#there are so many ~questions~ regarding bathing arrangements here
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Ebb and Flow- Prince Sidon x Reader
Rating: 18+ (MINORS DNI)
Fandom: The Legend of Zelda
Relationship: Prince Sidon x Reader
Summary: “I will not accept that all we’re meant to be are star-crossed lovers,” Sidon states passionately, his tone filled with a steady resolve, “I cannot accept it. Was it not here that I pledged myself to you? And you to me? Was it not here that we promised our hearts to one another? Aren’t we more than just crossing tides?”Sidon is given earth shattering news. His duty as a Zora Prince outweighs all else. But how can he accept that when his love for you is so deep?
Tags: Female Reader, Smut, Angst, PIV, Semi-Public S*x, Outdoor S*x, Oral S*x, Shark Anatomy, Established Relationship, Star-crossed Lovers, Romance
Read here in this post or over on my AO3
DISCLAIMER: TOTK SPOILERS, 18+
Sidon wonders if he had spoken too softly. He expected some sort of reaction from you, even if it wasn’t a dramatic, soul-wrenching one. But your silence comes as a shock to him. Your unreadable gaze penetrates him from where you’re seated by the window in your quarters. Quarters he had specifically modified to house a Hylian such as yourself. Just for you. Fashioned to house you for what he thought would be forever. From the luxurious water bed on one side, where the two of you have shared so many passionate nights, to the cozy, crackling fireplace on the other- it’s all been for you, and him, and what he thought would be your future together.
“Y-you what?” you finally manage, confirming to Sidon that it wasn’t that you didn’t hear him, but that you couldn’t believe what he’d said. He hadn't wanted to tell you until he returned from his diplomatic mission, but he couldn't keep it a secret from you. Sidon's words stick to his throat. They feel barbed, razor-like, cutting his tongue on their way out.
“My father has decided- He’s arranged my marriage,” Sidon repeats, words seeping from his mouth like blood. But he tastes nothing when his tongue grazes over his lower lip, checking for a fresh wound. Still, he tastes metal, haunting and sharp. You’re bathed in moonlight, a silver gloss draping elegantly over your skin. Tonight, you appear to Sidon like an ethereal ghost, distant and untouchable, a curiously beautiful and captivating goddess. Like the moon delivered you to him and has come back this night to steal you away.
“Not only has my father found who he considers to be a ‘suitable match’ for me, but he’s arranged the date of our meeting,” Sidon goes on, wanting to fill this deeply uncomfortable silence with something, anything, “Of our marriage.”
He trails off, glancing down at his feet and willing himself not to shed the tears that are stinging his eyes. He’s always known there was a risk that his marriage would be arranged. You aren’t Zora, you’re not royalty. It was a small chance that King Dorephan would even consider you in the running to marry Sidon. Your duty to Hyrule and Sidon’s duty to his people were always meant to clash. But he never thought it would be something to worry about this soon. His father’s decision to step down from the throne came as a shock, and the decision regarding Sidon’s marriage that much more shocking.
Your silence is killing him, gnawing at his insides, anxiety running rampant in his mind. Say something, anything. Please, he silently begs.
“When?” is all you’re able to question through your stupor. The look he gives you is grave, crestfallen.
“In less than a fortnight,” he almost whispers. He watches as your eyes fall slowly shut, as you clench your fists, your jaw. Every part of you tenses, but not out of anger. You take a deep breath and Sidon can tell you’re trying to hold in your tears. But when you exhale, they start to roll down your cheeks, dripping freely to the floor beneath. Droplets of pure moonlight shimmering as they fall. He rushes to you, scoops you into his arms, your small, Hylian form fitting so perfectly in his embrace.
“I fought for us,” Sidon continues, as if he needs to prove to you that his love is genuine. As if you didn’t already know. Your shuddering sobs into his shoulder seem to shake the very foundation beneath you.
“I fought so hard for us,” he whimpers, holding you closer, tighter, as if he were to let go, the moon would finally take you back to your celestial throne, “But my father wouldn’t agree. He wouldn’t- No matter how much I protested. How much I argued and debated-”
“It’s okay,” you manage through tears, littering Sidon’s face with kisses, “I know you fought. I know you tried as hard as you could.”
Sorrow blooms in every facet of your irises as you stare into Sidon’s gilded ones. If his heart hadn’t shattered in its entirety before, it certainly does now. He opens his mouth to say more, but he realizes he’s not even sure what he wants to say. He can’t reassure you. He can’t even reassure himself.
A knock at your door pulls him begrudgingly from this private moment. An attendant calls out to him, "Your Highness, we should leave before it gets much later."
“They can wait,” Sidon speaks, turning back towards you, not wanting to leave you after such devastating news. You smile softly, shaking your head.
“No they can’t, my darling,” you gently return. He knows it, you know it. His royal duties, his people must always come first. You’ve never quibbled with him about this, something he deeply admires about you.
Sidon presses a deep, lingering kiss to your lips. He can taste the salt of your tears, the salt of his own. He hadn’t even realized he’d shed any until the soft pads of your thumbs wipe them from his cheeks. He gazes at you underneath his furrowed brow, memorizing the features of your lovely face. If you dissolve into moonlight while he’s gone, he would never forgive himself for not kissing you one last time.
“Wait for me,” he breathes when he pulls back, “We'll figure this- something out.” You nod, leaning your forehead against his and closing your eyes. Desperately, Sidon wishes he didn’t have to leave. Not in the middle of such an important conversation.
“I should be no more than a few days,” he promises, giving you one final kiss before he wrenches himself from you and reluctantly slips out of your room. He doesn’t dare look back, knowing your melancholy gaze will destroy him if he does.
***
Sidon's diplomatic meeting with the Rito was a success, though it was mostly just a formality. The Zora and Rito are already on quite friendly terms, so he wasn't too concerned in the first place. The entire trip, however, his mind was preoccupied with you, with marriage, with grief. He's mulled over every possible solution. He contemplates further arguments with his father, knowing full-well that he won’t win them. But for you, it’s most certainly worth a try. He thinks about running away with you, eloping under the light of the moon, starting a new life on some remote island, far away from everything. But he knows he couldn’t leave his people behind, and he is certain that you won’t let him. Sidon could refuse to marry anyone at all, but that would mean he couldn’t be with you. But wouldn’t it be better to live his life alone if he can’t live it with you?
These thoughts swirl endlessly around his mind, a vortex of confusion and possibility. Nothing seems right. He loves you. No one else. He can’t imagine loving someone else. Or growing to love someone else. Up until now, Sidon has imagined spending the rest of his life with you. Of proposing marriage to you, in the customary Hylian fashion. Starting a family together, running the Zora kingdom together. Growing old with one another. Nights spent gazing up at the stars, held close in one another’s arms. Mornings waking up in your warm embrace.
With his father’s decision, all hope Sidon had of making a life with you has been dashed. On his journey home, he tries to come up with some sort of solution, but as the Zora kingdom draws nearer and nearer, the Prince frustratingly comes up with nothing useful.
***
An attendant greets Sidon on the bridge leading into the palace, handing off a small slip of paper before dashing off again. The Prince unfolds the note, recognizing your handwriting immediately. “Meet me in our usual spot,” it reads, followed by a small heart and the first letter of your name. Sidon politely excuses himself from his fellow travelers and bolts off to meet you, hoping that you haven’t been waiting long for him.
By the time Sidon reaches Toto Lake, the moon is hovering high in the night sky, casting swathes of silver light across all of Hyrule. Its reflection wavers on the surface of the lake as Sidon’s keen eyes search for you. He spots you in the lake’s center, gliding through the water, every stroke disrupting the liquid mirror around you. The lake appears to envelope your form, encompassing you almost lovingly. Toto holds so many memories for Sidon. It’s where he sought solace after his sister’s passing. Where he found peace during the devastating years that Calamity Ganon reigned. The temperate waters have provided shelter in his most distressing times. It’s also where Sidon first pledged himself to you, promising his heart to you. And where you promised yours to him. A sacred, secret promise.
Sidon watches you for a moment. You cling to the crumbling ruins in the lake’s center, gazing up at the distant, twinkling stars above, not seeming to have noticed him yet. Crickets chirp in harmony with the nearby ribbits of hot-footed frogs, hiding stealthily amongst the scattered lily pads near the shore. Sidon wonders if this is the last time he’s ever going to see you, a thought that pierces his heart like a vicious barb. He can’t help but notice the pile of bags and personal items that you’ve left in the nearby clearing, like you’re prepared to travel a great distance.
Sidon is pulled from this painful thought when you wave to him, having finally noticed him lingering there. He waves back, somewhat apprehensive, but collects himself before diving into the lake. Sidon swiftly cuts through the water, desperate to reach you, the red of his fin cresting the surface of the lake. He wonders if he’ll reach you in time before the moon summons you home again.
“My darling,” you exhale as he reaches you, pulling you into his embrace and holding you close. You cling to Sidon, the gentle thrum of your heart against his chest reinvigorating him after his long journey home. Why do you puzzle-piece so perfectly into his form? It seems like a cruel, cosmic joke that you would fit so neatly, so completely in Sidon’s arms.
“You’re leaving?” he questions, pulling back to meet your sorrowful gaze. Gently, his large hand cups your cheek, one thumb smoothing over your soft skin. You lean your head to the side, letting your eyelids flutter shut as you press a tender kiss into the palm of his hand.
“I must,” you state just barely above a whisper, a quiver in your voice that threatens to shatter Sidon’s already fragile calm, “I heard word around the palace that your bride-to-be arrives tomorrow.”
This is news to Sidon, news that washes waves of vertigo and anxiety over him. They threaten to drown him, pummel him into the silt and sand until he is nothing more than a smoothed over shell, tossed about in the surf. Sidon steadies himself, taking a deep breath, using your pleasant scent, your warmth as an anchor to this moment. Your cheeks are flushed and when you open your eyes once again, Sidon can tell that you’ve been crying, though you shed no tears in front of him. He wants to beg you to stay, to beseech the moon above and bargain that you might grace him just a little longer with your presence. What would it take for the heavenly bodies to allow you just a few hours longer with him?
“I will not accept that all we’re meant to be are star-crossed lovers,” Sidon states passionately, his tone filled with a steady resolve, “I cannot accept it. Was it not here that I pledged myself to you? And you to me? Was it not here that we promised our hearts to one another?”
“Aren’t we more than just crossing tides?” he finishes. You contemplate this for a moment, before leaning your forehead against his. Beneath the cool sheen of water on your skin, Sidon feels the heat of your blood flowing strong through your veins. Your strength, your poise in this painful time serves as an example to him. He is always put together, always princely and regal. You let him fall apart, without judgement. Sidon can feel his composure fracture at your next words.
“I think we come from the same ancient waters,” you begin, your hands coming to rest on either side of his face, “In some primordial sea, we rode the same tides. Perhaps someday, we shall again. But maybe this time around, we are only meant to flow together briefly, before we part.”
“This cannot be,” Sidon whispers, voice wavering and tears beginning to roll down his cheekbones,“I feel your spirit ebb and flow inside of me. You inhabit me in a way that no one else ever has.”
“I am with you, always. My soul is woven into every fiber of your being. And yours, mine,” you return, and with your exhale, warm tears flow from your bright eyes, “Sidon, I love you, body and soul.”
He can take no more. Sidon crashes his lips into yours, feverish and desperate. You drape your arms over his shoulders, press yourself tightly to him. Perhaps the gracious moon will allow the two of you to merge, to live out the remainders of your lives as one being, one body, one soul.
You wrap your legs around his waist, resting on his narrow hips while he grips your supple thighs. You’re bare to him already, your naked form bathed in silver moonlight. You are glorious, mesmerizing. A bright star, fallen to earth so that Sidon might marvel at your beauty, your mystery before you ascend to your place carved out in the heavens once again.
Sidon can feel his arousal growing as you palm his bulge, claspers pressing against his sheathe. Your warm tongue languidly explores his mouth, breath fanning softly against him. His hands smooth over your slick curves, worshipping every part of you. He commits the plushness of your body to memory, stores your soft moans and tiny gasps so that he might recall them later, in his loneliest hours. The way you breathe his name is holy and nearly brings him to his knees.
“My darling, my pearl,” he whimpers pathetically as you trail kiss after searing kiss along his jawline and down his neck. Your teeth leave their bittersweet marks in his flesh, his talons dragging down your back, agonizing and delightful all at once.
"I will bear your marks for all of time,” he announces, voice husky and low, “And know that I am yours, and you are mine."
“I am yours always. Sidon,” you coo, hand massaging torturously slow over his painful bulge, “In this lifetime, and the next. In all that we should ever exist in together. And even those that we do not.”
Sidon’s fingers tangle in the wet strands of your hair, tugging as he tilts your head so he can have better access to the tender spot of flesh behind your ear. He luxuriates in the lyrical moans that flutter from your lips as he nibbles and sucks at your sensitive skin. His warm tongue drags along your neck, goosebumps appearing in his wake. Your excitement fuels him, thrills him like nothing else does. His fingers find his way to your slick folds, running its length, dousing himself with you.
He can’t contain himself any longer, his claspers freeing themselves from their sheathe. You're quick to grasp one, pumping slow and rhythmic.
“Sidon, please, allow me,” you entreat, your doe-eyed glance up at him only spurring on his arousal. He releases his grip on you, gently setting you back in the water and letting you push him onto a nearby ledge of the ruins. If his people saw him now- oh, the very thought. How un-princely of him- an idea that inexplicably excites him. Prince Sidon- always so put together. Always so collected and proper. Prince Sidon- with the lips of a Hylian warrior, a celestial goddess, around one cock and her hand wrapped around the other.
Your tongue swirls around his swollen tip, making him throw his head back in overwhelming pleasure as you doubly stimulate him. Your hand strokes him at one speed, while your mouth works at another, before you fall into a rhythm with both. Every once in a while, you pause to lick a stripe up either shaft, before diving back in once again. Desperate to have you near, Sidon weaves the fingers of your free hand with his own and grips tight. You squeeze back, letting him know you’re still present, though you seem happily preoccupied with both of his cocks.
“Oh, you work miracles, my love,” he groans, chest heavy with pleasure. He stays your hand, lets you work with just your mouth on one of his claspers. It would bring him no greater pleasure than to come inside you, he explains.
“Your wish is my command, my prince,” you impishly return, mischief glinting in your eyes. You only ever call him, “Prince,” in court, when you have to be more formal. Or in private, when you want to tease him. An electric pulse runs through the length of Sidon’s body at your devilish gaze. You grasp his thighs, nails digging into his flesh. The sensation sends waves of pleasure through him. As your head bobs up and down, Sidon tries his best not to buck his hips into you, but it’s so very difficult. The coil in his core tightens, threatening to snap at any moment. And when it finally does, you help him ride out the electrifying pulses of his first orgasm that night.
***
A burst of salt hits the back of your throat. Bright brine graces your tongue. Your chest feels warm as you swallow, like your body is trying to imbue itself with Sidon. Like you're trying to weave him into every fiber of your being. His ragged breath is music to your ears as you slide your mouth off him. With a wet pop you release him, a string of spit connecting him to you. A connection tenderly wiped away by one of Sidon’s massive thumbs. When you glance up at him, his eyes are dark with lust, slitted pupils wide in pools of molten gold. Sidon’s cheeks are rosy and his body temperature warm, so very warm compared to his usual chill.
You hardly have a moment to catch your breath before Sidon draws you up to him, smashing his lips against yours. Your nails dig into the hard muscles of his back, his streamlined body pressed so deliciously against yours. Your heat is throbbing, every ounce of you heavy with arousal. Carefully, Sidon flips you over, laying you ever so gently on the slab of rock beneath. Your head is cradled by some of the snaking ivy growing on these ancient ruins. Sidon gazes down at you, eyes glimmering in the night. His look is one of curiosity, awe. Though he’s seen you bare to him so many times before, he looks at you like it’s the first time.
“I am at your mercy,” he hushes, sweeping strands of your hair out of your face, before leaning down to tenderly press his lips to yours. He lays kiss-upon-kiss over your cheeks, down your neck, along your collarbone. Featherlight, he trails his lips down your chest, suckling gently on each of the pert buds of your nipples. His sharp teeth graze them softly before he makes his way down your abdomen. His hands knead your hips, cup and massage your breasts as his mouth reaches your heat. He wouldn’t dare tease you, but he can’t help nibbling at your thighs a bit, leaving little love-bites in his wake. After a moment of reveling in your plush inner-thighs, Sidon turns his attention to your pussy. His tongue is languid, warm, as he drags it along your folds. The moan that escapes your lips is salacious. You hear Sidon growl with excitement. He flicks his gilded gaze up at you before he softly kisses the sensitive nub of your clit.
Sidon dives into you, lapping up your arousal like it’s his lifeblood. Like he simply cannot survive without the taste of you. He savors you, tongue slowly circling your clit, testing your entrance. You squirm under the firm grasp he has on your hips, bucking into him, causing him to chuckle at your eagerness. He hoists your legs over his broad shoulders, burying his head deeper into you. Sidon drinks you in like he’s parched. With each of your tiny mewls, you feel Sidon’s happy hums reverberating through your body.
“Sidon, please,” you whine, smoothing one hand over the sleek fin atop his head, “I need to feel you in me.”
He withdraws, the cool night air hitting your overheated folds surprising you. You gasp at its harshness, but Sidon is quick to replace the loss of heat with his hand, palming your sensitive pussy. When his lips meet yours, he tastes of you.
“My darling, I’m yours. Entirely, completely. Every part of me. All parts of my soul,” he promises, his voice filled with conviction, with an aching passion.
“I am yours, Sidon,” you return, breathless and longing, “Forever and always.”
Tenderly, he spreads your legs, letting you wrap them around his waist, placing a large hand on the small of your back to help angle you. The stars overhead seem so close, so clear, like you’re encompassed in an endless dome of them.
“Are you ready, my love?” Sidon asks, his cheeks flushed, breaths laborious. You nod enthusiastically, more than ready for him. He’s so slick, he slips into you with more ease than you expect. But he’s so big, you can feel him stretching out your entrance. He goes slow, gentle, allowing you ample time to adjust. Every few moments he asks if you’re alright. You stabilize yourself, arms slung around his chest, hands resting on his sinewy back. He’s cool to the touch, a sheen of water over his skin.
With one of Sidon’s cock’s inside you, the other rests against your stomach. It’s hard again already, having recovered fast from your earlier ministrations. You grasp it gently, pumping rhythmically with Sidon’s rocking motions. A sultry moan falls from his lips at this double stimulation.
Sidon grinds slow and shallow for a while, before pressing deeper into you. You let go of the clasper resting against your stomach, allowing it to rest against you. With every pump into you, Sidon’s cock presses against the soft pad of your cervix. The pleasure is intense, your body quivering with each voltaic charge Sidon pulses into you. The heat generated between you is overwhelming, your bodies trying so desperately to merge into one. Your fingernails dig into his back, his talons into your thighs. Sidon buries his head into the crook of your neck, suckling little bruises, marking you. He delights in the way your breasts bounce with every motion.
Goddess, please, let the moonlight fuse us into one, he begs, but he knows this cannot be. The two of you try your very best to do it yourselves.
As Sidon grinds into you, the grip you have on his back prompts him to pick up his pace.
“My darling, my pearl,” he manages to whisper, his breathing heavy, “You are, and always shall be, the light of my life.”
“You are my moon, my stars, my light in the darkness,” you return, voice constrained by the taut coil in your core. Your walls quake around Sidon’s quivering cock.
“Ha,” he huffs, pounding harder into you, “So close, my darling.”
And so are you, but you can’t speak. For a moment later, the straining coil in you springs loose. Sidon’s name echoes through the clearing, a prayer in this ancient water temple. You cream around Sidon’s cock as he falls apart, his pace erratic as his hot cum fills your cunt. You feel even more paint your stomach, threads coating your abdomen from his other cock. Sidon calls out your name, a hymn to match yours. Sidon wonders if the moon hears the adoration, the infinite love in his voice. You know it does.
When you’ve milked him for everything he’s worth, when he’s spent himself entirely inside you and on you, you pull Sidon down, crashing your lips into his. Feverishly, the two of you press kiss after kiss to one another, heated and yearning. You let the silence wash over you, grateful for the cool night breeze on your overheated bodies. After a while, Sidon gently pulls out of you, cock slick with your combined efforts. He pulls you into his embrace, cradling you in his arms. You belong here, enveloped by him. Enveloping him. How could the Goddess be so cruel to make you fit so perfectly, only to take you away from him?
“Leave in the morning,” Sidon begs, pressing a small kiss to the corner of your lip, “Please, stay one more night. Besides, it’s not safe.”
You shake your head, a rueful smile on your lips and sorrow in your eyes, “If I don’t leave now, it’ll be that much harder for me to leave tomorrow. And don’t worry, Zelda has sent forth people to retrieve me. They’ll be here within the hour. I’ll be okay.”
Sidon’s heart can’t drop anymore, but if it could, it certainly would. He’s not sure what he expected to feel after everything that’s happened. The depth of his melancholy is too great for him to understand at the moment. It will take time for him to process. He doesn’t feel numb. No, instead he savors your embrace. He holds you close, littering your face with kisses, gently stroking your back while you rub small circles into his. If he could live in this moment forever, he would.
A horn blows in the distance, drawing the two of you out of your tender sanctuary in time. In the distance, you see lights on the bridge of the palace. It’s a Hylian caravan of guards, no doubt from the palace. No doubt sent here for you. You cling to Sidon’s back as he swims the two of you to shore.
“I wish you could whisk me away on your back. I wish we could just keep swimming and not look back,” you murmur to him, laying a gentle kiss on his fin.
“I do, too,” is all he can manage, trying so very hard not to shed any more tears. You dress quickly and Sidon helps you gather all your things. These are your last moments together. The bitter sweetness sticks in Sidon’s chest, viscous like tree sap, clinging to his ribs. Hand-in-hand you walk back down the cliff side and make your way to the bridge. Just out of sight of the Hylian caravan, you pull Sidon aside and lay your lips against his one more time. Your kiss is passionate and conveys every immense bit of your love for him. He hopes you can feel the same from him.
When you pull back, your eyes are filled with adoration. And his with sorrow and love. You smile softly.
"The sea will carry us to one another,” you begin, tears trickling down your cheeks, “Time and again. I will find you in the next life, where our tides will be one and the same."
Sidon leans his forehead against yours, allowing his tears to fall freely.
“My heart belongs to you, always,” he breathes, “You reside in me, sheltered and safe.”
“You will always find a home in my heart,” you return, pressing one final kiss to his lips. Your hand lingers in his for a moment, before it slips from his grasp. Prince Sidon of the Zora watches your form grow smaller and smaller on the horizon, before it disappears behind the cliff sides, and he is left alone once again.
A/N: Okay, don’t get me wrong, I actually think Lady Yona is adorable and I have all sorts of plans for some OC/Sidon/Link/Yona headcanons and drawings. But I couldn’t resist writing some Sidon/Reader angst!!!!!! Oh gosh, if I ever decide to do a follow up, there's just too many good options. a) Sidon refuses the arranged marriage and declares that he's marrying you, against his father's wishes b) Sidon decides to runaway with you and you live out the rest of your lives on a secluded island c) Sidon goes through with the marriage and you go your separate ways or, perhaps my favorite option, d) you, and Sidon, and Link, AND Yona become a happy little polycule because that would be adorable and wonderful (and I've said it before, but I'll say it again, if you know me, you know I love anything poly!!!!!!) Thank you so much for reading! This was a delight to write, though it definitely filled me with a lot of sadness. As always, likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated! Hope you are all doing amazing! Lots of love 💜
#the legend of zelda#prince sidon#totk spoilers#sidon x reader#prince sidon x reader#loz: botw#Loz: totk#spicy#lemon#angst and smut#dani writes#my writing#loz fanfiction
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Behind Closed Doors - Part V
AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41825796/chapters/107173545
Roommate!Loki x Reader
Summary: You and your roommate, Loki, have come to a mutual arrangement. But as time passes by, you can’t help but wish for it to be more.
Warnings: angst - honestly, I think this is all there is
I apologize for the wait but here it finally is! We’re almost to the end, my loves! And I hope y’all stay for the finale.
As always, your comments and likes are highly appreciated. Reblogs would make me the happiest as it would share the weird love story of these two haha.Thank you once again and know that I love every one of you 💚
Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV
For days, your mind has been in a constant haze. As if in a state of limbo, uncertain whether you should talk to Loki about what transpired at the cafe or remain silent as you have been before that fateful day. You choose the latter, for you no longer desire to have any more heartaches to ensue and after seeing the black eye and bruise on Loki’s cheek after bumping into him the morning after in the kitchen, you’re glad about the decision you’ve made.
It even makes you scoff at how childish both men have been. Though you blame Steve for being nosey altogether and Loki goading him doesn’t make him innocent either.
They keep their distance, all the same, something you are thankful for yet still make the effort to avoid them. Blocking Steve’s number the same night and ignoring Loki when you see him in passing, making it clear to him that you do not wish to be within his orbit.
You no longer fear or worry about his presence but the pain has been your regular companion throughout the days. Loki’s words still echo in your head that you would find yourself in a daze at the most inconvenient moment, at work, in the kitchen—that cost you burning an egg, even during your baths, that it only urges you to keep scrolling through the list of rentals on your browser.
You’ve changed your routine once more. But this time, you revert back to when you were living alone. You still leave the coffee pot warm, not wanting to fresh grounds to go stale but gone are the days of you slaving away in the kitchen just to prepare him a meal. You still make one, but only for yourself to take to work. And at times, you’d not prepare anything at all, opting to purchase at the cafe or the convenience store close to your office building.
And your weekend, you filled them with viewing schedules. Waking up early to meet the homeowners and check the units they offer. You even found yourself perusing the furniture store, being a constant window shopper at IKEA, and dreaming of the amenities you wish to decorate your future home.
You wake up late Monday morning, calling Maria and texting Sam to tell them that you’ll be doing a half-shift for the day. One of the apartments you’ve been eyeing for a while has finally called the night before and agreed to let you view the place the following morning. And with so many positive reviews you’ve seen about the building, in regards to location and accessibility, even with how friendly the neighbors are, you’re not passing up the opportunity.
All dressed in work clothes and with your purse in your hand, you look down at your phone to check the time. Loki is home. But it’s late enough for him that you’re banking on the fact that he’s already gone to bed. You don’t want him asking questions as to why you’re leaving later than usual, you don’t even plan on telling him that you’re moving until your final week in the apartment. It’s a douche move, you have to admit. Constantly berated yourself about the insensitivity especially when so much would be at stake, but you’re done thinking of others, of him.
Besides, you’ve kept aside some rent money to help him get by for a month. That would be enough, right?
When you hear no sound coming from the main room, you quietly open your bedroom door and make your way to the front of the apartment. But the aroma of freshly brewed coffee takes you by surprise, making you look at the kitchen to see the machine lit and the pot half full. But what surprises you even further is the sight of your lunch container sitting on the kitchen counter.
You walk towards it, curious as to why it’s out then blink when you see it full through the transparent lid. Pasta, and a side of chicken taking up the space. Your eyes then take notice of the sheet of paper tucked underneath. Placing your purse atop the counter, you take the sheet, your heart constricting when you read the inscription.
I took the liberty of preparing your meal for the day.
You’ve done it for me so many times, I want to return the favor.
I’m sorry if it’s only now that I’m doing this.
I hope you have a great day today at work, Darling.
Always Yours,
Loki
It’s the first time he’s made contact with you since that night and you will yourself not to cry as you stare down at the letter. But such efforts are a lost cause as the words blur in your vision, the tears flowing freely down your face. Your hands shake and you have to lean against the counter to compose yourself. The note brings back all the emotions you’ve felt since the night he confessed his feelings to you and more from the past.
You want to forgive him. You really do. To bury the hatchet and start anew. You still love him for god’s sake but you don’t know where to begin, how to even begin. You’re still too broken to take that step and there’s a small voice in your head that continuously tells you that he’s crossed the line, that what he’s done has created more damage than could possibly be fixed over another conversation.
Yet a small smile forms on your lips as you look down at his note once more then at the food he’s prepared. You fold the paper in half and tuck it in your purse. Wiping the tears from your cheeks with the back of your hand, you head over to the pantry to take out your lunch bag and stuff the container inside before grabbing a thermos to fill it with hot coffee.
You’re thankful for his effort and you’re not stupid nor heartless to put it all to waste.
-
“The living room is attached to the kitchen. The washer and dryer are just at the end of the counter and you have a kitchen island that also serves as a dining table if that’s alright with you.”
You nod as Jonah, the unit owner, shows you around the apartment, hand gesturing to the rooms he’s mentioned and following him like a lost cat through the wooden flooring.
You look around the place and notice that it’s much smaller than the apartment you share with Loki. A one bedroom and bath with a balcony attached and the kitchen and living room furnished with the necessities. Your eyes then land on the single armchair sitting at the side of the coffee table, and you cannot help but think about the one back at your place, the one Loki has claimed for himself. And all of a sudden, you imagine him sitting on the furniture. Mug in hand, wearing that black Henley shirt you love on him while he looks at you with a smirk playing on his lips.
You blink away your thoughts and divert your eyes from the couch, your mind running in circles and hearing yet not listening to what Jonah is saying as he shows you the bathroom and then the bedroom. “It has a walk-in closet and my wife said it’s something most young women like to have.” He comments with a chuckle and you smile at him if only to be polite, walking into the room when he pushes the door wide and humming in approval of its coziness.
There’s a queen bed in the middle, similar to the one you have and your mind begins playing with you once more as the image of Loki sleeping on the bed fills you. His toned back moving between the sheets and duvet as he breathes and his raven hair fanned around the pillow under his head, looking peaceful in his state of slumber. You force yourself to look away, almost bumping into Jonah as you scurry out of the room.
You feel a shiver run up your spine and your chest tightening as you clutch on the armchair tightly. Your eyes scan the place, looking for something to keep you grounded but everywhere you look, all you see is him. Loki cooking in the kitchen with a wide smile on his face. Him watching the game on the television while he cheers on his favorite team. Loki standing on the balcony, looking out at the view and casting a perfect silhouette as the sunset before him.
You don’t understand what is happening to you, why images of Loki continue to appear. You wanted to move out to get away from him, to leave the pain behind, yet he continues to plague you, haunt you, even in this place where you knew he couldn’t follow.
You feel a hand rest on your shoulder and immediately flinch, moving away from the culprit and almost instantly feeling ashamed when you look up to see Jonah with his hands up in defense, his blue eyes full of concern as he takes a step back.
“My dear, are you alright? Do you need to sit down?” He asks and you look around to get a grip on reality, giving him a nod as you move to sit on the couch.
“I—I'm fine.” You stutter your response. “Just—the nerves. Moving and all.” You lie.
“I understand.” He smiles at you but the look on his face tells you that he doesn’t believe you. “I know moving isn’t all that easy.” He says as he walks over to the balcony and slides the door open. You inhale deeply as the cool autumn breeze blows in and brushes against your face. “Do you have any questions about the place? Any concerns?” He asks as he takes a seat on the armchair, his ankle resting above his knee as he leans against the arm of the seat.
“Uhhh—” God you feel like a fool. Ever since imagining Loki on the armchair, your mind wasn’t fully focused on the tour. Too busy questioning why your mind continues to conjure images of him. “Not really.” He chuckles and you look down at your hands in embarrassment.
“Very well. If you don’t mind, I do have a question for you.” You look up at him. “More like a screening question really but might I ask why you’re wanting to move? What of the place you have now? Bad landlord?”
You look down at your hands once more as you rub them against your thighs, a soft sigh leaving your lips as you think of what to tell him but only coming up with the real reason you decided to move out in the first place. To run away. “My roommate hasn’t been the best to live with lately.” It’s not entirely a lie but it’s not the whole truth either.
“I see.” You hear him hum. “But they savory enough to live with before? What changed?”
You sigh. “—so many things.” And it shocks you at how open you’re being with this stranger.
He doesn't know you and you don’t know him either. You could easily refuse to answer his questions and just end the viewing all at once. But with how he’s looking at you and how soft he speaks, the timbre of his voice almost dampening the tension that surrounds you, you can’t help but feel at ease and feel the desire to let out all your frustrations.
You haven’t spoken to anyone about what happened to you and Loki. There’s no one to tell. Not even your best friends for not only have you not found the time to inform them of the ongoings of your life, but you don’t want to pester them with the woes of your heart. With how pathetic of a drama your life has reached. Yet here’s this man, probably old enough to be your dad, giving you something akin to support that you didn’t know you desperately needed.
“Have you talked to them about it?”
“Huh?”
“Have you told them why you no longer find them bearable to live with?”
“I don’t— I—” You stutter and he chuckles lightly at your confusion.
“You should talk to them. Iron out any wrinkles before you move.” He says, his fingers tapping against his shin as he keeps his eyes on you.
“Why? Wouldn’t leaving be better to avoid any bad blood?”
“Do they know you’re leaving?” You shake your head to the negative. “Then that would cause even more bad blood and life is too short to make enemies.” He speaks as if he’s taking from experience. “And running away doesn’t really solve anything.” He adds and your eyes widen at his comment, feeling vulnerable with how much he’s reading into your emotions. “Not that we wouldn’t want you to rent our place, that would be marvelous actually. But if you don’t clear things out before you move, then you’re just bringing your problems wherever you go.”
“I never said I was running away.” You say almost defensively.
“I know. But you look like it.” He answers as if it’s an obvious fact. “I was in your shoes once. That’s why I bought this place,” His hand waves around the apartment before resting it back on his leg. “So that I could get away from all my problems. Start fresh. Clean slate. Easy. But my problems only followed me back here and the apartment never truly felt like home, it felt more like a prison because I would willingly shut myself in.”
You stare at him as the advice he gave you begins to slowly sink into your bones. You’ve never had a decent talk with Loki. Even after he told you of his feelings, not once have you both sat down and faced the problem head-on, and here you are once more, finding ways to avoid him. Running away and with how your mind began playing with you, you can’t help but agree with Jonah. That the problems will just materialize themselves if you don’t attempt to fix them.
“Talk to them. It’ll also help you breathe easier.” He smiles and you give him a sincere one back. Your heart feeling somewhat light from his words of advice. “So, if you’re still interested in renting out the property, just send us an email and my wife will get back to you with the paperwork. I’ll even keep the place vacant for a month until you decide.”
Your eyes widen in surprise at his offer. “Oh—you don’t have t—”
“It’s alright. Really.” He chuckles at your state of shock. “I see myself a lot in you and I know when to offer help, especially to someone who needs it.”
You nod and follow him when he stands, shaking his hand when he offers it and walking to the front door. “Thank you so much, Mr. Morran. For everything.” You smile and give the apartment a once over before looking back at him. “You do have a lovely home.”
“Please, dear, Jonah will do.” He says, giving your hand a gentle pat before walking with you to the elevator.
-
“I’m beat.” Sam groans as he swivels in his chair, giving yours a light kick that makes you face him curiously. “Coffee break?” You look at your thermos and see it empty, nodding at his request before taking your wallet and phone and standing from your seat. “Starbucks or 711?”
“Depends. Are we feeling fancy or are we feeling cheap?” You laugh and follow him to the elevator.
As you and Sam walk across the lobby, you turn your head when you hear your name being called and freeze when you see Steve approaching you. You take a step back, Sam’s hands holding your shoulders when you bump into him as Steve steps closer.
“What’s wrong?” Sam asks, looking at Steve curiously. “Who’s that?”
“Nobody.” You answer before righting yourself. “What do you want? I thought I said to leave me alone?”
“Please. I just want to talk.” Steve says and you snort when you see the fading bruise on his eye and the cut on his lip. “Just coffee or even no coffee. We can talk right here. Please, just a few minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”
You didn’t think that you would see Steve again. You thought he got the message when you blocked him completely. But you were too confident to think that he would stay away. He was persistent the first time and it would only be natural that he would do the same a second time around.
Your brows draw together as you take on Steve’s image, huffing out a breath before looking back at Sam. “I’m feeling Starbucks today. You?”
“Starbucks sounds nice.” Sam grins.
You turn to Steve. “You’re buying Sam’s coffee too. Just coffee and talk. We have fifteen minutes to spend.” You say curtly and walk out of the building, Sam walking in step with you and Steve following behind like a lost puppy.
You sit down with Sam as you wait for Steve to get your drinks. You sense him looking at you and probably itching to ask who Steve is. So you face him and give him a sigh, rolling your eyes when you see the smirk playing on his lips.
“He’s my roommate’s friend and he was an ass to me.” You simply say and turn your attention back to the busy cafe.
“He looks pathetic.” You snort at Sam’s comment before facing him with a raised eyebrow. “I mean, he’s one burly dude yet he’s begging like a kid just for you to talk to him? He must have done something really stupid for him to get to that level.”
“You could probably say that.” You chuckle and then look up when Steve approaches your table, two large cups and a small one nestled in the paper tray.
Sam looks at the cups and reaches for his, standing from his seat right after. “Alright. I guess I’m no longer needed here.” He says, raising his cup to Steve. “Thanks for the coffee, dude. And you,” He turns to you and winks. “He messes with you, you know where to find me.” He grins, nodding once more at Steve before leaving.
You take yours and hum at the warmth of the cup when you wrap your hands around it. Taking in the aroma of the macchiato before looking over at Steve as he sits across from you.
“Okay. Talk.” You instruct before taking a welcome sip of the hot beverage.
“Dove—”
“No. Let me stop you right there.” You cut him off by holding a finger to him. “That’s not my name and I would really appreciate it if you would stop calling me that.” You snap, tamping down your growing annoyance with another sip.
“I’m sorry—” He frowns and bows his head, looking down at the table. “For everything. I overstepped and that was wrong for me to do.” You hum mid-way as he speaks. “I just—I really like you and became protective of you and seeing you crying? I couldn’t bare it.”
“So you had to threaten Loki for you to bare it?” You mock before shooting your eyes to the heavens when he looks at you with confusion. “It’s not only that, Steve. You and Loki can beat the shit out of each other and I couldn’t care less,” That’s a lie. Of course, you would care about Loki getting hurt. “but you kissed me. Two times. Even after we talked about staying friends and you were even the one who suggested to be friends.” You huff and flex your fingers to calm your nerves. “You’re a great guy, Steve. Really. You’re sweet and I enjoyed your company a lot but you just went overboard and it’s become too much.” You sigh deeply and face him once more. “I don’t know if I can be friends with you. If Loki invites you to the apartment again for a game night or whatever you guys usually do, then I’ll be civil but beyond that, I’m not really sure.”
“I—” He looks at you almost to the verge of tears then nods. “I understand. And I’m really really sorry.”
“It’s alright,” You nod and look down at your phone, standing when you notice the time. “My fifteen is over. I should be heading back.” He nods at you and you make to walk away but when you glance at him once more, seeing the defeat in his entire being, you can’t help the swirl of pity that fills you.
Yes, he’s stepped on some boundaries but what you said is true. That he is a great guy. If he didn’t cross lines and respected what you wanted, you don’t doubt that the both of you would have been good friends.
You let out a sigh and groan inwardly, poking his muscley arm before nodding your head in the direction of the door. “Walk me back.” You tell him and you don’t know why you’re even tossing him a bone. But Jonah’s words from earlier runs through your head and you can’t help but agree that life is indeed too short to make enemies.
You don’t want Steve to be your friend, that you have already established. But you don’t want him to be your enemy either.
“Really?” He asks.
“Just walking, Steve.” You put your foot down and give him a serious look. “Nothing more.”
You want to roll your eyes when he gives you a wide smile but stop yourself, walking over to the exit and feeling him trail behind you.
-
Friday finally arrives and you stay laying in bed after your alarm woke you up. You forgot that you booked the day off in hopes of looking for more places to view but after the last one, you decided to put a halt to the search, taking in Jonah's words about talking to Loki before even considering taking the leap of moving.
You’ve been staring at the images of the apartment for the past couple of days. Admiring the fixtures and how perfect it looks for you to live in. But you refrain from sending them an email, even more now as Loki continues to leave you with his gifts: food prepared and packed on the kitchen counter, even taking the liberty of filling your tumbler with coffee himself. The letter has also been a mainstay but he’s now added flowers to the mix.
Each day is different. Some days a bouquet and other days, a single-stem blossom. And it makes you think where he gets these for you know where he works, you’ve passed by it a couple of times in the past to drop him off some dinner, and not once have you seen a flower shop nearby.
The clang of a pan sounds from outside your door and you sit up, looking at the clock on your nightstand and taking note of the time. Loki is home. And you don’t doubt that he’s fixing you up something to eat. Getting out of bed, you make your way to your ensuite to wash your face and brush your teeth, slipping on a hoodie over your camisole before taking a deep breath and quietly opening your door, not wanting to startle your roommate from his task.
And just as you expected, he’s busy in the kitchen. Your lunch container already sitting on the counter, a bouquet of sunflowers resting beside it. You know that he’s making an omelet from the aroma that fills the living room.
Talk to him. You hear Jonah’s voice in your head as you continue watching Loki. Your teeth worry your lip as you try to find the courage to do so. You’re still nervous about facing him, that’s the reality of it. Your body shivering lightly just from the thought of speaking with him again after a week of silence. But he’s right. Jonah is right. Either you choose to move out or stay, you have to fix the bridge between you and Loki. He means a lot to you even with the lingering pain and as much as you wanted to run away from him, deep down, you know that you don’t want to lose him.
Slowly, you make your way to the living room, breathing through your nose as you try to calm your nerves then leaning against the back of the couch to spectate him in his role of chef.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Jesus Christ!” He yelps and you can’t help the giggle that escapes your lips at his reaction. His face then softens albeit still shocked from your sudden appearance and you move over to the counter, sitting on the stool. “I know—but I want to.” He says, sliding the egg dish into the container.
“I mean, you don’t have to do that because I don’t have work today.” You tell him, resting your elbow on the marble surface and then leaning your cheek against your fist. “Booked the day off today.”
You’re talking. That’s good. Keep going. You push yourself and tighten your fist, grasping onto the courage that tries to flee.
“Oh,” Loki says, placing the pan back on the stove. “You can still eat it later today. Or you can eat it now?” He gives you a small smile, opening then closing a drawer before handing you a fork. “Breakfast.”
You take the fork from him and slice through the dish, humming as you take your first bite. “Uhhh—needs salt.” You comment, Loki immediately turning around to grab the salt shaker from the spice cabinet and placing it beside you. “Thank you.”
You eat in silence. Loki watching you from across the counter, happy that he’s keeping his distance. You’re ready to talk to him but touch is a whole other subject you can’t quite grasp on.
“You’re speaking to me again.” He says as you finish your meal, looking up at him before nodding at his words. “Does that mean you’ve forgiven me? You’re no longer angry with me?”
“Angry? No.” You shake your head before letting out a soft sigh. “Forgiven? No either.” He frowns. “But someone told me that I should talk to you. Fix things between us before—” You hesitate for a second, exhaling hard before you continue. “—before I leave.”
“Leave?” His eyes grow wide and in an instant, he’s beside you. You slip out of the stool and hold your hand out to him, Loki stopping, pain and panic etching on his face as he looks at you. “You’re leaving?” He asks once more. “You’re leaving me?”
“Things have just been too much lately, Loki.” You mumble, fiddling with your fingers as you try to cough out the words in your throat. “And I’ve been so confused and hurt and I just wanted to run away from it all. To run away from you.”
“Darling—”
“Please, let me finish.”
He nods and you swallow thickly as you push on.
“I found a place. Far from the city—probably 30 minutes by car and an hour by transit.” You move to sit on his armchair, hands folding atop your thighs, the weight and tension of the moment weighing you down physically and emotionally. “I already met the owner and he’s agreed to hold the unit for me until I’ve decided.”
Hope glimmers in his eyes, taking a step closer to you. “That means you haven’t—”
You shake your head. “Not yet.”
“What’s stopping you?” He asks although cautious.
You sigh, rubbing your hands against your knees. “You. You’re the one stopping me, Loki.” There’s strength in your words and the emotions you’ve been tamping down since last week begin to bubble over. Your tears spill from your eyes and your fists clench tightly against your skin as you choke out your next words. “Because everywhere I look, I see you! All I saw in that apartment was you! You sleeping on the bed. You watching your TV. You smiling that stupid smile of yours while watching the sunset!” You heave, wiping the tears away harshly with your sleeves. “I love you so much and I wish I didn’t. I wish we just fucked like normal people and that I never grew feelings for you. That way, I can move out without a hitch. But you’re imprinted on me for some reason and I can’t get away from—”
Your words get muffled when Loki presses his lips against yours. And you could feel your heart exploding, your hands reaching up to grab his wrists as he cups your face, lips, and teeth crashing against each other in a desperate kiss. You’re filled with need as his mouth moves greedily against yours, his hand moving to cradle the back of your head as he keeps you close.
You scold yourself as you find yourself kissing him back, your lips moving in their own accord, feeling that if you stop, your heart would stop along with it.
The kiss breaks when you both come up for air, Loki sliding down on his knees before you as he takes your hands in his own, pressing them against his lips as his tears begin to fall. Your heart constricts from the pain that radiates from his face.
“I’m so sorry—” He chokes out, his hands tightening around yours. “It was never my intention to hurt you. I would never want to hurt you but I did and now you’re suffering because of me. Because I was arrogant and selfish and a coward and—” He looks up at you, his mouth agape as if trying to grasp the words he wants to say. But you stop him, taking your hands from his to hold his face, shaking your head as you try to wipe away his tears.
“I’m sorry too—” You frown, your lips quivering as you try to stifle your tears. “I was so scared to think what you would do if you found out how I felt about you. I pulled away when we should have talked. I should have been braver else we wouldn’t be in this shit show.” You lean down and press your forehead against his as you can no longer bare to see the pain you’re causing the man you love.
It’s finally dawned on you. Your mistake since the beginning. Yes, he’s hurt you but seeing him now, just how broken he looks and how much pain he’s in, you know just as well that you’ve hurt him just as much. He’s tried countless times to reach out and all you did was pull away.
But you only did so to protect yourself. To protect your heart. Yet as you were trying to do just that, thinking it would be the best plan of action, you were breaking his in return. That everything he’s called himself, selfish, arrogant, a coward, was a reflection of you. You owe him just as much as he does you and you know that you should do just as much work to rebuild the relationship you once had. But you don’t know where to start.
“We’re so broken, Loki.” You mumble. I—I don’t know what to do. How do we fix this?”
“We’ll take it slow.” He says, almost enthusiastic yet wary, facing him when he tips your chin up. “We’ll start from the ground up. Do all the works and rebuild what we once had, maybe even turn it into something better.” There’s a smile fighting to show on his face but the frown wins the battle. “Even if it means we remain friends. Just—please,” He gasps, taking your hand and pressing it against his cheek. “Please, stay.”
You swallow hard and move to slide down from your seat, joining him on the floor and wrapping your arms around his neck to hold him tight. You both sob in silence, the cries of your hearts screaming loudly in the frigid morning.
You don’t know if this would work if this is what you both should do. You try to think of running away once more, of pulling through with your original plan but just the thought of saying goodbye to Loki as you pack your things and go, and seeing his face as you close the door, makes is hard to breathe. That a life without him, as pathetic as it sounds, would be a dull one to live in.
Then and there, you make up your mind and press a kiss on his temple as you nod. Your hand cradles his head as he buries his face on your neck, the sound of his cries tearing into your chest.
You whisper. “I’ll stay.”
-
You both end up on his armchair. His back against the seat and you on his lap, sitting in silence as you hold each other, making up for the time you both lost since the day you pulled away. Your eyes are sore from all the tears and when you look down at him, you see his eyes red and puffy and it makes you run your fingers through his hair and press a kiss on each eyelid.
His asleep. Beautiful even with how distraught he looks. His lashes fanned over his cheeks and his lips slightly parted as he breathes. He looks peaceful and you feel the same, leaning down to press a kiss on his forehead as you rest your cheek once more against his hair.
Your mind then flits back to Jonah. His advice swirling around you and you can’t help but think that he was sent by the heavens. Probably sick and tired of all the nonsense of your actions and decided to intervene and help you and Loki find each other once more.
Things are still beyond okay for the both of you. But you won’t hesitate to test the waters and give your best effort in rebuilding the bridge you both once had. To tie back the strings you both weaved together and make it whole once more. Though you are hopeful and that itself is enough.
“I’m rooting for you, Loki.” You mumble against his hair, your tears threatening to fall once more as you’re filled with so much love for this man. “I’m rooting for us.”
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#loki#loki odinson#loki x reader#loki x female reader#loki x you#loki odinson x reader#loki au#loki fanfic#loki fanfction#loki angst#mcu au#mcu#coconut bun stories
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Vanderpump Rules Reunion Taping Leaves Cast In Shambles, Confirms Tom Sandoval & Raquel Leviss Are Dating
Most of the time, reality TV reunion specials are regarded as sort of second-tier episodes — bonus content for the diehard fans.
But the latest Vanderpump Rules reunion is a major exception to that rule.
In fact, you’d be hard-pressed to come up with a time when an episode of a reality show was so highly anticipated.
Obviously, the biggest questions all center around the affair between Tom Sandoval and Raquel Leviss.
Vanderpump had wrapped shooting for the season when news of the affair went public, but as the midseason trailer confirmed, the cameras were turned back on so that the immediate aftermath would be documented.
It’ll be a while before we know exactly what went down, but it seems it was a rather emotional occasion.
As TMZ reports, Tom and Raquel participated in what appeared to be a very intense one-on-one chat during a break in filming.
They coordinated their outfits — both rocked head-to-toe black — which seems to be the latest confirmation that these two are indeed a couple.
Bravo posted this pic revealing how the cast would be arranged for two different filming sessions.
Two charts were necessary, as Raquel has a restraining order against Scheana Shay, which meant that the two women could not be on the stage at the same time.
She’s also seated far away from rival Lala Kent, which was probably for the best.
Lala kept fans updated as she prepared for the reunion, but noted that the cast were forced to surrender their phones once they arrived at the filming location.
“Again, they’re taking our phones, so this is the last you will see of me. Put me in, coach.”
Later, she appeared on Andy Cohen’s Instagram Live, where she showed off some very sharp nails.
As The Ashley’s Reality Roundup reports, Andy also showed off a record-high stack of notecards for the day’s interviews.
“Vanderpump, we’ve got this many cards here. This is gonna be a long day,” Cohen remarked to LVP herself, prompting Lisa to reply, “It might be a sleepover.”
But hey, the cast took time to relax too, as evidenced by this eye-masks and sound bath pic.
We hope they enjoyed it.
It might be the last time these people will be able to relax in one another’s presence for a very long time.
Sent from my iPhone
#TomSandoval#Apology#vanderpumprules#TeamAriana#RaquelLeviss#drama#pumprules#Scandoval#bravo#bravotv#VanderpumpRules#Rachel and Tom are both not seeing heaven for doing Ariana so wrong.#The punkassness#The bitchassery#The cowardice#the unfaithfulness#The caucasity#The cuntery#the fuckery#The dustbucketery#The crustiness#the gumption#the nerve#the karma they deserved.
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Juvenile and Family Law, is it something that a kid dreams of practicing? No, not really. Is that where the big bucks are if you’re not interested in taxes and wills? Yes, it is. College is expensive, and so is law school; gotta pay it off somehow. It takes a while to build your clientele, a lot of it is word of mouth. You work your way up, and slowly but surely, build a good reputation for yourself. And if you’re lucky, you’ll make partner.
Harry Styles is good at his job, and is on the brink of making partner at his firm. Gallagher, Hilson & Associates Family Law is a great place to work. Isaiah Gallagher and Maria Hilson are two incredible lawyers, and the other associates Harry works with aren’t too bad either. He doesn’t always love working nearly sixty hours a week, and some of the cases he handles have caused him to see the bottom of one too many bottles, but other than that, he’s happy.
Family Law means working all kinds of cases. Custody, spousal support, paternity, and divorce. All of those cases are messy, rarely are they clean cut. Harry happens to specialize in divorce, which in turn can lead to all of the other things listed above. What’s worse is that a lot of his clients will often flirt with him, so he’s started to wear a fake wedding band to ward off any and all inappropriate behavior. It doesn’t happen every time, but it was often enough that he decided to find a way to just avoid the unwanted attention.
Due to how many hours he works a week, Harry’s social life is a little lackluster. By the time he gets home work, all he wants to do is kick his shoes off, plop down on the couch with some greasy Chinese food, and catch up on some television. He lives in a nice enough building in the city. His apartment has one bedroom, and one and half baths. On Friday nights, he’ll go out with some of the other associates for a drink, so he gets a bitof social time in. He’s not lonely, he actually quite enjoys the quiet and solitude. He’s got a cat, Gerry, short for Geraldine that he takes care of. He has what he needs, and he’s perfectly content.
Whenever he dates, people always want to talk about his work. The last thing Harry wants to talk about after a long day at work, is more work. So, he sticks to meaningless hookups, and his own hand, when he needs that type of release.
He doesn’t have too much to complain about. He’s thirty, and massively successful. Some of his friends still live at home while working retail jobs, not that he’s judging. He was twenty-six when he moved out, and he’s grateful his parents let him stay rent free so he could save up for his own place. He doesn’t like to compare himself to others, but it makes him feel good to know he’s all set. He works hard, yes, but it’s all worth it.
//
With how quiet his personal life is, it’s hard to imagine Harry being a shark in the courtroom, but he is. He’s a master in the art of persuasion and rhetoric. Having been a communication major in his undergrad career, and all. He knows how to read a room, and how to read people. The jury is just an audience waiting to watch a live performance. His theater minor also comes in handy here. Being a lawyer is an act, a role he plays. He knows how to play the part when it’s in a large courtroom, or when it’s just a small meeting in a conference room to divide up assets. It’s not always easy, but he makes it look that way. Harry typically wins most of his cases, and when it’s something small, he’s usually able to get his client the majority of what they asked for. Every customer leaves happy.
These skills can’t all be taught and learned. Some people are born with natural talent, skills they learn to hone in on and perfect. It’s a craft that Harry has worked on for years. Again, he’s only thirty, but because he has such precision and talent, it makes him the hot commodity. The office is constantly getting calls for him. It’s why they want him to become the next partner. Having his name on the plaque as you enter would surely put people at ease. Isaiah and Maria saw potential in Harry from the beginning, and they feel lucky that he’s one of their associates.
There other very qualified associates as well, like Niall – who specializes in custody cases – he’s well on his way up. There’s Candice – who specializes in prenuptial agreements – she got into the lawyer game a little later in life, but she’s as sharp as a whip, and shouldn’t be underestimated. And lastly, there’s Byron – who specializes in paternity cases – he thinks he’s going to be the next partner because he’s a bit full of himself.
Harry and Niall are the closest in age, so they hang out more often. They both really like baseball, and will go to a game or two during the season. Candice is the surrogate mother figure. She has no children of her own, she’s the fun aunt to her nieces and nephews, but she feels oddly maternal towards Harry and Niall. The boys often call her “Ma”, instead of her actual name, and she loves it. She looks out for them, and there when they need someone to listen. She’s fifty-seven, and enjoys baking in her free time. She often brings the boys homemade muffins on Monday mornings, and they adore her for it.
Byron…well…Byron is a forty-year-old womanizer who totally clashes with Harry. Does Harry have one-night stands? Yes. Does he ever lie to his partners? No. Byron enjoys playing the game in all facets, and Harry never takes part in it. Needless to say, Harry hates when he has to partner with him on a case, and avoids it when he can.
Isaiah and Maria each have their own executive assistant, or para: Michele and Kyla. They’re both in their late twenties, and rocking it. Harry only interacts with them over email. He, Candice, Niall, and Byron all share the same administrator: Ronnie. Ronnie is twenty-six, friendly, and organized. She doesn’t have time to help everyone on their briefs, but that’s what interns are for, and there’s an abundance of them circling throughout the office.
Harry has a nice office. Plenty of natural light from the windows, he has a desk riser so he can stand up periodically, and he even has his own mini fridge. (He’s often paranoid about people taking his Bubbly, so he just brought in his own fridge.) He’s got a decent enough view of the city; he likes it best at night when the twinkling lights come through. It reminds him of how lucky he is to be where he is in life. He knows he’s more fortunate than others, so he tries to be grateful. He gives back when he’s able, donate to different scholarship funds and whatnot.
Harry is a good man.
//
On a particularly cloudy morning, Ronnie lets Harry know his 10AM consult has arrived. He didn’t know much about his new potential client, but he was always willing to hear someone out. He stands up from his desk, and waits for the woman to enter.
In walks a young woman wearing an expensive, red pantsuit, black heels, and a dark red lipstick. She gives a soft smile to Ronnie before she closes the door. Harry walks over to her, extending his hand.
“Hi, I’m Harry.”
“Mira.” She shakes his hand.
“Please, have a seat.” He gestures to the two seats on the other side of his desk and they both sit. “What brings you to my office today?”
“I heard you’re a pretty good divorce lawyer, and I need a divorce.”
“Is your spouse aware that you’re seeking counsel?”
“No.” She shakes her head and swallows. “I…I’d be putting myself in danger if he knew I wanted to leave him.”
“What kind of danger? If he’s physically abusive, then you need to- “
“He doesn’t put his hands on me like that. It’s…I don’t love him, and I never have. I was essentially…I was sold to him; it was an arranged marriage. I thought maybe I could learn to like him, to love him, but it’s been three years, and I can’t stand him. I need legal help.”
“What do you mean you were sold to him? Were you a child bride? Were you sex trafficked?”
“No.” She chews on her bottom lip. “He made a deal with my father. Thomas got me in exchange for…something. I can’t get into what exactly with you just yet.”
“Does he think you’re happy?”
“Yes.” She nods. “Well, for the most part. I do my thing, and he does his. His job keeps him pretty busy, and I often pretend to be asleep when he gets home. He doesn’t satisfy my needs, so to speak, and I’ve given up on trying. I want to be freed from him.” She pulls out a packet of paper from her purse, and gives it to Harry. “That’s a copy of the contract he and my father signed when they made the deal. I’m not great with legal jargon. I thought maybe if you decide to take me on you could look that over and tell me if there’s any way, I can get out of this.”
“Are you over eighteen?”
“Yes, well over.”
“And were you over eighteen when you were married?”
“Yes.”
“Then how could your father barter you?”
“Where I come from…it can just be like that. The goods we get in exchange for my hand outweighed my happiness.”
“I’m so sorry.” Harry frowns. “My services aren’t exactly cheap.”
“I wouldn’t expect them to be. I can pay top dollar, if that’s what you require. I have money of my own.”
“Alright.” Harry sets the packet of papers onto his desk. “I’ll take a look at that soon, and give you a call.”
“Does that mean you’re taking me on?”
“I hate to see such a nice person be so unhappy.” Harry frowns. “I got into this business to help people, so I’ll help you, Mira.”
“Oh, thank you so much.” She smiles. “There are going to be some things in that contract that may shock you, so please don’t hesitate to call me directly with your questions.” She takes out a business card from her purse. “There’s all of my contact information. If anyone other than myself contacts you regarding all of this, don’t say a word.”
“Don’t worry, I’m good at keeping things confidential.”
“I heard you’re a very trustworthy attorney.” She nods, and stands to her feet. Harry does the same. “Thank you for taking the time to listen.” She extends her hand, and he takes it to shake.
“Of course, it’s what I’m here for.” He smiles and opens the door. He watches her leave, maybe for a little too long.
[DARK SIDED, COMING TO PATREON ON SATURDAY, OCTOBER 2ND @ 8AM EST] [Ask]
#dark sided#teaser#harry styles#harry styles au#harry styles imagine#harry styles fic#harry styles fanfic#harry styles x oc#harry styles smut#harry styles fluff#harry styles angst#sub!Harry#lawyer!Harry
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For the Soulmate AU prompt thing: shadowgast & 15 or 2
This one really ran away from me - I meant to write a scene, and ended up with a whole finished one-shot! I’ll post it on Ao3 later, but here you go! Thank you for your patience, having some pining Essek in recompense :)
soulmate au prompts: the one where you have your soulmate’s name written on your body.
—
Essek expected, for most of his life, that the day of his marking would be a joyous one.
When the cloth was pulled away, he gazed without worry on the script beneath - four simple letters, curved in elegant gold - and felt a rush of excitement swelling in his chest. To be given something all his own… some piece apart from the rest, to cherish and to long for… a great hope, not for his people, but for himself. It was worth far more to him than he knew before that moment.
“Bren,” he whispered aloud. A soft sound, not biting or sharp like his own name. Masculine, he noted hopefully, and his happiness grew.
Then he looked up, and saw the look in the Umavi’s eyes - or Mother, as he’d been taught to say, not by her - and what excitement had kindled within him withered to ash.
“No,” she said, with cold finality. “You will not speak that name again.”
“Why?” he asked, still too young to be wary of posing the question. His curious spirit had not yet been driven into the darkest parts of himself. He still considered civil disagreement an achievable goal.
He still believed that whatever he asked, he would be heard.
“It is a name that does not belong to this country.” But it belongs to me, a small voice within Essek cried out. “You will not lay claim to it. You will not speak it.”
Don’t be so naive. Nothing belongs to you alone.
Essek fingered the split sleeves of his tunic, the flowing silk caught at the elbow with silver thread, the golden glimmer of those four letters just below the crook, not dimmed in the slightest by the sheer fabric. “But… how can I hide this?”
The Umavi - Mother, Mother, he reminded himself - stood and turned away. “You have tailors to spare, ready at your call. Cover your arms and be done with it.”
The others of the Den knew, of course, that this was to be his day. He was of the age for it. The whispers started the moment they returned to the manor house, a quiet clamour of well mannered gossip spreading through the halls. Only the boldest stepped forward to ask directly, and the Uma- Mother brushed them off with a grimace of practiced heartache.
“Nothing but a burn mark,” she said, in that special soft voice, the kind that was meant to carry. “Blackened, and unfresh. I’m afraid the lover must have died long ago.”
And perhaps, in a way, her words were true. Something had indeed died that day: the one last dwindling hope of the Umavi, for himself. That if he could not be the recipient of an honoured soul, perhaps he could have been the concubine of one.
“How unfortunate,” the askers simpered, looking at him sidelong all the while, with pity in their eyes.
How he would rather have been called ‘unlucky’.
From that day on, Essek wrapped his arms in long mantles and dark sleeves, and scoured books for the word he dared not speak aloud. In all his searching, he found nothing. No historical figures, no linguistic root, no cause for the disgust in the Umavi’s - in Mother’s - eyes.
He asked his tutor, weeks later, and now desperate enough to set aside caution. The question was set under the guise of parsing some obscure tome, and he received a single word in reply, before the conversation faded into a disgusted silence.
“Zemnian.”
It was a disgust he couldn’t bring himself to share, though he knew in his marrow, without being told, that he should.
Looking back he suspected that conversation, in what was soon to be a schism between him and his community as wide as the Ashkeepers themselves, was the first crack.
—
There was a man, a new man, by the Martinet’s side at their second meeting. Dark black hair, fading to grey at the roots, and a cruel smile. No names were supplied, and none taken in return. That was expected. Essek still believed, at that time, that his anonymity was secure. He still considered his safety a guarded condition of the arrangement.
Still, the new man’s accent was strange, and though every oiled word he spoke oozed uneasiness into Essek’s throat, curiousity overrode courteousness by the end of the negotiation.
“I must ask,” he said, the arcanist’s chalk already slipped from his long sleeve, shadows of familiar circles and equations rendered dizzyingly mundane with the promise of more illicit knowledge to come. “Your way of speaking is… unfamiliar to me. Where do you call home?”
The man’s smile turned up and widened, so like a desert snake whose jaw unhinges to swallow its prey whole. “I am surprised you do not know it; an accomplished practitioner of magic such as yourself. My accent is Zemnian.”
For a moment, Essek’s heart seized in terror quite beyond the apprehension he already felt at the nature of the meeting. “I see,” he said softly, turning away before the tension in his jaw could betray him.
“Sir Thelyss… Essek,” came the accented voice again, “why do you ask?” And the fear grew, and grew, for if this man knew his name, and hadn’t been told…
But surely, then, the Martinet must have told him-
“I merely prefer to know a little of the men I do business with,” Essek said, “Mr. -?”
The Martinet regarded him sharply. Questioning was not part of his allowance of freedom, not at home, and not here. But Essek ignored the look and focused only on the other man, willing his hands not to tremble. If he did not ask, he could not know, and if he did not know, then how could he plan his escape?
“Ikithon,” said the man. “Trent Ikithon.” His smile widened all the more, and Essek smiled weakly in return, both relieved beyond measure, and deeply ashamed at his own foolishness.
Essek derided himself later that night, in the comfort of his own house. What a childish fear it had been: to believe that this man could have been his promised lover, in a sea of thousands.
But better that the lover really had died, as the Umavi claimed to her court, than to be bound to a man like that. Against all odds, to find the one he was meant for, and discover that person to be as heartless and cold-eyed as himself? What a pointedly cruel irony that would be.
Not that it mattered, truly. Essek was already quite comfortable in the knowledge that he would spend this life alone. Preferred the idea, in fact, over fate’s whim deciding his state of companionship.
It did not do to think too long on what had already been decided for him, and by who.
—
Essek met more with that accent, of course, over the years. As his position within the Dynasty expanded, so too did the breadth of his pool of liasons within the Empire. He spoke with many Zemnians, men and women and those without gender, but none bearing the name ‘Bren’.
Essek no longer hoped to find the one promised to him, though the mark had not faded from his skin, mocking him in the brief moments of bathing and undressing where he dared to bare his arms. Its presence meant the person was still alive, somewhere in the world. But again, it mattered little. His work was the only goal worth striving toward. Love was far from his mind.
Through his work, he also learned more of the customs and cultures outside the Dynasty. Premierely, that the soulmate mark was a peculiarity of the Beacons’ influence, and not an inherent biological process as he’d once assumed. No other races experienced the process, at least not naturally. Instead, they found their love willingly, without presumption or prescription in the choosing. It seemed to Essek a less orderly, but perhaps more romantic, way of doing things.
None within the Dynasty would ever receive a mark again. His own actions had seen to that. It was a side effect he hadn’t anticipated, too lost in the promise of all he could gain to truly grasp the implications of the Beacons’ absence.
He chose to believe it a blessing, once he had the presence of mind to consider the matter rationally. It was one more restriction of the state religion, gone. Freedom to choose, when there was none before. No more children made to feel ashamed of the shape of the letters seared into their skin - of something they could only hide, and not change.
Progress.
They said now that the only children who would receive a mark were the lost ones. That their first calling home would be the letters inscribed in their inner arms, where there had been none before: a badge to prove their right to belong to someone, somewhere. And now they belonged to a country as well, one that would welcome them home with open arms, regardless of the name they bore.
How times had changed since he was young.
Essek was loath to label the feeling in his chest when he thought of those children as ‘jealousy’, but it burned all the same.
The past is not important, he reminded himself, again and again, only the future, and put the thought out of his mind.
—
The red-haired human spoke with a familiar voice, as he held Essek’s very life in his hands, unknowingly offering up the means of his destruction in a soft accent Essek had once associated with hope.
Essek had no hope now. As the stranger held the Beacon aloft, Essek watched the foundations of his lie crumble from beneath him. Did this man - dressed in slave’s garb but standing so tall - did he know? He was of the Empire, or so he claimed. Was he sent by the Martinet?
This wouldn’t have been the first time in the last decade that things had shifted so dramatically without Essek being told. It seemed that all the promises the Empire had made to him were built on quicksand, and perhaps this was to be his final test. How much more was Essek willing to endure?
Anything, it turned out, for the Bright Queen named him as their chaperone, and he endured that indignity without protest, gathering favours all the while in the vain hope that it could save him when this all turned sideways. He stayed close, as close as he dared, and closest still to the man who spoke with Ikithon’s accent, and waited to see if his words held the echo of the Martinet’s voice as well.
Caleb.
It had not occurred to Essek to seek for Bren in decades, and so there was no disappointment in learning the name, and in learning more of him besides. An apt pupil, brilliant and eager, and even after weeks, Essek could suss no trace of the Assembly’s influence over his new charge.
The other things he learned of Caleb were far less important, and somehow, far more. That he didn’t shrink back from a challenge. That his hair often pulled from its tie in a most endearing way when his hands grew too restless. That he was braver than Essek by far, for Caleb no longer felt the need to cover his arms as he did when he arrived in Rosohna, to hide the shame etched into his skin. His scars, caught in brief glimpses over spellbooks and offered drinks, were horrific, and telling, and Essek wanted to learn more, share more, be more when he was with him. He had never wanted something like that in his life.
But there was something about the man, something Essek could not tear himself away from.
If this were another reality, he might have believed himself in love. But the name ‘Caleb’ did not belong to him. He could not bring himself to forget that. It assaulted him in his weakest moments: the knowledge that even if all he had done could be overlooked, even if every barrier between them was removed, it meant nothing. Caleb was out of reach, while Bren was alive.
That certainty was not an intellectual one, but emotional. It was born of years of smothered hope and longing. It belonged to the narrative of Essek’s life - inextricable, even if logic dictated that he’d made no bargain, signed no devil’s deal that prevented him from being with Caleb in a meaningful way. He had lived for so long in the knowledge that Bren was lost to him, and that that meant he would be alone, that to imagine anything else was impossible.
And still…
And still, Jester lent him a book, a month or so into their acquaintance, and insisted he must read it. He didn’t have time for such diversions, truthfully, but he read it all the same, because he found he could not say no to her. First in snatches, then with voracious abandon, by the end he was up till all hours turning the pages, so fast they might have caught fire. The prose was sparse, the descriptions obvious, but the story gripped him in a way he had never been gripped by fiction before.
The Courting of the Crick. An offensive title, hiding a more offensive story within. Ostensibly, a propaganda piece, condemning the bloodthirsty regime of the Dynasty while extolling the saving grace of the civilized Empire. Beneath, the tale of a Kryn woman, who dared to choose a life with the Dwendalian man she loved. She made no mention of the mark on her arm other than to say that she cared not for the name given to her, or the man who owned it. She elected not to be bound by tradition, or country, but by her own heart.
He had not realized, until reading that story, that there were others who might once have felt the same ache as him.
—
The first time Caleb showed Essek his scars properly was a week or so after the Nein had returned to Rosohna, following the peace talks. With no assassins at their door or cultists to quell, they could all collectively take a breath, and begin to sort out the shattered fragments of their former relationship.
Caleb arrived at his house alone, which was surprising to Essek. He could only conclude that the rest of the Nein didn’t know he’d come, because he did not believe Beau would have allowed him to without argument.
They stood in silence for a long moment, facing each other over the dining table where he’d once served cheese and crackers in a paltry imitation of good manners, to a group of people who had still trusted him, foolishly-
No, not foolishly. Hopefully. There was a difference. He had learned it the hard way. Destroying the hope of someone he cared for, it turned out, hurt immeasurably more than any other pain he’d caused in his life.
“I want to show you, so you understand,” Caleb said, as he removed his clothes. First his scarf, then his coat. The hostlers, the tunic, until only a thin undershirt remained. His arms fell loosely at his sides. No close examination was needed - Essek could see the precise lines very clearly from this distance, cuts so deep that neither time nor magic would ever heal the wounds.
“I gave everything of myself to Ikithon, willingly, without reservation, but when my usefulness to him waned, he found a new purpose for me. My body became an experiment, and it was more than I could bear. That was the first time I fought him, but it did not matter. He had my friends hold me down, and they did what he told them without question, because none of us dared refuse a single thing he asked of us. All the power was in his hands, always.” Caleb paused. “Do you understand?”
Essek wanted to nod, but he couldn’t stop staring at the lines - delivered by the despicable man he had worked for without coercion, solely for his own benefit. What was there to say?
When he didn’t respond, Caleb continued.
“You are in his clutches now. His hold over you remains as long as he is alive, and I think you know that. So I will warn you, Essek. There will come a time when he will ask something of you, and you will think that you cannot refuse. You will believe there is no other option. And you will be wrong. There is always another choice.”
“Even if that choice leads to my death?” Essek said.
“Yes,” Caleb answered, without hesitation, and began to pull his tunic back over his head. As his arms raised up, Essek caught the faintest glimmer of silver just below the elbow. Other lines, broken by scars, and so dim that one without eyes attuned to seeing in the darkness would likely have missed it, but-
All other thoughts flew away as Caleb stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Essek’s shoulders, pulling him close to his chest.
“Don’t let it come to that,” he murmured, and Essek shivered in his arms. “The world would not be made better by your death. And I- I would not be better.”
Then Caleb was gone, and Essek sat at the table alone, and thought in darkness, for many, many hours.
—
Months went by. The world changed, and didn’t. The Nein came and went, pastries were gifted, messages sent, fragile trust rebuilt. Essek stumbled, and pulled himself back up, and through it all Caleb was there to show him the way forward.
And through it all, Essek began to understand how to care for him as well.
Caleb returned with new magic to share, and Essek shared his time, and his mind, and his passion, and together they built a great many things - not hidden in secrecy and solitude, but eagerly shared. He learned how to make Caleb laugh, and counted that his greatest success of all.
And still…
And still, Essek counted himself blessed to be held in his esteem at all, and asked for nothing more. Deserved nothing more.
But, of course, Caleb’s impatience outgrew his own.
He had never kissed another soul in his life, but to be kissed was a magic of a new kind.
There was a twinge of guilt in the afterglow, but it swiftly faded in the too-short days before the Nein left Xhorhas again. Caleb bid him goodbye with a soft press of lips, and Essek couldn’t find it in himself to care about the name on his arm, when at last there was something real in the world to long for, a hope without equal despair: a love he had chosen, without being told.
The group returned a week later with their prize: the final Beacon, wrested from the grasp of the Assembly at last. Essek had known it was the purpose of their visit, and expected a summons to the chamber of the Bright Queen on their return, to share in the spoils and adulation heaped upon their shoulders. Heroes of the Dynasty, well and truly. Their reward would be immeasurably rich.
What he did not expect was Caleb’s bedraggled form appearing on his doorstep near to midnight. He was sopping wet from the evening downpour, and smiling happily. “Hello,” Caleb said, in that soft tone that never failed to make Essek’s ears warm, and let himself in.
He dripped rainwater all the way up to Essek’s laboratory, and Essek followed in his footprints, so accustomed to walking in Caleb’s presence now that he almost forgot there was a solution to his wet socks until they’d nearly reached the stairs. Shaking his head as he realized his error, he floated the rest of the way up, and avoided the last of the puddles.
Once settled, Caleb shrugged off his coat and threw it across a chair before pulling out five damp pieces of amber from his pocket. “I have something to show you,” he said, almost mischievous, and Essek leaned in closer as Caleb whispered a single word. A lead box appeared on the table before them. Carefully, Caleb drew back the lid, and Essek’s eyes widened.
There, in all its glory, was the final Beacon, the only one he knew of that remained untouched by the Dynasty’s hands. A true relic, steeped in the mysteries of the Age of Arcanum: all he had ever wanted. He started to reach out, but stalled his hand, turning his eyes instead to Caleb.
“Is this…?” he asked.
“I know the Cerberus Assembly did not uphold their end of the bargain, and you paid their price in full. It seems only fair that you should have the first crack at it.”
It was a kindness Caleb didn’t have to give, that Essek would never have expected after all he’d done, and for the first time in his life, Essek was the one to extend his arms. “Thank you,” he whispered, as Caleb stepped into them without hesitation, and didn’t mind the cold water seeping through his robes at all.
The next number of minutes were lost in the exhilaration of discovery, as he sunk his consciousness into the Beacon’s pull and was transported to a universe of possibilities he had never considered. Pasts and futures beyond his understanding floated through his mind, and by the time he emerged, Essek was giddy with excitement. By that time too, Caleb had shucked the last of his soaked clothing and stood by the table with arms and shoulders bare, the fond look in his blue eyes reflecting back the light of the crystal between them.
Another flicker caught Essek’s gaze. He frowned, staring at the inside of Caleb’s forearm that was currently braced on the table’s edge. A faint light was shining there beneath the skin, growing brighter and brighter with each passing second, until even Caleb took notice of the change. He glanced down, following Essek’s eyes to the spot of brilliance. “What on earth…”
Essek spun around the table, taking Caleb’s hand and turning his palm up, until they could both see the full length of the inscription: silver lines flowering from where the Beacon’s light fell, blooming to form five elegant letters.
“Essek…” Caleb said, reading and asking in the same breath. Essek shook his head, scarcely daring to breathe himself.
“Caleb,” he said, so quietly that no spy or sparrow could have heard him speak. “What does the name ‘Bren’ mean to you?”
Caleb didn’t answer, but his hand, still entwined with Essek’s, started to tremble as much as his own.
Fingers shaking, Essek reached up with his other hand, and began to undo the buttons on his cloak.
#critical role#shadowgast#essek thelyss#my writing#metaphors for being in the closet? in MY writing?#it's more likely than you think#i had SO much fun writing this omg
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[HPHL] Dark!Bartholomew “Bat” Varney AU Moodboard
--Inspired by the Dark AU started by @cursebreakerfarrier--
“They all deserve to die...
Tell you why, Mrs. Lovett, tell you why:
Because in all of the whole human race, Mrs. Lovett,
There are two kinds of men and only two --
There's the one staying put in his proper place,
And the one with his foot in the other one's face!
Look at me, Mrs. Lovett, look at you!
No, we all deserve to die...even you, Mrs. Lovett, even I!
Because the lives of the wicked should be made brief --
For the rest of us, death will be relief!
We all deserve to die!
And I'll never see Johanna...
No, I'll never hug my girl to me...FINISHED!”
~ “Epiphany,” from Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
x~x~x~x
Robert Harker, A.K.A. Bat Varney, didn’t have a great time of things in his original life where he died in the War for American Independence alongside his best friend, only to be brought back to life as a vampire trapped in his friend’s reanimated corpse. But along with all that, he was still able to find a way to enjoy the half-life he was cursed to lead, rediscover the joy of loving others through connecting with Atticus Grimsley @cursebreakerfarrier, the Selwyn-Ellisons @that-ravenpuff-witch, and others, and even save many lives through helping the Ministries of Europe fight back against the dark wizard Gellert Grindelwald.
Amazingly, however, there was a nightmare far worse that Robert Harker dodged.
In this particular nightmare, when Robert first stumbled onto the Varney estate in Bartholomew’s body to get help, Cecelia Crouch-Varney out of guilt and shame didn’t tell him what she had done, feigning ignorance about what must have happened. She promised to help Robert and persuaded him to stay with her under Bartholomew’s identity and cloistered away from everyone else until they could find a way to satisfy his blood lust. Robert begged Cecelia to tell his wife Loretta what was going on, but Cecelia reminded him that under the Statute of Secrecy, she wouldn’t be allowed to tell Loretta anything about the Wizarding World. If she did, she could get arrested, which would leave Robert with no safe place to stay and no chance of seeing his family again. And so, very reluctantly, Robert relented, but he made Cecelia promise to take care of Loretta and Irene until Irene received her Hogwarts letter, at which point she’d be allowed to learn the truth.
Robert, now solely called Bartholomew, stayed with Cecelia, who as the original Bartholomew’s widow acted as his wife around her servants and guests at the estate. The arrangement made Robert a bit uncomfortable, given that he still so desperately missed his real family, but Cecelia had been his friend for such a long time that he didn’t dislike spending time with her. Unfortunately for Bartholomew, Cecelia’s romantic attachment to him made it so that she treasured every moment they were together where she could care for him and treat him like her husband. And over time, she grew to resent that one day she’d have to “give him back” to Loretta and Irene, leaving her completely alone at the Varney estate with neither a husband nor a child for company. And so, when that special September arrived when Irene was to receive her letter...Cecelia lied, when Bartholomew asked if she’d spoken to Loretta about his condition. She claimed that Loretta was a bit overwhelmed by everything she’d learned, and needed time. Then Cecelia lied again, saying that Loretta seemed very troubled about Bartholomew’s condition and said it’d be best if he stayed at the estate a while longer. Then Cecelia lied again, and again, and again, with it becoming worse each time. First Loretta was scared for Irene’s safety -- then she was scared for her own safety -- then she was scared because of her religious convictions that ascribed vampiric traits to demons. Bartholomew, still unable to control his blood lust enough to be too close to anyone let alone leave the estate, knew he couldn’t ask to see Loretta himself to try to reassure her, so he wrote letter after letter for Cecelia to deliver to Loretta. At first, he received nothing back -- then, after seven whole years, Bartholomew finally received a letter written in his wife’s hand and enclosing her wedding ring. Her husband, Robert Harker, was dead, it said -- may Bartholomew Varney live the best life he can.
Brokenhearted, Bartholomew resigned himself to remain at the Varney estate. He was all the more determined to get a handle on his blood lust, if only to see his precious daughter Irene once, even if it had to be from afar. Cecelia tried to encourage Bartholomew to move on, saying Loretta already had and that she seemed to be a bit happier now, after so many years. Cecelia even admitted that she cared for him deeply, that she always had -- and that she didn’t want him pining after the woman who had started her life over without him. Bartholomew was actively repulsed by Cecelia’s advances -- she had always been enamored of him? Even while she was married to their best friend? The unpleasant feeling sparked a flicker of doubt, one that slowly grew as Cecelia grew into an old woman and seemed more and more desperate for Bartholomew’s love and Bartholomew caught snippets of conversations from her Crouch family relatives talking about “the mess she’d put them in,” regarding him. And so, one night, while Cecelia was asleep, Bartholomew did some digging -- and he finally found the original notes that had guided Cecelia in how to bring back the dead.
Bartholomew at first didn’t want to believe it -- he couldn’t believe that his best friend, the woman who had housed him for so many years and had tried so hard to reunite him with his family, could’ve done such a thing. At first he kept his discovery to himself, determined to make sure those notes truly could create a vampire, rather than an Inferi or some other unknown creation. In the end, though, Cecelia unknowingly answered that question herself in the winter of 1887, while confined to her bed with sickness. She had lived to the ripe old age of 126 years old caring for Bartholomew, and on her death bed, she begged Bartholomew to turn her into a vampire too, so they could care for and accompany each other until they could die in peace together. With this, Bartholomew put it all together -- Cecelia had been the one to curse him! He furiously confronted her, and the trembling old woman eventually confessed everything. Her prediction about his death -- her feelings for him -- her guilt and shame -- and, worse of all, the truth about Loretta and Irene. Cecelia had in fact never told Loretta about her husband coming back as a vampire -- Loretta had even died not long after Irene graduated from Hogwarts, thinking she’d at least rejoin her husband in Heaven. Cecelia -- always a master at mimicking other people’s handwriting -- had even forged the letter from Loretta, taking custody of the wedding ring from the priest who had collected her body and enclosing it with the letter, so that Bartholomew would stop asking after Loretta when she was already dead. After her mother’s death, Irene had also left Britain all together, so Bartholomew would have no way to reach her anyway, since his blood lust was too strong for him to safely try to cross the ocean by boat again.
This betrayal was a hundred thousand times worse than the one from Bartholomew’s original life. His rage and anguish was so great that his brilliant, passionate, lighthearted mind cracked. He tore out Cecelia’s throat with his teeth, draining her of all of her blood, and then proceeded to do the same to the rest of her servants before leaving.
Bartholomew then spent the next fifty years prowling the streets of Britain, hunting down prey of all stripes, but especially wizards and witches and even more especially those of the Crouch family line. After a while, the vampire serial killer would even send the Department of Magical Law Enforcement taunting letters about how long it was taking them to stop him.
Now, gents -- this is getting embarrassing. One would almost think you want innocent people dying gruesomely every day. If you’re truly so eager, I could always pay you and your families a visit.
Should you wish to find my current address, here’s your clue: from the campaign to Saratoga, take away the day that the weather itself evoked a public bath. Then add it to a street name blood purists now disdain in a city whose name you’ve already read.
I will be gone by sunset, off to roost somewhere new.
Catch me if you can.
the vampire Bat
Every night, he continued to kill, and every day, the Ministry continued to hunt him. As much as Bat kept out of their reach, however, it was only to increase the odds that, when he was finally caught, they would slaughter him quickly. For he knew he deserved to die -- just as all people deserve to -- just as all should.
#*dies a little inside*#okay seriously when I got this idea I half wanted to scream out of excitement and wail in despair#obviously took a lot of inspiration from sweeney todd for this as well as the historical jack the ripper#because he wasn't able to take time to heal from cecelia's betrayal and the betrayal was so so much worse#bat wasn't able to really evolve with the times the way he does in canon#changing his clothes cutting his hair and embracing the way the world has changed through traveling by night and such#so his hair stays long and he never meets the flamels so no blood flask#I wish I could've done more to tint thranduil's hair so that it looks more auburn before making the picture dark blue but ehhhhh#but yeah basically?#bat just wants to die#but in this reality he's lost so much of his sanity hope and humanity that he's willing to do terrible things to do it#because yeah when he was human he would've done anything to protect his loved ones#so of course he knows people will do so to protect theirs from him </3#way to f*** this poor guy up even more AU!cecelia#hphl#hogwarts legacy#bartholomew varney#dark au#moodboard#aesthetic#au#tw: gore#now if you'll excuse me I have to go stare at the wall for an hour or so
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Hiding in Plain Sight
TITLE: Hiding in Plain Sight
CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 6
AUTHOR: wolfpawn
ORIGINAL IMAGINE:
Imagine coming from a line of nobility or royalty and being in an arranged marriage with Loki in an attempt to strengthen your kingdom / alliance with Asgard. You’re not entirely on board with the idea but figured that the best you could do was to get to know your fiancé.
You form an agreement with Frigga for you to pose as Loki’s personal servant for a few months so you can get to know who Loki really is – beyond the veil of his responsibility to the Asgardian throne, behind all the masks he wears when facing the public, to really know who Loki is behind closed doors as you slowly fall for each other.
How long will you keep up the ruse with the God of Lies?
RATING: General Audience
Raven worked diligently in Loki’s rooms. More than once, she had accidentally done something wrong but Loki was rarely there through the day so she was able to fix her mistake before he was there to realise there was something amiss. When he was there, he tended to be quiet and disinterested in anything bar what he was doing at that time. It told her a lot about his personality. He was a recluse by nature. She spoke a few times with some of the other maids through the day and learnt a little more about her intended. Thor, as she had recalled from the last time they had seen one another those many years before, was still incredible social and outgoing, Loki, who even then was introverted, was more so now. When she tried to press more about his behaviour, she was always getting the same answer, very little. He kept to himself and only joined Thor and his friends when it was required to do so.
Twice, he asked about his intended and Light Elf customs but he seemed mostly disinterested in the entire situation. What she did find irksome was her interest in him growing as a result of their time in close proximity. She noticed a lot of what they liked was somewhat similar. They liked books of the same genre, even the art he had in his rooms were akin to that she liked. It irked her, not because she did not wish that they were similar but because it meant that had he been less of a twit, they would have been well suited which was more annoying.
She also found it bothersome that he was so good looking. She had seen good looking elves all her life but Loki had an elegance even most Light Elves did not possess. It was highly distracting. It almost caused issues when Loki was changing for a bath and she did not know so and walked into the bathroom thinking he had not yet returned to his rooms only to see him in just his tight leather pants which caused her mind to stagger for a moment and for her to stare open-mouthed. Loki turned just as she shut her mouth again though her red face may have given her thoughts on the matter away. For his part, Loki stated nothing on the matter and merely told her that he required a towel.
It did not take Raven long to see just why she never seemed to see Loki come in and out of his rooms. His seidr, she realised, was far stronger than she had ever seen in Alfheim, the home of the ancient art. He simply teleported in and out as he chose. She was relieved that she never did any snooping while she was there, there was more than one occasion that she only knew of Loki’s return when he stood beside her or when he called her name. She did not wish to invade his privacy so she never had any intention to do so but it was clear that such would not be wise. Raven hoped that if they had nothing else to work with, they would have the respect not to invade one another’s privacy. The manner in which Loki spoke to her told her that Loki was genuine when he asked questions and not prying invasively.
“Branna?”
Raven rushed from the desk she was cleaning that was covered in papers that Loki was clearly writing, the official crest on the top, the one thing she did notice, telling her that they were official in manner and to do with the House of Odin and the titles Loki held as his son and made her way to the bed-chamber, which had been empty when she made the bed only twenty minutes before and the door to the room had not been opened at any stage. “Good afternoon, You Highness, how can I assist you?” In truth, Loki rarely came back to his rooms at the current time, telling her that something was different, the manner in which he spoke told her that he was bothered by something. “Is everything alright?”
“Lord Arton of Alfheim, do you know that name?” Loki demanded.
Raven’s brows furrowed. “I do, Your Highness?” Arton was a Lord of the Alfheim court.”
“What is the relationship between him and Princess Raven?” Loki’s nostrils flared as he spoke.
The look on Loki’s face was comical, she could not help but laugh to herself. “Before the announcement of your betrothal to her Highness, they were sweethearts and he voiced his intentions to marry her to her in private but not in court. After that, he took a post away from the city to not see her before her marriage to stop there being any controversy or indeed perhaps to fall out of love with her.” She was entirely honest in her words, she and Arton were such. She loved him dearly but the day it was announced to the court that she was promised to Loki, he merely said his farewells by letter and left the city. It broke her heart but she accepted her lot. Being the daughter of a king, she knew her role in her family. It made sense to her that such would happen, her feeling of being an imposter in her own family decreased when she was told of her future, it made sense. It hurt but it made sense all the same. “May I ask why you would ask such?”
“So they are not still involved?”
“No, Your Highness, Lord Arton left the city and cut all contact from what I am aware.” It was entirely true. Raven had no idea if Arton had tried to reach her once more since his leaving.
“Pity, it could have caused enough of a ruckus to stop this marriage,” Loki growled. “So she is not a maiden?”
“She is as much one as you are.” Raven snarked in return.
Loki eyed her, shocked at her statement. “What if I said I was not experienced in that manner?”
Raven shrugged. “Hardly startling that the God of Lies would live up to his name, I would think. Would you like me to get anything from the kitchens for you, Your Highness?” Loki shook his head, stunned by her words into silence. “Very well, I will go and take a small break so.” She turned and walked away from him, smirking to herself at being able to silence him, something even the Allmother stated was not possible.
*
Sitting in the staffroom of the royal family’s servants, Raven sat with a drink in her hand, proud of her achievement for the day, though interested in Loki’s words. She knew he was not still a virgin, not because she had physically seen him with anyone but because of her source of information, Thor.
Since Thor realised who she really was and she explained what she was doing posing as a maid, on two occasions, the pair spoke in private with regards to Loki mostly, though Thor had a few questions on Alfheim also which she gave her answers to as they were with regards to their future interactions in a positive manner. He was startled to see that for the most part, she was not overly informed on different realm matters but he also understood that with different cultures to the role of princesses, she was bound by Alfheim social norms. He told her all he could on what he knew of Loki’s past excursions. He had not been overly forthcoming with his exploits but as Thor had burst into his rooms once to see him with a young noblewoman, he knew that at the very least, Loki was not a virgin, something Raven was able to get out of him. When he asked her why she was so interested in such, he found himself erupting in laughter when she explained that she simply wished to know if he actually had any experience for fear she’d need to bestow a book on him as to not be left wanting otherwise.
“Branna?” Raven looked at the servant in front of her, wondering when she ever introduced herself to him to say he knew her name. “You are Branna, aren’t you?”
Raven gave a small polite smile. “I am.”
“Her Majesty, the Allmother is requesting you join her for a few moments.”
“Of course, where will I find her?” In truth, Raven was not particularly in the mood to speak with the Allmother, she was enjoying her own company, something she was all too used to.
“Their Majesties’ quarters.” The servant informed her. “You will require this to enter.” He extended his hand and in it, there was a small broach in his hand.
Taking it from him, she attached it to her sash, knowing it permitted her access to the Allfather and Allmother’s quarters. With a slight nod, Raven rose to her feet and went about going to meet the Allmother, wondering what was the reason for her calling on her.
The Einherjar that stood guard outside the rooms of the Aesir King and Queen took no interest in the Elven maid that walked by. The broach she donned could not be falsified. Were it to be fraudulent, it would quickly be made clear as she would be painfully incapacitated. Gently, she knocked on the door for one of the staff inside to answer the servant who had been sent to find her informing her that he had to go on another errand after finding her for the Allmother. For a moment, no one answered, but then the door seemed to open yet no one was behind it. Raven looked around baffled to see that indeed, there was no one at the door.
“Over here.” She turned to see Frigga standing in the far side of the room, facing towards a balcony. “I just need to speak with you a few moments.”
“Is everything alright, Allmother?”
“I see my older son’s memory is not as bad as some think it to be.” She smiled as she spoke. “So many dismiss Thor as some bumbling idiot with nothing but good looks and muscles but there is a brain in there too.”
“He remembered me, yes. Or should I say, he remembered me as a youth where apparently he noted my features had not yet grown to proportion.” Raven half laughed as she did recall herself as a youth and indeed she did need to grow into herself. “He will be accused of being stupid more than once without others seeing just how sly he is, I think.” She recalled how the maid, Hannah, told her how Thor noted her pain in her shoes. “He notices more than you would think.”
“Loki is not the only sly son I have, Thor usually just uses his slyness to defeat others in fights.”
Raven nodded slightly before looking around worriedly.
“You have nothing to fear. All of my maids and the servants have all found themselves with duties that require them all to be out of the room right now and my husband is currently speaking with General Tyr apparently about some old deal with Vanaheim but were they to be honest, they are simply gossiping like two old women.”
Raven bit her lips together at Frigga’s words, trying not to laugh at how she spoke of her husband. “Is there a reason you called me here in such a manner, Allmother? Please, do not think me to be rude. I do like speaking with you, only I have something of a feeling that something is afoot?”
“I will have to announce to Loki today that he is to be wed in a month.”
“A month! So soon?” Raven had thought that the normal tradition of three months of celebrations from introduction to marriage would be upheld.
“Outside factors require it to be so soon. You will have to be formally introduced to Loki in the near future. I thought it only fair to inform you before Loki is told so that when he returns to his rooms, his reaction would not startle you.”
“I…” Raven stopped and inhaled deeply. “Thank you, Allmother.” She bowed slightly. “When am I required to return home to collect my belongings?”
Frigga frowned slightly at her. “You are home now.” Her words were said with kindness but it did not feel like such to Raven. “You can, of course, return to Alfheim if you require to but your mother offered to have your belongings brought so you do not have to worry about returning. I know the Bifrost can be uncomfortable.”
“No, I am sure my mother will organise everything. I had most of it ready before I left, anyway.”
“Yet, you seem somewhat uncertain?”
“I just did not expect it to be so sudden.” That was nothing but the truth, Raven was caught unawares by it.
“I gather that you are still undecided as to my son’s personality?”
“With all due respect, Allmother. The time I have been here is not enough to assess the true nature of any being, much less one as complex as Loki.”
“You saying that alone shows you have made some assessment on him.”
Raven did not know what to say. She knew there was a high probability of the Aesir monarch asking what she had come to think of her son. She did not want to lie but her assessment thus far was not great either. “I am still learning his mannerisms. He is very quiet and introverted, it is hard to fully see his demeanour in its entirety. He is careful of his actions around others. I sense him checking to see if he is alone and when he sees me there, he seems to contain himself or hide himself in some manners. It is most peculiar and slightly uncomfortable.”
“Loki is a sensitive soul, he does not like to show vulnerability to anyone, even me,” Frigga explained.
Raven had nothing more to say. She considered how to politely remove herself from the room without insulting Frigga when a large bell tolled across the city.
“I guess that is my indication to tell him what is to come.” Frigga straightened her attire. “I am sorry you need to be told in this manner.”
“Thank you for taking the time to tell me, Allmother.” Raven bowed slightly. “Shall I get him for you? He should be back from his usual afternoon activities.”
“Please.” Frigga smiled politely, noting her wish to remove herself from the room.
Raven rushed through the halls, oblivious to her surrounds. Upon her return to Loki’s rooms, she was startled to see that he was not there. “Your Highness?”
“What were you doing in my parent’s rooms alone with my mother?” Loki appeared out of nowhere beside her, looking at her curiously.
“Alone?”
“All of her maids and my father’s servants have mysteriously found themselves required elsewhere, and you were alone with her, why was that?” He repeated, his tone more clipped.
Raven contemplated her options on what to tell him for a moment. “The Allmother sent one of the Allfather’s servants to retrieve me to discuss a particular matter. I did notice that their chambers seemed void of staff considering the time of day but as it is not my concern, I did not voice any opinions I had on the matter.” There were no lies in her word and she could see Loki searching for such.
“What was the matter that you discussed?” Loki could not find any inclination that she gave him anything other than the truth.
“How to assist you in a manner forthcoming. I was also asked to tell you that she wants to speak with you.”
“What is it?”
“That is for her to discuss with you. I was told to say nothing of the matters discussed.”
Loki placed his hand on her arm, trying to pull her back towards him. It was a natural reaction, but Raven twisted her arm around in a manner that broke the grip before gripping his hand and pulling it into a lock. Loki, due to not expecting her to react in such a manner, was caught off-guard. When Raven realised what she did, she let go immediately and stood back awaiting admonishment. “I am so sorry.”
“How do you know how to do that?” Loki was more intrigued than angry by her actions.
“I have brothers, it is basic self-defence.” It was true, being teased by her brothers meant she learnt how to defend herself.
“What you did to me is a criminal offence, you could be charged for that, you are aware?” Loki smirked.
“In a legal setting, the argument is valid to say that you touched me first and I acted in self-defence.”
“But I am a prince. I will not say anything, if you tell me what I am heading towards now.”
Raven eyed him cautiously, knowing full well the reason for his smirk. It made her want to slap him but knew she could not do so physically. Knowing that what she would say would affect him in some manner, she felt herself almost happy to ruin his day while also reminding herself of an ugly truth as she spoke. “She is going to inform you that a date is set for your marrying Princess Raven. It is in a month’s time.”
Loki stood back, startled at what she was saying.
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First Impression: Girlfriend, Girlfriend
Hey guys, Josh here, and….hoo boy…do I have a one for you. I should’ve known that this new series would be something…special…when even after much discussion, NOBODY at Beneath the Tangles volunteered to take it on. But me being the foolish dope I am, I jumped at the chance…and I now question everything.
You would think that after trudging through Rent-A-Girlfriend’s premiere episode that I would know better than to mess with a show that has the word “Girlfriend” in the title that isn’t called Mysterious Girlfriend X, but I am a glutton for punishment it seems. Girlfriend, Girlfriend is…well…it’s not gonna win any awards this season, as far as I can tell from this first episode. I mean, if you’re into harem romcoms, this one MIGHT give you something to sink your teeth into as it is, admittedly, a somewhat unique take on the harem anime trope, but from my eyes, this show just leaves you with so many head-scratching, face-palming moments, that the idea of coming back every week for the better part of two months fills me with trepidation and fear. But is it REALLY that bad? Or does it fall into the “so bad it’s good” category? Lets find out. I’m Josh, and this is my First Impression of Girlfriend, Girlfriend.
Let us pray.
Except that…
Our series starts with our protagonist, Makoto Itou—sorry, I mean Naoya Mukai. Seems our boy is living the dream right now. He’s currently going steady with a cute girl named Sekai Saionji—sorry again, I mean Saki, who he has had a long-time crush on since childhood, and is FIERCELY devoted to. And when I say “fiercely”, I mean that literally—this dude confessed his love to Saki once a month every month since first grade…and only now that they’re in high school did she finally return his feelings and they started going out. You know, that’s dedication…creepy, CREEPY dedication. But hey, the heart wants what the heart wants, I guess.
While waiting on Saki to finish up with basketball practice on the school roof, a mysterious purple-haired girl comes up and rather abruptly confesses her feelings to Naoya. Because that’s where all the best confessions take place, of course. That or underneath a blooming sakura blossom tree. Anyway, our new girl’s name is Kotonoha Katsura—oops, sorry again…Nagisa Minase, and it seems as though she has feelings for Naoya herself, putting in hours everyday to make herself look as attractive as possible, and spending 8 hours and tens of thousands of yen to make a perfect lunchbox for him. Because that’s what all girls do whenever they want to confess to a guy they only just got the courage to speak to! Naoya is taken aback by this showing of love, and initially does the right thing by saying that he can’t return her feelings because he already has a girlfriend (what any NORMAL guy would do). However, Nagisa is not dissuaded by this news, and says that she’ll never give up on him and will confess her feelings again one day. This seems to strike a nerve with Naoya; he doesn’t want to turn down Nagisa, nor does he want to betray Saki. So what does he decide to do?
Does he spend some time trying to come to grips with his feelings?
Does he talk with someone who could offer up some sage advise?
Does he tell Nagisa, “Look, I have a girlfriend and I’m really happy with her, but maybe we can just be friends?”
NOPE! None of the above!
This MoFo decides to go for the “Have Your Cake and Eat It Too” option, and ask Nagisa if she would mind entering a relationship with him AND his current girlfriend. Because WHY THE HECK NOT?! And of course, Nagisa does the right thing and turns him down; after all, what self-respecting girl would want to be in a relationship with a guy who already has a girlfriend. Who in their right mind is okay being the backup girlfriend? That would be just silly–
OH COME THE EFF ON, NAGISA!!! YOU MEAN TO TELL ME YOU’RE ACTUALLY DOWN FOR THIS?! REALLY!?!? Good grief…
Anyway, the two run off to tell Saki the news after her practice. At first, Saki she seems happy with this new “friend,” until Naoya reveals that he actually wants to bring this new girl into the fold as another girlfriend. Saki takes this news about as well as you would expect—she pulls a Saitama and One-Punches him. However, Naoya is not dissuaded by this and sees this as being the only real, logical solution to this “problem.” Modern problems require modern solutions, I guess.
When Saki understandably grills Nagisa asking is she really okay being part of this arrangement, our purple-haired cutie is totally down for whatever, really wanting to be part of this foolishness. Eventually, both Naoya and Nagisa begin begging Saki to at least consider his proposal, promising her endless meals, money and…ahem…other things…and eventually…she agrees to give this whole thing a try. Naoya then has the bright idea to improve relations between his two new girlfriends by inviting them to live with him in his house.
Oh, but what about his parents? I mean, surely they would have something to say about their son wanting to date two girls at the same time and let both of them live under the same roof, right? Well, in this particular show, Naoya states he doesn’t even live with his parents and thus can bring the two girls into the house with no problems, having to only speak with Saki’s mom to get the all clear. I know this is a common trope in anime, especially in harem anime—the parents are either away on a business trip, divorced, or caught an acute case of dead, and usually the anime makes a point in pointing out what the situation is. This time around, the show doesn’t even bother with explaining anything and Naoya says that he just doesn’t live with his folks!
Later that night, while the two girls are sharing a bath (because of course they are), they discuss the elephant in the room…sex. Saki admits, much to Nagisa’s relief, that she and Naoya have yet to have any love-love time; heck, they haven’t even kissed yet. It’s then when Nagisa confronts Naoya; what EXACTLY does he want the nature of this relationship to be? Naoya actually ADMITS that he eventually the three of them to have love-love time. However, Naoya admits that they should perhaps get to know each other better and thus decides to put that feeling aside for the time being. Wow. What a guy.
And in fact, I think that’s the prime failing of Girlfriend, Girlfriend. Our male lead is just not a very likable guy and, as weird as this may sound, has not earned this affection of either Saki or Nagisa. What has he done that makes us stand up and say, “Hey, he’s a great guy—he deserves having these girls love all over him!”? To me, a good harem anime has a protagonist that doesn’t seek out the harem, but rather deals with the personalities and situations that comes to him, and from that, makes a decision, all the while remaining equally considerate to the others. Naoya only seems to be in this situation because he WANTS to be. This is a problem of his own creation! It’s like unscrewing a lightbulb from a lamp, smashing it on the ground and saying, “Oh, dang! I can’t see! The room is too dark! What on earth am I going to do?”
With regards to the female characters in this show…well…I don’t really know what to say here. One thing that I had to ask while watching this is, “What are YOU GUYS getting from this?” I mean, all we hear about is what Naoya wants; we don’t hear about what the other girls want out of this and what Naoya can give to them…especially Saki, who has, for all intents and purposes, been coerced into this entanglement, and is getting no obvious rewards from this other than still being Naoya’s girlfriend. What does she gain from this? And with regards to Nagisa…why is baby girl so intent on being 2nd?! Why is she seemingly okay with the idea of sharing this BOY with another girl? Both of these girls need their heads examined, and I think I need mine examined at the end of all this.
So where does that leave us with Girlfriend, Girlfriend? Well, lemme put it this way–if you ever wanted a happy version of the video game/anime School Days, this is for you. If you want watch a show that is just going to be a mindless yet well-animated romp, this is for you. Other than that, stay the heck away. As someone who actually likes a good harem anime every once in a while, this one just feels like it’s just trying too hard to be unique and just ends up falling on its face. I may stick around with this one for another episode or two just out of morbid curiosity to see if it can get any worse, but other than that, I’m giving it a hard pass and it would behoove you to do the same.
=====
Girlfriend, Girlfriend can be streamed through Crunchyroll. Read our thoughts on all the new summer anime series, in addition to comments from our other writers, on our Summer 2021 Anime First Impression master post.
#Anime#First Impressions#Girlfriend Girlfriend#Kanojo mo Kanojo#Summer Anime 2021#Articles#Author: The Cajun Samurai#Author: Josh
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The Masked Ghost - Jackson Wang AU
HELLO FOLKS, HERE COMES YOUR ADORABLE AUTHOR AFTER HARSH WINTERS OF WAITING!!! Ahem, well, I took my time, but this is one of the stories I really am proud of. It originally started as inspiration from the ‘100 ways’ MV and song but you know me; I love myself a good read. I hope you all enjoy it as much I enjoyed writing it~ I hope the details are historically accurate, I tried documenting myself first so it would make the experience more real.
Synopsis: The heavy burden of the crown will soon become Prince Jackson’s responsibility. He wants to be a good ruler to his people and correct the mistakes of his ancestors. He seeks the help of a famous rebel among his people to guide him through the process. The urban legend is, however, an old friend of the Prince.
15.6k words, Emperor AU, somewhat soulmate au too, Historical inspiration, crime, explicit violence, love
“My dear son, there will be a time when the feeling of love won’t be a fleeting breeze, but a fulfilling storm and it shall last as long as your heart keeps on beating. “
“How will I know it, Mama?”
“Oh, Jackson, you will feel it battling so violently in your chest, it’s an unmistakable feeling. You will just know.”
Prince Jackson opened his eyes abruptly, the light of dawn bathing the room through the beautifully embroidered drapes of his royal chamber. He let out a low groan of displeasure and stood up to adjust to the low lighting. A lazy hand was brought up to rub at his eyes. He woke up a little earlier than usual, he figured. His servants weren’t swarmed around him to make sure he was offered everything he needed from the moment he opened his eyes.
He crawled out of bed and tightened the bead of his robe as he walked to the side door of his chamber so he could breathe in the fresh air of the morning. The garden was stretching vastly outside his porch and he took a couple of barefooted steps outside, the grass tickling his feet. His days of being a crown prince were rapidly coming to an end, along with the freedom he previously enjoyed. His father was ready to retire and let him inherit all the heavy responsibilities of the throne. Jackson let out a sigh and looked up at the sky. The bold rays of the sun engulfed the garden and he sheltered his face with the back of his hand.
“Your majesty! What are you doing outside? You aren’t even dressed!”
Jackson closed his eyes momentarily, his moment of peace quickly falling to pieces. He turned his body to the source of the voice, greeting the old gardener with a warm smile. He was the only one actively serving Jackson at his age; he had always felt like a grandfather to him.
“Did the servants cause you displeasure?”
“Not at all,” Jackson replied with a chuckle. “I woke up a tad earlier and I figured I’d enjoy the calm—“
The frail door of his chamber was opened once again, the loud sound indicating the rush and panic of the servants who failed to find him in his bed.
“While it lasted, your majesty?” the old man laughed, patting Jackson’s arm lightly.
The young girls bowed their heads stiffly and waited as the lead servant and tailor approached Jackson with a look of disapproval on their features. “Your majesty, you should not walk so hastily around, especially without your shoes! What if you hurt yourself, your majesty?”
Jackson nodded imperceptibly and dipped his head towards the old man before walking ahead of his two most worried servants. “What could possibly happen to me? Step on a rock?”
He heard the young girls giggle at his remark and were immediately scolded by the senior servant. “You should take this more seriously, your majesty! You will be emperor soon! What will everyone make of you if you show yourself so carelessly?”
Jackson extended his arms to allow his tailor to dress him into his appropriate clothes. His room became crowded in an instant with people who were either making his bed or arranging his table with the necessary tools for the morning routine. He turned his back to the young girls during the time of his fitting, trying to ease some of their embarrassment.
“Your majesty, are you sure you do not want anyone to come and shave you?”
Jackson shook his head, bringing his hands to his waist to tie the golden sash over the black chest piece. His fingers lingered over the small embroidered details which formed an elegant pattern on top of the charcoal silk. He was among the few men at the palace who opted for trousers which often rose eyebrows for the lack of elegance. His outfit was completed by the gauntlets adorning his forearms. The tailor took a good look at his prince. “I have never seen anyone who suits black and gold more than your majesty does. Although your palette is rather poor in terms of colors.”
Jackson laughed and buttoned his collar. “Thank you for your sincerity. My father would have had you beheaded for this.”
The man bowed his head in terror, so Jackson placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Maybe you should follow his example, your majesty!” The head servant folded her arms over her chest. She was one of the few seniors in the palace who disagreed with the friendlier approach Jackson had with all of the servants. He was known for being kind and humble, someone who tried treating everyone with respect, no matter their job or title. Everyone adored him for being such a sympathetic royal and there were many who competed for being assigned to him. Although those part of the older generation questioned his extended kindness. They did not see it fit for a future king. Especially since it attracted greedy females around him.
“How can I abuse my power? These people are my servants, not my slaves.” Jackson sat down at the table and took the blade in between his fingers to get rid of his facial hair.
“Prince, forgive my ignorant outburst.” She bowed to Jackson. “I wouldn’t want people to take advantage of your otherwise bright nature—“
“Are they, though?”
Jackson smirked at the voice of his best friend and closest advisor, Guiren, who leaned against the doorframe. The girls formed a line to bow to him and steal some glances.
“I wouldn’t recommend mistaking his majesty’s kindness for weakness.”
“Ah Guiren, weren’t we supposed to meet for breakfast?” Jackson wiped his face clean with a white piece of cloth, sewed with the same sophisticated design. “You came here to shadow my popularity among the servants?”
The girls blushed at Jackson’s words and were ushered outside by the lead servant. “We’ll leave you to master Guiren, your majesty. The breakfast is ready to be served in the main backyard, as you requested.”
“Then that would be all, thank you. I would like us to be alone at this time.”
The seniors bowed to Jackson before retreating out of his chamber. Guiren approached his best friend with a smug expression imprinted on his features. “As much as I want to, I cannot top you, Jackson. The queue of females desiring to climb in your bed is long enough to circle the empire twice. It beats me how you simply refuse to summon any to your chamber.”
Jackson waved his hand dismissively. “That is of no concern to me now. You showing up so eagerly means you took care of what I asked.”
“I have some interesting things to share with you, indeed. The soldiers are full of gossip.”
The two of them walked to where the breakfast was served, avoiding the topic on their way there. One of the first lessons Jackson’s father taught him was that walls have ears and people’s trust is as fray as a cherry blossom flower in late spring. And he knew himself how many people were executed because of betrayal or plotting against the empire over trivial interests such as riches.
Guiren was the right hand of the military general and was regarded highly in their ranks. He had been too young to participate in the last big war but was otherwise trusted with many little revolts scattered across the empire and had an immeasurable amount of talent in swordsmanship. And Jackson’s mentor in the art.
“Before I tell you about it though, why do you seek their help? What are you afraid is going to happen?”
Jackson took the chopsticks in between his fingers. “One of the many advantages of the royals is that they are rarely revealed to the wider public and that gave me the possibility to go among our people. I’ve heard some worrying words that a new war is boiling.”
Guiren followed his example. “That was before the public ceremony last month. You were introduced as our new king, though.”
Thanks to his endeavors among the people of the empire and his occasional help with the field works, Jackson was enthusiastically received as their new monarch. He knew how important it was for people to put their trust in their king and how necessary it was for them to believe the king can serve them accordingly. It was a steady path toward peace. However, he did not help people just for the sake of it. He really enjoyed putting a smile on their faces and easing their hardships in however manner he could. He was deeply saddened to see how much misery the upper class poured upon them. And the people loved him in return.
“So who keeps you informed?”
“The old gardener, remember him? His granddaughter runs a bathhouse.”
Guiren chuckled. “Well, figures you would put your looks to good use. That’s smart, though. A bathhouse is a commonplace for fresh information.”
Jackson agreed and put his bowl of rice down. “Your turn.”
“Well, what do you want me to begin with?”
“Isn’t it obvious? The beginning.”
Guiren scratched at his nape and clicked his tongue. “Okay. But make sure you chew the food before I tell you.”
“Ah come on, just say it.”
“The Masked Ghost is supposed to be a woman.”
Jackson choked on his food. Guiren quirked his eyebrow at him, handing him his cup of tea.
“Told you.”
“That’s impossible.” Jackson shook his head and took a sip from his tea. “Thirty officials killed over the past month, countless other thieves and criminals mysteriously dead and you tell me she’s a woman?”
“She’s certainly been building her reputation in the empire, but believe me when I say she is worshipped by common folk because she brings them the justice us royals fail to. My sources cannot be wrong about this.”
Jackson took his chin in between his thumb and index. “My father showed me some of the bodies. Those were clean cuts of the jugular.”
Guiren nodded. “I suppose his majesty only told you the bright part of the story. Some of the officials she killed were applying the tax law too harshly on farmers and often overworked them for an extra coin. But the others that she killed were known for their abusive behavior towards women and their violent outbursts that led to innocent girls being murdered in the process. One of your cousins was her target for a short while. It looked like he was innocent so he was spared.”
Jackson winced. He knew the King tried his best to reduce the abuse rate in the country because history taught him it comes with drastic consequences, but he could only do so little about his officials. There was no written law that women were not meant to be toys of the thirsty wolves.
“There’s more. They say the Masked Ghost entered a fight with 10 of our trained palace guards because she was caught beating a thief to literal death. Word has it she was so skilled with a sword that they couldn’t even scrape her. She’s been regarded as a highly wanted murderer ever since.”
Jackson tilted his head toward a group of birds playing around the pond in the yard.
“That being said,” Guiren continued after having finished his plate. “I won’t let you meet The Ghost.”
“No.”
“Jackson, are you insane? She’s shown no remorse toward any of her victims. Do you think she’ll spare you because you’re set to become King? She was so close to killing your cousin, a royal by blood.”
Jackson looked back at Guiren with a determined look in his eyes. “I need the ghost to teach me how to wield a sword and how to fight.”
“I do plenty of that.”
“You don’t. Because they don’t allow you to. What am I supposed to do if an actual war comes, Guiren? Sit pretty on my throne and watch you sacrifice yourselves for me?”
Guiren let out a scoff. “That is our duty, your majesty.”
Jackson shook his head and looked away. “I cannot put my life in the hand of my subjects. Even if I trust you with my life Guiren, I refuse to be helpless. And honestly, now that I’ve heard the whole story, I kind of understand her reasons.”
Guiren blinked in surprise. “Killing high government officials because she doesn’t like the law?”
“The Ghost might take the law in her hands. But it is just, however wrong. She does what we cannot.”
Guiren acknowledged Jackson’s words, despite the fact that he hated how much truth resided in them. He was a dedicated follower of the written law even if he did not completely agree with it because it was the right thing to do. And Jackson knew, too. Rules are meant to keep a society in order and are meant to be obeyed, no matter the personal beliefs. That was what a monarch did. What Jackson soon had to do.
“Listen, Jackson.” Guiren sighed. “I know you will be a great ruler especially because you are not a tyrant. But don’t succumb to your own heart. It will bring much disorder. And you alone cannot turn around habits that all of us inherited for ages. It’s how your father and his predecessors kept this empire flourishing. By abiding to the customs and to the law.”
“I am aware of that.” Jackson said, defeated.
“But that doesn’t make you change your mind, now does it?”
The two of them laughed and Guiren gave his friend a tiny bit of paper. “I need a skilled person in the field. I need to keep track of everything so I can reduce the violence and the blood, no matter how little.”
After his evening duties finished, a whole lesson taught by his father and his advisors about politics and economics, Jackson was sent back to his chamber for the night. He waited for the servants to exit his room and whistled in a distinctive tone to let an awaiting Guren know he would be thus unsupervised. He was given common clothes and a cape to mask his silhouette from the curios eyes and then swiftly sneaked out of the palace thanks to his friend’s authority and his secret routes.
The night was in full bloom, the darkness thick even with the torches lit around the capital to provide some light. There weren’t many people walking the streets and it made it even easier for him to move around. Jackson checked the writing on the bit of paper and was still perplexed by how vague it was. Guiren did not give him an exact location in the clue so he strolled around the back alleys, trying to find something for guidance. His feet stopped abruptly and dug into the dirt when the unexpected cold of a blade made contact with the skin of his neck.
“If it isn’t Prince Wang taking a night walk on my turf. Or should I say King Wang?”
Jackson felt a cold shiver traverse his spine. The voice belonged to a woman indeed, but the harshness of it told him there would be but a wrong word to his end.
“What are you doing here all alone?”
Jackson gulped and felt the tip of the blade tracing a vein in his neck. He knew you would have killed him long ago if you felt like it. “I wish to speak with you.”
He heard you chuckle and, in spite of the rather crucial situation he found himself in, thought it was a beautiful sound. “Oh? I knew I was famous in the palace, but I did not expect a royal coming down here with a speech prepared for me. Speak quickly before I change my mind.”
Jackson couldn’t afford to hesitate. He went there to convince The Ghost to be his partner. “I want you to teach me how to wield a sword.”
If he hadn’t had a blade dangling at his throat, he would have allowed himself to be entranced by your beautiful laugh. You stepped lightly from behind him, your blade now lowered to your hand and you started playing with it as you kept on laughing.
“You know, the lady who sells rice cakes mentioned you are an entertainer but I didn’t expect you to amuse me this much!”
Jackson took a good look at you as you placed yourself before him. Your face was covered entirely by the impressive porcelain mask so as not to leave any clue of your facial traits and the dragon pattern painted on it was majestically executed. You certainly were taller than he expected you to be, matching him evenly, and your body was covered in a thoroughly crafted crimson leather armor, with black and brown assortments. The only thing he could only catch a glimpse of in the endearing moonlight was your ebony hair, braided in a style he did not recognize. It must have been one of the foreign treats he had read in the papers brought to the palace by the naval officers.
“I did not intend to humor you. My reputation precedes me, yet now I am but serious.”
You turned your back to him. “Go home, Prince. This is not a place for you flimsy royals.”
“I beg of you. I want to be a King worthy of his people, capable of shielding them from danger. And as I am now, I am incompetent.”
You stopped in your tracks and tilted your head towards him. You were taken by surprise; never in your life have you heard of any royal who walked among the commoners, let alone beg one of the nation criminals to teach him how to better himself. You heard rumors about him and spied on his activities when he was out in the empire but it was never enough to convince you he was any different from his predecessors. He came out of the same cocoon after all.
“This empire has never had a King worthy of his people, your majesty.” Jackson could hear how acid his title was in your mouth. “You royals are born with a silver spoon in your mouth and you think the world belongs to you. What do you know about what these people are going through to keep your filthy egos in place and your stomachs full? Just so they could live to see the morning sky another day. Pathetic.”
Jackson could not see your face but he could feel your anger boiling inside of you. You were more than justified to spit at him and mock him; he was well aware all you said was the truth. Almost everything.
“Don’t you fight for what you believe in to make a change?”
You knitted your eyebrows. Your silence was an indicator to continue. “I want to help these people make a change. I want to at least try. And there is no use in telling you the masters and politicians at our court do not teach us how to forge a change. But I am not stupid to overlook it.”
“Your father failed in doing so. What makes you different?”
“My father did not try to understand your people.”
You turned completely to him and took your first look at him. Women all over the country fawned over his good looks and in all honesty, you were a woman too. All of the royals were refined, still, and you did not allow yourself to be enraptured by it. The stern look in his eyes made you question his intentions. You fought for a leader who would lead his people for the people, not for himself. Even if the King was not a bad ruler, he failed to serve his people. You actually wondered if his son was any different.
You took your sword out from the scabbard and threw it at him. Much to your surprise, he caught it by the hilt. Jackson looked at the exquisite sword and wondered if it was slightly lighter than the ones at the palace.
“If you manage to touch me with that sword, I’ll consider.”
You sensed the hesitation. “I am a woman but I could kill you easily if I felt like, your majesty. I thought you treated me as an equal.”
Jackson nodded. You were right, he came to you for help because you were the skilled one. No matter how many crimes you had under your belt, he felt the strong sense of righteousness oozing from you. He was convinced it was not easy for you.
He dashed over to you in a leap, swinging his sword in mid-air. You deflected the sword with your knife, taking a step back to steady yourself. You certainly did not expect such a well-placed swing. Jackson seized the momentum to bring his other foot to the front and glide the sword through the air. You countered it with the back of your knife, his eyes making direct contact with yours.
“It would seem like they did teach you something, your majesty.”
Jackson took a cross-step to the back, the sound of metal scraping on metal echoing in the night air. “I shall take that as a compliment.”
You smirked at his words and anticipated his next move. Jackson twirled the sword in his hand as he walked toward you, taking a full swing from above. You lowered your body to the ground in a lunge and then quickly jolted up to disarm him. Jackson barely dodged to the side. You pushed forward and he leaned backward, using the support of his hands to do a backflip. He rested on the ground for a second.
“You are so intense, Ghost.”
“Too bad you are never going to see that for yourself, Prince.”
Jackson’s eyes widened in shock at your remark and that cost him his loss. He was left wide open and you threw your knife accurately, inches to the side of his head, to force him to lose balance then rushed forward, pushing him to the ground. Your knee was placed on the fuller as you straddled him, one of your hands grabbing jokingly at his throat. “It is my victory, your majesty.”
You leaned over him to grab your knife from the ground and then sprung up. Jackson was at a loss for words. It was not that he did not expect you to beat him, he certainly lost his chance because of your rather vulgar words, followed by your indecent position atop of him. He draped an arm over his eyes and laughed under his breath. “It is.”
You sheathed your sword and watched him as he stood back up. He parted his lips to say something but reconsidered it, bowing his head to you instead. “I lost fairly but is there something I could do to change your mind about this?”
You walked over to him, raising his chin up with the back of your knife before twirling it in your hand to offer it to him. Jackson was not a stranger to weapons and close combat and his agility and quick reflexes with a sword certainly served for a pleasant surprise. You decided to play along.
“I feel generous tonight.”
Jackson took the knife from your hand and stole another glance at your eyes before you turned to walk away. It was a scorching shade of amber.
“So, how did it go last night?”
Guiren countered Jackson’s punch and went in for a high kick. Jackson put his arms together to absorb the impact.
“She is really skilled. She might have laughed at me at first though.”
Guiren chuckled. “What did you say? Teach me your ways?”
Jackson jumped back and wiped the sweat traversing his forehead. “Something like that. She threw me her sword and said that if I hit her once, she’d teach me.”
“Oh?” Guiren smirked and unbuttoned the collar of his uniform. “What then?”
“I lost, of course. But she gave me this knife as a gift so I figure I might see her again.”
Guiren examined the knife and let out a whistle. “This is a perfect hunting knife with a wide blade. I wonder where she gets these from.”
“Her sword was lighter than the ones we use here, too. I think she might have ties to the European weapon merchants.”
“So what you are telling me is that she put you to shame with a mere knife that she also offered you and deliberately agreed to teach you swordsmanship? Did you take her to bed?”
Jackson thought back to the part of the story he omitted to tell Guiren. Under no circumstance should he find out he might have fantasized a little. “Uhm, no, colonel, cease this nonsense at once. “
“I hate it when you bring out the aristocracy on me, your majesty.” Guiren laughed and resumed his fighting stance. “But in all seriousness, you should be careful. You might be playing right into her hand.”
Jackson nodded and put up his guard, bracing himself for another brawling with Guiren. He knew The Ghost was most likely entertaining herself and must have had other plans for him. Seeing you in action motivated him even more; he had to win your trust somehow and make you regain your faith in the crown. It was the best-case scenario for the both of you and for the empire. He could use your intel and your skills and, in exchange, you would benefit from a fair ruling. Even more so as Guiren hinted at military tensions between the empire and other states. He had to make a bold move before his coronation.
“Lady Y/n, how do you read this word?” one of the little children seated by your side pointed at the book, his curious eyes eliciting a bright smile from your lips.
“This?” You wrapped your free arm around him, pulling him on your lap. The other children protested collectively and crawled all over you. “This is justice, little one.”
“Justice?” another girl perked up at you. “What does it mean?”
You took a deep breath and tried to mask the heavy feelings you were carrying in your chest. You couldn’t show those children what disappointment was before their lives had even started.
“Hmm, well, justice means treating people fairly around you. It also means I am equal to you and you are equal to me.”
“So like how Prince Jackson treats us?”
You opened your arms and the children rushed into your embrace. You wanted to trust the Prince more than anyone but it was never an easy task. Monarchs had failed your country countlessly and it was hard to believe it would all come to an abrupt end.
“Okay children, leave our Lady Y/n be. Time is up.”
You giggled at their whines and gave each a hug as they went their way. You stood up and straightened the material of your skirt, fitting the sash after. “You were mean, Uncle! You know no one reads to the children.”
“I cannot wait to see the day when your own little dwarfs will cling to your side.” Your uncle offered you some freshly baked sweets which you took gratefully. “Do you truly dislike every man in the country?”
You giggled. “There will be a long and impossible road to my marriage, Uncle. No one deserves to carry the heavy burdens of The Ghost.”
“Speaking of which,” he began as he started walking among the cheerful people in the streets “I started investigating the Small Treasurer. It shan’t be long before we uncover his treacheries. But I understand there is another reason you sent word to the guild?”
You nodded your head. “Prince Wang came looking for me last night. I was surprised to find him wandering so close to our secondary post.”
“So what did he want?”
“This is the unthinkable part, Uncle. He wanted me to mentor him in swordsmanship.”
Your uncle took his chin in between his fingers. “It must have been that young Colonel, Guren. His web weaves vast into the empire. We have had trouble in the past accessing bits of information because of his own informants.”
You brought your hands to your hair to tie it loosely at the base of your neck. It was an unusually sunny day for the season. “He is a cunning one but I understand he would rather die than betray his Prince.”
“That is correct. What will you do, then? You know the Guild has been supporting the Prince from the shadows. It seems he will be a mighty ruler.”
“Certainly he is talented.” You nodded your head and your attention was captivated by a group of young boys waving to your direction. You smiled at them and returned the gesture. Your popularity among the other folk was a suitable cover for the day and it also served for cheap gossip. “I have decided to keep in touch with him for the time being.”
“Good. Perhaps you might take advantage of his loose tongue. Have you thought about going to the banquet? We can secure an invitation for you and for all one knows, you could have fun.”
Your hand caressed a piece of yellow silk resting on the table of one of the street vendors. You asked politely for it and paid the merchant in coin. As much as you loved your perfectly fitting armor, you adored sewing your own dresses, or offering them to the girls who were unable to afford them.
“Uncle, you know my opinion about these unnecessary feasts. It is a complete waste of coin. But I shall go if I see fit.”
Many times did you wonder about the infamous feasts of the palace. You had never gone to one before but had often heard impressive tales of the spectacle and of the people attending from all over the world; it was a true cultural asset. Although you wished some of the coin spent would go to improve the life of the citizens, you couldn’t help but desire to go to one.
“I would not mind if a foreign Prince asked for my niece’s hand in marriage, too.”
You laughed and livened up at his words. “Who would do such a thing, Uncle?”
“You ought to not underestimate yourself!” He scolded you with a bright glint in his eyes. “You are beautiful and smart and young. Should they marry you, they will be blessed!”
“Ah, I do not know how to obey a man. They would not stand me.”
The rest of the day was spent helping around the animal farm, alas without your full focus. Your mind kept darting back and forth to your previous encounter with the Prince. The serious look in his eyes when he spoke about dedicating his crown to the people deeply bothered you. After your parents had died at the hands of cowardly officials who only knew the art of squeezing coin out of people’s pockets, you had spent your adolescence years training and absorbing knowledge so you’d be able to fight their mistreatment. You wouldn’t allow yourself to believe in any of their descendants. Yet Prince Jackson managed to ignite a spark in your beliefs.
You were meditating when he made his appearance in the same back alley you had clashed the night before. You heard his light steps as he approached, not daring to interrupt you.
“You came, your majesty.” You opened your eyes and jumped up. You noticed a sword resting at his side and the eagerness on his face.
“Could you not mock me any further? If you dislike my title, then do not use it at all.” He whined as he pushed back the hood from his face. You folded your arms over your chest and chuckled.
“Should I not address you at all?”
“My name is Jackson.”
“I thought you beheaded people for not using your royal titles.”
It was his turn to laugh. “I don’t think I could ever behead you no matter how hard I tried.”
You also noticed he dropped his aristocratic pattern of speech and that he relaxed his stance in your presence. You couldn’t understand how he was so trusting in a stranger. In a murderer.
“Well, Jackson, shall we begin?”
A thing you appreciated about him from the get-go was his diligence. He was a quick study, undoubtedly blessed with both natural talent and perseverance. He was following your every move, executing it gracefully and it was easy to guess he would, someday, surpass your abilities if you kept on mentoring him. He was one of the few royals by blood who had the genes of a warrior. So you saw no problem in pushing his physical limits from the start.
Jackson had good stamina. He understood you’d push his buttons in a somewhat sadistic manner but he was determined to keep up with you and prove his worth. He was fascinated by your even breath throughout the training and his respect for you grew. Not only did you have endurance but your moves were swift and elegant, not making any unnecessary motions. You looked like a feather, waltzing with the wind.
Jackson knew his own sword swings were becoming sloppier with each heavier breath taken. You had to step by his side, trailing your hand over his arm to correct his posture. You felt his muscles easing under your touch. “You always have to keep your sword pointed to your enemy. This way, he won’t be able to sway your defense so easily.”
Jackson nodded and straightened his arm. He was convinced your breath would have fanned over his neck had the mask not covered your face. He was getting distracted.
“We shall stop for the night. I don’t want your body to be sore in the morning without any logical explanation to your servants.”
Your fingers slid down his forearm slowly, igniting an unknown flare in his veins. He was definitely getting distracted.
“Thank you.” He muttered quietly, clearing his throat. “Say, uhm,…Ghost.”
“I won’t tell you my name.” you stated, sheathing your sword.
“I didn’t mean to ask that, although I am slightly disappointed.” He laughed and you found yourself staring a little longer at the way his eyes curved into crescents. “Could you maybe teach me about other things as well?”
“Oh? Such as?”
He walked over to you, his hands resting on his hips as he managed to even his breathing. “I want to learn about the outer world. You look like you could teach me about its wonders.”
You didn’t know if it was his ruffled hair glowing in the moonlight or the way his defined chest rose every time his lungs filled with air but there was something about him that softened The Ghost. Before you could put your guard up, you agreed.
“I am unaware of how good of a teacher I am.”
Jackson smiled brightly; it made you look away. “I am sure you are a great one.”
“You should go back to the palace.” You said dismissively, trying to shake off the disturbance. Jackson sighed and took his cloak from the ground, glancing at you with the corner of his eye. He wished to stay a little while longer. He threw the black fabric over his shoulders; you were gone before he had his chance to say goodbye.
The next morning came too fast. Jackson opened his eyes and a rough groan evaded his chest at how heavy his body felt. He somehow managed to drape his arm over his eyes, putting in an inhumane amount of effort to ignore the pain in his muscles.
“Your majesty, are you not feeling well?” The head servant inquired, evident worry sketched all over her face. Jackson wanted to curse.
“Prepare a hot bath for me. I feel like I could die.”
The girls exchanged concerned looks among them before rushing out to express the Prince’s wish.
“There is an ominous flu in the air, your majesty. It might make your body weaker.” The head servant rushed to his side, helping him prompt himself up. “It is curious how you contacted it. Was it cold in your chamber last night, your majesty?”
A certain vicious female put me through Hell. “It was fine. I guess the season is to blame.”
“Should I send for your advisors to reschedule your day?”
Jackson pushed himself out of bed, adopting a funny stance as he stood. “No, I should be fine after the bath. I have a lot to do today and I cannot possibly afford to cancel it.”
One thing he managed to do best during that day was to attract the curious looks of servants and high officials alike as he was unable to walk properly. The young girls started chatting amongst themselves and it embarrassed the Prince to his core. Guiren was certainly aggravating the situation by involving himself with them and adding fuel to the fire. He made a mental note to punch Guiren as soon as he could. Even his brain felt atrophied. He couldn’t sit in the usual lotus position during his final lessons and some of the teachers had trouble containing their amusement at his struggles.
It lasted a couple of days until his body gradually got used to the effort. The first time you saw him walking with a cane to support his numb limbs, you nearly died of laughter. Jackson had never been that ashamed in his life. However, he got to enjoy the serene song of your laughter. He stole glances at the way your eyes would crinkle whenever you’d smile too wide and he had thought it unable to be jealous of a mask until then. He could not see your face but he was convinced you were beautiful.
After you had your fair share of laughter, you showed him a couple of exercises that would ease the tension in his muscles, guiding him closely throughout the process. He joked it was only fair to give him a massage and it took him a couple of moments to peel himself off the ground after a not so gentle push you gave him.
However, his inability to perform taxing battle stances meant you’d have more time to uncover tales about the world. It wasn’t a particular chronological order in which you told your tales; it was rather up to Jackson himself to decide what he was curious about. That night, you began unraveling the wonders of Greek Mythology because he only got vague answers from the adults at the court. It was a long and mighty history, so you took your time to travel through it, emphasizing some facts here and there, exaggerating others.
You had a mysterious way with words. Jackson found himself hypnotized by the way you’d express the universal history so carefully, yet so vividly he could extend his hand and brush his fingers over the events. Even as you resumed your battle training, you’d keep on telling which made it easier for him to grow accustomed to the art as he tried to put himself in the shoes of all the huge figures that came before him. And he could not get enough of your unique voice and the way it would liven up every otherwise dull word.
The nights started passing alarmingly faster and the expectation of seeing you again growing ardently. He was attracted to you like a moth to the flame, dangerously and all at once. Every minute that he spent in your company melted in the spiral of time so curiously that it felt like an eternity and a fleeting second all at once. What was more, he was convinced in his heart that the Ghost was only a sturdy façade of your true self. You weren’t what people made you to be: violent, barbaric, always lusting for blood. But you were so carefully hidden in the shell of the Ghost that it was almost impossible to tear yourself out of it.
Ironically, Jackson became eager to finish his duties at the palace successfully and speedily so he could gain some extra time to rest. Traversing back and forth between his royal assignments and the night rendezvous he had with you was demanding. The ministers and other highly ranked officials were extremely pleased with his hard work and started looking forward to having another dedicated King. Jackson couldn’t fathom what his father was thinking. For the time being, he kept his needed distance, doing his best not to give out any reason for doubt.
Three days before the royal banquet, you decided to bring Jackson a gift for his dedication. It seemed unlikely you would grow accustomed to your nightly meetings but you started looking forward to them. You wouldn’t admit it to yourself, but you underestimated him dearly. He was not a transparent person as you made him be; he truly was dedicated and trusting in the good nature of people. He had a subtle sense of humor and a fine eye for details that topped all of your expectations of him. He still was a Prince and the future King of the empire but he couldn’t be more human in your eyes. Before you knew it, you started respecting him. The small something he ignited in your chest was burning zealously and it was more and more difficult to tear your mind off him. You thought you found a friend in him.
That night, he was the first one to arrive. The sound of air slashed by the metal of his sword guided you to him and you smiled to him, even if would never see it.
“I see you were eager to start your training, your majesty.”
At first, using his title was meant to bring disrespect to him but it gradually developed into one of the ways you’d tease him.
“Hello to you too, Ghost.” Jackson chuckled and turned to you. “This was meant to wake me up. I had a full day and I guessed I would fall asleep waiting for you.”
“I think I am on time?” you approached him and unveiled the present. Jackson’s eyes widened at the new type of sword he was shown. With a significantly thin but sharp blade and a guard over the handle, it was an impeccable type of weapon he had never seen before.
“This is called a sabre and is of Spanish origins. Only knights and the cavalry use these in Europe. Gentlemen and nobles in France, Italy, and Spain are taught how to fight with these swords from a frail age.”
“It… it is beautiful. Where did you get this?”
“I wouldn’t be the Ghost if I didn’t have connections. Only a handful have been brought on the continent and I am one of the owners. Or I will have been. It’s yours if you want it.”
Jackson darted a hopeful look at you. He was moved. “You cannot be serious.”
“Those hefty swords that soldiers use might work for you, but they do not bring out your true potential. The sabre is not meant for brute force but rather for swift approaches and agile attacks. You’re quick on your feet and you mostly defend your body from attacks through dodges. It should work for you.”
“But if only a couple… I cannot take it from you.”
You shook your head and extended your gloved hand to place on his shoulder. “It’s my good luck present for you, your majesty. I can teach you how to make use of it.”
Jackson was very conflicted at the time. You had kept a steady distance from him, merely acting as a teacher to him, and he thought it foolish to bring his hopes of getting to know you up. He started nurturing the selfish desire that you’d soon take off your mask and show yourself to him so he could make sense of the disturbing feelings whirled in his chest. And he considered doing it himself if he ran out of patience. You giving him such a masterpiece to guard had an irreversible effect on him that he’d make sense of at a later and unexpected time.
“But not tonight.”
Jackson’s forehead wrinkled. “Why.”
“That… is not your concern, unfortunately. I cannot stay. Should you wish to learn how to maneuver it, I will be waiting tomorrow night.”
The night engulfed you in its darkness and an oppressing feeling of disappointment nested in Jackson’s stomach as you disappeared.
“You’re late, Y/n.”
You clicked your tongue and took out your mask, throwing it on the guild table. All of the other seven members of the council were gathered around, waiting collectively for you.
“Where were you?” the oldest and founding member questioned as you checked your braided hair. “Where’s the sabre?”
Out of the many arts they taught you, developing a persuasive nature, and the ability to lie without any smallest twitch in the muscles of your face were the ones you mastered best.
“I took a detour to bring it home, hence my late appearance.”
The co-founder grabbed at the bridge of his nose. “You knew we were discussing important matters tonight. May it not repeat again.”
“Sir.” You nodded and shifted your weight from one leg to the other. “The plans are in order I presume?”
“Complications have appeared.” Your uncle spoke sternly, handing you a set of papers. “This is the incriminatory proof that the treasurer has been abusing his power to fill his pockets. However, his authority wasn’t the only thing he managed to abuse.”
You skimmed through the papers, getting a general idea of the issue. It was pretty clear what you had to do. “Continue?”
“This man has been shielding assassins in his house.” Your master chimed in. “He has plotted the public death of both the King and Prince Wang on the night of the banquet.”
Your eyes widened and you looked up hurriedly at him. The founder continued.
“It’s the perfect cover. Various royals from all over the continent are bringing their daughters to win over Prince Wang’s heart and those who will not be chosen will be set up as murderers driven by revenge. It is not so unusual for assassins to sneak into such large public events.”
You clenched your fist, folding the papers in your hand in the process. “How did we not see this?”
“That snake has skilled confidants. It was very hard to obtain this bit of information because his guards are swarming around him all day long and his associates are, partly, royals who wished to overthrow the Prince but couldn’t due to their extended lineage.”
“This cannot happen.” You stated bluntly, raising the curiosity of all who were present. “Prince Wang is our only chance at correcting this empire. If he dies, there won’t be any shortcuts.”
You were taken aback by the words coming so effortlessly out of your mouth. You never cared for royals and had always despised them from the core of your existence. Why were you so protective over Jackson then?
“It will not happen.” The founder spoke through the silence, his eyes examining you thoroughly. “You are going to the banquet and so is your master. You are to prevent this from happening and extract the Treasurer silently from the event. Without any major events.”
Your uncle tilted his head to look at you. He was getting suspicious of your involvement with the Prince.
“What can you tell us about the Prince, Lady Y/n?” the cofounder challenged you and you had to bite into the plush of your cheek to hold back a rude remark.
“What about him?”
“We know you’ve been faithfully seeing him every night for the past 20 days. You have been mentoring him in swordsmanship and close combat. Why?”
A dark smirk crept on your lips. The low light of the candle lit in the middle of the wooden table brought a ghastly picture on your face. “Did you not want a competent King? I am making sure of that.”
“You’re playing with fire, little Lady. Are you sure he hasn’t charmed his way into your skirt?”
“Enough!” the founder rose his voice before you got the chance to curse at the other man for his irresponsible accusations. Although it assuredly made you ponder over the fact that you were bothered by the whole meaning of the banquet. “Does the royal family suspect anything?”
“No.” You turned abruptly to the founder. “They are concerned over outer military conflicts and eventual riots of the peasantry but they are not aware of the fact their lives are threatened.”
“And it shall stay like this,” your master concluded. “We cannot execute our mission without full discretion. I trust Y/n enough to dismiss your words, co-founder. We will carry our duty.”
The meeting ended with a final revision of the plan and the older men retreated to their respective homes. You were prepared to follow their examples and wanted to put the mask over your face again when your uncle grabbed you by the wrist. “You gave him the saber, didn’t you?”
Your gaze was fixated to the grand door of the hall, your back turned to him. You didn’t answer.
“Y/n, my darling, do you have feelings for the Prince?”
“No.” you answered too fast for your own liking. “And I didn’t reveal my identity to him either, Uncle. I don’t trust him.”
Except you did trust him. And it was the first lie you weren’t convinced to say. Your uncle let go of your hand and you put back your mask.
“Out of all men, why does it have to be the Prince, Y/n? You can never have him.”
You pushed the door open and gulped down a burdensome sentiment. “I know.”
The way back to the palace had never felt so lonely. Jackson managed to sneak back in successfully but he couldn’t shake off the disappointment eating at him. Just when he thought he was so close to laying the last brick, you crushed all his efforts yet again. Did he truly mean nothing to you? What was he lacking that he could not improve? What was missing from him so important that you kept yourself hidden so far away from his grasp?
Jackson hid the sabre neatly in the small space he dug into the floor, among his many other treasured possessions. Frustration was getting the best of him. Even the trivial task of undressing himself proved to be difficult as his fingers trembled with silent anger. The door to his chamber opened unexpectedly made him lash out his resentments.
“Who gave you permission to enter my room—“
Jackson froze at the sight of his father coming in. He rushed to bow to him, keeping his eyes focused on the colored carpets.
“So you are back, my son.”
He was ruined. The beating he would receive was one thing but explaining his situation with The Masked Ghost was a whole other matter. He had to come up with something. He remembered you telling him that panic was never a good solution to problems and that he should always analyze his situation before acting.
“Father, I was not expecting you at this hour.”
“You would have known I came by earlier had you been in your chamber.”
Jackson straightened his body and watched his father hide his hands in the large sleeves of his night attire. His face did not dictate anger.
“I know you have been sneaking out for a while, Jackson. You know we have moved up the ceremony of ascension the day after the banquet and you still waste your nights irresponsibly in town. I thought we have cleared it already.”
“My apologies, father. “ Jackson dipped his head in a bow, his hands brought together. No words would be able to save the situation.
“Is it a woman, my son? Why do you not bring her to court so she could properly become your consort?”
Jackson looked away, failing to provide an answer. It was not an easy question his father asked but it appeared he did not know why he was sneaking out; that settled most of his concerns.
“No mind, you would have, had she desired so.” He nodded his head softly. “But it has to end, boy.”
The King walked closer to Jackson and placed his hands on Jackson’s shoulders. “You will pick a woman fit to be your consort in just a few days and you will not have the need to satisfy your desires in secrecy. Kings do not lower themselves like that, Jackson.”
“Yes, father.” He pursed his lips. Jackson knew he pushed his luck doing what he was. “What did you wish to see me about?”
“Ah, I almost forgot.” The King pulled back and snaked his hand into his robe to pull out a beautifully carved wooden box. Jackson opened it and saw a handmade brooch, adorned with precious stones in an elegant foreign design. It was a piece of dazzling jewelry.
“You should gift it to your future woman.”
Jackson forced a smile. He disliked the whole masquerade that tradition was and the very thought of it made him sick in the stomach.
“I don’t want you going out anymore, understood? I shall grant you tomorrow night to say whatever you wish to say and that is it. I have high expectations of you. Do not make me change my mind about you, not after you’ve worked so hard.”
Jackson bowed to the King as he walked out of his chamber and let out a heavy sigh. He threw the little box on the bed and plopped down in the comfort of the blankets. He fell asleep thinking how much you’d love the brooch.
“You’re dead silent today, your majesty.” Guiren pointed out as he munched on his breakfast. “I figured you would teach me more of those impressive techniques the Ghost showed you! Those are dandy.”
Jackson threw his chopsticks on the table, the mention of you making him lose his appetite. “Father found out I was sneaking out.”
Guiren quirked a brow. “I apologize. How bad is it?”
“Not extensively bad. He does not know I have been seeing the Ghost but he made it very clear to stop.”
“Of course you should. You will soon choose a wife, of course, you should focus your attention on her. Women are so picky and need a lot of pampering, especially daughters of rich royals—“
“This is wrong, Guiren.” Jackson sighed exasperatedly. “All of this is so wrong. I just…I can’t.”
Guiren clicked his tongue. “Is it wrong because it is not the woman you want?”
Jackson placed his hand over his eyes, rubbing at his temples. He didn’t know what to think anymore, what was the truth and what was not. He disagreed with it from the beginning but the idea grew more and more gruesome by the second. Jackson figured what Guiren was implying but he was so confused himself that he could not provide a valid answer.
“Tell me, Jackson. What is it so special about The Masked Ghost? She is just a criminal.”
“It’s not about her, Guiren. And she is not just a criminal. This woman is more intelligent than all of the teachers in the palace combined. “
And a very good listener, too. “She is bad news, Jackson. Little does it matter that she is skilled or intelligent or whatnot. She is a criminal at the end of the day. And people don’t change. Give up on her before it comes back haunting you. That is one thing I am unable to save you from.”
Jackson’s steps were weighty as he walked to your meeting place. An abundance of feelings was pressing relentlessly over his shoulders, an unknown territory he did not have the knowledge to explore. Guren’s words were reverberating in his ears. He had to let you remain a ghost in spite of the caustic cravings in his chest.
He hoped to have a leisure last conversation with you so he could work on letting you go with peace of mind. When he saw you did not have your sword either he smiled to himself sadly. You read each other’s minds.
“I was worried you might scold me.” Jackson began in a melancholic tone. “But I won’t have to worry about that.”
Your body remained motionless at his words. “Follow me.”
Jackson let you take the lead and followed you to a nearby open plain that uncovered the beauty of the night sky. The dark horizon was embellished with glowing stars, the moon ruling over the world all mighty. You seated yourself on the grass and pat the spot beside you so Jackson would do the same.
“You never cease to amaze me.” Jackson commented, the vibrant light of the moon mirrored in his eyes.
You looked at him and found him ethereal, a work of art of all the known and unknown deities of the world. He was truly a handsome creature.
“Neither do you” you replied, although more to yourself.
Jackson chuckled lightly, his eyes focused on the nocturnal view. “I cannot see you anymore.”
You hugged your knees to your chest, relieved the sentence came out of his mouth and not yours. It felt a little less painful if he said so, although it didn’t ease the storm in your stomach. It was fine like that. You did not want him to hate you. He had to forget you and to forget, he couldn’t nurture hate for you because it would be engraved upon his heart. You knew that whatever one wished to forget, must not be preceded by hate. The memory you wanted him to have of you had to be a cherished one, not one of an obscene criminal.
“I understand.” You replied after a short while, a chilly breeze carrying your unsaid confession to the horizon. “How does it feel to know you’ll have the finest women on the continent battling for a place in your heart?”
“I…I don’t want any of it.” Jackson leaned on his back, extending his arm to the infinity of the stars. “It is wrong to make a draft and pick a woman as simply as you’d pick your attire for the day. Then drag them to bed to convince them they are acknowledged by the royal lineage. I want…”
Jackson’s voice trailed off and he let his arm fall to the ground. “…to love someone.”
Another endearing breeze masked a gasp that escaped your lips and you tilted your head to look at him. His face was painted with an old sadness of a soul that traversed the galaxy in search of a missing love and returned to the Earth to find it.
You clutched your chest in a desperate attempt to dissipate the suffocating air in your ribcage. You couldn’t stay. The longer you stayed by his side, the more you’d get pulled toward his existence and it was painful as flesh on shattered glass. You rose hastily to your feet, walking a couple of steps away from him.
Jackson waited a few moments in the grass, resisting the urge to stand up and follow after you. He tilted his head to the side and noticed your silhouette defying the peace of the landscape. He had to sit up to make sure he saw it right; your hair was let down, unbraided, the waves in your strands resembling the unsettling waves of the sea. Your mask was in your hand. He was incapable to catch a glimpse of your face as your back was turned to him and your hair was guarding your identity faithfully. It was the most distinctive shade of ebony his eyes had ever witnessed.
“I pray that you find the love you deserve someday, your majesty.”
Jackson reached out to you but was powerless to stop you as you melted into the night, your voice a distant echo.
“I did not anticipate so many people coming to the palace.”
Your eyes struggled to comprehend the multitude of things happening all at once. As soon as the guards allowed you to pass through, you were met by a sea of people swarming all over the place, competing against one another through the diversity of their outfits and appearance. The plaited decorations dangling from the rafters were coming alive in the beams of light shed by the lanterns. The small origami figures resembled flowers blooming from the twigs and the bold aroma of traditional food invited you to lose yourself in the unparalleled tableau.
You felt your master’s hand on top of your head and blushed as you snapped back to reality. “I know it is beautiful. I wish from the bottom of my heart you could enjoy it as you saw fit.”
You nodded and straightened your hand-made dress. You made good use of the bright yellow silk you bought from the street merchant the other day, making a dress befitting your silhouette. Your uncle praised you on the sewn floral details on the lapel and the elegant choice of bringing a white embroidery over the color. You had a small knife hidden in the golden sash tied in a ribbon around your waist. You also let your hair fall charmingly over your shoulders, trembling with each little step you took. The hair accessory holding part of your locks behind your ear was a daring gift from your Uncle. The single emerald on it complimented your attire perfectly.
“I know, Master. But we’re here to do our jobs. We should split up to cover more ground. The palace is indeed humongous.”
“You remember the blueprints?”
“I know where to bring them.”
A large amount of people was both an advantage and a disadvantage. You could blend easily in the crowd and hide your tracks but there were many guards supervising the area. And you had to concentrate your attention in many places at once. It was the hardest when you stepped inside the grand hall of the palace thanks to the forged papers from the guild. It was supposed to be a restricted area for the royals only but the air was suffocating with so many humans gathered in one place.
According to tradition, the Prince was allowed to roam free among the public, to greet them and receive their prayers before midnight. He also enjoyed the liberty of immersing himself in the traditional dances, alas was only in the restricted space to ensure his involvement with royal women. You decided it nearly impossible for the Prince to spot you amidst such mass of people so you took the liberty to examine the situation for any suspicious figures you were instructed about. The thrones in the far end of the room were empty which offered an extension of time.
It was, however, easier said than done. You recognized some of the lords but most of them remained unidentified to you and you weren’t exactly aware of what you were looking for either. You sneaked to the side of the room, trying to get a better angle.
“I do not recognize you, my Lady.”
You turned your body toward the source of the voice and met Colonel Guiren, his eyes studying you curiously. You smiled in response, thinking of ways to subtly extract bits of information about the people present. “Ah, Master, I beg your pardon, I am but another face in the crowd.”
The smirk shaping on Guiren’s face suggested you successfully captured him with your words. “I might be mistaken but there is no one around resembling your pulchritude.”
You couldn’t help but let out a giggle. He wasn’t as talented in speech as the Prince but he was a charmer himself. “You are exaggerating, Master. I cannot help but feel lacking in comparison to some of the women here such as—“
You turned your attention to the crowd, hoping to draw a quick response from the Colonel when the words froze and pulverize on your lips. You saw Prince Jackson distinctively staring at you through the many females gathered around him.
“Oh, Jackson, you will feel it battling so violently in your chest, it’s an unmistakable feeling. You will just know.”
It was a beautiful war raging inside of him. The moment he laid eyes on the beautiful creature on the other side of the room, he knew it was you. The surreal shade of ebony of your hair confirmed his suspicions. And the way you carried yourself, the way your eyes crinkled ever so familiarly as you spoke were the same outstanding lines he repeatedly saw nights in a row. But your sublime features and lines in your face and skin were breathtaking. What was he doing before he met you? What did his heart do, with all the love?
Jackson’s eyes locked with your amber ones for a fading second before your sudden rush to leave meddled with his intentions of rushing over to you. He remembered his mother’s words faithfully and the hammering heart in his chest urged him to follow after you. He wouldn’t let you go again. He now made sense of the hesitation that chained him three nights prior; he was meant to meet you in your entirety and not in the dim space between mask and shadows.
Jackson chased after you, his eyes never peeling off your silhouette, pushing people out of his way. You must have realized he figured out your identity with just a glance and he wondered if you regretted your decision of showing yourself to him if you ran so fast to avid him. He barely made it in time to catch you by the wrist and held on tighter as you tried to rip yourself from his grasp. All eyes were fixated on the two of you as the tune of another melody started and Jackson pulled you into himself, forcing you to dance with him to hide you from the crowd.
“It’s you.” He barely managed to whisper, your hands in his setting fire to his fingertips. You swayed your body to the tune, forcing yourself to remain composed. Little did he know your body was reacting just as violently as his, thunder and rain cracking your insides little by little.
“You are destroying my cover, Prince.” You leaned over to him to whisper in his ear then backed away, making a pirouette. Jackson extended his arm and placed his hand on your exposed forearm, causing a fire to erupt in your veins.
“How are you here?”
His eyes were smoldering as he memorized even the tiniest characteristic of your face. You suddenly felt so small under his gaze and could only hope your cheeks weren’t turning red. His touch on your arm was magnetic.
“Do not mistake my intentions, your majesty.” You hissed, stripping yourself of him. You dug your teeth into your tongue, biting down a whine from the painful lack of contact. “I am not here for you.”
“Don’t lie to me.” Jackson grabbed you by the waist and pulled you to him once again, his eyes never leaving yours. “How are you here?”
You looked to the side for a second and noticed the suspicious movements of two men chatting with your target not far from where you stood. You leaned up and brushed your cheek over his, your lips speaking sharply in his ear. “Your life is in danger, Jackson. You need to leave and you need to do it now.”
“What?” He meant to look at you but you cupped his cheek to keep him in place. Those unknown men left their positions while you spoke.
“Don’t move. I lost sight of them.”
You brought your other hand to your sash, fingers resting on the knife. You felt Jackson’s body stiffen. “What is going on? You are scaring me—“
You pushed Jackson away and placed yourself in the way of a throwing knife that penetrated your shoulder, a dangerous miss from the collarbone. The aim was not as steady as the culprit wished it would be but you didn’t hesitate with yours and made a clear throw which stabbed him in the throat. You clicked your tongue. He was dressed in an expensive robe; you knew it would not be plausible he tried to take the Prince’s life.
The panicked crowd started screaming and running around to get away from the horrific incident as rapidly as possible. Two other masked assassins appeared on the scene, facing you from either side. You removed the knife from your shoulder and tore your overcoat to grant yourself some extended movement. A timid stream of blood started flowing out.
“You need to get away from here.” You ordered Jackson.
“No. I am staying here to fight—“
Guiren grabbed Jackson by the arm and dragged him away despite his fervent protests. “The Ghost is right, your majesty. We need to get you to safety.”
You dipped your head to Guiren and offered Jackson a sliver of a smile in hopes of easing his worried stance. You turned your full attention to your opponents who had already drawn their swords and made a quick analysis of the situation. It was highly unlikely you would come off victorious.
You braced yourself for your attackers, managing to swiftly dodge the first swing of a sword. You twirled your body from between them and leaned to the side to parry the other sword with your knife. You kicked the attacker’s hand and threw him off balance. The sword flew out of his hand and you knelt down to grab it, scarcely escaping a deadly blow that still cut deeply into your thigh. You sloppily threw your knife to one of them and he caught it in his hand because of thick layered armor.
The rowdy noise of the guards coming made the assassins give up on your fight and run away. You didn’t have enough time to follow their example and were surrounded by the soldiers. The sword made a sharp sound as it bounced off the ground, your hands raised to either side of your head to signal your surrender. One of the guards stepped on the fresh wound in your thigh and a horrid screech evaded from the depth of your chest. You were prompted up forcefully, your master watching the scene helplessly. You signaled him silently to walk away as they dragged you to their prison.
The dungeon was hauntingly silent as Jackson dashed through the murky hallways to where Guiren told him you were brought. The Colonel was following close behind him to supervise his actions and put a halt to any premature decisions. Hope flickered in his heart at the silence, wishing they hadn’t started torturing you. Jackson was stupefied to see your standing body tied in rusty chains by either wrist, your skin colored purple from the hits you took and various fresh cuts dug into your flesh.
At a closer look, the Treasurer had a dagger in his hand, your blood dripping relentlessly from its blade. The King and another two soldiers were watching intently and the Treasurer forced the dagger into your collarbone, eliciting a mere groan from you. Your lack of displayed discomfort irritated him.
“This is for my brother, you bitch!” He took a full swing at your stomach and you spat the pool of blood in your mouth on his clothes in response. Guiren had to hold Jackson with both hands to restrain him.
The King rose his hand in the air to stop his Treasurer from sticking the blade into your throat. The King stepped closer to you and one of the soldiers grabbed you by the hair to force you to look at him. The pain was rapidly getting unbearable and you felt lightheaded. It took every ounce of effort to keep yourself awake.
“Are you The Masked Ghost, child?”
You remained silent at his question and the same soldier kicked you in the small of your back. You let go of the chains you had been holding on and felt your body leaning forward. “Answer the King!”
You lifted your eyes and caught Jackson’s frame staring at you with his mouth slightly agape and his fists clenched. The look of despair on his face would be etched in your senses for as long as you had left to live. You wanted him to rush out of there.
“I will show you what it means to threaten the royal council and its King.”
The Treasurer took off his overcoat and moved quickly to remove his sash and overskirt. The next thing that would follow would be him raping you and you hoped from the bottom of your heart Jackson would walk away before it was too late.
“Is this the kind of King you want to be, your majesty?” you groaned in a weak tone, your eyes fixated on Jackson’s numb frame. The King turned to his son with interest imprinted on his features.
But you were right. Jackson was set to become King of the Empire in a matter of hours and having his prisoners abused without a proper trial was only a fraction of the laws everyone was so casually stepping upon. Seeing you so stubbornly refusing to satisfy their desires of hearing you beg and cry for your life after they butchered your body so carelessly broke Jackson’s heart. But more than anything, it showed him how much of a coward he was.
“Stop.” Jackson stepped forward, much to the disapproval of the Treasurer.
“Prince? Allow me to teach this whore a lesson—“
“I think I told you to stop. Did I stutter?”
You had never thought Jackson capable of owning such a caustic glint in his eyes. You noticed his breathing was uneven as if he was struggling to contain himself. “Walk away from the prisoner at once. She thought she saved my life; should I not be the one to offer my gratitude?”
The Treasurer bowed his head and stepped back, dressing himself. The King noticed the change of behavior and pondered over its meaning. Earlier that day, he had received a set of papers anonymously, incriminating the Treasurer and his family for high treason. It didn’t seem too credible back then.
“Guards, take the Treasurer to a cell in the upper level. Make sure he gets comfortable.”
The guards did not hesitate to take the man away in a torrent of questions and pleadings.
“The girl shall be executed tomorrow as an offering to the new King.”
Jackson turned to his father abruptly. “Father—“
The King stopped by Jackson’s side, his eyes facing forward. “This decision belongs to me. It is up to you however you choose to carry it or not. If this girl here is the Ghost and you had been seeing her, this is a difficult decision you have to make. But she stays in the cell and that is not debatable. Guiren, please make sure the Prince does not make any hasty decisions.”
Guiren bowed to the King and then came closer to see you. “Nice to finally meet you, Ghost.”
“Don’t make me spit in your face too.” You moaned, taking a harsh hold of the chains. You assumed you had a couple of broken ribs and most likely damaged kidneys from the kick in your back. “Leave me be.”
Jackson couldn’t bear to look at you. He fantasized about holding the love of his life in his protective arms, worshipping her body with every tender touch ghosting over her skin, not chained up like a wild animal, carved open barbarically. You were so divinely beautiful but so devilishly destroyed by the primitive hands of men. Someone like you was meant to be glorified. And those eyes, those amber eyes that gnawed at Jackson’s existence.
“Let us go, Colonel.” Jackson spoke absentmindedly and you watched his back as he walked away. You could finally let out the sobs and the tears welling up in your eyes.
The next morning you were brought to the inside yard of the palace where the ceremony of ascension would take place. You were forced back into your senses after a bucket of icy water was thrown on your numb body; it washed some of the dirt on your figure but you were sure you looked beyond pitiful. You were dragged in front of the officials who took your time to spit on you and address you pieces of their minds. You were thrown to the middle of the area, on your knees, and were tied mercilessly like the lowest scum on Earth. You laughed to yourself. You had never foreseen such a pathetic ending for the Ghost. And you knew no one was foolish enough to come for you. The security was too tight.
The ceremony was beautiful. A zealous round of applause welcomed Prince Jackson as he stepped among his followers. You lifted your head to look at him. He was dressed in a carefully crafted traditional attire, befitting of a King. The details embroidered on the silk were unlike any you had ever seen, complementing the colors in an imposing image. Jackson’s face was implacable and his every gesture was calm and accentuated. You smiled and looked up to the sky. It was painted a serene blue.
You felt your conscience slowly drifting away. Everything surrounding you became a vibrant buzzing. You didn’t know when the religious part of the ceremony passed, or when Jackson made his oath as King, but you didn’t need to. Getting to know Jackson over the past month would seem a trivial matter, yet you felt as if you had known him forever ago. You regretted having so little time to spend with him. You wondered how he saw you beyond your shell, how he saw you talking with your body and with your words. You wondered if he could read all of the truth in your nature. You wondered if you were the only one knowing that your soul and his soul have met many years ago and have been old friends.
A tear traversed your cheek. It was the first time you envied the Gods for their immortality. But wasn’t that the crimson beauty of a human life? Would you ask to be anything else? Would you rather suffer losing everything you loved best in the world day after day rather than having it slip from your fingers once and then never again?
You felt powerful arms lifting you from the ground. It must have been time for your sentence.
You rose your head from the ground and saw Jackson walking over to you in a slow, agonizing manner. The crown on his head suited him well. You were shoved to the side, near what you figured would be your execution spot. Jackson stopped a couple of steps away from you and you made eye contact with him. You couldn’t read him.
“This woman shall not be executed today, not ever. No one dares lay a finger on her without my permission.”
One of the Ministers questioned King Jackson’s words. “Your Majesty, she killed a high official last night! She deserves to die.”
“Do you defy my words?” Jackson didn’t even bother glancing in his direction.
“Your Majesty, we have reports she might be The Masked Ghost, cold-blooded murderer of the royals and high clerks—“
Jackson made a dismissive gesture with his hand and the courageous minster was brought forth. “Behead him.”
“Your Majesty—“
You couldn’t believe your ears. It was clear you weren’t in your right mind and you must have died in the dungeon, your body probably rotting in a canal. You dug your nails into the palm of your hand to identify if your sensorial perception was still functioning. You were convinced of it when the former Minister’s head rolled on the concrete at your feet. Jackson didn’t even flinch.
“And while we are discussing the matter, there is no available proof that this woman is the Ghost.”
The Treasurer stepped out of line. “Your Majesty, she killed my brother! You cannot let her live.”
“Bring the Treasurer over here too. His punishment will be death by a hundred cuts.”
The crowd started murmuring among themselves. Jackson took out a piece of paper from his robe and showed it to the public. It was the report your guild sent to the previous King, signed and approved while he was in active duty. “You are hereby charged with high treason for abuse of power and threatening the life of the King.”
The Treasurer was taken away under the terrified eyes of the crowd. You looked over to the previous King and you could swear you detected pride on his features.
“Let this be a lesson for anyone who dares to cross me. Starting with this moment, every high ranked official and clerk will be under my strict supervision and any form of breaking the law, no matter how mild and no matter the position in the country will be punished by death.”
Jackson extended his hand to run his thumb over your bruised cheek. “Excepting her. She is my woman.”
Silence fell over the yard before it burst in a storm of cheers. ‘Long live the King’ resounded deep into the Empire. You heard Jackson giving instructions to his servants to bring you to his room and summon all the talented healers of the Empire to check on your condition. He gave you one last soft look before he left to salute the people of the empire outside of the palace court.
You were untied and you would have fallen to the ground if a pair of gentle arms hadn’t caught you. You opened your eyes to see Guiren supporting your weight before lifting you in his arms to carry you inside the palace.
“Guiren…”
“Don’t worry. You will be okay…” he paused and pursed his lips in a cheeky smirk “Your Majesty.”
“What just happened?” you let out a low groan, every cut in your body burning. “Shouldn’t you follow him?”
“See, I do not know what happened because this is a side of Jackson I had never seen before, but one I greatly look forward to.”
You noticed Guiren did not talk hollowly, addressing Jackson as a royal, but rather with a never-ending amount of respect as a confidant, a friend and as King. “He explicitly ordered me to stay by your side and make sure you are offered whatever you need. He would have made sure of that himself but you know, duty cannot wait.”
Guiren put you down on a stool outside what you gathered to be the bath. He talked indistinctively with an old servant, instructing her on how to clean your wounds and what kind of ointment to use as a first-aid measure. He then knelt down to your level.
“I will be outside should there be anything you dislike or want. Don’t hesitate to call me, your majesty.”
“Stop calling me that.” You nodded your head at him and allowed yourself to be carried by the young women inside the bath. Guiren laughed. “I wouldn’t if I knew your name.”
You had never been so pampered in your entire life. There were at least a dozen women constantly crowding around you, taking turns to provide any comfort necessary. Five young servants attended to your body, along with the head servant, who helped clean you thoroughly, after which she followed Guiren’s instructions devotedly. None of them said any words to you and you stayed in a mortifying silence. You took some initiatives to do things yourself but every time you did, you were met by an oppressive stare from the head servant.
The young girls dried your body with soft linen and the senior made a gesture for the tailors to come in with a large selection of fine dresses. Your ears were red from embarrassment but as you saw no window for escape, you chose a simple burgundy one, in case your wounds might open up again. After that, you were carried to King Jackson’s royal chamber and tucked in his bed successfully. You let out a long moan at the softness of the bed and you witnessed the servants panic collectively.
“It is fine.” You assured them and turned to the head servant. “Would it be possible to leave me rest for the time being? I am very tired.”
She looked at you and sighed. “If that is your wish, your majesty. I shall call the healers at a later time, then.”
You would have protested at the tittle everyone nonchalantly addressed you by. You hated being treated as a superior human being, just as you heard the title so carelessly abused in the past by the upper class. However, your eyelids were heavy and you couldn’t explore the subjects any further as you fell into a deep slumber.
You had no idea how much time passed while you slept. You wrinkled your forehead and opened your eyes, an unknown source of warmth enveloping your hand. You tilted your head on the pillow and found Jackson sitting on the edge of the bed, both his hands holding your small one. He was not dressed in his distinctive royal attire anymore but in a casual black and golden outfit.
“How much did I sleep?”
“It’s almost midnight.”
You sighed and tried sitting up. Jackson rushed to help you and put all the existing pillows to your back to support your body. Your damaged shoulder was still stinging in pain.
“I understand the healers have yet to examine you.” Jackson spoke softly, worried by the unpleasant expression on your face. “Should I summon them?”
You were taught by your guild how to determine the condition of your body after a fight and you normally would not need any help in doing so. The torture you underwent left you with a big question mark in your mind, however. You nodded your head and Jackson called for the healers. Most of your own predictions were accurate. You had three broken ribs and a fractured collarbone, but your kidneys did not show any sign of failure for the time being and your wounds were skillfully mended to before they infected. All of them commented on the excellent build of your body and estimated a speedy recovery.
One of the healers handed Jackson a list of herbs and ointments you would have to use, along with a proper diet to ensure the building of anatomic tissue. You thanked all of them kindly as they went their way then turned to Jackson who visibly relaxed.
“Thank God.” He sighed. “Should I call for a meal? Are you hungry?”
“I don’t think I can eat.” You shook your head and looked at him. “Why did you spare my life? You should have let me die.”
There was a grim feeling that engulfed Jackson’s entire body at your words. He looked at you with the softest eyes you had ever seen and sighed deeply. “Stop saying such hurtful things.”
“It’s the truth. I am The Ghost—“
“I love you.”
You were perplexed by his words. The heart in your chest reacted instantly, hammering so uncontrollably fierce. “I knew ever since our first encounter that I’ve loved you, dear hell, even before that I am sure. I just knew. You captivated me with every little thing that you would do. I would have traded my life to know the real you that you refused so adamantly to show me. It was especially hard that night on the plain. I chose to respect your wish that you just might not want me the way I desired you.”
Tears were threatening to fall from Jackson’s eyes. “You appeared at the banquet and I swear I could have never mistaken you. And you were just…just perfect. I wanted you to be my Queen. It had to be you and no one else. It occurred to me I had been waiting for you my entire life and now I know why. The entire Universe conspired to help me find you.”
You started crying before you knew it. You were sobbing quietly, the droplets falling from your eyes with comfortable ease. Jackson was smiling through his own tears as well, taking your face in his hands to wipe away your sadness. “I knew you were lying to me. These beautiful amber eyes sold you out.”
Jackson wrapped his arms around you protectively, ever so gentle as to not hurt you. You buried your head in the crook of his neck and cried peacefully. Every tear shed felt like medicine; you were so content with not having to hide anymore that you could not stop until you had no more tears left to cry.
“I am so sorry, Jackson. I am sorry. I love you too, so much.”
Jackson caressed your hair, curling his fingers through its softness. He pulled back to kiss the crown of your head. “I fell in love with a woman whose name I do not know. And I greatly wish to call you by your name.”
You nodded softly and leaned into his chest. The sound of his heart beating was so calm. “Y/n. Y/n, L/n. Also professionally known as The Masked Ghost.”
“Y/n…” he repeated quietly and all of a sudden your heart calmed down to Jackson’s own rhythm. Him calling your name felt immensely right, a harmonious sound that no other living creature could reproduce. You realized what was missing from you; it was the same person you kept on denying, the only one who was worthy of calling you by your name. It came as a revelation that you and Jackson have been destined to find each other, destined to do great things together.
“Say, Jackson.” He pulled back, placing you down gently back on the pillows. “Why is everyone calling me ‘your majesty’?”
“Oh, that.” Jackson chuckled and got out of bed to put out some of the candles. “I think that because I endearingly called you ‘my woman’…things happened.”
You blinked a couple of times to accommodate yourself to the lack of light. “I might need some time to adjust to that.”
Jackson climbed in beside you pulling the covers over you. You felt him hesitate. “What do you mean by that?”
“Am I not your woman?”
You couldn’t see him but you knew he breathed in a smile. “Does that mean you will stay?”
Jackson helped you lower your body to the mattress and shifted on his side to face you. He was fighting a difficult battle with his urge to pull you to him and kiss every part of your body but he settled to just listening to your voice. For your own sake.
“I wish to continue my activity as the Ghost. Even if you reform the aristocratic class, there will still be criminals and thieves on the loose. People cannot conquer them on their own.”
Jackson agreed. “I figured you would say this. There is no one in the Empire besides me and Guiren who know you are the Ghost. I told a very convincing story to the Council.”
“So you do not want me to cease my activity?”
“How could I forbid you a part of who you are?”
Your hand found his and gave it a small squeeze. Jackson brought your hand to his lips to place a kiss to the back of it. “I need the Ghost to lead the Empire. I need her knowledge and her skills and the faith she gives people. I originally wanted to convince the Ghost to be my partner, until she decided it willingly. And I know better than to anger you.”
You giggled. “I promise I will teach you everything I know. I think I still have a duty to pay with the sabre.”
“Oh, talking about gifts, I almost forgot.”
You watched Jackson curiously as he draped his arm to the table by the bed, pulling its drawer. He took out a small wooden box. “Open it.”
You took the box in your hands and opened it to reveal a refined brooch. You recognized the design; you wanted to buy it personally from the foreign merchant but it had been promised to the royal family. You smiled widely. “Thank you, Jackson. I actually wanted to have it for myself and I was so disappointed to hear it was a lost cause.”
“My father gave it to me saying I should give it to the woman I picked at the banquet. I think that woman picked me, instead.”
Jackson smiled at the sight of the pink hue on your cheeks. He put the box back into the drawer and nested himself beside you, not letting go of your hand. “Tell me another story.”
You hummed and relaxed your body. His hand in yours was anchoring you to reality. A heavenly reality. You would have to learn to adapt to the royal life but it was a sacrifice you were willing to make for those you swore to protect when you put on the mask. You would have to settle your affairs with the guild and show them the new path you were forging, reassure them and the folk The Masked Ghost was still a servant of the people. But you had a good partner walking by your side every step of the way.
“Allow me to tell your majesty the tale of The Masked Ghost.”
#got7#got7 imagines#got7 imagine#got7 jackson#got7 jackson wang#jackson wang x reader#jackson wang au#kpop au#idol au#emperor au#also happy birthday our dear king#consider this a present for his majesty
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Stray Cat Strut
Chapter 1
Reader x OT7
► Faerie!AU
Fluff, Comfort
Warnings: Mention of Death, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Faerie Mischevious Bullshit
↳ Summary: When your grandmother passes away, she leaves her countryside house in your name. The longer you stay, the harder and harder it becomes to explain away the odd happenings. What kind of secrets does this sleepy town hold? And why do the local animals act so strangely around you?…
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Your granny passed quietly in her sleep on one rainy night nearly three months ago.
Honestly, you couldn’t have imagined her leaving this earth any other way. The neighbors who found her said she looked so peaceful it was like she was only sleeping, a cup of tea cradled in her withered hands and a smile curving her lips. You had already cried all your tears for your gentle grandmother, already made your peace with the sensation of permanently missing her with the help of friends and loved ones. But soon enough, her amenities and will came into question, and, surprising no one, you were left the bulk of her possessions. Including her house. At the behest of your family, you hopped on the first flight out to the country, to see what kind of shape it was in and to consider the option of moving in. You’d offered it to your mother first, of course, but she’d firmly declined. Back when granny traveled, your mother had watched over the house for a short while and developed an intense dislike for the small town. Insisted it was haunted. Besides, she pointed out, you had lived there with her for a while, even if only as a child too young to form concrete memories. Perhaps it would reignite some familiarity in you, give you some fulfillment that life in the busy city had failed to produce.
Three months of planning and mourning culminates in you standing in front of the small cottage, luggage by your side. It’s on a small hill, a few paces from the rest of the village. Separate enough for privacy, but by no means lonely. The trees on either side of it had made it difficult to see from the modern road and you’d had a hell of a time trying to sputter vague directions to the driver. You place your hand on the old iron of the gate, warmed by the sun, and push it open. It doesn’t even squeak, moving silently and easily as it had all those years ago. Come to think of it, you realize as you shuffle the bags through the gate and shut it behind, the garden itself still looks as beautiful as ever—well and lovingly tended bushes of rose and lavender, sunflowers and some patches of tiny white flowers you can’t identify. Grass still as green, if a little overgrown. Granny did love her plants so. The sunlight dapples through the trees and lends a hazy glow to everything in the immediate area, bathing it in soft light like a tiny piece of heaven. You trail a hand down the vine that curls over the stonework by the front porch, reminiscing on faded, incomplete memories. The old wooden door itself opens without any fuss, and you breathe in the smell of rose perfume and dust.
Simply decorated and tidy, there’s nothing to suggest that this house has been abandoned, except for the fine layer of dust. She might as well have just stepped out. You set your belongings down and take a quick look around, making sure the water works, the heating is on, etc. On your way back outside, to check the perimeter, you suddenly spot a small hole in the side of the wooden stairs leading off the porch. You can’t decide whether or not it’s human-made with as smooth as it looks. You bend to take a closer look. Something inside it glints in the sunlight as you crane downwards. Shocked, you reach forward, managing to slip a few fingers through the hole and retrieving…candy. Several old-fashioned sweets, wrapped in crinkly paper that shines. Granny was not the kind of person to stash things, you know that for sure. If she’d wanted something, she’d have had it. Must be some neighborhood kids; maybe a small creature hoarding shiny stuff.
Your first real act in this house is to clear it out, filling the hole with cotton and taping over it until you can get it properly filled in. As an afterthought, you set out a small trap that you manage to shift out from the shed—one that doesn’t harm the animal, just traps it inside. You’ll catch whatever it is and release it deeper into the woods or something.
The next step is cleaning. You spend the entire rest of your morning sweeping and scrubbing, wiping down surfaces, polishing wood, and by the time you see fit to collapse into the guest bed, you’re tired but proud of your handiwork. The shed is going to have to be something you tackle later—there’s so much in it and so many large things that you simply can’t lift, garden furniture and the like. You decide that a nap would suit you just fine and drift off on top of the covers in the guest room. Briefly in the afternoon, you dream of something scratching at the back window, but you slip back into the inky void before you can properly think on it.
You awaken to the sound of rain and realize by the rumbling of your belly that you didn’t bring anything for food besides the protein bars you’d traveled with. You slip on a jacket and shoes to head out as it begins to rain, hoping that the convenience store you saw on the way would still be open. Happily, not only is it open, but the staff is so incredibly friendly. They recognize you as being new in the area and ask you several questions on where you’re from, what you do for a living. You explain that you’re temporarily living in your grandmother’s house to sort out her belongings. They ask if you plan on staying. When you say ‘maybe’, they throw you hopeful smiles and tell you how nice it is here, how beautiful in the springtime and serene in the winter. The man ringing you up throws in a free umbrella and you thank him for his kindness, touched by how immediately they’ve welcomed you in.
On the way back, you stumble across an old bus stop. It’s built straight into the concrete and the cobbles, paint wearing thin in patches, flashing glimpses of a bright yellow beneath the faded blue. A model grins at you from a poster plastered on the inside, her product’s advertising and the details of her face both sun-bleached to the point of being indiscernible.
Something huddled within the glass corner catches your attention. It’s a tiny black cat, shiny with the wet and glaring out at the rainy sky. It’s not cold out, currently, but the rain is unrelenting. Pity constricts in your chest and you reach out a hesitant hand, thinking maybe you could entice it back to the house. It pays you no mind, but its ears flick back at your approach.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” you promise softly. You turn to dig through the plastic bags and produce a small container of mostly-cooked lamb that you’d planned on throwing into a stew or something for dinner. Can cats eat lamb? You aren’t sure but the way it sniffs the air as you peel back the wrapping tells you it’s at least considering being interested.
“If you come back with me,” you goad, stretching to place a small cube of the meat as close to the cat as you can manage without it flinching, “I’ll give you a place to sleep at least. Maybe dry you off? Would you like that, kitty?”
It doesn’t move, but sniffs the air again. With all the indignity of scorned royalty, it finally bows its head to the lamb. The stray casts another glance up at you and you realize you have never seen eyes so luminous on an animal before. Green, hauntingly so, almost lit from the inside they’re so bright and clear. It looks back to the offering and slowly, hesitantly, chews off a small bit. It eats the piece as though pondering the flavor before suddenly snapping up the rest and eating like it hasn’t eaten in days. In the blink of an eye, the lamb is gone. You toss another piece towards it which the cat regards for only a moment before gobbling that down, too.
“Good kitty,” you soothe. Grasping another cube between your finger and your thumb, you gesture to convince it to follow you underneath the umbrella. To your surprise, it sits up and trots to your side, though it leaves a good foot between you. And when you move to start towards the hill again, it follows just as easily, eyes flitting between you and the meat. You lead the small cat to the cottage like this, intermittently shifting the umbrella to cover it from rain and encouraging it to walk forwards with you until you’ve reached the front gate. It stops before you do, sitting down rather pointedly to wait for you to release the latch. Even as you open it and step inside, it only watches. You wave it in, meaning for it to continue into the garden, but to no avail. It stares. You purse your lips and shift to hold the meat out closer.
“It’s okay. You can come in.”
The cat sits back up and obediently trails after the meat in your hand. It doesn’t even flinch when you close the gate behind it, being mindful of its long tail. You lead it across the stone path and into the house itself, finally laying a few pieces of lamb just to the side of the entrance hallway. It can chew on those while you look for some spare blankets. You arrange the fabric into something like a makeshift pet bed, just by the old-fashioned heater. It clanks loudly when you turn it on but otherwise seems to be in perfect working order. If nothing else, you can warm the poor thing up for the night.
“You can stay here,” you continue talking to the small animal as though it can understand you, unable to shake the feeling like it can. “And in the morning I’ll take you to the vet—to see if you’ve got a chip or anything.” You straighten to watch it finish the piece it was eating and mosey its way to the pile of blankets. It flops down on top of them with a world-weary sigh that makes you chuckle. As you drift about the house, locking the back door, closing the windows against the rain, putting the rest of the food you bought earlier away in the empty refrigerator, you keep checking in on the stray. It seems content enough to sleep where you’ve left it, and in time you’re ready for bed yourself.
“Goodnight, kitty,” you coo in the cat’s direction, curling up in bed and closing your heavy eyes. You’ll see about finding its owner, if it has one. If it doesn’t…well, maybe you could do with a companion. One day into watching this house and you already know the store owners and potentially have a pet. The thought makes you giggle at how ridiculously cozy this town is.
Sleep claims you easily, gently. Halfway through a nonsensical dream about cats and airplanes, you swear you hear the trap outside snap shut, but almost immediately decide to check on it in the morning and go right back to a heavy sleep. The rest of your dreams aren’t near as memorable, but you do smell something briefly that sticks with you even as you awaken. Like old wood and cinnamon and spice.
You wake up slowly, stretching and groaning at the pure amount of light streaming in through the way-too-thin curtains draped over the window in the room. You’ll need to buy heavier ones if you’re going to keep staying here. Still possessed by the bleariness of a deep sleep, you stagger through the door and make a beeline for the bright hallway, suddenly unsure of whether or not you’d dreamt the stray cat. Maybe mourning your grandmother has made you lonely? The pile is still there, but there’s no animal to be seen. A concerned wave of energy surges through your body, awakening you fully.
You start to look for it around the house, peering underneath all the sparse furniture and checking for loose boards or openings that could lead to the outside. After a good hour of searching, calling, waving lamb around, you finally have to give up, though internally, you’re more than a little disappointed and worried. It can’t have just vanished into thin air, but it can’t have just walked out of here, either. Everything was latched—unless it spontaneously grew thumbs and unlocked the front door by itself, you can’t think of a way it could have Mission Impossible-ed itself out. You’re struck again by the fear that grief has made you verifiably insane and go back to the fabric pile, intending to look for cat hair or something to definitely ascertain that the cat existed in the first place. Sure enough, there’s a faint outline of black fur on the white pillowcase you threw in there for padding.
There’s something else in there as well. For a moment you’re petrified that it’s droppings, but after a beat of horror realize it’s a stick of some kind. It’s the same color as cinnamon, about palm-length and sanded down to be perfectly smooth, though unpolished. One side has been worn down flat, and there are symbols and decorative borders carved into it with an incredibly delicate hand. You’re reminded of marimba bars—but only about the width of your thumb. When you pick it up and roll it between your fingers, you catch a whiff of the smell you’d dreamt of. Wood, cinnamon, spice. Like autumn. You raise it to your nose and sniff again. What sort of smell is that? You don’t remember putting it in there.
But, you finally reason, granny was a big fan of natural scents. She probably left these things around like air fresheners, and the cat could have then picked this one up. It’s not perfect but that’s the story you end up going with. You do like the smell, actually. It’s weirdly familiar, which serves to fairly well confirm your theory. A crafting bin in the spare room produces a small jewelry bag, so you can slip the stick inside, hanging it on a chord around your neck. It’s satisfying to feel the gentle smell enveloping you whenever it jostles against your chest.
Speaking of dreams. You remember with a start the sound of the trap shutting and rush to the back door to look. There isn’t actually anything inside the trap, which is disappointing. What could have triggered it you don’t know, but when you bend to reset it, you see rocks lodged inside the mechanisms, preventing it from closing. No amount of fussing or bashing coaxes them out of it and what you’re left with is a broken cage and a definite feeling like something is playing tricks on you. You sigh loudly. At this point, you still either have issues with some local kids or just a really smart raccoon. Either way, you can’t just let things be. You pull up the local hunting goods store on your phone and cringe at the direction it insists you take. Right through the woods. Oh, well. If it can’t be helped, it can’t be helped. You grab a jacket and some tall shoes for the underbrush, locking the doors as you step out, a handful of cash thrown into your pocket almost as an afterthought.
The map on your phone seems much more confident in where it’s going than you are, following a small, stony path that’s probably just as old as the village itself. In some places, it splits to runs off through the forest and you wonder where the roads might lead to. Soon enough, you lose the cottage entirely to the horizon of trees and foliage. You aren’t too worried—your signal is strong and the weather is beautiful after the rains yesterday. Warm but breezy. The bird song is definitely putting you in a good mood, and if you listen closely, you could swear you can hear a stream nearby. Not a bad hike.
Until the signal disappears off your phone so suddenly you almost miss it flitting off your screen. You halt in your tracks, lifting the device as though to present it closer to the invisible signals in the air. Nothing. You turn in your tracks and take a few steps back up the path. Nothing. You’re so invested in pressing these buttons and switching those switches that a sharp rustling in the underbrush makes you jump. Your breath catches, your mind races, scanning the bush and looking for more movement. Is it a bear? A wolf??? Are there wolves in this region? You don’t even know that much. To your delight, neither of those things is what then peeks out through the leaves at you. It’s a rabbit. Its coat is such a deep brown that it’s camouflaged almost perfectly in the bush, given away only by the occasional twitch of its nose. It’s a little larger than a plain rabbit, but smaller than a hare—and bizarrely sleek. You wonder if it’s someone’s pet.
“Hello.”
It blinks at you.
“Aren’t you pretty?” Your knees bend so that you can get a closer look, maybe take a photo. It stays remarkably still as you pull up the camera on your phone and snap one, even. You’re too entranced by the real thing to look at the picture, like it’ll disappear unless you keep your eyes on it. “Hello.” You say again with a gentle smile.
It shifts backwards. You straighten, putting your phone in your pocket.
“Don’t worry, I won’t eat you.” You reassure. “Just making my way back home, actually.”
You turn on your heel to follow the path back, but a hesitant shuffling from behind convinces you to crane your head over your shoulder. The bunny is following you at a safe distance, nose twitching. You purse your lips at it.
“You don’t like sweets, do you?” You ask it dryly, struck by the thought that this might be what’s chewed a hole in your grandmother’s porch. It blinks at you again. It springs up like a flash, suddenly, throwing itself back into the brush and zipping away. You can hear its departure for a short while before the rustling is covered up by birdsong and ambient rustling from the trees and the wind. You take that as a ‘no’ and continue on your way.
Ten minutes or so into your trek, you’re realizing that this might have been a worse idea than you thought. The paths you noticed before have gone from charming to troublesome as you can’t tell them apart until you’ve already gone too far to recall which one you’d come down through. You try to calm yourself, be logical about your advancement, but as your phone gradually drains and you still have no signal, you begin to really worry. The path that you’re currently on dissipates into a clearing you hadn’t passed before, marked only by a small stone shrine untouched by human hands for god only knows how long, and you almost fall to your knees in despair. Despite yourself, tears creep through your eyes and clog your throat. You’re being silly, you chastise, trying to wipe them away. It can’t be that hard to find your way home, and the forest here can’t be that big.
Shockingly close, you hear a bird’s song, clearer than the rest of the noise, break through your worried thoughts. It’s a sweet tune you’ve never heard before, almost too melodious to be birdsong. Looking up, you spot the tiny culprit situated on a branch just above you, regarding you with round little eyes. It fluffs its soft red feathers—nearly pink in color—and repeats its music. Unthinking, you echo it, whistling back. It shuffles on its branch, delighted to get a response, and shifts closer. It sings again, a different collection of notes, but uncannily like the next section in the same song. You smile, wiping at your tears and repeat it again, feeling put a little at ease. The small bird hops down, fluttering to land on the shrine. It cocks its head at you and peeps. It’s so cute, you can’t help but giggle at it.
You try again to use your phone, but it doesn’t work and the battery gets even lower. The bird sings brightly, cheerfully. You try your best to return the song through your frown, but the small creature seems disappointed by your lackluster effort. Absentmindedly, your hand drifts up to the bag around your neck and you rub at the stick through the thin fabric, gaining what small comfort you can from the smell of it. Maybe you could call someone? But without a signal you can’t even look up the number for a taxi service or something. You don’t know anyone in this part of the world. It’s getting harder and harder to swallow down the panic trying to crawl up your chest.
The bird sings again, but it catches your attention this time as you realize it’s moved, back towards the path. You peer at it. It peeps and bounces, craning its head in the direction you came from.
“I’m lost.” You’re engaging it in conversation before you can stop yourself. It blinks at you. “I-I’m new here. Can you go get help?”
Its feathers ruffle again. It blinks, chirps, dips its head to groom the crook of its wing. Why are you talking to a bird like it can understand? It’s not the first time you’ve done that since you got here. You recall the way the cat looked at you. Maybe there’s just something about the wildlife here that makes you behave weirdly? Maybe you’re just going crazy. But at the same time…
This…is familiar. Almost. There is a deep memory. Too deep, too far below the surface, for you to engage with directly. Something from so very long ago. It’s been so long that it’s dissolved into only a feeling. An intuition.
You straighten. Your fingers curl more firmly about the stick hanging from your neck.
“I’m willing to bargain.”
It isn’t your lips that form those words, but they flow from your mouth like water regardless, before you’re aware that you’re even speaking them.
The bird stills. The forest around you goes silent. Nothing rustles. Nothing sings, coos, calls. Your breath catches in your throat. You can’t look away, caught in the pitch black of the bird’s eyes. A beat passes. Several. Its head inclines forward, slowly, and as it does, you can feel yourself copying the motion. The hair on the back of your neck rises with the build of some unknowable electricity.
The sounds of the forest suddenly kick back in, flooding into the background, louder even than before, sweeping you up until you’re dizzy with it, as if caught in the release from a spell. The bird doesn’t make another noise, but alights gracefully off its perch and flies back a ways, onto another branch hanging over the path. It watches you from there. Your feet move to follow it automatically, settling every inch of your sole to the bricks and worn cobbles beneath you. Just as you get close, there’s a flash of feathers and the bird flits to a different bough.
The two of you make your way through the woods like this; the bird now entirely silent, and you fully enraptured, obediently trailing behind like one sleepwalking.
There’s a flash of wood and old stone from between the trees. Granny’s house. You’d recognize that pattern anywhere. Relief rushes through you, and you spring forward with a cry of joy, laughing suddenly with a snap of built tension. You almost throw yourself onto the fence, delighted to have found your way through safely and soundly.
You pause.
A presence behind you. Not malicious, but heavy. Knowing. Intent. As you turn, you can sense that electricity from before again, crawling over your skin. Drawn as surely as gravity, your eyes meet the steady gaze of the tiny, pink bird, sitting now on the branch nearest the path into the wood. It stands out brilliantly against the backdrop of vivid green leaves, fresh and new for the spring time. The two of you lock eyes and the world spins forever into eternity between you. Empire rise and fall. Everything reduces to dust and is born again without you.
It blinks. Shuffles once, and finally darts out of sight.
In the back of your mind, you can almost hear your granny’s voice, chastising, but the shred of memory melts into the sound of the wind through the trees, the birdsong far away. You don’t remember what you were doing.
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#bts x reader#bts fanfic#bts fluff#bts faerie au#stray cat strut#sweeties for anyone who can guess the boys reader has met in this chapter lmao
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Picture Day
A special request for the beautiful, beautiful @funsizedshrimp, out of gratitude for her bringing my beloved Carrie Fleck to two-dimensional life. I love you and your art so much!!! This is long overdue, I hope you love it, sweet!
***
It was rare that Arthur was permitted to get Carrie ready for picture day. Not when she had a closet full of nice linen dresses at the Other’s house, and someone with more skill than him in hair care knew just how to get the right braid, how to get her silky blonde hair to stay down.
He could never have imagined, in his dizziest day dreams, having two kids to get ready.
“Daddy!” He heard her running footsteps, like a baby bull rampaging through their small apartment. “Daddy, Toby stole my headband!”
“Don’t you think you’re a little too old to be whining so loud?” he ribbed. As he started to stand, he continued, “You know, you’re almost ten years old, Peanut. Did you know when you hit double digits, it’s against the law to complain?”
She trailed behind him, a skirted shadow, half his height.
“Then why does Mom complain so much?”
“Cause she doesn’t care about the rules.”
Arthur stood with his hands on his hips in the doorway of the bathroom, looking very much the imposing mother. Feigning innocence, Toby crossed his hands in front of him, smiling as if to say ‘what headband?’
“Toby, where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Toby.” He was as much the stern dad as Gotham was the sunshine city. Still, he tried. “You have school pictures in less than an hour. Where is that headband?”
The boy’s lips curled into a guilt-ridden pout. His downtrodden eyes trailed from the cracked floor tiles to the shower curtain.
Hanging among the curtain rings was a strip of red plastic. Arthur huffed.
“You know, it’s your sister’s school pictures, too,” he chided.
“Art, we were just having fun,” Toby explained. “She stuffed cat food in the toes of my shoe.”
“It’s Dad when you’re in trouble, mister.” He rounded on Carrie, who for some time had been hiding behind his pant leg, giggling at her pseudo-brother’s mischief. “And you do not mess with your brother either, young lady. Both of you, say you’re sorry.”
They shared the same scowl when Carrie shuffled her little Mary Janes across the bathroom floor. They shook hands in their gruff, defiantly brother-sister way. Arthur couldn’t understand it, but he loved it.
“Have you eaten yet?”
“No,” Toby answered. Carrie shook her head.
“I’ll see what we have in the kitchen.”
Never, ever in his dizziest day dreams. The Other had wanted many, many kids, so many little Carries (at least until they had one that she could call Judy, after her beloved Judy Garland). Arthur’s heart swelled so much when Carrie was born, he couldn’t take another one. His heart was wholly and unmistakably claimed.
So the Other left, in search of someone with her vision of multitudes of children, much more mommy’s girls in opposition to his one daddy’s girl. Maybe give them a father with less mental issues. Carrie saw her occasionally, and was sent a cactus every birthday and Christmas. It stung as much as the rejection.
Arthur tried. He tried and he loved. He didn’t think he could love anything or anybody as much as Carrie.
Then Toby came in.
The first time he saw Toby, the boy was nine and already alone.
Toby met Carnival before he met Arthur. Arthur was on assignment sign spinning for a clothing store that was going out of business. It attracted a few people, even a tourist couple who insisted on a picture with the violently bright-colored clown, but Arthur’s attention had been fixated on the boy with the unruly, knotted hair and holey clothes who sat down on the piano bench and watched him for four hours. Nobody claimed the boy. Nobody came to ask.
If that was his kid, if it was Carrie sitting alone by herself, he’d be beside himself until he found her.
Inexplicably the boy started to sleep over on the weekends. He and Carrie had enough for just the bare minimum, and the sleeping arrangement was tricky, but what was another mouth to feed? They boy looked like he needed a bath and a blanket anyway. He wasn’t sure where the kid disappeared off to on weekdays, although Carrie did mention that she saw him in and out of school. They were around the same age.
The first time Arthur had called Toby his son was a complete accident.
It was one of the rare days where Arthur had to be called into work on a weekend, and by extension was forced to bring Carrie along with him. She and Toby ran up to him at the smallest hint of a break, begging him for fifty cents for the ice cream parlor. He found it hard to say no.
“Cute kids,” a woman noticed. She’d stopped to survey them once the children had run up, all but yelling. “They yours?”
“Yeah,” he replied before he could think it over.
Arthur smirked, overlooking the plates of scrambled eggs and toast. It wasn’t much, but god forbid they go to school with nothing.
“Carrie!” he called. “Toby! Eat and then school!”
Carrie came in like a little tornado. Ever his little foodie, she didn’t bat an eye even as he brushed through her hair one last time as she ate her toast.
“Daddy, I don’t want the headband to cover my bangs this time,” she said quietly.
“But I like seeing all of your face, Peanut.”
“Please?”
He sighed and relented, pressing her bangs down as he adjusted the band behind her ears. She would be growing into her ears soon, he smiled.
-----
“You have everything you need? Pens, journals, lunch money?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Yes, Art.”
“Toby, your glasses are smudged. Give them here.”
Arthur blew warm air onto the wire-rimmed glasses, slightly relieved and surprised to have gotten everything on their school lists. It was hard enough with one. He had scrimped and saved through the summer to get the kids through.
“Let me look at you both,” he said, kneeling.
Oh, Carrie, Carrie. So beautiful in her amber skirt and denim jacket. She could knock ‘em dead with her toothy smile. Arthur hadn’t the faintest idea where she got it from, but he wouldn’t ever question it. It was nice to see his eyes with a real, genuine smile, even if it wasn’t his own face.
And Toby, the little companion, ever the big brother. Arthur was more than a little proud of being able to send the kid into fifth grade with presentable clothes and washed hair this year. He put in extra hours to be able to afford an actual jacket for Toby. He couldn’t bear to see the boy walking into September, chilled to the bone without a jacket. His clothes and glasses were new. His hair was clean. His belly was full.
It was more than Arthur ever had as a kid. It was all Arthur could wish for regarding his own kids.
“Alright, let’s go. I’m gonna walk behind you. Toby, do not let go of her hand.”
Arthur felt a rare beam of light warm his face as he shadowed his kids’ walk to Gotham City Primary School. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that their journals would contain happier entries than his own.
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#2 …And Take You For My Lady and Wife
Jaime Lannister is not sure just what spirit of mischief has overtaken him, but when it is his turn to make the arrangements at yet another dismal inn he requests two rooms -- one for his companions, and one for his new bride.
It is a harmless enough deception; it’s even true. True enough. The distracted innkeeper accepts his coin with no indication that anything momentous has occurred.
Jaime returns to the other four riders with the arrangements, directing them to the Hound’s Trail Inn, and Brienne makes no comment when he tells her there will be two rooms instead of one. She looks ready to fall asleep on her feet, and there’s no point telling her about his little joke. She is unlikely to find it funny.
After seeing to the horses in the stables, he is reminded of his small deceit. “Your lady wife is resting upstairs,” the inkeep calls to him, and it takes several very disorienting seconds for Jaime to realize that the portly man refers to Brienne.
A more fully absurd summary of her he could not imagine, “lady” and “wife”. He makes a noncommittal noise and continues up the stairs to their room, those two words echoing in his ears.
Lady. Wife.
Brienne is, indeed, resting. Flat on her back, on top of the covers, only bothered to shuck the most troublesome of her armor off along the way. She snores lightly through her hair stuck up from the pillow in all directions, a thorny nest around her freckled face. Her boots are still on, those absurdly large feet pointing straight up at the ceiling.
There is only one bed in this room, a large and sturdy one with a fine headboard. He might have expected that, had he thought about it more carefully. He did tell the inkeep they were newly wed. Still, this room, with a small crackling fire and a dressing table, is far nicer than the one that Hunt and Clegane will be snoring in, which has three beds and not much else. And Jaime does not especially want to share a bed with Podrick again. He talks in his sleep, and thrashes about, and has kicked him several times already.
Brienne doesn’t stir when he shuts the door behind him, nor does she wake when he sits on the side of the bed and unlaces his boots. A good thing really; she has been most cautious of maintaining her distance whenever they set camp, and she will not like sharing the bed with him.
Even though they did, in fact, share a bed on the Quiet Isle. Several times. But she had been desperately ill, and does not remember it.
He sets his boots aside, and after a moment’s thought removes hers as well - it takes some time to unlace them with one hand but she sleeps on, even as he pulls them off her feet and puts a blanket over her. She opens her eyes only a little when he tucks the fur around her, allowing just a slice of blue to regard him sleepily before turning her face and closing them again.
Jaime would have to wake her on purpose if he wanted any company, and he supposes he shouldn’t. She was exhausted when they had left the road. She is exhausted most days, of late. Brienne is stronger than she was, but not quite back to herself. She tires rapidly, and her face has little color to it, and she engages not at all with his conversation no matter which way he tries. She has lost some of the bandages and the sling on her right arm, but she has not lost that nervousness of him. Ever since she left her bed on the Quiet Isle and learned the monks had married them. She has not quite looked him in the face since.
He considers the bed again. It is probably not that much more comfortable than the floor. But there is a blanket, and he is suddenly rather cold.
Brienne would be warm, he is sure of it.
Instead Jaime busies himself freshening up at the basin, even the lukewarm water refreshing after so long on the road. He washes his face and drags his fingers through his hair. He ought to shave while he has the opportunity; there is a small straight razor. His sister had hated his beard; she said it made him look common, and scruffy, and old. He would like to ask Brienne what she thinks of it, but if he wakes her for that she might slice him with the razor.
He decides to trim his beard instead, neatening the edges. He sits in the single chair and takes his time, wiping his face with a cloth draped over his stump. The fire is dying down and periodically he will get up and feed kindling to it until it sputters back to life.
When there is a knock at the door he jumps to his feet quickly and rushes to snatch it open.
The surprised barmaid is interrupted mid-knock. She is as young as Brienne but sweeter-faced, and holds an armload of wood. “I came to tend to the fire, Ser,” she says pleasantly.
He puts a finger to his lips and shushes her, and she looks past him to the shape in the bed. “I’ll take it,” he says quietly, maneuvering to take the wood and keep her out of the room.
“I’m sorry, My Lord,” she whispers. Then she smiles in a strangely conspiratorial way, puts her own finger to her lips, and closes the door herself.
Everyone loves a newlywed couple, it seems. Everyone else, anyway. He kneels at the firepit, quietly stacking the logs.
They have not discussed it. The marriage. Though admittedly Jaime has not tried very hard. When Brienne rejects his friendly overtures and shies away from him he simply grits his teeth and talks loudly to someone else. He grows ever more charming and personable. He can ingratiate himself to nearly everyone else they meet in their travels, now that he is inclined to make the effort. He banters with innkeeps and learns the news of the day. He makes playful conversation with barmaids, who are far happier to be in his company. He engages the lords and ladies they encounter in the usual idly predictable niceties until Brienne can ask her questions about a red-headed girl of four and ten. He is, he thinks, remarkably helpful and agreeable and it makes no difference whatsoever to the Maid of Tarth, who seems bound and determined to pretend that he does not exist.
He might have been hoping for conversation, when he put them together in this room. Though he had known it unlikely, after a hard day’s ride. Jaime’s not sure just what he had been hoping for, to be honest. He confuses himself.
There is a small mirror, and he regards his face briefly. Plucks a few grey hairs sprouting from the crown of his head. Then he settles back in his chair and scrubs some of the dirt out of his military tunic, rubs at the buttons with his rag until they shine again. Vanity, perhaps, but he enjoys these little duties, and with a small fire crackling nearby and Brienne’s quiet breathing, the evening passes peacefully.
When he finds his eyes closing on their own and the fire simmered down to embers, he walks back across the room and lies down beside Brienne, with a considerable acreage of bed between them for propriety’s sake. He stays on top of the blankets that she is underneath and he steals one pillow from under her arm and it is warm already against his face. He lies beside her in the dim light and is suddenly, terribly awake.
Propriety, he thinks. But of course he literally could not be more proper. He is a husband sharing a bed with his wife.
But she is not happy about that, and in some weeks it will be undone. If they ignore the marriage it will go away, and perhaps things will go back to the way they were between them, some version of that. He can joke with her again and she will spar with him the way she does with Podrick and Ser Hyle and they will find Sansa Stark somewhere here in the Vale and send her back to what remains of her family and sometime after that he and Brienne will part ways. She will continue serving the Starks, most likely, and he will go back to his son in King’s Landing. And that is how it should be.
It is sensible and inevitable and yet the thought of it fills him with a strange hollow feeling that makes it difficult to fall asleep.
He has a direct view of the place where the muscles of her long neck dive down into her freckled collarbone. He can’t stop looking at that, the cords of her neck, the gentle slope of her shoulder and the pale flesh below it disappearing into her tunic.
These are thoughts that, once you’ve had them, you can never un-think. You can try to stop them and they will only start themselves over again, like the words to a song that is stuck in your head. That spray of freckles seems to stay with him even when he blinks his eyes. She is freckled in a great many places, as he recalls from the baths. He keeps his eyes fixed on her neck so that he won’t become interested in anything else.
If the marriage is not consummated by year’s end, you may consider your vows rescinded.
What a terrible word, consummated. At the time it was a remote and legalistic proposition, a preposterous one. He has no intention of consummating anything with Brienne. But right now, at this moment, Elder Brother’s words are echoing in his mind and it sounds downright filthy. He is an arm’s length away from consummating a marriage. He didn’t even want to be married. Those damnable monks talked him into it. But she’s here and he’s here and she’s enticingly warm and he’s suddenly obsessed with her neck. He’s losing his senses.
He passes a fitful night in this way, wondering what in the world is wrong with him.
***
On the morrow Brienne is still sleeping soundly, and Jaime slips away to the kitchens. His restless night has only renewed his sense of mischief; he is a cheerful groom again amongst the kitchen staff.
“My goodwife sleeps still, but I will bring breakfast for her. She’s going to need the energy.” He smirks at the barmaid, who blushes. The cook gives a knowing sort of laugh and loads him down with pasties and sausage, a fine breakfast even for King’s Landing.
This is a good racket, he muses as he climbs the stairs. We could do this all across the Vale, and be fat as pigeons.
He wakes her this time, and insists that she eat. He knows all thirteen verses of “When Willum’s Wife was Wet” and he will sing them at her until she eats the breakfast he took the trouble to bring her. He gets through two verses and begins a third before she pulls the pillow off her face and sits up, glowering.
She rubs at her face and yawns and looks thoroughly unhappy to be awake, and then she looks at the bounty he has brought her, slightly dumbfounded.
“This is enough food for ten of us,” she says, looking over the food spread on the bedcovers with eyes a little wide. “I should share some with Podrick and the others.”
Jaime gently dissuades her. “Later. Let’s break our fast quietly first, without the Hound’s chewing and Pod’s chattering.”
She frowns at it, but she has already picked out a buttered roll that flakes apart in her fingers, and he starts on a sausage, and they eat together in comfortable silence. After that Jaime takes the remainder to share with their three companions, and by the time he returns Brienne has redressed herself.
Still, since Pod is shoveling pasties into his mouth Jaime takes the opportunity to help Brienne buckle her chestpiece, and in return she helps him with his quite amiably, and they leave their rooms rested and well-fed, and all-in-all it is a most pleasant morning until they are accosted on the stairs by the woman who had visited their room the night previous.
She puts a hand to Brienne’s armored arm after a worryingly bright smile in Jaime’s direction.
“Your lord husband,” the barmaid says, “looked after you quite solicitously. I was a little jealous.”
“My what?” Brienne sputters.
Jaime should jump in here to end the conversation before disaster could befall them, but he has suddenly quite forgotten how to speak.
“I’m sure it takes some getting used to, new bride and all that. You are a lucky woman, married to a handsome lord. And rich too, by the looks of him. Does he have any brothers?”
The Maid of Tarth’s eyes have gone so round they are fairly bulging from her face, and belatedly Jaime finds his voice.
“He’s already wed,” Jaime cuts in. “We’re here seeking his wife, actually. A maid of five-and-ten, with red hair, nobly born? Might you have had a guest of that description?”
The barmaid shakes her lovely head. “No, love. We don’t get many redheads round these parts anymore, with the Tullys bunkered up in the Riverlands. Best of luck to you.”
“My thanks.” He nods to her very politely and takes Brienne’s other arm. He has to steer her out of the Inn, as she keeps whirling her head around to look back at the barmaid and the inkeep behind them. Her face is very red.
Outside she snatches back her arm abruptly and storms over to her horse.
***
Later that day, after hours of riding in silence, Brienne pulls her mare alongside his destrier.
“My lord husband,” she says flatly.
His face goes hot with stunning rapidity.
“My lady wife,” he says back, as cheerfully as he can.
“Why did you tell them that?” She sounds defensive; her hands on the horse’s reigns are tight fists.
“It was far simpler to share a room when they believed us wed, and the others our servants. They asked no uncomfortable questions.”
“That was uncomfortable enough,” she says.
He feels an unpleasant sting at that; is it so intolerable to be thought the Kingslayer’s wife for a few hours? She doesn’t have to be so angry about it.
“I thought you appreciated honesty? We are in fact married, why shouldn’t they know it?”
“It’s hardly necessary to announce it to strangers for your amusement. Is it funny, the thought of me as someone’s wife?”
Yes, he thinks, and also no, not at all. Simultaneously.
“We are not touring the Vale for leisure,” she says, and her cheeks are burning still. “We are seeking the girl Sansa and keeping our vow to her mother.”
He affixes his eyes to the trail in front of them, a little incensed. “I have not forgotten.”
“Good. If it pleases you, let us leave what happened on the Quiet Isle behind us and attend to our quest without distractions.”
She spurs her horse and rides ahead, leaving him stewing on it
It does not please him. It does not please him at all.
Which is why, in the next village, Jaime does it again.
#From This Day Until the End of My Days#in which Jaime considers some of the big and important things#such as: Does Brienne Like My Beard?#tumblr fic
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Blood Red Lilies and Baby Blue Cornflowers: Chapter 12 - Healing
At last, a conversation occurs.
Ao3
*************************
For the next several weeks it was the same for Germany. He died the next week, had a couple days free of that dreaded itch in his throat, then coughed his lungs out. Multiple times. Japan seemed extremely interested in getting the three of them together, but Germany found that he was turning down the invitations. He didn’t want to push Italy into an unwanted confrontation. But he found his patience waning as more and more time passed. There was a Euro meeting that week and Germany was miraculously well enough to attend. He was still coughing frequently, but he was certain that at that point most, if not all the European nations knew to some degree what was going on. He dreaded the answer to that silent question, keeping it to himself. He hazarded a subtle glance to Italy after the meeting, hoping for any sign that Italy was ready to approach him. For any change in his posture. Italy had caught his eye, regarding Germany with a strange, unreadable expression. Though Italy wore his heart on his sleeve, he had appeared to do a good job of keeping his emotions under wraps.
Italy’s back was turned at this moment, however, chatting to his brother about someplace to go for lunch. Germany was disappointed, but not surprised as he packed away his laptop. Japan’s words to him echoed in his mind, telling him he couldn't stay silent forever. He had to take action somehow. But he could not choke back the fear of being rejected again. Of making a wrong step. Or annihilating whatever fragile progress they had made by approaching Italy. He had to leave.
Germany left the building, his mind scrambling to think of anything except the man he left behind in that conference room. Thinking about paperwork. Cleaning. His dogs needed bathed and their hair cut. Italy needed a hair cut. It was just a tad bit too long, reaching to the nape of his neck. Those hairs curled slightly when they got that long. Germany determinedly shook away the thought, coughing into his elbow. He finally pushed out of the building, descending the steps and trying to remember what floor of the parking garage he parked on.
“Germany!”
Germany froze at the bottom of the steps. He knew that voice. Loved it. Dreaded it. Needed it. Hesitantly, he turned around.
Italy, who had originally stood at the top of the steps, descended swiftly, multiple papers flying out of his arms as he bolted down to where Germany was. He almost tripped on an untied shoelace, but recovered and skidded to a halt in front of Germany.
Italy huffed in breaths as he rambled. “Germany, I- I need you to listen. I know I should probably keep giving you space, and I know you’re probably not ready to talk. But… I’m sick of this! I’m sick of not being your friend anymore! I miss you, Germany, and… even if I can’t- can’t fall in love with you, I want to be with you as a friend. I’m sorry you can’t be to me what I am to you, but if you’ll have me, I want to be your friend again! And you were right, you don’t owe me any kind of explanation! I was just scared, and mad, and I wanted something to hold on to, I guess, but it was none of my business! Even if it was about me, that’s private and I don’t know why I felt like I needed to know! I talked to Japan, and he agreed with me! And he’s also sick of us not all being friends! But this part doesn’t involve him, Germany, because this is your decision. So… so if you want me as your friend, I will be that to you.”
Germany blinked, trying to process the rapid-fire words. “So… you were giving me space?”
“Yeah.” Italy nodded, still breathing heavily. “Romano said it was a good idea.”
Despite himself, Germany could feel himself smile slightly. “I was giving you space, too. Hungary told me to.”
Italy also smiled timidly. “I wanted to talk to you the minute I left.”
“I wanted to, as well.” Germany coughed.
Italy laughed to himself, running a hand through his hair. “All of this was completely unnecessary, huh?”
“I suppose it was.” Germany agreed, adjusting his computer bag.
Italy looked down at his shoes, uncharacteristically quiet. “D’you want to call Japan and see if we can all get lunch?”
“Yeah.” Germany nodded, coughing into his hand through a smile. “I would like that very much.”
Italy pulled out his phone, grinning. “I think he would like that even more. He’s probably exhausted with us.”
“I wouldn’t blame him.” Germany said, waving Italy alongside him as he began the trek back to his car. He coughed into a gloved hand. “I’m exhausted with us too.”
Italy beamed, following his friend as he dialed Japan’s number. “I’m excited for lunch, Germany. The three of us have so much to catch up on!”
“We do, don’t we?” Germany smiled timidly to himself, following Italy as he called Japan.
The friendship, though timid, was eventually back to normal. The three of them were thick as thieves once again, meeting up constantly. They bounced between each other’s houses, restaurants, and bars. Much to Italy’s dismay, Germany attempted to get the three back on an exercise regimen. Though they seemed to have become accustomed to Germany’s cough, they hung out less frequently than they did before Germany got sick. Many of Germany’s days were, after all, spent in bed. Occasionally, Japan would come by to keep him company. Italy, however, always had something going on coincidentally whenever Germany was bed-bound. It could be said that Germany was emotionally dense, but he knew that it was a sense of guilt that drove his unreciprocated love away from him. As time went by, however, it was an arrangement that everyone had gotten accustomed to. Even Germany had almost forgotten what it was to live without flowers growing in his lungs, spreading like a tumor through his near indestructible body.
It was about a year later when Italy and Germany were walking down a street in Berlin, having just gone out for lunch. Japan was absent, having gone to Greece’s for a visit. It was autumn, the two of them walking down a cobblestone street. An atmospheric wind caressed them as they walked, fallen leaves scraping and bouncing against the uneven ground. The air smelled faintly dank as they walked. This caused Germany to pause and peer into the grey, overcast sky.
“It looks like it’s going to rain. Do you know what the forecast was for today, Italy?” Germany’s breath steamed into the air as he spoke.
Italy also gazed into the sky, frowning. He drew his newsboy cap further down over his forehead. “Why would I? It's not my country.”
Germany glanced over to his friend, frowning slightly before he shrugged. “Point taken.” He continued the walk, picking up the pace slightly. “Perhaps we can make it back to my place before it rains.”
Almost as if on cue, a roll of thunder followed his words. Germany glared. “Perfect.”
A sheet of rain fell upon them, Italy screaming as the two looked at each other and began bolting down the sidewalk. They received questioning, pitying glances from those cozy inside the shops and passing cars as they ran, the back of Germany’s trench coat hitting his heels. It was becoming heavy on his frame, but did not yet soak through with rain. He glanced over to his compatriot, who was surprisingly keeping a steady pace with him. “Why can’t you run this fast while we’re training?!” He bellowed over the sound of rain hitting brick.
Italy watched ahead as he ran, though a smile split onto his face. “Proper motivation will do that!” His hair looked dark brown, his bangs plastered to his forehead despite his hat. His tan jacket was almost completely soaked through, but this appeared to do nothing to dampen his spirits.
Germany smiled to himself at the response. They ran for a little longer before Germany happened to spot something in his periphery. He frowned, slowing to a stop. Was that… fur? He turned to look down the alleyway, turning his head fractionally as he heard Italy’s voice.
“Germany? Why’d you stop?! We’re going to get colds!” His voice was far enough to tell Germany that it took a minute for Italy to realize Germany had stopped.
Germany turned his head over. “I think I see something.” He walked toward the alleyway, his approach slowing.
Italy, close behind him, gasped at what he saw.
A puppy, hunched in a pitiful shelter of soaked cardboard, stared dejectedly up at them. Its ribs, visible through its rust colored fur, seemed even more prominent against soaked skin.
Germany crouched down slowly. “Easy… it’s okay.” His voice was so soft that he wondered if the dog could hear it over the rain.
The puppy apparently could, its ears perking up slightly.
Germany cautiously reached a hand out. “How long have you been out here, huh?”
The puppy poked a tiny snout out of his shelter, sniffing Germany’s gloved hand.
“House trained.” Germany realized, reaching out to pet the puppy on the head.
The puppy pressed into Germany’s gloved hand like it was touch starved, its tail wagging so hard its entire rear end followed its progress.
“Wait, so it was just left here by its owner?” Italy asked, his voice laden with pity.
Germany slowly withdrew his hand and shed his coat, coughing into his elbow. “Seems like it. It’s very trusting of me.”
As Germany took his hand back, the puppy followed it, sniffing.
“Poor thing.” Italy crooned.
Germany reached forward, grabbing the puppy by the stomach. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.” He drew the puppy to his chest, straightening into a standing position.
The puppy reached up with its snout, licking every part of Germany it could reach. It lapped at his jaw, his neck, even the hand that held him.
Germany chuckled at his efforts. “Easy there. Let’s just get you something to eat, huh?” He glanced up at Italy.
Italy was looking at Germany with some kind of unreadable expression, an easy smile playing at the corners of his lips.
“What?” Germany asked, wrapping the puppy in his coat.
“It’s just sweet, you know? Are you going to keep it?”
Germany hummed to himself, holding the bundle to his chest. He smiled. “I’d have to ask Prussia first… then keep it regardless of his answer.” He looked back up at Italy. “Let’s take it home.”
Italy smiled.
The two raced into Germany’s house, Germany clutching the bundled up puppy to his chest and leaning against the door. He brushed his wet bangs away from his face. “That,” he huffed.
“Was a waste of hair gel.”
Italy laughed, toeing off his shoes and taking his hat off. “Yeah.” He wrung water out of his hat. “What a waste of a nice outfit.”
Germany smiled slightly, hearing the distant barking of his dogs. He looked down at the puppy in his arms. “I hope it’s been around big dogs before.”
Italy shed his jacket, shivering. “I’m sure it’ll be okay. Maybe they’ll be good playmates!”
The dogs’ nails scratched against the floorboards as they bolted toward their master, slowing down and quieting, sniffing as they realized something was different.
Germany crouched down, opening the bundle slightly to reveal the pitiful puppy. “Easy, now.” He warned his dogs.
Aster poked his head forward, sniffing the puppy with interest. His tail started wagging. The two others followed his lead, each with similar reactions.
“And you were worried!” Italy said, crouching down to greet Germany’s dogs. “Where’s Prussia?”
“At Austria and Hungary’s.” Germany answered. “So I guess he can’t tell me we can’t have another dog.”
“Guess not.” Italy said, with a smile. He shuddered.
“Cold?” Germany asked.
Italy nodded. “I’m fine. I just have to wait for my clothes to dry.”
Germany straightened again. “No, you can just borrow some of mine. I’ll run upstairs and grab some. Make yourself comfortable.”
“Thanks!” Italy said, also straightening. As Germany thundered up the stairs, he made his way to the living room and sat down on the floor of the living room.
The dogs followed his progress, sniffing at his arms as if they were looking for another puppy.
Italy chuckled, reaching forward and petting all the dogs in turn. “You all excited for a new playmate?” He rubbed his arms, peering over at the fireplace. “You think Germany would be too upset if I built a fire for us?” He reached forward and scrunched Berlitz’s face together, smiling at the wrinkles. “Do you? I think it’ll be okay.”
He got up off the floor with a slight grunt, picking up a sheet of newspaper from a neat pile in the cabinet. He also grabbed several pieces of tinder from a basket. “Where’s the lighter?” Italy asked, rummaging around the cabinet. He frowned and stood, the dogs following Italy with interest as he made his way over to the hat stand. Prussia’s faux leather jacket hung on there, likely left behind out of fear of ruining it. Italy reached into a pocket. He pulled out a blue cigarette lighter and frowned. “Prussia started his smoking habit again, huh?” He glanced over at the dogs. “What do you say we hide his cigarettes again, huh?”
Blackie pressed his head into Italy’s hand.
Italy grinned, reaching back into the pocket. Nothing. He searched the other, just finding some loose change. He frowned, turning to the fireplace. “Maybe when he comes back with them.”
Soon enough, a fire was crackling. The heat seeped into Italy’s wet clothes. He hummed as he heard Germany’s loud footsteps down the stairs.
“They’re not the nicest. Sorry.” Germany apologized, handing Italy a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt.
Italy accepted the pile with gratitude, looking up at Germany. “No problem at all! They’re warm, they’re dry, those are my standards for now.” He stood up, making his way to the bathroom. Before Germany got sick, he would have just changed right then and there. But since Italy learned about Germany’s malady, there had been minute changes in their relationship. They haven’t shared a bed since. Italy hasn’t changed in front of him. Italy’s comments about Germany’s muscles had been altogether forgotten.
Germany was left alone with the puppy in his arms. The dogs crowded around him, sniffing curiously. The puppy, though timid, didn’t seem altogether upset with the attention.
Italy padded down the stairs, absolutely swimming in the clothes Germany provided. “Do you want to change? You’re still in your wet clothes.”
Germany glanced down at his T-shirt, which was clinging to his body uncomfortably. “Yes. Thank you. Would you mind holding the puppy? I’ll take the other dogs to my room so the puppy can eat by itself and not worry about the others stealing its food.”
Italy reached forward, his hands opening and closing excitedly. “Yes! Please let me hold it! It’s so cute!”
Germany handed over the bundle, whistling sharply and grunting a German command. The dogs followed him up the stairs and into his spotless room. He shut the door behind him and locked it, pulling off his short and draping it onto his desk. He didn’t want to throw a wet shirt into the laundry and make the rest of his clothes smell bad. He pulled on a dry blank, white t-shirt and another pair of sweatpants. He finished, looking in the mirror. His hair was completely undone. Without any product in it, a few awkward waves were prominent in his bangs. He groaned. “With these clothes and this hair, I look ridiculous.” He looked over to his dogs.
The three of them were sitting on their bed. Blackie was already asleep.
“Stay in here. I’ll get you in a bit.” He left the room, descending the steps once again. He appeared in the living room, stopping in the doorway and leaning against the door frame.
Italy sat on the sofa, his legs crossed. He was softly singing some kind of Italian song to the dog, pausing and chuckling when the dog would wriggle out of its bundle and plant its front paws on his chest, licking his face. “Stop! Your breath is so gross!” Draped in Germany’s clothes, it looked almost… domestic. Germany’s heart clenched painfully in his chest, but he dismissed the feeling. Not now. He could think about that later. They had a puppy to feed.
#hetalia#aph hetalia#hws hetalia#aph germany#hws germany#gerita#aph gerita#hws gerita#aph italy#hws italy#hetalia italy#hetalia germany#fluff#gerita fic#gerita fanfic#hetalia fic#hetalia fanfic#juliussneezer fics
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HC MEME ✹ romance
Tagged by: Knicked from @more-than-a-princess !
Tagging: Anyone who’d like to! Feel free to tag me if you stole it :3c.
it was previously answered here, but this one is more developed.
Name: Sophie Hatter.
Nickname: Ms. Hatter, Soph/Phie, Grandma/Baba, etc.
Gender: Cis female (she/her).
Romantic orientation: As a basis, Sophie starts as questioning and veers to say bisexual. She stresses too much on other things to focus on personal variables like sexuality. However, with enough development, Sophie learns that she is pansexual, panromantic.
Preferred pet names: No preference for a pet name for herself. Though, she has standard names to refer to her partner as (dear, love, and sweetheart). The last one takes a LONG time for her to say, but it could happen.
Relationship status: Depends on verse and canon timeline. In most verses, she is single and not romantically interested in anyone. Canonically, she is married and already has one child.
Favorite canon / fandom ship: Simply put, the mad hatter and the avoidant wizard: Sophie and Howl!
Favorite crossover ship: Ahhh, I wouldn’t find it fair to choose a favorite crossover ship after all this time writing for this Hatter for a long while. Given how frequently crossover ships (and OC/Canon) happens across my blogs, I would say that ships that give me opportunities to both laugh and cry are ones I hold very dear to my heart. With each new dynamic comes something that is both precious and unique to that pairing, they all hold a special place in my heart and memory!
Opinion on true love: What a wondrous thing to believe in. Sophie would encourage those who are of us confident and optimistic sights to find what their heart seeks. She isn’t one to reveal her true opinions and thoughts about romance -- she’s quite believing herself to be the exception to the rules for most things. True love is for others, not her -- not in her fate, not for her future. If someone else could experience it and let themselves be found and loved for, who is she to decline such a happy dream? However, Sophie isn’t one who will be up with kind arms over the matter; she will provide opinions and caution for those who may repeatedly use ‘true love’ with each new relationship; something as magical as true love cannot be chased after. It’s like a flower for her, it grows and grows before you notice it amongst a garden.
Opinion on love at first sight: Now, this is one she isn’t all for. Blame it for her overprotective and cautious nature, Sophie already has experienced hearing about ‘love at first sight’ from her youngest sister, Martha. She is more than certain to stress different degrees of ‘love,’ referring to love-at-first-sight to be infatuation that can be fleeting and troublesome. She wouldn’t immediately stress that idea but she would beat around the bush as she’s one to be sensitive to someone’s feelings....before they go overboard, in which case, she will be blunt about the matter.
How ‘romantic’ are they?: By all means is Sophie Hatter a spirit invested by the possibilities of romance -- with a capital R. Being romantic is a hurdle for Sophie, given her limited experience in proper relationships when her own issues regarding anxiety, self-esteem, and budding paranoia and trust issues remained largely swept under a rug. She could be very Romantic in being lost in her own daydreams and imagining herself in the many different lives she could’ve been in. However, the intimacy of connecting to someone and being romantic with them will be challenging at first. It will be stiff and awkward, trying to fill out what she believes she’s lacking to give her partner. It is there but it will take time to show.
Ideal physical traits: Sophie certainly has biases when it comes to appearances (long (and dark) hair, sometimes tall, maybe a mysterious air to them (?)), but that doesn’t quite become her ‘ideal’ person. For Sophie to fall for someone, she doesn’t really have a checklist of what she wants in someone. Even if she had to think of someone, most of her ideal traits are things that come from the relationship -- something that both parties should offer to another like trust.
Ideal personality traits: Oh! Well, this can be quite a mix of things! Sophie has been on the record to fall for people who take on leadership like roles and ensure to hold their responsibilities close to their heart. However, it’s usually those that can be easy to talk to, respect family and are family-oriented, and have themselves aimed at something. However, one thing that she REALLY likes but doesn’t often notice it is someone who can banter back with her, quick on their feet.
Sophie’s standards are abysmally low just for about anything. Just please be a good person, that’s all she asks of you.
Even then, Sophie wouldn’t even really consider herself in the same league as someone who likes her....she’s even more concerned why you do like her.
unattractive physical traits: The only real thing here is if they don’t keep up bathing. Really, that it is.
unattractive personality traits: Selfishness, a cold demeanor that is intent on hurting others. Sophie has a weird track-record with getting along with people who she shouldn’t get along with, in theory. I think a general idea is that if they view the world through a limited lens, seeing things as black-and-white, they aren’t going to get well along.
ideal date: Given her lack of experience and the situation she was raised in, Sophie is more than happy to go on any time of date that isn’t too loud or too much, at the start. Her best interests are her partner’s interests -- something that they both could enjoy together would benefit her greatly. Staying home to do those things means she also wouldn’t be too on edge and would be more open to expressing herself, as she wouldn’t be that expressive in public.
Natural, open areas like the beach or flower fields are her go-tos if she had to suggest something. She likes lush, green areas that give her time to explore and walk around, even getting a little messy with climbing around and get intimately aware of the location. Even areas with not a lot of people do her well, and with enough time, she’ll finally open up to go to busier places.
do they have a type?: Hard to pin! There isn’t a type that she has, more so, she has a pattern for those she tends to be shipped with.
preferred non-sexual intimacy: The smallest and the quietest things matter to her. She is one to very much give what she usually wants and she may not realize it. Hand-holding, leaning against the other, long-drawn-out hugs where she listens to her partner’s heartbeat..-- There are many things to be done where she wants to give a lot to her partner and doesn’t want to make a show out of it.
It can change if her partner gets her excitable and she could end up taking a slow dance to a fast-paced one, or holding her partner’s face, laughing loudly and kissing them. She just has a lot of love to give and she isn’t used to expressing it and giving it out because she doesn’t think PEOPLE WANT IT AND I HAVE A LOT OF THINGS.
SOMEONE PLEASE MAKE SOPHIE STUPID IN LOVE.
commitment level: Loyalty and commitment are practically an establishing factor for the seamstress. It is both her biggest strength but her biggest vulnerability as she is one that will go out of her way just to make people happy, especially those who consider close. It does come with some issues as she would be rash and making her own decisions that can affect her and her partner because she wants them to be happy -- no matter what.
Even with situations that aren’t negotiable or to her liking, she still plays her part. Maybe her disdain will be notable and her behaviors around her partner (if the relationship is arranged) privately, but she will do her best to play her part.
opinion of public affection: Couples are free to do whatever they want, but even she has a limit on how intimate people are in public. She, herself, is terribly shy and too worked up about people’s perceptions of her when they see her in public. She will be distant about how much affection she shows in public and would recoil, depending on the relationship, at being touched suddenly and she would then awkwardly scoot herself away.
past relationships?: Verse dependent. Sophie has never been in any official, long committal relationships. However, she has been in ‘relationships’ that were sporadic and physical demanding of her with older female classmates during her earlier years of high-school/the academy. These will never be referenced by her, the more she realizes the context and the terrible treatment she was put through them.
#( in which we learn about the eldest ; headcanons )#[ this was in my drafts for a long time! but here we go ]#[ GOTTA WRITE OUT THOSE CONVOLUTED HEADCANONS ]
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