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baby-bearie · 4 years ago

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the 7 ways he’ll tell you he loves you

(NOT MY GIF ALL CREDIT TO OWNER)

jj maybank x reader

taglist: @snarkystarkey @sunflowermotel @howdyherron @drew-starkey @maraseavey @outerbanqs @yelyahryan @obxwriterfan @avashroom @rewindlr @raekenliar @imsad05 @ceruleanjj @dolanfivsosxox @heyhargrove @lashtonandmalumsbaby @beautyandthebleh @pancahke @outrbank @johnbsflowr @corleigh @poguemacking @maybe-maybanks @katie-avery @5sos-seavey

a/n: this is unedited, so sorry about the mistakes. i saw a lot of trouble going around with plagiarism on wattpad and i did report a lot of books with stolen fics and props to you guys for getting a few actually taken down!! plagiarism and theft of intellectual property is HURTFUL, writers put SO MUCH into their work, and it’s not so you can get some votes on a wattpad page. also, boys using lovely as a nickname is ;alsdjffenve.

How long is forever supposed to be? Months? Years, decades, lifetimes? Forever was supposed to be you and JJ.

Forever feels like the 15 minutes that he’s been fighting you for.

“Y/n, I don’t get why you’re turning this into such a big deal.”

“Stop doing that. Stop acting like I don’t get to be mad. I do! I am! You know, you always do this JJ.” “I do not.” “You do. I’m sick of it. I’m- I’m sorry, JJ, but I’m done. I don’t wanna do this anymore,” you sniffle. You refuse to cry. Not in front of him. “We’re going in circles, I really think it’s time to, to just call it quits.” You shrug. JJ is silent. You wait, you yourself need to process what just came out of your mouth.

JJ is on the couch. He leans on his knees with his elbows and his head is hanging low. He nods. Slowly at first, then quicker.

“Okay,” he sighs, “You’re right. You’re right.” You nod, relieved that he agreed with you. A bigger part of you was upset that he agreed with you. It would’ve been nice if he had put up some kind of a fight.

“So, uh, I’ll go.” “Yeah.”

You collapsed onto the couch, rubbing a hand over your face. A brightly colored magazine was open on the coffee table in front of you. Cheetah printed bold letters spelled out a headline:

The 7 Ways He’ll Tell You He Loves You.

Talk about bad timing. You flipped the cover back over it.

#1: He’ll flat out tell you.

“You know, you’re one of the dumbest boys I’ve ever met.” “Right back at you.” JJ grinned up at you. “Oh, low blow, dude.” You laughed, tackling him down onto the bed. JJ fell back with a loud oof, the breath knocked out of his stomach.

“One day, you’ll do that and I won’t get up, you know that? You’re actually going to be the death of me.” “Oh, I hope so. I’m already sick of you.” “This is literally you confessing to my murder.” He laughed, shoving you off him so he could hover over you instead. “They won’t arrest me, I’m too cute.” You gave him a cheesy smile.

“That you are,” JJ smirked, leaning down to press soft kisses into the skin between your jaw and your neck. You hummed in approval as he pulled away. You fiddled with the necklace which dangled from his neck. “I love you,” he muttered.

“ ‘Til I murder you?”

He pecked your lips. “Til you murder me.”

He couldn’t have fought for you? Put up some sort of argument? This was a stupid battle to pick with yourself. You were the one who instigated the break up.

Maybe you weren’t expecting him to actually agree with you. You weren’t expecting him to let you end things.

#2: He’ll protect you.

“Maybank, I swear to god, if you don’t get us down from here right now I will throw your ass off this cliff.” “It’s really not that high up!” “Holy shit!” You yelped and turned to bury your face in JJ’s chest. He instinctively wrapped his arms around you.

“Hey, you’re okay, alright? You’re okay. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you. I got you. It’s okay, I got you.” JJ assured you, laughing a little through his words at how tightly you were clutching his tank top.

The next couple of weeks hurt like hell. It’s a sad process, trying to leave behind someone you were rooted to so deeply. You’d see him at parties or even just out on the street sometimes.

His eyes always followed you. When you were dating, you were amazing at being able to tell when JJ was watching you. A shiver used to run over your spine, and you’d turn and immediately meet his eyes. He’d smirk and raise his hand to salute you.

God, how you missed that smirk.

Apparently, after you stopped dating, your body never forgot what it felt like when his eyes were on you. These days, when you turned to look at him his eyes were intense. He held your eyes for a second. One second when you could forget how you cried and how he left without kissing you goodbye.

Then he looked away.

#3: He thinks of you when you’re not with him.

“Hey, baby, look at this.” JJ threw the door to the Chateau open and marched over to you. His smile was proud, like a child trying to impress his mom. He stuck out his hand and dropped a small square magnet into yours. You flipped it over to see the front.

It was brown and painted badly to look wooden. There were two u-shaped magnets painted on as well, and it read, ‘I can’t help but be attracted to you’. You read this out loud and JJ grinned, ecstatic with his choice.

“Where did you get this?” You snorted. “It was at some cheesy gift shop. It made me think of you so I had to buy it.” “It’s perfect. I love it.” You stood to kiss his cheek and slid the magnet onto the fridge. “You’re very welcome.”

JJ has always been nearly unreadable. He’s scarily good at hiding his thoughts and feelings from everyone around him, often including his best friends. You knew John B at least had some knowledge of JJ’s emotions, but you doubted the rest of the group did.

You had at least managed to make a couple cracks in the hard walls he had built up around himself.

#4: He shows you his emotions.

You gaped in awe at the bruises littering his torso. You had no idea just how bad it was. You had no idea why he never told you.

“I can’t take him anymore, Y/n, I can’t take it- can’t do it anymore.” JJ sobbed, his arms tightening around you. You guided his head down to your shoulder.

“I know, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, J. C'mere.” You took a deep breath. You would not cry. Not when he needed you to be strong. “Let it out. You’re okay now.” You locked eyes with John B, terrified.

His tears soaked the skin on your shoulder and the first of many that night fell into his hair.

But since the breakup, from what you saw of him you couldn’t get anything. His face was expressionless every time you made eye contact with him.You had seen him smile at his friends once or twice, but nothing real. JJ was very good at fake smiles. They looked nearly identical to his real ones. But you loved him for long enough to know what a real one should look like.

#5: He’ll try and make you laugh.

“Why are you sad, lovely? Stop it, I hate seeing you sad.” JJ pulled you on his chest, brushing hairs out of your face. You shook your head, tucking your face into his chest.

“Ok. Fine. You leave me no other choice.” JJ sighed loudly. “What do you call Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson when he tells time?”

He waited a second for an answer that never came. “Dwayne ‘The Clock’ Johnson.”

You laughed abruptly, but it came out as a sob. You didn’t lift your head.

“Alright, you want more, fine. What do you call Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson when he won’t shut up? Dwayne ‘The Talk’ Johnson. What do you call Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson when the doorbell is broken? Dwayne ‘The Knock’ Johnson. What do you call Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson when he wears comfortable, breathable footwear? Dwayne ‘The Croc’ Johnson.”

Your whole body was shaking with uncontrollable laughter now. You were certain that JJ had been practicing those at some point.

“No more, no more, please,” You finally lifted your head and JJ wiped away a fallen tear with his thumb. You choked on a laugh. “So how long did it take you to come up with those?”

JJ frowned. “What do you mean, I came up with those like just now!” He laughed.

“Okay, sure, JJ.” “Don’t test me, I have like, 8 more.”

You think the worst part about this is being lonely. You’re surrounded by comforting friends who try and take you places and get you to have fun but at the end of the night you go home to an empty bed and you wake up in an empty bed.

And every morning without fail, you’ll wake up and reach for him. And every morning without fail, he won’t be there.

#6: He’ll make romantic gestures.

“JJ? Where are you?” You sat up, groggily. He wasn’t in bed, that’s for sure.

“G’morning, lovely,” JJ strolled into your room, carrying a tray. You propped yourself up on the headboard and took it from him.

“Aw, JJ, what is all this?” “Breakfast.” “You made breakfast?”

JJ stole a berry off your plate and popped it in his mouth, nodding. He took a seat near your legs.

JJ can’t cook for shit.

“Baby, it’s okay, it’s the thought that counts, I thought it was sweet!” “Nah, dude, that was shitty, I’m sorry. That bread tasted like a frying pan.” “The berries were good.” “That’s because all I did to them was wash them.”

You hit up another party with your friends. They were the best kind of distraction. You pulled up the green bikini strap that was falling down your shoulders. This was his favorite top.

“Y/l/n!” You heard a voice shout. “Y/n!”

You turned to see who was shouting your name and smiled at John B. “Hey, Routledge, good to see you!” “Hey, Y/n. Look, I know you guys aren’t on talking terms- “John B, no,” You interrupted, but he kept talking over you.

“But, please, Y/n, he won’t talk to anybody and we’re all worried about him.” “I really can’t, I don’t think he- “He’s in the van. Driver’s seat. Thank you!” And then he was gone. You huffed.

You could see the van from here and you could barely make out a figure sitting in the front seat.

You stood there for a second before you forced yourself to get over it and you made your way around dancing teenagers to the van.

You pulled open the door and climbed into the passenger seat. He turned to look at you.

“Hi,” you forced out. This felt uncomfortably unfamiliar. “Hey, Y/n.”

“How are you?” He asked. He was being formal. He was never formal with you.

“Fine, I guess. What about you?”

He said nothing. “Small talk? Is that what we are now? We have to make small talk?” He laughed, exasperated.

“I know you hate small talk.”

“What happened to us?” His eyes are wet, and he doesn’t look at you, just stares straight ahead. “I made a mistake.” You said it out loud. You hadn’t forced yourself to admit it yet. That you were wrong for putting him in this position.

“What?” He turned to look at you.

“I shouldn’t have broken up with you. I think some part of me thought you wouldn’t actually let me do it. That you would fight to make us work.” You shrugged. Your eyes watered up.

“Well, I didn’t want to break up with you.” He spoke quickly.

“What?” Now it was your turn to be confused.

“Of course I never wanted to leave you, Y/n. I love you.” “But you said I was right. And you left.” “I thought that was what you wanted. I want you happy. If that means I have to get out of the picture, then I’m gone. I left because I thought you wanted me to go.”

You scoff. “So, all this time we’ve just been playing ourselves.”

JJ laughs, a wet one. “You know, nobody told me just how fucking useless I was going to be without you.” He finally really looks at you.

There’s a half smile on his face and his eyes are full of tears.

You leap into him, and he meets you halfway. He buries his forehead on your shoulder and his hand is holding the back of your head. “I missed you. I missed you so much, lovely.” He cries into your hair.

#7: He’ll do anything if it means you’re happy.

#outer banks imagine #outer banks #outer banks imagines #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank #jj maybank imagines #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank x you #jj imagines #jj outer banks #jj maybank outer banks #jj maybank fluff #jj maybank angst #jj maybank fic #obx imagine #john b routledge #rudy pankow #outer banks fluff #outer banks angst

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jasontoddiefor · 4 years ago

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Summary: “Do you like it?” Obi-wan asked. Ahsoka looked up at him in confusion. What was he talking about- “The tea,” he added and raised his own cup like a sign.

Or, Anakin is injured and Ahsoka spends some time with her Grandmaster.

The tea Obi-Wan pressed into her hands smelled familiar, like the one Anakin made for them after late shifts when they had only recently left Coruscant. It was a sweet tea, so sweet that Ahsoka didn't even need to put any sugar in it. Their kitchen – an expression that still made Ahsoka grin with happiness because she had a Master now and she was a Padawan, even after these first months – didn't have anything but tea and some instant noodles stocked. For some reason, Ahsoka wasn't allowed to heat them up for lunch, so they had to go down to the cafeteria to eat. Obi-Wan had said something about the noodles being important to Anakin, and Ahsoka hadn't asked after that. She was too sure she'd start to cry like a youngling if she thought any more about her Master, who was currently unconscious in the halls of healing, being looked over by various healers.

The mission had been supposed to be easy. Nobody should have gotten hurt.

Ahsoka sunk further into her chair, buried herself in her Master's oversized coat. It had been handed to her when they'd brought Anakin in and Ahsoka had kept it on since. She knew it was stupid, that she looked ridiculous, but she kept it on anyway because it smelled like him and therefore like home and peace.

So here she was now with her Grandmaster in their kitchen in an apartment she didn't even really have a room in yet because they hadn't had time to clear it out, drinking tea.

"Do you like it?" Obi-wan asked.

Ahsoka looked up at him in confusion. What was he talking about-

"The tea," he added and raised his own cup like a sign.

"Oh, yes," she replied, feeling stupid for not having understood. She wanted Obi-Wan to like her and think she was a suitable addition to their lineage. "It smells familiar to the one Anakin always makes."

"It's the very same," Obi-Wan replied. "It's the only tea the two of us like equally well, so we always drink it together."

"Oh." Ahsoka hadn't known that. It felt like something she should know about her Master, like allergies. Frantically, Ahsoka tried to remember whether she could recall any of Anakin's allergies; he had to have at least one, right? Before she could get any more worked up and leave Obi-Wan in this awkward silence, she forced herself to ask another question. "What's in it?"

"A few red berries and some other indigenous fruit from Naboo. It was the only tea offered on Naboo that didn't taste like it had been dosed in perfume," Obi-Wan said and pulled a face as if the tea from Naboo had genuinely offended him.

Ahsoka giggled, then quickly clasped her hand over her mouth. She hadn't meant to laugh at her Grandmaster, but Obi-Wan only smiled good-naturedly.

"Why- when were you on Naboo together?"

She knew that Anakin enjoyed items coming from the planet and was quite knowledgeable about its culture. She had no idea why someone would have all theatre genre of Naboo's last century memorized, but as Anakin had proven on a long retcon mission, he could talk endlessly about them. At least all his cursing had made them more entertaining than her own literature classes at the Temple.

"Ah, that's a rather long story. You were…. Five when Anakin joined the Order, weren't you?"

Ahsoka wanted to protest, surely she had to have been younger, but she remembered the whispers and knew her Master's age. It was strange to think he was only a few years older than her. She thought it would have been more, it should have been more, but if she were any younger and he older, perhaps they wouldn't be Master and Padawan at all.

She nodded in confirmation and Obi-Wan continued on.

"Anakin and I spent a month together on Naboo before we returned to Coruscant and he officially became a part of the Order. The Naboo prefer their food to taste and smell a bit flowery, and neither of us was used to it. After a lot of bickering, we decided that it was the one brand we actually both enjoyed. It took us a while to figure out how to brew it correctly, but eventually, I learned and taught Anakin in turn."

That certainly sounded nice, domestic even, like a scene she had never seen before. She tried to imagine the two of them in their kitchen, Obi-Wan being younger without a beard and looking less exhausted while Anakin was even shorter than her, perhaps standing on a barstool of some kind so that he could reach the counter.

Obi-Wan brought his own cup to his lips and drunk from it, then he set the cup on the table again.

They didn't have a single matching set of teacups that they actually appeared to be using. There were a few tea sets in the cupboard, Ahsoka had seen those already, but they didn't look like they were actually in use. Instead, Anakin and Obi-Wan had a collection of cups with silly images, colorful prints, and sayings.

"Ahsoka, I know we didn't get to spend much time together yet, but if you'd like, and if you enjoy this tea, I would like to show you how to prepare it properly."

Hearing those words, Ahsoka perked up. "Really?"

Obi-Wan smiled kindly at her and set his cup on the table. "It's a bit of a tradition for us, figuring out how to make a particular tea and then going out to buy a new cup for it. I used to do it with my Master, and Anakin and I didn't collect so many different mugs for no reason. You don't have classes this afternoon, do you?"

Ahsoka shook her head. "No."

They had canceled her classes for the rest of the week. There was no need for her to go when she'd only worry about Anakin. She could, of course, but the healers had been very insistent that Ahsoka should figure out her own boundaries and act according to them.

She still kind of wanted to go to class, just to prove that something like her Master getting hurt didn't unsettle her too much, but she was also still glued to their kitchen chair, wrapped in his oversized coat.

"Then, if you want, we can go out in the city today and buy you a cup and a new brand of tea to try out."

It would do her good to go outside. "I'd like that."

The two of them finished their teapot, then Ahsoka returned to her room. They still hadn't finished setting it up and so was currently more the place she stuck her stuff as Anakin frantically tried to move his plants to another surface that was not already covered by them and miniaturize his droid workshop. Most of the time, she didn't even sleep in the bed that had been cramped in there. In the words of her Master, why should she sleep there when Obi-Wan's larger and more comfortable bed was right there. Or Anakin's when Anakin managed to drag himself only to the sofa or, already half-asleep, stumbled into Obi-Wan's room.

Once her Master was cleared from the halls, they were going to sort that out. Even if Obi-Wan didn't have any problems with her taking over his bed.

Ahsoka got dressed, changed into robes of her own size and slipped back into the main room. From there on it was a quick and easy trip to the shopping districts of Coruscant. Obi-Wan wistfully muttered something about "at least it's not the lower levels this time" that he didn't see fit to elaborate on and Ahsoka, therefore, chose to keep in mind for a later date.

The tea shop he led her to must be one he frequented more often because the owner greeted him with name and immediately showed him a selection he thought would be to Obi-Wan's liking. Ahsoka smelled the various fruity, spicy, and bitter tea selections and eventually picked one that Obi-Wan and she both agreed looked like the most interesting one. Apparently, the tea changed colors as it cooled down. They didn't stay long enough in the store to get a practical demonstration, but Ahsoka was still eager to see it. Mainly to see it in the new mug Obi-Wan had bought her. It was supposed to match the color of the liquid inside. It was ridiculous, but Ahsoka thought it was fun.

"We can make it for Anakin later," Obi-Wan said. "He is supposed to wake up this evening."

"Do you think he'd like that?"

"I think he would be very pleased to see how well his Padawan has conducted herself in his absence. And he always did like food that was a little extraordinary."

The rest of the afternoon passed quickly with the two walking through the smaller streets, visiting stores Ahsoka had never seen before, but who all apparently knew her quite well already. The number of times somebody addressed her with "Little Anakin's Padawan?" was quite astonishing.

By the time they returned to the Temple, it was already dark. Their first stop after deposing their new items in their rooms was the cafeteria. Dinner was, as always, a loud and cheerful affair. Groups of Initiates were running around the many tables, Padawans chatting to each other and Masters bragging about their students. She and Obi-Wan took a seat at a table a little closer to the edge where it was quieter, though even they weren't spared from the toddlers handing out sugary cupcakes that looked like somebody was trying to sell pure diabetes.

But how was Ahsoka supposed to resist when the tiny Nautolan with the huge eyes offered it to her? It wasn't like Obi-Wan could resist it either.

After they had finished dinner, they returned to their quarters, properly put away all they had bought, and set the new tea package on the kitchen table together with Ahsoka's mug.

"Alright," Obi-Wan said. "Let's see how hot the water needs to be and how long the tea needs to steep."

With gentle fingers, Obi-Wan began to put the tea leaves into filter bags and familiarized Ahsoka with it. He taught her how to properly pour tea and which brands were better with a little more or less sugar, which needed salt of all things, and about a hundred other different tidbits that she couldn't believe he just knew from the top of his head.

But all the work seemed to pay off as they had a teapot full of blue tea that was slowly turning violet.

"Well done," Obi-Wan praised her as he grabbed the teapot and a mug for himself.

Ahsoka took her own new one, though she had already decided that she'd let Anakin drink out of it this time, and took another for herself. Together they headed towards the halls of healing. They hadn't even entered them properly when Anakin's voice reached them.

"I am fine, Bant, I swear! I just want to see Ahsoka and Obi-Wan, promise I'll be back within twenty minutes- ten minutes!"

Just as Ahsoka and Obi-Wan waked around the corner, they saw Anakin attempting to climb out of his bed, bandages still wrapped around his head, and arguing with Bant. As soon as he saw them, his eyes lit up.

"Ahsoka! Obi-Wan, are you well?"

Ahsoka stared at Anakin, whole, healthy, and smiling, and reassured herself that he was real. Then in the fashion of a child, she threw herself at him, burying her head in his chest as she before had in his robes.

"Woah, woah, everything's alright, Ahsoka. I'm just fine, see?"

He patted her head almost a little awkwardly like he didn't know what to do with his hands, but Ahsoka didn't care.

He was fine, everything was alright.

"Anakin Skywalker, what are you doing? Get back into bed!"

Ahsoka slowly released Anakin from her embrace so that he could fall back on his bed. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and rolled his eyes at the Mon Calamari Jedi.

"Bant wants to keep me here overnight, even though I'm fine."

At this, he glared a little at Bant, though Ahsoka could tell his heart was not in it. If that were so, she knew Bant wouldn't be standing here much longer. As ridiculous as he looked right now, Ahsoka knew her Master could be quite terrifying if he wanted to.

"Don't act so much like a bratty Padawan, Anakin," Bant only commented. "Now sit down, rest, get well, and you can go back to your rooms tomorrow morning."

"Yes, yes," Anakin muttered and pulled the blanket back over his legs. Bant smiled at the three of them, then bid them good night as well.

"It's good to see you're causing trouble as always," Obi-Wan said and set the teapot on the table next to Anakin's bed so he could sit down on its edge. "Here I was worried it was something serious."

"Oh, you know me, Master. I always have to be a little dramatic. What tea is that?"

Anakin couldn't have changed the topic more obviously in favor of curiously examining the teapot.

"Master Obi-Wan and I went out shopping in the city today," Ahsoka spoke up and pushed her new mug into Anakin's hands before she saw down next to him. "We bought a new tea and it changes color and also a mug and-"

"Hey, Snips, slow down."

Ahsoka shut up as Anakin raised his hands. Then, with an expression Ahsoka could only describe as pouty, her Master turned to Obi-Wan.

"You took my Padawan on her first tea run without me?" Anakin asked accusingly, pointing his finger at Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan only sighed theatrically and poured some tea, by now a dark red color, into every cup. "Well, we can't all be heroes recovering from a deadly assault. I take it said hero doesn't want a cup then?"

Now Anakin was quick to hold out the cup Ahsoka had pressed into his hands. "No, I want to see what my Padawan picked out. Hurry up, Master."

Obi-Wan's following laughter was infectious. It was almost as loud and cheerful as Anakin's demands to be told everything of their trip in detail. Sitting next to him on the bed, covered by the heavy blanket and the warm tea in hand, Ahsoka could finally allow herself to relax fully.

#star wars #ahsoka tano #obi wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #tcw #fanfic #disaster lineage #i now want space tea

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dizzydancingdreamer · 4 years ago

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The Servant and The Prince | One

I did it-- I wrote something. Was it what everyone wanted? Gods no. But it is something. So do enjoy my lovelies-- a break from my not so regularly scheduled content.

Description: This is very much a Cinderella trope because I cannot help myself and I am in love with Loki

Pairing: Loki x Female!Reader, third person as I may adapt eventually with an OC

Warnings: violence but very minor, emotional abuse, some strong-ish language

Tags: Angst but you can imply fluff

Word count: 3.8k

Master List

“Did you pack my dress!” A shrill voice assaults her eardrums as she scurries towards the door.

It comes from a tall, thin, young woman. Her face and fingers are boney, her blonde hair falling in perfect waves down her back. The faintest aroma of honeysuckles and violets wafts off her creamy skin. She is beautiful, her step sister Anna. At least in theory. The sneer on her cherry lips and the hatred in her cerulean eyes, unclouded and accusatory, can’t be hidden by any length of silky dress or ruby lipstick, though. She is ugly, even if just on the inside.

Y/n almost drops the bags in her hands- almost. She only flinches inwardly. She is used to the constant demands. Clean the house, cook the meal, wash my clothes. This and that and more. So much more. She’ll never flinch though. No matter what. That is a promise she made to herself too long ago.

“Yes milady. It is already in the carriage alongside the rest of your requested belongings. Is there anything else I can do for you before we leave?” Her own voice is gentle in comparison; a breeze trying to hold its own against a tornado.

Anna’s sneer deepens and she huffs, spinning on her heel, her dress spiraling around her in a show of pink tulle. She does not say anything as she storms away, most likely on her way to her mother’s ornate carriage. That’s another thing that is more beautiful on the inside than out. If only everyone else knew that Y/n’s step family is poorer than dirt. Estrid, Anna’s mother, hides it well under the last remains of her father’s hard earned money. Gold encrusted carriages and a large home and clothing dripping in jewels. He is gone though, Y/n’s father, and the money will soon be completely gone as well. If only people glanced a little further and saw her dress- not terribly tattered but hand sewn out of the plainest fabric- and the overwhelming lack of staff in the big home. The signs are all there, sitting in plain sight.

That is exactly the reason Y/n is loading the carriage- a last ditch attempt for her step mother and step sister to rise back to the wealth they once enjoyed. There is to be a ball. A royal ball. Apparently it is supposed to be much grander than the solstice festivals her small village holds. She always thought those were magnificent; the dancing and the feasts. She loved attending them before her father had died. He would take her and her mother every year and they would find their seats under the stars, eating and dancing to their heart’s desire. Her chest squeezes painfully; she misses them both dearly. Now that they are gone those few days of the year are her only escape- the nights where she can pretend she is anything but a lowly servant.

She blanches wondering how much grander the ball will be. Surely it will be more than turkey under the stars and the ribbon dances of her youth. It will be in the castle- in a ballroom bigger than her house and the neighbours combined. Bigger even. She has never been in a ballroom. Sometimes the village hall holds weddings but they are small and serve vegetable stew and play music composed of fiddles and flutes. All the things she is most familiar with. The castle will have things she does not understand. Clothes worth more than her life and the richest foods and music that is so intricate that she wonders if her ears will be able to withstand it. She has heard stories of how wonderful it is- and how magnificently out of her element she will be.

Y/n sighs, pulling her shoulders straight and hiking the bags further up her body. This is no time for dawdling- there is no time that can be wasted now. She drags herself and the bags out the door, sparing a quick glance over her shoulder at her family home. It used to be filled with warmth. The kind that comes with baking bread and knitting beside an open fire and laughter. Now the halls are bare. Almost all traces of her mother and father are gone. She wears them across her chest in her mothers old leather satchel. Along the side of the bag, little green Dahlias are sewn into the worn material. She brushes her finger over the side, taking a deep breath. Maybe the ball will be a new adventure- even if she is not to attend. She will still be visiting the capitol.

“By Odin, what are you doing? We have to go now or we will miss the opening festivities! Move you little wench!”

Estrid’s nasally voice sounds from behind Y/n seconds before a hand connects with her back, shoving her forward. The bags on her shoulders and arms add to the momentum from the push, the uneven weight more than enough to have her stumbling over her feet. She tries to catch her balance, rushing down the steps as though being led by the bags themselves, but it is useless. Her heel catches on the last step and she falls backwards, her back connecting with the cobblestones, her elbow piling into the stone step. White hot pain blossoms through her body, pooling like fire in her injuries. She swallows the scream in her throat. It tastes like iron on her tongue- like eating the burnt chips left in the pot after the meals are finished being served. It tastes familiar.

A red heel stomps next to her, crunching on the cobble stone the same way her spine had. It lands inches away from her hand, narrowly missing her pinky. Y/n looks up, her features as schooled as possible, greeting Estrid with a bow of her head. Even that small action causes pain to spike through her lower back and she has to hold her breath to keep from crying out. She does not look at her step mother for more than a few seconds- she knows better than to do any such thing- but it is enough time to catch the familiar sneer. It is the same one she has passed on to Anna but more hateful. Honed. Estrid has had years to perfect her evilness, even if she does not look a day over thirty. She too is beautiful in her own dark way.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Elstrid spits down at Y/n, already on her way to the carriage as she passes by the crumpled girl. “It is as though you are trying to ruin your sister’s chance for happiness. You can never just be grateful, can you? It must always be about you. How pathetic.”

Y/n could laugh. She can almost feel it there in the base of her throat, bubbling with the scream and cries which are also locked away. Neither are forgotten yet- they never are. They just build and build and build like the wind that blows through her village in the spring, gaining enough speed to wipe out entire fields of crop. Now there is laughter on top as well. The cruel kind that makes her insides twist and burn.

What a perfect way to describe how she feels; pathetic. She forces herself to her knees, followed quickly by her feet as she gathers the bags, mulling over the word. Pathetic. She hauls them onto her shoulders once again, trying her hardest to ignore the way her back and arm aches and the flood of fresh tears that rush to her eyes. She loads the bags into the back of the carriage, nodding at the driver. He looks at her with pity but remains silent as Estrid climbs into her plush seat. The word rings again, louder. Pathetic.

Y/n tugs the satchel across her body as she climbs onto the back of the carriage, folding her cloak over her lap. Yes, indeed she feels pathetic, cast to ride to the capitol backwards with her skin exposed to the elements and her hair doomed to be a windblown mess. Pathetic does not even begin to cover everything she feels in this moment. If her step family is poorer than dirt than she must be something even worse than dirt as well. She feels so at least.

Somehow, though, beneath it all, she also feels a touch hopeful. She is going to the capitol, after all. Her fingers scratch over the green Dahlias, thinking back to the night her mother had sewn them.

“Little dove did you know that you are like a Dahlia?” Her mother’s voice was sweet and soft- the kind of voice that made Y/n want to lean in until she could feel the words in her soul.

“What do you mean, mama?” She was not really asking to hear the answer, rather speaking in order to hear her mother keep speaking.

The glow from the fireplace warmed Y/n’s cheek as she leaned further. Her mother smelled of yeast and berries. She could still taste the jam on her lips, warm and sweet from desert. Strawberry pie was her mother’s specialty. The warmth combined with her full belly made her eyes close slightly, her body sagging against her mother’s legs.

“You are so strong my little dove. You are so soft and so elegant,” her mother’s hand smoothed over her cheek, her fingers as soft as silk. “But you are so powerful too, I can sense it. You are overflowing with it and kindness. So much kindness. How did I create such a magnificent little girl, hmm?”

Y/n giggles when her mother tickles under her chin lightly, pulling her hand away to continue on the pattern. Her stitches are meticulous and perfect- just like her mother. She watches as the vibrant green thread weaves below the fabric before reappearing. It happens over and over again, disappearing and reappearing like a little trick. She always loved tricks.

“Why are the flowers green, mama? I have never seen any green flowers in the meadow.”

It was true. There were pinks and blues and the most wonderful oranges. Never greens though. Only the stems were green.

“Oh my darling, you will one day. They do not grow here. They grow in the capitol by the hundreds, though. They surround the streets, growing high into the sky. They are beautiful, my little dove. Just like you are. You will see them one day, I promise you.”

Y/n blinks away the image of her mother, letting a few of the tears drop as she does so. Nobody can see her here so it is okay now. It is times like these, in the midst of the worst and best moments of her life, when she misses her mother the most. She would do anything for one more gentle hug. One more whiff of berries and rising bread. She shifts on the stiff seat, her spine jostling against the metal frame of the cart and flaring in pain. She lets out a tiny cry, hoping it is masked by the sound of the wheels bumping over the stoney pathway. Her throat aches, squeezing at the stream of tears threatening her system. It is in this moment that she feels something foreign- something that will inevitably and unknowingly change her life as she knows it. Something that she is sure is not her own.

She feels angry.

* * * * * * * * * *

Loki strolls over the castle grounds, his hands clasped behind his back and his shoulders straight. The sun is shining on his face, warm and soft. The air, like always, smells like pine trees and fragrant flowers. That is partly the cause of the woman next to him. She is beautiful, there is no doubt about it. From her golden hair, knotted in bands across the crown of her head, to her gown, a soft blue silk. It flows behind her as she walks, like a river carving from each step she takes. One of her dainty hands is curled around his arm. Usually he would mind the touching- contact with other people is not his thing. More so Thor’s, his untamed brother. With her, though, he swallows his pride every time. He would do most anything to keep his mother happy.

He peers down at Frigga, his face stoic in comparison to the bright smile she wears. She still looks as young as she had when he and Thor were mere boys. Her cheeks and nose are slender, her skin unblemished by age. The only difference is that now he stands taller than her, looking down at her blonde hair instead of up at it from under her arms. He has no doubt that his mother will remain beautiful for a long time- even when her age finally catches up with her.

“You are staring, dear.” Frigga’s voice teases and his neck snaps straight, his eyes flicking back to the gardens of green around him. “You only stare when you have something on your mind. I presume I do not have to inquire to know what it is. I will anyway, though, if that is what you would like?”

Her voice drips into a worried tone that only she can muster. It is sincere. It makes it harder for him to be angry at the small, beautiful woman.

“You will anyway and we both know it.” He muses, reaching a hand out to brush one of the green flowers.

The petals are impossibly soft. Dahlias. He remembers when his mother had them planted all those years ago. It was a week’s affair- the castle had smelt of earth and new flowers for days afterwards. He remembers playing in the mud with his brother. The laughter. It seems like a lifetime ago. That was when everything was simple; when he was not about to get married to a princess he would meet at a ball that he does not even wish to attend.

Frigga sighs, pulling her son to a gentle stop. He obliges with a sigh that matches her own. “It must be done. By decree your brother and you should have been married a year ago. The royal ball is the way it has been done for many millennia. I have tried to slow tradition- to give you two as much time as possible- but there are some who watch us closely. They wait-”

He turns away from her, a scowl on his lips. “I know mother. They want us to show weakness. I understand the premise, I promise you I am not an idiot. I suppose I just do not see how a wife would make me seem less weak.”

He is a god- a powerful one at that. It is hard to believe there are many people out there able who are able to strip him of that power. It makes no sense to get married because of an outdated tradition- especially not for some sort of ruse. He is strong enough on his own; he always has been. Quiet and capable and strong. Independently so. He has never been much for teams. Besides, he doubts there will be many women attending with the hopes of meeting him. Not when his brother will be standing right by his side. The god of thunder. There are many things Loki can do- most of which are quite impressive. Tricks of the mind and the ability to create fire at will and so on. One thing he cannot do, however, is spout lightning from his fingers. He cannot compete with that level of visible godliness and thus there is no reason to attend. He is not second best and will not treat himself as such.

Frigga catches his chin, pulling him to look at her crystal eyes- the same crystal eyes which she rolls at him. “She will balance you, dear. The point is not to make you appear less weak. You are not weak. It is to make you appear happy. A happy prince means a happy king. Happy means powerful, Loki. it is power.”

He tenses and her eyes soften. “I am happy, mother. I am happy on my own.”

She lets her hand fall to his arm, shaking her head. Her knotted hair bounces slightly. She is giggling again in the way that only mothers can- the kind of giggle that is all knowing. It makes his skin itch, his hands secured behind his back again. How is it that she always makes him feel seen even when he does not wish to be?

“Is there something you wish to say?” He grumbles to the woman, wishing he could hate the way she grins up at him with a twinkle in her eye. He cannot though, even if he tried.

“My dear,” she hums gently, squeezing his arm, “I think perhaps you will come to revoke your words. That is all.”

Oh she is truly infuriating. There she goes again, so freely sharing her mind even when he has made it clear time and time again that he has no wish for a wife. Not only because he does not want to marry a woman he has never met but for other reasons too. The tips of his fingers turn to ice against his palms at the thought. He does not have to look down to know they are the brilliant blue that he so loathes. There is much he wishes to remain a secret beyond the confines of his household. He would rather not be married to a woman who thinks him a monster for the rest of his life. He will pass.

He opens his mouth, ready to fire back at her annoying laughter, when suddenly he cannot speak. Not just that, though. He cannot breath, either, or stand for that matter. Soon the trickster god is on his knees, his hands digging painfully against the cobblestone path. His nails bite against the stones, his icy fingers now burning. It is nothing near the pain in his back though which flares as though he had just been kicked. Moments later his elbow erupts into pain as well, searing down the entire length of his arm. He grinds his teeth through the pain, his eyes screwed shut.

“Loki?” Frigga’s voice holds none of the teasing it had only moments ago, only pure worry as she kneels next to her son. “Dear what happened? What is wrong? Shall I call for someone?”

His eyes snap open at that, his head shaking frantically. “No, no. I am fine. Do not call anyone.”

Even as he says it he knows that it is not true. His whole body aches as he rolls onto his feet, rising shakily. His mother’s eyes watch him closely, the blue clouded with something he does not recognize. He straightens after a moment, forcing the pain out of his mind.

“Did you trip, dear?” Her voice this time is guarded, concealed with a falsely loose tone.

Loki narrows his eyes. “No, I do not think so. It felt like someone pushed me. Do you know something about that mother?”

The scowl on her face is genuine this time, her golden brows creasing. “I sure hope you are not insinuating that I pushed my own son, Loki.”

He sighs again, guilt flooding his aching body. “No, mother. I am sorry-”

The end of his sentence drops into the space between them, cut off by an overwhelming feeling of agony. Not the physical kind, though. Yes, his back is screaming in pain as he stands on those dreadful cobblestones but that is not why he stops speaking. It is the wave of self loathing that hits him out of nowhere. It is hot and angry and cold and desperate all at once.

It feels like when he was little and his brother had thrown him into the sea to teach him to swim. He had not been ready and he swallowed a mouthful of the salty water. It had been like cold lead in his lungs, weighing him to the bottom of the surf. He had been so scared, clawing towards the faint light of the surface with no luck. Everytime he got close the light seemed to shrink further back. Soon the icy lead had turned molten when he could no longer breathe, his chest constricting under the weight of the water. The fear had turned him into some sort of crazed animal until finally he had kicked his legs hard enough to break the surface and suck in a breath of air.

It is the exact same way he feels now; panicked- like he has no clue how to get to the air again. He claws at his chest, his eyes blown wide. The world around him begins to spin. He is breathing- he knows he is, he can feel his chest heaving up and down- but he cannot taste the pine on the air anymore. He can only taste iron and salt and hatred, brash against his lips. It turns his vision red, his muscles tensing as though preparing for a fight in which he cannot identify the threat. Like the waves that pushed him under, the enemy is everywhere and nowhere. The only thing that makes it subside is his mothers hand on his cheek, warm and soft through the panic eating away at his chest.

He meets her eyes, squeezing his hands into fists at his sides. He grinds his words through his clenched teeth. “I have no idea what is happening to me.”

The small blonde swallows, her throat bobbing slightly. Her face is not the picture of shock like Loki’s is. Of course she is slightly panicked, he can see it in the way her fingers tremble as she brushes them down his shoulder. Somehow he knows that it is not the same kind of panic he feels. His all-knowing mother is stalling. It only serves to heighten the drowning feeling.

“I think I know what it is, dear.” She tests, her hands folding against her chest, clasping to hide the tremors.

Frigga’s response does little to ease the panic- if anything it makes it worse. Usually his mother is the only thing that can calm him. If he had to close his eyes and picture the person in which he feels most comfortable around- it would be her. Today though, that is to change. She seems scared. He pushes himself through the pain, biting through the iron and salt on his tongue.

“What do you know, mother.” It is not a question- it is a demand.

She straightens as well, sucking in the air that he cannot seem to find for the life of him. It makes him jealous- angry.

“Well,” she flicks her eyes up to the sky, avoiding the next words out of her mouth. “I think you might have a soulmate, my dear.”

#Loki #Loki fic #loki x y/n #loki x reader #mcu #mcu fic #loki imagine #loki laufeyson #loki layfeyson x reader #the avengers #the avengers fic #the avengers imagine #prince of asgard

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lailoken · 4 years ago

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“Elder (Sambucus nigra), also known as boor or bour tree.

Elder is one of the most enigmatic plants in British folk tradition. On one hand it is feared and associated with WITCHES and on the other it is valued for its protective qualities, as a fly repellent, and for its use in many herbal remedies.

The whole plant hath a narcotic smell; it is not well to sleep under its shade. [Withering, 1776: 186]

[In Leitrim, Waterford and the south of Ireland] the elder or 'bore' tree is believed to have been the tree from which Judas Iscariot hanged himself. The proof of which is the fact that its leaves have an 'ugly smell', and, moreover, that its fruit has since degenerated from its original size and excellent flavour, and become worthless both as to size and taste. [Anon., 1916: 425]

It was said at Beckley that if you burn elder wood you will become bewitched. You never cut it down. In Wootton they say that the elder is a witch tree. You should not mend a wattle hedge with it, as it will give the witches power. If you cut it, it will bleed. [Oxfordshire Women's In- stitute groups, 1950s]

Unlucky to burn Tramman [elder], it is the FAIRIES’ tree. [Lezayre, Isle of Man, c.1975; Manx Folklife Survey]

Normally in the Isle of Man elder is the fairies' tree which is unlucky to cut down, or burn when fallen. I was told in 1992 by a forestry worker of his pleasure that a large elder had blown over into the field adjoining his garden and thus relieved him of the need to find someone willing to remove it. [Union Mills, Isle of Man, October 1993]

Elder flowers—it is alright to pick the flowers for wine or culinary use, but the tree is a friend of witches and the wood should never come into the house. [Ashreigney, Devon, July 1983]

Elder—unlucky to bring either flowers or wood into a house: (a) because it is the witches' tree, (b) because it was believed that Judas Iscariot hanged himself from an elder tree, (c) because if you fall asleep under elder flowers the scent will poison you or you will never wake up. [Driffield, Humber- side, March 1985]

Collecting firewood from the hedges surrounding the cottage and returning happily laden, but being accused of bringing bits of elder into the house—it was considered unlucky to use these to light a fire. [Bow Street, Dyfed, October 1984]

The only unlucky plant which I have heard of is the elder tree, which the old people looked upon as unlucky. As I have heard the old people say, it was unhealthy to have an elder tree growing near the house as it was often noted the inhabitants seemed more prone to TUBERCULOSIS or 'Consumption' as it was known in Ireland in the old days. However, as TB was rampant all over the country at that time, I don't know if the belief would have any significance. My own people however would not cut down an elder bush or burn it no matter how old or rotten it was. Nor allow an elder stick in the house, and it would be an unforgivable act to strike a child or even an animal with one. [Kill Village, Co. Kildare, October 1984]

The family name dies out on the property where the elder grows in the kitchen garden. [Skibbereen, Co. Cork, January 1993]

Do you know the Rollright Stones in Oxfordshire? You can't count them; you never get the same number twice. In the next field there is a big stone called King Arthur, and there are various stones called after his Knights around. There are some elder bushes nearby. We used to go there as children on our bicycles and try to count the stones. We were told that if we picked a flower or a berry from these elderberry bushes we would be turned into stone. We used to dare each other to pick a berry or a flower, but no one ever did. [Mitcham, Surrey, May 1986]

However, in the early part of the nineteenth century:

On Midsummer Eve, when the 'eldern' tree was in blossom, it was a custom for people to come up to the King Stone and stand in a circle. Then the 'eldern' was cut, as it bled 'the King moved his head.' [Evans, 1895: 20]

Sometimes it was thought that wood, berries, or flowers could be safely taken from an elder only if the tree's permission had been sought first.

Hearing one day that a baby in a cottage close to my own was ill, I went across to see what was the matter. Baby appeared right enough, and I said so; but its mother promptly explained. 'It were all along of my maister's thick 'ed; it were in this how: t'rocker cummed off t'cradle, an' he hedn't no more gumption than to mak' a new ’un out on illerwood without axing the Old Lady's leave, an' in coorse she didn't like that, and she came and pinched t'wean that outrageous he were a'most black i' t' face; but I bashed 'un off, an putten an' esh 'un on, an' t'wean is as gallus as owt agin.' This was something quite new to me, and the clue seemed worth following up. So going home I went straight down to my backyard, where old Johnny Holmes was cutting up firewood—‘chopping kindling,' as he would have said. Watching the opportunity, I put a knot of elder-wood in the way and said, 'You are not feared of chopping that are you ?' 'Nay, he replied at once, 'I bain't feared of choppin' him, he bain't wick (alive); but if her were wick I dussn't, not without axin’ the Old Gal's leave, not if it were ever so'.. . (The words to be used are): 'Oh, them's slape enuff.' You just says, 'Owd Gal, give me of thy wood, and Oi will give some of moine, when I graws inter a tree.' [Heanley, 190I: 55]

If you chop an elder tre e or fell it, you should bow three times and say:

Old Woman, Old Woman, Give me some of your wood And when I am dead I'll give you some of mine. [Whitwick, Leicestershire, August 1983]

[Staffordshire, 1930s:] my mother said it was the thing if one wanted blossoms or fruit from an elder tree to say 'Please Mother Elder may I have .. .' [Ponsanooth, Cornwall, November 1993]

In addition to records of elder being inauspicious, there are many rec- ords of it being a beneficial, protective tree.

[In Northumberland] an old man told me that his aunt used to keep a piece of bour tree, or elder, constantly in her kist (chest) to prevent her clothes from malign influence. [Hardy, 1895: 325]

In south Wales it was deemed very dangerous to build any premises on or near the spot where an eldertree stood. In the past an elder planted before the door of a cow-shed or stable protected the cows and horses from witchcraft and sorcery. [Trevelyan, 1909: 103]

[In Scotland elder was] often planted near old crofts and cottages as protection from witches. [Webster, 1978: 342]

[In Guernsey elder] had to be planted as near as possible to the back door, the most used entrance, since it was a sacred tree and a good protection against witchcraft. [McClintock, 1987: 33]

[In Ireland] it is considered lucky to have an elderberry bush grow near your house, especially if it is "self-set'. [Bracknell, Berkshire, August 1984]

Mother used elder leaves to make a pattern on the floor-bricks. Painting around them with red paint. Making the cross with elder leaves. This was an old custom, going back to her grandmother's time, so the custom had to be continued despite the time-consuming nature of the work. [Bow Street, Dyfed, March 1984]

Elder: this was called Boortree... The leaves were boiled and the water used to dose pigs. For this purpose, and because it was supposed to be a protection against LIGHTNING, there was a tree of it at every house. It can still be seen growing in places where there are no houses now, but where houses were years ago. [Lenamore, Co. Longford, April 1991]

Family folklore passed on to me includes . . . one should plant a ROWAN and elder tree and never cut them down, in order to keep witches away. [Parkstone, Dorset, June 1991]

I can remember as a child elder growing around the wooden bottom-of-the-garden 'lavvy' at my uncle's farm near Brentwood, Essex, and many other similar loos with elder adjacent. I was told that the elder would live 'almost for ever', as if one root died off another would spring from a fallen branch or twig. They were treated with 'respect' as they kept away bad magic—no one used the word 'witches'—but the inference was there. [Yafforth, North Yorkshire, January 1990]

More usually elder trees were planted around toilets and other build ings to deter FLIES.

Elder bushes are invariably to be seen outside the dairy windows on the north side of old-fashioned farmhouses in the Midlands. This was done because elder-leaves are supposed to be very objectionable to flies, wasps and other insects, the tree thus provided both shade and protection. For the same reason a switch of elder with leaves on is used when taking or driving a swarm of bees. [N &Q, 11 ser. 12: 489, 1915]

When inspecting a slaughter house [in Cornwall] a summer or two ago, I commented on the absence of flies, and was told that this was due to a large elder bush growing some feet away and that branches of elder in any building would keep flies away. [Peter, 1915: 123]

An elderberry tree was always grown near the house—I think it was to keep flies away. [Didcot, Oxfordshire, February 1991]

According to some friends of mine elderberry bushes were planted by water butts and outside privies so that the smell would keep the flies away. [Horseheath, Cambridgeshire, April 1991]

As a youth my late father worked on the land...Often handling horses it was common practice to tie bunches of elder leaves to the harness to ward off flies. [St Osyth, Essex, February 1989]

My wife, who comes from Northumberland, tells me that her mother used to make up a concoction with elder flower when she was a child. All the family washed their faces in it to keep virulent Northumbrian midges at bay. She remembers it smelling not too pleasant, and tended to keep other children away as well, so she would take the first opportunity to wash it off! [Hexham, Northumberland, June 1988]

About twelve years ago in Girton, Cambridge, a small swarm of bees (apparently known as a 'cast') settled on a plum tree in our garden, about six feet up. A neighbour, Mr C. G. Puck (now 84 years old), a retired shepherd and lifelong beekeeper, came to collect the bees. He removed the queen bee from the swarm and placed her under a small open wooden box inverted on the ground under the tree. He then asked for a sprig of elder and laid this about nine inches above the swarm, saying that the smell of it was disliked by bees, and by the early evening all the bees had moved into the box . . . He had learned of the use of elder in this fashion from his beekeeper father, in his native village of Thriplow, south Cambridgeshire. [Girton, Cambridge, May 1988]

On the Isle of Man:

Each old cottage has a 'trammon', or elderberry tree, outside the door. This is used by the 'Phynodderree' to swing in. He is a kind of faun who can bring much luck, and even helps materially in outside work. [Daily News, 27 January 1926]

[Fairies] liked most of all to swing and play in the elder trees, and these were always thought of as fairy trees in the Isle of Man. There wasn't a house or farm that didn't have its 'tramman' tree planted by the door or in the garden 'for the fairies'. Many of them are still to be seen; the single tree will soon have grown into a thicket, hiding the old ruined house, but a sure sign that a house once stood there . . . When the wind was blowing the branches, it was then that the fairies were believed to be riding the tramman trees, but it was said that they would desert a house or a farm where the trees had been cut down. This must have happened only very rarely: no-one would cut a branch of the tramman, let alone the tree itself, but if it was done the fairies grieved. [Killip, 1975: 35]

Regardless of whether elder is considered to be malevolent or protec- tive, most of the folk beliefs associated with the tree appear to be con- cerned with its protection and preservation. Two quotations from herbalists writing in the 1940s demonstrate the value of the elder tree.

[According to my [g*psy] friend] the healingest tree that on earth do grow be the elder, them sez, and take it all round I should say 'twas. [Quelch, 1941: 78]

[Elder has] the unusual distinction of being useful in every part. [Ransom, 1949: 55]

Thus it is possible that the various folk beliefs associated with elder were due, at least in part, to efforts to protect a valuable resource.

The period when elder flowered was sometimes considered to be a time when the weather was poor. In the Basingstoke area of Hampshire this time was known as the elderbloom winter [Maida Hill, Lon- don, December 1982], while in Cheshire:

Weather prophets say that if the weather breaks while the elder-flowers are coming out, it will be soaking wet (in Cheshire parlance, drabbly) until they fade. [Hole, 1937: 49]

Francis Bacon (1561–1626) recorded: 'They say' WARTS can be removed by rubbing them 'with a Green Elder Sticke and then bury- ing the Sticke to rot in Mucke' [Bacon, 1631: 258]. Similarly:

A 15-year-old girl, writing in 1954, says that her grandfather told her to pick a small twig of elderberry, touch her warts with it, chant the words, “Wart, wart, on my knee, Please go, one, two, three” and put it 'down the toilet'. [Opie, 1959: 315]

Elder is, perhaps, the wild plant most widely used in folk medicine.

Queen of all Forest [of Dean] remedies was 'ellum blow tea'...The flowers were gathered in the spring and hung up to dry in closed paper bags ... in the kitchen ... You dared not sneeze in the winter or down came the bag, a good handful was put in a jug, covered with boiling water, covered with a tea towel, and left to infuse. One had to force this evil-smelling brew down one's throat willy-nilly. I loathed it, and to this day can recall that smell of cats which emanated from it. Poultices of the mixture were used for SPRAINS, aches, etc., in joints, also for boils and 'gathered' fingers—whitlows and so on. It seemed to be a universal panacea; the only use it didn't have was for constipation . . . Elder berries were favoured too; they were boiled up with sugar, the resulting syrup strained, bottled, and used in winter for coughs and colds . . .There is not a Forester alive over the age of 70 who does not know ellum blow tea. [Cinder- ford, Gloucestershire, November 1993]

Elder berries when fried with mutton fat are used for BOILS and ULCERS. [IFCSS MSS 414: 43, Co. Clare]

Elder root when boiled and the water drank supposed to cure RHEUMAT- ISM. [IFCSS MSS 700: 35, Co. Meath]

An infusion of elder flowers in boiling water will alleviate PILES. [Horsted Keynes, West Sussex, February 1991]

A green ointment could be made from the leaves, based on mutton fat, and the creamy white flowers made Elderflower Water for the complexion. The flowers, dried in the sun and stored in a paper bag make a good remedy to break a hard COUGH and bring up phlegm. I always pick and dry some when they are in bloom, put the full of your fingers (one hand) in a mug, pour boiling water over and let it infuse for ten minutes. A little milk or fruit juice can be added. [Lenamore, Co. Longford, April 1991]

For flus and FEVERS

40 oz whiskey bottle. Pick, clean, weigh, one pound ripe elder berries. Delete the strings (most strings anyway) using a fork, and put berries into empty bottle. Add 4 lb sugar. Top up with a bottle (or most of a bottle) of whiskey. Seal well. Store for 3 months and strain. Use strongest spirit. Dose—Strong glass of this 'Elderfire'—add hot water (as hot as possible) and drink. Take 2 or 3 spoons of honey with drink. Repeat each night (or more frequently)–usually two nights is sufficient to clear the flu/fever results guaranteed. [Killarney, Co. Kerry, September 1991]

[My mother, who was 94 when she died in 1987] used to collect elder-flower in the spring, and dried it. In the winter if we had colds or flu, the elderflower was put in a jug covered with boiling water and put on the hob to stew. At night we were given this (strained) with sugar and a few drops of peppermint oil added. We were given a teacup full of this at night, and in the morning we had to drink half a cupful of this cold mixture. It was supposed to sweat out the fever. She used to tell me how she pulled me through PNEUMONIA by poulticing with hot flannel and sips of elderflower tea, day and night. [Hill, Worcestershire, October 1991]

When my three children were small and we had wintery weather (and it can be very cold up here at the foot of the Cairngorms), I made elder-flower wine, and when it was time for them coming from school I had three cups, bowl of sugar, bottle of elderflower wine and the kettle boiling, and I gave them a tody; they never had colds or flu. [Boat-of-Garten, Inverness-shire, November 1991]

Elder flowers and berries are widely collected by makers of homemade wines. The flowers can also be used in cooking [Ó’Ceirin, 1980: o1), and the fruits have been recommended as a substitute for currants [Ransom, 1949: 55]. Elder leaves have been used as a TOBACCO substitute.

Myself, my brother and a friend always smoked elder leaves when money was not available for tailor-made cigarettes. We spent much time in the woodland of Thetford Chase, where on our regular walks we would break down, but not completely snap off, small sprigs of the elder. We found that if we severed the supply of sap completely the leaves on the sprig would dry out resulting in a hot strong smoke. We found that if the leaves remained just slightly damp they were a quite pleasant smoke. It was obviously trial and error, sometimes they remained too wet to burn properly. We would stuff the leaves very lightly into the stems of various umbellifers...We actually prefered these cigarettes to the tailor-made, but they were not available during winter. [West Stow, Suffolk, November 1992]

Elder wood is characterized by its pith, which can be easily removed.

[On Colonsay] boys aspiring to be pipers made chanters of the young branches [of elder], which are full of pith and easily bored. [McNeill, 1910: 130].

Haw-blowers are made by scooping the pith out of an elder branch. Haws are blown through these. [IFCSS MSS 700: 338, Co. Meath]

The people of the parish were able to make toy guns. They got an elder stick about one and a half feet long and scraped out the inside. Then they got a stick about the same length and made it fit into the hole and then the gun was made. [IFCSS MSS 867: 132, Co. Kilkenny]

At the the beginning of the century children in parts of Devon used to make pop-guns' out of elder: they would force a hole through the pith, and then fashion a ram-rod out of HAZEL WOOD. Chewed paper would be rammed down the hollowed elder sticks, and pressed out with considerable force. Great sport ensued. [Lafonte, 1984: 35]

There was another use for the Boor tree in olden times. A suitable length was cut and seasoned, then the white pith in the centre was scraped out, lead was then melted and poured in. When set, this made a good weapon for protection on a journey or out walking at night...My aunt who was born in 1894 remembered one man who had such a stick. [Lenamore, Co. Longford, April 1991]

[In Horsefield, Cambridgeshire] for winter feeding one beekeeper used to make little troughs out of elder wood; he cut pieces about the thickness of a finger and five or six inches long, tapered off one end and removed the pith, and used them for replenishing the bees' honey by inserting this end in the exit hole. [Parsons MSS, 1952]”

—

Oxford Dictionary of Plant-Lore

by Roy Vickery

#elder #elder tree #elderberry #elder mother #plant lore #herbcraft #folklore #Roy Vickery #Oxford Dictionary of Plant-Lore

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nlights37 · 4 years ago

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Fixer-Upper Ch. 5: Teaser

Trying to get this shit wrapped up as I type this, but until then, please enjoy this peek into Joe Snow's Real Depression Hours!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

At least a quarter of the whiskey bottle remained, and he’d committed fully to polishing it off, but it seemed like it was taking forever.

That probably had something to do with the fact that he couldn’t quite breathe through his nose.

The nose thing, well, that was from the crying, not that he would ever tell anyone about that. Especially not Dany.

Fuck, now his eyes were burning again, and he wasn’t supposed to think about HER, not her name or her smell or her taste, Gods, the way she tasted was insane. There was this spot just at the pulse in her neck, where she was so sweet, and something about the way her heartbeat would speed up under the tip of his tongue, the way he could fucking feel her getting hotter for him, just made him crazy.

Jon slapped a hand against his own cheek, wincing a second after the loud crack sounded through the air, furious with himself. “Stop it.”

He heard a whine and looked up to find Ghost watching him from the corner, which was shocking on it’s own because the dog had refused to even look at him since he’d gotten back from his breakup and subsequent breakdown in his truck. How the dog had known he’d spent an hour in that parking lot silently crying, swiping his sleeve across his face every few minutes until the fabric was soaked, he wasn’t sure.

Who the fuck even was he anymore? He didn’t remember ever being this fucking pathetic.

Ghost tilted his head at Jon.

“This is your fault,” he answered, at the question in the dog’s eyes. He jabbed a finger towards Ghost, the rest of his hand wrapped around the liquor bottle, liquid sloshing as he pointed accusingly. “You were supposed to stop me, pal. How did you let me get in this fucking deep, huh?”

Maybe it was the alcohol but he was sure, in that moment, that Ghost glared at him.

Then the dog huffed, and circled, and turned his back to Jon completely.

“Don’t give me that bullshit, man.” Jon rose, a little unsteady, passing the muted television currently playing a ‘Westerosi Pickers’ marathon that he had chosen because he thought it would distract him but really all it had done was make him wish Dany was there tucked up right next to him like she was supposed to be, making fun of the hosts and eating all his chips and doing that thing he really liked to his earlobe during commercials.

No, no, he didn’t need to think about that, and he pitched forward, hand finding the wall there in the corner, as he slipped down next to his dog, in the dark. Fuck, it was night.

How long had he been drinking?

Fuck it, it didn’t matter, because he clearly hadn’t drunk enough yet, everything still hurt too much.

Begrudgingly, Ghost shifted until he could put his head in Jon’s lap, then sighed.

“You sad, too?”

Big eyes angled up to look at him, and another low whine emerged from the dog.

Jon set aside the bottle on the floor beside him and fished in his pocket for his phone, grunting with even that minor exertion. The screen swam before his eyes at first, but he managed to connect his phone to the bluetooth speakers above the television, and he fumbled around until he finally got his music app opened, the appropriate playlist selected.

There was dead air for a moment, and he met Ghost’s eyes again, resigned. “We gotta do it, pal.” The opening strains of ‘Everybody Hurts’ began to play, and Jon shook his head regretfully as Ghost’s ears pricked up. “Time for the breakup ritual.”

This wasn’t gonna work. He knew it, even as he began to bob his head drunkenly, every forlorn word striking directly into his inebriated broken heart.

He knew it wasn’t gonna work, but that didn’t stop him from coming in where he always did, off-key and far too loud. “Don’t let yourself gooooooooo,” he bellowed, face crumpling as he started crying again, mangling the next line terribly because he was finding you couldn’t shout your heartbreak out when you were also sobbing.

But he pulled it together for the most important part, yelling and slurring to the empty room that everybody DID hurt sometimes, and he was everybody, apparently.

His head thumped back against the wall and he stopped trying to do anything but sniffle and hiccup and drink and just let the rest of the song happen to him.

It looped, three times, and now he could only manage short breaths through his mouth, but when his reddened eyes fell on the gift bag he’d shoved beside his coffee table he jumped as if he’d been electrocuted. “Fuck,” he rasped, and crawled over to get it, leaning against the base of the sofa for support as he cradled the item in his lap.

Then a chill wracked him and it clicked in his mind why he’d tried to shove this out of sight earlier.

It smelled like her. Like that fucking lemon meringue pie body wash she used that made her smell fucking edible and he could almost taste her skin under his tongue, the firm give of flesh as he would sink his teeth into the rounded curve of her hip and she would moan and thread her fingers into his hair and pull…

He let his fingers crinkle against the tissue paper and sucked in another thin stream of air through his nose, still stopped up, his eyes feeling heated and swollen as he looked down at the present she had given him.

If he opened he, that would be it. It would be over. He didn’t know why, but it made a weird sort of sense, and he was convinced that this had to be true. So maybe he just shouldn’t open it.

But he had to.

Because she gave him something, and he had to know, he couldn’t not know, what was in this bag.

His mind flashed sluggishly to the desk calendar page he had meticulously poured over before declaring it a masterpiece, a brief record of what they’d done, a little something to remember him by when she inevitably got scooped up by some lucky fuck who could behave himself at parties and be respectable and made better choices. Jon was just a ruiner, anyway, that was one thing Ygritte had probably been right about, that Jon ruined everything he touched, killed it until there was nothing left.

Dany was better off without all his bullshit, in the end.

So, while he’d had every intention of keeping Naked November for his own personal times of reflection he’d decided to give it to her.

He wondered if she had unfurled it yet, if it had made her laugh, or maybe she’d studied it with that tiny devilish little smile that always popped up whenever sex between the two of them was involved.

Maybe she was doing what he was. Maybe she was getting shitfaced drunk and listening to sad music and trying to scrape together the will to purge Jon from her life. If he were going to continue on with his own special breakup traditions he would need to go round up all the things he hadn’t given her back at the park, things around his place that he knew full well were there but he hadn’t been able to part with. Her spare toothbrush, his extra from his last dentist visit, purple plastic spangled with silver glitter, still sat in the holder by his sink. Three berry yogurts were lining the door of the fridge, along with the pale ale she’d brought the last time she’d come over. Several of Drogon’s cat toys, his ‘floaters’ that ended up travelling between both their places, were scattered in with Ghost’s.

Maybe she was wandering around her place right now and finding it was just as haunted by the spectre of him as his house was saturated with her.

Maybe she was crying. He didn’t like the thought of that, at all. She’d looked upset at the park, putting on her best unaffected face for awhile, but maybe it was just the sex she was mourning.

A small, petty part of him hoped no one ever fucked her like he did, and made make all those amazing noises she made, and he hoped she never called someone else baby in that low throaty voice that made him want to bury himself inside her until neither of them could walk. That was his, and maybe it was selfish, but he didn’t care.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, and took another drink from the bottle, smiling bitterly at the burn then thrusting his hand into the paper. He grew still when his questing fingers encountered a hard edge, and for the life of him he couldn’t begin to imagine what it could be.

So, he took a deep breath and braced himself, and pulled the object free.

#fixer-upper #jonerys #fic tease #final chapter #joe snow is big sad #prelude to makeup smut #jon x daenerys #modern au #homestretch

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starr-fall-knight-rise · 4 years ago

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HASO, “Can We Keep It.”

Sorry about the extended break. Hope you guys like this :)

First officer the Omen Lieutenant Simon waited at the entrance to the cargo bay watching the flaring red light blink continually before the airlock doors. A tone came with it loud and blaring repeatedly crawling its way into her head and making the space behind her eyes throb. She rubbed her head desperate or the sound to stop by knowing she just needed to wait it out. Her family had always wondered why she chose a job that was so stressful, and so full of annoying and bothersome noises, but she wanted this and was willing to go through all manner of annoyances to make that dream come true.

If annoying noises were the worst thing about her job, then she should feel lucky.

The airlock door hissed open and the group of GA scientists and their accompanying human escort hurried into the cargo bay before the door shut behind them.

She saluted to the Admiral who hurried onto the deck, “Sir, everything went well I trust.”

Her question was suddenly cut off when she noticed…. Something off.

Simon had never been all that great at reading people, she had trouble distinguishing tonal variation in people’s voices, and sometimes body language flew itself right over her head like a UFO, but this was obvious enough even SHE was able to pick it out.

“Did you gain weight?” She immediately chided herself for being so blunt. She had learned pretty early on that people didn’t like that sort of bluntness, but she had already stepped face first into it.

Admiral vir straightened himself out and quite obviously pulled his coat over his stomach, which was bulging quite obviously, “Bloating is a bitch, I tell you those space berries are really something.”

“You are EATING random space plants!”

HE shuffled his feet, “Well not eating thm per say, anyway gas, you know that sort of thing. SHould probably head back to my quarters before I bother anyone with my issues.”

He went to walk past her and as he did, she thought he saw his coat twitch right above his stomach.

“What the Fuck was that.”

“Spasms, nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing to worry about! Admiral I should call Dr. Krill down right away.”

“NO NO! No need for that, I can walk just fine. Look, I will swing by the infirmary in a minute and get myself checked out, feeling totally fine. Nothing to see here.”

Simon went to open her mouth but he hurried past her and away, “Lord look at the time, so busy have so many things to do, paperwork, and and meetings and, and gotta call my mom before she freaks out and assumes I have died. Yep.”

Apparently she wasn’t the only one who thought he was acting weird, and she watched him go as the rest of the crew did the same, their heads cocked to the side, their mouths pulled down into a frown. NO one was really sure what was going on, and no one was really sure what they were supposed to do about it.

Simon turned her head to look over at the scientists who looked just as confused, although their leader looked somewhat annoyed about something.

He looked up at her wit an expression even SHE could tell was one of annoyance.

“Next time, we will not be allowing him on our expedition.”

She frowned, “Why is that?”

“Touching everything with his bare hands, marching through the bushes disturbing he wildlife, touching strange creatures, honestly he has no sense of scientific decorum, and if that planet had been even the slightest bit more dangerous, we might all be dead.”

“I will, have a talk with him.”

“Do what you must.” The little creature said, “I need to go lay down.”

He and his scientists walked off, some to the labs and others to do as their boss was doing. Simon was left standing rather confused and staring after them as they went.

She shook her head.

Sometimes she wondered how the Admiral had ever even become an Admiral, but she guessed clearly someone had thought he was qualified.

***

Adam Vir hurried down the hall desperately trying to keep unnoticed until finally shouldering open the door to his room and allowing it to hiss shut behind him. Then finally he leaned his back against the door and sat there as something writhed and churned against his skin. He felt it slither up the front of his chest before Jeffery snaked his way from the top of his jacket and out into open air. He opened his three segmented mouth, likely tasting the air kind of like a snake as he did Before turning his head to look around at the dark room.

Adam patted Jeffrey on the hed, “See, home sweet home.”

The snake-like alien slithered most of the way out of his jacket and went to curl around his upper arm and torso resting his head on top of Adam’s as he showed the creature around the room.

“This is where I sleep, and that over there.” he pointed “Is my dog waffles.”

In the time they had stepped into the room, and Jeffreyhad shown himself, the German Shepherd and poked her nose out from around the side of the bed eying Jeffery with some measure of concern.

Jeffery opened his mouth in her direction and Waffles scooted back just slightly looking to Adam with an expression of confusion and concern. She clearly wasn’t sure that she liked this at all.

Jeffery stretched close to her, his mouth still open holding himself up with great powerful muscles, likely more powerful than your average snake, which was saying something considering earth had plenty of constrictor species that could crush a man to death if they sochos.

Adam held out an encouraging hand, “It’s ok girl, its ok, he isn’t going to hurt you.”

Granted, he hadn’t actually thought this through, and if it didn’t go well, i was going to make his life a lot more difficult than he had originally intended.

He Knelt down on the floor and held out a hand to Waffles, who, as the good girl she was gave him her trust and moved forward, her nose twitching in the direction of the strange alien.

Waffles had spent a good portion of her life around aliens, so she was used to coming into contact with new and strange creatures. Where other dogs might have barked, growled, or even attacked, she approached with cautious footsteps her head cocked curiously to the side.

Jeffrey, for his part, didn’t seem worried at all, and stretched forward to get a better look at the strange creature he could now sense before him. He closed his mouth after a bit and looked her over with his large green and yellow eye. She stretched her neck forward sniffing at him curiously. Tentatively she took one step forward and then another until she was sniffing the head of the space snake directly.

Her tail came up from where it had been hidden in between her legs and slowly began to wag back and forth.

She took another step forward and tentatively licked at the snake.

Jeffery reared back slightly surprised causing the dog to shrink back a little. For a moment he worried it was going to devolve into a fight, but then Jeffery lowered himself back down and allowed Waffles to lick him some more. He slithered from around Adam’s soldiers an onto the floor in a tight coil.

Waffles dropped her front half and stuck her butt in the air tail wagging playfully batting at the snake with one of her paws.

Jeffery reared up a little an playfully lunged at her.

Adam grinned. It was a lot like watching a cat and a dog fight and he sat back on the edge of his bed to watch the two of them play.

Waffles Lay down with Jeffrey in between her paws, mouth open tilting her head back and forth as if threatening to bite him, though he knew she never would. She played with him like that all the time and had never hurt him in the past.

It Was probably at that precise moment that Adam realized…. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was going to do. It’s not like there were regulations against stealing animals from unknown planets, though there probably should have been. He knew that what he had done was probably illegal in some way or another, though he hadn’t read the manual in long enough to figure that out. He knew for sure that Simon and krill were going to be pissed, and probably Sunny. They would likely turn the ship around and make him take Jeffery back home, but the thought of dumping him off in the forest and then just leaving left a huge pit in Adam’s stomach.

He had already proven once that he wasn’t going to be able to leave Jeffery behind.

After bonding for the day, he had honestly intended to set jeffery back into the wild. He had even gone down to the nearest berry tree and set him down offering him some of the berries to eat in his cupped hand before turning away and walking off, but then he heard jeffery behind him, and turned around to find the snake following him, looking for all the world like he was sad to see his friend go.

Adam had tried to explain himself as much to make himself feel better as to explain the situation to jeffery, but he just couldn’t do it. Jeffery had looked so forlorn and sad, like he understood what was going on.

Then he had crawled over and wrapped himself around Adam’s leg looking up at him with a big sad eye.

Adam was a weak man.

He knew it

Puppy eyes, or in this case, snake eye worked on him just a little too well, and he was unable to leave the creature where it should.

At any time, if jeffery had shown a hint of agitation, he would totally have gone back, but he had curled up under Adam’s shirt and rested there through the whole flight like it was nothing, and now here he was taking his new environment and friends in stride.

Adam sighed and rested his head in his hands.

Great, he had gone and adopted yet another alien.

He hadn’t done it in so long that it was bound to happen again, but he really had not intended for it to happen this time. This time it had been completely by accident.

Just then there was a knock at the door.

He nearly fell off the bed in shock and concern as he hurried over to the door. Waffles and Jeffrey had stopped playing as they curiously looked over towards him. He cracked the door halfway glancing out into the hall with a face of concern.

Adam was both surprised and nervous to see Ramirez standing there.

Behind him Jeffery slithered over looking ready to poke his head around the door to see who was knocking.

Adam tried to block him with his foot as he peered through the door.

“Sorry bro, really busy right now gotta go.”

Ramirez frowned and reached out a hand to block the door, “Dude, serious? Like you were acting weird just a few minutes ago and Krill sent me up here to make sure you were okay.”

Adam gave a stiff smile as he attempted very hard to keep Jeffery back from the door, “Oh yeah, I am totally ok. Very cool, completely and utterly ok, no problems at all.” Jeffery, who had got annoyed at his attempt to block the door, now began to slither up his leg.

Ramirez frowned, “Are you sure you are ok?”

“Yeah Fine/”

He tried to Grab Jeffery but he slithered through, and around the doorway opening his mouth to smell the newcomer.

Naturally Ramirez freaked out almost immediately, “What the FU_” He reached down for his handgun, but before he could Adam lunged forward, grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled them both back into his room allowing the door to slam behind him.

He pinned Ramirez to the floor as the other man struggled, “What te HELL!”

He claimed a hand over the other Man’s mouth, “Shut Up! Shut UP.”

Ramirez went quiet breathing hard as Adam Sat over him, a hand pressed to his mouth. Jeffer peered out from around his shoulder.

“Don’t scream, and I will take my hand away. Gt that?”

Ramirez nodded, and Adam pulled his hand back.

“What the hell is that!” Ramirez hissed

“This is Jeffery.”

“Jeffery?”

“Yeah…. I may have…. Rescued him from an alien planet.”

“Dude are you kidding me, for a second I thought you were being mind controlled or possessed by some sort of alien brain sucker.” He looked up at Jeffrey and waved a hand, “Waddup.”

Jeffery opened his mouth again.

Ramirez pulled back a bit, “W-what’s it doing.”

Adam waved a hand, “Oh, I think that is just the way he smells people or something.”

He rolled off to the ide to allow Ramirez to sit up,and reaching out jeffery let Ramirez pat him on the head, “So cool,” he glanced over at Adam, “You know Simon and krill are going to be PISSED.”

He sighed, “I know, I know, but you should have seen the way he looked at me when I tried to leave. I couldn’t handle it….. I am a weak man.”

Ramirez shook his head, “Well now what…. Do you even know what it eats”

Adam paused, opened his mouth and then closed it, “Well I know he eats berries?”

“And did you bring any of those berries?”

“Well I uh…. May have forgotten in the moment.”

Ramirez paused, “Wait here for a second.” Adam watched him as he got up and left the room.

***

The rest of the crew would be very confused to watch Ramirez walk into the mess hall, int the walk in refrigerator and then appropriate a tub of strawberries, some raspberries, blueberries and blackberries before walking back out of the room without saying anything to anyone. He would get some very strange looks as he walked up the stairs towards the captain’s quarters and then vanish walking back into the room and setting the berries down on the floor.

The two of them sat cross legged across from each other and attempted to figure out what exactly it was that Jeffrey liked.

Adam still had no idea how he was going to hide this.

Jeffery was too curious for his own good , and someone was bound to find out eventually

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philliamwrites · 4 years ago

Text

The Dawn Will Come [Chpt.3]

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Pairing: Dimitri x Reader, Claude x Reader, Edelgard x Reader, Yuri x Reader, Edelgard x Byleth, lots of minor pairings

Tags: #gn reader, # platonic love byleth & reader, #reader is a tactical unit, #angst, #slow burn, #subplots, #unreliable narrator, #pining, #remporary amnesia, #reluctant herp, #canon divergence, #lost twin au, #many chapters, #original content

Words: 7.7k

Summary: Waking up in a forest without any knowledge of your past and who you are, you join the house leaders of the Officers Academy to search for a way to return your memories. Unfortunately, the church has different plans for you, and Fate places you in the centre of a cruel game with deadly stakes. It certainly doesn’t help to fall in love with a house leader who is doomed to be your demise.

Notes: Chapter 2 | Chapter 4

Chapter 03: Ties That Bind

Where war, and joy, and terror Have all at times held away; Where both delight and horror Have had their fitful day.

The happiest under heaven A king of powerful mind; A company so proven Would now be hard to find

Gawain put on a good cheer. ‘Why should I hesitate?’ He said. ‘Kind or severe, We must engage our Fate.’

[Sir Gawain and the Green Knight]

„Breathe,“ Hanneman says for the third time. At every tap of his pen against the table, you flinch as if someone is knocking right against the inside of your skull. “You have to feel the Crest, become one with it. Don’t think of it as an addition; see it as an extension of your very self.”

You exhale but it’s hard to focus after you’ve been sitting in the same position for nearly two hours and your legs keep falling asleep.

“Focus on it,” Hanneman continues. He starts to gesture with his free hand, an indicator that he’s just as frustrated with your lack of progress as you are. “Focus on the feeling that took hold of you when you fought the bandits. Imagine what you want. Ask yourself what it is you really want, and take hold of that picture.”

Well, first of all, you really want a sandwich.

For the past few weeks, you’ve been waking up before sunrise to attend private lessons with Hanneman to get a hold of your Crest’s power. Now the end of the month approaches, and still your body refuses to get accustomed to work at such an early hour, and more importantly without eating first. An hour ago, your stomach started growling, but Professor Hanneman has proved again and again to be very successful in ignoring factors that disturb his lessons. You continue breathing through what you consider hunger pains instead of the raise of new powers, but with the sound of screaming students outside and the occasional flapping of wings as Pegasus Knights fly by on their patrol, it’s anything but successful.

“Focus!” Hanneman chides again as if he can read your mind and knows exactly you’re thinking of the pheasant roast with berry sauce on the menu today.

“I’m trying,” you groan and slump into the chair, defeated. “But I don’t feel anything.”

“Hmm hmmm,” Hanneman hums and looks at you like you were supposed to understand what he’s conveying with that sound. “Maybe we’re looking at it the wrong way,” he says once you don’t follow up on his inexplicable sound. “Maybe we should stop thinking of it as a common Crest, but approach it like it is something entirely different.” He quickly notes something on his paper, then proceeds to flip through the open books he’s splayed out on his desk. “There is so little we know about the Crest of the Herald. I am much frustrated no one thought of studying it a thousand years ago!”

“I don’t understand. How can it be different?” Your first lesson solely focused on Crests. How they are thought to be power incarnate, bestowed upon humans by the Goddess countless ages ago. Today those who are descendants of Fódlan’s Ten Elites and Four Saints, who fought during the War of Heroes beside Saint Seiros, wear Crests, a sign of wealth and nobility.

“Well, one possible explanation could be that for whatever reason, the first Herald was different from his fellow warriors, the Ten Elites,” Hanneman offers, leaning back into his chair and looking a lot more interested in the conversation now. “The Goddess must have found him worthy of her power just as she found Saint Seiros worthy.”

“Then why wasn’t he a Saint?” you wonder. From your understanding, the Four Saints were special comrades of Saint Seiros, just as guided by the Goddess as their leader. What had made the Herald from back then different? “According to everything you told me, he sounds a lot like this Macuil person. Focusing on strategy and all that.”

“Saint Macuil,” Hanneman corrects you, but there’s no bite in his voice. “And yes, perhaps he was akin to the Saints, but that clearly wasn’t what determined the final decision to name him Herald.”

“Well, that’s just my kind of luck,” you mumble, but when Hanneman makes a puzzled sound, you ask instead, “And you’re sure I’m a descendant of him?”

“Most likely! You bear a Major Crest, which means the Herald’s blood runs strong in your body. After he disappeared, he might have settled down and started a family. Unfortunately, nothing is recorded about him after the War of Heroes concluded.”

“Then how come there was no one else in a thousand years who bore the same Crest?” You aren’t sure you fully understand how they work. Apparently, Crests grant special powers to those who hold them such as high aptitude for magic or enhanced strength. But you know better than anyone that the Crest of the Herald is special. It doesn’t simply give you a boon, it allows you to command the flow of battle. But is it really a blessing bestowed by the Goddess? You don’t remember a divine revelation or talking to a Goddess. Or did that maybe occur even before you were found by the Officers Academy’s students? Before your memory loss? You certainly don’t feel chosen by a deity.

“Trying to explain the Goddess’ whims would wield about the same result as asking this question,” Hanneman says. “Sometimes a Crest may skip generations. No one can say with certainty who will be chosen. If it will be the first or third born. That is why we must further study Crests! For example, why, unlike other Crests, has your appeared physically visible?” Hanneman mutters more questions under his breath and notes them quickly on his paper. It’s remarkable how enthusiastic he approaches the topic if it only didn’t make you feel like an experiment lying on a dissection table.

“I want to know so much more about the first Herald,” you mumble. “What was his name? Where was he from?” Why did he disappear and what were the costs he had paid for such a title. Only one month in and Lady Rhea already granted you an impressive room to reside. People treat you with respect and admiration even though you aren’t doing much besides wave at them on the streets or hold some conversations. If being the Herald only encompasses these tasks, you’ll gladly take on the role and speak to people. But that would be a dream too good to be true.

“We can only speculate,” Hanneman says. “Some believe the Herald came when Seiros needed him most. Our Goddess’ answer to her cry of help. Others believe he was simply a general who originated form a farmer’s family. Other, smaller sources talk about a prince from a far off land who passed through Fódlan and decided to stay. But in all cases, the Herald was a great asset to win the War of Heroes and save Fódlan from the tyranny of the Fell King.”

“Yeah, no pressure there,” you mumble, sinking further into your seat. Hopefully no one expects you to save Fódlan from evil monarchs. If yes, it certainly won’t happen on an empty stomach. When Hanneman releases you, there’s only one place for you to be. The Dining Hall is crowded at this time of hour. Students and faculty bustle everywhere, eager to get their favourite meal on a plate. Just like them, you are drawn in by the amazing smell of roasted meet and freshly baked pastries.

The only thing you can live without is how once you enter the room several heads turn in your direction, and a ripple of “Look, it’s the Herald” goes through the crowd, spreading like a wave. Or a disease, you think with a sour taste in your mouth as you move through the parting sea. They want you to acknowledge them but Goddess forbid you actually engage in conversation with them and they flee like you’re the Herald of Pest.

“Herald!” Well, not everyone escapes. Some seem to like living dangerous.

Edelgard looks straight at you from between the other students from the Eagle class sitting at a table, removing any doubt she means anyone else but you. Running from her would be a sign of defeat, so you drag yourself over to the Eagle table and give the round an uncertain smile. “Hello.”

“Herald, if you have time, please sit with us,” Edelgard offers but the look she pins on you doesn't give you any choice. The silence of her classmates speaks louder than words, and a quick glance to Hubert tells you that he very much would like for you to notsit with them.

“Sure,” you say lamely and sit opposite from her where Bernadetta quickly shuffles to the side to make room, and then further down the bench until she jumps to her feet and flees from the hall. It’s a miracle she’s out of her chambers in the first place, undoubtedly Byleth’s work.

“Did you manage any progress with Professor Hanneman?” Edelgard asks, carefully cutting her pheasant roast into small bite-sized pieces. She looks the complete opposite from someone capable of hacking away their enemies but you wouldn’t dare to underestimate her.

“It’s slow,” you admit, solely focusing on shoving potatoes from one side of your plate to the other so you don’t have to look at anyone. “I’ve only grasped the basics of how Crests work and the Herald’s is so different.”

“Research might prove more fruitful if you’d be called into action,” she says, and it’s difficult to determine if that statement is a simple observation or underlying critique towards Rhea’s decision to leave you out of the major education system. At least that’s something you’re sure of. Edelgard is difficult.

“Maybe. But chances are higher I get myself killed somehow on the battlefield.” You’re already dreading the approaching noon hours. Byleth has worked out a special training programme for you and the house leaders. So far there hasn’t been a day without aching muscles and bruises for you. Thinking of Byleth, you can’t help but ask, “So how’s Byleth as a Professor?”

Edelgard considers her plate with mild interest, but her index fingers start tapping against her cutlery. She has small, delicate hands. Cute hands. You gawk at them for two seconds before noticing Hubert starring daggers at you, and quickly avert your eyes to your cup of ginger tea like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

“Our professor shows knowledge in the most curious things,” he says, surprising you by joining the conversation. “I think the Adrestian Empire will benefit greatly from that.”

You aren’t sure how leading the class correlates directly to joining the Empire, but you don’t want to point that out. Hubert is still too much of a puzzle you’re adamant on not piecing together because whatever picture waits for you after the assembly might be one of horror.

“She really is one to look up to,” Edelgard agrees, but she isn’t looking at anyone, so it seems she’s saying it more to herself. You want to try and read more out of her expression, but distraction comes quickly in form of more students from the Eagle class. Caspar is the first bouncing excitedly towards the table, and still he somehow miraculously manages to keep his food from flying everywhere. “Herald!” he calls and slides right on the seat right next to you. “How’s the head situation going?”

“Caspar,” Linhardt chides and gives his friend the disappointed look of a parent that can’t bring his child to use a fork to eat. “Would you stop pestering the Herald with the same question every day?”

Linhardt hits the mark. It was nice in the beginning to have someone show so much interest in your wellbeing, but now you don’t know if the daily reminder how you fail to regain pieces of your past is rude or just Caspar’s naive politeness.

“Yeah well.” You try to stuff as much potatoes in your mouth as possible just to avoid talking about it. “Nothin’ yeff.”

“Herald, please try to keep your manners in check, will you?” Ferdinand comments because of course he catches you with your mouth full and sauce dripping from the corners. Unlucky for him, you don’t really care.

“Well, sorry.” Caspar frowns and scratches the remains from his plate. The two minutes you needed to finish your potatoes, he’s cleared his whole plate. “I just thought it might help.”

“Help to be reminded what’s missing?” Linhardt doesn’t look convinced. “I think the Herald knows so better than anyone.”

“Guys, drop the subject,” Edelgard intervenes. “Let us finish our meals now. Classes resume presently and I don’t want to hear any stomachs growling, understood?” The last part goes with a pointed look towards Linhardt, who answers with a lazy shrug while continuing to poke at his food, looking bored out of his mind. It lasts about three seconds before he brightens up and turns towards you while rummaging through his school bag. From that, he pulls out notes and a pen, and unceremoniously shoves them into your hands. “I have a question, Herald. Would you be so kind and look over these strategic proposals I’ve developed from the last lesson? I understand what you taught us were basics as we find them in the library. I simply took the time and applied those to the strengths and abilities of my classmates.”

You raise your eyebrows. “You did?” Up until now, you didn’t know Linhardt was paying attention whenever you gave the students your sorry excuses of lessons. You feel like you’ve seen him asleep far more than actually looking at the board or writing, so him presenting his notes to you now is more than a surprise. He has a clean handwriting, small letters that curl into themselves and forget to take a break between words. You squint at the sentences, trying to make them out. It sure doesn’t help that half of it is crossed out by what looks like a strategy sketch with little circles and everyone’s names filling out the space.

“This looks … elaborate,” you comment, unsure if you’ll ever be able to solve this enigma.

“No worries.” Linhardt gives a little smile. “Please give me your answer report until tomorrow. And feel free to correct me on anything I’ve done wrong.”

He’s probably done a much better job than you on your lesson notes, but you nod with a lopsided smile. “I will.”

“Oh, and while we’re at strategy talk,” Caspar jumps right in, “any good ideas how to take on a taller opponent?”

“A good kick to their shins?” you suggest.

“A dagger to their liver?” Edelgard says.

“Poison in their cup?” Hubert offers.

“You’re all animals,” Ferdinand says.

Linhardt groans. “I toldyou how to win in a fight like that, Caspar. Why won’t you listen to me?”

You don’t want to be part of the argument breaking out between them, so you turn away and try to see what the other students are doing in the dining hall. At the opposite end, Claude catches your eyes and waves like he’s been waiting way too long to finally get your attention. He points at Edelgard and flaps his arms like a chicken. He points at you and spreads his hands behind his head, forming antlers with his fingers. When Edelgard follows your eyes, his head whips around and he pretends to agree with whatever Lysithea just said.

“I hope you forgive Caspar’s enquiries,” she says, steering your focus back to her. She’s gently tapping the corners of her mouth with an embroidered napkin, and oh there they are again, her delicate fingers. You look away before Hubert catches you staring again and decides to put poison in your cup7. “I speak on behalf of everyone in the Black Eagle House when I say we wish for your full recovery to be soon.”

“If wishing would only get the job done, I might have something to work with by now.”

Edelgard doesn’t blink, her expression frozen. “Meaning?”

“I thought I'd come here and one of the Church's healers would just wave their hands to return my memories,” you mumble, scribbling a tiny Claude with little, evil horns on his head in the corner of Linhardt’s notes.

Edelgard looks at you like you've just insulted her whole noble lineage. “That isn't how magic works.”

You throw your arms up in frustration to emphasise that yes, that's the point. You don't know how anything works in this place, and you doubt Byleth's four pages of lesson plans are going to help.

“If no one comes to your aid, maybe it is time you take matters into your own hands.” You flinch at the scornful sound in Edelgard’s voice. Judging the expression on her face, she seems just as surprised about her outburst. She gets up abruptly and bids farewell with a curt nod, followed closely by Hubert as always. Her classmates look after her, each more puzzled than the next.

“Didn’t she seem … angry to you?” Linhardt thinks aloud, blinking into the empty space.

Ferdinand harrumphes. “She’s always like this. Please excuse her, Herald.”

You don’t think she’s done anything wrong, and yet she certainly doesn’t appear as always. Something about her last words strikes you as especially sharp; reproachful. Those weren’t meaningless words, but you don’t have any ways to decipher the message. A little voice tells you she isn’t wrong either. So far nothing has helped returning your memories—Manuela’s medicine, herbs from the Greenhouse, Hanneman’s spells. It seems like your brain has built defencive walls to repel any probing, which begs the answer to the question what is hiding in secret even more. But can you really do it on your own, like Edelgard suggests? It seems impossible.

With newfound doubt you finish your meal, saying your goodbyes to the now scattering Eagle students as they scurry off to their next lesson. Two hours are left before you’re meeting with Byleth and the house leaders, and since you agreed to look over Linhardt’s notes, the library seems a good next stop. You still want to go over the seven classical manoeuvres of war, especially since the students didn’t really grasp the remaining two last time, and it gives you a good excuse to look over them again as well. At the beginning, you thought there was nothing you could teach those children, not with experienced colleagues at your side who have participated in countless battles themselves. Who could have thought that talking about tactics and strategies came as natural to you as breathing. Well, Rhea did for certain, and even the students drink up your every word like it is a message from the Goddess herself and you her chosen herald. The irony of it.

But it isn’t only the students accepting your guidance. Something inside you changed in the last couple of weeks as well. When you started going through the books in the library, it was more stumbling and slipping on foreign terrain, but just in a couple of days, you moved through the matter like a fish following smoothly the currents of its native waters. It felt like home. Like building the foundation of a house from thousand variables, the result different each time but still the same: art. You build the art of battle, the last decision that will bring victory or death. You love every second of it. Which opens the possibility that it really isn’t your first time, but also more questions: Who taught you? What battles have you fought? How many of them did you win? Since those aren’t as simple to answer, you focus on fulfilling the first purpose, and hope that it will some day be enough for the students to survive battles.

If only it would end there. Your second duty isn’t as easy or pleasant, and it lies in wait for you everywhere, stalking you like a dark shadow with monstrous fangs.

“Herald.” A soldier gives a courteous bow, intercepting you in the Great Hall on your way to the library. “Pilgrims ask for you near the Entrance Hall. Please allow me to escort you.”

Immediately, your nerves tingle with nervous anticipation. This is the scary part. Meeting the people, seeing the hope in their eyes. You’d gladly send them back where they’ve come from, but some have travelled for multiple days, and denying them audience would be cruel.

“Don’t let me stop you from your duties,” you say, unconsciously tugging your clothes in order to appear presentable. “I will welcome them on my own.”

The soldier nods and bows again, his expression barely readable under the helmet before he disappears as quickly as he came.

Planning lessons is easy. You can find whatever you need in the library and work out the flow with the students. But nothing can prepare or teach you how to act like the Herald people wish for. Nowhere is anything written on the old Herald, how he talked to them and what promises he’d whispered when day broke. That is where you are on your own. Not even Rhea could answer that question. She only instructed that you see them, and remind them about their devotion to the Goddess—for she was the one who made it possible in the first place.

The Entrance Hall is emptier than usual. Most of the students are in class, and a handful of knights and soldiers might be at the advanced training camp Jeralt and Alois hold in honour of the Blade Breaker’s return. So spotting the pilgrims isn’t difficult. Especially with the Gatekeeper waving his arms in wide arcs as if fearing you might overlook him.

“Greetings, Herald!” His grin is blinding. “The pilgrims are waiting for you just at the at the foot of the stairs.”

“Yeah,” you say. “I can see them.”

“Oh, yes, of course! If anyone causes problems, count on me to help!”

“Thanks.” You answer his thumbs up with one of your own before moving downstairs. What a refreshing young man. Certainly good looking under his helmet. Byleth seems to like talking to him a lot as well.

Today’s pilgrims aren’t much different from other days. Old people are supported by their family members, who have brought baskets with sweets and flowers, presenting them at your feet.

“Herald,” they breathe in awe, bowing. No matter how often you’ve seen it by now, it still feels incredibly wrong.

“Raise your heads,” you tell them, helping an elderly woman up to hrer feet. She gasps at your touch, then clings to your hands. You try to swallow past the lump in your throat. “The Archbishop and I bid you welcome. The Goddess will smile upon your devotion.” Your cringe slightly when echoing Rhea’s words and wonder if any second the goddess might punish you by throwing lightning your way.

“We are blessed to finally meet you,” a younger woman says, taking the old woman from your hands—mother and daughter maybe? “Please accept our gifts, and may the Goddess guide you on your path to light.”

“She will answer your prayers and guide me so I can bring you peace,” you reply just so you can say something they might want to hear. Judging their delighted expressions this wasn’t the worst you could have said. Dorothea would probably be proud looking at your acting skills. Or point out your bad posture and how you’re avoiding their eyes. Dorothea would probably tell you how much you have to polish your acting skills.

“Bring us peace?” someone from the last row spits, pushing to the front. “You know nothing, the Herald will bring chaos and ruin!” A man in his forties looms above you, an ugly, padded scar crossing his face from one temple to his chin. A war veteran? They way he holds himself looks like he’s been beaten up once too much to get up again.

“You heathen, don’t you dare speak to our Herald like that,” the old woman barks, immediately doubling over in a coughing fit. Her daughter supports her, glaring at the man. “Go in peace, but go if you only came to talk ill about our Herald,” she says, clearly upset. "Doubting them is doubting our Goddess. How dare you."

“First I want to see the Herald do something! What if … if this one is an impostor.” The man turns towards the others, throwing his arms in the air. “Bring forward proof that you are not here to ruin our lands, but to actually serve in the Goddess’ name!”

This time his demand meets less resistance. Until now people were fine with seeing you and the Crest, but to want actual prove? You could easily threaten them and ask if they doubt the Goddess’ decision, but you’d rather leave that method to Rhea. You don’t want to sound like her. You don’t want to scare people. Yet admitting that you don’t really have a clue how to really use the Crest would surely support the man’s accusation. Diminishing the people’s trust in the Herald is the last thing you want, especially if it means facing Rhea’s scorn.

“I—”

“Herald!” A voice calls from the top of the stairs. When you turn around, Sylvain waves and jogs downstairs, looking like he’s been running for some time. “There you are. The Archbishop wants to see you.”

Oh no, has she heard of your failure already? Giving the choice of facing a group of doubting people or Rhea, you’d immediately go to the people. You give him a curt nod, unable to speak because you don’t trust your voice.

“I apologise,” you say to the pilgrims, clearing your throat when it comes out as a croak. “I will have something prepared for another time.”

“No, you do not need to prove anything to us,” the elderly woman says. “We will always believe in you. Please tell Her Grace we are constantly praying to our Goddess and thank her for sending you to us.”

“I will.” You squeeze her hand a last time. “Save travels.”

The man still glares at you, but without a chance to keep you present any longer, he turns away and follows the rest. You can’t wait to leave all that behind, and as you steel your nerves for what’s waiting for you in the Audience Chambers, you look up to Sylvain and ask, “Did Lady Rhea say what it is about?”

He looks over at you and blinks a couple of times, then seems to remember. “Ah ... yeah, about that. I lied.”

You stop dead in your tracks. “You lied?”

“Yup. I don’t know what Lady Rhea’s doing. But you looked like you were about to puke at those poor pilgrim’s shoes. As hilarious as that would have been, I wanted to spare you the embarrassment.” He stops now as well and smiles a boyish crooked grin. Sylvain knows exactly what to do with his face so girls fall over themselves to do him a favour, and boys grow jealous of all the attention he gets. Two weeks in, and you’ve figured out his game, keeping a respectable distance that wouldn’t birth the thought you’re avoiding him. In fact, this could be the very first time you’re actually holding a real conversation.

“Well, I … thank you? But I had everything under control.”

He looks like he doesn’t believe you. The gatekeeper you’re just passing looks like he doesn’t believe you. You press your lips into a thin line and dare any of them to disagree.

“Okay.” Sylvain shrugs. “But now we’re here.”

“Sylvain, what do you want?”

“Cutting to the chase, huh?” He crosses his arms behind his head. “Why do you think I want something?” Your raised eyebrows seem to be answer enough. Sylvain laughs a little helplessly and returns his hands back to his front, raised as an offer of peace. “I promise, I want nothing. Just a little talking. A little talking hasn’t hurt anyone.”

Something inside you wants to argue against it, but without a solid argument in hand, you follow him silently, wondering where his destination and intention lies. He belongs to the many students you can’t really read, nothing about his ambitions or goals. Sometimes he gives you this strange look through half lidded eyes, his gaze focused on your right eye—his interest in your Crest undeniable, and yet he’s been one of the few not to talk about it with you. It’s strange because whenever you come together, he looks like there’s something he’s dying to say. This time is no different.

He leads you to the wooden pavilion in the gardens, but instead of offering you a seat, Sylvain leans his slim hips against the table, half sitting on it. Seteth would be furious seeing this.

“How’s the Herald business doing for you?” he asks the one question you wouldn't expect from him. “Other than you having ‘everything under control.’” He has the audacity to air-quote. This isn’t a conversation you want to hold right now, leastwise with him. Sylvain must discern that you’re ready to bold from whatever your body is showing. With a quick step, he’s standing between you and the escape route, lazily leaning one arm against a column to uphold the illusion that you’re only having a pleasant talk when in reality his body stands between you and your freedom.

“Do you talk to the other faculty members like that as well?” you say through gritted teeth, crossing your arms. Sylvain blinks like he doesn’t understand, but you’ve seen this act before, followed by an eerily precise repetition of a subject to one of his classmates when he thinks none of the teachers pay attention. Sylvain is playing dumb and deliberately hiding a sharp mind.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to offend,” he quickly says, nothing about this crooked smile appearing apologetic whatsoever. “I’m generously curious. You’re holding up really good.”

“In comparison to what?” you demand, your heartbeat picking up. Is he trying to call you out on something? That you aren’t heraldy enough? But to your surprise, Sylvain looks genuinely surprised by your reaction.

“To nothing. In general?” He shrugs. “Back on the ceremony day, you didn’t look so good standing up there, and His Highness told us everything happened really uh … ‘suddenly.’’ More air-quotes, whatever they mean this time.

“If you mean I wasn’t really asked to become the Herald, then yes.” Your arms drop back to your side. “It was suddenly.”

Sylvain watches you for a moment, and again, there’s this look in his eyes; the need to say something he can’t. He kneads the back of his nape, avoiding your eyes. “All I’m trying to say is … having that Crest out of nothing is cool. Probably. And maybe terrifying? And just—”

You grow impatient. “Come on, get the words out, Sylvain.”

“A Crest isn’t just this nice letter of invitation to a privileged life. Just take care, is all I’m saying.”

And there’s another page to the book of surprises with Sylvain’s name on it. The immediate lack of response catches him off guard; it’s like he only notices now that the vital part to understand this conversation is missing: The source of his doubt towards Crests.

Sylvain’s body turns in a split second, his feet facing the direction he’s ready to bold towards, but this time you stand in his way and block him off. “Sylvain, are you okay?”

He blinks in confusion, then furrows his eyebrows in deep thought like you demanded he recites the Ten Heroes from memory or else fails classes. His face contorts with the effort of looking fine. “Why, yes! Just peachy. Why would you think something is off?”

“Because I have eyes in my skull.”

“Very pretty eyes, if I dare say.” His answer comes out like a fire spell, hard and fast, seemingly more instinct than anything else. He clears his throat and scratches his chin, loosing momentum. “Goddess, I am bad at this.”

“You are.” No need to sugar coat it. “If something happened, just say it.”

“Nothing really happened, I just—” He exhales audibly and stares into space for a long minute, before side stepping you without difficulty. “Actually, I remembered Professor wanted to see me after class. Something about extra lessons about eh. Horse riding. Yeah. I’ll catch you later, Herald.” He winks and bolds away, darting under your outstretched arm before you can catch him. For someone this tall, he’s surprisingly agile and fast, already disappearing behind a tall hedge towards the main building.

If that wasn’t the strangest conversation you’ve held with anyone, you don’t know what might excel that. Maybe it’s time you stop avoiding Sylvain.

The Training Grounds smells of sweat and oil. Many students and knights train, which is surprising at this kind of hour, the short break between afternoon and evening classes. You’d like to know what they’re working on, but Byleth doesn’t tolerate inattention in a classroom or on the battle field, and demands you do push-ups each time your eyes wander somewhere off. You hate her a little for that. For whatever reason, Claude has taken on the role of your partner in crime, and does whatever necessary to make Byleth punish him as well.

“What can I say, I like a good workout,” he said when you asked. He didn’t even try to hide his lie, looking as miserable as you felt. Probably hating Byleth a little as well.

It’s the fourth week of private training with her and the house leaders, and so far you can definitely say that you were not meant to fight on the field. You see how your opponent moves, you can somehow predict what they’re going to do next—but your body simply protests to act accordingly. You stumble, you fall, you need a second too long to get up and before you can do anything, a training sword is at your throat. Byleth always looks like she wants to facepalm her fist through her forehead. Or yours.

“Herald, this is not how you disarm someone,” she says, as always, and demonstrates it in one smooth, swift movement, as always. You blow hair out of your eyes, knowing you’re about to fail again. At least that gave Claude a reason to give you a new nickname, though if it’s better than the last is debatable.

“You gotta twist your wrist, duckling!” he calls from the other side of the hall, immediately drawing Byleth’s attention to him. He and Dimitri are facing off, both wielding a spear which should give Dimitri the upper hand. So far, he hasn’t landed a single hit on Claude.

“Keep your elbows in!” Byleth berates Claude. “Stop flapping them like some kind of chicken.”

Claude lets out a disturbingly convincing cluck.

You raise an eyebrow. “At least someone’s having fun.”

Byleth sighs. “He’s going to get himself killed sooner than later.”

“I don’t know. He’s managed so far, hasn’t he?”

“I’m not sure if it’s a talent or a fault.” She turns back to you and nods her chin towards the side. “Take a break. I’m going to see how the boys are doing.”

You nod, tensing all over because that’s where Edelgard is currently standing and picking out a training axe. You haven’t talked to her since lunch, and you can do without it for a couple more hours. She barely glances at you when you walk over, and instead checks out the edge of the wooden blade, turning it left and right.

“Is she as strict in the classroom as in here?” you ask, unable to go on in awkward silence. Edelgard hums, throwing a quick glance towards Byleth from under her long, white lashes. “She’s systematic and consistent. Capable in both fields. I have no reason to raise any kind of complaint.”

“That’s impressive.” You sure as heck still wouldn’t want her as a teacher. “Even though she’s been pushed into all this, she handles it like she’s never done anything else.”

“I think as a mercenary, she is used to changing approaches depending on the employer.” Edelgard is still looking at Byleth. Reading her expression is impossible, and you don’t want to point out that sticking a sword into thieves and bandits is not the same as teaching kids how to fight in a battle. Her head whips to you suddenly, and she considers the training sword in your hand. “Speaking of different approaches,” she continues, “have you considered that your field of combat might be magic?”

You have, so the answer comes immediately. “Chances are higher I set myself on fire.” You stare at her. “I didn’t mean it to rhyme.”

Edelgard ignores your last comment. “But you haven’t really tried it out, have you?” Your lack of response is answer enough for her, and she nods like that proves a point.

It’s complicated. You haven’t really tried it out because … the simple answer is, you’re afraid. It gets tricky once you try to search for the answer to that. There’s just a strange sensation when you try to use magic, like there’s a vast sea of possibilities and one step inside is enough to get you lost. It isn’t as bad with wind spells or white magic. You haven’t touched Fire spells because a crippling fear chills you to the bones every time you manage to nourish a small flame inside your palm—the complete opposite to Dark magic. When you tried a MiasmaΔ for the first time it felt strangely … secure. The rope tying you to a shore, it had felt like—

There’s a loud crash when the spears collide and Claude knocks Dimitri off his feet. The whole room is silent as everyone watches how Claude taps the blunt end of his practice spear against Dimitri’s chin. “Steady on there, darling,” he says with a smug grin. Dimitri flushes bright red, and pushes with more force than necessary the spear away, quickly climbing to his feet.

“That wasn’t bad.” Byleth quickly steps in before Dimitri can throttle Claude. “Dimitri, you rely too much on your brute strength. That’s a big disadvantage against someone like Claude. And you, young man,” she turns to Claude who’s been smiling victoriously, “are scheming too much and lose time to take action. In a serious battle, you won’t be as lucky as today.”

“Noted.” Claude whirls his spear from left to right, almost dropping it when Dimitri drills his elbow into his side. “But in a serious battle, I won’t be upfront. I’ll be hanging back nicely, and skewing my enemies with a myriad of arrows.”

“You can barely shoot three at the same time,” Dimitri grumbles, his cheeks still splotched with red specks.

“You wanna bet—”

“That’s enough, guys, save it for then next round.” Byleth ignores their sulky expressions and turns to you, raising a single eyebrow. The message is clear. What are you waiting for?

Your feet feel like they’re glued to the ground. Edelgard doesn’t hesitate at all. “Let’s go.”

She strides in the middle, training axe raised. It’s made out of wood, but you don’t doubt that she’s able to severe a limb from your body if she only tries hard enough—and what you know of Edelgard is that she alwaysexceeds even her own expectations. You grip your sword tighter. It’s a clear disadvantage, but better than anything else you can handle. Maybe it won’t be as bad.

The fight lasts for about seven seconds. The moment you raise the blade, Edelgard is on you and unleashes fierce strike after strike, the power behind each hit forcing you back. She doesn’t bat an eyelash when she easily disarms you, the wooden sword flying over your heads and the edge of her axe on your throat. Somewhere behind her, you hear Byleth sigh. “Again.”

The next hour is torture. Edelgard throws you to the ground, again and again. Byleth keeps telling you to get up, again and again. One might think they would cut you some slack, being the Herald and all, but it feels like Edelgard is so much more aggressive today because you’re the Herald. Or maybe it’s personal. Maybe she’s appointed you to be her sworn enemy, and won’t miss out any chance to make it as hard as possible for you.

This isn’t fun. Being watched by Dimitri and Claude, who whisper conspiratorially to each other isn’t fun. Luckily, Byleth notices them gawking and bellows them to focus on working on their stances. Right now, you’re thankful nothing escapes her eyes and she calls her students out on their bullshit. It doesn’t make your current situation easier though. Every muscle burns, just raising the sword is exhausting and your feet feel like they’re about to give out any second. This must be hell.

When Byleth finally ends lessons, you ignore everything and crumble to the ground, splaying your limbs out in all directions. Surely they can clean up without you, two hands less will barely make any difference.

A shadow settles over you. You know who it is, and don’t bother to open your eyes. “Go away, Byleth. I don’t want to hear how bad I am.”

“Personally, I think you have improved, Herald.” Your eyes snap open. Dimitri looks down at you, his forehead still glistening from perspiration. “But facing Edelgard as an opponent usually wields those results. Don’t let it bother you.”

You want to point out that he and Claude don’t seem to have as much problems as you, even though yes, none of them have defeated her yet in practice. He goes down to your level and sits beside you, and you hate how this all barely made him breath hard, like it’s just a stroll around the monastery whereas you’re trying to climb the mountains surrounding it.

“I think she hates me,” you blurt out. Luckily, most students have already left the hall, Edelgard included. Dimitri considers this a moment, and you don’t know what to make of his lack of immediate response.

“I doubt she hates you,” he finally says.

“But?”

“But she has a hard time warming up to people. Give her time. Once the ice is broken, you will see that her personality is one you’d like to have around.”

“Oh?” You watch him for a moment, but Dimitri doesn’t blush or look away. It was a heartfelt, sincere statement, which flusters you for some reason. No one should be that honest.

“Talking about breaking ice. Do you know if something happened to Sylvain?”

“Sylvain?” Dimitri raises both eyebrows. “Please don’t tell me he harassed you in some kind of way.”

“No, no, he just—” You finally get up from lying on your back, and try to explain it by frantically moving your hands. Dimitri still looks puzzled. “He said some weird things about Crests in general?”

“Hm.” Dimitri stares at your hands for a moment, then quickly raises his eyes back to your face. “It’s complicated.” Well, that answer is as good as none. “And I won’t go into details without his consent. I can only say that if he talked about Crests, in whichever way, his brother must have upset him again.”

“He has a brother?” Now you’re wide awake. Many students have siblings. You know of Hilda’s brother and Raphael’s sister. It shouldn’t surprise you Sylvain has one as well even though he’s never mentioned it before.

“Do you have siblings?” you ask, generously curious. As heir to a kingdom, it’s hard to imagine his parents would have settled with one child. But he hasn’t mentioned any sisters or brothers as well.

“Hmm, I have a step-sister,” he says, although very hesitant and you can see if someone doesn’t want to talk about a specific topic. He doesn’t return the question, which is kind of him and makes you wonder … maybe you have a sibling as well. Somewhere. Maybe somewhere in Adrestia or Leicester a younger brother or an older sister is currently looking for you, unrelenting in their journey to be reunited at last. The thought alone brings a flicker of hope alive. Maybe they'll come once word of the Herald’s return travels far enough.

“I guess as long as Sylvain doesn’t disturb classes or acts out of order, I would leave him to his brooding. I can tell out of experience, only Felix is capable of cheering him up.”

“Felix?” Your eyebrows rise to your hairline. “Are we talking about the same Felix?”

A smile forms on Dimitri’s mouth. “I understand why imagining that might prove difficult, but I assure you, Felix is one of the view exceeding in handling the mess Sylvain is from time to time.”

“Felix and Ingrid?” you guess, earning a nod from Dimitri. “Ingrid is a very nice girl,” you continue, picking at a loose thread from your uniform. “But Felix seems detests me. Every time he sees me, he looks like he wants to throw his sword at me.”

“That is—” Dimitri stops mid-sentence. “That might be not so far off from his true intentions.”

You groan.

“But I assure you it is for a different reason than you think. Felix is simply … difficult with people holding a commanding position.”

“He doesn’t seem to have the same problem with Byleth,” you point out. No, whenever he trains with her, he manages something close to a smile and accepts her guidance. Then again, she isn’t his teacher.

“I’m sure you’ll be able to make him consider his opinion on you during the Mock Battle. I as well am looking forward to how you will guide us.” Dimitri beams. You stare at him like he’s just lost his head.

“What?”

“The Mock Battle three nights from today?” Dimitri’s smile falters a little. “Have the Professor and Lady Rhea not told you yet? You are to participate in the Mock Battle as the commanding unit of the Blue Lions.” Now he’s pulling his eyebrows together in worry. “Herald?”

“I—” You jump to your feet. “I have to go.” Go far far away. Just yesterday you introduced the students to the tactic called Feigned Withdrawal, which involves staging a retreat in order to induce the enemy to abandon its position and plunge ahead in an attack. Dimitri abandons his position, getting up to go after you, but instead of turning back to surprise him with an ambush, you flee the battle and hope the enemy doesn’t pursue.

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fascination-street-writing · 4 years ago

Text

The Sea Isn’t Green, and I Love This Dream | Risotto Nero x Reader

Subtitled “Keep Smoking - I Still Love You”

If you were to look at him with those eyes of yours and smile in earnest, all for him, he would surely fall in love with you all over again. As if he ever stopped loving you in the first place.

- 2020 Holiday Gift - A Continuation of Sober to Death -

Content Warnings: Incidental Stalking, Unhealthy Smoking Habits, Past Relationships, Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics, Angst, Regret, & Referenced Child Abuse

It is the summer of 1998. Risotto has not left his apartment in days, for he has found no reason to; there have been no new contracts, no paperwork in need of filing, and no immediate issues with the newest recruit. But today, he will venture out under the brazen sun and purchase groceries for the upcoming week. If not for the matter of his own sustenance, it will at least keep Prosciutto off his back. As if it is any of the blonde man’s business whether his Capo is eating adequately or not.

As he coasts through the aisles, searching for pre-packaged dried pasta, jarred sauce, and some kind of fresh vegetable – because Prosciutto said so –, he feels the condescending, fearful stares of patrons without needing to acknowledge them. If it is not for his stature, then certainly the peculiar coloring of his eyes. However, the ogling no longer bothers him, simply because he does not let it; after all, he is no longer the boy who once lived in Palermo.

There is a sale on pre-sliced bread. Yet, even after the discount, the name-brand loaf is still more expensive than the off-brand. He settles for the latter. It all tastes the same to him, anyways. And if he can save a thousand lire, then it is all the better. Prosciutto, he supposes, would disagree and insist that the off-brand bread is cheaper for a reason. Risotto is reminded of exactly why he does not live with the man anymore. But he still makes a conscious effort to buy fresh produce.

Basket filled, Risotto heads towards the check-out line. He knows that he has neglected to grab a bag of oranges, as denoted by the crumpled list in his hand, and he does not intend to return for them. The carton of berries and fresh figs he found along the way will be enough. Though, he does loathe forgetfulness.

The line, as he discovers and much to his dismay, is backed up. The brevity of the situation is simply that the grocery store has been understaffed as of late. Something about gang-violence and an attempted robbery – nothing that concerns him or his men. A person in his line of work fears little. Or at least, that is the theory. His thoughts linger to the new recruit, whom Prosciutto has taken under his guidance. He has always had more patience than Risotto regarding such matters.

The young Capo has lost track of exactly how long he has stood in line. Denoted by the telling grumbles of an older man behind him and the pleading of his wife to calm down, Risotto knows that it has been a while, and unreasonably so. Glancing down at his basket, a questionable consideration comes to his impatient mind: it would not be difficult to slip away, shroud himself with his Stand, and leave the grocery store with his would-be stolen goods.

It is certainly nothing to lose sleep over. In the end, however, he decides against it. Perhaps to salvage his honor and dignity, otherwise challenged by the temptation of petty thievery. Or perhaps because the line has finally moved, and it is too late to back out now. There are only two customers ahead of him now. In moments such as this, he likes to pretend that he is normal – that he might be shopping for a family that waits for him in a home somewhere in the suburbs of Napoli.

But these times have passed, and although only a man of twenty-five, he is complacent with the life as a ceaseless bachelor. A hitman does not make for a good husband, nor a father. In retrospect, Risotto hardly believes that he would want to become either. At least, not anymore.

“Merda,” the woman at the front of the line groans. She sets down the wad of cash in her hand. “I’m ₤15,000 short. Can you just put the oil back? And the sardines.”

The grocery clerk is decent at masking his annoyance with a tight smile and curt nod. It is a commendable skill, though there is room for improvement, Risotto thinks. “God, I’m so sorry. I just moved here for a new job, and my money still hasn’t transferred over to my new bank account. I should’ve taken more cash out to begin with.”

The next woman reaches into her purse and produces a neatly folded stack of lira. She taps the shoulder of the first woman, who turns. In this moment, Risotto believes he has been pummeled through the stomach. There is no other explanation to the tightening of his chest, and the heavy beating of his heart.

There you stand, as beautiful as ever, despite your apparent vexation at your own foolishness. The money quickly passes from the kind woman’s palm to that of the cashier. “Grazie, signora,” you tell her.

At first, Risotto feels nothing, as if he cannot process that which he sees before him. And then, regret – pure and unadulterated. He does not hear what the woman says to you, because the thrum of his mind has made him deaf to everything except for the ringing of his ears. You have not noticed him, unlike every other customer in the establishment, and he would like to keep it that way. You accept the bag of groceries from the cashier, but Risotto does not stick around to see it. He has already pushed past the perturbed husband and wife behind him, with every intention of finding a new line to stand in. He does not care how tedious it will be to make it out of the store. He does not care if the tub of gelato in his basket melts, or if the berries turn to mush.

Risotto will do anything to spare the fleeting glance of the only woman whom he ever loved. And if that means waiting another twenty minutes, then by god, he will wait.

He wonders, as he sits in his office with a blazing cigarette dangling from his lips, if you still smoke. In truth, he has always known that you only ever did it to impress him. He wishes you would not have indulged in this solidary habit – in fact, he wishes you had not done a lot of things, like becoming his closest friend and adolescent savior. His first kiss, or his first lament in the pitfall of countless others.

Clouds cling to the ceiling, seeping into the walls and furniture. If his landlord were not so intimidated by Risotto, then surely the parsimonious man might evict him for ruining the apartment with the stench of cigarettes and the occasional blood stain on the carpet. He supposes that he ought to at least open the window. Just beyond his reach atop the desk is his computer. If he wants to, he can find out every miniscule detail of your adult life and more that has collected over the past seven years, since the moment he left you a young, broken woman who did not mourn him. Every bank transaction, gas receipt, and occasional splurge for an object attributed to various degrees of pleasure – where you are working, where you live, and why you have come back to haunt him.

It is none of his concern, and he does not have the right to pry; not after the hurt he has done unto you, back when you were still two lovers who were, well, in love. He hopes you have found some semblance of happiness, and he will not impede on whatever that may be. But, like an incurable ailment, confliction strikes him. Indeed, he told himself that it is not his guile to cause you further grief. And yet, Risotto yearns for you all over again.

All this time spent living in a world wherein he does not exist to you, how often did thoughts of him cross your mind? Did you think of his ghastly red eyes whenever you have welcomed a new paramour into your bed, and compare the sizes of their hands to his? Did you think of him each time you drove that hand-me-down junker of your father’s, avoiding the backseat like the plague until the engine finally died and you had no choice but to purchase a new car? How long did it take you to scrub out the stains from the upholstery and your skin?

As it were, keeping the distance between you two is effortless. But unearthing unhealed wounds, all in some venture of self-retribution to heal them right, is just as inviting. There is simply too much that might go wrong again – the risks, far too great. Dissociation has served him well enough thus far. Surely, he can keep it up, this manneristic habit of his. It is funny, he finds; that as teenagers, you had once promised that you would always be there for him. It was an undeserving luxury, and one that he often took for granted. Now, though he recognizes in his heart that he still needs you, he wants you gone. For his sake or yours, he knows not.

But it would be nice to be held by you, one last time.

Breaking self-promises, like stepping on broken glass just to hear the crack, is an addiction. You are an addiction, and it was only a matter of time before Risotto had found himself in your company more often than he ought to. In any instance, he avoids your radar, and remarkably so. And yet, the tenacity of your existence drives him mad, and he finds himself asking – perchance under the steady trickle of water in the shower or as he lies in bed at night – if you are truly there, or nothing more than an apparition brought forth from his guilty conscious. That, though now he sees you comparing dress fabrics at the boutique across the street, it is conceivably not truly you but rather another woman – a stranger – with the same color hair.

Alas, you exist in both dreams and materiality.

Each moment that he stumbles upon you, from a respectable distance, he notices something irrevocably new: scuffed Mary Janes exchanged for pointed and polished kitten heels, and pleated skirts swapped for hand-tailored dress pants, creased to suggest your sophistication. As for him, he still wears torn jeans when in public. Unless of course, he is working – then it is a pair of striped pants reminiscent of a caricatured prison inmate’s uniform.

He notices, too, the greater attention taken to your hairstyling and makeup. Maturity is becoming of you, but he always thought you were pretty, even before you had learned how to properly apply eyeshadow and lip gloss. Your clumpy mascara never vied to drive him away. In fact, he rather liked it, but only because it was unapologetically you.

He does not mean to follow you to a café after you leave the boutique, arms cradling several shopping bags amongst your purse and a chic leather briefcase. Invisible to the human eye, Risotto falls in step at your side, so close that he can smell your perfume. It is no longer the olfactory copycat of whatever Versace musk you had always begged your mother to buy for you from the drugstore just down the street from your childhood home. Whatever it is now is unfamiliar, albeit comforting.

The café is quiet at this point in the afternoon. The baristas chatter amongst themselves at the counter, and the ambience music humming through the wall speakers is not unpleasant, although not entirely enjoyable, either. Unbeknownst to you, Risotto takes the seat across from you at the corner booth nearest to the window. It must be a coveted spot, he deduces, for the lighting here is impeccable. Mindful of the blackened coffee atop the table, you open your suitcase and produce a neatly pressed stack of photographs, clothing sketches, and glamour shots.

He observes all of it, and only then does he realize that the new career you spoke of to the grocery store clerk is one in the field of fashion design. And what better city in all of Italia to pursue such a thing than Napoli? He wishes he could have been there to witness the bloom of your success, first-hand – and more, he yearns to exist alone at your side for every last day that you both should live.

All of this at nothing more than your expense. Truly, something impermissibly unforgiveable, if he knew that his baggage – if his very being – is enough to hold you back from everything you deserve. It is why he left. At least now, he can see that his grievous mistake was not for naught.

Your coffee has gone cold. Too focused on correcting shading issues in your blueprints and selecting models for an upcoming show, you have neglected it. Did you even need the coffee, or was it just a show of your poise? How would you react, Risotto wonders, if he were to bring you a fresh cup and allow you to see him? Would you thank him – hug him even? Or scream, kick him away, and throw the scalding hot beverage in his face. He should pray for the former, though the latter would be the easiest to cope with. Because, if you were to look at him with those eyes of yours and smile in earnest, all for him, he would surely fall in love with you all over again. As if he ever stopped loving you in the first place.

He imagines what it must be like to be a part of your new life. He wants nothing more than to reach across the table, to place his shaken palm over the manicured hand clasped around the red felt-tip pen, and ask how your day has been. And the day before. And the day before even then. You might drop the pen too, only to lace your fingers with his and grin. “It’s been great, Ris,” you would say. “Really great, but even better now.”

Instead, you scribble notes in the margins with that same hand and tap your foot to the steady beat of music. How wonderful it must be for those who are capable of picking up where they once left off a lifetime ago. If, after all this time, you are so inclined to adore him again, then you must be the most winsome little fool in the world – but his, nonetheless.

Risotto cannot recall when last he received a contract from the Don, assigned explicitly to the silver-haired man. And so, rather than cooping himself away in the confines of his apartment, smoking until his stomach lurches and he might faint, he roams the city, pegging to the chance that he might find you. The fresh air – as fresh as the air in Napoli can possibly be – is good for him, anyways.

This afternoon, he finds you leaving the post office whilst balancing a packed cardboard box with outstretched arms. You are dressed down, just as he supposes that most normal people do on their days off. Curiosity baits him, like a bobble in the ocean; he shrouds himself and follows you up the cobblestone street ramp, past a row of municipal buildings, down the winding path behind one of many shopping plazas, and directly into the living room of your apartment. He never meant to get this far.

The smooth voice of Mina Mazzini echoes from the turntable atop a wrought-iron accent table placed beside an oak bookshelf containing more decorative figurines and houseplants than actual books. Certainly, your taste in music has not changed. Neither has your preference for caramel-scented candles. For a moment – ever so fleeting – he is a teenage boy again, standing just before bedroom window with his knuckles poised to rapt against the glass. He never told you, for he hid it well behind a stony expression, just how nervous he always felt before visiting you.

More than anything else in his adolescent life, he had feared that one day, you would turn him away. He scarcely cared when his mother verbalized her disgust and chastisement of the boy, or if his father struck him with the belt of his work jeans. Because, in the end, the abuse always gave him a reason to see you. You were his optimistic little silver lining,

Although your sense in interior design is far more elegant than your parents ever fancied, Risotto feels like he is finally home again. It must be the music and the candle – or perhaps it is just the grace of your presence in the setting of domesticity. You set the box on the coffee table and disappear into the kitchen, only to reappear with a stainless-steel knife. He understands his unwarranted intrusion, but just as he makes his way towards the door to leave, your cellphone rings.

“Ciao, Mamma!” you say as you switch to speakerphone. There is only static until your mother speaks to you.

She still sounds the same, though the strain of age weighs heavily on her tone. Suddenly, Risotto is throwing rocks at your window in the nighttime, avoiding the parched tithonias of your father’s garden with his battered sneakers. But this time, it is not you who beckons him in – it is your mother and her infectious altruism that he coveted because she cherished him more than his own mother ever did. She leads him to the dining room table, where you and your father wait, and presents to him a plate of pasta con le sarde.

“Ciao, bambina. Did you get that package I sent yet?”

No questions asked, unless only to inquire if he would like more to drink, or perhaps a second serving; your mother always made extra just in case he needed to get away from home for the night, or if his parents forgot to feed him. He misses his family – his real one, which he thwarted away for trifling revenge. The mere thought of it all sends pangs through his chest, and he thinks he has forgotten how to breathe properly. His mind veers into nothingness, but he knows that everything hurts.

“Mhm! It came today, actually. I’m opening it now.”

Petrified, he watches from across the room as you slice through the packing tape and begin sorting through the box’s contents – assorted bobbles and trinkets of your childhood that were unintentionally left behind after you had moved to Napoli. A few CDs, family photographs, and a work of ceramics-class pottery that had not survived its journey from Palermo. You do not seem bothered by it. Instead, you sweep away the fragmented pieces into a neat pile.

At the very bottom of the box is a scrapbook, ragged from the years of diligent pondering. Several of its pages have stuck together from excess globs of crafting glue. Risotto remembers your endearing hobby, and how embarrassed you had always been to show him your collection. And so, he never asked to see them, though not because he lacked the interest. It must be true that a person is shaped by their early experiences – you spent your youth collaging models with pretty clothes from the pages of magazines; now, you are a considerably successful fashion designer, given your age. Meanwhile, Risotto murdered a man at eighteen – and now, seven years later, he is Passione’s lead hitman. At least he is good at his job, too.

“Uh oh, that didn’t sound good. Don’t tell me that vase broke. I knew I should’ve wrapped it.”

Your dear mother: forgetful and heedless on occasion, though honest by it. You peel the scrapbook open and perch it on your lap, mindful of the delicate spine. Loose bits of glitter trickle from the pages and stick to your pants. Next falls a photograph, separated from the family ones, and wedged away for safe keeping. It is a still-shot of you and Risotto.

“Don’t worry about it! I can just glue it back together.”

However, to be honest, the vase is beyond repair; you have lied to your mother to soothe her guilt. Risotto’s attention has been taken by the photograph on the floor. There, you both sit on the floral-patterned couch that used to adorn your parents’ living room. You lean on his shoulder, beaming to the camera, as he stares ahead, stagnant. Truly, he wanted to smile and to throw his arm around you. He refrained; he did not want to look weak in front of your mother, who had taken the photograph that day.

Because his father never let him forget the vulnerability of emotions.

“Well, that’s good to hear. Listen, dolce, I’ve got to go. Tuo padre needs help in the workshop. But I’ll call you later. Ti amo, ti amo!”

In this moment, he lets his guard down, albeit inadvertently so. Metallica dissipates, and for the first time in what feels like forever – or at least, far too many years worth counting – Risotto Nero surmises that he might cry. As opposed to when you were both still young, it will be easier to run away now: no confrontation, and none of that selfish heartbreak. The gap between him and the door may be closed in two strides. In two strides, he will leave you again, for evermore. And even when he is gone, he will keep telling himself that this is for the best.

“Ti amo, Mamma.”

You reach down for the photograph. You had not meant to let it fall, though you suppose there is little use of it now, if not to keep it as a memento of your own perpetual loss. You dust it off and shake away the green and gold specks of glitter that adhere to the lamination. When the floorboards creak, you look up and meet the pleading gaze of the man whom you think you hate, and whom you think you love. You are good at pretending to do either. And thus, as you both wait in brooding quietude, you know not whether to call the police or to hurry into his arms. You are still, frozen in time – frozen in life.

As for Risotto, he longs for cicadas and katydids to break the terse silence that looms between you two.

Or maybe, just a cigarette.

| 3724 Words |

#risotto nero x reader #risotto x reader #risotto nero #jjba reader insert #jjba x reader

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collectionofcherries · 4 years ago

Note

👀couldnt help but notice you talking about hannibal in your billy loomis imagine 👀 also couldnt help but to notice thats in your fandom list 👀 maybe you should shoot your shot with an imagine with hanni 👀

So over on my Naruto blog I did a little fluff piece called Morning Coffee that everyone seemed to enjoy so I thought I'd bring it here. It’s a simple concept, it follows your morning to the start of your cup to the end of it. Hope you enjoy! --- ☕ Morning Coffee ☕

---

written in the mind-frame of a Female!Reader but there are no pronouns mentioned nor gender specific anatomical body parts. Warnings: None, flirting with the idea of smut but no actual smut. Sexual longing maybe? Word Count: 1,155

--- Hannibal Lecter

Having coffee with a friend shouldn't have been this stressful, being this stressed in the morning couldn't be good for you but it wasn't like you could help it. How are you supposed to dress for morning coffee with a man who practically lives in three piece suits? Formal? Business casual? Casual casual? Your clothing covered floor seemed to bare no answers as you stared at what you swore was everything you owned...had everything always been this ugly? God! Why did you even propose a breakfast together? Hannibal does dinner but no you had to pitch breakfast to be different and try to impress him, yeah you're sure he'd be impressed by the amount of clothing on the floor. If you'd been like everyone else and just gone for dinner you'd have more time to try on clothes but a look at the clock told you that you had to leave now or you'd be late and that'd be terrible, that'd be rude and Hannibal can't stand people who're rude. However messy your floor was it was worth it for the compliment you got when Hannibal opened his door to greet you. “I don't see you in colour often, red looks lovely on you.” Well, guess you're wearing red for the rest of your life. "Oh thank you.” Finds it's way out of your throat as your face is painted the colour that apparently looks lovely on you. “Please, come in.” He welcomes stepping to the side to allow room. You never gave much thought to what a foyer could be, yours is technically where you just kick off your shoes and put your keys but this, this was proper foyer. Just the entrance to his house was nice. God it was big too, he could probably rent it out to a poor college kid for like 500 bucks if he wanted not that he looked like he needed the extra money. Did you even know how to say Foyer properly? You bet Hannibal did, without a doubt he knew all those fancy French words--was that word even French? Oh no, what if you were stupid and it wasn't French? What if this wasn't even a foyer? How dumb were you? H-- hands came up to your shoulders jolting you out of your spiral. Hannibal gently pulls the edges of your jacket and you immediately understand. “Thank you.” You repeat once again. He smiles with a nod as he slides your jacket off of you with your help and hangs it up on a beautiful wood stand you're sure costs more than half your rent. Thinking about how much money was within these walls could make your head spin but that spinning is halted by the soothing tones of his voice. “Lost in thought?” He inquired. “Uh, just early morning brain fog you know?” You try to bluff. It's not convincing but he nods anyway. “Perhaps some coffee would help.” “Sounds good.” You agree. Following him through his house only furthers your awe, you could spent a lifetime in here just looking at stuff. “I thought it'd be pleasant to make breakfast together instead of having it ready, eating together is one experience but preparing a meal is another entirely.” He explained The idea of sharing an experience with Hannibal was one that filled you with butterflies, the more you thought about it you didn't think you'd heard of Hannibal cooking with anyone else, maybe the stress of this morning would pay off after all. “I'm not a chef but I'll do my best, what're we making?” “Uova al purgatorio.” Which leads to a bit of a blank stare on your end, as pretty as it sounds you've got no idea what that means. “It's an Italian dish, eggs in Purgatory.” He explained. “Sounds interesting.” You quip. “It is, the name comes from the eggs sitting in a tomato base, the white of the eggs floating within the red sauce giving the illusion of souls trapped within the unknown of Purgatory.” He explains as he prepares the boiling water for your coffee. “Even at breakfast it seems we wonder where our souls go to lay.” “Well makes sense for Italy home of the Pope, I'm sure there's religious overtones at most meals.” He smiles a little and nods. “During my time in Italy it truly does surround you, it's an interesting feeling, almost euphoric to be encapsulated by it at every

turn.” He remarked. “Wow, you spent time in Italy? It looks beautiful there.” You say, trying to stray a little further from the religious aspect, you don't exactly know where Hannibal falls on that spectrum and the last thing you want to do is come across rude or disrespectful to him. “Coffee smells great.” You add as he pours the boiling water into his very fancy looking French Press. Your attempt to change subjects doesn't go unnoticed at all but he once again nods as he looks at you. “Yes, I traveled quite a bit in my youth, I called Italy my home for some time.” He explains. “Do you ever miss it?” You ask “I take with me what I relish in the places I've been, while I may no longer be surrounded by the Primavera or the walls of Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini they are ever present in my mind, reproduced with the utmost detail.” You could listen to Hannibal talk all day, it wouldn't matter what he said you just like the way he said things, the timbre of his voice. “Have you ever given thought to travelling?” He prodded. “Course, who doesn't think about travelling? See far off places, experience new people, new things, different cultures.” You reminisce. “What stops you?” You shrug a little. “Funds mainly but I'd want to take the time to learn the language of where I'm going, understand the culture so I don't offend anyone. I don't want to be one of those tourists that makes an ass out of themselves.” You said cringing at the end. “It's considerate to take the time to understand a culture you will not live in, many go on whims like they're visiting amusement parks.” He agreed. “Would Italy be a place you'd like to visit or would you find their taste for religion leaving a sour taste in your mouth?” He asked. Did you really think you'd get out of a question Hannibal wanted answered? You shrugged a little once again trying to make sure you phrase things that wouldn't step on toes that were in shoes that likely cost more than your rent. “I'm unsure...I don't know if my broader and more open views would be welcome in the narrower scope of such a religious place and I wouldn't want to impose myself or my views upon anyone.” You slowly clamber out as he pours two cups of what smells like incredibly coffee. “Thank you.” You quickly add as you take it from his hands. “While I do know you enough to welcome you into my home, I'm not sure if I know you well enough to know of the open views you believe would be scrutinized under the gaze of the Church. Do you speak a broader view of all religions? Racial rights? Sexual appetite?” You stomach almost leaps into your throat at the last question, talking sexual appetites with someone who could feed that said appetite for the rest of your life? How were you supposed to talk about that? You didn't want to impose but you certainly didn't want to miss any chance of feeding that appetite. “All of the above, you know?” You pitch at first. “I'm a big believer in religious freedoms for everyone, from anywhere--just freedom for everyone in general.” You tackle first, that's the more important one and the one that won't get you into any trouble. “And um--yeah I suppose my sexual appetite wouldn't please the Church.” You say with a small laugh breaking your gaze from Hannibal and down at your coffee cup. “Not exactly a born again virgin.” Smooth. Great job. Wow. Fuck. Maybe you could drown yourself in this coffee? You take a sip and to spite being too shy to ask for sugar or milk this coffee is great, actually smooth. Unlike you. “This is great, what is this?” You try. Why do you try? He always notices, you're luckier than you know that it endlessly amuses him rather than annoys him. “It's Peaberry Coffee from Tanzania, it's a rounder sweeter bean, almost tea like.” He explains, allowing for a moment for you to believe you've somehow fooled him into letting his prior question go thoroughly unanswered. “It can take a more refined palette to taste all the notes.” He remarks. “I don't know how refined mine is, I just know it's nice.”

You admit with a small laugh. “Usually our tongues know more than we think, close your eyes and allow the flavours to dance over your tongue.” He instructed. Hannibal could tell you to jump off a cliff and if he said it nice enough you probably would. You take a small breath and take another sip and try your damnest to impress Hannibal if only even a little but as you swallow you know your guesses are little more than shots in the dark. “It's sweet...kind of like a berry...?” You weakly pitch. You're not wrong but Hannibal can tell your guess isn't confident. “Do you know you have a habit of coming in on yourself when you're unsure of what you're saying?” He asks letting you know he's been on to you for much longer than you would have hoped. He comes around from his large kitchen island to stand in front of you and you fight the urge to step back and away which only adds to how hard your heart beats in your chest. “Coming in on ones self allows negative neurons to fire, by simply lifting your head you'll allude more confidence and though red looks lovely on you so does that.” That compliment alone made your head spin so his next action of bringing his warm hand up to gently lift your head? Your entire body felt weak. It was laughable that the simple touch of his thumb resting on your chin and his forefinger below it could have such an effect on you, looking up at him him with unsure eyes as to where this went next was laughable to him. You were putty in his hands, vulnerable in every meaning of the word. "Try again, close your eyes and when you take a sip allow it to work around your mouth, to explore every inch of your tongue.” Was this porn? This could be porn, this might as well be porn as far as your body was concerned apparently. It took you a moment to actually get your limbs to move and grab your coffee again and it felt good to close your eyes, you liked Hannibal but being so close and having him stare back at you was overwhelming. And he knew it, there was something very satisfying about your kind of vulnerability, it was raw and open for him to touch and mold with his hands. You brought the cup to your lips and took another sip and once again tried to find a defined note in this coffee and maybe it was having your head tilted up, maybe it was having him so close but an answer did come from your mouth. “Cedar?” Opening your eyes you knew you'd gotten it right by the contented look you were rewarded with. "I had a hunch your tongue knew more than you were letting on.” He teased. He let his thumb trail back and forth on your chin before moving it away and your head felt like it was floating. “What does your tongue taste? I'm sure it's much more experienced than mine.” You're sure if you didn't feel so floaty such a blatantly flirty question wouldn't have come out of you but it seemed to fly just fine as a small amused breath made it's way out of him. “Your assumption would be correct.” He let you know. “The notes in this coffee I've become very acquainted with over the years so it wouldn't be much of an exercise in taste for me to tell you them all. Perhaps another breakfast we could expand upon both our tongues.” Your entire body clenched and you had to practically drown out your whine of want by taking a sip of your coffee. “For now we'll be expanding on yours, come, wash up I'll show you how to make uova al purgatorio, a taste from my past.” He said walking back around the kitchen island. You follow him around the island and with one last sip put your empty coffee cup into the sink. --- ~Admin Coral 🍒 Buy Me A Coffee?

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rainy-daze1 · 4 years ago

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so basically i ate a honey stick and felt nostalgic for farmers markets n stuff so i decided to give wild a happy memory becauze fuck man he dezerves it. enjoy my first attempt at an lu fic

~~~

It was surprisingly nice that day. Not calm, per say, but it was...nice. Lively. It looked like handmade dolls and smelled like spring grass and felt like soft fabric and sounded like mindless chit chat and tasted like honey.

They weren't about to let themselves let their guard down, especially not in a large gathering like this. But they didn't have to ignore happiness to do that. When they arrived at Haneto Village in Wild's Hyrule, they found themselves in the bustle of a market, little stands that sold wooden toys that had been crafted and polished by hand, apples coated in caramelized sugar and dipped in chopped nuts, small instruments that still almost smelled like the wood and clay they were made of, beautifully bound notebooks with intricate covers and rough pages, wonder that came from every useless but very nifty thing, produce fresh as they celebrated the fall harvest, normal jewelry that held no magic nor purpose but their beautiful shine and the happiness from wearing a thing so pretty, laughter that felt so natural and so contagious that you barely realized you were laughing, a sense of nostalgia, flowering wreaths and crowns, a contented feeling of purpose that comes from having no purpose at all,

And honey.

It was a small event that happened every year, apparently, to celebrate autumn and apples and whatever else that found its way into the hearts and stalls of venders that year. Flowers that bloomed in the cracks between stones. Leaves that slowly drifted from trees in the wind. A handful of change. The color orange. In reality, there was no real purpose to any of this, no cultural significance, no markings on the calendar. For now, they simply existed, in the midst of the bubbling chatter and shuffling of feet and exchanges of money that were so soft and quiet, and yet, so loud and full in a way that made the air feel alive.

Honey sticks. Little straws of honey that were maybe a couple rupees each, set in cups next to the fuller jars which parents would often look through, contemplating flavors and uses and recipes while their children picked what flavor honey stick they’d get. Sometimes, with certain sellers, the “flavors” were just edible dye, but the kids didn’t need to know that. Wild did know that, but he was indifferent, as he’d honestly picked blueberry more for the blue and less for the berry (what can he say, blue is cool, and the cooler something looks the tastier it’ll be. Even after explaining this to Twilight, he still wouldn’t let Wild eat the shiny rocks.).

He sat down as the nearly-evening air settled around him, another strange moment of calm for the usually active and rambunctious hero. But then again, he had climbed up onto a rock and perched himself at the top, so maybe it wasn’t all too strange for him. He struggled a little to bite off the top (how were you supposed to do that again? Just chomp? Twist? Ask for an adult to help?), and his hands were a tad bit sticky (as is the nature of both honey and sticks), but when he eventually got it open and tasted the honey that should’ve been sickly sweet but just couldn’t ever make him feel sick, he felt content in a way he hadn’t in… a long time.

“I can’t get it open,” she sighed, glaring at the bite marks on the top of her honey stick.

“You can wait until we get home, dear,” their mother laughed, slightly exasperated, “it’s much easier with scissors.”

“Link got to open his with his teeth! I wanna too!”

“Link has the bite of a wild boar, sweetie, and frankly, I don’t want you taking after him.” He stuck his tongue out at his sister, slightly embarrassed about the whole ‘biting everything’ phase he had as a kid, but enjoying the opportunity to beat her in another unspoken challenge.

The midday sun beat down, casting a shadow from the tree they’d stopped under. Defiantly, she tried harder, pulling at the straw between her teeth in hopes it’d decide to break. Her eyes lit up, pursing her lips around it before declaring "I bit a hole in it! I got some honey through!" with a ridiculously enthusiastic vigor.

A sigh of endearment. "At this rate, I'm afraid it's too late. Seems I've got another wild child on my hands, huh?" She reached down to ruffle Link's hair as his sister tried, cheeks sucked in and lips pursed, to force more honey out of the tiny hole she'd made.

It was bright and sunny and warm and sweet and golden and laughing and sighing and happy and soft and loud and quiet and so, so far from perfect, a simple time and a simple happiness that felt real. That Wild could feel.

He opened the eyes he didn't realize he had closed. Dusk had settled.

"You back?" Twilight was at his side, doing nothing but sitting and watching and existing there, with everything.

"Mhm." He smiled. It was a warm smile, filled with warmth and laughter and honey. He hadn't… He hadn't had a memory this happy before. He hadn't felt his own past emotions so vividly before.

Maybe he should've been sad that they were gone. Guilty, because he failed them. But right then and there, all he felt was their warmth. That old, nostalgic warmth that had shown so brightly. Sitting there, in the same town, under the same sky, the same child he once was- he felt so, so old

and so new.

#linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu fic #lu wild #fluff #cw food #tw food #idk i just sorta started writing n this is what it became #so #hsssngghhfdghdhsfj

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iwriteforthetincanman · 4 years ago

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Mandoctober Day 11: Sorgan

A/N: I went off the deep end with this one folks! This also acts as I part two to day 4: Nevarro. Thank you for reading! Also I may have drawn inspiration from one of @dindjarindiaries writings at the beginning of this with Ad’ika’s eating habits. :3

Warnings: angst, self deprecation, sadness (lil anxiety) hurt and comfort, fluff and a hint of spice at the end

This is for @leo-moon ‘s Mandoctober!!

Another place Din didn’t think they’d ever return to was Sorgan. It had been a while since they had last visited, before Din had met you at least. After what took place on Nevarro there had been a little distance between the both of you, but not enough to cause concern.

Din had admitted to himself and to you (whilst you were asleep) that he was deeply and utterly in love with you, forevermore. What the both of you didn’t know was that whatever was about to take place next was going to change both of your lives...forever.

As cliche as that sounded, you had a job to do.

Feeding the child was as mundane as things could get around the Razor Crest, but he sometimes made it interesting. Whilst you weren’t looking he managed to sneak three extra berries by floating them into his mouth with his special powers. The only way you knew this had happened were the purple stains on his face, the one that you had just wiped clean.

“Ad’ika, you know you’re not supposed to eat more than I give, you might get a tummy ache.” Chastising the kid gently, you plucked him out of his high chair, making your way to the cockpit.

---

Din had been as strict as usual, Mandalorian style. Don’t communicate with anyone suspicious or unnecessary, Don’t contact me unless absolutely necessary and last of all, don’t do anything stupid. These were all the rules you had to abide by just to go unnoticed on each and every planet your feet touched. He reminded you so often it was like it had become your version of the creed.

What Din didn’t tell you was that there was a village on this planet where everyone knew him. Apparently the last time he visited he had helped save the village from being practically destroyed by thugs. So when they saw him again, they weren’t only surprised (which is what you were expecting) but they also celebrated. Alot.

There was dancing, music, drinks and lots of food. You could stay here for a couple of weeks, Din had told you. It was safe enough for now. This whole experience had been a clear juxtaposition of what the Mandalorian told you. It broke the rules, you didn’t know why he did this.

That is...until you met her.

Omera.

When you first met her, you should have sensed something between them just by the way she practically ran over at the sight of him. Over time, you realised that Din knew her better than the other villagers of Sorgan. Then it started to scare you how close they were. She gave him food, cared for the child and kept him company.

It was like you weren’t even there. Either he didn’t care as much as you thought he did or...you really weren’t needed.

Not right now at least.

That night you watched as the villagers danced around the campfire, so happy and content with their lives. A new song started to play, this time husbands started to bring their wives into the circle, bringing them close as they swayed slowly. You would’ve smiled at the heart warming sight if it weren’t for one thing…

Omera holding her hand out to Din.

It felt like someone was ripping your heart from out of your chest and crushing it into dust right in front of you. If he chose to dance with her you knew you never had a chance with him...probably from the beginning.

Were all these emotions you felt over the past couple of years a figment of your imagination? It was insane how stupid you felt in that moment. Feeling tears pricking at your eyes just went and proved that thought...all you could do was get up and walk as quick as you could, away from the gut wrenching scene.

You didn’t want to cause a fuss, despite all these conflicting thoughts and feelings.

---

Crying your eyes out didn’t seem like the best solution at first.

Hidden amongst the boxes in the hold, you tried to will yourself to stop. It felt like your heart wouldn’t cooperate with your brain. Din hadn’t even done anything to you specifically and he had managed to tear your heart in two. It could’ve been worse…

Who are you kidding? All of today had been a perfect recipe for disaster.

Omera had known Din longer than you had...did you even have a chance against her? She was beautiful, capable and she was already a mother. To you, she was everything you weren’t.

And Din Djarin...you could never say a bad word about him. You had recklessly fallen for him, not even thinking twice about the consequences. If another person hadn’t gotten between you two it would’ve been something else, with him being a Mandalorian, he could’ve gone on a hunt, leaving you and the child only to never return.

Yeah...that could be the ‘worse’ option.

Seeing him die in front of you? That was a close second.

Dying in his place? ...you would do it in a heartbeat.

Even now, thinking your heart had died in that one evening, you knew you would still do that.

“What are you doing down there?”

In the midst of your self deprecation you hadn’t even noticed Din standing in the middle of the Crest. Startling out of your stupor, you got to your feet, wiping your tears away rapidly.

“W-Where’s the kid?” You sniffled. No matter how much wiping away you did, you knew Din had spotted the tear tracks.

“He’s fine...he’s with Omera.” Just the very sound of her name on his lips almost caused you to cry out in pain. It was like he had directed a knife right at your heart.

Seeing your face crumple like that, Din had no clue what was going on. After he had refused Omera’s offer to dance, he turned to you only to see you practically running into the woods. Wondering what on Sorgan you were doing, he followed. He would follow you anywhere, really.

“She’s...she’s an amazing mother.” In an attempt to compliment her, you tried to keep yourself together. Of all things to happen, you didn’t want to lose your composure in front of Din over something so...foolish.

“Why were you crying?”

It wasn’t a question of if you had been crying, he already knew that, he just wanted to know why. Of course...you couldn’t tell him the truth! Not without admitting the intense series of feelings you had for him!

“I-I was upset...about the dancing.” What. The. Kriff. Was. That? Of all the excuses you could’ve come up with? You went with the dancing? Well, it was partly true in a sense.

“The dancing? What was wrong with the dancing?” Upon asking this question, you really looked at him. Even in all his beskar clad glory, you couldn’t help hearing how quiet his tone was. Did he always talk like that or was it just with you? Taking a breath, you answered.

“I...don’t know how.” Now that...that was a whole truth.

Even if you had been upset over Din’s choice in dancing partner, you had no clue how to even approach the subject of dancing, let alone with another person.

“...I could teach you, if you like?”

...You weren’t expecting that. But how could you refuse?

Stepping closer towards the bounty hunter, you gave him a small smile.

“I’d like that very much Djarin.” Hearing a chuckle at the use of his last name, you grinned. Hearing him laugh was always a rare experience, knowing you caused that kind of joy? Sent you over the moon.

Just the touch of his gloves brushing against your spine as he pulled you closer was the cause of many impure thoughts racing through your head. Scolding yourself internally, you let out a shaky sigh, awaiting his next move.

“Usually the guy leads and since I know how to dance and you don’t...seems like a good idea.” A laugh peppered his words as he placed one of your hands in his, leaving the other around your waist. Thinking back to the villagers, you remembered how the women placed their other hand on their partner’s shoulder.

Mimicking the action, you felt like you had drifted somewhat closer to one another, if that were even possible.

“If you listen hard enough you can hear the music coming from the village...it kinda echoes off the trees.” Doing as he said, you closed your eyes, intently listening out for the soft hum of dainty instruments as the notes thrummed through the forest.

“...it does.” You giggled lightly at the observation. Wondering how, even with the helmet on, he caught on to all these little details regarding the common senses. Sight, sound, smell, taste and...touch.

It felt like his hand prints were burning through your skin, despite the extra layers. This was the closest you had ever been to the Mandalorian, armor or not. Wounds or not. This felt so...so intimate.

“Now, it’s okay if you step on my feet the first couple of times, but it's a simple pattern so you’ll get used to it after a couple of minutes.” Minutes? He was going to dance with you for longer than a single song?

“S-Sure thing.” Stumbling over your words, you tried to gain a grip on yourself. The need for coherent thought struck you as he began to sway. Tripping over your own feet, you realised how difficult it was to do this whilst keeping your eyes on Mando. All the couples made it look so easy. That was when something Mando had said came crashing back to you.

“Wait...you said you already knew how to dance? Who taught you?” You didn’t know what you were expecting him to say as he took a moment to collect his words but you guessed that someone in the covert had taught him for fun. Instead...he opened up to you.

“My mother taught me.” Those words were spoken so quietly yet it was almost as if he had yelled them into your mind. Just the image of a little Din standing on top of his mother’s feet as

they swayed around their home brought a fresh batch of tears to your eyes.

“You’ve...You’ve never talked about her before…” Trailing off, you didn’t expect him to tell you more. You didn’t need him to, you knew how sensitive the subject of his parents was. You would never make him feel uncomfortable for your own personal gain.

“You remind me of her...sometimes.” This sentence was an attempt to knock you off of your feet altogether as you glanced down, a furious blush kidnapping your features as you faked a hurried look at your feet.

“...how so? If you don’t mind me asking that is.” You would ask, but if he didn’t want to go further. Further than this...a simple dance lesson yet it was so much more. If he didn’t want to tell you about his mother, one of the people who meant the most in the galaxy to him besides the child...perhaps besides you. You were completely fine with that.

“I don’t mind you asking questions Y/N...it’s one of the many qualities I like about you.” The combination of the words ‘I’, ‘like’ and ‘you’ filled you with an overwhelming urge to hug him. Restraining yourself, you chose to grin at him, shyly albeit.

“My mother was curious, kind, forgiving yet fierce in the way she loved those around her. It showed through in the many ways she cared for me and my father. I remember asking her one night how they met, she told me that the scenario of that night was predictable up until the point where she saw him through the crowd. I remember the look in her eyes when she recalled ‘It was like the galaxy was pushing us towards one another’ she said. I remember...at the time, I yearned for something like that to happen to me one day...although it was a childish dream I know now.”

“It’s not childish to yearn for love Din.” You couldn’t help your outburst, biting your lip, you refused to meet his gaze. That helmet may have deemed an unforgiving message to others but to you, it was him. You had refused to face the facts for so long now...no matter how true they were, but you were...you are so utterly in love with him. The Mandalorian.

“You sound like you’re talking from experience.” He hummed, letting out a bitter chuckle you faced him with a forced smile.

“I always seem to fall for those who have already fallen...for someone else it seems.” The overwhelming sadness was threatening to overtake you once more. You didn’t want to cry...not in front of him. Not after this wonderful pick me up, the feel of the beskar against you, all you wanted to do was rest your head on his shoulder and dance the rest of the night away.

“-Are you...are you in love with somebody right now?” The daring request shocked you. Sure, you had learnt a lot about Din tonight, you knew you refused to tell him your true feelings in the past but...you couldn’t seem to lie to him in this moment. This bittersweet yet perfect moment.

“...Yes.” The force of air that left your lips was inhuman in a way...like you had stopped breathing. At this point you hadn’t even realised how effortlessly you had been dancing with the Mandalorian. Not until he brought you to a complete stop, the music carrying on through the wind.

“I...I think that despite how often I tried to remind myself that love wasn’t in the cards for me...that I wasn’t worth that kind of sacrifice...I fell in love. What I didn’t expect was for it to hurt...Din, it hurts so kriffing much and I don’t know what to do because I don’t want to leave you and the kid so I can run away from the pain.” You were crying now...brilliant.

“Why? Why would you talk about leaving? Ever?” You could hear his breathing now, it was heavy and gasping, like he had been dunked in ice cold water. You hated to imagine the look on his face that went with the sound of his voice. It broke your heart all over again.

“Because Din...I fell in love with you and I didn’t even think twice about it. About how you could go on a job and not come back, you could get killed right in front of me, leaving me to care for the kid alone or...or you could already be in love with someone else.” A sob bubbled up into your chest and it pained you to keep it there...not as much as this though.

“What are you talking about?”

“You and Omera!”

The scream of this dragged itself around the edges of the Razor Crest, leaving you a heaving mess due to the effort. Through the tears you realised you had ripped yourself away from him, his hands were held in mid air...he was reaching out for you.

“I’m...I’m not in love with Omera.”

His voice pierced your heart in the complete opposite result of tonight’s events.

“What?” This time you were completely and utterly confused, tears beginning to dry. Slowly, the Mandalorian approached you, noticing the way he wrung his hands it was obvious...he was nervous.

“Do you know what ‘Ni kar’tayli gar darasuum’ means cyar’ika?” At the nickname he frequently called you, your heart warmed despite your lack of knowledge towards Mando’a.

“No? ...But why do I feel like I’ve heard those words before.” Crinkling your forehead in confusion, you wracked your brain for where you had heard those words before. You may not know what they mean but you knew they were important. Infinitely important.

“...Probably because I’ve said them before.” His helmet was hanging now, the lip of it pressed against his chest as he stared at his own feet.

“...Din, please tell me what they mean.” Stepping closer to him this time, you pressed your hands to his chest. Refusing to meet your gaze, the quiet intensified by tenfold, loaded with tension.

“Din Djarin...please.” Resting a hand on the cheek of his helm, you raised his head so he knew how serious you were.

“They mean…’I hold you in my heart forever’...it’s the Mandalorian way of saying I love you.” He may have whispered these powerful words but it felt like he had stolen your breath. You wanted to kiss him, gods above you did. Instead, his arms wrapped around you once more and he pressed the forehead of his helm to yours.

“How could you ever think I was in love with something else when I’ve only ever had eyes for you? I’ve been pining after you for months on end, wondering if there was even a possibility that you could love someone like me in return.” These words may have been softly spoken but they scorched a way into your heart as you pressed against him in return.

“Din Djarin, a fearless bounty hunter and Mandalorian...do I make you nervous?” You joked a blush still fresh on your features.

“...Extremely cyar’ika.” Biting your lip once more, a pleasant sensation rang through your body at the sound of his voice lowering.

“Are you ever going to tell me what that one means?” Fluttering your eyelashes up at him, you attempted to flirt.

“Darling, sweetheart.”

“That was two different words?”

“It means either and both at the same time. Mando’a is complicated.” He shrugged under your palms.

“What about...cyare?” You tested the word on your tongue only to gain a shiver under your fingertips. Knowing that Din felt the same way made you the happiest person on Sorgan. But learning that your words affected him just as much as his bewitched you? It sent stars into your brain.

“Beloved.”

At the dangerously low pitch he emitted, you knew you were in for a long night.

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fuzzyporcupine · 4 years ago

Text

lead me with your hands tied | chapter 5

chapters:

FULL - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5

rating: explicit

word count: 10,592

summary:

In the midst of a crumbling kingdom at war, Levi Ackerman is commissioned by King Jaeger to paint a portrait of his overzealous son.

chapter 5:

The tea was cold before Levi could enjoy it. He found the pot sitting neatly atop a wooden desk near his bed, a white porcelain cup perched beside it. To be fair, it surprised Levi to see the set had been dropped off in his room. He figured that Petra would deprive him of the tea considering his brash behavior back in the studio. She had taken the tea with her after she exited the workshop, leaving Levi open-mouthed and speechless at her words.

They were hard to swallow. Repeated endlessly in his mind until he was absolutely positive that the sentence would be permanently ingrained into his thoughts.

“He is not his father.”

The statement was hard to believe, especially after the prince’s pompous display. Even more so knowing who produced the bastard. Petra was probably ignorant to the truth, he supposed. Of course, the woman defended Eren Jaeger. She bloody worked for him. His lips pursed tightly as he yanked the white cravat from his neck. All these exasperating thoughts were giving him a damn headache. He knew that the apple didn’t fall far from the tree, and the fucking maid wasn’t going to change his mind.

Levi glanced down at the cravat wrapped tightly in his clenched fist.

It just figured that the prince didn’t even need to open his boorish mouth to infuriate Levi.

The stranglehold slowly loosened around the cloth, revealing a set of unattractive wrinkles set deep into the fabric. Levi’s brow ticked angrily at the sight. Ironing was always such a chore, the tool heavy and clunky to work. He was used to light brushes, not weighted iron. It was the reason why he took such great care to not crease his clothing. However, now it seemed as if he would have to swallow his pride and pay the housekeeper a visit. That is if she would be willing to even entertain his presence. He really did have to work on his tact. Though that feat was easier said than done. Levi was a terrible conversationalist. And even worse at controlling his sharp tongue. That much had been made apparent by the way Eren stormed out of the studio. Levi faintly wondered if the prince confided the embarrassment to his father. Eren appeared way too prideful for that, however, as Petra so plainly put it, “He is not as you have constructed in your mind, sir.”

A scoff broke bitterly across his lips.

No, Eren Jaeger was exactly as he’d constructed. Arrogant and spoiled. Completely unaware of the detriment his goddamned father had brought upon the kingdom. So, an idiot, as well.

Indeed, the people of Shinganshina had a prime package in store for them after the king finally croaked.

He deposited the cravat onto the desk before his anger decided to ravage more of the cloth. Heavy-lidded eyes panned to the teapot still resting on top of the mahogany.

“Fuck it,” he breathed, turning sharply to exit the room.

A cup of cold tea just wasn’t going to cut it tonight.

The air of the tavern smelled like a rancid combination of stale beer and bile. Levi’s nose wrinkled in disgust as he stepped around a patron snoozing soundly face-first on the muddy floor. Hoots and hollers of drunken idiots sounded off in multiple directions. Many were dancing poorly in the center of the alehouse, men and women linking arms and twirling in stumbling circles. Others could be seen banging their fists on the cheap wooden tables or clinking together full tankards of beer.

It was a complete shithole, but a welcome change of scenery from the gaudy decor of the castle keep. Even if the majority of the customers were Shinganshina forces.

He did his best to ignore the bubbling unease stirring in his gut as he walked to the bar. In the back of his mind, he knew this was a horrid plan. Being in a room with this many soldiers did nothing but cause his pulse to race and his blood to boil. Levi tried to reason that a drink would surely help cloud his mind well enough to forget about the guilt. At least for one night.

“Mr. Ackerman!” The booming voice cut through the air like a beacon, and despite the knowledge of knowing just exactly who that call belonged to, Levi still turned his head. The general stood from his place at the bench, a large palm extended upward into a wave. Levi’s face twisted into a grimace, lip curling as he regarded the blond man. Instead of replying, Levi promptly ignored the caller, finding the thought of nursing a terrible drink much more appealing than the abysmal company.

He slid into one of the empty stools placed sporadically in front of the bar. Pointy elbows lifted to rest atop the counter before he noticed the number of miscellaneous substances splattered across the surface.

Truly a complete shithole, he thought.

“Irene, give my friend here a heavy pour.” Levi huffed irritably as he turned his head towards the man. He expected General Smith to pick up on the hint. Weren’t military officers supposed to be good at reading situations?

“I don’t need your coin,” he spoke, tone sharp and unwavering.

“Don’t be so sour, Mr. Ackerman. It’s impolite to deny such a small act of hospitality.” The man finished the sentence with a gleam of shiny straight teeth. All of which Levi wanted to ram his fists firmly through.

“Hospitality,” Levi mockingly spit the word back at the general. Thought about the people locked outside the heavy iron gates. All the good that hospitality got them, huh?

“I would assume a man like you from Mitras would understand the meaning of the word.”

Levi grit his teeth, “Listen, you fucking-”

“Ah, thank you, Irene.” Erwin passed a single gold coin to the portly woman as he reached for the full tankard. Foam sloshed over the edge and splashed loudly onto the countertop as the man slid the cup over the Levi. He caught it easily in his palm, fingers wrapping around the lukewarm mug. Thin lips fitted snugly around the brim as he took a swig, a cringe immediately making itself visible as he swallowed down the liquid. “It’s not exactly His Majesty’s wine, huh?”

Levi narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t some fancy noble who only lived off drink that tasted of sweet berries and flowers. He took another gulp.

“It tastes like damn horse piss.”

“That’s a kind description,” Erwin laughed, bringing his own mug up to his lips regardless. Levi hummed before returning to his drink. The unease in his gut had returned tenfold sitting next to the general. It felt like he was walking a very thin line of treason and camaraderie as he remained perched in the uncomfortable barstool, neither of which he felt very keen on exploring. “Why did you accept this commission, Mr. Ackerman?”

The question was a trick, it had to be. Some sort of convoluted way of getting Levi to admit secret desires that he’d been able to keep safely stored away inside his head. A manipulative query from an even more manipulative man. However, he was not some gossiping wench who spent their days fantasizing about the next public execution.

A tight sigh blew out from his nose, rippling the beer in the tankard. “The coin.”

“Hah! And you say you didn’t need mine? Why, Mr. Ackerman, I’m insulted.”

His nostrils flared hotly as he turned to the man. “I don’t need the coin of some military pig who slaughters innocents on the king’s orders,” he whispered lowly. Levi’s eyes widened slightly with the admission.

Shit.

At first, Levi almost believed that Erwin didn’t hear him. That his words were lost to the drunken merriment within the tavern. However, when the general’s expression darkened he knew the insult had been heard loud and clear.

“You have an eye for war, Mr. Ackerman?” Erwin’s voice sounded different now. Cold. Calculated. It was enough to bring the hairs on the back of Levi’s neck to a peak.

His voice remained steadfast as he spoke, “I never said that.” But he said enough. Enough to out himself as one who openly detested the king’s commands.

However, Erwin continued as if Levi hadn’t said a word. “Everyone thinks you are from Mitras, correct? It’s a fine town. Lovely people. However, I’m almost positive that Mitras has been wholly unaffected by the war.” Levi’s throat started to tighten as his grip around the mug strengthened. “No mass casualties besides the fools who throw themselves willingly onto a soldier’s blade. So, where are you really from, Levi?” The breath sucked into the bottom of his lungs was short and sharp. Felt as if he had been doused with a bucket of icy water as cool, blue eyes analyzed his expression.

Swallowing the ever-rising fear clawing at his chest, Levi schooled his face into a neutral look. “I’d think you’d worry more about your soldiers shitting their pants from all this pig swill.” He swiveled his body out of the barstool, boots landing flatly in the dirt with a satisfying smack. Abandoning his nearly full mug, Levi resented that this night would surely end with him sipping cold tea instead of welcoming a much-needed buzz. Suddenly, a hand wrapped securely around his wrist. Instinctively, Levi wretched his limb away, the grip all too familiar to that of manacles attached to an iron chain.

“Do not fear, Mr. Ackerman. I believe our paths may be more linear than I originally suspected.” Levi could only offer a narrowed glare as the man vacated the seat and returned to the rowdy group of soldiers who cheered eagerly at Erwin’s return.

Bunch of bloody neanderthals, he thought with a sneer.

Despite it being the middle of summer, the air had taken quite a chill once the sun receded below the horizon. As it was now, Levi shivered once stepping foot outside the tavern walls. The walk back to the keep was not long, but he was positive that his bones would be brittle by the end of it. Wrapping his arms tightly around himself, Levi began his march back to his chambers.

He’d only made it a few feet before a familiar shout managed to draw his attention to a dark corner shadowed by hay bales and wagons. Levi had never been a particularly curious boy. Always knew to leave well enough alone when well enough could send a knife between your ribs. This trait followed him into adulthood, and it had served him well thus far. So, it was completely perplexing as to why his movements began to drift toward the sound.

Pressed up against the wall was a woman, her dress lifted scandalously against thick, voluptuous thighs. Legs were tangled securely behind the man’s back, jolting as he moved against her. The tailcoat thankfully protected the man’s modesty as Levi glanced down to spot breeches bundled gracelessly around tanned ankles.

Levi knew he should leave. This didn’t exactly look like an intimate moment being shared between lovers, more like two souls just trying to enjoy release behind the courtyard stables. However, he was frozen. Eyes glued to the way the moonlight reflected off the woman’s upturned neck. The fingers digging bruises into the soft skin. Levi couldn’t look away.

Maybe it was the beauty behind the act. The delicate lines that he could envision painted on a canvas. All sweeping motions that portrayed an act of love and not some meaningless roll in the hay.

“Hey! What are you doing?” A feminine voice yelled out, breaking his imaginings as his eyes refocused on the sight. The woman looked horrified, hands adjusting the ruffles in her dress as she glanced at him with disdain. “You absolute cretin. Sneaking around the courtyard like this.”

Levi was unperturbed by her comments, gaze hardening under her stare. He’d heard much worse in his lifetime, been called far crueler things. “Your squawking was hard to ignore. I thought a poor beast had been mangled behind the stables. Turns out I was only half wrong.”

The woman’s face reddened, mouth opening and closing like a fish being tossed on dry land.

“Don’t mind the artist, dear.” Still facing the wall, the prince adjusted himself, deft hands fastening the white breeches. When Eren turned around, it was with a sinful smirk that caused his jaw to tighten and palms to sweat. “He’s probably never fucked a woman before and was curious to see how it was done.”

Levi’s teeth clenched so hard that he was sure the bones would break.

Eren stepped forward, a lecherous look in the emerald stare. Despite the man’s best efforts, the clothes were still disheveled. A plum waistcoat was hanging open, the cloth shirt beneath it only buttoned halfway. His gaze betrayed him as Eren closed in, roaming across the exposed skin of the man’s upper chest. Tracing the lines from collarbone to abdominals. Levi swallowed hard lest he began to look like the wanton woman left against the mossy brick wall. Once the prince reached Levi, a hand reached out. Those nimble fingers he had watched skirt up the side of the canvas now latched themselves to his chin. “Am I wrong?” Eren’s breath reeked of booze and the man’s eyes were slow to focus.

“You’re drunk,” Levi muttered, making a half-assed attempt to free himself from the prince’s grip. The man just squeezed tighter, and Levi imagined the unsightly bruise that would surely appear the next morning. Eren was lucky. If not for his royal blood, Levi would have already broken his wrist and sent him home wailing. Nevertheless, Levi let the boy king manhandle his face to meet a glazed expression.

“I would teach you. If you begged.” The confession was whispered into the night, darkly sweet and melting into his ears. A toothy smile spread across Eren’s face as Levi felt heat begin to extend across his cheeks.

“You think too highly of yourself, Your Highness,” Levi sneered.

The smile didn’t fade from the prince’s expression. Instead, a thumb lifted to trace Levi’s bottom lip, as that lustful gaze flitted down to his mouth.

“Perhaps you’re right, artist.” Then the hold was gone, the feeling of those long, nimble fingers leaving fire in their wake. The prince turned away, unsteady steps taking him back to the waiting woman. Eren wrapped an arm around her shoulder as they began to walk in the direction of the tavern. A hand was nonchalantly thrown up into the wind. “Get a good night’s rest, artist. I shall see you bright and early if my stomach allows it.”

Levi watched as they moved further and further away until the pair disappeared behind the tavern doors.

Left alone in the chilly summer breeze, Levi felt resolute in his thinking that, indeed, Eren Jaeger was just like his father.

#ereri #snk #shingeki no kyojin #aot #attack on titan #riren #fic: lead me with your hands tied #fuzzyporcupine #thespazzbot

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