and reads:
“We witness today the soldering of two hearts. To intertwine like the roots of a tree, the severance painful, the nourishment plentiful. A physical bond, a magical one, the merging of two sprites under the guidance of one truth. Two hearts, but one.” Terra watches the way Aqua watches him. There’s no one else in the world, Ven’s voice disconnected, like it floats on air. “Now it says to summon your Keyblades. Dig the tips into the ground, and offer your hilts to each other.”
Ends of the Earth is massive, taller than Ven. Stormfall looks delicate but it’s menacing, sharp, direct. They offer their hilts, the shafts crossed over each other, Stormfall light and airy in his hand, Ends of the Earth weighty and thick in hers.
Terra finds it interesting that they’re using the hilt to connect each other’s hearts—the Keyblade should never be used against a person’s heart in traditional Mastery, because it’s such a dangerous weapon and it’s so violating. The blunt hilt, on the other hand, the physical manifestation of their hearts, is like exposure, an offer of vulnerability.
Aqua’s feels like it’s thrumming, singing. She’s happy.
Ven steps forward with the rope and ties it over the hilts in loops. “This is just an image, the ties that bind, two Keyblades, but one. To intertwine a heart is to forge a chain, a friend, a companion, a memory. If missing then a void, a dream, a wish until reunion.” He steps back into position. “Before we go on, I think this would be a nice place to say your vows. Terra, you first.”
Terra stammers, looking into her eyes. “I-I couldn’t write one. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Ven whispers, pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket. “I wrote some just in case.”
Terra doesn’t take it. He licks his lips. “It wouldn’t have been graceful. None of it—all of my thoughts—pale in comparison to you, Aqua.” He steadies himself with labored breathing, the squeeze on her Keyblade like a hold on her waist. “You’re so, so beautiful, and I’ve spent my days believing I don’t deserve you, because… because I couldn’t make things right like I should have.”
Aqua quivers, gently touching his arm with her free hand and motioning for him to breathe.
He continues, “I’m sorry. I wish the Master was here. I wish I was smart enough to prevent it from happening.” He inhales, choking up from the mention of Eraqus. “I never thought you would marry me of all people, so… I promise... I will be there every step of the way. I promise you, if you’re scared at night, I’ll be there to protect you. If you’re hurting in another world, I’ll come find you. If you’re confused, I’ll hold you close and help you make sense of it. I’ll brew you tea to help you sleep, I’ll step in the line of fire even if you wish to do the same for me, I’ll walk to the ends of the earth to make sure you are safe and healthy. I promise I’ll be with you.
“And I’ll mess up. I know me. I’ll fix it. If you want to clobber me, I’ll be patient. I’ll learn. I’ll do better. Every day you save me from myself. This is the least I can do. I’ve loved you since I was a kid. I’ll love you every day.”
Silence falls on all of them, Terra sniffing just to get some fresh air, Ven wiping his eyes, Aqua blinking too much.
“Now you, Aqua,” Ven says.
Despite being teared up, Aqua holds it together. She’s so good at that.
“Terra, I stand with you because I do want to be here. I do want to be by your side. I do want to laugh at your bad jokes.” She relieves a giggle. “I love you. I have for as long as I can remember, even if I didn’t know the words for it.” She studies his face. “I’m sure the Master is here with us, and he couldn’t be prouder of you. I’m proud of you.” Suddenly, she switches her tone, as if to lecture. “And if you even fathom taking a hit for me, remember that I’m faster than you. I’ll protect you first.” Then she softens. “I promise to be your shelter when the storm falls on us. I promise to sit on your bedside when you’re sick, to lift you up when you’re down about yourself, because you are sometimes.
“You are my home, no matter how far your heart is from me. If you need a star to light your way back, I’ll give it to you.” She smiles widely, like she’s about to laugh. “If something between us breaks, I’ll mend it with you. I can’t imagine my life any other way.”
Their words are now spoken. Aqua suppresses a laugh and grins like a child. Terra holds his breath, just in case he screams from every emotion that he can’t name.
“Well,” Ven says, rolling his sleeve up so he could wipe his nose on his forearm. “I guess it’s time. This bond is an oath you will remember each other until you close your eyes for the last time, for the tragedy to forget is to be alone forever. Do you accept this?”
“I do,” Terra says.
Aqua hums. “Yes, I do.”
Ven smiles. “You know what to do.”
With his free hand, Terra presses two fingers to his chest, over his heart, where he builds a golden glow. Twenty years living with her, ten years in darkness thinking about her, this vow is impossible to break—even if they can’t do this any longer, Terra could never forget her. Never. In his hand is now a piece of himself, a nugget of his heart, a memory of her in his bed that he never wants to lose.
He takes those fingers to her chest, two thick golden threads drawn out from his heart. She winces at the touch, quick to dissolve. Stormfall shifts in his hand, growing longer, its hilt thicker and darker, wrapping around like a weaved shield. A subtle change, a little piece of him.
Aqua does the same, fingers to her chest first to create the threads, bringing them to his chest. It does hurt, like a needle digging into his skin, sharp for the entire length until it’s suddenly gone.
He feels full, as though his insides are creating space for something extra. Warm, frightening, whole, exciting. Her piece is a memory he can’t read but he doesn’t need to. Ends of the Earth opens way for an icy blade to cut through the middle as the hilt fans out like wings. A piece of her to take with him where he goes.
“Alright,” Ven chirps, snapping the booklet closed. “The book ends with the quote, Two hearts, only one, but I think this means I can call you husband and wife in secret. So kiss.”
Their Keyblades dissipate when they hold each other, tender but with appetite, unaware of their surroundings for several selfish moments. With sewn threads, it’s as though he breathes through her. Terra presses her onto him, feeling how her heart now beats in sync with his.
“I love you,” she whispers. They are married.
He’ll never tire of hearing it. Stars, they are married. “I love you, too.”
Terra hears Ven sniff before a handkerchief is shoved into his face. “You need your face dry and clean before everyone sees you,” Ven says.
The sunset now is deep, a fiery orange. Terra doesn’t want to let go.
“I’ll hold you again tonight,” Aqua says, patting his chest. “I want to see the meteor shower Ven promised.”
“It’ll be a good one,” Ven assures.
Terra kisses her. “Then we have to make a run for it.” He picks Ven up like a log, jogging through the thicket of the forest with Aqua close behind him, the Master in her arms. When they approach the castle, in the twilight, they hear chatter coming from the halls, as though ghosts are partying outside.
Terra feels at peace despite that he now has to perform, balancing on a tightrope where he doesn’t care if he falls. He turns around and holds her neck to kiss her again, feeling her laughter in his mouth. “One more?” he asks when they break.
Ven, still tucked in Terra’s arm, groans. “I never asked for a front seat to the kissing show. Is this my punishment?”
Aqua kisses him one more time, whispering to him I love you for what will be a string of I love you’s in the night to come. Friends will cheer, Terra will trip on the way to the altar, Sora will cry because Terra will cry, Xion will eat too much cake and get sick, Isa will laugh because he is drunk, Kairi will be the star of the dance, Aqua will be the star in his eyes.
#terraqua#terra#aqua#ventus#terraqua week#kingdom hearts fanfiction#omg#this is finally out holy shiiiiiiiiit#i'm really proud of this one#reading through for edits#i impressed myself haha#my fic
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