#pardon the self-indulgence but I cannot stop thinking about this | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

iliveiloveiwrite · 3 years

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winged cupid painted blind // Anthony Bridgerton

Request: I’d really love something based on love story by Taylor Swift. The lines “We keep quite cuz we’re dead if they knew” and “take me somewhere we can be alone” stick out to me // I was thinking that the reader could be from a family that isn’t well off and her and Anthony meet at a ball somehow. They create a ruse that she’s from a well known family so that the gossips in the ton don’t attack her because Anthony has fallen in love with a “commoner.” All the Bridgertons are in on the ruse and at the end of the story Anthony proposes - @whovianwholikesgirls

A/N: Why is it that every Bridgerton fic I write, I end up writing thousands and thousands of words? This is long and I am sorry for that! As always, I hope I have done your request justice and that I hope you like!

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x Fem!Reader

Warnings: she/her pronouns, female reader, class divides, pining, mutual pining, lots of fluff, dancing, kissing, happy ending, Anthony in love.

Word count: 7.7k

Madame Delacroix’s took up the central property on the most prosperous street coming just off of Grosvenor Square. The most popular modiste in London, many of society’s richest families flocked to her door in order to claim their own dress made by the talented seamstress.

Anthony sighs as he climbs down from the carriage. His mother must be in a particular benevolent mood to send him to pick up her newest dress from the modiste. Anthony would much rather be spending his day at his club, but he finds himself ringing the modiste’s bell for service.

“Monsieur Bridgerton!” Madame Delacroix smiles, delighted at the sight of the Viscount. “How can I help you?” She asks, her smile turning flirtatious.

Anthony responds with his own flirtatious smile. “I’m here to pick up a dress for my mother.”

“Of course, of course,” Madame Delacroix sings, “I have it over here. I finished it last night. It is divine!”

“My mother will surely thank you,” Anthony states earnestly, his gaze dancing around the room filled to the brim with fabrics and ribbons, models and hoops.

“No need,” Madame Delacroix, “The Bridgertons are my best customers.”

Anthony takes the offered box, marvelling at the lightness of its weight. For all the skirts, for all the numerous pieces of fabric that go into making a dress, Anthony will always remain shocked at the featherlight weight of it.

“Will Lady Bridgerton be wearing this to the Hastings’ ball tonight?” The modiste asks, her tone light as she tries her best to keep the burning curiosity out of her voice.

“Most likely,” Anthony smiles, tipping his head in goodbye.

The modiste calls out her goodbyes as Anthony walks out the door. He doesn’t pay much attention to where he is going; only knowing that he needs to turn left in order to reach his carriage. The very thought has him rushing, safe in the knowledge that the quicker he got his done, the quicker he would be at his club.

It’s that self-indulgent thought that had Anthony distracted enough to walk into something hard.

“Oh!” A feminine voice gasps as Anthony catches her elbow whilst keeping a tight hold on the dress box.

“My apologies,” Anthony offers, steadying the unknown woman.

“You’re forgiven,” She murmurs dryly, turning her attention back to the seamstresses window.

“You aren’t hurt, are you?”

“No, I’m perfectly fine. Thank you for your concern, Lord Bridgerton.”

“My pleasure, Miss…”

“(Y/L/N).”

“My pleasure, Miss (Y/L/N),” Anthony repeats, adjusting the dress box in his hands. He goes to say something else but notices her slyly counting the money in her purse, watching her frown when she realises she cannot afford the prices set by Madame Delacroix.

“Have a nice day, Lord Bridgerton,” Miss (Y/L/N) remarks, stepping away from the Viscount to begin her walk home. She didn’t need a Viscount to be witness to her money troubles; she had thought she had enough, but the prices must have been increased since the last time she had wandered past the window. It would be another two weeks of saving before she could afford a new set of ribbons; it wasn’t worth it at this point, she sighed to herself.

“You too!” Anthony shouts to her retreating figure, feeling upset on her behalf that she could not afford the ribbons she was so dazedly admiring. Shaking off the uncomfortable feeling, Anthony climbs into the carriage, thinking of the young woman all the way home.

-----

“Jayne!” (Y/N) laughs, “Slow down! I’m going to lose a shoe.”

“Alright, Cinderella,” Jayne snickers, slowing her pace as she climbs the winding staircase to the home of the Duke and Duchess of Hastings.

“Have you ever seen such a home?” (Y/N) gasps; eyes widening as she takes in the grand structure. The brickwork is immaculate; many red bricks painted black to give the impression of a crosshatch pattern spreading across the building. This is only highlighted by the many windows; all seemingly lit by a countless number of candles and sconces.

“(Y/N)!” Jayne shouts, “Stop admiring the building! We have a dance to get to.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” (Y/N) laughs, hurrying after her friend who has already handed over their invitation.

Jayne grips (Y/N)’s hand tightly as they enter the ballroom together. The event is in full swing; the dancefloor already full with couples dancing a quadrille.

“Would you dance with me?” The handsome brunette asks of Jayne, staring at her hopefully. Jayne casts her gaze to (Y/N), not wanting to leave her friend, but wanting very much to dance with the handsome man.

(Y/N) nudges Jayne forward, answering for her. “She would be delighted.”

Jayne sends her a thankful smile as she joins more and more couples on the dancefloor.

The drinks table isn’t busy at all as (Y/N) wanders over. She makes sure to keep an eye on Jayne, watching her dance with what looks to be a Rokesby. (Y/N) shakes her head fondly at her friend; ten minutes into a ball and she’s already caught the attention of a member of one of the richest families in England.

Turning her attention away from her friend, (Y/N) reaches for a glass of lemonade when her hand brushes with a man clearly wanting the same glass. (Y/N) pulls her hand away, not wanting to cause any trouble at a ball she wasn’t even invited to.

“My apologies,” She murmurs, grabbing another glass from the many.

“You’re forgiven,” A voice drawls. (Y/N) glances upwards through her lashes to find Anthony Bridgerton watching her with a confused expression.

“Lord Bridgerton,” (Y/N) greets, curtseying lightly at the sight of her superior.

Anthony nods. He remains silent as he stands next to her; it’s not an awkward silence, rather, one where (Y/N) can practically hear the cogs and gears winding in Anthony’s mind, trying to figure out where he knows her from. If he knows her at all.

“I met you this morning,” Anthony recalls suddenly, snapping his fingers together when he remembers why he recognises the woman standing next to him.

“You almost knocked me over,” She states wryly, lifting her glass to her lips to take a tentative sip of the lukewarm lemonade.

“I believe I apologised for that, Miss (Y/L/N).”

“Call me (Y/N). And I forgave you,” She states simply, “But It doesn’t mean I’m going to let you forget it, however.”

“I’d be disappointed in you, if you did.”

(Y/N) laughs. The very sound music to Anthony’s ears and he briefly wonders whether he could have the sound imprinted on his brain; to hear her laughter for an eternity.

“What are you doing here?” Anthony asks, taking a pull of his lemonade before wrinkling his nose. Too sweet, not sour enough. “Are you here with your parents?”

“I wasn’t technically invited,” She confesses to the Viscount in a conspiratorial whisper. Anthony’s eyes widen when her words land, “What?”

“I came to chaperone my friend, Jayne. You may know her, she’s Lord Dorchester’s daughter.”

Anthony nods; he knew the man well, drank with him a few times at his club – dreadfully dull with a fascination for military history. Much like many of the men of his father’s generation.

“Anyway,” (Y/N) continues, “Jayne wanted to go, but needed a chaperone as her mother has taken ill – nothing serious thankfully. I was the next best option so here I am.”

“Here you are,” Anthony parrots, enunciating every syllable as his eyes pour over her figure. “If you weren’t invited, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a governess for Lord and Lady Saville,” She answers proudly; a happy smile on her face as she thinks of her students.

“I hated my governess,” Anthony confesses with a laugh. “I don’t care much for Latin which she knew so she would make me do double the work.”

(Y/N) snorts. “Latin is a very useful language; it’s a good skill to have.”

“I know that now,” Anthony gripes, “I just didn’t know that at ten years old.”

Silence descends between them. Again, not uncomfortable, but a natural stopping point in their conversation. After all, titled gentleman such as the man stood beside her didn’t speak to her occupation outside of a brief conversation about their child’s progress in their education.

(Y/N) places her finished glass of lemonade back on the table before smoothing out the deep blue skirts of her borrowed dress. She clears her throat, ready to make her excuses and check on Jayne when Anthony speaks first.

“Would you care to dance?”

“Pardon?”

“Would you like to dance with me?”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Why not?”

“I’m a governess, Lord Bridgerton.”

“Call me Anthony, please.”

“That still doesn’t change the fact that you’re supposed to dance with someone of your own class, Anthony.”

“I don’t want to dance with them. I want to dance with you.”

His argument is straight to the point; no beating around the bush that (Y/N) finds it hard to find fault with it. Instead, she sighs, “One dance.”

“One dance,” Anthony promises, holding out his hand for her to grasp.

She didn’t expect to find herself the centre of the Viscount’s attention, but she cannot bring herself to mind much. Not as he holds out a hand for her to take; not as he leads to her to the dancefloor and not as he settles a palm against her lower back. The feel of his hand feeling so right that she loses the power of speech.

The music begins and (Y/N) travels to a new place entirely. The room melts away; the couples, the families. They all disappear. The only two people in the room are her and Anthony; his blue eyes fixed on her as they start to circle the room in waltz. There’s no need for conversation; all words passed by looks alone.

When the music dies and the room fades back into view, (Y/N) only wonders whether she would feel like this again, whether they would be anyone to make her feel like this again. As Anthony bows and kisses her hand, (Y/N) has her answer.

----------

He doesn’t stop thinking about her. She left soon after they finished dancing; her friend finding her and asking whether she was ready to leave. Anthony wanted to argue; wanted to reach for (Y/N) and pull her back to his embrace where they could dance the night away.

Anthony returned home and went straight to his room. He undressed mechanically; still thinking of her as he slipped between his sheets and tried to fall asleep only to find that sleep was a fickle friend that would not be granting him a visit tonight.

He remains awake; thinking of every aspect of her. He didn’t think he would see her again after the modiste; it was a shock to find her at the ball, but he took the opportunity with both hands to find that he had quickly become infatuated with her.

Could this be called love? Anthony rolls over in bed; tangling himself up in the sheets as he runs a hand up and down his bare chest, thinking the question over and over.

He felt as if he had hit by the arrow of Cupid; as if he had handed himself over voluntarily to be pricked with one of the god’s arrows. He’s never felt like this; no woman had ever kept him awake at night in such a manner.

Groaning, Anthony reaches for the pillow on the other side of the bed, hugging it to his chest. All the while, he dreams it was her body he was pressing close to.

The day after the Ball, Anthony strides from his study to his mother’s drawing room. There, he sits next to his beloved mother, and asks her to gather his siblings for a family meeting.

They arrive one by one. The youngest arriving first; a simple call from the bottom of the stairs has Gregory and Hyacinth rushing to the drawing room, each one adamant that they didn’t do it, but rather their sibling. Anthony shakes his head in exasperation, not wanting to know what they were referring to and instead, asks them to take a seat on the pale blue couch in front of the window.

Over the course of an hour, Anthony’s family arrive. Each one just as curious as the last, each one just as questioning as the last. “Why have you gathered us here, Anthony?” Daphne sighs, her hand resting on Simon’s knee.

“I’ve met someone,” Anthony announces. He frowns at the shocked gasps from Daphne and Eloise; was he really so incapable of finding himself a wife? He ignores the jibes from them both, turning to face his dear mother.

Violet Bridgerton sits in her favourite chair; the one next to it empty as it has been for the last decade. Edmund Bridgerton died so suddenly, and their love was so strong, Anthony knew that there was no recovery from it. “Do we know her?” She asks; her face showing the happiness she feels for her eldest son.

“No,” Anthony sighs, settling down next to his youngest sister, Hyacinth. She offers him a sweet smile as he sits; Anthony cannot help but return the smile and ruffle her hair. When the moment is over, Anthony focuses his attention back onto his family who he finds is watching him intently. “She’s a governess,” He admits, straightening in his seat.

“A respectable profession,” Eloise states with a smile. Anthony feels a rush of affection for his sister; he had always been wary for her outspokenness, but right now, he could thank her heartily.

“What’s the problem, Anthony?” Eloise continues, crossing her ankles, leaning forward in interest.

“I think she may have feelings for me as well, but she’s hesitant to act on them because of our differences.”

“Differences?” Hyacinth questions curiously; unaware of such class differences at such a young age.

“(Y/N) is a governess. I am a Viscount,” Anthony explains, “It would be the subject of gossip for years to come should anything happen between us.”

“So we come up with another story,” Francesca suggests, shrugging her shoulders as if her suggestion was always the answer.

“Another story?” Daphne wonders, eyes glancing between her husband and her family.

“We create a ruse,” Francesca explains to her elder sister. “A story for (Y/N) and Anthony to follow when out in public.”

“Do you think she would go along with this?” Benedict asks; his tone wary as he thinks of the possible implications this could have for his family.

Anthony remains silent, tapping a finger against his cheek as he thinks of whether (Y/N) would follow such a ruse. “Why don’t we ask her? I can send a summons.”

Violet, who had been watching the whole exchange in silence, nods. “Send her a message asking her to come as quick as she can. Tell her it isn’t an emergency, but that you would like to talk to her.”

Anthony nods; rushing from the drawing room to his study to pen such a message. After that, he calls on one of the footmen, handing them the letter and the strict duty of delivering this to (Y/N) personally. The footman nods; his face serious as he takes the letter from his employer’s hand, all but sprinting out of the door.

Anthony returns to the drawing room; taking his seat next to Hyacinth.

“Did you send the missive?” Violet asks. Anthony nods; doing his best to keep his heart from beating right out of his chest. “I sent it with one of the footmen,” He answers, “It shouldn’t be long now.”

His family all nod, breaking off into separate conversations whilst Anthony remains stoic and silent. His leg bounces repeatedly; the only outward sign of his anxiety. Internally, he nerves were fraught. He couldn’t help but wonder whether this was all too much; he knew from their first meeting that Anthony would do anything for her, but if (Y/N) didn’t return such feelings then it was all for nothing.

Worries and thoughts continue to plague him as Anthony catches sight of Daphne leaning into Simon. It’s a small movement, almost imperceptible, but Anthony cannot miss the devoted smile that crosses Simon’s face when he feels his wife press against him.

Longing breaks within Anthony’s chest, spreading through his body, leaving behind an ache that he doesn’t know how to heal.

“Miss (Y/N) (Y/L/N),” introduces the Butler, breaking Anthony’s longing in half.

He stands all too fast, appearing all too eager. Anthony shoots a glare in his brother’s direction when he hears their sniggering.

(Y/N) rushes into the room; her eyes filled with panic when she finds herself in front of the whole Bridgerton clan. “Anthony?” She whispers; her eyes finally meeting his from across the room.

“(Y/N),” He breathes, “Thank you for coming.”

“You told me not to worry, but you sounded so urgent.”

“We wanted to talk to you,” He explains, gesturing to his whole family. “Why don’t you take a seat?”

(Y/N) sits; her mind running a thousand miles a minute as she finds herself being watched by every Bridgerton/Basset in the room. The room is silent; too silent – no-one dares broach the subject first. They don’t want to anger Anthony or ruin his chances with (Y/N).

“Whatever is the matter?” (Y/N) finally asks, breaking the silence.

“We’ve come to understand that you and Anthony have feelings for each other,” Violet states quite plainly.

(Y/N) fidgets, somewhat uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “I guess you could say that,” She offers, smiling smally at the aforementioned man.

“We also know that you’re worried about the differences between Anthony and yourself,” Violet continues to which Eloise huffs, crossing her arms in anger at the state of the class differences within England.

“It’s not so much worried,” (Y/N) explains, “It’s more resigned to the fact.”

Violet nods, understanding where the young governess is coming from. “Francesca,” Violet starts, nodding to the brunette sitting by one of Anthony’s brothers, “Has come up with an idea that we would like to run by you.”

“Oh?”

“It would mean that you and Anthony would be able to begin a courtship.”

(Y/N) feels herself flush; her face heating with how open the Bridgerton family were about their emotions. Their family unit so healthy and happy that everyone felt at ease to talk about whatever was on their minds.

“What did you have in mind?” (Y/N) asks, turning to face Francesca who responds with a large smile.

“We’re going to create a backstory for you. Not something terribly complicated, but something that you and Anthony can follow whilst out in public.”

“Okay…” (Y/N) whispers hesitantly, “What’s the backstory you’ve created?”

Francesca begins to look sheepish. “I haven’t thought of that part yet… I didn’t think Anthony would go for the first part.”

(Y/N) laughs; a light and airy sound that has Anthony straightening in his seat, smiling automatically. “Why don’t we come up with it together?”

“So you’re willing to go along with it?” Anthony asks; his voice unwaveringly hopeful as he refuses to look at anyone but (Y/N).

Something in his face has her nodding. “For as long as you’ll have me,” She answers earnestly, almost breathless when Anthony smiles widely in return.

“This is what I’ve thought of so far,” Colin announces, breaking the moment between Anthony and (Y/N).

The family turn to Colin to find him sat forward on his seat, an eager look across his face as he begins to lay out his plans. Anthony smiles and nods; happy with every word leaving his brother’s mouth.

(Y/N) cannot help but feel an ounce of doubt; not so much at the plan, but for longevity of it. How long would it be before Anthony realised she was not worth it? How long would it before the class difference between them became too much? She dreaded the day but knew it would be upon her before she realised.

----------

The annual picnic in Hyde Park drew in every affable family in London. After all, it was another excuse for mother’s to parade their daughters to the many eligible gentleman. For the gentlemen, it was a free lunch with whichever gazebo they chose to throw themselves upon.

The Bridgertons had been attending this picnic for many years; their station in society meaning that they were personally invited by the monarch. Violet took pride in her set up, making sure her cook’s famous biscuits were on display and that there was plenty of tea to go around. She also ensured that her family had the perfect view of the Serpentine; not too close for her children to fall in, but not too far for it to be out of sight. It was not a sorry affair.

(Y/N) had joined the family happily; talking briefly with Colin and Eloise before Hyacinth monopolised her attention. (Y/N) didn’t mind; she had taught many young girls the same age as Hyacinth and found them all a delight to educate. Hyacinth would be no different.

It wasn’t long, however, before Anthony joined her side. His hand settled comfortably on the small of her back, liking the way that she stepped closer to him, as if wanting to be in his presence all the time.

“Did you have fun the other night?” Anthony questions, thinking back to Daphne’s ball when (Y/N) had smiled at him as he lead her across the dancefloor.

(Y/N) smiles. “I did. I had a lot of fun.”

“How are you feeling about our ruse?” Anthony queries, catching sight of Lady Featherington marching across the many blankets in the direction of the Bridgerton patch.

“Confident,” (Y/N) answers, “Why do you ask?”

Anthony smiles; shifting his position slightly so he can hear every word of the conversation about to happen. He ducks his head, his mouth close to her ear as he answers, “Because it’s about to be put to the test.”

“Lady Bridgerton,” Lady Featherington calls; her gaudy green gown shimmering in the sunlight as she teeters her way to the matriarch of the fine family.

“Lady Featherington,” Violet greets, her voice as polite as ever. “How are you?”

Lady Featherington smiles at Violet; her gaze glancing around the colourful blankets and gazebo set out for the Bridgerton family to remain comfortable as the picnic progresses. Lady Featherington smiles when her eyes find the figure she was looking for. (Y/N) stands to the side, wrapped up in a conversation with Anthony that certainly looks to be a private one.

Lady Featherington nods towards (Y/N); the fascinator attached to her threatening to slip into her eyes. “You have a new addition to your family, Lady Bridgerton,” Lady Featherington states; no infliction of a question but one inferred all the same.

“(Y/N) is a distant friend of the family,” Violet answers breezily, “She hails from a wealthy family just outside of Leeds.”

“Leeds?”

Violet nods. “Yes, Leeds. It’s just over 20 miles outside of York, perhaps you’ve been?”

Lady Featherington smiles tightly at Violet. She smooths down the green panels of her dress. “A handful of times, Lady Bridgerton. After all, my side of the family hails from Manchester. The two aren’t so far removed.”

“Of course,” Violet appeases, “How does your family fare? I’d heard your mother was ill.”

Lady Featherington continues to smile graciously at the Dowager Viscount. Her eyes are brimming with warning and curiosity, but her smile is forced. “Mother is doing much better, she travelled to the coast. The latest journals are saying sea air helps with fragile conditions.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Lady Featherington nods her thanks to Violet before making her excuses. Violet’s shoulders shake with silent laughter as she watches the notorious gossip walk away from her gazebo. Lady Featherington’s shoulders are tight with displeasure as she marches back to her own plot.

Violet returns to the stitching in her lap after a brief glance towards her youngest children. Gregory and Hyacinth occupied with Benedict and Colin as the older of the set teach their younger siblings games from their youth. Violet smiles at her children; content to return to the pattern at hand, the Dutch Tulips would not stitch themselves.

“What was Lady Featherington talking to you about?” Anthony asks. His face the very picture of innocence as he breaks his mother’s concentration and grabs two biscuits – one for him, the other he hands to (Y/N).

“She was fishing for information on our dear (Y/N),” Violet comments, observing her stitching to ensure it remains straight. “She didn’t find out a thing other than what we discussed.”

(Y/N) lets out a relieved breath. “Thank you, Lady Bridgerton.”

Violet waves away her gratitude with a dismissive hand. “You’re making my son happy; I’ll protect that and you with all that I have.”

(Y/N) flounders for a moment at the quick acceptance by Violet. She smiles at the matriarch; whispering her thanks to Violet, ducking her head as she tries to come to terms with rush of emotions coursing through her body.

Anthony returns his attention to the conversation; his mind no longer focused on way to distract Lady Featherington. He flashes a smile in (Y/N)’s direction; his heart racing when she sends her own smile back.

“(Y/N) and I are going to promenade, mother. You’ll be fine without us?”

Violet snorts. “Yes, dear. I have my seven other children to keep me company.”

Anthony rolls his eyes fondly at his mother. He presses a sweet kiss to her cheek before offering (Y/N) his arm.

They amble along the path; all the while aware of the maid sent by Violet shortly after they departed. Violet trusts (Y/N) implicitly, but she knows the reputation of her eldest son. The poor opera singer being prime evidence of his abilities to break hearts as quickly as he mends them.

“You look beautiful, by the way. In case I haven’t told you,” Anthony flirts, a handsome smile spreading across his face.

“You haven’t, but I’ll take the compliment now.”

Anthony laughs, throwing his head back in delight as they both pause their walk. “You are though,” Anthony murmurs, reaching out to brush a finger down (Y/N)’s cheek, “You’re beautiful.”

(Y/N) averts her gaze; her cheeks flushing from the unexpected compliment. Anthony glances on either side of them, catching sight of the maid only a few feet away, doing her best to nonchalantly follow them. Anthony turns his attention back to the woman in front of him, desperate for a moment alone with her. A wicked grin spreads across his face, “Follow me.”

“What?”

“Follow me,” Anthony repeats, stepping off the path and onto the grass. He gestures to a faint path; one less travelled. “Do you trust me?”

(Y/N) answers by taking his outstretched hand, letting herself be led down the lesser known path.

Their pace slows when they are certain they have lost their chaperone. (Y/N) feels a twinge of guilt as she thinks of the poor maid who was only doing what she was asked by her employer, but then she catches sight of the unbridled glee on Anthony’s face and her guilt is quickly replaced by anticipation.

“Where are we going?” She asks; her voice jostling slightly as she tries to watch Anthony and not trip over any loose twigs or stones.

“Nowhere in particular,” Anthony confesses, “I just wanted you to myself for a little bit.”

His pace slows; they’re a good distance away from the picnic party, they wouldn’t be interrupted by anyone.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Anthony wonders as he comes to a stop. His hands settle on her waist and she has do all that she can to focus on the conversation and not the fact that she can feel the heat of his skin through the fabric of her dress.

“You can tell me anything.”

“I like spending time with you. You make me…” Anthony trails off as he thinks of the word, “Happy. Yes, you make me happy.”

“You make me happy too.”

“If you want me to stop,” Anthony whispers, bending to press a line of kisses from her cheek to the corner of her mouth, “You need to tell me now.”

“Don’t stop,” She whispers, fisting her hands in the lapels of his jacket, tugging him forward.

Anthony kissed her carefully, as if afraid he would ruin her from the very moment their lips touched. What he didn’t realise, however, was that he had ruined her from the instant they met. He might not have realised it, but she knew. She knew that from that one conversation, that one touch to her elbow, she would be ruined for other men.

His mouth is gentle, hesitant. By the way he groans low in his throat, Anthony does not expect (Y/N) to react the way she does. Gasping against his mouth, pressing herself against him as her lips open under his. The kiss becomes hurried; oxygen becoming a distant thought of the past as (Y/N) tastes the lemon biscuits Anthony had stolen from his mother’s table.

Breaking the kiss, the couple each suck in ragged breaths. Shy smiles break out across either of their faces, not having expected such a thing to happen to between them. A short laugh leaves Anthony’s lips as he keeps (Y/N) wrapped up in his embrace. Neither of them feel the need to say a word; happy to let the time pass between them in complete silence.

“We should probably get back,” (Y/N) eventually murmurs against Anthony’s cheek, the slight stubble scratching her skin.

Anthony releases a choked sound. “I don’t want to,” He confesses, “I want to stay here with you.”

(Y/N) pulls back, brushing a gloved hand against Anthony’s cheek. He leans into the touch; finding himself enraptured by the woman in front of him. “I want to stay with you too,” She whispers, “But your family will be looking for us.”

Anthony sighs, breaking the embrace entirely. He holds her hand; tangling their fingers together. If he could, he wouldn’t let go of her at all. He would keep her with him at all times; he likes to be in her presence, doesn’t want to be without it. However, society and duty calls, and he must return. However, he would be damned if he was to let go of her hand before then.

“Alright,” He concedes, beginning the walk back to the picnic.

The walk is quiet, but comfortable. Their hands remained tangled even as they arrive back to the Bridgertons. His brother’s throw Anthony a knowing glance which Anthony ignores. He knows his mother will have a strict word with him later, but he has more pressing matters on his mind – his future and the woman now sitting with his youngest siblings.

He’s found his forever; he just needs to keep it.

-----

“Miss (Y/L/N),” the Butler begins, interrupting the governess as she marks her student’s latest set of handwriting, “A Viscount Bridgerton to see you?”

“Oh!” She gasps, standing from her seat far too quickly. The inkpot on her desk spills, sapphire blue ink spreading across the multitude of papers thrown about her desk. As she watches the puddle grow, she begins to feel a deep sense of dread spread through her being.

“Shall I show him in?” The Butler asks, also watching the ink stain spread.

“Have you already made Lord and Lady Saville aware of his presence?”

“Yes, miss. They’re the ones who told me to fetch him to you.”

“Then yes, show him in please,” (Y/N) answers, staring forlornly at the ruined paper and wasted ink. The Butler makes a sympathetic noise before opening the door further for Anthony to enter.

“Darling,” Anthony greets. He goes to speak further but spies the growing blue stain. “What happened here?”

“I stood up too quickly,” (Y/N) complains. “It’s gone everywhere, and I can’t afford another bottle right now.”

“That’s no problem. I’ll get you a bottle.”

(Y/N) fixes the man with an unimpressed look. “No you won’t. I don’t want you buying things for me.”

“It won’t be bought. I have a stock of ink back at Bridgerton House due to the amount of correspondence I have. You can have a couple of pots; I will not miss it.”

“Oh… well, thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Anthony smiles. “Now that’s sorted, I came here to ask you a question.”

“You have?”

“I have. Would you attend the Shakespearean ball? With me?” His voice has a note of vulnerability in it as he voices his question.

“What?” She asks, “As in arrive with you, on your arm?”

“Yes,” Anthony states slowly, “You would come with me and my family.”

She begins to pace the room; her hands wringing together as she tries to calm the pounding of her heart and mind. “Are you sure this is the path you want to go down?” She asks Anthony; her voice begging for a truthful answer.

“What do you mean?”

“This is getting very serious very fast, Anthony. This plan isn’t going to work forever; the ton will find out that I’m a governess and the ruse will be over. This could ruin your entire family, Anthony.”

“Hey,” Anthony hushes, interrupting her pacing. He reaches for her hand with one hand whilst the other cups her cheek. She automatically leans into the touch, sending a thrill through Anthony’s aching soul. “Nothing’s going to happen,” He reassures with a gentle tone, “Should anything happen, we can do damage control.”

“I don’t want to be the ruin of your family, Anthony,” (Y/N) whispers, her eyes lined with unshed tears. She could never forgive herself if the Bridgertons were socially injured by her lack of money relating to her lack of status. (Y/N) could not help the hand of cards she was dealt at birth, but society dictates her station, and hers was so far below Anthony’s it was any wonder that he noticed her in the first place. It was a dream to be accepted by his family; she didn’t want to be the cause of their ruination.

“You aren’t going to be the ruin of my family,” Anthony assures, brushing under her eyes with his thumbs to wipe away the tears that have fallen. “You’re going to be the making of it. I want you in my life, (Y/N). I want to see where this goes.”

“You do?”

“I do. I haven’t felt like this for a long time, I want to see where this feeling takes me.”

“Okay,” She concedes, doing her best to stop the tears falling, “I’ll go to the ball with you.”

“You will?”

“I will.”

The smile that spreads across Anthony’s face makes it all worth it. He presses a kiss to her forehead, then another to her nose, to her cheek before finally kissing her in earnest. She hums against his mouth; getting lost in the feel of him.

“It’ll be worth it,” Anthony whispers. “All of this is worth it.”

“You’re worth it,” (Y/N) states quietly, pulling him back in for another kiss.

----

Lady Danbury was one of two women in London that could throw a memorable ball. The other being Violet Bridgerton. For her theme this year, Lady Danbury had chosen the works of the Elizabethan bard, William Shakespeare. For what could be more romantic than dressing as characters immortalised in his plays and sonnets?

Anthony would not tell (Y/N) one whisper of his costume; kept it a secret from her despite her barrage of questions. As revenge, she kept quiet about her costume, refusing to tell the man the colour of her dress.

The two walk into the ballroom with (Y/N)’s hand resting on Anthony’s forearm; her nerves rattle as she walks further into the room. She knew she had no reason to be nervous; Anthony and his family would protect her from whatever form of gossip falls her way, but she could not help the turning of her stomach as she walked passed many disappointed mothers who had hoped Anthony would pay their daughters the slightest bit of attention.

The music is loud; the laughter lightening the atmosphere and the dancers in full swing as (Y/N) begins to feel comfortable. Having taught many a child Shakespeare, (Y/N) spent a lot of time trying to decipher the characters in attendance tonight. She had already seen three Violas, four Benedicks, and six Olivias.

“I have to go talk to someone,” Anthony says apologetically, interrupting her guessing game, “I won’t be long. Will you be okay without me?”

(Y/N) nods. “Go. I’m sure I’ll find someone to talk to.”

Anthony presses a lingering kiss to her cheek, whispering as he does so, “A marvel amongst women.”

“You’re nothing but a flirt,” She laughs, batting the love of her life away. “Go talk business.”

“As you wish,” Anthony laughs, mock-bowing before leaving (Y/N) to wander the ball alone. Moments pass before she finds someone she recognises. “Colin,” She greets happily, “Who have you come as?”

“Romeo Montague,” Colin answers, stretching his arms wide to show off his rather fetching garb.

“How wonderful,” She laughs, watching the Bridgerton strike a pose in his costume.

“Who knows,” Colin teases, “Maybe tonight I’ll find my Juliet.”

(Y/N) laughs once more, batting the man away when he wiggles his eyebrows at her in a suggestive manner. “Off with you,” She snorts, “I’m sure there are plenty of ladies for you to dance with.”

Colin departs with a bow of his head. (Y/N) rolls her eyes at the antics of the younger man; Colin knew full well of the line of ladies waiting for his signature of their dance cards, but something warms in (Y/N)’s chest when she watches Colin walk straight to Penelope Featherington.

“They’d make a fine pair if he would pull his head out,” A voice full of humour sounds from behind her.

(Y/N) startles. She turns to find Anthony watching her; his lips curled in a manner that suggested he was holding back the laughter he so desperately wanted to let out.

“You made me jump,” She hisses, batting his outstretched hand away.

“I’m sorry, my love,” Anthony coos, pulling (Y/N) into his embrace by pulling on one of the many skirts about her waist. (Y/N) flushes at the term of endearment, but also at the many pairs of eyes now watching the young couple.

“You’re forgiven,” She sighs. “Who have you dressed as?” She asks, changing the subject.

“Ferdinand,” Anthony answers, “From The Tempest.”

“How odd,” (Y/N) muses, “I’ve dressed as Miranda from The Tempest.”

“‘Admired Miranda!/ Indeed the top of admiration, worth/ What’s dearest to the world!’”

“Only you could quote Shakespeare from the heart,” (Y/N) states wryly.

Anthony preens, puffing out his chest slightly. “All the Bridgertons can. We would do dramatizations of the plays.”

“Of course,” (Y/N) laughs, picturing Anthony as a young boy, dressed in breeches with a make-do ruff around his neck. The very image brings a fond smile to her face.

“What are you smiling about?” Anthony questions, wanting to be privy to the thoughts running through her mind.

“You,” She flirts, hooking her arm through Anthony’s as they start to take a turn about the room.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Anthony states pompously though his heart races at her words.

Her laughter chimes as Anthony steers (Y/N) around the room, pausing only to grab two glasses of lemonade from the drinks table. She sips at it delicately, not risking a spill of a single drop on her outfit.

“I’m glad you decided to come,” Anthony murmurs into her ear. “Truly. I would have been lost without you.”

“You always know what to say, don’t you?” (Y/N) teases, enjoying the blush that begins to paint Anthony’s cheeks. She briefly touches a gloved hand to his cheek, smiling fondly at the brunette. “I’m glad I came too.”

Anthony clears his throat; clearing his throat of the emotion clogging it up. He takes her drink from her, placing it on a nearby table. As ever the gentleman he was raised to be, Anthony bows towards the women he vows is the love of his life and offers his hand. “Would you care to dance?”

“Always,” She answers with a breathtaking smile, taking his hand to be led onto the dancefloor for the start of the new song. Couples on the floor take up the position of the quadrille as upbeat music sounds through the hall.

It’s hard not to smile as Anthony takes her hand to begin the first steps of the lead couple. The first dance figure is performed before copied by the other couples in their square.

Anthony keeps a tight hold on her as he begins the next set of dance figures; spinning (Y/N) out before drawing her back in. Laughter falls from her mouth, setting his heart alight with the love he feels for her.

She catches the eye of Lady Featherington through one of many of Anthony’s spins. The Lady smiles knowingly, raising her glass to the young woman spinning in the arms of the Viscount.

(Y/N)’s breath freezes in her chest; she makes a choked sound and her steps falter. Luckily, no-one but Anthony seems to notice, but he recovers his hold on (Y/N) fairly quickly. It’s the end of the song; couples slowing on the floor, the audience beginning to clap their approvals.

“Darling?” Anthony calls quietly, breaking her out of her reverie. His hand remains in her hold; refusing to let him take even a step without her.

“Take me somewhere we can be alone,” She pleads, suddenly overcome by the sheer amount of people milling about the hall.

Anthony doesn’t need to be told twice, leading (Y/N) away from the dancefloor with a guiding hand on the small of her back. Anthony catches Benedict’s eye as he leaves the hall; his brother offers him a single nod to which Anthony relaxes – Benedict would make sure no-one would follow or interrupt, there was something important Anthony had to do.

The night air is cold against her heated skin as she inhales hurried breaths. The stone of the railing is cool under her fingers as she grips the stone tight; needing something to tether her to this place. It feels like a dream; a total dream that she would find herself costumed as a character from a Shakespeare play brushing elbows with some of the most powerful people in the country.

At this time of night, the gardens are dark, but she can still make out their heavenly fragrance perfuming the air, providing the perfect backdrop for this night.

“Are you alright?” Anthony asks, removing his jacket and settling it over her shoulders.

(Y/N) pulls his jacket tighter around her; inhaling the comforting scent of musk and sweet orange washing over her. “I’m fine now, it got to be a bit too much in there.”

“That’s an understatement,” Anthony murmurs, “I saw Lady Featherington.”

(Y/N) cringes internally. Her face is a mask of polite interest as she murmurs, “Oh? You saw that did you?”

“She only acts as if she knows everything, darling,” Anthony reassures, settling his hands on (Y/N)’s waist, desperate to be touching her.

“I know,” She murmurs, but his words do nothing to settle the panic tying her chest into knots.

“We’re fine,” Anthony promises; hands rubbing up and down the sides of her bodice. “It’s going to be fine.”

“I know,” She repeats, sighing heavily, leaning back into his embrace. His chest is strong against her back, but she doesn’t get long to admire his strength. He turns her in his arms, peering down at the expression on her face.

“You’re who I love. I couldn’t give a damn what the rest of London society thinks.”

“I love you as well,” She answers, a small smile on her face, letting his words wash away any and all of her worries. “You do have a way with words.”

“Flatterer,” He teases, dipping his head to kiss her.

(Y/N) gasps at the first press of Anthony’s lips against hers. She had kissed him before; a hurried meeting of mouths before their chaperone caught up to them. This kiss differed from that; languid, unhurried. Anthony took his time to memorise the feel of her lips against his; the small whimpers sounding at the back of her throat.

Each brush of his lips against hers spoke of what he found it hard to put into words. He had never been a wordsmith; could never write poetry or recite the romances of the past, but with every butterfly kiss placed on her lips in time to the shuddering of her heartbeat could Anthony translate the sheer scale of what he feels for her.

She reaches up to cup the back of his neck, fingers carding through the dark brown locks. Anthony’s grip on her waist remains firm as he presses her further into the railing. The gentleness of Anthony’s kiss soon turns to a burning passion as his hands splay across the small of (Y/N)’s back, pressing her to him.

As Anthony’s kisses begin to travel the expanse of her jawline, (Y/N) is suddenly grateful for the railing behind her. If he was to let her go now, not only would she feel the keen absence of his touch, but she would surely sink to the floor. The feel of his mouth, pressed hot against her, has her knees feeling unsteady.

“(Y/N),” Anthony whispers, nuzzling the side of her neck, “(Y/N)…”

“You keep whispering my name,” She murmurs into the night air; her ragged breath leaving behind white plumes.

“Marry me,” Anthony all but pleads, pulling back from (Y/N)’s neck to gaze into her eyes. “Marry me and always be mine.”

It seemed that time had stopped and lost all of its meaning; there was no party, no gardens, no laughter of lifelong friends. No. In this moment there was only Anthony.

“Yes,” She whispers, laughter beginning to fall from her mouth as fresh as a morning rainfall. Once it starts, she cannot find it in herself to stop. Tears soon join the laughter as a smile breaks across Anthony’s handsome face. “Yes,” She repeats, “I will marry you.”

********

Bridgerton taglist: @heloisedaphnebrightmore @dreaming-about-fanfictions @now-its-time-for-a-breakdown @janelongxox @aspiringsloth20 @wallwriterstuff @magicalxdaydream @darkestbeforethedawn16 @gryffindors-weasley @spideysz @iammirrorball

taglists are open! drop me an ask if you would like to be added!

#anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton #anthony x reader #bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #anthony bridgerton imagines #anthony bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton imagines

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startanewdream · 3 years

Text

Captain Potter

Summary: Lily Evans has a secret that the army cannot know and it doesn't help that her captain is trying to be her friend.

Note: So I was watching Mulan and it's Shirtless JP May and this got me into googling shirtless army man, so please enjoy this piece of very much self-indulgence set in another AU. Also, I have no knowledge of military ranks, so bear with me.

Read on AO3 or below:

‘Evans’, the captain calls, and Lily turns to him, slightly afraid as she always feels when she hears her name. Maybe this is the day her secret will be found, this is the day she will be expelled and will fall in disgrace —

But Captain Potter has one of his carefree trademark grins, none at all looking as if he is about to arrest her. He looks at ease, leaning against one of the training posts, arms crossed lazily, watching her with interest shining in his hazel eyes as if she is a puzzle he will understand someday.

Lily truly wishes he won't, so she avoids looking at him directly in the eyes.

‘Captain’, she answers at least, saluting. That seems to amuse him.

‘I have a name, you know’.

‘Hum’, she stops, unsure. Her interactions with the captain have been restricted — well, her interactions with everyone have been limited —, but she has watched him from afar.

He is young and yet he never tries to act bossy with all the other soldiers, never tries to impose himself. He may have a more affinity with three of the soldiers (his friends for a long time, as she gathered), but he tries to treat everyone fairly, encouraging and teaching all soldiers equally, from the weakest of them to the strongest, and it’s not hard for her to see why everyone is willing to follow him into battle. The only one that he hadn’t been able to reach some sort of relationship was with her.

Something that had fit Lily’s plans and worries very well.

‘Captain Potter?’, she tries.

‘I am someone besides a rank’, he suggests.

‘Mr. Potter’.

‘That would be my father. I am James ’, he says at least, as if she is unfamiliar with the name of the youngest captain of the army.

‘I know , but — it would not be proper —’

‘Liam’, he stops her and, just as anytime someone uses that name, Lily wants to look around searching for that person until she remembers her situation. ‘Can I call you Liam?’

‘I’d rather Evans’, she answers, grimacing, and when he looks dismayed, she adds quickly: ‘It’s how everyone calls me. Not… it’s more personal, really’.

‘Fine, Evans’. He grins again. It’s a beautiful smile, so open and inviting, that again Lily has no difficulty understanding the success he makes with all the other soldiers, why their unity is unanimous in praising him. There is something on him that draws people to him — her included. ‘Well, call me James. I can order you to if it will make it more proper’.

Lily lets out a laugh before she stops herself, biting her lips, worried. She shouldn’t laugh; though she can disguise her voice mildly well, her laugh is too thin, too sparkling. It’s not a man’s grave laugh.

Fortunately, the captain doesn’t seem to find anything amiss. He looks just… glad with her reaction.

‘So you are capable of laughing’, he notes teasingly. ‘I had my doubts, you know’.

‘There has never been an occasion, Cap — James ’.

He opens his mouth in an offended expression; it’s so dramatic that, again, she wants to laugh. ‘I beg your pardon? Yesterday, when someone — a very clever someone, I might add — pretended to be shot by an arrow? That was an occasion!’

‘Wasn’t that you?’, she asks, raising her eyebrows. It had been a long tense one minute in which one of the other soldiers, Sirius, had been sure he had shot by mistake the captain and his best friend before James had revealed himself alive, laughing hysterically and showing the fake arrow attached to his badge.

Sirius had punched him, all rank forgotten, but then he was laughing too and everyone thought it was hilarious.

‘It was fun ’.

‘It was terrifying’.

‘Oh, so you were terrified I’d died?’, he jokes, his grin now very smug. ‘And I thought you didn’t like me’.

Lily blushes, lowering her head and hoping he hadn’t noticed it. Truth was she had misjudged him on the first day, annoyed by the way he acted with that captain badge pinned on his chest. He came from a long family of militars, after all, and he was very young, no matter what his father would praise about his grades in military school, so she had truly believed he didn’t deserve to be a captain, that he had only got there for his family name.

In the last few weeks, though, she was forced to admit he was a good captain. He had the vision for it, good ideas, an efficient way of training everyone and, of course, he was a leader.

‘I have nothing against you, sir — James’.

‘I’m glad to know’, he says, sounding earnest. ‘I am worried about you, you know’.

‘Have I done something wrong?’, she asks, surprised, fear involving her again. Lily had taken care of doing all exercises, overworking herself, all to prove that that stupid rule that forbid women in the army did not make any sense. They needed everyone in the fight against Voldemort, after all, and she would not wait patiently, especially when people like her were one of his targets.

‘No, no, you’ve been perfect, really, no one dedicates as much as you’, he assures her. ‘But you don’t socialize. You stay quiet during dinner. You don’t participate in any of the games', he pauses, before adding again dramatically: 'You don’t laugh at my pranks!’

All of it is true. Lily has purposefully gotten away from everyone, afraid they would notice something different about her, though that quiet soldier, Remus, had tried to talk to her. She just feels she can't risk.

‘I do not think it’s time for pranks, James’, she answers, deciding the last point was probably the easiest.

He shakes his head. ‘We are at war, Evans. If we don’t laugh now, we may not laugh after’.

She supposes he is right. And even though he enjoys more pranks than she thinks it’s reasonable, she knows he worries too. More than once, when she is on guard duty, she has noticed the light of his tent is on very late in the night. James may look carefree with everyone else, but he has concerns about the war — and what lies in his shoulder.

‘Your work has been impeccable’, he adds quietly. ‘I just want you to get to know more of your colleagues and for them to know more about you’. Lily presses her lips, hoping her worry doesn’t show on her face. That was all she was trying to avoid. ‘You will need to count on them in the battlefield and they will need to know you have their backs too. And the only way to do that is if we trust each other. Can we do that?’

James is waiting for her answer, his eyes boring into hers firmly, and Lily can’t turn away now. In the light of the morning, with the sun shining on his face, his hazel eyes seem to glint in gold, the pupil barely visible. He has wrinkles on the side of his eyes, and she suddenly wishes they weren’t meeting in the army while she is pretending to be an introverted thin young man.

He seems the kind of guy she would like to meet in college, or to grow up together with, or even in a dancing club with her friends; they would talk and she could be then fully herself, could share with him her witty side and even help him in a prank or two. In that other life she would appreciate how nice and beautiful he is, with that black hair that’s always messy no matter how much he tries to comb, and those hazel eyes that were made for laughing, not to be worried for the war.

But that’s not her life and she is sure that if he ever finds out about her, he will hate her. Somehow, with how much she has learned to admire him in the last weeks, she fears his rejection more than she fears being expelled from the army.

Lily knows she would trust James Potter with her life, knows she would do her duty and die for him if it was needed, and yet she also knows she can't ever tell him her secret.

So she does what she has been doing best ever since she joined the army.

‘We can trust each other’, she lies.

He beams. ‘Great, Evans! And I thought we could start sharing your mourning runs’. He raises one eyebrow when she looks surprised. ‘I’ve noticed you awake at dawn to run’.

‘I like to train’, she admits. ‘I am… thinner than the others, so I am trying to get fitter’.

‘You look a lot better’, he compliments, touching her arm, where her biceps have been evolving nicely. It’s a pat, a soft brush, and yet it sends shivers down Lily’s spine; his hand is warm . ‘Mind if I join you?’

She hesitates just a little. ‘I will stay quiet’, she warns him. ‘I like to think while I run’.

‘Works for me. And if you want to share a thought or another, well, I’m here, Evans’.

He winks at her, again so friendly that she turns her eyes away, wishing she could tell him the truth. But she can’t, so she presses her lips, ties the ribbon around her hair so the bun stays in place, and kneels to make sure her shoes are tied. Then she raises and her heart stops for a full second.

James has taken out his shirt. She knows he is fit — there is no way he can’t be with all the years of training he had — and she has seen before shirtless, but only when she was far away in the line, hoping to get unnoticed as she trained the movements.

Now, it’s only him, his tanned skin glistening under the morning sun, a god coming out of her dreams. She is staring and she knows it, but there is no way she can avoid it; weeks at the army have made her lost a lot of discomfourt around men's body, but this... This doesn't seem fair.

She watches the muscles in his arms, his biceps far more evident than hers will ever be, and it suddenly occurs to Lily that she would like very much to feel them around her, involving her, holding her. There would be only benefits in hugging him, she realizes, as her eyes move to his torso, enjoying the firmness of his chest and the muscles in his abdomen, a six pack that seems drawn perfectly. In his arms, she would glide her hand through his chest, would place a kiss over his heart and then she would raise her head and they would be so close —

And then James stretches his arms, raising them above his head, and she notices the hair on his torso, a few patches near his chest that shine with a few drops of sweat she wouldn’t mind drying, and then the darked patch over his abdomen, in a path that goes on vanishing inside…

When she finds herself staring at his pants, Lily decides she has crossed more limits that it's reasonable.

She turns, all her concentration in avoiding glancing at him again, though she feels it's fruitless. The sight of him seems to be recorded in her mind. He will appear on her dream, she is sure of it.

‘Everything all right, Evans?’, he asks, right behind her, and she jumps. 'You look red'.

Lily knows it; her face is hot, burning even before she has started to run, and she won’t fool herself pretending she doesn’t know the reason.

‘I'm fine, let’s go’, she answers quickly, heart racing in her chest. This was a horrible idea; mourning runs with her very gorgeous hot captain will do no good for her keeping her secret.

She sprints without warning, but he catches up with her easily. She keeps her eyes ahead. Don't look, don't stare, don't ogle.

‘There is something special about you, Evans’, he declares, the run not seeming to disturb his breathing. ‘I will find out one day’.

#Shirtless JP May #Jily #Jily AU #Pining Lily #Captain James Potter #Army James Potter #Lily is a soldier #Lily would never stand out a fight #James would just be smitten with his recruit #oh the pining

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thedevillionaire · 3 years

Text

Four Days, Mostly

A supernatural soap opera instalment. Cerberus and Kia, one of those domestic-couple moments kind of thing. Any questions, as always, please do ask me to explain myself! Thanks for spending some time in my ridiculous world. I heart you.

---

Kia feels like she’s practically been living in the Vampirism archives, when she hasn’t been on the mortal plane, that is. She’s sure the last four days have actually taken a week, such was the amount of things to do that had somehow been crammed into them, and she sighs quietly.

And she’s hardly seen her beloved for more than five minutes over those days; she’s not been the only one with scarcely a moment to take for herself. What with the disastrous destruction of the Lightning chambers and the resultant seemingly endless fallout from that pouring demand upon demand on Cerberus, they’ve barely crossed paths, let alone managed any quality time together. Any time at all, come to that.

But she’s been assured he’ll be home tonight, and a small smile crosses her face as she reaches the front door at last. She’ll be glad to get into the guaranteed warmth of the manor too – the windwhipped, winterchilled walk home has been…brisk, to say the least.

Whoa.

Warmth is one thing, inferno another. An intense, practically visible heatwave encompasses her the moment she crosses the threshold, and she closes the door behind her, removing her coat posthaste.

Well, he’s definitely home. She shakes her head, a faint smile on her face as she unlaces and removes her blouse and bodice also, untucking her chemise for good measure. Damn, it was hot. “Hon, think you could dial it back a bit to, I don’t know, something maybe a bit less…I don’t know, diabolic?” she calls out as she walks through the foyer into the loungeroom, where she expects to find him, but…apparently not. Hm, okay. She pulls her hair into a makeshift ponytail, twists it upon itself to hold it in place, wonders whether she should Mindsend him a greeting or just wander about the house until she finds him, when her attention is dramatically redirected by a sudden, powerful sneeze.

Ah. She smiles a little self-indulgently, turns. Answers that question.

With a Mindsent blessing, she continues down the hallway, making her way over to where Cerberus sits at the library desk, his face buried in a tissue…which, as she gets closer, she recognises as being far from the first time he’s done this today. “Oh, honey, you’re not well?”

More of an observation than a question – the tiredness apparent in her nonetheless stunning bonded’s eyes as he smiles at her somewhat wanly despite his clear pleasure at her return, not to mention the telltale hint of red to his nose, providing more than enough of an answer. He neither confirms nor denies it – not verbally, at any rate – and for now she chooses not to press.

Explains the extra heat, too.

With a soft sound of sympathy, Kia moves to stand behind him, placing a tender kiss on the top of his head and gently massaging his shoulders. “Hey there, you. How long’s it been since you took a break?”

Cerberus murmurs a quiet hum of pleasure, closing his eyes briefly and leaning back into her touch as Kia drapes her arms around him. “Gods, I’ve missed you, love.” He sniffles again, takes another tissue, wipes his nose, and looks up at her apologetically. “Sorry about all the damn sniffling. The week’s catching up to me a bit, I think.”

“Aw, sweetheart.” Kia says, adding a Mindsent :Stop avoiding the question: with a quiet, slightly dark laugh. She moves to push some papers aside and sit on the desk, facing him, and leans forward to kiss him, softsensual, lingering. :I’ve missed you too.: She leans back again, looks at him in gently insistent challenge. “Your last break was…?”

“Nowhere near as beautiful as this one, I’m sure.” Another determined sniffle, and Cerberus presses the tissue underneath his nose as he regards Kia’s state of dishevelled semi-undress, a playful approval evident as he does so, and raises an eyebrow. “If you want to convince me to lower the temperature, darkling, I’m not sure *snf!* that this is the best way to go about it.”

“Okay, I know these four days have felt like forever but you do remember I’m happy to strip for you without being practically on fire, right?” Kia laughs. “Babe, it’s a sauna in here!” With a look of good-natured admonishment, she holds his gaze and smoothly slips out of her skirt, lets it fall to the floor, runs a tapered fingernail along the angular contours of his jawline, and purrs, almost a whisper, deliberately teasing, “What if I didn’t let you touch, though? Because, I mean…I’m just too…hot.”

Cerberus chuckles quietly, sardonically. “Harsh terms, love.” He accedes with a wave of his hand, the atmosphere settles to a more generally comfortable ambient heat, and he gives his nose another firm wipe before vaporising the tissue, making a small but unmissable sound of irritation as he does so.

“And how long has this been going on for?” Kia lightly traces a finger down the length of her bonded’s nose, gives him a brief yet knowing look as he takes a sharp breath in response, his expression crumbling to a mixture of mildly panicked betrayal and helplessness.

Cerberus turns from her rapidly, not enough time to claim a new tissue, and brings his elbow to his face in surrender. “Huh-AHSSCHuu! *SNF!*” Crushing a firm hand against his nose, he frowns at Kia in gentle reprimand, and shakes his head wryly. “Gods, love.” He sniffles again, wetly and repeatedly. “Pardon me.”

“Aw, sorry, sweetheart,” Kia, not particularly sorry at all, confirms a suspected sensitivity notably greater than usual and offers him a softsmiled semblance of penitence regardless. “Bless you.” She passes him a tissue, pauses a moment as he blows his nose, touches a hand to his forearm. “Seriously, though, hon – how are you doing?”

He sighs. “Ah, darkling, I’m alright.” Well aware she was unlikely to accept that, he continues without leaving her enough time to interject. “Mostly. It’s just that it’s all been…rather nonstop of late.” He sniffles strongly and wipes his nose again, which seems increasingly determined to not give him a moment’s peace. “Gods. Excuse me.” Clearing his throat, he refocuses. “This ridiculous weather we’ve been having doesn’t agree with me terribly well.” Another sniffle brings timely emphasis to his words, and he notes the dubious look in Kia’s eyes. “It’s just a slight chill, love. It’ll pass soon enough. And anyway—” He pushes the chair back from the desk, stands, curls a strong arm around Kia’s waist, toys with the strap of her chemise, his voice deep velvet and desire. "—my irresistible supervisor seems to believe I ought to take a break…and that is not a directive I can refuse.”

He tilts her head towards him, pulls her close, kisses her with an urgency his beloved cannot miss, an urgency she fully reciprocates. They’ve not been apart for this long since they first became a couple, almost three years ago now, and it feels like an aeon, it feels volcanic.

“Mmm…” Kia, still seated on the desk, wraps her legs around him and returns his kiss with rich promise, weaving a hand through his hair. :Babe, want to move this to th…:

Cerberus completes the teleport to the bedroom before Kia completes her Mindsend, and she laughs upon their arrival. “I’ll take that as a…” she begins but she’s interrupted again, Cerberus raising a finger and managing a hurried, breathless “Sorry, love, I’m g…” and turns from her mere seconds before he’s possessed by unstoppable need.

“Huh-HH… Huh-hhAHTSSCHhuu!”

Heavy, absolute, and not enough; he gives a brief shake of his head, blinks rapidly, moves to claim several tissues from the box on the bedside table in expectant preparation, inhaling deeply, entirely surrendered, and after a tremulous pause, on the edge, he gives over and sneezes again, powerful, ferocious.

“AAHHTSSCHHUU!” He sniffles fiercely and rubs his nose with determination, repeatedly, in an all-too-brief recovery he already knows is only temporary, his breath still catching and brow creased, and takes another series of tissues, his eyes watering. “Hhh… hh-TSSCHH-uu!”

Kia’s breath catches also, though differently. “Oh, bless y…”

“HAHH-TSSCHUU! Uhh…” The demanding strength behind the sneezes taking a level of energy he really doesn’t have, a soft groan escapes him as he pushes newly disordered ebony chaos from his eyes and glances upwards in silent entreaty but no respite is granted; he inhales in fragmented and escalating anticipatory need for release; desperate, encouraging. “Hh… h-hh… Hh-HH!” He buries his face in the tissues once more. “Huh-AAHTSSCHHuu!! Ah, gods.”

The last sneeze comes followed by an unexpected, searing sharp sting in the back of his throat and a wave of foggy disorientation, and his gaze snaps across to Kia in alarm, his previous belief that this was just a passing overreaction to exposure and stress categorically destroyed in one stark moment of recognition. “Fuck,” he mutters, scrubbing first the tissues then a rough hand under his nose. He touches a hand to his throat and swallows with difficulty. Fuck. “Pardon me. *SNFF!*”

She remembers to exhale. “Bless you, honey.”

Cerberus sighs heavily, murmurs, “Thanks, love,” and presses his index finger under his nose in a willfully firm refutation of any more of this nonsense, though he isn’t exactly full of confidence in that regard, and sniffles again. “Excuse me.” He blows his nose, another series of sniffles ensuing in short order, and takes a further few moments to gather himself before eventually looking over to his bonded, somewhat chagrined. He clears his throat. “I, um…think there’s a chance I may have lied to you about being alright.” The congestion now dulling his consonants tells a similar tale.

“Mostly alright.” Kia gives Cerberus a gentle smile. “Thought you might have.” She arranges herself amongst the bedsheets and lightly pats the space beside her in invitation. “Aw, sweetheart,” she says, noting his expression of faint confusion that she’d have had reason to doubt him, “I know you didn’t deliberately lie to me. It’s not your fault you’re a hopeless optimist.”

She laughs softly as faint confusion now combines with a flash of indignance. “How am I…” he begins, and this time it’s Kia’s turn to interrupt.

“It’s alright, babe, I actually love that in you. You just never think you might, you know, fail.” Blowing him a kiss, she adds a Mindsent :Not that this needs to count as a fail:, beckoning him to her with crooked finger. “Come here,” she insists in a satin whisper, fluidly removing her chemise as she does so.

Cerberus, suddenly and thoroughly spectacularly reminded of just how long four days can feel, takes up Kia’s invitation to join her on the bed, though with a measure of forced reluctance that he thinks perhaps, in good conscience, he should…probably have. His will to obey that conscience, however, is far from assured, despite the returning itch that he can do even less about, and he turns quickly to stifle another sneeze against his forearm. “HXTchu! Uhh…” It’s not enough and he hurries another apology, internally curses the manifestly ridiculous timing of it all, inhales deeply and sneezes again.

“hh-AHH… Ah-TSSCHHhuu! Ah, gods, sorry. *SNFF!*”

“Bless you,” Kia murmurs, surface nonchalant, heartbeat wild, and moves to unbutton his shirt.

His resolve already verging on the nonexistent, Cerberus tries not to think about how very much he’s missed his beautiful bonded, how very much he just wants to immerse in her company right now, and makes what he knows is likely a last-ditch effort. “I don’t want to get you sick, love. I’m not sure if I can…”

“You certainly feel like you can.” Kia gives him a sultry, wicked grin.

Cerberus chuckles quietly, curls his fingers through her hair, sniffles lightly. “Alright, well, I’m not sure that I should.”

“Oh…no, I think you’re pretty sure.” Kia presses herself against him, kissing him with exquisite, slow intimacy, removing his belt with deft touch as she does so, and Cerberus gives up his last tenuous hold on resistance, returning her kiss with incendiary passion, undeniable need.

Kia hums a languid sound of delectation. :That’s more like it.: With a soft, indulgent purr, she moves astride him and wraps her arms around his neck, murmuring in a gently teasing undertone, “And I thought for a second there you were actually going to deny me.”

Cerberus pulls her closer again in strong, warm embrace, desire for her eclipsing all else, and claims her mouth with his own as he takes her smoothly, deeply, deliciously, Mindsending with a rising heat suffusing every word, :What kind of self-control do you think I have?:

---

#supernatural soap opera #cerberus #cerbia #my ocs #my writing #snzfic #cerberus and kia #sneeze fic #snz fic #just a bunch of stuff that happened #and as is often the case that stuff involved my hottest character sneezing #i am a simple creature #sorry not sorry

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courtlyharlequin · 4 years

Text

Amaranthine

Warning(s): female reader, mentions of anxiety, slow burn (I think), 17K word count, self-indulgence, Vivi’s Vil brain rot with no plot, not proofread

Summary: There was this monster inside your head. It went by the name of Anxiety. To you, it was, and always be, more so of a parasite you couldn’t live with, but you also couldn’t live without. It looked after you in the strangest of times. For the most part, it was a hindrance, cluttering your mind with dark and bitter thoughts, assuming the worst in people you’ve never met before, jumping to conclusions, and crying over the smallest things. It made you extremely aware of yourself and others, for better or for worse. That was Anxiety, the monster in your head. The exact moment in time when it nestled instead into your mind is unknown to this day, festering in the back of your mind. Then there was Vil Schoenheit, your lover, your soulmate, and most importantly, your pillar of support who cheered you on in his own way. He taught you how to tame Anxiety. But alas, a monster will always be a monster.

A/N: It’s my birthdayyyyyy~ so I made a very, very, very self-indulgent fic for myself. While I did write it as a reader insert, it pertains to my mental health, particularly my anxiety, and there may be aspects of it that you may not understand. That is okay. I wanted some feels with Vil on my birthday because I have a case of Malleus syndrome;;;

A/N²: To clear things up, the reader in this fic is female. She is not Yuu (I usually write the reader as Yuu and yes, I’m aware they can be two separate entities). She likes to scrapbook, bake, and wear lolita clothing. She also attends NRC though her dorm is left pretty open-ended. However, it might not make sense if you’re in Pomefiore. This might not work if your birthday is in March either. I’m sorry asdfghjkl;

Disclaimer: Please note that this is not a fanfic that romanticizes mental illnesses. A significant other cannot solve everything. They shouldn’t solve everything. They aren’t meant to fix you; they’re there to bring out the best in you and be by your side when you need them to be. By no means, is it their job to help your completely overcome your mental illnesses. It’s a common trope in fanfiction and gives off mixed signals to me. This self-indulgent fanfic of mine is not meant to give anyone false hope. It is simply a love story that I always wanted to experience. Think of it as my own anxiety story. The only thing real about this is some events like the presentation meltdown though my partner eventually turned into my middle school bully so I just replaced him with Vil because Vil>>>>>>

[ Present Day, Vil’s Bedroom ]

Fwip!

You flinched. You looked up. Vil had flicked your forehead. His eyes were filled with worry, brows creased and his lips strung in a frown.

“Fairest, is something on your mind?” he asked.

“No. Not at all.”

“Hold still for a minute. This lip tint is watery,” he said in a stern tone, tilting your chin upwards

He lined your lips in red and handed you a small mirror.

“Beautiful, my love.”

You stared at your expression. Vil was right. You were beautiful, all dolled up in this getup. You were prettier than usual, that’s for sure. However, the look isn’t for you or your hollow eyes. He snapped his fingers.

“Fairest,” he paused, sitting down on his bed, patting the space next to him, “Come here.”

You obliged.

“Now, talk to me. Don’t deny it. Something is on your mind. You’ve been zoning out all day. If you need a break just say so.”

“No, no, it’s not that. I was just thinking…”

“Thinking?”

“Yes. About the past and whatnot. Trivial things! No matter,” you dismissed, leaning onto his shoulder.

Vil crossed his legs, “How could I help you if you give me such a vague answer?”

Had he truly forgotten your special day, the only day you were willing to break out of your shell and be showered in compliments and praise without feeling like an alien? While you didn’t have a cake to share and you were certain that he wouldn’t want to eat it either, you expected he would remember the date as your lover of seven months now. So far, he only asked you to drop by his room for makeup practice as he just landed a part-time job as a makeup artist. Not that you minded of course. He made you feel beautiful, one of the many reasons you loved him.

“I don’t think it’s something you can help me with. I was thinking about middle school and—”

“Don’t waste your time with those fools.”

“I told you it was trivial.”

You nuzzled against his shoulders.

“It’s been hard lately, you know? I’ve been overthinking again. About silly things. Group projects, you know? Presentations too. Ah, there was this one person who told me to shut up because of a misunderstanding and everyone laughed and I felt— But you mustn’t hurt them!”

You clutched his arm. His posture had stiffened. He gave you a blank expression though his eyes told the whole story.

“I felt a little out of place. Things were going fine until they showed up. It’s not their fault, don’t worry. I was excited to talk to them, but it ended up going downhill. I felt like I was overstepping my boundaries. It was embarrassing,” you continued.

“I know you don’t like it when I say this but it’s not as bad as you think it is. Know that you made progress compared to your pot– first year self,” Vil said, squeeze your hand, “If you want help with your presentations, then I’m here for you— as always.”

Straightforward as always. He never tolerated things he deems piffling, but you were glad he didn’t pity you, not one bit.

“I’m sorry for bothering—”

He placed the tip of his index finger on your nose.

“What do we say instead of apologizing for something we cannot control?”

“T-Thank you.”

“Go on now.”

“...for listening to me.”

“My pleasure, Fairest.”

His finger shifted as he cupped your cheek with one hand, leaning in to kiss your forehead. He must’ve forgotten your birthday, but you mustn’t going to ruin the mood. You watched his back as he gathered his makeup brushes. Vil was a busy man though that was something you were used to as his lover.

[ Two Years Prior, Alchemy Classroom ]

“Are you just going to sit there while everyone picks their partners, little potato?”

You flinched at the sudden comment. Potato? You had a name. Did you do something to be labeled in such a way? Moreover, what was the Vil Schoenheit doing standing in front of your desk? You prayed for the conversation to be brief. Part of you also prayed for him to ask to be partners.

“What are you staring at? Answer.”

You shook your head. This was bad. You were staring at him for too long. While you were dying from embarrassment, you let your gaze linger for a little longer. He was gorgeous. You loved how his blonde hair transitioned into a pale lavender, complimenting his violet eyes, eye makeup, and fair complexion.

Vil snapped his fingers before your field of vision.

“I know you aren’t mute. Answer.”

“Probably…” you said.

“Hah? That won’t do, potato. I’ll be your partner then.”

“Pardon?”

“I said, ‘I’ll be your partner’. Now, move over. We’re in direct sunlight here and it won’t do any good for our skin if we sit there everyday for so long even if we are indoors.”

You nodded, sliding one seat over. He sat down next to you, arms and legs crossed. He seems mad, concerned with something, something else. His body language didn't match his facial expressions though he wasn’t hard to read.

“Why me?”

You bit your lip, cringing at your own inquiry.

“You seem responsible enough to be my partner for this project,” he said, propping his head on his elbow, turning to face the blackboard.

What did he mean by that? Sure, you were responsible, but were you worth noting of? You were decent, not the best but not the worse either. Failing a class meant coming the topic of conversation when a teacher asks you to stay after class for a brief checkup or tutoring sessions. Excelling in a class meant being called out on your exemplary work by teachers. Anxiety was not equipped for either circumstances therefore it tried to help you maintain your grades discreetly. But Vil noticed, indicating that you were overachieving. Perhaps you should purposefully miss a few questions on the next quiz. You got a perfect score last time. It wouldn’t hurt. However, you were partnered with Vil, someone who strived for perfection, someone who stood out against a crowd. The phrase goes “...like a sore thumb”, but Vil stood out like a well polished and manicured appendage. He was beautiful, so beautiful that one had to stop for a moment to admire his beauty.

That was Vil, your partner. You could feel heavy stares in your direction. They were directed at Vil, but you couldn’t help feeling nervous. You fiddled with the ends of your hair, fixating your eyes onto your textbook.

You flinched when Vil pushed your back lightly. You shot him a widened stare, opening your mouth to ask him why he touched you. He placed a finger on your lips.

“Bad posture isn’t good for you. Straighten up and pay attention.”

Heat rose to your face as you adjusted your posture.

[ Library ]

“Mind telling me what this is, potato?” Vil said, throwing a stack of papers onto the table.

Your shoulders tensed. You set your textbook down, avoiding eye contact.

“It’s our project.”

“No. It’s your project.”

“I wrote your name on it too so don’t worry about it. I don’t mind sharing the credit.”

“It’s not about the credit. It’s about the integrity. I dropped by Crewel’s office hours today with a question about this project and he told me that we had already turned it in. Fortunately for you, I’m good at improvising so we’re off the hook. I got our project back so we can work on it together. Scoot over so we can get started. I’m assuming you also did the slideshow, but I–”

As usual, you complied to his demands, allowing him to sit next to you. He was a bit too close for comfort. Your peers could manage with this proximity so you probably could too if you took deep breaths every now and then.

“We only have a day left, you know.”

“I know.”

“So why bother?”

Vil clicked his tongue, throwing his French braid over his shoulder as he slid the stool closer to the desk, “I bother because we’re a team.”

He paused, pondering, “I don’t like things being handed to me either.”

“That’s gold especially since this is coming from someone who’s always too busy to even reply to my texts,” you replied.

As soon as those words left your mouth, you bit your tongue. Was that too much? Should you have just listened to him? Kept quite? How will he react? Will he shame you on social media? Spread rumors? Tell Crewel?

“Listen here, potato. I work various part-time jobs and I run a club. I apologize for my poor time management, but I am here now. You, on the other hand, have only sent me one text pertaining to scheduling and this assignment during the three weeks we had to do it. We are both at fault, got that?”

“Yes,” you murmured, pulling out your laptop.

“Wonderful. You won’t have to rewrite everything. Just subtracting here and adding some words there for smoother transitions. It’ll sound better.”

You bit your lip. You were hoping that because you made the entire presentation, Vil would take up the speaking part out of guilt. Unfortunately for you, he was too self-righteous to give in. He can’t be persuaded either. His eyes were glued onto his own laptop, typing the evening away.

You’ll have to make due.

[ Presentation Day, Alchemy Classroom ]

From the brief time you’ve interacted with him, you knew that Vil was meant to be in the spotlight. He shined brightly, you could feel his charisma even from the back from the classroom. His performance was worthy of a standing ovation. You could never compete with him, let alone get through a single presentation. You had made it through all of your slides, but every time Vil spoke, you felt out of place. Your hands were shaking and you were on the brink of tears. Your peers must think you were incompetent. Their intense stares were unbearable. Did they pity you? Or Vil?

“It’s your turn,” Vil whispered.

You refused. His hand twitched as he grabbed your shoulders. This exchange was awkward enough yet your silent plea for help didn’t reach him.

“Go, potato.”

“No.”

He enunciated his words, “It’s. Your. Turn”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“You couldn’t possibly understand,” you cried.

Vil’s expression softened. He reached for you and you braced yourself yet it never came. He huffed and proceeded with the rest of the slides.

Ah… crying in the first semester as a first year in high school? Because of a presentation overwhelming you? Wonderful. You’ll never be able to live that down. Should you transfer to RSA then? No, that won’t do. They had mandatory choir classes or so you heard. Maybe an ordinary high school from your hometown then? But what if the headmaster disapproved?

You meekly walked up to Crewel, “I’m going to the infirmary.”

Your instructor only nodded with reluctance. Dissatisfaction was written across his face, but turning down a frantic student in tears for an unknown reason would be frowned upon. You heard him mutter something about the puppies this year being too sheltered. You gave Vil a second glance before heading out. He brushed you off and continued with the deliverable.

You were hopeless.

[ Infirmary ]

You pulled the covers closer to your face, hiding behind your hair. He was there. Why?

“(y/n),” he said.

You inched away from him. He finally called you by your name. Not by “potato”. Why were you a potato in the first place? Was it because you were beneath dirt? Were you that ugly to be beneath him?

“Are you just going to stay here forever? Curfew is soon. You should hurry and get to the mirror chamber.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same, potato.”

You were beneath him. The tears won’t stop falling. You were trembling.

“What did I do this time?” he sighed.

His voice was firm. He must’ve been irritated by today’s stunt.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Just leave me alone... please.”

The blanket shrouded your eyes. How pathetic. How could you let him of all people see you in such a miserable state? You’ve only seen his social media profile once or twice. Was he the type to post and gossip about others?

The mattress sank as Vil sat down. You hugged your sides.

“Fine then. Be a stubborn potato.”

“... You honestly did nothing wrong. I’m the problem. I can’t function as a human being. I can’t talk to people. I can’t- Well, I can but it’s...”

“Difficult?”

“Yeah.”

“What is there to be scared of? Follow that trick where you pretend everyone is potato.”

Is that where the potato shtick came from? How reassuring. His tone was unchanging in pitch. Was he trying to comfort or criticize you?

“It's more complicated than just being shy. It’s tiring. I don’t have a clear mind. I worry too much. I spend my days in fear. I don’t really know how to explain it.”

Vil pulled the covers off your small figure. You turned to him in a haze.

“I believe the term is ‘anxiety’, potato,” he said.

“Y-Yeah. Was it obvious? It probably was. Pretty silly now that I think about it, but anyways curfew–”

“Did you think I was stuck in some era where I don’t even acknowledge mental health? And would look down on you because you have anxiety? Please. Give me more credit than that. I’m not close-minded. You’re still a person and you have feelings. So you have anxiety. What of it? Certainly no less of a person.”

Oh how your heart fluttered.

“Get up. You can stay at the Pomefiore dorms tonight. I should get you cleaned up. I can’t stand the sight of those red and puffy eyes…. Cheer up a bit, will you?”

He held out his hand. Was this his way of apologizing? It wasn’t his fault you crumbled in the first place so why? What did he want? Did he want to help you out to boost his reputation?

“Why are you helping me?”

“You clearly need help don’t you?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Yes or no, potato.”

“I can’t burden you more than I have,” you shook your head.

“I talked it over with Crewel. You’re fine.”

“I suppose I’m not excused either.”

You shrugged off the blankets and took Vil’s hand.

“No, you are. He seemed to be under the impression that you were actually ill,” he said, tapping his finger against his cheek.

“Then–”

“Leave it for now. We can discuss this over tea. After we clean you up though.”

“Do you pity me?”

What if you sounded desperate? What if you sounded needy? Was that needy? Would he change his mind?

You clamped a hand over your mouth. Vil squinted at you as if he was trying to inspect a stain on a fine textile. He proceeded to grab your cheeks, squeezing them. He exercised his authority.

“I. Do. Not. Remember that. I don’t stoop that low. Good grief.”

“Then... what’s the price?” you cried.

“Excuse me?”

“Your time is valuable, isn’t it? You’re clearly busy. Why are you wasting your precious time on me? Shouldn’t you be compensated for the time I’ve wasted?”

“Yes, my time is valuable, but we can talk about compensation another time.”

He let his hand go, leaving you to gasp in sheer terror. So forceful… he scared you. What did he want from you?

“You coming, (y/n)?”

“Yeah.”

[ Pomefiore Dormitory, Vil’s Bedroom ]

“Hold still. After you cleanse your skin with this superfruit cleanser, you have to apply this fir extract to exfoliate. It’ll sting, and it’s even worse when you get it in your eye, so be careful. Try not to move too much, potato.”

Vil dabbed the cotton ball on your face meticulously. You felt like a celebrity with your own hair and makeup team.

“There. All done,” he beamed.

He spun the chair around so you faced the vanity mirror.

“Beautiful. One hundred points for you.”

You gripped the hem of his shirt. He shouldn’t say things like that and expect you not to combust. What’s more was that this attire was incredibly lewd. What if someone came in and got the wrong idea? What if they spread rumors? You were wearing nothing but his shirt after all. It was long enough to reach your knees, but it was his shirt regardless.

“What do you think, potato?”

“It’s nice, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“It’s not for me?”

“Well, I think it does,” he said.

You patted your cheeks. Soft. Oh dear, you were soft.

“Ah, ah. Don’t touch,” he scolded, prying your hands away.

Goodness you were hopeless.

“Eh? Stop crying. No! Don’t rub your eyes either. Let me get you some tissues.”

Annoyance was etched into his speech, but his actions betrayed his words. He never left your side; he wiped your tears with his own thumbs. You held his wrists tenderly. His touch was like a thousand butterfly kisses.

“I’m sorry. I just… Annoying… Nobody… I’m not.. You…”

He sighed, “Don’t apologize for your feelings. You’re not that annoying as you think. Instead, why don’t you try saying thank you?”

“Thank you?”

“Yes, something like ‘thank you for listening to me’. That shouldn’t be hard for you now, is it?”

“Thank you… for not being annoyed with me.”

Vil palmed his face, “Not that bad. We’ll work on it. Twenty points for you.”

You sniffled and broke out into a small fit of laughter. He smiled too, standing up straight. He towered over you. He was a giant. You watched his back as he approached his bed, fluffing up the pillows. His heels clicked and clacked against the flooring. He was still in his school uniform. When was he going to sleep? Didn’t he say he wanted you to stay here? People would really get the wrong idea now. You tugged at his sleeves. Vil turned to you, waiting for you to speak.

“I’ll be going now.”

He grabbed your wrist, “Stay.”

You pulled away from him.

“No, not like that. I’m not going to do anything to you, potato. You really have to stop associating me with other potatoes. I meant stay for some tea. Of course, if you really feel uncomfortable then you’re free to go, but at least let me walk you back.”

“I’ll stay,” you said.

“Wonderful. Give me a moment to fix the bedding. The tea should be ready by then.”

When did he prepare the tea? When you were bathing? When you were changing into his pajamas?

“Vil, if I do stay the night, where will I be sleeping?“

“We have one spare room left over since one student never showed up to the ceremony so you can sleep there.”

You sighed, shoulders at ease.

“Did you honestly think I would let you sleep here? No, potato, I need my beauty rest.”

“No, not at all.”

“You are terrible at lying.”

“I’m not dirty minded I promise!”

“Did I say you were?” he smirked.

Vil had a frisky side to him… how unexpected. Nevertheless, you were relieved. You had insomnia already. If you had to sleep next to Vil… you would never see the dawn again.

“Potato, your tea.”

You jumped.

“Careful! It’s hot and these pajamas are made of silk. I dare you to stain them,” Vil scolded.

You nodded. He handed you a tea cup.

“I was hoping to talk some things over with you, but it’s getting late. You can take this to the spare room down the hall and relax. Self-care time if you will. Here’s a bag for you to put your dirty clothes in. You can drop it off in the morning to the ghosts for laundry. When you get the chance to change, return the top to me. Capeesh?”

“Capeesh...” you mumbled, turning to the door, fumbling with the tea cup.

“(y/n),” he said.

“Yes?”

“Don’t disturb my beauty sleep.”

“Got it.”

“You didn’t let me finish, potato. You can disturb me if you need help with anything else regarding your anxiety. I won’t do things on your behalf, but I’m there to hold your hand. Just not during my beauty sleep, okay?”

“Okay…”

Vil was not lying when he said he wouldn’t treat you any less of a human. Even if there was a monster in your head, Vil treated you like he would anyone. Perhaps he wasn’t so bad. But how could he say such things with a straight face? It sounded like something out of a fairy tale.

No, no, (y/n). You mustn’t catch feelings for someone this quickly. If anything, you were in love with the idea of him, his kindness, how he helped you out and cared for you. But was it even kindness?

Even if these feelings weren’t spawned from the idea of loving him, Vil would never return them. He seemed to be the type to be into someone independent. Or at least someone who was not broken.

Mainly the former, it would seem. He didn’t pack your clothes even though he was the one who demanded that you strip, plunging you into a rose petal and lavender sprig bath. Admittedly, it was relaxing. He said something about lavender having a calming effect earlier. You smelt nice too.

Maybe for today, you could be comfortable in your own skin. Just this once. You smelt really nice.

[ Four Weeks Later, Alchemy Classroom ]

“Alright, puppies. We have another lab project. The details are in the packet. You are to concoct a potion using the ingredients we learned about this unit. Any potion is fine, but Amortentia is forbidden– as usual. This project will be due in two weeks. You will present your findings to the class in small groups. You can choose your partners. You were good puppies for the last few weeks so I’ll let you choose this time. Do not disappoint me,” Crewel said, cracking his whip.

You watched as the class swarmed into a chaotic mass. Students laughed and embraced one another. You scanned the crowd, looking for someone as unfortunate as you, someone without a partner.

“(y/n). Would you like to be partners?”

Oh. Vil. After all this time, you were baffled by the fact that he continued to interact with you after your meltdown weeks ago. What’s more is that he even followed you back on Magicam. He engaged in conversations with you, asking to check answers with you despite passing tests with flying colors just as you did. You never minded per se. Vil always had something to say. He wasn’t talkative, but he was captivating and civil with a hint of sarcasm. He had a lot to critique. Moreover, you two were from different worlds. Whenever he shared stories about his life, from modeling to troublesome classmates, you felt like a child with a new toy. You were immersed, zoned out of your surroundings, your focus on that one, single thing. In turn, you shared your own anecdotes, anxiety struggles and small victories— to which he celebrated with you through small, almost satirized, cheers and affirmations.

You were comfortable around him. Anxiety kept you from advancing your acquaintanceship to a friendship, but you were more than happy with sharing homework answers and making small talk. Vil most likely wanted to work with you because, as he said so before, you were reliable. Or was it responsible? Whatever the word was, you were useful to him. You were noticed in the best way possible. A twisted way to put it, but that’s simply how you felt.

Vil was not what Anxiety said he was and that was more than good enough for you.

“Sure,” you said.

“Wonderful,” he smiled.

You slid over as he took a seat next to you. Away from the sun, just as he liked it. You remembered your first encounter well.

“We’re presenting in small groups this time so you don’t have to worry that much about it,” he paused before continuing, “We can practice. When are you available?”

“Any time, really, I don’t have any clubs.. Or part-time jobs.”

“How does this Friday sound then? I’ll ask my manager to clear my schedule for that day.”

“You don’t have to clear your schedule. I can manage even if you come back late… Just don’t come to me the day before the deadline?”

Were you being too bold with this request?

“Friday then,” Vil said, flipping through the packet, “What type of potion do you want to make?”

“You can choose. I’m not really sure.”

“No, you are sure. You keep staring at that one page. I know you’ve read everything the moment it was handed to you. You certainly weren’t zoning out either.”

If there was anything worth noting about Vil over the short time that you’ve known him, it was that he was observant. Profoundly observant. Perhaps even more than you.

Vil clicked his tongue: “Spit it out, potato. I won’t judge you. I don’t have much of a preference either. We can compromise if we don’t agree.”

“Amortentia,” you winced.

“Now, that we can’t do,” he waved, “Didn’t you hear the professor say?”

“I did, but the structure of this potion is so intricate. I want to try.”

“Aphrodisiacs are prohibited. We can’t do it.”

“I know. I can dream though.”

“Do you have a boy in mind, potato?”

“It’s not like that,” you huffed.

If only he knew. You were head over heels for him– or rather the idea of him, someone who accepted you wholly without ever wanting to tame the monster inside your head. You weren’t sure if you loved Vil for who he was or what he did for you as a classmate. Do mere classmates have afternoon tea in each other’s dorms? Did they engage in small talk frequently?

Vil chuckled, “Whatever helps you sleep at night, potato.”

[ Friday, Library ]

“You’re late, (y/n),” Vil said, leaning against the door frame.

“Sorry.”

“I hope you weren’t planning on skipping out.”

“No, sir.”

“Sir? I’m not that old, you potato.”

You weren’t fond of the session already. While you enjoyed talking to Vil, his strict attitude was oftentimes a trigger for Anxiety. Vil made it rage, rattling against the cage that encasing your heart. It didn’t fancy that. Neither did you.

“Come sit,” he walked over to the desk.

His braid swayed back and forth. You followed him in suit, taking a seat. Vil reached for your shoulders and the small of your back. You yelped.

“Posture is the first step to confidence. If you shrink, you’ll portray your nervousness in the most obvious way possible. Feet flat on the ground and shoulders back.”

You felt exposed, flustered, but not to Vil’s touch. You felt vulnerable to a nonexistent crowd.

Vil stood up and took a seat before you, staring at you intently.

“Now, deep breath. Scan the crowd and focus on a point behind them, away from their eyes, but still in their direction. Remember to look around occasionally so it’s not obvious that you’re staring at the back of the room. You don’t have to make direct eye contact.”

You nodded sheepishly and obeyed. It wasn’t difficult. You could stare into his eyes forever. You hoped it wouldn’t be too awkward if you kept your gaze fixed on his.

“Shall we begin?”

[ Two Weeks Later, Alchemy Classroom ]

“Hold still, potato,” Vil hissed.

He held your jaw steadily as he applied a glossy red lip tint onto your lips. In a classroom. In public. How many people were staring at you two? What did they think? Did they think you were his plaything?

“I don’t see the point in dressing up.”

“Please. Lip tint and a few touch ups isn’t ‘dressing up’. Plus, you’ll feel more confident if you look confident. Own it, my friend.”

Friend? You were his friend? You could feel your cheeks getting rosy. At the same time, you felt a surge of adrenaline. Was it confidence? You were on cloud nine, feeling unstoppable. If he said so, then Vil would be your first friend at Night Raven College outside of your dorm.

But… what if he didn’t mean it?

No, no. he meant it. There was no need for Vil to lie. For him, lying was pointless. It was a waste of time; he preferred to get straight to the point even if it might be harsh on someone’s feelings. You’d learn to accept that his words come from honest intentions.

Crewel blew his whistle, signaling start time. Students flocked to their not-so-small groups. Vil had volunteered for the both of you to go first despite your protests, saying that it would be best to go first so you would not overthink and compare your presentation to others.

“I’m Vil Schoenheiit.”

He squeezed your thigh. The gesture was of chaste intentions, you were sure. Your leg was the only place he could touch in hindsight. Or so you assumed. Regardless, it set your insides on fire, but it made his presence known— as if to say “I’m here, don’t worry.”

Your breath hitched: “And I’m (y/n) (l/n).”

[ One Day Later, Vil’s Bedroom ]

“Potato, what are you doing here? It’s the weekend.”

You hugged your sides. He was sweating. You’ve never seen Vil in anything but his school uniform, Pomefiore’s dorm uniform, and pajamas. There he was… standing right before you in a stormy gray tank top. While he was wearing pajama bottoms, the look was foreign to you. What should you say? You never knew he worked out. Were those weights heavy? Is he training for a certain role?

“I have something for you: a small thank you gift for yesterday,” you said, brushing past your thoughts.

“Oh? You don’t have to thank me. I wanted a good grade too so don’t think too highly of me… Simply improving is enough.”

You shook your head, “I insist. I want to do something for you too. I would feel guilty if it were any other way.”

Vil rested his palm on your head. You looked up at him attentively. The height difference between the both of you was immense. Compared to Vil, you were a dwarf.

“What is it that you want to show me?” he sighed.

You jumped with excitement, handing him a small container. He took them.

“What’s this?”

“Open them.”

“Alright, alright. Such a demanding potato…”

You watched him gingerly pop off the lid to reveal your culinary creation. Your eyes wandered back to his violet orbs.

“Potato, what is this?”

Did he honestly not know or did he think you were jesting?

“They’re oatmeal raisin cookies. I made them myself. It’s all organic ingredients, I promise. There’s apples in it too. I know you watch your diet, but I think it would be okay if you ate just one. At least?”

You scratched the back of your neck while Vil stared at them in bewilderment.

“Just one.”

“Yay~”

His furrowed eyebrows softened as he took a bite, “Not bad, potato.”

He placed it back in the container and closed the lid. Your heart sank. Was it just for show? Were they bad?

“Don’t take it personally. They are delicious. I don’t eat too many sweets though. I… also have a meeting with my producers after this. So perhaps later, my dear.”

“Oh alright.”

[ Someday– Your Birthday, Alchemy Classroom ]

You weren’t sure what kind of strings were pulled or if this class had free seating, but Vil gradually sat closer and closer to you. Now, his seat was next to you. He said that it was because he could not stand the other potatoes near his old seat and that he’d much rather sit with a friend who helped him stay on task– which in turn made your heart melt.

Answers weren’t the only things you two shared now. You often brought snacks to share with him. You brought healthy ones like apple crisps and celery sticks for accommodate the diet of your classmate. He only consumed workout smoothies in the morning. He would drink one before he went for a run with no post-workout smoothies to make up for the calories he burnt. For someone who claims to life a healthy lifestyle, Vil was oftentimes too busy to keep up with it. He rose when the sun kissed the tips of the hills. Granted, he could have risen earlier so he could consume his post-workout meal, but his work trails later in the night. Sleep was important to him. Between balancing his beauty sleep and fitness regime, he frequently came to Alchemy with his hair still wet from a morning shower, his eyes caked with concelaer, and an empty stomach.

The first time you offered him something to munch on and regain the calories burnt, he declined. But as these days became more frequent, Vil caved.

“Potato.”

He slumped against his desk– a rare sight from the Pomefiore student.

“You should stop pushing yourself,” you said, taking out a container.

He shook his head.

“A break would be nice once in a while, Vil.”

He rolled his eyes, slipping off his gloves to take off the lid. God, he was so stubborn. He was going to burn out one day.

“I don’t mind sharing food with you, but you should pace yourself. Take a day off”

He shook his head again. Why though? Did his schedule not allow him to? Vil worked late sometimes, but was it worth it?

“Potato.”

“Hm?”

“Do you have anything aside from these cookies?”

You inhaled sharply, closing the lid and shoving it in your bag. They might have crumbled, but you didn’t want him to know.

“Unfortunately, no sorry,” you sighed, clutching your bag’s handle.

“Fine then. I’ll just eat one then.”

“No.”

“Why not? “

“It’s not healthy for you.”

Vil lunged for your bag. His stomach growled. You did your best to stifle a giggle.

“You just said it was alright to take a break,” he said.

“You can’t have them.”

“How come?”

“They’re for me…” you whispered.

“Come again?”

“These are mine.”

He hummed, clearly not buying into your excuse. Perhaps excuse was not the right word because they were for you. They were self-indulgent treats that you made for yourself around this time of year. They were self-indulgent with a miserable origin.

At this point, he was gripping your wrist. Since when was VIl this forceful? He never crossed any boundaries. He was never nosy. Was he concerned? Or did the madness of hunger consume him?

He was akin to a stray kitten. You were the one to offer him food in the first place. There were two cookies. One wouldn’t hurt.

“Fine. Just one. Please don’t eat the other though. I’d like to eat one on my birthday.”

“Birthday? Potat–”

You put your hand over his mouth on impulse. He was going to throw a fit with you for placing your “breeding ground for bacteria” on his face, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

“Don’t tell anyone,” you pleaded, “But, yes, today is my birthday.”

Crewel’s footsteps echoed through the room, “Silence, puppies!”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Vil hissed under his breath.

“I’m not big on birthdays. The attention is too much– plus, rarely anyone celebrates with me.”

“You honestly remind me of that one miserable Diasomnia first year from the class next door.”

The conversation was left at that.

[ A Few Hours Later, Courtyard ]

“Potato.”

“Vil?”

Where did he come from? How did he find you? Class had ended a few minutes ago. What’s more is that you only saw him every other day due to the Alchemy schedules. It was the only class you had with him. You never saw him outside of class, aside from rare encounters in the cafeteria. You ate in the library to avoid people so that was partly your fault too.

“Come with me.”

“Pardon?”

“I won’t take no for an answer. You are the birthday girl, after all.”

He struck his signature pose, one hand on his hip and the other pointed, barely touching his cheek. When did he develop this again?

Wait. What did he just say?

[ Pomefiore Dormitory, Vil’s Bedroom ]

“Here. This is an anxiety journal. Think of it as a diary to write your thoughts down in case you don’t have anyone to talk to”

“Vil, I can't take this,” you said, pushing the notebook away.

“I insist.”

“Still…”

“You said you didn’t celebrate. And that others didn’t celebrate either, no?”

“Yes…”

“If you don’t put yourself out there and let people know, then how are others going to celebrate? And then you go mope around and eat cookies all by yourself in the library with the ghosts?”

Was he watching you? You were sure that there was no one there when the ghosts sang you happy birthday.

“I never said I was moping. I don’t care if I’m all alone. I don’t mind at all. I’m perfectly okay with that. I don’t need to be acknowledged or receive any gifts of pity so please just leave it at that…. I appreciate the gesture though.”

He leered. You took a step back. Was he angry? Why? This doesn’t concernto him. Why was he getting angry?

“I care. So take it.”

You caved, taking the journal. It was similar to the Pomefiore dorm leader’s grimoire: leather bound, decorated in gold decals in floral patterns and peacock feathers. It was pretty. You were a fool. A sensitive and broken fool. You were crying over a notebook, a gift put together at the last minute with tender loving care by a classmate you barely knew. It had been a long time since you felt this happy, this acknowledged.

Vil grimaced, “Oh stop crying already. I told you that I was here for you.”

He embraced you. It was awkward, but wholesome. You never hugged him before. He was warm. Perhaps a little bony for it to be of any comfort, but that was most likely due to the position you two were him. His head pats were stiff. It was ill at ease, but endearing.

Vil was your friend. Though not the closest, you treasured his actions. You weren’t sure how he put up with you. Or why even, but all you were concerned in at this moment was that he cared. It would be lovely to not assume the worst in people for once.

[ Present Day, Vil’s Bedroom ]

What would Vil surprise with you this year? He hasn’t mentioned anything yet.

The makeover was nice, but you weren’t big on makeovers. Did you get to keep this dress? It was embellished with lace and frills– fancy. It was white, pink and floral like the Heartslabyul croquet court. You felt pretty albeit out of your own skin. Vil hummed a soft song whilst cleaning his makeup brushes.

Would that be all? It was your first birthday as a couple. Were you ungrateful if you asked if there was anything else? His schedule was tight. What would he say if you mentioned that today was your birthday? What would he say if you asked if he had forgotten? Would you sound narcissistic?

Would he say the same thing he said to you when you were second years?

[ One Year Ago, Someday– Your Birthday, Hallway ]

“Vil!”

You were so excited to see him again. You couldn’t stop yourself from running up to him.

“(y/n).”

“I haven’t seen you in forever. How are you? Congratulations. It’s a bit late though. How’s being Pomefiore’s new dorm leader treating you?”

He brushed his hair off his shoulders. Ah... a new hairstyle. He was wearing the barette you made for his birthday. You missed the French braid, but you felt that he was more relaxed when he let his hair down (literally).

“Rook. Guide the baby potatoes back to our dorm. Give us a moment,” Vil said to the person he was walking with.

Rook, you assumed. He was bizarre with his exaggerated features and hat. You were certain that the accessory violated campus dress codes. Needless to say, he was beautiful in his own way– just like any Pomefiore student.

“Oui, Roi du Poison. I shall leave you with ta chérie~” he breathed, prancing away with the first years.

“Ta what now?”

“Don’t mind him,” Vil said, “I am doing well, thank you, (y/n).”

No “potato” this time? Not even once? You hadn’t seen him since your second year started, only keeping up with his life through Magicam and story replies. Sometimes, he messaged you to check up on you or ask to compare answers for Alchemy and Potions. You packed snacks for him though that routine eventually ceased as Vil began taking better care of himself, opting only to run when he had the time.

You missed those days, but his well being was more important than your own selfish feelings. You had grown fond of that nickname since he used it so often. It was a term of endearment. It saddened you that he called others potatoes as well.

“Happy birthday by the way,” Vil said.

“Oh! You remember?”

“There you go again. I don’t have the memory of a goldfish– of course I remember. Though I don’t have a gift for you this time around.”

Did you offend him? Did you sound needy? You weren’t asking for any presents. Did it come off that way?

“I don’t need anything so it’s fine.”

Or rather, you didn't expect anything.

“Good grief. It’s your birthday. Chin up. Have the attention on yourself for one day. It’s your day after all. Anyhow,I would love to chit chat more, but my schedule is tight. I cannot dilly dal–”

You reached for his hand, “W-Would you like to hang out at a café sometime then?”

You cut him off. Was that too abrupt? Rude? Uncalled for? You should have let him leave even if you did miss being around him, being friends with him.

“Huh?”

“You don’t have to. I was just thinking that maybe we could spend some time together and catch up. We haven’t seen each other in person too much. I’m not comfortable with too much attention either so yours is more than enough.”

God, what were you saying? That was cringe-worthy. You prayed that he would decline your impulsive proposal.

“I don’t see why not. Very well then, (y/n). Text me the details so I can adjust my schedule accordingly.”

Wait. He agreed? Was he pitying you? No, no. Stop doubting him. Vil was your friend. He must’ve missed being around you too.

[ One Month Later, Cafe Rosé ]

When he said he was busy, he meant it. A month had passed since your birthday and just now were you able to meet up.

You sat in the café idly. He watched you consume your third plate of strawberry shortcake. You glanced at him then at your growing pile of dishes. He squinted. Should you stop?

“Don’t.”

Did he read your mind?

“No, I’m not a mind reader.”

“But you did it again.”

“Your expressions are easy to read. Do yourself a favor and don’t feel bad if you enjoy something and I don’t. Someone who makes you feel bad for getting excited about something– something harmless, something you enjoy, is the worst kind of person. Enjoy your cake, birthday girl. Don’t let me, or anyone for that matter, stop you.”

Vil sipped his hand-pressed superfruit smoothie vehemently.

That was oddly inspiring despite having relevance to your self-esteem and cake. Funnily enough, you did feel better about yourself.

“Excuse me? May I get three more slices of this cake? And another teapot, please?” you called out to a server impulsively.

What on earth were you doing? Was that rude? Did she find you demanding?

“Anything else?”

“That’ll be all for now.”

You turned from the waitress, bringing your attention back to Vil. You cocked your head to the side: “What?”

“Consume cake in moderation, you potato.”

There it was. You’ve been waiting all semester to be called a potato. Pomefiore first years have expressed a strong dislike for the nickname. You, on the other hand, treasured it. Time and memories were built into that nickname.

“It’s fine. I’m paying anyway so don’t worry.”

“You are not paying on your birthday.”

“It’s not my birthday though.”

“We’re here for a belated celebration.”

“So an unbirthday?”

“No, no. Don’t bring the Queen of Hearts’s rules and gimmicks into this,” Vil waved his hand.

He set his smoothie down, The ice shifted, echoing throughout the café.

“I want to pay. I wanted to go here in the first place.”

“Think of this as my belated birthday present for you, atonement for not getting you anything or talking as much we’d like.”

“Vil, I don’t require anything from you. You’re busy. You don’t have to talk to me everyday. I think I would combust if you did. My social battery would drain.”

“That’s reassuring.”

The waitress cleared her throat. Vil nodded, sliding his glass to the further end of the table. She placed the cake slices in a neat triangle before setting the teapot down in the center. Then she followed up with the teacups–one for you, one for Vil. He raised an eyebrow at you. Your server gave a polite bow and dismissed herself.

“Eat one slice. Then I’ll let you pay,” you beamed, sliding him the plate.

He glared at the confection, “Alright.”

[ March, Pomefiore Dormitory Hallway ]

“Bonjour, bonjour! What brings you to our humble dorm?”

Rook was his name right?

“Hello, Rook. I was hoping–”

He scared the living daylight out of you. Where did he come from? Why was nobody else around? You spun your heel and scanned the hall. It was empty.

“Echanté, mademoiselle! Let me guess!”

You yelped, falling backwards. Where did he come from? He was behind you a moment ago. His eyes widened as he lunged for you, hooking his arm around your waist, catching you before you made contact with the ground.

“Careful, careful, little fawn,” he chuckled.

Fawn?

He set you straight then pointed at you. His gloved index finger barely touched the bridge of your nose. This man, Rook, was sending your nerves in a downward spiral.

He smiled at you, resuming like nothing ever happened: “Let me guess– you’re looking for your darling Roi du Poison?”

“Darling… Roi du Poison? Who? Vil?”

“Oui.”

“No, he’s not.. we’re not. We’re just friends. I’m looking for him though bec–”

“Are you here for compensation?”

Rook set Anxiety loose. With a few words, he sent shivers down your spine. Compensation. Would your friendship end the moment you fulfilled his request? It had always been in the back of your mind. The thought of Vil using you to make him feel better about himself shatters you into a million pieces. The thought of owing Vil something for helping you, for being your friend, was heart-wrenching. Was it pity after all this time? Was it so wrong to want to hang out at yet another café? You looked forward to those every month– ever since your unbirthday date. Was your relationship that superficial?

No, it wasn’t a date. You wanted it to be, but it was not a date. You never quite shook off those romantic feelings you felt when you saw a different side to him. Beneath the surface of the poised, strict and sometimes narcissistic prefect, Vil was extremely hard working, passionate, and observant. He was the greatest friend you could ever ask for. You can’t say that he was your best friend, but he was close. If he didn’t feel the same, then that was okay with you. You weren’t even sure if it was love. You’ve had this debate with Anxiety before. It kept telling you that you were in love with the idea of him fixing you. That was not love.

You shook your head. Vil genuinely was your friend. If those feelings were not returned, then you would still be friends. He told you time and time again that you should never feel sorry for the way you feel. If so, then would it be alright to tell him one day? And feel terrible about it later?

“He’s here, isn’t he?” you asked.

“Oui~”

“Rook, (y/n),” a voice from the end of the half coughed.

Pomefiore’s vice dorm leader crossed his arms and gave you a smug smile. Vil. He was decked out in a trench coat and a black turtleneck. Stylish as always, but his hoarse voice told a different story. You rushed to Vil’s side.

“Vil, are you alright?,” you tugged his sleeves, “Your eyes are so puffy. Have you been crying? You’re burning up too. You should rest. Go back to bed this instant. Our café rendezvous can wait.”

He staggered: “No. I want to go with you. I finally have the time.. to see you… I have to make it count...”

“No, Vil. You have a fever. You need to rest,” you said, sliding his arm over your shoulders, ready to haul him back to his quarters.

Rook hummed a bird’s song.

“Would you mind helping?”

The height difference between you and Vil was awkward. His legs are dragged across the floor in a languid manner. One could imagine how uncomfortable that was.

“Non non, little fawn! My hands are dirty. Roi du Poison wouldn’t allow me to taint his beauty with such bacteria. Désolé!”

“Can you at least get the door then?”

“Will do, milady,” he bowed before complying to your request.

He held the door for you as you dragged Vil to his bed. You gasped as Vil’s limbs tighten around your neck.

“Would you mind getting the sheets too? Pull them out so I can tuck him in?”

Rook hummed in response. You plopped Vil onto the mattress. Your companion’s eyes widened, hands thrown in the air.

“Mademoiselle! Careful! Roi du Poison is fragile like a flower’s first bloom.”

“He’ll be fine don’t worry. Now if you could–”

Where did he go? You blinked for one minute and the vice prefect was gone. You shook your head in dismay, turning to Vil and tucked him in bed. He looked so peaceful. His eyes were so distraught and dull before. Did he overwork himself to the point of tears? His room was a mess– shreds of fabric and crumpled balls of paper were discarded on the floor. You could hear his breathing as you made way to his desk.

What’s this? A script? And a sewing machine? What was he making? His sketches were stunning. Was this a side project of his? Was he too busy with films to continue with it? But why were his eyes so puffy?

Whatever the case was, it wasn’t your place to pry. Your fingers trailed off over the sketchbook as you made your way to his bathroom. You didn’t know where he kept the medicine or what kind he used, but it was worth a try to look around.

You opened the cabinet and your face fell. At a glance, he didn’t have anything aside from comesetics. There were a few bottles of potions, but you couldn’t make out the labels. It was best not to guess and check. The least you could do was place a wet on his head to cool down the fever. You peered over the bathroom’s door frame.

He wouldn’t mind. He was breathing heavily. You’ll face the consequences later if it violated his beauty regime. Hurriedly, you grabbed a small towel off the shelf, rinsing it in cold water in the sink. You squeezed off the excess and rushed to Vil, cursing at intervals where the water dripped onto whatever expensive material the flooring was made of. Was it expensive? You couldn’t tell. You placed it on his head gingerly.

Before you could stop yourself, you leaned down and kissed his cheek.

Holy… what did you just do? You were taking advantage of him when he was out cold. If he was awake what would he say? Why did you do that? Why did that make your heart flutter?

“F-Feel better, Vil. I’ll be going now. Tell me when you wake up,” you sighed, patting your cheeks down.

You were a fool for initiating such an intimate act while someone was sleeping. You were also talking to said someone as if they were listening. It was best to excuse yourself now. Though maybe a little note would be helpful for when he wakes up. Your sleeves dipped. Your eyes went to the source of motion: Vil.

“Fairest… can you stay?”

You were at a loss for words. Vil called you “Fairest”– as if your other nickname didn’t exist. His face was flushed from the heat and his eyes were red and teary. What to do? What to do? What to do?

Vil tugged at your sleeves and pulled you onto the bed. Your mind went blank. You were on top of him, preventing yourself from crushing him with your weight, hands pinned on each side of his head.

“V-Vil?”

He pulled you onto him, then turned to the side, causing you to face each other. The blankets were ruffled, wrapping you two into a contorted position. The towel slipped off his face. You scrambled out of bed. Vil lunged for you, pulling you back in.

“I said stay,” he pouted.

“I know, I was just getting out of bed to get back in. Wait that doesn’t make sense?”

“It does,” he said, lifting the sheets so you could climb in,

You yelped as he pulled you into his chest, “Vil? What are you doing?”

“I wanted to see you today.”

“I’m here.”

“I wanted to go on another date with you.”

Date? Does he think it was a date too? Every single one? Great Seven, have mercy…

“You should rest. We can hang out here if you want.”

Your hold on his waist tightened. You inhaled the faint scent of his cologne. Perhaps to him, this was a fever dream. Stil, all love takes patience– if what you both felt was love, that is.

“Thank you for staying , (y/n).”

“...Do you want to talk about it? Usually you’re the one listening to me, but I’m here for you too. ”

Vil buried his head into your shoulders, “Nothing much. Just overworked. Stress came to me in the form of sickness, unfortunately. How inconvenient.”

He clicked his tongue while you giggled. Even if bedridden, Vil’s mind was as proactive as ever.

“Were you crying?”

“...”

“You don’t have to answer.”

How do you comfort someone? You’ve always been the one comforted, especially from Vil. Were you gaining more from the relationship than Vil did? You wanted him to cheer up though...

“No, no. It’s fine. It’s better to get it off my chest while you’re still here.”

What did he mean by that? You weren’t leaving. Why would you? How could you?

“Do you think I’m more than my appearance?”

He was shaking. Vil was shaking. What could have possibly happened from the last time you saw him? Was he alright?

“Why do you want my opinion? We both know you’re more than a pretty face.”

“Answer the question.”

“Alright, alright. I do think you have a pretty face. You’re gorgeous, very handsome… but you’re also hardworking, diligent, strong-willed, driven, intelligent, observant and more words that I can’t think of to describe how I feel about you. Oh and a great alchemist and friend I might add. Vil, you’re pretty. You’re beautiful. Inside and out.”

Your heart hurt. Calling him your friend didn’t sit right with you. He threw his head back in a fit of laughter.

“Did I ramble too much?”

“No, not at all. I feel much better so thank you.”

“I’m glad you’re feeling better then. Whatever happened, I hope you know that it doesn’t define you. If you feel like it does, then remember that I’m your biggest fan.”

Ah, too cheesy. You’ve gotten too comfortable around Vil to think about Anxiety or your verbal filter. When you were with him, words flowed as freely as time.

“I’ll… keep that in mind.”

He didn’t say anything much about it. Was that not weird for him? Did you offer the solace he was looking for? He merely pulled away from your embrace. You thanked the heavens that his eyes were closed. If he made eye contact with you while you two were still sharing the same bed, you might as well ascend to the afterlife.

“Why do you ask though?”

“Oh I just had a miserable case of self-doubt is all. My manager kept taking roles that type-casted me as beautiful as the main character. I know I’m worth more than my looks- I want to be more than my looks- but so far the industry has told me otherwise… but thank you, (y/n).”

He stayed like that for a while, inhaling and exhaling softly. Was he sleeping? How much time had passed?

“Vil. I have a question for you. You don’t have to answer if you’re not up to it. I know you have a lot on your mind right...” you said, breaking the silence.

“Shoot.”

“Will I be able to see you again after I compensate for the time I’ve wasted?”

“You don’t waste time. You don’t have to compensate for anything. I’m glad you’re here with me. If anything, I wasted your time.”

“But you said that we could talk about compensation later. It’s been over a year, Vil,” you whimpered.

“What do you mean by compensation?” he asked firmly, opening his eyes.

You choked on your own words. This was a bad idea. It might even offend him. Would if offend him? You wanted to know.

“Our first presentation. My anxiety attack. The infirmary. You helped me. I asked why then you said there was a price and we could talk about it later. But that conversation never came up. Why is that? Why did you come to the infirmary that night? Why did you take me in? Why am I here? Why do you still talk to me?”

You couldn’t stop yourself from spewing all of the questions you had for these past months. You needed to know. You needed your heart to shatter.

He sighed, “Good grief, (y/n). You remember all of that still? It’s not as bad as you think.”

He was offended.

“Please don’t say that.”

He inhaled sharply.

“My apologies, potato. I didn’t mean it like that. But to answer your question, I felt guilty especially since I was the one who forced you onto the podium and made you redo the presentation because I couldn’t manage my first major acting role and my academics at the same time. I am sorry that you had to suffer the consequences.”

Vil turned onto his back. He brought his forearm to cover his eyes. Was he embarrassed? Ashamed? Did it hurt his pride?

“I didn’t think of it like that. I’m sorry that I ruined our project because I couldn’t manage to improvise.”

“You shouldn’t apologize for that.”

“You shouldn’t either. Your feelings are just as valid as mine. Even if you don’t have anxiety, you still can feel anxious and overwhelmed.”

“Touché.”

“And the compensation?”

“You needn’t worry about that. My time is valuable indeed but you’re not a waste of my time at all. You’re worthwhile.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you muttered.

“Hm?”

“What would have been the compensation?”

Vil turned to face you, rustling the sheets, “Are you that curious, Fairest?”

“F-Fairest?”

“Hm, yes it suits you now more than ever. Close your eyes for a moment. This should be quick.”

You obliged, closing your eyes. Vil wouldn’t do something terrible to you would he? He gripped your shoulders and pushed you flat on your back. You felt him shift his leg so he could straddle you. You instinctively cursed yourself in a ball.

“You can relax. I’m not going to hurt you.”

You loosened your muscles, trying hard not to burst into a fit of nervous laughter. You were scared.

“Fairest.”

“Yes?”

“How was your day?”

“Well, it was—mmmphhh!”

Vil had told you to keep your eyes closed, but how could you? Not when he was kissing you. You had waited for this moment. You fantasized about it, daydreaming, pining for him on the daily. You never saw it coming. Did he return your feelings? After all this time? You mewled as he bit your bottom lip. You were hot, feverish just like your beloved prefect. Was he alright? He was flushed, coughing as you pushed him away.

“My time has been compensated,” he smirked.

His expression quickly changed, “Hey! Why are you crying? Did I hurt you? That was too bold wasn’t it… Goodness (y/n)...”

You cupped his cheeks.

“Not at all. I’m just so happy that you feel the same.”

“Feel the same?”

You faltered. Was he toying with you? No, he wouldn’t…

“I-I like you a lot, you know. I don’t know of a time I didn’t. You’re so confident and I adore you for that. I love how you’re always there for me, how you always listen to me, and how you lean on me too. I love how you include me and see me no less than anyone else. I love you so much that my heart hurts,” you paused and moved your hands to clutch your chest, “But if it isn’t love then I suppose that’s fine too. I think I might be in love with the idea of you. It might be a little presumptuous here, spouting nonsense to you, but I don’t want to be just friends. Even if I am broken, I want to make you happy so please accept my feelings-!”

Cheesy. Too cheesy! You’re oversharing, (y/n). Stop. It. Death suddenly seemed like a viable option. You loved him so much that you must die. Yes, that was the only way.

Vil kissed you. This time, it was more of a peck.

“This whole time… you… I love you too, Fairest. I accept you and your feelings. Thank you for being so patient with me,” he kissed the trail of tears running down your cheeks, “You already make me so happy. I love your innocence, your beauty—inside and out as you would say. I admire your strength to help others despite being in a world of your own. I love your selflessness and... your adorable reactions to situations that make you anxious. Please, tug at my sleeves some more.”

You pouted at the last bit. Vil was observant. You’ve come to learn that the hard way. The trait never withered.

He continued: “I will be in your care from now on.”

Ah. He was crying. Smiling too. What a sappy mess of emotions you two were, sobbing in each other’s arms over a mutual confession.

He flicked your forehead, “And don’t you dare call yourself broken. You are not below me and I am not above you. We’re in this together. I love you and you love me and you better love yourself too. You hear me, potato?”

“Yes, but–”

“Did I stutter?”

You pressed your forehead against his, “Will do, Vil.”

He lowered his weight onto you, nuzzling into your neck. You wrapped your arms around his neck and combed through his champagne gold locks. You were sniffling. You were relieved that he loved you the way you loved him. You were relieved that you didn’t fall in love with potential. He loved you for you and you loved him the same. What if you weren’t good enough for? No, no, he said he felt the same. Stop overthinking, (y/n).

You were drained after all this worrying. Being plagued by thoughts assuming the worst about him and the worst case scenarios concerning your confession consumed your mind. There was not a single day where your head was clear.

You were exhausted. So, so, so tired. Tired of thinking. Tired of Anxiety. Sleep seemed nice right now especially with Vil laying on top of you. The monster inside your head had gone dormant. All there was the thought of Vil being by your side, loving you and Anxiety all the same.

Your consciousness faded.

[ April, Someday– Vil’s Birthday, Pomefiore Dormitory Hallway ]

“Vil. Vil!!!” you squealed, tackling your lover from behind.

He staggered on his toes, but recovered swiftly. He was tall. The stilettos made him taller. You were up to his shoulders, giggling, slipping under the long sleeves of the Pomefiore dorm uniform.

“Au revoir, Roi du Poison. Mademoiselle (y/n),” Rook chuckled and excused himself.

Vil gave Rook a look of disdain yet the vice prefect skipped along the halls, paying no mind to the daggers coming his way. Your beloved turned to you and smiled.

“Happy birthday~”

“You’re frisky today.”

“I’m excited.”

“I can see that. Thank you,” he pats your head.

“Are you busy?”

“I’m finishing up something. You’re welcome to wait in my room. Might I tell you that you look beautiful today? Red lipstick suits you.”

You followed him into his quarters, seating yourself on the bed, fiddling with the ends of your hair. He called you beautiful. You were giddy over something trivial. It was normal for one to call their significant other beautiful. In truth, he was the fairest, not you. You never minded. You loved watching him flourish in the spotlight.

You watched him undo his bun, letting his hair fall loose. The ends were curled, bouncing on his shoulders. He stepped into the bathroom to shed the dorm uniform off, opting for a black suit with faint floral patterns. Your eyes widened, coming to terms with the fact that he wore no dress shirt underneath the suit.

“You’re eighteen now, Vil,” you mused.

“What of it?”

“Oh nothing. I was just thinking.”

He hummed in response, “Is that so?”

“It feels like yesterday when we were both- what? Fifteen? Nevermind that. It’s silly. Would you like to see your gift now?”

“How does after the party sound?” he asked, lining his eyes with a thick eyeliner.

A thin smirk creeped up on his lips.

The look was similar to the standard ceremonial robes makeup. His silver chain-like earrings, leather choker and red heels threw off the professional look. Vil was striking. From what he told you, his producers had invited him to a party celebrating the release of a film he starred in. It was conveniently on his birthday. He spent the last few weeks convincing you to go with him.

You gave in, but the thought of attending a social gathering with people you had never met before worried you. Vil reassured you that he would remain by your side at all times. You agreed on the spot, putting on a brave face for his sake. He promised to spend time with you afterwards. Just you and him. He even agreed to eat cake.

“I’m okay with that.”

“Thank you. I know you’re excited, but I want to save all the birthday related things for after.”

He set his makeup down and handed you a container of gel, climbing onto the bed while you got on your knees. You wrapped your arms around his neck.

“You never let me do your hair.”

“Think of it as a reward for coming along with me.”

“I told you that you didn’t have to worry about that,” you said, letting go of your embrace and popping off the container’s lid.

“I’m thankful, but don’t push yourself for me.”

“I won’t, don’t worry. Besides, I want to. You’re going to be busy after today. I want to spend as much time as possible with you today.”

He smiled and helped you push his hair back. Dipping your fingers into the cool aquamarine substance, you combed through your lover’s hair, bringing his bangs back. When you finished, he turned around to kiss you. He caught you off guard, but you leaned into the kiss instantly. It wasn’t passionate nor was it chaste. It was somewhere in between as to not smear your lipstick. You reached for his hair to deepen it, but he grabbed your wrists. Right. You had forgotten.

“Later,” he whispered.

Your cheeks were dusted with a rosy tint. Later? As quickly as he pulled away from you, Vil slid off the bed. He passed by his mirror, patting down his suit and hair. Then, he extended his hand to you, “Shall we go?”

[ Land of Pyroxene, Venue’s Rose Gardens ]

Vil said it was a small social gathering. A small party. The amount of people was fair to his description, but the setting was overwhelming. It was sophisticated. There were fae servers and ice sculptures. You were surprised to learn that the soirée was held in his homeland. You were expecting a carriage yet he simply led you to the mirror chamber where the headmaster bid him farewell.

And here you are. You were in a rose garden differed from Heartslabyul’s greatly as the roses were as white as snow. They grew on pickets and hung over your heads like grape vines. It was scenic, ethereal, like something out of a fairytale. There was also a castle in the distance, adding to the regality of the venue.

“Vil! Oh thank goodness you’re here. I almost thought you were going to leave me to fend against all of these actors wanting to know more about you,” a stout woman said, scrambling towards him, “Oh? Is this your– ohhhhh–”

“Adella, this is (y/n). Fairest, this is Adella, my manager.”

Vil paused, cueing you for an introduction. He glanced at you.

“Chin up, dear,” he wrapped an arm around your waist, “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Breathe. Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Adella was Vil’s manager. Like he said, she’s nothing to be afraid of.

“P-Pleasure to meet you,” you extended your hand out.

She took it with a death grip. Sheer willpower prevented you from wincing.

“No, no, the pleasure is mine. Vil has told me so much about you. And my, he calls you ‘Fairest’ how adorable~”

“What has he told you?”

You heard his breath hitch. Vil’s arm slithered back to his side. Was that too much? You were curious, but what if that made him uncomfortable? You should apologize later.

“Nothing much. I didn’t even know what you looked like even! His pet name for you suits you so well. Oh! I do know that he frequently asks about his schedule because he said that he wants to spend time with the s–”

“That’s enough now, Adella,” Vil said, crossing his arms and putting his weight on one foot.

Shoot. He was displeased.

“Yes, yes, sorry. Shall we go greet your colleagues? You are free to mingle afterwards. I know that there was this one actor who was practically begging me to see you. You weren't here yet though so what could I do? Fufufu~”

“Are you coming, (y/n)?” Vil asked, turning his head to see you trailing behind.

You halted and pointed to the dessert table, “You can go on ahead.”

He nodded and followed his manager to the east side of the garden. You made your way to your own destination. While you wanted to go with Vil, meeting Adella set your nerves ablaze and drained all the social energy you had. Plus, you felt out of place when you stood next to Vil.

Compared to him, you could never pull off silver earrings. A pair of red heels simply looked better on him than they ever would on you. Then there was Adella who was also gorgeous with her messy bun and nude lipstick. She wasn’t a public figure yet you felt small around her presence. She exuded a lovable aura that drew people around her. If you had to meet more people who were meant for the spotlight, celebrities no less, you could never manage through the night. If you avoided strangers, you should be fine. There were cake pops amongst other treats at the table. You were going to have a ball of a time.

You plucked the confection off its stand, examining it thoroughly. It was as luxurious as the party’s decor. The dessert resembled the poison apple the Beautiful Queen from the stories you were told as a child. Gold foil acted as the poison while a red coating of candy melts acted as the skin of the apple. You bit the top off. It was a vanilla sponge cake. Odd for an extravagant event like this as you assumed the flavors would be bolder. Maybe it was the kind expensive vanilla. Were they all the same flavor? You plucked another one from the stand, biting into it. Oh this one was red velvet with a cream cheese filling. Were there other flavors?

“My, my, you sure like the cake pops, don’t you?” a voice cooed.

You turned your head to meet the owner of that sweet voice. He had hair as black as ebony and skin as white as snow. His eyes were a warm chocolate brown. He wore a yellow jumpsuit with a red ribbon which was complemented by a black beret. He strained a smile at you.

“You needn’t look at me like a deer in headlights. It’s okay I like cake pops too,” he laughed.

“Who are you?”

“Eh? You don’t know who I am?”

You shook your head. He blinked twice.

“I’m Neige LeBlanche, lead actor of the film. But, say, since you don’t know who I am, I’m assuming you’re someone’s plus one? You seem kind of young though...”

He took a cake pop from the stand, peeling off the gold foil.

“I’m Vil’s plus one.”

“Vil? I would have never guessed. I thought he said he wasn’t bringing someone. He didn’t seem like he wanted to either...” he mumbled something and paused, “As expected of my senior! Say, what are you to him?”

You pulled the ends of your hair, “I-I’m his girlfriend.”

“Is that so? He never mentioned having a girlfriend. I always thought he was going to end up–”

“We started dating a few weeks ago.”

“Oh my, that’s–”

“I have to go so if you’ll excuse me, Neige. It’s been nice meeting you. Congrats on the film,” you waved.

“No, no, the pleasure is mine, (y/n). I’m glad I got to meet Vil’s girlfriend. You were so sweet! I hope we can talk some more in the future! Oh I know–You should follow me on MagiCam! We can talk there,” he exclaimed, clasping his hands around yours.

He was so bubbly… You didn’t know how to handle him. Was this interaction not awkward to him at all? Your cheeks flushed as you excused yourself. You held your head down low and avoided eye contact with everyone you crossed paths with. Where you were headed to was a mystery, even to you. Anywhere was fine. Anywhere secluded. Anywhere without people, but close enough to trace your footsteps back to the rose gardens should anything arise.

Of course, that was the ideal scenario. In your situation, nothing was ideal per se. You were lost. You had trudged forward whilst looking at the ground, not getting a good look of your surroundings at all. It was hard to tell where you were. If you had known better, you would say that you were in a children’s book. The rose bushes towered high above your head and the castle was closer than it was before. In the center of it all was a gazebo adorned with intricate floral details. There was also a well to the side of the structure. You made your way to the gazebo and sat down on the bench, gazing upon the beauty of the raven sky. It glittered like a thousand fireflies.

You sighed, “The moon is beautiful tonight.”

[ Some Ungodly Hour, Venue’s Rose Garden ]

“Nghh…”

“You’re awake now?”

Vil? What was he doing here? The moon was high in the sky. It was late. You were resting your head on his lap. You sat upright in an abrupt motion.

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“Ruining the party by running off and falling asleep, wasting your time when you could have been talking to someone more important–”

Vil put a finger to your lips: “I was getting exhausted of people commenting on my looks anyway. You did worry me by running off though. To think that I had to ask Neige of all people too.”

That last part about Neige. Did he not like his co-star? He ran his hand through his hair while you adjusted yourself into a more comfortable position. You opted to lean your head on his shoulder. Vil reciprocated by placing his head on top of yours, nuzzling it.

“The party is still ongoing so don’t worry,” he said, “Though you could have told me where you were.”

You exhaled. Thank goodness. It would have been embarrassing if it ended.

“Sorry about that.”

“Was it that exhausting for you? I told you not to push yourself for my sake. It makes neither of us happy.”

“At first, no, I wasn’t. I was a bit nervous around your manager but then Neige threw me off for a bit–”

“Neige? What did he say to you?”

“Nothing. He just asked what I was to you and I wasn’t prepared for that.”

“We’re leaving.”

“What? Why?”

Your stomach growled. You looked down at the ground. Suddenly the grass below your feet was the most interesting thing in the world. He took your hand firmly. His grip was different. He held you as if he was about to lose you.

“I had talked to everyone I needed to talk to. I’m done for the day and so are you. I would like to celebrate my birthday now with my dearly beloved if she would please.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a demand. There was no room for apologies.

You rose from the bench, grimacing at the soreness and took his hand, following him to the mirror.

[ Midnight, Vil’s Bedroom ]

Was he mad? He said he wasn’t. But then why was he handling you so roughly? Vil pulled you into the bathroom. He turned the faucet on, drawing water into the bathtub. He grabbed a bottle of bubble bath product and rose petals. He emptied the contents and discarded the containers onto the cool tiles. They rattled and echoed. Vil turned to his cabinets, searching for something. Strands of his loosely gelled hair swayed back and forth as he sifted through his cosmetics. He muttered gibberish as he found makeup wipes. Pulling you towards him, he began to wipe the gunk off your face. His motions were rigid, frantic, like he was wiping at a stubborn speck on a mirror. He turned you around and undid your dress’s zipper. The process was akin to a kitten’s first yawn. Slow, drawling yet somehow winsome. The act was intimate. Vil manhandling you was a first. It spawned many mixed motions. The positives outweigh the negatives, but was he alright? His eyes were ready to cry. They were glossy to the rim. When the zipper reached the end of its path, he pushed you aside and tended to his own face with a new wipe.

“Strip and get into the tub,” he instructed.

Strip? That was off-putting, especially from him. He didn’t want to have birthday sex did he? Or would he leave when he was done with his makeup? It had to be the latter. You held your sides, preventing the dress from slipping down your shoulders. But what if he did? What if he wanted to let out his frustrations on you? Was that it? He said he was more worried than upset, but his actions betrayed his words. He was tense. He could burst at any moment. Vil, as he was now, was a time bomb, ticking away. You feared he might break.

Vil snapped his fingers before you. You flinched. As you regain focus into the real world, you come to the sight of your lover in the tub, hair wet and his body leaning against the edge. His clothes were hanging on the laundry hamper. You looked away, excusing yourself under your breath. A tug on the hem of your dress stopped you in your tracks. He had broken. His eyes were red and puffy though no tears trailed down his fair complexion. You knelt down beside the tub, tucking his hair behind his ear.

“Vil…”

“Could you stay?”

“In the tub?”

“Only if you want to.”

Why is it that he could always see through you? Was your discomfort obvious? No, no, he was merely attentive. Then again, you were equally observant to everyone, especially towards Vil. Your darling was an open book, an easy read– the merit being that his words rarely matched his actions. He was a novel full of metaphors, eloquent tones and arbitrary words. Underneath the complications, he was as simple as the next composition. He was as insecure as any other person, if not more. To read Vil Schoenheit, you mustn't analyze his speech. Words fail in this case. You had to look for the little things: his weight shifting on one leg, his shoulders tensing, his eyebrows furrowing for a brief moment, his shortness of breath, his eyes.

In this very moment in time, Vil needed you. He said there was no obligation, but the small frown on his lips told you otherwise. He was aware of your own boundaries, but at times like these, when he needed you most, your instinct to reach for him, to hold him, triumphed over your murky thoughts. There was mutual trust between you and Vil, two profoundly regardful people. One was observant because he had a keen eye for details and all things beautiful. The other was observant because she was wary of the opinions of others.

Vil turned away from you as you let your dress and undergarments fall to the ground. His eyes were closed when you climbed into the tub.

“You never have to push yourself for my sake, Fairest,” Vil said as he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled your back closer to his chest.

“I don’t mind if it’s for you. I will tell you when I can’t do something, I promise.”

“You better,” he sighed.

You turned around and cupped his cheeks, “What about you? Are you alright? You’ve been so stiff ever since we left.”

You scooped some soap suds onto his hair, lathering and combing though his silky locks while you waited for him to formulate the right words.

“Fairest, do you think I am more than my appearance?”

You stopped mid-caress and nodded. His looks were always a touchy subject. Vil had a severe case of type-casting, a situation where he was only casted for roles with “beautiful” as the main attribute of the character. At first, he was content with them, but as time went on, he felt defined by his appearance. His hard work was futile in an industry that valued beauty over effort. Comments such as “you only got to where you are now because of your face” was a stab in the heart for Vil. He often sought out you or Rook for comfort. It came to the point where Vil frequently declined callbacks.

He continued, “No matter how much I talked to others about my role in the film or attempted to make more connections to those in the industry, they would always comment on my ensemble first. Sometimes they comment on how I look and nothing more.”

“So you feel invalidated for your efforts?”

“Yes, I feel like none of the work I put into getting where I am now. I feel like all I had to do was look pretty and everything will be handed to me… just like Neige. I want to be as pretty as him. I want to be as popular as him. I want to be recognized for my skills and get casted for the best roles. Not superficial ones. I want… I want....”

You embraced him as he choked on his own words.

“This is hypocritical since it’s coming from me, but you should never compare yourself or your efforts or progress to anyone else. You are enough as you are, at your own pace.”

His arms engulfed you. He kissed you, intertwining his tongue with yours.

“I’m sorry,” Vil said, pulling away.

“I’m sorry too.”

“What did I tell you about saying sorry for something that’s out of your control?”

“But you’re apologizing too,” you laughed.

He snorted.

“But I do feel guilty for leaving you alone though. Maybe I could have said something for your sake. I feel even worse since it was your birthday.”

“We’re both pathetic in that regard.”

You scooped water onto Vil’s head. He did the same for you. You looked him into the eyes before averting your gaze. They were as intense as ever.

“I accept your apology though. In turn, you should accept mine.”

“I can’t. Sorry, Vil. You told me that I should never apologize for how I feel. Neither should you.”

“But I don’t have anxi–”

“You don’t have to have anxiety or anything to have a bad mental health day. You don’t have to have anxiety or anything to feel insecure or worthless. Those feelings are valid for anyone”

“You do have a point there,” Vil said as he tousled his hair.

“I have something for you. It may not be your birthday anymore,” you glanced at the clock, “but we haven’t slept yet so in my mind the day isn’t over yet.”

“What kind of logic is that?”

“Does it still feel like a ninth of April to you?”

“Yes, but technically it’s not.”

“Think of it as a feeling then,” you said and climbed out of the tub.

Vil assisted you in the process and got towels for you both. He languidly dried your hair. His touch was soft like a ghost’s embosom. You could barely feel his touch. Then, he waltzed over to his dresser and gave you one of his silk pajama tops. While he was getting dressed, you grabbed your gift for him, sitting on the edge of the mattress waiting for him.

Shortly after, he plopped down on the bed. The pillows bounced on impact. You held the gift bag over his chest. He looked up at you then at the bag. Sitting up, he opened it.

“Well?”

Your lover tore through the tissue paper, revealing a small box wrapped in brown wrapping paper, red ribbon and twine. His eyes sparkled like a child on Christmas Day.

He read the present tag aloud: “‘To my darling: Vil Schoenheit. Happy birthday.’”

He undid the bow, careful not to ruin the label. He found the edges of the wrapping paper and picked off the tape piece by piece and discarded it on the ground. It fell with grace. Vil lifted the lid of the box.

“A book?”

“Open it.”

Granted, you were more nervous than he was. Would he like it? Today was not his day. You hoped to make him feel better. If he didn’t like it in the slightest, you wouldn’t know how to feel. You wanted to see him smile. It was his birthday. He did not deserve to feel insecure because of soirée guests. He did not deserve to feel so small when he was your world. In fact, he deserved the world for all that he was. He worked too hard not to. His efforts deserved to be paid off. Perhaps not every day, but for his birthday, he should have. It was his day.

Vil obliged, turning to the title page.

“Eighteen things I love about you,” he read.

You leaned over his shoulder.

“Did you honestly write an essay about your love for me?”

“No,” you said, burying your head into the crook of his neck, “Just look.”

“I jest, Fairest.”

Vil licked his finger and turned the page.

“Ah. A scrapbook? Let’s see… ‘Number one: I love how—”

You put a hand over his mouth, “It’s embarrassing if you read it out loud.”

“I think it’s endearing. Besides, I live for your flushed face.”

You whined and he let out a laugh.

“I’ll spare you. I’ll only read the first one aloud.”

“That’s fair,” you mumbled.

“I hope it is. Anyhow… ‘Number one: I love how you carry yourself with utmost respect. I love how you know your worth. I love how angry you are when you are undermined– because you know you are worth more than what the current situation offers. Your confidence is contagious as it inspires me to acknowledge my own worth, to be bolder and seek opportunities that are on par to my own capabilities.’”

He paused.

“What?” you asked.

“I like how you included a photo of us as freshman potatoes,” he said, running his fingers over the image as if he was wiping away dust.

“You always were always like a star to me, ever since we first met. It was hard to start off this scrapbook without referencing that.”

You twirled the ends of your hair.

“I’m glad that you see me in such a way.”

His voice was so soft, inaudible even.

“Vil?”

No response. He flipped the book to page two. Then to page three and so forth. He was still. His chest did not rise and fall each breath. He didn’t even blink. He stopped at the last page. It read: “I love you. You as a whole– the person you present to the crowd and the person you present to a select few. I love you for every flaw and insecurity. I love and accept you in the same way you love and accept me and more. I promise to love you forevermore– no shunning, no judging, just staying by your side and watching you grow into a person I fall in love with more and more every day.”

He pushed you down onto the bed and kissed you, dropping the book onto the ground.

“V-Vil…”

A sense of déjà vu washed over you.

He was vulnerable. He knew, you knew. His lips were quivering and his eyes were glossy. But did he like it? You tried so hard not to say that you liked him because of his looks. That was a touchy subject for him. Did that last one come off as too cheesy? You were told you were quite sappy on top of having an ability with words but still…

“What are you doing writing a bunch of wedding vows, you sweet potato?” Vil muttered as he cuddled you.

“I didn’t mean for it to come off like that. We’re barely a month into this relationship so that’s out of the question. I’m pretty sure we’re still in our honeymoon phase too. But that’s how I feel right now. So… What if I wrote a bunch of wedding vows to you? What of it?”

You could feel heat rising to your cheeks. Hopefully, he didn’t find your sudden confession cringe-worthy.

“I never said it was bad... I feel the same.”

He let the last part of his sentence trail off into silence.

“Do you feel better now?”

Was that out of place? Did that kill the mood? What if you soured his mood?

“Much better, thank you. I appreciate it and… I love you too. I know I don’t say it a lot, but I think you know that already.”

“I do.”

He peppered your face with kisses. Some were on your lips, Others were on your cheeks and forehead and occasionally trailed down your jawline.

“I also have something else for you,” you spoke up, pushing him off of you so you could grab another bag that you left by the foot of his bed.

“You spoil me, Fairest.”

“It’s not much. Just a cake I made for you.”

“A whole cake?”

“A cupcake, I mean. I know you’re not one for sweets.”

“And you left it in my room with no refrigeration.”

You pointed to the ice pack. He nodded. You pulled out a cake box, propping it open on Vil’s hands and told him to hold still. You placed a candle in the center and lit with a little spark of fire magic.

“Make a wish~”

“What am I? Twelve?”

“You have to make a wish.”

“Fine,” he said as he blew out the taper, “I wish to be with you for as long as possible.”

“You can’t say your wish out loud. It won’t come true!”

“Do you have any intention of separating from me?”

“N-No.”

“I don’t see why my wish won’t come true then,” Vil said as he cut the cupcake in half, handing you a piece.

“I guess you’re right about that.”

“Careful. If you get crumbs on my bed, you’re sleeping in the spare room.”

“...Understood.”

[ Present Day, Pomefiore Hallway ]

One moment he was dolling you up, the next he was wrapping a blindfold around your eyes and led you down the hallway to god knows where. You were still walking straight so you only assumed that you were still in the Pomefiore dormitories. Unless you walked through a mirror. Or maybe you simply had a terrible sense of direction. Whatever the case was, it did not change the fact that you were trembling.

“Vil. Where are you taking me?”

He exhaled. You could hear his chest heave.

“Darling, are you scared?”

Like how you could read him like an open book, he knew you like the back of his hand. You nodded and you felt him undo the blindfold. He held the ribbon in his hand and yours in the other. You looked into his eyes for comfort. He was wearing a single French braid. It was nostalgic. It was like you were first years again. He wasn’t wearing a school uniform, but it was enough to stir up fond memories. Instead, Vil wore a casual ensemble with a kimono-esque silhouette. He wore a white dress shirt with a pair of shapeless, high-waisted black dress pants. A cardigan with an ornate pattern accentuated the look, He wasn’t wearing the barrette you made him for his sixteenth birthday either, but you felt nostalgic regardless.

“I still need you to close your eyes for me though,” he said, putting the hand with the ribbon over your eyes, “I know you’re scared, but please hold on for a little longer.”

You nodded and closed your eyes. You felt his hand leaving your face, but the other was holding yours tightly, guiding you to your destination.

“Fairest, are your eyes actually closed?” Vil asked, breaking the silence.

“Y-Yes.”

You had been walking for a few minutes now. Where was he taking you?

“Vil, do you know what today is?”

No response.

“Vil… You’re scaring me.”

“We’re almost there, don't worry.”

Would it hurt to trust him for a little bit? You trailed behind him aimlessly. Your steps lagged behind his.

“You ready?” he asked, cupping his lanky fingers over your eyes.

You nodded. Whatever could it be? Lacking sight made Anxiety rattle against your skull. Was Vil going to push you off a cliff? Send you to your doom? No, no, no. He wouldn’t. That was too extreme, (y/n). Calm down.

He lifted his fingers off of your eyes, whispering a faint “happy birthday” to you. You gasped. Pomefiore lounge decorated with streamers and balloons– color coordinated to match both the dorm’s interior as well as your favorite colors. Rose petals were sprinkled on the ground. You heard Vil step away from you. You jumped as you heard something pop and turned around to find the source. Before you could react, a swarm of confetti went your way followed by a loud “surprise!”

You blinked twice, pulling bits of paper out of your hair.. You stepped forward and spun your heel. Were you dreaming?

“Hey, are you crying? I forbid you from crying. Your mascara is going to smear. Stop touching your face,” Vil scolded, running to your side, whipping out a handkerchief to pat your tears dry.

He had no confetti on his person. He was pristine.

“Vil… it’s wonderful. Thank you. I’m so glad you didn’t forget.”

“How could I forget? You must give me more credit, Fairest. I may not have the time to be with you every day, but I’m not cruel as to forgot your birthday,” he huffed, pulling you into a hug.

He was right. He could have never forgotten. Was he mad that you doubted him? He didn’t seem irritated. It wasn’t like him to forget such an important date. You’ll give him credit for being a good actor; he fooled you well. He ignored you for almost two weeks. Whenever you brought up your birthday, he brushed over it and changed the subject. You were on edge the entire time. A weight was lifted off your chest.

“I know you’re not one for parties, but I figured I’d go all out for a small group of people you are comfortable with. You’re seventeen now. Rejoice, my dear.”

You pecked his lips, “This is fine. Thank you so much.”

Snap!

“Cute~ Hashtag: Vil-Did-Not-Forget. Hashtag: (y/n)’s-Growth Record. Hashtag: (y/n)-And-Vil-Forever. Hashtag: Birthday. And posted! Happy birthday, (y/n)-chan~”

“Ah. Thank you, Cay-kun.”

“Did you have to do that?” your lover asked, hands on his hip.

“It’s fine, Vil.”

He nodded. You hoped he wouldn’t bicker too much with Leona as the upperclassman was lounging a bit too close to the throne for [Vil’s] comfort. You sighed as he went to the refreshments table.

“You’ve grown for much,” Cater said with crocodile tears, hugging you.

“I’m still the same height.”

“I didn’t mean that, silly.”

“What did you mean then?”

“Nothing, much. You just look happier. Anyways, here’s your present. Continue to blossom, m’kay?”

You took the gift: “Alright?”

“Cater. Mind your manners. You’re being rude. According to the–,” a voice called.

“I don’t think I am, right, (y/n)? Tell Riddle for me~” he pouted.

His eyes widened as the complexion of Heartslabyul’s prefect grew as red as his hair.

“Hey now. Let’s not fight,” Trey, the vice prefect, hurried over to pat Riddle’s back.

You sighed, “There’s nothing to worry about, Riddle.”

You could have sworn you saw a vein deflate on his forehead as he mumbled something about the rules. He handed you a bouquet of roses.

“Happy birthday, (y/n).”

“Let’s take a Heartslabyul selfie to celebrate! Say cheese!”

No one said cheese. The flash flickered before your eyes as you held the flowers close to your nose. Riddle’s eyebrows were scrunched together. He was socially awkward in that aspect.

“Hashtag: Heartsla…”

Cater’s words faded. Since when have you been comfortable taking pictures with him. It was nice. You felt pretty today. Was it because Vil dolled you up to a T? You hugged the bouquet closer to your chest as you walked towards the refreshments table.

“Oi. Herbivore. Watch the tail,” an all too familiar voice groaned.

“Good afternoon to you too, Leona.”

“Here’s your present.”

He handed you a small box and he waved you goodbye. Was he not going to stay? You watched his back get smaller and smaller as he walked out of the Pomefiore Lounge. He wasn’t big on parties either. That was alright.

You continued the refreshments, stopping occasionally and accumulating presents here and there, engaging in idle chatter. Soon, your arms were full of trinkets and parcels. You panted as you set the gifts onto a spare table.

“You’re quite the attraction,” Vil said, sipping on a glass of apple cider.

“I don’t really think I’m–”

“Own it for a day, will you? You look absolutely divine.”

“Thank you, Vil.”

He wrapped an arm around your shoulder, “My pleasure, Fairest.”

#twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland imagines #twst imagines #twisted wonderland oneshot #twst oneshot #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #vil schoenheit x reader #fave #self indulgence #happy birthday to meeee

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beauty-and-passion · 3 years

Note

Heya!

So I remember reading your post about Eurovision a while ago, and since I'm now hooked on a certain collection of songs, I was thinking...

Would you think 'Zitti E Buoni' by Måneskin could be a Remus song, and 'Voilà' by Barbara Pravi a Roman song? Or do you have some ideas on any other Eurovision songs that would fit the Sides?

Just wondering whether you'd like to share some thoughts on this, but no pressure of course! As always, I absolutely love your theories and posts, it always brightens up my day to read :D

This will be a very self indulgent post.

First of all: “no pressure”?! I am HYPED to share my thoughts on this! And this is why it took me so long to reply to this ask: I’ve spent the whole time thinking about which song could fit which Side, going through the last editions, reading the lyrics, searching among my favourites...

So yes, this post will be a bit long. But hey, there is also good music and maybe, by listening to it, you will find something you haven’t heard before! :D

(Of course, in order to make this post understandable, I will translate all lyrics, but the songs aren’t all in English. In any case, every song has a link, so you can hear it on Youtube.)

And yes, I know there are billions of other Eurovision songs, but for the sake of “not making this post endless” (as if it won’t be already), I will stop at Eurovision 2014. If you all have other songs to propose for a Side, please feel free to add them and explain why! :D

And now...

Which Eurovision songs would fit the Sides

_____________________________

EUROVISION 2021

Måneskin - Zitti e buoni

(Here the Eurovision performance because it’s just this good)

This song is PERFECT for Remus and I was a fool for not realizing it sooner. It's all about showing how different you are, embracing your uniqueness despite what others may think. Everything about this song screams “REMUS” so thank you, my dear, for opening my eyes and making me realize it.

They don't know what I'm talking about You are dirty, bruh, of mud Cig's yellow in between the fingers I'm walking with a cig Pardon me, but I really do believe That I can make this jump And even if the street is uphill I'm training for this now

The first line is already 200% Remus: they (aka the other Sides) don’t know what Remus is talking about. Remus is impossible to understand. Remus is weird, strange, dangerous - according to moral standards.

However, despite the other people’s thoughts, Remus still shows a high self-esteem - just like in his playlist. The others may not have faith in him, there could be obstacles on his way, but he still believes he will achieve his goals.

And good evening, ladies and gentlemen Bring out the actors You better hold on to your balls You better keep quiet and be good Here people are weird, like drug dealers Too many nights I've spent locked outside Now I'm kicking these doorways Staring up like climbers So sorry mum if I'm always out, but

“You better hold on to your balls” is a translation of the original italian line “Vi conviene toccarvi i coglioni”. This sentence is a more vulgar form of the English expression “knocking on wood”, something you preventively do to un-jinx stuff.

However, “knocking on wood” isn’t as strong as the italian expression, so I chose this translation that is more literal, but also more vulgar. It kept the original vibe more, it fits Remus more and it gives a stronger meaning to the whole thing. The singer isn’t just saying “beware of what you’re doing”, but he’s saying “get ready, shit if about to hit the fan”. It’s more powerful - and well, Remus would love this. It’s his time now, so the audience (the other Sides/Thomas) should "keep quiet and be good”.

I also really like the “Here people are weird, like drug dealers”, because it can refer to the dark sides in general. This is Remus’ show, so the Core Sides and Thomas should shut up. They are now in the Dark Sides’ territory, full of weird, sketchy people, morally gray villains. All things he loves, enjoys and that he definitely considers as compliments.

“Too many nights I've spent locked outside / Now I'm kicking these doorways” is another great line, because “being locked outside” is the perfect metaphor for Remus’ situation. He IS locked outside, he has been kept far away from Thomas, stifled by him, unable to fully express himself. And so he releases his frustration by kicking the doors that are shutting him down. That’s just so Remus I. LOVE. IT.

I am out of my mind, but I'm not like the others And you are out of your mind, but you're not like the others We are out of our minds, but we're not like the others We are out of our minds, but we're not like the others

This chorus is PERFECT! First of all: “I am out of my mind” is basically just like this line from DWIT:

[Patton]: Imaginative sure is a- a kind word for him. [Duke]: I agree! How about... DEMENTED?

But also: Remus doesn’t give a damn. He’s not like the others and he’s SO DAMN PROUD of it. Just like he is in canon and in his playlist.

He goes even further, by saying that “you” are also out of your mind. And who this “you” might be, if not the big man himself?

[Duke]: If I am awful... then so is Thomas.

Just like in DWIT, Remus welcomes Thomas’ weirdness with open arms. If he and Thomas are both insane and different, why hiding it and not embracing this difference? They are unique.

I've written pages and pages I've seen salt, then tears These men in cars Don't climb the rapids I've written on a tombstone "In my house there's no God" But if you find time's meaning You'll climb back up from your oblivion And there's no wind stopping The natural power From the right point of view You feel the intoxication of the wind With wax wings on your back I'll go look for that high If you wanna stop me try again Try cutting my head off Because

Woah, this part has a lot. There is:

Remus' creativity as a flow ("I've written pages and pages")

Remus seeing how different he is compared to others ("These men in cars / Don't climb the rapids" while he was ready to “make this jump” despite the obstacles on his way)

Religion because of course - and especially Remus rejecting it ("I've written on a tombstone / "In my house there's no God".")

And, most importantly, there is a nice reference to Icarus' myth. According to myth, Icarus escaped from the Labyrinth of the Minotaur, by flying on wax wings. But he flew too close to the sun, his wings melted and he fell to his death.

This has multiple meanings. First of all, it shows how stubborn Remus is: he could use simpler, more stable ways to reach his goals. But he's Remus, he's creative and he's different, he would rather use wax wings (aka more complex, unordinary means) to reach his goal. Also, it's a proof of his resolution: just like Icarus, his wax wings could melt and he could fail. And yet, he's so set in his decision, he's ready to do anything to succeed.

This last point is particularly evident in the following lines: "If you wanna stop me try again / Try cutting my head off". It's impossible to stop him, just like it was impossible to send him away or stop him from talking in canon.

Everything in this song is just HIM.

Unfortunately people talk They talk, they don't know what they talk about Bring me where I float Cause I lack air here

Once again, the people are the Core Sides: they talk about how he's evil and dangerous and useless. But they don't know what they're talking about. They're (metaphorically) suffocating him with their prejudices, that's why he asks "bring me where I float": he wants to express himself freely, to escape these biases.

Also: water. And with the whole octopus as his animal, it’s just even more fitting.

Moral of the story: this song is perfect for him, Remus should know Italian just to sing it - and he would love the glam rock style of Maneskin as well.

_____________________________

Barbara Pravi - Voilà

I don’t know how you did it, dear, but these two songs are PERFECT. Zitti e buoni is perfectly Remus, Voilà is perfectly Roman. I feel blessed.

Listen to me, me, the half singer Talk about me, to your loved ones, to your friends Tell them about this little girl with black eyes and crazy dreams What I want is to write stories that you will hear about That's all

Roman, is that you? Because this is you. This is ALL you.

Roman is a "half singer": he cannot sing like he want, he cannot express himself in full. He has rules, laws, morals that forces him to quiet down and bent his creativity.

And, just like a tragic hero, Roman asks that his story will not be forgotten, that others will know about him, his unfortunate life, his "crazy dreams" and especially his passion: writing stories "that you will hear about".

This line in particular reminds me of this part from Recipe for Me:

And still, I continue to write because I have more dreams to fulfill Tales I hoped to tell when I was younger Ideas that I haven't made yet, but I will I'll find my way with my will

The concept is the same in Voilà. Roman is a "controlled" Creativity, surrounded by rules and morals that shut him, but he wants to be heard, he wants to tell stories.

And that’s just it. This is what creativity is all about: talking, puring out its ideas, as loud and freely as possible.

Voilà, voilà, voilà, here is who I am Here I am, even if I'm scared as I'm naked, yes Here I am in the noise and in silence

I love how this song is a way for Roman to express himself, to show himself despite everything. He's like this, he's a "half Creativity", he's scared, he's not perfect. But here he is, "in the noise and in silence". Because your creativity is always here with you, no matter where you are or what you are doing: it will never leave you and it will never stop asking to be heard.

Look at me, or at least what's left of it Look at me, before I hate myself What can I say that another hasn't already said? I don't have much, but I place here what I do have Voilà

Aaaah, yes, I like to wake up with the strong smell of Roman's angst in the morning.

Roman seeing himself as something broken? Perfect. We want more of the angsty boi. Even the fans of King Creativity may read this line as Roman seeing himself as “half of a whole”!

And, again I love how despite feeling broken and hating it, he’s still ready to give everything he has. This is the true essence of the concept of creativity.

Also, why not adding a little more angst?

I want to be loved, because I don't know myself how to like the shape of me

This is perfect, because it reconnects to the first episode, when Roman said his goal would be to love himself first. He never reached this goal after almost 30 episodes - and this line might offer an answer on why: because Roman doesn’t know how. He hates himself so much, he doesn’t know how to love himself.

And that’s probably why he needs another person to love: because it’s easier to love someone else, rather than himself.

Voilà, voilà, voilà, here is who I am Here I am, even if it's the end as I'm naked Here I am in the noise and in rage too Finally, look at me and my eyes and my hands All I have is here, it's my face, it's my scream Here I am, here I am, here I am

This last chorus is awesome: the quintessential of Roman’s desperation, of showing himself, of screaming hoping to be heard by anyone. Unlike Remus who is unstoppable and doesn't care about others, Roman cares. He needs a public, he needs to be heard, otherwise he would lose himself.

And I seriously love how these two songs both have the same idea (embrace yourself and your uniqueness), but talk aboout this theme in such different ways - and yet so fitting for the twins... they are just GREAT.

(On a side note: this song is so dramatically French Roman would love it and sing it with the same passion Barbara used and I would love to see that.)

_____________________________

EUROVISION 2019

Bilal Hassani - Roi

Come on... Roi. Roi. Considering that "roi" means "king" in French, who could possibly be the Side I would associate this song with? Maybe the Side who already has a King in his playlist?

Nope, this song is for Remus.

Why Remus? The reason is very simple and you can just notice by reading the first verses:

I am me And I know I will always be I am free Sure I am inventing my life Don't ask me who I am

I am The same since I was very little And in spite of looks, opinions I cry, I go out and I laugh

You put me in a box Want me to be like you I don't follow the codes People are disturbed a lot At the end of the day You canno change me, boo! So, let me fly

This song overflows with confidence, the lines talk about someone who is free to be whoever he wants, who has always been the same since he was a child, who is rejected by others and doesn't give a damn, who doesn't "follow the codes" and refuses to be changed by them.

This isn't Roman, but this is the quintessential of Remus. This song is everything about him, from his confidence to his desire to be free.

And the chorus is even clearer:

I'm not rich but i'm shining bright I can't see my kingdom now When I dream, I am a king And I know o-o-ow Even now o-o-ow You try to take me down You cannot break me nah nah

That's him, that's Remus.

On a side note, if Remus also has his "King song", that would strengthen the connection with Roman, since they both would have a song about "being/feeling like a king".

And this song is Roi, king in French. Since I think Remus would definitely know French, this makes Roi an even more fitting choice, doesn’t it?

Who are we ? When we hide, when we fight for free Only god can judge you and me We did not choose what we are

Not only there is a nice religious reference, but these lines are a also a reference to the LGBT community: they hide, they fight, they didn't choose to be like that (no matter what idiots might think) and only God can judge them, not other, very flawled (and, honestly, very pathetic too) humans.

So, if we consider it, there is also a hidden "fuck society" and a "I am gay and proud to be" and those are both very Remus things.

_____________________________

EUROVISION 2018

Saara Aalto - Monster

I would associate this song with Thomas. And, specifically, to Thomas at the end of the series. Why?

Here's why:

So tonight I'm making friends with all the creatures That are hiding there under my bed

I ain't gonna hold on to these monsters anymore Now I'm gonna let in all the light Tear down the walls At my worst, I found my army strong All the demons are gone You can try and scare me now But I ain't scared no more I ain't scared no more

At the end of the series, Thomas would have befriended all the Sides, especially the "monsters hiding under his bed", the dark bois.

The "final Thomas" will tear down every wall between him and his Sides and will stop hiding/rejecting them. This will make him stronger, because the Sides will be his helpers, parts of him, his friends. He won't be scared anymore by Remus, suspicious towards Janus, afraid of Virgil or terrified by Orange.

"All the demons are gone": the dark sides won't be villains anymore, but friends. And they would help him be stronger.

It's my life I'm ready to lead it I'm gonna roll the dice You better believe it

This part is great as well, because it proves another interesting detail: that Thomas is growing up. He's taking life into his own hands, he's leading it. No more "Oh no, I don't know what to choose between callback and wedding!". He's more confident, he's stronger, he's more mature.

_____________________________

Hovig - Gravity

Honestly, I think this song can be something all Sides might sing to Thomas. It's basically a testament of how much they care about him:

Let me be your heart and your company I'll let you be the one who can lean on me I'll catch you when you fall When you're falling free Let me be, be your gravity

But the imagery just screams "ROMAN" so much, I can't help but think that yes, this is a great Roman song and it's all from Roman to Thomas.

I mean...

I can be your hero I can be your fantasy Oh, I can be the cure Yeah, let me be Your remedy

He IS Thomas' hero, so how can I ignore this? And he's also the embodiment of Thomas' fantasies, he's the wings that make Thomas fly.

Let me be your wings When you're flying high I'm gonna raise you up 'til you touch the sky I'll catch you when you fall When you're falling free Let me be, be your gravity

It's just pure love for Thomas and it begs me to being a Roman song, so... here it is. A Roman song dedicated to Thomas.

_____________________________

Eleni Foureira - Fuego

Listen, not only Roman would rock this song, but also dance like a maniac while singing it just like Eleni and no, you can't change my mind.

Just look at how this woman sings and dnaces without never losing a beat until the end. And please consider that on the Eurovision stage there is no autotune: this was her voice and he delivered a great performance without cracks.

So yes, I want Roman singing this.

But the lines are great for him as well! I mean...

Take a dive Into my eyes Yeah the eyes of lioness Feel the power They ain’t lying.

and

Coz I’m way up and I ain’t comin’ down, keep taking me higher Ah yeah ah yeah ah yeah yeah ah yeah ah yeah Coz I’m burning up and I ain’t coolin’ down, yeah I got the the fire Ah yeah ah yeah ah yeah yeah ah yeah ah yeah

Fuego

Someone fiery and passionate, powerful eyes, pride... yep, this is definitely something Roman would sing. Especially because of the fire. Roman is a fiery guy, so fire is very him.

______________________

Yianna Terzi - Oniro Mou

I actually already talked about this song in an old post and I still haven't changed my mind: this song is all about Janus telling Thomas how much he cares about him.

If you look into the depth of me You revive my dream And if you look into my heart I will take you into my arms How would you like me to say this I would die for you I would give my life for you End and beginning, you are everything

Not only the "take you into my arms" reminds me of Change (" I’ll be able to be honest, capable / Of holding you in my arms without letting you fall"), but the last three lines are so incredibly loving and honest I can't think of anyone else but Janus while reading them. Thomas is his end and beginning, Janus would literally die for Thomas and give his life for him.

So, well, it's just very fitting. And I love how dramatic this song is. It doesn't have the jazzy vibe Janus loves, but the drama is all here.

______________

Francesco Gabbani - Occidentali’s Karma

Do you remember how hard it was to analyze Algorhythm from Logan's playlist? Every line has a meaning and explaining every single one of them took me an eternity.

Well, this song is basically like Algorhythm, but with more philosophy and billions to references. You see the performance on the stage and ahahah, there's a funny dancing gorilla, what a cute song. Then you read the lyrics and BOOM.

I will not analyze this song here, because every line would require at least two paragraphs to explain it. And this post is already long enough as it is, but please, search the meaning of this song: there are references to Shakespeare, Heraclitus, buddhism, Andy Warhol, Desmond Morris and his book "The Naked Ape", Marx, Nietzsche and so on. Basically every line is a reference, a play on words or both at the same time.

What about the main theme? The main theme is the human and especially the contemporary human. In fact, "Occidentali" (Westerners) does not refer to the geographical place, aka Europeans/Americans, but to the western cultural model.

So the title “Occidentali’s Karma” (Westerners Karma) is an insight on contemporary society, on our values and on how, despite how many things changed, we are not so different from our ancestors after all.

This song might seem a perfect choice for Janus. There's a critique of society, there are philosophers and plays on words.

But I’m not too convinced, because even if Janus likes all those things, the number of references is just SO HUGE only a real nerd can find, recognize and appreciate them all.

So yes, this is a Logan song. A song he would probably listen and analyze, enjoying the whole process of knowing more things, finding out all the hidden meanings, the plays on words (we all know you like puns, ya big nerd) and the critical insight. After all, Algorhythm WAS a critique of society, so Logan should appreciate it.

_______________

EUROVISION 2014

Twin Twin - Moustache

Not only the band is called Twin Twin but, as if this wasn't screaming "Creativitwins" enough, the title of the song is "Moustache".

Come on, you know who is the Side perfect for this song.

Psyche! It's both Roman and Remus.

Something is missing, but what? I want this, I want that When I'm dreaming, I'm dreaming in dollars, every day I'm wearing a different suit.

This is very Roman: Roman wants everything (let's not forget Primadonna from his playlist), Roman’s dreams are big. And Roman is Creativity, so he "wears a different suit" every day - aka he directs his creative flow in different stories/songs.

I want this, I want that there's never enough for me it's like this, it's like that there's always something I don't have

This part strongly reminds me of Primadonna. Roman wants everything, every day. He's never satisfied.

And then, Remus busts in and...

I wanted a moustache, a moustache

So my headcanon is that this starts as a Roman's song, all about wanting everything because "there's always something I don't have", until Remus pops out during the chorus and says all he wants is his gorgeous moustache.

*chef’s kiss* Perfection.

But I know what you want, dear audience. You want some angst, don't you?

Fine, so what if the "I want a moustache" line is Roman's subtle way to say that he wants the same freedom his brother has? After all, Roman has "everything one could ever dream of", "I have friends too / even some who like me". All he needs is more creative freedom and the moustache is a subtle way to say that.

_______________

Aarzemnieki - Cake to Bake

This is the ultimate song for all Patton's fans, because it combines Patton's love for baking to Patton being an absolute disaster at it.

Also, it's an incredibly cute song.

I melted the ice of the polar caps Found the raiders of the lost ark Solved a case for the genius from Baker Street Helped to clean the Central Park I created the plan for the Chinese wall Went to desert, made it rain Swam through a shark tank bloodily Found Atlantis, by the way But today

The first verse is already awesome: Patton did a lot of great stuff, even impossible stuff ("solved a case for the genius from Baker Street" is a very nice reference to the Losing My Motivation episode).

But today, he has to face the most difficult task of them all:

I’ve got a cake to bake, and got no clue at all I’ve got a cake to bake, and haven’t done that before Don’t be proud, mate, please, don’t bother Go, come on and ask your mother How to bake, how to bake, bake that cake

Not only this makes me smile every time, but I can perfectly imagine Patton in a kitchen, with all the ingredients in front of him, everything ready and set... and he’s just absolutely lost. Should he use a spoon to stir the flour? And how can he open the vanilla beans? He doesn’t even know how to turn the stove on.

And so, he decides it’s time to ask someone else to help him. Bonus points if the mother is Janus. Also because he is a mom AND a witch, so

Also, this line:

Mix some dough, add some love, let it bake, wait for it

It's SO Patton, because the main ingredient of his recipes IS love! And cumin. And sometimes spit, depending on what he's making: pasta for Roman or some toasts for his angsty teen son.

_____________________________

Carl Espen - Silent Storm

At first, I thought this was a Logan song: someone who feels empty and alone, who has a storm inside but it's a silent storm, because Logan would never express his feelings in any way.

But there are these lines:

And there’s a silent storm inside me Looking for a home I hope that someone’s gonna find me And say that I belong I’ll wait forever and a lifetime To find I’m not alone There’s a silent storm inside me And someday I’ll be calm Someday I’ll be calm

And maybe it's just me, but this reminds me so much of Virgil. He has a storm inside, his own symbol is a storm. He's searching for a home, after leaving the dark sides. And he hopes someone will say he belongs - Thomas will say he belongs, that Virgil is part of him and of the famILY.

And he's willing to wait all the time, just to get that tiny bit of recognition and acceptance. And, who knows, maybe when he'll get it, the storm inside him will calm down and he will finally be at peace.

____________________

Tinkara Kovač - Round and Round

I don't know if I'm insane (or just extremely self indulgent), but this song is basically Janus during the wedding/callback saga.

Uncertain between worlds Circle after circle, we're trapped in time When you're already familiar with every storm You're playful, and yet you're alone

The first verse sets the time and situation. Thomas is living an uncertain life (just like every actor), trapped in the same cycle, with nothing new coming: same job, same opportunities, no big chances, nothing stable. He's "familiar with every storm", aka Virgil has been accepted. Thomas is happy, but he's alone. No one is actually on his side, not even the Sides themselves. He's not taking care of himself enough, he's too ready to drop everything for his friends, he's spreading himself too thin.

And now I'm gonna show you how to breathe I'm gonna show you how to live I'm gonna hold your heart in hand I'm gonna make you understand

This can be a declaration from Janus: he's tired of working in the shadows, he wants to step up and help Thomas in person. And these lines make me think of him, because of how "firm" (and kinda villain-y) they sound.

He wants to show Thomas how to live, aka what are the best decisions to make). He's going to "hold your heart in hand", aka to have Thomas wrapped around his fingers, to take control and steer him with a strong, confident grip, away from the decisions he considers bad, into making him a lot stronger than before.

And, finally, he wants to make him understand. So if the lines before sounded more like a villain’s plan, this last line adds something more. Janus wants to explain to Thomas why he's doing this, why his decisions are better, why Thomas should trust him.

If we think about it, this is everything Janus tried to do since CLBG: he wrapped Thomas (and the other Sides) around his fingers and made them play the courtroom scenario he built, he tried to steer Thomas away from the selfless decision of going to the wedding. And he tried to make him understand why, with the pinata metaphor.

You don't know you don't know Is it love is it hate What are we changing (What are we doing) You don't know you don't but Can you feel it inside Feel the roses Feel the pride (Can you believe it)

Thomas doesn't know a lot of things. Does he really know what love is? Or hate? Or what he's actually doing, by listening to his Morality? What is Janus doing?

[Deceit]: What am I doing here right now, Thomas? Am I the snake come to trick you into sinning, or have you had your mind made up since the moment you received the news about the callback? (SvS)

Thomas doesn't know a lot of things. But deep down, he knows what he wants to do. He should "feel the roses / feel the pride", both things associated with Roman. He is the one Thomas should listen to. And Janus is hinting it.

Is a moment just a circle Just a song you play on repeat? If we can't change how we're living Isn't life just a lie that we feed

Janus is expressing his frustration here: is Thomas' life doomed to always be the same, a cycle, a "song you play on repeat"? Can't he really change his life because of his selflessness? Will he really miss all the opportunities life offers him, in order to always be a good person?

What's the point of living, then? This wouldn't be life, but "a lie that we feed": instead of living his own life, Thomas would submit it to what others want/need, in order to always be present for them.

This is basically a huge warning from Janus: don't fall into this cycle, break free, I can make you free, listen to me and I will make you understand what is wrong about it.

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randomoranges · 3 years

Text

part 2

goes after bleu comme le st-laurent and before rouge comme le sang qui nous passe à travers

Blanc comme l’hiver

July 4th 2021

Edward lets out a content little sigh and twines his legs with Étienne’s. He’s forgotten how much he enjoys mornings like these where they lounge in bed, without a care in the world, and where lazy kisses turn to slow morning sex. He wishes, not for the first time, that the distances between Montréal and Edmonton wouldn’t be as big, if only to see his boyfriend more often. Still, he supposes that it’s gotten easier over the years, but he still would like to have more of these mornings in his life.

“Hey,” He starts, a thought coming up to the surface of his happy daze to nag at him, “D’you think it’s cliché?” He asks, knowing full well that his question has come from nowhere and that Étienne will have no clue as to what he’s asking. His boyfriend gives him a questioning look and Edward smiles softly, before making himself comfortable against Étienne’s chest, ghosting his fingers over shamrocks and thistles alike. He’d reach for a rose or a lily, but they’re out of reach from this position.

“Whenever we visit each other, it seems as though more often than not, the first thing we do is get into bed together.” He’d noticed it before and he’s noticed it now. It seemed that regardless of destination, after polite greetings, they’d end up naked in bed – and sometimes they’d get each other off elsewhere. It isn’t that he minds, far from it, but –

He feels Étienne’s chest rumble with his quiet chuckle and looks up in time to see him grin down at him.

“Nah, I don’t think so.” He replies, easy as that and starts tracing imaginary patterns on Edward’s back. It works, in a way, and soothes him for a moment. “The way I see it is – we haven’t seen each other in a long while when it happens. I missed you. You missed me. We both seem to be people who enjoy sex and we enjoy it with each other so it makes sense to go for it. We both want to – so, I don’t think there’s anything wrong or cliché about it.”

He settles back against Étienne and ponders his words. He supposes his boyfriend has a point. He had missed Étienne. He just – doesn’t want Étienne to find him – predictable. Or find him boring. Old insecurities that keep resurfacing – nothing new there.

“Promise I’d tell you if I didn’t want to and I’m hoping you’d do the same with me?”

He nods, quick to assure him. They’re in a better place now – one where they use actual words to convey thoughts and emotions. It’s still a work in progress, but – they’re getting there, one trip at a time.

“There, you see – not cliché. If it makes you feel better, I very much enjoyed what we did yesterday and this morning.” He presses a scraggly kiss to his cheek and Edward leans in afterwards to rub his face against Étienne’s beard. It feels good. Foreign yet familiar.

Étienne chuckles at his antics, and just because he can, kisses him again.

“What d’you want to do today?”

There’s no game today, so they can spend the day whichever way they want and Edward would like to spend it here, in Étienne’s room, with Étienne holding him close. Yet, he knows his boyfriend will get restless, and quite frankly, so will he. Still, it’s a nice fantasy and he doesn’t mind indulging in it for a little longer.

“What’s the weather supposed to be like?”

“Hot and humidity will kick in.”

Edward grimaces at that, but thankfully, Étienne has the means to deal with the extreme heat and humidity.

“In that case, I want to get acquainted with your pool. Yesterday’s weather was inappropriate for that and we were otherwise busy.” They share a knowing laugh at that, but Edward makes no move to get out of bed just yet. “But, it doesn’t have to be right now either – perfectly fine where I am – cliché or not.”

Étienne grinns and pulls him closer for a proper kiss.

It’s later, much later – perhaps hours and days and weeks later, when Edward finally steps out to the backyard. (But it couldn’t have been days and weeks later. The playoffs are still happening. This is just a minor break between maelstroms.)

He gasps when he gets a proper look at the backyard and marvels at how different it looks from his last visit here.

“Everything okay?” Étienne asks as he joins him, towels in one hand (one Habs, the other not), and a pitcher filled with ice and reusable water bottles in the other.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you were fixing up the backyard!” It looks – completely different from any iteration of it he had ever seen. The only benchmark that reminds him that this was Étienne’s backyard is the giant maple tree in the far back, proving part of the yard with shade, the fence, the shed and the overall layout of the yard. Other than that, Edward could have passed it off as someone else’s place.

“Ah, yeah, well, I figured I might as well invest in this place. I mean – it’s nice to have a decent place where you can unwind – or something?” He sounds a little unsure of himself, almost as if he’s embarrassed, as he puts the water and the towels down.

There hadn’t been much to this space, back when Edward had visited it often. The shed, a rickety old white plastic table, two mismatched chairs, and an ashtray. The grass and whatever other greenery had been left at the mercy of Mother Nature and had suffered through heat waves and droughts alike. However, now, it’s lush, verdant and well maintained. Even the old tree looks in better shape than it ever did.

There’s a small garden, by the looks of it, where once there’d been a half dead shrub, alongside the fence. It seems as though a small fruit tree has been added at the end of it, but it’s still too soon and he’s still too far to be able to tell what fruit it will bear. Even the shed, despite being the same as it was twenty years ago, seems to have gotten a second life, but it may just be the roof shingles that have been changed. There’s been laborious work put into this yard and it doesn’t stop there.

The pool, on the other side, is obviously the biggest novelty to the place. An idea, much like many other people, born from last year’s lockdown that Étienne had decided to splurge on. He’d picked a semi-in ground pool and even though it isn’t the biggest of pools, it certainly would do the trick during the hot summer days. And of course, because it’s Étienne, he’d gone for a unique shape that fits perfectly with his backyard. There’d been more than one video call made from the comforts of his new pool and Edward had dreamed of being able to jump in it, while he’d suffered through the heat wave just last week.

Back on the patio section, Étienne had finally retired his old table and chairs and had invested in something nicer that could accommodate a bigger crowd. The table and chairs seem sturdier and even more comfortable. The entire patio section, which is shaded off thanks to Étienne’s upstairs tenant own patio, has an air of coziness and comfort. He could easily picture his boyfriend lounging on his outdoor couch and start a small fire at night in his outdoor fireplace, or pull out the hammock in the sunnier section to lay in it, or maybe even sit in those impossible positions he often takes in his egg shaped hanging chair.

“Life’s too short to have a shitty backyard,” He jokes and Edward looks back to his boyfriend and smiles softly at him. He sees beyond only this investment, but also sees how Étienne’s been slowly reinvesting in his own city in his own way. It’s still a work in progress, but Edward knows how careful Étienne has been in reinventing his own city. He’s proud – of him and of the progress he’s made and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever find the right words to express just how proud he is of Étienne.

“Are those wild roses?” He asks to deflect from his own thoughts and emotions, as he makes his way closer to the plants and greenery that Étienne has planted, “And – marigolds?” He turns to face his boyfriend, disbelief evident as he takes in stock of what it is that’s been planted and that is growing. Once more, it seems, Étienne has managed to surprise him in his own way, with these quiet skills he’s kept to himself after all these years.

“Maybe,” Étienne teases and joins his side. If his cheeks are a little pink, neither comment on it for now, “If it makes you feel better, I have the obligatory irises growing as well – their blooming season is over though.”

They laugh, at the ridiculousness of the statement and stand side by side to watch the leaves sway gently in the breeze.

“I realised,” Étienne starts again softly, playing with the string of his bathing suit, “That I enjoy puttering in the backyard. I don’t mind getting my hands dirty and it gives me something to focus on that isn’t one of the millions of problems running free in my head. It – grounds me, pardon the pun.” He puffs, self-amused and Edward takes his hand and laces their fingers together.

“If you enjoy it, then I say, go for it.”

Étienne gives him a brilliant smile in exchange and Edward’s insides go soft at the sight.

He gets it though, the sometimes-mindless work of tending a garden that somehow takes you out of your own head. It’s why he’s always liked it. Gets him to think about what he’s doing and watching the garden grow and take shape is rewarding in its own way. Even if there are some issues he cannot fix in the world, he can still tend to his garden and watch it thrive and grow – problem solve when needed and see it flourish. He gets it, really.

“So, how about that swim?” He asks, before the moment can grow heavy and change into something else entirely different. Étienne tugs on his hand gently and leads him back to where the pool eagerly awaits for them.

FIN

#pc: montreal #pc: edmonton #edward murphy #étienne maisonneuve #fic #projocanondoko

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iwrestlenow · 3 years

Text

Many More To Die - Chapter 4

TITLE: Many More To Die (Chapter 4)

FANDOM: Sanders Sides (Necromancer AU)

SUMMARY: Roman discovers that even the power of a king has its limits--but at least he has the power to help Logan in one critical fashion.

Logan is a needy wreck, and can't figure out which way is up, and as desperately as he needs someone--one man--to hold his hand through it all? It only makes things worse somehow.

Meanwhile, through all of this, another chess piece steps out of the shadows and onto the game board--and he's not going anywhere until he gets what, and who, he came for.

SHIPS: Logince (Logan/Roman), future Moceit (Patton/Janus) and Dukexiety (Remus/Virgil)

WARNINGS: Panic attack, but that’s it for this chapter. It’s mostly me having feelings, being TOTALLY UNABLE TO STOP WRITING WHAT THE HELL SOMEONE SAVE ME XD, and more self indulgent garbage that just felt good to write. So there. :P

Also, no betas, we die like men.

NOTES: This is based on the gorgeous piece of art by @gretacticdraws that can be found here. I ended up writing a ficlet for it, and then my brain got swallowed up. Breathe at me wrong, and I’ll write more…hell, who am I kidding? I’ll write more anyway because this? Is self indulgent drivel. XD

Also located at AO3 over here.

“Lord Janus? I want this man dead.”

“Certainly, Your Majesty.”

“Please—mercy, Your Majesty!”

“Now hang on there just a gosh darn, berry pickin', mother lovin' moment, buster! Janny, if you know what's good for you, you will just stop with this nonsense and put the flippin' sword down!”

Roman would have burst out laughing if he wasn't fighting so hard to keep his composure. It could hardly be helped—Patton came up to Logan's shoulder, but only just, and was standing in his cell with his hands on his hips, glaring at the captain of the royal guard like he was a child being scolded for a broken dish.

Janus hardly looked intimidated—but the fact that he stilled after drawing his sword, leaving a terrified guard trembling against the bars of the cell next to Logan's was telling. Seven years, Lord Janus had served as the head of the assassins' corps before retiring to become the captain of the royal guard. Roman had heard stories, but never met the man until today, which was hardly unusual given that Janus was a drake—the son of a human and a dragon. They were notoriously gifted shapeshifters, even with a handicap like his.

Lord Janus was powerful, deadly, and highly skilled at remaining an enimga...but a hobbled child necromancer in a cell had the power to stay his hand.

Janus raised an eyebrow at Patton, but finally glanced at Roman.

Roman nodded. Janus refocused on the guard, pushing the tip of his sword against the hollow of his throat, hard enough to draw blood.

“Majesty, I beg you! I don't want to die!” the guard begged.

Roman let out a bemused little laugh.

“How strange,” he replied as calmly as he could manage, “I was under the impression you did, given the fact that you refused, a second time, to obey a direct order from your king.”

“The Necromata must be bound! It's the law!”

“I am the law!”

Storming up to the guard, Roman let his emotions fuel him—exhaustion, grief, anger, confusion, and the tearing, unspeakable ache that throbbed through him every time his gaze ventured too close to the open door of the cell where Logan still leaned.

The wail he'd let out when Roman pulled free of his grip to order the cell door opened was going to haunt his sleep. The way he stood now, so carefully still, features so meticulously schooled into calm, unfeeling lines, was going to rob him of that breath of life Logan had only just returned to him.

“I am the king now, and I am the ultimate authority.” Roman spat. “Now, I fully understand the need to shackle a prisoner being removed from his cell, but as far as I am concerned, this man is no longer a prisoner here.”

“You can't--”

“I think you'll find that I can.”

“Your Majesty.”

Roman turned at the sound of Logan's voice, cool and even but too quiet, hoarse and thick with the tears he'd finally managed to stop from streaming down his face.

“The law is such that the king cannot overrule it.” Logan declared with deceptive calm. “The Necromata, once imprisoned by the royal family, can only be pardoned for the crimes of their birth with the blessing of the people. A vote, if you will...and no such vote has ever been successfully passed.”

“How do you know this?”

“I have been here for ten years with little more to do than read. I have the entire legal code of the Kingdoms and the criminal rules of order memorized, along with the family tree of the royal family and all available star maps of the area.”

Roman wanted to scream. He wanted to hit something—for a terrible moment, he wanted to order Janus to proceed with the guard's execution for real, rather than just trying to make a point.

Then inspiration struck—bright, blinding, and blessed as it filled him with light.

“My order will still be obeyed.” Roman announced. “These two necromancers—they may not be pardoned, but they will be imprisoned at my pleasure...and it is my pleasure to have them confined to guest quarters upstairs. Have extra guards posted at all available palace entrances. They are not to leave the grounds until the vote has been passed. Successfully.”

He shot a look at the offending guard.

“And the first person to shackle either one of them without violent provocation will be hung at dawn.”

Janus lowered his sword and slid it back into its sheath—the cane he'd been carrying with him—before moving to Roman's side.

“Bit extreme, don't you think, Majesty?” he murmured once he was close enough to ensure that only Roman would hear him.

“My father is dead, Lord Janus.” Roman shot back bleakly. “I have yet to shed a single tear for him--'extreme' feels like an appropriate response right about now.”

“Touche. Of course—and it has nothing to do with the traumatized necromancer you're apparently well acquainted with?”

Roman didn't answer as he moved towards the open door of the cell. Standing before Logan, he extended his hand...

...then suddenly realized that was a bad idea as he put his hand back down again.

********** More.

Logan could hardly string a single coherent thought together around the constant chant in his mind, his marrow, his soul for the prince to touch him again. He couldn't let him, not when it was so agonizing, fire and pressure and somehow affecting every nerve in his body when it was focused on such a small area...

More. More. More.

He didn't understand why restraining himself was so hard. It hurt, it was clearly doing him some kind of physical and psychological harm...and yet he wanted. Needed.

He couldn't remember ever experiencing the sensation.

It very nearly caused another panic attack when the prince dropped his offered hand—and that was another problem entirely, standing before a cell door standing wide open, and the use of the word pardon being thrown around like it wasn't capable of changing the world as Logan knew it—but the pause that seemed to last for an eternity must have only been a few seconds long.

Because a moment later, the Green Man—the prince—was reaching into his pocket and producing a pair of pristine white gloves. A missing piece of the military uniform, how had Logan not noticed? He usually noticed things like that...

When he finished tugging them on, he offered his hand to Logan again. He said nothing...just waited.

Logan shook with the force of effort it took to reach, slowly, to accept the offered hand. The gloves blocked some of that heat from skin to skin contact—and when he gently folded his fingers around Logan's, barely any pressure, it was still intense...but better.

“All good, Berry?”

Logan looked into his eyes sharply, the name ricocheting around in his skull in a manner he hadn't experienced in literal years—not since he'd first discovered his power was awakening again, all concussive force and electricity crawling against the underside of his skin.

All at once, the years fell away, and he was asleep in his cell that first terrible night, dreaming of every monstrous shadow transforming into a protector as green eyes lit the dark.

He opened his mouth to answer yes, he was fine—then realized...

“I do not know which of the princes you are.” he admitted with a bemused huff.

That got a smile from the other man—too brief, far too brief before it fractured to pieces, a crystal goblet slammed to the floor, raining shards of razor sharp light.

“Roman.” he replied. “Pr—King Thomas Roman II, but you may address me by my name.”

“Hardly acceptable, is it, Majesty?” Janus mused.

“Given that my life is currently in this man's hands—and the future of my father—I'd say he's earned a few niceties, Lord Janus.” Roman announced, raising his voice to ensure everyone within earshot was aware of it. Logan had a strange feeling that Lord Janus spoke up for precisely that purpose, to make his situation known.

Logan's, not Roman's—Logan knew that anyone with a shred of loyalty to the king would probably kill him if given the chance. There was no question that someone would likely accuse a necromancer with ties to the crown prince of the murder. Fear for Roman's safety would keep him protected.

Janus was that kind of man, shrewd and shameless—Logan knew precious little about Prince Roman, but to discover that he was equally blessed with the gift of strategy was...intriguing.

“Lord Janus, see to it that Logan's cell mate is made comfortable, and shown around the north wing of the palace. That is where I would prefer they spend the bulk of their time.” Roman declared. “I will take custody of this prisoner myself. When you are done, I want you, the dungeon master, the head prison mage, and a heart healer in the war room, immediately. Send for my brother as well.”

“Yes, Your Majesty—but I cannot send you alone.” Janus replied. Surveying the guards in their presence, and grimacing with impatience, he finally took a few steps down the corridor and flagged down another guard.

“You! Fetch the cadet from the graveyard patrol, now! I want him on the king's detail.”

Roman nodded his thanks, finally turning his attention back on Logan. Between those green eyes and the warm pressure enfolding his hand, ravaging his nerves and making his chest throb with pure emotion, he wasn't sure he could stand it much longer without losing his composure.

“Are you all right?” Roman asked quietly, stepping closer and into Logan's personal space. Strangely, Logan realized he could feel that as well, radiant heat and buzzing static crawling across his skin, too close and not enough and everything.

More. More. More.

“I am not.” he admitted. “Hardly unusual, given that touch starvation is a common condition among the Necromata, to say nothing of the Claim.”

“The Claim? What's that?”

Logan's mouth snapped shut, very real panic rising in his chest again.

“Whoah—Logan? Logan, breathe. Look at me, you need to breathe.”

The Claim. He knew, knew what Logan had done, was holding his hand and Logan could feel it, but now he'd spoken about the Claim, about his power, and he was going to die this time...

...two...three...four...hold for one...two...three...four...five...

“That's it, Logan. There you go, can you do it again?”

...good job, now again: in for one...two...three...four...

Pressure. Pressure, pressure, pressure, everywhere, pressure pressure unrelenting pressure...

“Hey!”

Logan blinked, attention snapping to the young man suddenly standing in front of him. He was nearly Logan's height, with straight black hair that hung in dark eyes, flinty as stone.

“Name five things you can see.”

“I...what?”

“Do it. Five things.”

Logan shook his head, and almost immediately his gaze was drawn back to Roman.

“Green Man.” he managed to reply. Roman smiled, and Logan felt that mantra start tattooing itself against the inside of his skull, blotting out the fear and panic.

“Okay, keep going. Let's keep going.”

Logan only realized they were moving because Roman still held his hand, was tugging him with the barest of pressure—and Logan's traitorous body followed. Between the cadet, demanding Logan name more things he could see, along with touch, smell, hear, and taste, and Roman's silent encouragement, he found himself moving out of his cell and towards the stairs of the dungeon.

Moving up each stair. Moving through the gate, and into the palace...moving, traveling, with only Roman's hand to restrain him.

Then he was in the palace, above the dungeons...and if he never saw the outside world again, Logan still felt like he could call himself a free man.

********** “Thank you.”

The cadet flinched a little, looking towards the king. “What?”

“Thank you.” King Roman repeated, still crouched motionless by the chair the prisoner had all but collapsed into. He'd basically passed out when they reached the war room, but didn't seem to be in any distress—just exhausted and overstimulated.

“That trick, focusing on his surroundings—it's greatly appreciated.” he went on, his gaze never leaving the sleeping man's face. He still held his hand, like he might vanish if he let him go. “How did you know it would work?”

The cadet had to grit his teeth for a second, finding himself watching the sleeping prisoner despite his best efforts not to. He looked...well, he looked like shit, and it was hard. It was so hard to watch, but he had to do it.

He was finally here, and he had to make sure that he didn't screw up again.

“I have anxiety.” he finally replied, keeping his tone even. “Nightmares, panic attacks, the works. My brother used to help me through them with tricks like that. He'd have me focus on my surroundings, or make me pick out colors—he even made me a special blanket to help me sleep. It, uh—it might be good for him? The guard who got me mentioned that this necromancer can feel your touch? If he's not used to contact, it could...”

“You'd be willing to do that?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Go and fetch it, then.”

“Sir, I was ordered to stay with you.”

“I'm the king. I overrule your orders.” King Roman replied.

The cadet lifted his gaze to the king's face, his stomach sinking when he realized he was being stared at. Hard.

Ohhhhh, shit.

“You don't call me 'Majesty.' Why?”

The cadet tried to be discreet about taking a steadying breath as he shrugged. “You have a pet necromancer now. All due respect, but I don't think you'll have the job long.”

“What do you know about necromancers?”

“I know they're not evil. Only reason I'm still here is that you seem to know it, too.”

King Roman nodded, gaze flicking down before it returned to the sleeping necromancer.

“Cadet...do you know what a Claim is?”

The cadet swallowed thickly. No...oh no.

“It's a binding ritual.” the cadet replied. “The Necromata are capable of manipulating death, but when they can't? They take it.”

“Away?”

“No—into themselves. They take the victim's dying breath, infuse it with their blood, and return it to the person it belongs to. That way, when the victim's time comes, they survive it.”

The cadet looked to the necromancer again.

Gods, Loganberry—what did you do?

“And the necromancer dies in their place.”

To his credit, the king paled, his free hand lifting to touch Logan's hair like the cadet itched to—so close for the first time in ten years, but he couldn't even comfort him.

He had to stay put. By the door, protecting the king and his charge.

After a decade, Virgil was finally, finally within reach of Logan in every way that mattered, and he would die before he jeopardized his one chance to save him.

Virgil was the one who got his big brother caught and imprisoned in the first place—he was damn well going to make sure that he was the one to set things right.

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chrysalispen · 4 years

Text

Prompt #11 - Ultracrepidarian

AO3 Link HERE a special thanks to pliny the elder for sauce on this most expensive of fifteen dollar word prompts

====

"There we are," she whispered with a short snip of the clippers. "Just a bit of a trim..."

There were not many places within the grounds of the Laskaris villa that Aurelia could properly call a haven, but if she had to pick her favorite place on her uncle's property it was the greenhouse. He had had it built for her aunt to preserve the tea roses she loved, along with the other flowers that grew in much warmer climes than the mountains of far northern Ilsabard, but Aunt Marcella seemed to much prefer looking at flowers to tending them.

Aurelia, who had carefully tended her own small plot back home in Ala Mhigo, was more than happy to spend her term breaks making sure the heating system was functioning as intended and ensuring the soil for each plant had the necessary nutrients to winter them. As a result, the greenhouse had become her domain, which suited her just fine. Plants couldn't criticize her deportment nor her appearance, and she could get as covered in dirt and sweat as she liked with no one to gainsay her.

She was glad of it today, for it was a rare warm day in early spring and she was preparing the roses for transport. That meant trimming them back into a semblance of order and placing them in the soil she'd spread while making sure the root systems remained intact and inured against any shocks.

This was hard and sweaty work, and one which required a good deal of concentration and fortitude.

She exhaled and wiped her hands on the long linen apron she wore over one of her old day frocks, long since stained and soiled, then muddled around on the ground in search of the carbonweave gardener's gloves she'd dug from one of the supply closets. The extra grip would come in handy when she--

"Mistress Laskaris," a reedy voice echoed at her back. Aurelia paid it little mind, bracing her hands on the rim of the pot. "...Young miss, you have-"

"Tell them to wait, Cicero," she let out a tiny grunt with the exertion as she hoisted upward, "I'll be in presently."

"Beg your pardon, young miss, but it won't wait."

Aurelia rounded on her aunt's groundskeeper, an exasperated reply on her lips, and froze. A tall and immaculately dressed Garlean man stepped forward, looking down his aquiline nose at the weakly protesting servant for one brief glance before giving her a deep and courtly bow.

"You must be Aurelia," he said, his voice ebullient with false warmth. "Father has heard much of you from your aunt."

She stared blankly.

"I," he announced, "am Sebastian wir Acisculus."

The proud, haughty expression he wore told her everything she needed to know. Inwardly she groaned-- wir meant he was at least related to Gens Galvus by marriage if nothing else, which meant he would expect her to show him due obeisance for that alone.

My thanks, Aunt Marcella, she thought irritably. A stuffy and self-important lordling to dog her heels, just what she'd wanted while she was trying to work.

Another grunt had the base of the pot braced against her thigh, and she thrust out a filthy hand in his direction.

"Aurelia jen Laskaris," she said. "Pray excuse my appearance. Aunt hadn't told me to expect visitors."

"Your aunt is not to be faulted. She didn't know I would be coming today," Sebastian said, his nose wrinkling as he took her proffered hand- and, before she could stop him, had pressed his lips to the back of it. Somehow she managed not to yank her wrist from his grasp before he dropped it and reached into his coat for a handkerchief to wipe the soil from his fingers. "My servants and I were in the area and I thought to indulge my curiosity."

"One presumes you now find said curiosity fully sated."

"Might I ask what you are about?"

She leveled a steady, faintly disdainful gaze upon the man- more than enough to indicate she thought him at least partially witless.

"His lordship, I am sure, has seen a garden before."

"Ah," he coughed. "Yes, so I have. I did not expect to see a young gentlewoman of my peerage tending it personally."

Shaking her head, Aurelia turned her back on him and in the most undignified waddle in her arsenal began to lug the pot towards the open bed.

"I'll get that for you," and without waiting for her assent he had plucked the pot from her fingers, ignoring the annoyed scowl that crossed her features as he carried it to the edge of the soil and set it on the grass. "I fancy myself something of an expert botanist, you know."

"Do you," she said, flatly. He was removing his soiled gloves with a smirk, one he turned upon her with an uptilt of his chin.

"I do. When I studied at the Imperial Magitek Academy, I thought it might be pleasant to take up a hobby." When Aurelia didn't react to the obvious namedrop, he announced, "I took some courses in horticulture, and if I do say so myself, it left me with a renewed respect and understanding for such matters."

"I suppose one must have hobbies."

"For instance, did you realize that perennials cannot grow properly in alkaloid soil?"

With some effort, Aurelia managed to keep a straight face.

"Lord Sebastian," she said, "I find it quite interesting that you attended the Academy. What did you say was your field of study?"

"Engineering, of course."

"Not bioengineering?"

"Certainly not," he scoffed. "Very little glory to be had in such things, you know."

Aurelia rolled her eyes, turned her back to him, and pulled on the gloves she had tucked in her apron pocket. Once they were secured, she reached for her spade.

"If you attended the Academy and dabbled, as you say, in horticulture," she said, "then you would have encountered the guest lecturer there, Philetus lux Merenda."

"Well, I-"

"Master Merenda was very good friends with Midas nan Garlond, the previous Academy provost," she punctuated this statement with a deep and satisfying thrust of her spade into the edge of the potted soil, "and together they created a summer exchange program between the Academy and the Valetudinarium. He gives lectures as part of the optional curriculum, and likewise Cato nan Mammula offers in-depth capstone bioengineering lectures."

"You have taken them yourself, I assume?"

"Oh," Aurelia said airily, "for the past two summer terms, in fact. I find them quite enlightening. One must always have a thorough grounding in one's area of expertise and review all options. Don't you think?"

"Yes," he said. "Of course."

"There is a saying," she braced one hand against the edge of the pot for purchase, "of which Master Merenda is quite fond. An old Ilsabardian saying he attributes to a historian of the old republic-- in Old Ilsabardian, naturally. Do you know what it is?"

"I am certain -- though perhaps you might remind me."

Aurelia paused long enough to stare him in the eye and brush a wisp of forelock from her third eye with the back of one gloved hand, her golden coiffure as sweaty and dirty and disheveled as the rest of her.

"Ne supra crepidam sutor iudicaret. I assume that shouldn't need a translation, for a learned man such as yourself."

"Madam, are you implying-"

"It does? Why, how curious. My governess was quite emphatic that a good grounding in the classics was vital for a basic imperial education." She shrugged. "Well, I suppose I can enlighten you. 'The cobbler should not judge beyond his shoe.' It means that one should not speak of matters upon which he has no understanding."

Two pinpoints of hectic blush the color of rose petals had appeared upon his prominent cheekbones. Aurelia offered a smile that did not reach her dark blue eyes.

"I find it a most apt sentiment," she said coolly, "and one well-applied to life in the modern world."

His hands clenched at his sides and without a word he rounded on one heel and stormed back towards the peristyle, her aunt's household keeper at his heels frantically offering refreshment.

She watched them go, laughed, and turned back to her work. She still had a baker's dozen of roses left to plant.

#ffxivwrite2020 #prompt 11: ultracrepidarian #aurelia laskaris age 18

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jiminscaramel · 5 years

Note

au: 4 , trope : 2 , prompt : 20, 26 with jooheon from monsta x please💗

AU: 4. Mafia | Trope: 2. Enemies to lovers | Prompt: 20. “it’s just so hard not to fall in love with you.” & 26. “sometimes, i sit in bed and wonder what would happen if things were different.”

I got a lot little carried away and it’s become longer than a drabble. This was really self indulgent. I tried to convey the e2l dynamic as best as I could, I hope you like!

For as long as you remember, you’ve never had any freedom. Not any real freedom, at least. Everywhere you go, someone accompanied you and although it’s supposedly for your own good, you can’t help but feel it’s more of a hinderance.

They came and went and some lasted longer than others, either dying in your place or simply resigning due to fear. You’ve lost count of the attempts on your life, preferring to distance and emotionally detach yourself from the death toll that seemed to loom over your head like a stubborn cloud you can’t shake off.

You were nineteen when when your father – the most feared leader of the country’s infamous organised crime group – assigned you another security personnel. You’d thought nothing of him, the same as all the ones before him, only he seemed a little young for the job.

You learned he was the son of your father’s close friend, looking to make a quick buck and gain valuable experience to impress his father. And although you hate to admit it, even now, there was a lot to be impressed with.

His eyes were not only cold but calculating also, able to read beyond the surface of what they see. He never smiled, seldom talked and trying to see him as anything other than a machine was nearly impossible. He simply didn’t exude emotion.

He’ll be gone soon, you’d thought dismissively. The bet was on how long he would last.

You were twenty when Jooheon received his initiation tattoo – a cross beneath the corner of his right eye – establishing his permanent role in the family. And to this day, you still cannot explain the feeling of pure anger that simmered in your throat when you found out. Perhaps you’d grown bored of him, you’d wanted a new face to look at; or perhaps it was down to the deeper meaning behind his staying.

You’d considered yourself an adult, no longer needing nor wanting any protection from anyone. You wanted to be free; you wanted to walk down the street without counting your steps, without seeing him hover in eyesight; you wanted to spend your vacation time relaxing on a beach without the sore sight of him lingering close by, straight-faced and serious. Hell, you just wanted to pee without someone listening in on the other side of the door.

You wanted to be alone.

And so the anger manifested itself within you, morphing into an acrid resentment that never seemed to go away. You began to test his boundaries in different ways, trying to find his breaking point so that he may snap and hopefully be replaced by someone else.

But not once did he crack.

You were twenty-one when Jooheon realised he was madly in love with you and twenty-two when he realised it could never work. For one thing, the feelings were absolutely not reciprocated, that he knew for sure.

He’s known you long enough to know, that if you had an inkling of feeling towards him, you would’ve acted upon them long ago. He sees the looks of undeniable distain, he hears the exasperation in your voice when you speak to him and even hears the things you say about him to your father.

But for all the stoic exterior and steel heart, a very soft boy lies beneath, subdued and hidden in the depths of his facade. He feels just as deeply as you, loves just as fiercely and he knows he would do anything to protect your life.

Perhaps that’s why it hurts so much.

A taught sigh of absolute boredom whooshes past your lips, your hands working the hangers on the clothing rails. You dismiss each garment as if it’s worth less than the dirt on your shoe, unimpressed.

With so much money at hand and too much time to spend, you often find yourself running out of ideas. You find that you frequent the same bars and strip clubs, the same shops, the same hotels. The world is your oyster yet you never expected it to be so small.

You fish out your card from your purse and hand it over to Jooheon, who’s never more than two feet away from you. “Here, Jooheon. Buy yourself something.”

He stares blankly at the plastic in your hand and firmly shakes his head no. “No thank you.”

“Oh come on, Honey,” you roll your eyes, but watch carefully as his jaw twitches at the nickname. You smirk a small smile of victory, loving when his exterior begins to show signs of weakness.

Little do you know, the name you assume he hates is actually one of the things he loves about you. You always load it with sarcasm and contempt but it’s something at least.

“Don’t be such a do-gooder. Just buy yourself something. It’s not to my taste anyway.” You pull out a toffee-coloured, loose-fitting turtleneck and hold it up against him, humming in satisfaction. “Not bad.”

You thrust it against his chest for him to hold before trailing through the rest of the clothes, picking out new outfits.

He watches in awe as you’re fuelled with passion and purpose, working hard to find a style that suits him best. He admires you in all your splendour, staring at the soft curve of your jaw, the delicate hills of your Cupid’s bow as you ramble on.

His heart swells something stupid, inflating and expanding until all that’s left of him is left bare and exposed to you. His breathing quickens and his voice gets trapped in his throat.

He manages to call your name, a soft sound, almost a whimper.

You turn around, surprised and piqued more than anything but the way your face changes...

You notice his eyes first; round and wide, sincere and open but above all else you notice a subtle undertone of sadness. It’s like he’s granted you access to a tightly guarded vault, revealing all sorts of forbidden secrets inside. His cheeks flush, red like cherries.

It’s the most emotion you’ve ever seen him wear and to be quite honest, you haven’t the first clue on how to process it.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you scoff, your own heart working double time. “You’re creeping me out.”

Though you can’t explain the strange flutter, the unexpected beat your heart seems to so easily skip.

“I’m sorry,” he rushes immediately, clutching the assorted clothes tighter to his chest. You notice his knuckles turn white. “It’s just...”

Jooheon struggles to find the right words. He can beat a man black and blue, dodge fists and bullets, execute in cold blood yet he cannot form the right words to confess to the girl he loves so. The irony almost makes him laugh aloud.

“Spit it out, I don’t have all day,” though there’s less bite and venom to your voice, your tone cautious and curious instead. You feign interest in the shelf in front of you, pretending to rummage through the items, but your attention is solely fixed on Jooheon and his sudden display of emotion.

“I don’t know– I don’t know how to say it. I– it’s a mix of things that– I need to explain–” he trips over each and every syllable, dying a little more inside at the shambles. But it’s too late to stop now.

He continues to stare at your profile, completely high off your beauty and grace, despite how you regard him. But for all the sharp replies and short quips you constantly throw his way, he sees, that just like him, behind a hard exterior, there’s a soft side to you that’s begging to be let out.

“I just... God, I just love you.” The words sound messy and clumsy, hastily thrown together and spat out to resemble a sentence. He’s mortified and if the ground could open up and swallow him whole right this moment, he wouldn’t say no.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I love you.” But the second time is much easier and a great burden seems to have lifted from his shoulders.

You simply blink back in pure astonishment, lacking a witty retort or sassy clapback. He’d said it twice, yet you still question whether you’d heard him right.

“Are you sick?” You blurt out, absently wondering whether his strange behaviour is down to a bad fever. “Do we need to go home?”

He shakes his head and steps closer. You step back. “I know you can’t stand me, you think I don’t like you either but it couldn’t be farther from the truth. I... I adore you.”

“If this is a joke, it isn’t funny.” You frown and try to keep the oncoming tears at bay, swallowing them down.

“I’m not joking. I think... I think you’re the most beautiful, wonderful, kind and compassionate girl I’ve ever met. And... I know you hate having me around, I know you do but I would give my life to protect you. Spending every minute of every day of every year together... it’s just so hard not to fall in love with you. Sometimes,” he pauses to gather his thoughts, watching your bottom lip quiver. “Sometimes, I sit in bed and wonder what would happen if things were different. If I was like you. Would you still hate me then?”

And of course the question is rhetoric but he’s surprised to see you shake your head in answer, your jaw clenching in an effort to staunch the tears. “I don’t hate you.” You startle yourself with how steady your voice sounds despite being on the brink of tears. “I hate the idea of you.”

It’s something Jooheon has already worked out for himself but hearing you confide in him like this makes his heart soar.

You shake your head again, jumbling the thoughts up in your mind, and clear your throat. “I want you to resign.”

The words hit him harder than a truck, his face falling in dismay. And just when he thought he’d gotten through to you. “You– you want me to quit?”

You nod and shove more clothes into his hands, your face unreadable. “I want you to hand in your resignation letter first thing in the morning.”

“Why?”

“I think... I think we need to get to know each other better. And we can’t do that if you’re constantly watching over me. Leave that to someone else.” A small smile paints the corners of your mouth and Jooheon lets out a breath of relief.

“I don’t think your father will be too pleased to know I quit my job just to spend leisure time with his daughter.” He sounds worried and you try not to laugh.

“He has a soft spot for you.” But you don’t elaborate, instead dumping more clothes into his arms. “Right. Go and try those on. I’m sick of seeing you in that suit.”

And although it’s quite the unorthodox confession, you can’t help but feel the promise of better things on the horizon.

send me a combo from this list and I’ll write a drabble

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wisdomrays · 4 years

Text

WE SHOULD THINK WELL OF OTHERS: Part 2

Avoid raising suspicion!

In addition, in the same way that it is essential to hold a good opinion of others, it is also a very important principle to refrain from behavior that might raise suspicion. Some people fail to avoid acts and conditions that might possibly lead to ugly thoughts about themselves arising in the minds of other people. They might sometimes present behavior that can be open to criticism in terms of their personal lives, businesses, or social relations. Thereby, these people trigger negative feelings and ugly considerations in some people who are prone to suspicion or ill-opinion. However, everybody should review their own condition and refrain from raising suspicion, while constantly maintaining a good opinion of others.

It is not possible to approve of situations which might lead to suspicion, particularly today; at the present time what is prevalent is a collective spiritual identity rather than spiritual individuality. The attitudes and behaviors of every Muslim can be ascribed to this spiritual identity and it can be generalized to all believers. Therefore, one of the prayers I consider to be very important is “My God, do not humiliate our brothers and sisters because of my attitudes and behaviors, do not let them be embarrassed because of my personal mistakes.” Nowadays, an unmannerly act by a single individual might cause all believers to lose credit. A person with inconsistent behavior can lead to negative aspects being attributed to all Muslims. In this respect, it is even more important to act in accordance with the warning of the Prophet and we should avoid those places that might leave us under suspicion. In the same way that we need to avoid such “slippery ground”, places that might leave us under the suspicion of potential sins, and to avoid situations that might trigger feelings that could lead to such sins, we should also keep away from the dangerous territory that might distance us from our essential values through the attraction of a single word, through eavesdropping, or spying on others. Likewise, we should avoid heedless behaviors that might raise suspicions about us and we should not let negative thoughts emerge. The following example will guide us in this issue:

One day, when God’s Messenger was at his habitual retreat in the mosque for the last ten days of Ramadan, his wife Safiyya visited him and asked for permission to go home after having stayed for a while. God’s Messenger, who was a paragon of kindness, came out to see off his respectable wife. At the moment, one or two Companions who were passing by, saw them and walked away. The Prophet Muhammad, the Prince of both worlds, stopped them immediately and said “Look, this is my wife Safiyya,” raising the veil of our mother Safiyya. Upon this, the Companions responded in humility, “God forbid! O Messenger of God, how can one ever expect an evil deed from you?” The Prophet replied as follows: “The devil continues to circulate through the blood vessels of people.”

As the devil does not leave us alone; he can whisper various suspicions and evil thoughts into our ears. He might lead even the most decent people to ill thoughts in various unexpected ways. So, one should try to maintain good opinions and avoid situations that might lead to ill opinion as much as possible.

The good opinion of God Almighty

On the other hand, while believers should always maintain good opinions about others, it is unthinkable for them to express discontentment that denotes an ill opinion of the Creator’s deeds. Above everything and everybody, a believer must hold a good opinion of God Almighty. As expressed in a hadith qudsi by the Prophet, God’s treatment of a servant depends on that person’s opinion of God. This reveals how important it is to cherish a good opinion of God, and how great a means to salvation this is.

As an example of how good opinions about the All-Merciful Lord are turned into a decree of forgiveness in the other world, the Prophet narrated the following event: a certain servant is called to account. Alongside his good deeds there are many sins. When both are weighed, it turns out that the scale of good deeds is lighter and the man deserves punishment. The condemned man is seized and is dragged toward punishment in a wretched condition. He keeps turning and looking back, as if he was expecting something. God orders the angels to ask him why he keeps looking back (this “looking back” should not be taken literally, it is unthinkable for God Almighty to be confined to a place or direction). The poor man says, “O God, my good opinion of You is not like this. Yes, I have brought along sins while others came with good deeds; but I have never lost my faith or trust in Your Mercy. It has been my hopeful expectation that You will treat me with Your Mercy and forgive me also.” These considerations and the man’s good opinion of God Almighty opened a door to his salvation. Consequently, the man gladly heard the divine order to be taken to Paradise. In a similar way, after Abu Sahl had passed away to the realm of eternity, certain people saw him in their dreams, and he told them that he was enjoying indescribable blessings. They asked him, “O master, how have you been able to attain this exalted rank?” Abu Sahl answered “Thanks to the good opinion I cherished about my God.”

As a matter of fact, a believer should always maintain a good opinion about God Almighty in every phase of their life, and they should constantly live with this hope. They should say, “I may be a sinner, and I am hung by a thread to Him. Therefore I might slip and fall at any moment. However, He forgives the sins of His servants, and is All-Compassionate, particularly toward His believing servants (Ghafur and Rahim). I have firm belief that His Immense Forgiveness will include me as well,” and cherish the hope of being forgiven. Nevertheless, this good opinion and hope for forgiveness should not lead one to commit more sins. A sincere believer is supposed to avoid sins like they avoid poisonous creatures. Even if they were to commit a sin, they should immediately take refuge in repentance, and ask forgiveness with the hope of being pardoned. A very delicate balance is concerned in this issue; a fine balance exists between refraining from sins and not giving in to hopelessness after a temporary lapse, since hopelessness is a greater danger in comparison to a sin. Saying “There is no more hope for me” and totally giving up, indulging in the swamp of sins, and finally being seized by pessimism, finally committing suicide is a greater transgression than the sins which lead to such a state. No matter in what condition a person finds themselves in, given that we are servants of the All-Merciful God who reveals His attributes of Mercy and Compassion in the Qur’an, Who even addresses the people who waste their lives as “My” servants, then why should we be hopeless? Actually, one should be able to say “it is unbecoming to commit sins before the great Compassion of my Creator. Then how can I dare to commit transgressions again!” Therefore, one should not give in or become hopeless. Particularly in old age and at the moment of death one should even more enthusiastically take refuge in hope and be filled with beautiful considerations while returning to God. Similarly, God’s Messenger warned us against dying without a good opinion of God Almighty.

Moreover, we should not restrict our understanding of the hadith about our opinion of God and His treatment of us; we need to evaluate this hadith from a broader perspective. It really is an expression of good opinion to say “I have an All-Merciful Lord who makes me happy with His various blessings, guides me to righteousness, Who forgives my lapses, and pardons my sins.” However, there is the belief that everything that happens in our lives has been arranged for our own good (e.g. an illness is seemingly bad, but it can be a means of blessings for our afterlife if we abandon being patient and thankful) and that everything in life is tailor-made just for us. Our good opinion about our Lord depends on the existence of this belief. If God Almighty wills, He exiles us, puts us to another test, puts another person to prison… but no matter what He does, it is always for our benefit. Each case is meant to direct us, to guide us to a certain destination and help us to reach eternal bliss. From the worship for which we are responsible - such as the daily prayers, fasting, Hajj, and alms of zakat-to the apparent troubles and misfortunes, everything we become and everything we are subjected to is planned for our advantage. Having sincere faith in this truth is the peak of our good opinion of God Almighty.

To conclude, good intentions, positive thinking, and perceiving the beautiful are signs of a person’s purity of heart and the immensity of their conscience. If a person starts to judge others, no one will be left behind. If we do not hold on to good opinions from the beginning, we cannot help but judge everybody and everything. Therefore, when an individual is performing self-criticism-given that they do not give in to hopelessness-they should be harsh. But when other people are concerned they should hold on to good opinions. We must remember that it is better to be mistaken in a good opinion than being proven right with a negative opinion.

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mxliv-oftheendless · 5 years

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Intervention

Once again, I blame @cosmicrealmofkissteria for this piece of self-indulgence. But this time it’s like, seriously self-indulgent. It doesn’t even have to adhere to Shandi’s plotline, it could be an AU story for all I care, but I read her latest story Red With Envy (would advise reading this first for context), and immediately thought of writing this. So enjoy this little piece! Warning: it’s a bit long. Also, some lines of dialogue are taken from Game of Thrones.

A part of Starchild regretted asking the question. If he’d known it would cause such an awkward silence, he wouldn’t have asked.

And yet he had to know. Know what had caused Demon and Vinneketh to have such a horrible row in which they screamed at each other, smashed some perfectly nice vases, and didn’t speak to each other for days afterwards.

Not that they were fighting anymore, thank the gods. Not after Starchild’s genius idea to lock them in a closet and force them to work out their differences. But now that they had returned to their normal pair-of-lovebirds-selves, Starchild couldn’t help but wonder what had happened.

Which led him to a couple days later, when Demon and Vinneketh accepted his invitation to dine with him. It had been passing relatively normally for a while—Demon and Starchild bantering, Demon and Vinneketh being disgustingly adorable, Starchild dramatically calling them out for being disgustingly adorable, etc—when Starchild finally gathered up enough courage and drank enough wine to ask the question.

“What were you two fighting about?”

And Demon and Vinneketh immediately froze. Vinneketh spoke after a moment. “U-Uh… pardon?”

Awkwardly, Starchild elaborated. “What happened that caused you to be so angry with each other?”

The silence was stifling. Demon’s clawed fingers were curled into fists, and he was glaring murderously at the table. Vinneketh was looking anywhere but at Starchild, or Demon for that matter, with the look of a frightened animal.

Starchild immediately regretted his question. “I’m sorry, if it’s too uncomfortable for you, you don’t have to answer—”

“No, Starchild,” interrupted Vinneketh. “It is all right. You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s… simply rather… upsetting.”

Demon’s eyes flashed dangerously. “That is putting it very, very delicately.”

A wave of concern instantly passed through Starchild’s body. “Why? What happened?”

“A piece of filth called Bomani,” Demon growled. He turned and spat on the floor.

“Who’s Bomani?” Starchild questioned, his mind already thinking of ways to find whoever he was.

Vinneketh rolled his eyes slightly at him and turned back to Starchild. “Bomani is from the Order of the Golden Pyramid, as I am. He… He is also one of my friends.”

“Is he one of the party that visited you?” Starchild asked, remembering when the small group came.

“Yes, he was,”

Starchild raised an eyebrow. “Go on,”

When Vinneketh was finished telling Starchild what happened, Starchild sat back in his chair and blew out a breath. “Gods… And he still wants you to marry him?”

Vinneketh nodded despairingly. “Yes. But no matter how many times I tell him no, he doesn’t seem to understand.” He visibly squeezed Demon’s hand, which he had taken during his explanation. Demon stroked his thumb over Vinneketh’s hand.

No wonder Demon and Vinneketh had gotten into such a row. This Bomani… he had nearly destroyed them completely, all because he wanted Vinneketh for himself.

And it was that one thought that made Starchild say what he said next.

“Do you want me to kill him for you?”

Vinneketh’s mouth dropped open. “What? No!” he shouted.

“Are you sure?” Starchild asked seriously. “Because I can, and I will,”

“No, Starchild, I don’t want you to kill him?”

“Why not?” Starchild demanded.

“Because he is still my friend!”

“Any friend who tries to force you into a betrothal and refuses to acknowledge your feelings is not a friend,”

“I cannot believe I am saying this,” said Demon, “but I agree with Vinneketh. Starchild, do not kill Bomani. He isn’t worth the effort.”

Starchild stared blankly at Demon. Out of all the people to tell him to not kill someone, he never would have expected Demon to be one of them. Normally he would wholeheartedly agree. Vinneketh really was having an effect on him. At any other moment he would have smiled, but now was not one of those moments.

“Fine,” he ground out reluctantly. “I won’t kill him,”

Vinneketh relaxed. “Thank you, Starchild,”

“But I still want to have words with this Bomani. And no,” he added when Vinneketh opened his mouth, “there’s nothing you can say to stop me.”

Vinneketh looked as though he wanted to protest, but then closed his mouth and sat back in his chair in defeat. “All right. But please do not hurt him.”

Starchild smiled slightly. “I promise I will not hurt him. You have my word.”

-KISSTERIA-

The doors to the throne room opened, making Starchild perk up. Finally. He shifted his position on his throne so that his back was ramrod straight and he looked every inch the regal prince he was as the guards entered, dragging with them a man with tattoos all over his skin.

As the guards threw the tattooed man at the foot of the steps, Starchild allowed a small smirk to touch his red lips. “Is he the one?” he asked.

One of the guards straightened and bowed. “Yes, your highness,”

“Good,”

The man groaned, then raised his head to meet Starchild’s cold eyes. Starchild smiled sweetly at him. “Hello, Bomani,”

“W-What is this?” Bomani asked, in what Starchild was pleased to hear was a shaky voice. “What do you want from me?”

“I simply wanted to have a small talk with you,” replied Starchild. “It’s about a mutual friend of ours. Do you know Vinneketh?”

As Bomani’s eyes widened, Starchild laughed lightly. “Oh, but of course you know Vinneketh. Why wouldn’t you know the man you tried to force into a betrothal?”

“I—I never tried to force Vinneketh to do anything—”

“Oh really? Never tried to force yourself on him, never ignored his refusals… never went to the heads of your Order to try and arrange a betrothal?”

Bomani’s mouth dropped open, and Starchild smirked. “Oh yes, I know about that.” He rose from his throne and descended the steps. “I know all the things you tried to do.”

As Starchild approached him, Bomani seemed to regain a bit of his courage. Or, in this instance, stupidity. He rose up off the floor and glared heatedly at Starchild. “Who do you think you, that you can just threaten me like that?”

Starchild pretended to think about it. “Hmm… the Prince of KISSteria?”

“But you won’t hurt me,” Bomani said confidently. “You cannot hurt me, can you? If you could, I would be lying dead on the floor. Is it perhaps because the spoiled little prince can’t stand the sight of blood?”

Starchild raised an eyebrow at him.

He was right about one thing: Starchild technically couldn’t harm him. He had promised Vinneketh he wouldn’t, after all.

But that didn’t mean his guards couldn’t.

“Seize him,”

Immediately the guards moved forward. Bomani immediately tried to fight, but the guards grabbed his arms and forced them back.

“Cut his throat,”

Bomani’s eyes widened in terror as one of the guards obediently unsheathed a knife and brought the blade against Bomani’s neck.

At the last possible second, Starchild spoke again. “Stop! Wait!” The guard froze. Starchild smirked at Bomani’s terrified look. “I’ve changed my mind. Let him go.”

The guards immediately released Bomani, and he fell to his knees once again.

“Take three steps back,” Starchild ordered.

The guards obediently took three steps back. Starchild grabbed Bomani’s chin and forced his head up to look at him. He once again smiled sweetly at him.

“If you’re wondering, the only reason you’re not lying dead on the floor is because I promised Vinneketh I wouldn’t kill you. He really is a very good friend; it’s a shame you had to ruin things with him.”

Starchild maintained his grip on Bomani’s chin, and although his smile was still sweet his gaze sharpened. “Now you listen to me, and listen well. You will return to Sphynxia, and tell the heads of your Order you no longer wish for a betrothal between you and Vinneketh. And should you ever return to KISSteria, you will not even look at Vinneketh in any way that makes me think you want to try this again. If you do, I can promise you that I won’t be so merciful. And neither will Demon, I’m afraid; he is very protective of his mate, after all. Do you understand?”

Bomani nodded. Starchild bent down until their noses were almost touching. “I said, do you understand?”

“Y-Yes…”

Starchild smiled again. “Good.” He straightened up and let go of Bomani’s chin. “Off you go, then. The guards will escort you back to the transports. It was wonderful to finally meet you, Bomani.”

-KISSTERIA-

A week later, Vinneketh approached Starchild, holding a scroll in his hand. “Starchild, this just arrived for me.”

Starchild shrugged. “So?”

Vinneketh looked at him suspiciously. “So, I think you should read it. Perhaps you can make more sense of it than I can.”

Starchild took the scroll and unrolled it, reading the contents. Then he smiled triumphantly and rolled it back up. “Well from the looks of things, I would say Bomani will no longer be a concern of yours.”

Vinneketh frowned. “Starchild, what did you do?”

“Nothing. I had a talk with him, is all.”

“You didn’t hurt him, did you?”

“Does his pride count? Because in that case, yes. If it doesn’t, then no, I didn’t. I promised I wouldn’t, didn’t I?”

Vinneketh sighed, shaking his head at Starchild. “Yes, you did. I’m not going to get anything else out of you, am I?”

Smiling, Starchild handed back the scroll. “Afraid not. It’s my revenge on you for smashing those vases.”

Vinneketh huffed and rolled his eyes. “Are you ever going to let that go?”

“Again, afraid not,”

#Shandi's KISSteriaverse #takes place after part 4 of third wheel #starchild is a bro #it'll be a cold day in hell before starchild lets his ship sink #even if he has to channel cersei lannister to do it #vinneketh is a good friend even if bomani doesn’t deserve it #bomani gets put in his place #starchild may not have hurt him physically but he definitely hurt his pride #a moment of silence for the vases #lol i'm thinking the vases are gonna be a running gag #kiss au writing #my writing #once again credit goes to shandi and her KISSteriaverse #hope you enjoyed!

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damienthepious · 5 years

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ohhhhhhh boy. oh boy. folks. folks. I finished it.

When the Reckoning Arrives (Chapter 6)

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5] [ao3]

[Summary: The final chapter. One more conversation, and a proper reunion.

Notes: This one... got well and truly away from me. Note that this chapter is about double the length of any of the others. Sorry about that, I think? I don't know if consistent chapter length is a concern other folks have or if it's just a writer anxiety. Couldn't justify splitting this into two, though, so here it is in its entirety. I hope y'all enjoy this, and I hope you're satisfied with the whole dang mess. Thank you so, so so much for reading! The Penumbra has very quickly become an incredibly important part of my life, and the fandom has been just as wonderful as the podcast itself. You're all amazing and this fic wouldn't exist without your encouragement and kindness.]

All four of Arum’s wrists and both of his ankles are bound when he wakes, securing him tightly to a stiff human bed. He starts to try to pull out of it before he even opens his eyes, twisting his hands and trying to snake his claws under the bindings, his tail curling around the chain by his left foot, but the movement pulls at a tightness in his midsection and suddenly he remembers-

The quite singular sensation of being impaled. The unshakable knowledge of his own death. The way it felt, to have Damien and Amaryllis hold him as he faded.

And finally, Damien. Glowing like a falling star, eyes closed and hands cool on his scales, magic burning the pain out, burning the weapon out, and knitting him back together.

Impossible. An impossible dream- a hallucination, surely. His eyes snap open and he tries to crane his neck to see the injury that must still be there, but there is a thin blanket pulled up over him, covering the offending area. He frowns, and then he hears a prim, pointed cough from off to his right.

If he was unbound he likely would have leapt to the ceiling in shock. As things stand, he jerks against his shackles, hissing as the movement jars his wrists and pulls at the strange dull pain in his ribs. He whips his head towards the source of the noise, and is confronted by the placid face of a complete stranger. A human, obviously, but not one of the ones he knows. Small and swathed in silks, standing stiffly and watching him with keen, guarded eyes.

He watches her with equal wariness for the space of a few breaths, long enough to figure out that she is the only one in the room, and that she appears unarmed.

“Imagine my surprise, to find myself so decidedly un-slain,” he drawls after the pause, projecting a defensive air of indifference.

“Though not for lack of trying,” the woman says, matching his tone.

Arum can still feel the wound, but only when he focuses. Can feel something just slightly wrong, above his stomach, and on his back as well now that he’s paying more attention. He wants to know what, precisely, happened, and how desperate his condition remains, but he does not think this woman will tell him if he asks. Besides, he has a much more important line of questioning to pursue.

“Where are my- where are they?”

The woman stares down at him and Arum’s scales shiver with discomfort at the stranger’s keen gaze. The pause drags on too long and Arum asks again.

“Stop that,” he hisses. “Tell me where they are. Did-” he grits his teeth, but he’s too tired, too worried to stop himself from asking. “What happened to them? Are they hurt? If there is even a scratch on them I’ll- What have you done with them?”

“Nothing,” she answers at last. “I’ve done nothing to them. Technically speaking, however, they are both still being detained.”

“Detained,” Arum sneers, wishing he had at least one of his hands free, if only to gesture with. “I kept my end of the bargain, you know. That knight was returned to the Citadel in perfect condition, regardless of the incompetence of those archers. Technically speaking, my- Sir Damien and Amaryllis should have been freed.”

“Your Sir Damien,” the woman echoes, and he finally manages to catch a hint of the emotion hiding behind the words. There is… confusion, there. Disbelief.

He tilts his chin up, frill flaring halfway. There is very little of his dignity left to save, at this point. “My Damien. My Amaryllis.”

“Hm.”

“Who are you?” he grates out, eyes flicking anxiously around the room again, searching for other threats. “Are you some sort of- healer?” There’s a sneer in the last word, emphasizing his disdain for any medical professionals who are not Amaryllis. “You don’t look much like one. An interrogator? Or is this to be a very, very irritating execution?”

She narrows her eyes as if she does not quite believe him, though about what he is unsure. On instinct he flicks his tongue out, and- oddly, he recognizes her scent. He’s quite sure he’s never seen her before, but there is something familiar there he cannot quite place.

“The question of your fate has not yet been decided,” she says, matter-of-fact. “You have become the focal point of a very complicated situation.”

“A monster taking a knight captive is a situation that typically ends one of two ways,” he says. “In one of two deaths.”

“You were never going to hurt Sir Angelo,” she says, and he flinches before her tone really sinks in. She isn’t pointing this out to humiliate him- she is saying it as if she is trying to make herself believe it. Trying to make herself understand it.

He hesitates, his shoulders hunching. “I… that is…”

“When a shot was fired - an accident, you should know, and not an intentional attempt to derail the exchange - you pushed Sir Angelo down first. I saw how fast you moved after that, pulling the arrow from the air with barely a flick of your wrist. If you so desired, you could have avoided the arrow entirely, and let it hit the knight instead. Let the folly of my archers become a self-inflicted punishment. You chose to prioritize Sir Angelo’s safety over your own.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he mutters, glancing to the side. “He- have you- the little Knight was not damaged during the- the chaos, was he?”

“No,” Mira says. “He is somewhat shaken by the events of last evening, but unharmed. Though, it has become apparent that he was not precisely an unwilling participant in the negotiations between you and I, and I am unsure exactly what to do with that knowledge.”

Arum winces, then blinks in confusion. “Wait… my negotiations with you?”

She tilts her head at him. “You truly do not know who I am?”

He grimaces, flicking his eyes towards her one more time to see if anything at all jogs his memory. “You little creatures are too numerous to count; am I honestly supposed to keep track of every single one of you that scurries around this hive?”

The corner of her lip twitches, almost, almost a smile. “No, but perhaps it would be in your best interest to know the leader of your enemy.”

“My what?” he frowns, then understanding bolts through him. He hasn’t thought about the scent from that scrap of silk in months, and her voice- it sounds much different now than how it did when she was calling down from on high. “You’re- you are the Queen?”

“And you are Lord Arum. We have corresponded, though in a decidedly one-directional manner.”

Arum jerks his head back in alarm, glancing around the sterile, empty room again for signs of other eyes on the pair of them.

“Why?” he asks in a growl, and when she raises her eyebrow in a question he continues. “Why are you here? What are you playing at, coming in here to confront a monster without bodyguards, without arms? I was told you were supposed to be wise.”

She- actually smiles, at that, and gives a single breath of laughter before she catches herself. “I believe that you may have quoted my head bodyguard nearly verbatim, just now. My safety is of no concern, however. There are more guards than are strictly necessary just outside the door. They will hear if I shout, of course, but I did not wish for prying eyes and listening ears for this… meeting.”

“Why?” Arum asks again, more suspicious than ever.

“I believe it is important that I observe you myself. Converse with you on my own terms. Without interference.”

“Important to gather intelligence on your ‘enemy’ personally?” he growls, lowering his head. “Little human Queen doesn’t know how to delegate… how precious.”

“There is a decision that must be made very soon, and it lies solely in my hands,” she says quietly, her eyes looking somewhere past him. “I would like to know as much as I can about the situation before time runs out.”

Arum stares at her for a moment before it clicks. “Honeysuckle,” he breathes.

“Pardon?”

“Sir Damien,” he corrects, pulling on his shackles again in his distress. “He- you will make that decision yourself, then? His fate, his life-”

“Yes.”

Arum exhales, then straightens as best he can while halfway horizontal. “And to what fate will you send him?”

“The decision has not been made, as of yet. We are nearing the deadline, but there is still time.”

“Don’t- don’t toy with me,” he snarls. “I know how humans operate. I know he has broken your petty little rules, and I know what happens to rule-breakers in human society. You will have him killed. Do not try to lie to me, takatakataka.”

She is watching him, distant and inscrutable and calculating. It crawls like spiders up his scales, being observed so closely.

“What will you do, if you are correct?” she asks, quite quietly.

Arum tries to hide his flinch, but his frill is certainly giving him away. “I imagine if he is executed, I shall face a similar fate,” he says dismissively. “You would not just let me go.”

“A fair point. Indulge me, though. If you were free, and Sir Damien were to be executed, what would you do?”

Arum works his jaw silently for a moment. “To what fate would Amaryllis go, human Queen?”

The Queen sighs. “Her position is… complicated as well. In her own way she admitted to the same treason as Sir Damien, but her potential punishments are less severe. The strictures upon a Knight of the Crown are far greater than those upon a single herbalist who does not even live within the Citadel. For the purposes of this hypothetical, let us assume that she shall be returned to Exile.” She turns her gaze back towards him. “What action would you then take?”

Arum looks away, tongue flicking anxiously as he considers the question, considers how honestly to answer. “I don’t understand why it matters to you,” he says, weary. “I don’t even understand why you are speaking to me. Why I have been kept alive.”

“It does not matter if you understand why,” Queen Mira says, “but it does matter how you answer.”

Arum ducks his head, letting his eyes slip closed. Truth will be easier, if he can pretend to be saying this only to himself. “If Sir Damien were executed, I would ask Amaryllis what she wished to do. I would ask her if it would be too painful for her to stay by my side when I- when I had been the cause of our honeysuckle’s death. If she would still have me, we would return to my home, and we would mourn. Mourn, and discover if our broken edges still fit together without our third piece.” He swallows, blinks his eyes back open and ignores the heat he can feel at their corners, and then fixes the Queen with a glare. “There. Are you happy? Does that satisfy you? If you so desire, I am sure there are deeper depths to which I could debase myself, takatakataka.”

She- nods, after a pause. “Thank you,” she says, and the words sound stilted and awkward in her mouth, and Arum sneers automatically at her gratitude. “Now. To answer your questions as best as I am able. May I remove this sheet?” She gestures to the thin blanket covering him, and Arum gives a confused nod of his own, unsure how the two thoughts are related. She reaches forward, face placid, but he can see the very slight tremble in her hand as she pulls the fabric down.

The place where he had been pierced through looks-

The wound looks months old, not quite healed but healing, new scales growing shiny and bright around the edges, sealing the gap.

“Damien…” Arum breathes, unable to tear his eyes from the magic that has been done to him. “I thought… I was convinced it could not have been real…”

“This is why you are still alive,” Mira says. “In more than one way.”

“Explain,” Arum says, narrowing his eyes. “What- how did he do this? Magic, it must be magic-”

“Sir Damien prayed to his namesake,” she says, and finally she pulls a chair closer and sinks to sit with a sigh. “He prayed to a Saint for the sake of a monster, and his prayer was answered. Answered quite definitively, I would say. And therein lies the problem.”

“The… problem?” he says, finally looking away from the sullen welt on his midsection and meeting the gaze of the Queen again. She looks tired, he realizes. Tired, confused, and thoughtful.

“You were saved by the grace of a Saint, Lord Arum. To kill you after that…”

“Couldn’t possibly be a worse heresy than praying for a monster in the first place,” Arum mutters, and the Queen’s breath catches on a small laugh.

“Some would agree with you,” she admits.

Arum frowns. “And… you, little Queen?”

Mira doesn’t answer immediately, breathing slow with her eyes downcast until Arum grows worried again. “This slim hope,” she says eventually, and Arum realizes with a jolt that she is repeating the words of Damien’s prayer. “This proof that the river between Arum's kin and our own has the potential to run placid…” She raises her eyes to meet his own. “He has quite a particular way of putting things, does he not?”

“Professional prattler,” Arum rasps, clenching his fists. “And a naive one, at that.”

“So you do not believe as Sir Damien does, Lord Arum? That some sort of peace could be reached?”

“Of course not, the very idea of it is- is…” he grimaces, then sighs. “Damien… Damien and Amaryllis and I have found… an understanding.” An understatement, but if he grows any more embarrassed he’s liable to actually damage the scales at his wrists pulling on his bindings. “I do not know if that means that monsterkind and your own people are capable of the same. Magic is unpredictable, like that.”

“Magic,” the Queen repeats, something cold and suspicious in her tone, and Arum blinks, confusion joining the tangle of embarrassment he feels.

“Are…” he bares his teeth, glancing aside uncomfortably. “Are bonds of romantic affection… not seen as a manifestation of magic by you mammals?”

She stares at him for a long, wondering moment, and then her cheeks darken noticeably. It’s a human tell that Arum has seen on Damien countless times, but Arum cannot fathom what it could possibly indicate in the Queen. “I…” she coughs, delicately. “I suppose, metaphorically, love is often thought of in that way.”

Arum winces. He would do very well indeed if he never again heard the word ‘love’ from the mouth of any but his herbalist and his poet. It is unbearably sentimental. “Yes, well, whatever you call it, it is unpredictable. Another monster could be in a position such as mine and not- there were many points at which the three of us could have crumbled apart. Killed one another. Hurt one another too much to forgive. It is difficult to say whether humans and monsters are capable of understanding each other at large, or if what we have achieved together is… something entirely unique. Unreproducible, as Amaryllis might say. So,” he draws himself up slightly, “could there be peace? Perhaps. Perhaps the conflict may happen to align perfectly to allow it; the universe has done stranger, less probable things. But from what I have seen of both of our sides, it seems far more likely that monsterkind will behave too unpredictably, with too little agreement between the lot of us, and your people will be too unwilling to forgive mistakes, and misunderstandings.”

“That is… a rather articulate and nuanced position.”

Arum’s lip pulls up in a sneer. “Were you expecting me to merely snarl and gnash my teeth?”

“I had very little idea what to expect,” she says, unselfconscious. “I have never spoken at length with a monster before.”

“Nor I a Queen,” Arum says dismissively. “So what?”

She smiles again, and it seems to come easier this time. “I apologize. I did not mean to imply any lack of intelligence on your part.”

Arum’s frown deepens. “What are you apologizing for? I’m a monster, have you forgotten? You may play nice for as long as you wish, you are Queen of these creatures and they must obey your whims, but when all the game is played out, when you have run out of all your questions and hypotheticals, I will still be myself and your people will still expect but one outcome. Saved by magic or your Saints or whatever else, I will not escape this Citadel with my life and we both know it, takatakataka.” He bares his teeth again, ducking his head to emphasize the force of his glare. “It seems a cruelty beyond stating to pretend anything else, and I have grown tired of the game, little Queen. I demand you make your decision regarding Sir Damien and Amaryllis and get on with killing me. Either my death will protect them or it will mean I will not be forced to see them fall to ruin, and either outcome would be preferable to this pointless interrogation.”

She tilts her head, and something about the sad confusion in her expression fills Arum with even more potent anger, and she asks in a small sort of voice, “You… you honestly, truly care about them, don’t you?”

Arum chokes on his breath and it turns into a bizarre laugh, rattling and hoarse and joyless. “That-” he nearly chokes again, pulling at the shackles without meaning to. “You- of all the ridiculous- that is what you choose to disbelieve? I am laid bare before you in nearly every sense of the term only for want of their freedom, I could have died for them - I tried to die for them - and you cannot understand that I love them? That is the point you cannot comprehend, the bridge you refuse to cross? You- you are an unfathomable fool, little Queen.”

After a long moment Queen Mira stands again, and Arum’s terrible laughter dies out. He tenses automatically as she walks past him, but she doesn’t stop until she reaches the door. When she cracks it open and leans halfway out, he hears the clatter of what he can only guess is a ridiculous number of armored knights startling, and then she murmurs something just barely too quiet for Arum to hear. One of the others outside says, quite distinctly, are you certain, and then her voice comes again, no less quiet but certainly harder, and colder. She closes the door again, but she stays beside it. She turns her head, just enough so he can see one of her eyes, and the strange, contemplative curve of her mouth.

“Amaryllis told me,” she says, “that I must look to the evidence in front of me, and not be blinded by what I fear.”

“She is more brilliant by far than the whole lot of you put together,” he growls, too distracted by worry about the words she exchanged outside to really process what she’s said to him properly. It doesn’t seem to matter anyway, because she doesn’t respond. She stands, facing away, and keeps her hand pressed to the door until there is a light knocking and she opens it again.

The high-voiced knight comes in first, eyes wary, and behind her are Sir Damien and Rilla. Arum lurches against his bindings with his entire weight at their sight, a breathless noise escaping him. She’s going to have them beheaded in front of me, he thinks first, wildly, and his body goes cold at the thought. They are standing unbound, though, looking wary but not afraid, and the knight does not even have her hand near her hilt.

When Damien and Rilla notice him and both step toward him in response to his movement, the knight throws her arm out like a branch, halting them, her attention on the Queen as if waiting for permission.

“Sir Caroline. Unlock the shackles on Lord Arum,” Mira says, and every pair of eyes in the room swing towards her in some combination of surprise and alarm.

“Whatever you say, my Queen,” Caroline drawls after an awkward moment.

“Were you detaining them next door to us, little Queen?” Arum says as Caroline approaches, trying to pave over his confusion and momentary panic. “They arrived rather quickly- unless your dungeon is adjacent to your infirmary-”

“I said they were being detained, not that they were in the dungeon. Sir Damien required some medical attention as well, and he is-” she sighs, “rather particular about his attending physician, so they have both been nearby.”

Arum rubs his wrists once Caroline unshackles enough of them to do so, craning his neck to try to see where Damien is hurt. “Medical attention? What happened? You claimed you had done nothing to them-”

“My Queen spoke truth,” Damien says softly, and Arum’s claws twitch at the sound of his voice. Damien lifts a bandaged hand with an embarrassed half smile and a shrug. “Saintly power is… a rather formidable imposition upon mortal flesh, I have learned.”

“It’s a burn,” Rilla supplies. “Not a terribly bad one, thankfully. Because I didn’t already have enough to worry about.”

Damien ducks his head as if chastened, but Rilla takes his unburned hand in her own and squeezes, and he smiles again, a little less tightly. Arum swings his legs from the bed and stands the moment Caroline is done undoing the bonds at his ankles, intending to go to them the moment he is able, but it’s only when he is on his feet that he realizes that he feels entirely drained, exhausted from the bones out. He tries to hide the way he sways on his feet by pretending to lean back against the bed deliberately, but he can tell that Rilla, at least, is not fooled.

“Is this another test, Queen?” he asks instead, gesturing to his unbound state. “Like your questions?”

“No. No more of that, I think,” Mira says, and then she glances to Damien and Rilla. “You may go to him.”

Damien looks to the Queen in bewilderment, but it’s a brief look because Rilla moves forward and she’s still clinging to his hand.

There is a half second of hesitation when they are close; Arum can’t help the unease he feels at the nearby near-strangers when he wants his humans in his arms, especially considering that he is unclothed from the waist up. Sir Caroline, however, is staring decidedly away from them, apparently at nothing, and Mira discreetly drops her gaze down and to the side, so when Rilla is within arms reach he damns his discomfort and reaches. He pulls her into his chest and Damien next to her, and Arum can taste the salt on the air that means his knight is overwhelmed enough to fall to tears.

Arum clings to them as tightly as he dares, as tightly as the weariness of his body will allow, his tail wrapping around them with a shivering of scales. He glares over their heads one more time to make sure others in the room still have their eyes safely aimed away, and when he is satisfied that they are not under scrutiny he lowers his head, pressing his face into Damien’s neck. He needs to feel the pulse there, heat and life and sweetness, vulnerable and unsure whenever these two soft creatures are out of his sight. The position has the added effect of allowing him to feel the way Damien’s breath is hitching, and the words he is barely, barely managing to whisper.

“… so so sorry,” he breathes against Arum’s scales, over and over and over. “Oh Saints I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-”

“Hush, honeysuckle,” Arum murmurs with a rumble in his chest, stroking a hand through Damien’s hair. “You are the only one who blames yourself for any of this.” Damien chokes, melting into Arum’s chest, and Arum is grateful for the bed behind him because otherwise the added weight might have actually made his legs buckle. “Shh,” he hisses, “shhhhh, little poet.”

Rilla’s hand presses against his midsection and he winces, pulling back enough to give her a wary glance. Her brow furrows, pinpoint focused as she skillfully investigates what remains of his injury, her fingers careful but firm against his scales, and he can’t help his small breath of laughter at the intensity in her gaze. She scowls up at him and he grins in response, her irritation at magic in general feeling both familiar and safe.

“I’m alright, Amaryllis,” he says, and her eyes narrow skeptically.

“Yeah? You’re shaking, Arum.”

He blinks, swallowing uncomfortably when he realizes that she isn’t wrong. His hands, his legs are trembling with the effort it is taking to stand. He leans a little more heavily on the bed, and winces when Damien looks up at him with nervous, shining eyes. “Merely- I am merely fatigued. Nothing to concern yourself over.”

“I think I’ll be the judge of that,” Rilla says, and then she gently pushes Damien aside so she can examine Arum in earnest.

“If you insist, doctor,” he mutters in a growl, but it’s impossible to hide the way he instantly relaxes at her touch; purposeful and soothing and practiced, while Damien clings to his left arms and rests his forehead on Arum’s shoulder. He doesn’t even notice that his eyes have slipped closed until Rilla pats her hand on his cheek and he blinks them back open. She’s close, still frowning though her expression has softened as she checks his pupils, and he flicks his tongue out to tickle the tip of her nose. That startles a laugh out of her, which was precisely the effect Arum hoped it would have, and then she looks up at him with a wry smile, her hand dropping from his face to rest on his shoulder.

“You may have been magically healed, but you still lost a lot of blood before that,” she says in her most businesslike tones. “You’re fairly dehydrated, probably anemic though I don’t know exactly what that looks like on a lizard, and I’m concerned about how exhausted you seem even after resting for as long as you did- I’m assuming you slept through the night? And, by the way, you pulled your wrists bloody on those shackles and I bet you didn’t even notice.”

She’s right, again, and he ducks his head and frowns as she pulls his hands toward her one by one to treat and bandage.

“I hope you have some understanding of my position,” the Queen says, apparently having decided that they have had enough time with themselves.

“Which part?” Rilla says sharply, not looking. “The part with that arrow, or the part where Arum got impaled?”

“The arrow was a regrettable accident,” Mira says. “Someone too unexperienced on the wall with the rest of the archers, and a slip of the hand. Sir Absolon, however, saw an opportunity and leapt without consulting with anyone else about his strategy.”

There’s a coldness in Mira’s voice, then, and Rilla blinks when she hears it though she does not pause in her work. Damien makes a small, unhappy noise at Absolon’s name, and Arum pulls him closer automatically.

“And if he had consulted you?” Arum asks, curiosity getting the better of him.

She pauses as if considering the question very seriously. “The moment would have passed before he could,” she murmurs. “He chose to act unilaterally, because the alternative would have been not to act at all. However, I saw- everyone saw that you chose to push Sir Angelo out of the way. That did not go unnoticed. I think even if the Saintly intervention had not occurred, the rumors would have become an issue quite quickly.”

“Rumors?” Damien pipes up, voice pitching high and concerned. “What rumors?”

Mira purses her lips and sighs. “We may have cleared the gate of civilians,” she says wryly, “but that meant they were all aware that there was a situation that required them to be cleared. Besides that, there is the fact that the sheer number of knights and guards involved in the exchange could never be expected to keep silent about all that they saw.” She turns her head slightly away from the trio. “What, precisely, are they calling Lord Arum in the city now, Sir Caroline?”

Caroline huffs a breath, as if she had been hoping to remain unnoticed. “Saint-Touched,” she says begrudgingly. “They are calling him Saint-Touched, according to my second in command. There are many wildly inaccurate versions of the story flying around the streets, of course, but the healing itself seems to factor in all of them, and the monster protecting Sir Angelo seems to be a large part of the discussion as well.”

Arum stiffens, hissing under his breath. The idea of an entire city of humans, of strangers, whispering about him, about his near-death and his saving- it makes him want to crawl back to the Keep and find a dark corner to hide in for a decade or two.

“So now you’re worried about people thinking it’ll be blasphemy if you have Arum killed, aren’t you?” Rilla says, finishing the last of the bandages on Arum’s wrists. She keeps hold of one of his hands, though, squeezing gently as she angles her body so she’s between Arum and the Queen. “Blasphemy to kill Damien too, probably, since it was his prayer that got answered.”

Mira squeezes the bridge of her nose for a moment, sighing again. “Yet others are crying that this must have been merely another deception, as Saint Damien would never grant so unholy a prayer for so unholy a beast.” The words are quick and toneless and audibly irritated.

“And what of you, my Queen?” Damien asks softly, from the arms of his monster. “Do you still believe as you did yesterday morn?”

Mira presses her hands together briefly before she turns and steps closer to the three of them, within arms reach. She looks up, and then further up, until she can meet Arum’s violet eyes with her own searching gaze. “You could have killed Sir Angelo, could kill everyone in this room with merely your claws if you so desired, exhaustion or no,” she says, slowly. “I still don’t understand what makes you different from your kin - or if you even are different from your kin - but I believe that Sir Damien and Amaryllis were correct in their estimation of you.”

“How magnanimous of you,” Arum growls sardonically, flaring his frill and shifting in discomfort even as Damien sighs in obvious relief. “I’m so pleased to have earned your approval.”

Rilla presses her lips together hard to bury a smile at the same time that Damien inhales sharply. The Queen, however, does not seem bothered by his tone.

“Hm. You will likely be unhappy about this phrasing, but it is necessary,” she says with a wry smile, and Arum narrows his eyes in confusion. She takes a deep breath, lifts her chin, and then she says, “By the will of the Saints above, and by the authority of the Crown, Sir Damien the Pious, Amaryllis of Exile, and Lord Arum,” she pauses to breathe a laugh, “the Saint-Touched, you are all hereby granted pardon. Lord Arum, you are now under the protection of my rule, and no Knight of the Crown may harm you.”

“Huh,” Rilla says, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, my Queen.” Damien presses a hand to his heart, voice wavering. “Oh, by the Saints above, oh I cannot believe-”

“I am not even one of your subjects,” Arum says, baring his teeth. “Not even a human. Can you even pardon me?”

Mira blinks, then looks up at the monster with an expression of exquisite innocence. “Who, precisely, do you believe would attempt to tell me what I am and am not allowed to do?”

Arum laughs without meaning to, and then laughs again when the reality of the situation settles softly on his shoulders, the tension he’s been holding since Sir Angelo burst onto his balcony yesterday finally, finally easing. He isn’t going to die here. Damien isn’t going to die here, none of them are, they will actually be able to go home-

“Little Queen,” he says warmly, “you may have some monstrous instincts of your own, I think.”

“He means that as a compliment,” Damien adds quickly.

“When you feel strong enough,” Mira says, and then she pauses. “When your doctor says that you are strong enough, you will be provided with an escort out of the city, for your own safety, and you may return to… the Swamp of Titan’s Blooms, I believe Sir Damien said?” She pauses, and Arum nods. “Rather, you may go wherever you like. In the meantime, while you are convalescing I will put my words here to official decree, and make my decision known.”

“My Queen!” Damien exclaims again.

“Some will call me mad,” she says, tone more casual than it has been this entire time. “But others will listen. Others are ready to listen.”

“I mean,” Rilla says, “I don’t know about these two, but I would certainly feel a lot better getting out of here sooner rather than later, before someone gets a stupid idea in their head about finishing what Absolon started.”

“I understand that,” the Queen says, picking her words carefully and slowly. “But I will not allow anything to happen to you now, not in my Citadel, and… it will be important, I think, for the three of you to walk out of this place together. With your heads held high. I believe it would send a more effective message if your monster did so on steadier legs than he currently seems to possess.”

“Strategic,” Rilla says, sounding both irritated and impressed as Arum grumbles beside her. “Alright. We’ll do it your way, then.”

Mira nods. “Thank you. We shall… leave you to rest, now. When you are ready, let the guards know and I will see you off.” She tilts her head and looks up towards Arum again. “Though our first meeting was not exactly…” she flicks her eyes towards Rilla with a vague smile, “auspicious, Lord Arum, I hope that our acquaintance will continue to be as… enlightening as it has so far been.”

“And with fewer brandished weapons, if the universe grants,” Arum grumbles with a wry smile.

“Indeed.” She gives a light laugh. “Sir Damien, Amaryllis, I…” she pauses, “I apologize. Despite my intentions I was both cruel and rash, and it is only by the grace of the Saints that my mistakes did not cause irreparable harm.”

Rilla’s jaw clenches, her eyes narrowing, but Damien wilts slightly. “My Queen, I never doubted that your clarity of vision, your wisdom would win out in the end.”

“Never?” Mira says, her eyebrow raising in a skeptical arch. “Not for a moment, Sir Damien?”

“Well- er…” he clasps his hands together in front of himself, eyes flicking uncomfortably away. “That is… I hoped. I hoped that you would see truth, even if I harbored concerns that you could not.”

Mira closes her eyes in a self-deprecating smile. “The truth always sounds much better in your voice, Sir Damien. I should have known it by sound when yesterday we spoke.” She opens he eyes again, nods, and starts towards the door. “As I said. When you feel prepared to leave, inform the guards. I have… quite an imposing amount of work in my immediate future, I am sure you understand. Sir Caroline?”

Caroline doesn’t straighten, exactly, because her posture has been ramrod stiff since she entered, but she does come to attention and fall into step with the Queen, pulling the door open in front of her. Mira graces the trio with one more glance as she exits, accompanied by a subtle smile.

Sir Caroline, for her part, merely leaves and closes the door behind her.

Arum exhales in an exaggerated hiss when they are safely alone, and then he sags more fully against Damien, against the bed. “Not my preferred morning conversation,” he mutters, “but I suppose it could have been far, far worse.”

Rilla crosses the room to a basin of water waiting in the corner and fills a cup, and she shoves it firmly into Arum’s hand when she returns. “Rehydrate,” she instructs, and Arum rolls his eyes but obeys. He is grateful for the coolness on his tongue, and as he drains the cup he becomes suddenly aware of how thirsty he is. The feeling hadn’t really registered above the rest of his exhaustion, dull pain, and panic. She goes to get him a second cup, and he drains that one too.

Damien is worryingly quiet, and Arum grows still more worried when he glances down and sees the growing expression of distress on the poet’s face.

“Honeysuckle,” he murmurs, passing the empty cup back to Rilla and brushing a hand down Damien’s arm. “What-”

“You called yourself a shackle of monstrosity, as if you were some sort of- of imposition upon me,” Damien mutters suddenly, furiously. “I cannot believe you- how could you attempt to discard yourself so carelessly?”

Arum frowns, thrown by the sudden turn of mood. “Oh spare me, honeysuckle” he says, embarrassed to be made to confront words he thought belonged on his deathbed. “Do not pretend that you were not planning for your own dramatic execution, fully expecting to leave us behind.”

“How about the both of you stop trying to get yourselves killed at every damned opportunity?” Rilla says in a sharp voice, eyes bright. “Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to be in love with two idiots without an ounce of self preservation between the two of them?”

“You marched into the Citadel on your own, Amaryllis,” Arum snarls, mortified by the way his voice cracks and wavers, “knowing full well that you could have been marching to your own arrest as he had, without even stopping to speak with me. You should have come to me. You should have come home and we could have- could have concocted a plan together.”

“I’m sorry, Arum, but I couldn’t wait-”

“You left me alone, do you have any idea- what would I do if either of you were hurt? If both of you- I could have lost the both of you and then-”

“We almost did lose you,” Rilla says, quieter as she gently traces her fingers along the edge of the almost-scar. “It- clearly we all fucked up on the way here, okay Arum? It was- it was a terrible situation and we all… did the best we could, I think. We made mistakes, and I’m sorry for sending Angelo when I should have come to you myself, but I can’t change what’s past, Arum.”

Arum gamely pretends that he hasn’t started shaking again. He hisses, not quite a concession, and wraps two of his arms around her. She smells like clean linen, disinfectant, like her own sweet self. Damien slides into the embrace as well when he reaches out, and the fact that he and Amaryllis are alive and safely in his clutches is far more important than any other thing in the world.

After a moment Rilla pushes him back. “You need to get off your feet. To rest.” When Arum grumbles under his breath she scowls, pushing him again until he’s fully on the bed. “The quicker you get your strength back the quicker we can get the hell out of the Citadel.”

“The quicker we can go home,” Damien says softly.

“Fine,” Arum hisses. Then, he reaches over and Damien yelps as Arum drags him up onto the bed with him, tucking his head under Arum’s chin and rumbling deep in his chest as he settles. “But I refuse to lay in this stuffy human room on my own.”

“Arum!” Damien squeaks. “Put me down-”

“Please,” he says, and Damien stills. “I cannot… I don’t think I can sleep if… I need to feel your heart beating, honeysuckle.” He reaches a hand out, and he hears Rilla sigh fondly before she crawls up on the other side of the small bed, nestling in against him.

“Okay, okay, fine,” she murmurs, her own hand resting over Arum’s heart. “Will you behave now?”

“Never,” he murmurs into her hair. “But I will rest, Amaryllis, so long as you both stay with me.”

They do walk out together with their heads held high, as Mira said. With their hands clasped together as well, for good measure, with Sir Angelo grinning broadly beside them and Sir Caroline looking put-upon at their back. There are whispers again, of course, and stares, but the curious and wondering faces outnumber those contorted in fury or disgust, and they have very little energy to spare for their audience regardless. Arum needs every ounce of concentration merely to continue forward, pushing through the vague burn of strain in his limbs, and any remaining focus he spares only to lift his head as pridefully as he can, and to feel Amaryllis supporting him on one side, and Damien on the other. They guide his steps through the unfamiliar streets, gracefully disguising the moments when he needs to lean on them to keep his stride even.

His cape had been unwearable; barely purple at all anymore beneath the blackish-red stain, but the Queen had provided a spare. It is slightly shorter, but wide enough to cover him properly; pale blue silk with a vague shimmer of purple that he can drape around himself just enough to hide his injury. Damien was the one who pointed out with shining, gleeful eyes that the color was near exactly that of the glow of the Saint-fire, but Arum cannot bring himself to care. The cloth serves the purpose it must, be it colored like magic or merely like myrtle.

Sir Caroline leaves them at the gate, giving a curt nod before she returns to her duties. Sir Angelo walks them to the edge of the trees, and keeps an eye open for watching eyes as Rilla pulls a bag of dirt from the pockets of her skirt and summons a portal back home.

The Keep spends a good five minutes clutching Arum in its vines and trilling a terrified reprimand at him until he begrudgingly apologizes for his brush with death, the pain and fear it could feel in him even miles distant, and then it pokes and prods at Rilla and Damien until it is satisfied with their safety as well.

Damien sighs deeply as they nestle together on their own bed. It hasn’t even been two full days since they were like this last, but the memory of safety had grown so distant in that short time that the homecoming feels raw. Earned.

“None of this is going to be easy,” he says softly. “That baker in the square, Dominick? He would have thrown that entire basket of rolls at all of us if Sir Caroline had not glared him down, I think, and I doubt Sir Absolon and I will ever speak amicably again. It will be quite some time before things in the Citadel manage to settle back down.”

“But we’re all alive,” Rilla says, exhaling as if she’s been holding her breath this entire time. “We’re okay, we’re safe. The rest of it- we’ll figure it out, somehow.”

“Together,” Arum says, his eyes slipping closed again. “We shall figure it out together.”

#elle's fanfic #the penumbra podcast #second citadel #rad bouquet #sir damien #amaryllis of exile #lord arum #IT'S DONE I DID IT IT'S DOOONE #imagine griffin doing that twirling dab from the mbmbam show and that's me right now but also with sCREAMING #hold breath hit post byeeeeee #when the reckoning arrives

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