#i'm rusty

(good to see you back here again, btw ❤️)

i tried my hand at it. meh for the tattoos. i can never get em right

anyways an additional drawing below the cut! :D

Developing a crush on actor! Sunday.

It started off with landing your first role as the main character of a romance story, with Sunday being your co-star. You only ever spoke to him in moments between shots and during said shots, but the both of you had good chemistry on set, and that was enough for the first few parts of the movie. 

Your friendship started when he offered you a sandwich during a break. He noticed that your eyes had been glued to your script from the moment you came into the studio. You hadn’t eaten, or at least, hadn’t eaten in a long period of time. The shots you had to film on that particular day were exhausting, and he didn’t want you collapsing. 

After you explained that you were struggling with a particular part of your script, he sat down beside you to help. Your breaks lasted around an hour, and in that time, he had helped you with everything you needed, ranging from line delivery to body language as best as he could. Unbeknownst to the both of you, one of the cameramen on set had filmed your interaction for ‘behind the scenes’ clips. 

Sunday exchanged his contact information with you afterwards, telling you to contact him if you ever needed help with anything. 

You decided to watch the film when it aired. You weren’t very known yet, so you’re sure no one would recognise you… Other than the few people who did when they walked out of the theatre. 

When you finally walked into the theatre, you saw a familiar silhouette. One that you had seen countless times over the last few months…Sunday? Except he was wearing a mask, and sunglasses. The sunglasses didn’t do much use, though. You swore you could see the colour of his eyes shining through them. 

You got into your seat and pulled your phone out. The lights were still on, so you sent him a text. 

“Look behind you”

You watched him pick his phone up and turn to look at you, though the embarrassing getup made him quickly turn his head back, wings twitching.  

Sunday met with you outside the theatre (this time without the sunglasses and mask), and you decided to get food together. When you walked out though, it was raining. Quite heavily at that, and you had forgotten to bring an umbrella. Luckily for you, Sunday had one, just large enough for two people. Before leaving, he draped his coat over you, telling you to wear it properly so you didn’t catch a cold. 

When you got to the restaurant, and were seated down, you realised a wet patch on Sunday's shoulder. He had held the umbrella in a way where not even a drop of rain would touch your body. 

The rain had stopped after you finished eating, and you thanked him before saying that you’d return his coat after washing it. 

You slid down onto the ground after you closed the door to your home, holding Sunday’s coat tightly to your chest. You thought about everything the both of you had been doing over the last few months. Him helping you late into the night even though it meant he’d be losing sleep, encouraging you when you were scared of tackling a particular scene, now, this, and how every word he said during your time together earlier felt like flowers and music to your ears. 

Maybe you did have a crush on him.

for what should be such a monumental occasion, a unity to bring peace between kingdoms entrenched in a cold war, his princess arrives without the typical pomp and circumstance. he expects a show, a caravan of several dozens carriages lining up neatly at the front of his castle, stuffed to the brim with family and nobility. he expects nothing more than the finest for a young lady who was, two weeks ago, the heir apparent to an entire kingdom.

it is strange to him, that the treaty was considered at all, given what was demanded - not just a princess, but the princess.

there is a stillness to his court that john has never felt during his reign. every lord and lady holds their breath, expecting chaos, expecting a crowd – and yet the tension seems to pull taut as the door opens, and the only two who step into the cathedral are his young bride and her father.

you wear no wedding dress. the silk of your dress, loose sleeves draping over your hands, is the shade of a winter orchid. a lemon yellow bonnet is tied over your hair, and the only white in your attire is the fleece-knit shawl draped over your shoulders. you look more like a flower than you do a bride.

despite your standing, there are no guards that flank your sides. john can't help but think just how vulnerable you are in this moment, not yet bound to him and his protection.

"i expected more than this," john remarks, looking from the princess, who has yet to bring her eyes up from the ground, back to her father, "where is her bridal party?"

the king, as noble as he might have thought himself to come all this way, does not have the decency to look ashamed or even guilty. "the queen thought it best for everyone that the celebrations be kept contained," he says, "i merely came to give my daughter away, and to be a witness to her union."

the wedding he believed would take hours, between seelie customs and the cultural divide, is over before the hour is up. he expected to wait a fortnight for your ladies to draw the appropriate glyphs onto your skin, to dress you in layers upon layers of silk, embroidered with charms of luck and protection. he expects the brocaded cloak of your house to sit over your wedding dress like armor, only for him to remove it and replace it with his own, bringing you into the fold of his house as his wedded wife. instead, what he removes is your fleece shawl, handing it off gently to be replaced with the heavily embroidered cloak. a few words from an anointed priestess, and john turns your head with two of his fingers to press a dry kiss to the corner of your lips. he hadn’t the foresight to take your bonnet off before the ceremony began.

your father stays long enough to see you married, but disappears before the cacophony of polite clapping from the court can subside. john sees you searching for him more than once, eyes drifting through the crowd like you expect him to show up at any moment. he does not. john turns away before he can witness the crescentfallen expression that crosses your sweet face. he doesn’t want to know if you cry.

to be seelie is to be weak – john knows this for a fact. he’s trained squires and met children less craven than some seelie knights. and yet he foolishly expected more from your father, a king of thousands of years who had threatened his kingdom with war mere moons ago. he expected your bridal party to be giant and glamorous and all proclivities expected of a seelie wedding. seelie children are rare and cherished; his bride was already a young woman, but he expected that the sentiment would stand, given the title she held.