#Faded Forget-Me-Nots | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

prentissluvr · 6 months ago

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forget-me-nots — sam winchester

pairing : sam winchester x gn!reader ➖⟢ genre : soulmate!au, fluff, very light angst ➖⟢ cw : light mentions of canon typical death, violence, and monsters, shirtless sam aaaaa, light descriptions of injuries and blood, reader believes in ghosts before knowing about the supernatural, drinking/alcohol mentions, silly criminal minds reference to my gf elle, kissing, poor editing ➖⟢ wc : 5.6K summary : in a world where flowers grow on your skin in the exact places your soulmate is injured, you’re constantly covered in forget-me-nots.

MOVED BLOGS TO @sammyluvr !! no longer active on this blog! all fics can be found there!

heartache is one thing. heartache for someone you don’t know, someone whose face you’ve never seen or who you’ve never met, is another, stranger thing. it’s common for many to feel this heartache before they know their soulmate, but sometimes you feel as though you have to worry much more than most.

you try not to let thoughts of your mystery soulmate consume you, but you seem to have constant reminders of them litered on your skin in the form of tiny blue flowers. admittedly, you find it romantic that forget-me-nots are your soulmate flower, with their symbolism of true love, respect, and fidelity. the flowers themself feel like a good omen, a sweet promise of a steady love waiting for you. but, the frequency with which they appear on your skin feels far less lucky and always feeds you so much worry for this person you’ve yet to meet.

this morning, you wake with new blooms snaking along your left collarbone, peeking out from the seam of your sleep shirt. and when you change into new clothes, you find a few more growing on your bicep and the side of your ribs.

sighing, you stand at the mirror lightly brushing your fingers over the small flowers and wonder what sort of trouble your soulmate got into last night. as always, worry floods your chest, but you do your best to tamp it down considering the fact that you only bear a few new blooms. the more severe the injury, the more flowers appear on your skin. today, your soulmate must only be dealing with small surface cuts.

sometimes, you’re covered in so many forget-me-nots that you’re too worried to do much of anything at all. more than once, you’ve wondered how your soulmate could still be alive, and the continuous flowers on your skin serve as your only proof that they're still around. there were a few years where you barely had any blooms, just the usual flower on a fingertip to signify a papercut or the occasional few because of a small accident. but one night the flowers came in bunches and never stopped.

you imagine what you might say or do when you meet them. maybe you’ll want to check on whatever wounds they have, be sure it’s not too bad, or maybe you’ll scold them for making you worry so much. you’ll certainly ask what they do in their life that gets them so injured so often. maybe you’ll do it all.

but for now, you’ll have to move on and get ready for the day. the flowers always linger, though.

⟢⟢⟢

it’s been a rather strange week. the flowers from last thursday have completely faded, and you’ve gone a day or two without any new forget-me-nots appearing on your skin. the strange part has been at work. on monday night, one of your coworkers died in the building, but you still had to come in to work the next day. one of the rooms was taped off, but that was the only evidence of the misfortune. the same thing happened last night, thursday, and you’re ready to do everything you can to get at least the next several days off of work. you don't want to risk anything.

and now, it seems the goddamn fbi is interested in whatever has happened. you’re not a huge fan of the federal government, but you have to admit that the bureau has sent two of its most attractive agents. normally, you’d keep your head down, but you feel inexplicably drawn to one of them. he’s the taller of the two, which is impressive because the other is already tall, and he has pretty brown hair and dimples that you catch a glimpse of as he talks to one of your coworkers.

he looks away from her as he moves away, seemingly done with the interview. he catches your eye, and your breath gets caught in your throat for a moment. he’s a beautiful man; pretty and sweet looking at the same time as he’s traditionally handsome and slightly imposing. you’ve never loved a stranger’s eyes so much.

he approaches you and you can’t help but watch as he grows closer.

“hi,” he greets with a small smile, “i’m agent greenaway with the fbi. can i ask you a few questions about the deaths from this week?”

“i’m not sure i’ll be much help, but sure,” you nod, folding your arms over your stomach. agent greenaway doesn’t make you uncomfortable, but the topic at hand certainly does.

“that’s alright. sometimes the smallest things can really be helpful,” he reassures, keeping the kind look on his face. “have you noticed anything strange about either of the deceased or the building this past week or so?”

you shake your head. “not really. i mean i didn’t work closely with macy, and i never noticed anything off about lex.”

“and the building? any strange cold spots or flickering lights?”

you find the question sort of odd coming from an fbi agent, but you instintually feel like you should take it seriously. “um, yeah, actually. it was really cold by the bathrooms last night when i left. at first i thought the ac finally got fixed, but it was still sort of warm over here. in this area”

“okay. thank you for your help,” he smiles at you again and for a reason you can't quite place, you don’t want the unusual conversation to end. you have to hide a hint of delight from your expression when he hands you his card. “call me if you think of anything else.” you accept the card with a nod. he looks like he’s about to walk away, but he pauses. “and, uh– be careful. you should go home early tonight.”

“oh. okay, i will.” without knowing why, you trust him. you want to see him again.

⟢⟢⟢

saturday night is the second busiest night at the bar, but you’re glad it’s not as crowded fridays normally are. you walk straight to the bar to order your go-to drink. as you wait for the bartender to make it, you stare at yourself in the mirror behind the counter out of the corner of your eye. today, there’s two little forget-me-nots right on your left cheek. they look sort of cute there, and you guess you should be grateful that it’s such a small wound. there’s no other flowers on your body yet, which feels like a good run for your soulmate. that’s a little over a whole week in between different injuries, even small ones.

the bartender slides you your drink and you thank them. there’s a small red carnation on their thumb, and you wonder if they’ve met their own soulmate yet. you suppose that at the end of the day, you’re scared of what just about everyone else is. without trying, you worry about not meeting your soulmate until you're old and left without much time together. you want to meet them, and you think the sooner the better. the idea’s been particularly stuck in your mind since last night.

agent greenaway’s words echo in your head. “be careful. you should go home early tonight.” he seemed so sweet, so genuine and caring, and all you’ve been able to think about since then is meeting someone like him. finding someone kind with a little red mark on their cheek and a forget-me-not on their right pointer finger to match the papercut you got earlier this afternoon.

and simply, you’ve been feeling a little lonely these days. how nice would it be to have your literal soulmate by your side?

you sip slowly at your drink, and when the cup’s empty, you pay the tab. the bar isn’t quite serving as the distraction you hoped it would. as you head for the door, your gaze snags on a mop of brown hair that wouldn’t be considered familiar for the fact that you’ve only seen it once, but feels that way regardless. quickly, you scan the rest of the bar, and sure enough you catch sight of agent greenaway’s partner, across the way and very obviously flirting with a pretty brunette.

for a moment you pause, wondering if it would be weird or too out-of-the-blue to approach agent greenaway, but the pull you feel towards him overrides all else, taking your hand and guiding it to throw all caution to the wind.

he’s facing away from you, and with a friendly smile, you slide into the seat across from him.

“hi,” you greet over the noise of music and talking, “d’you mind if i sit here?” it takes him a moment to answer, like he’s lagging a little bit.

“uh– no, no i don’t mind,” he flashes a quick smile back at you, but his gaze and attention are clearly stuck somewhere on your face. for just a split-second, you’re confused by what he could be staring at, but it clicks not a moment later. you don’t know how you missed it: the red mark on his left cheek, so small that your eyes glossed over it when you sat down. eagerly, you drop your gaze to his hands, one casually wrapped around his beer bottle and the other resting on the table. and sure enough, so tiny and pretty against his big hand is a single forget-me-not on his right pointer finger, exactly where you have a bandaid wrapped around your own.

you suck in a sharp breath, eyes caught on the delicate flower and unable to drag themselves away to look back at his face. just like everyone else, you’ve thought about it a million times over, what it would feel like to meet your soulmate, what you would do, how you would act. in this moment, you feel frozen, but you feel right and you feel a million questions and urges rise up in your heart and mind. you desperately want to reach out to him, to touch his hand and the little flower and make sure that they’re both real.

but you absolutely cannot keep your gaze away from his face for long at all and when you meet his eyes, an irresistible smile stretches across your face. you look at him with nothing short of wonderment. he’s just stunning and you can’t believe that he’s supposed to be… well, yours.

just staring at each other, you feel a little flustered and awkward, unsure what to say to him. then you realize he should probably know your name, and all you know is his last. so you stick your right hand out and tell him your name. he takes your hand with a smile and repeats it back, saying it carefully and savoring the sound and feel of it on his tongue.

when you touch him for the first time, your breath gets caught in your throat and it feels so right that you never want to let go.

“i’m sam,” he says, only letting his hand fall away from yours after a few moments. even then, your fingertips are merely inches apart now.

“sam greenaway,” you echo, easily remembering how he introduced himself yesterday. then you puzzle at his reaction and the way that the name doesn’t feel quite right as you look at him. he cringes slightly, like he’s done something to be guilty of. “or… not?” for a minute, things were starting to add up to you. the way you felt drawn to him yesterday and his job as an fbi agent finally explaining all of his many injuries. you figured he must be in fights often.

“i– i’m sorry, this is so– i mean if we’re really,” he takes a deep breath, trying to reset and figure out how to say things right. “if we’re really, you know, soulmates… well, there’s just a lot– a lot for me to explain. i’m not an fbi agent and my real name is sam winchester. but i swear, there’s a reason for me lying and i promise that i’ll explain it to you if you’re willing to hear it. which i understand if you don’t–”

“i do,” you say in earnest, finally cutting him off. it took you a second because, for a moment, you were too stuck on him saying the word soulmate aloud in reference to the two of you. it felt special and you were only half paying attention to the things he said after because of that. then all you were thinking about was how endearing he seems when he’s flustered and worried. “it’s okay,” you reassure him, “i want to hear it. i– i mean, sure, it’s sort of strange that you lied about, you know, all that, but… i’m not– i’m not gonna just meet my… my soulmate and not give you a chance.” he still looks a little tense, but his shoulders have dropped a bit in relief and there’s the hint of a grateful smile on his features.

“thank you,” he says, glad for your reassurance but still worried about how you might take the rest of the far weirder explanations that he has left to tell you. “can i maybe get you a drink?”

you smile at the offer, but shake your head a bit. “i was actually just heading out when i saw you. would you maybe wanna get out of here? my apartment’s less than a ten minute walk away.” for a moment, you wonder if that’s too much for just having met, but sam visibly relaxes just a little bit more.

“that would be nice,” he smiles. he’s getting ready to stand when he glances across the bar, seemingly remembering about his partner. or not partner. you’re not quite sure. “my brother, dean,” he explains simply when he catches your gaze on the other man. “i should tell him where i’m going.”

“okay,” you nod, filing the new information away in your mind and watching him weave between tables and flirting couples to reach his brother. the exchange is a bit funny to watch. at first dean looks annoyed at being interrupted by sam. then he glances at you with a sly smirk and makes some comment that is probably less than appropriate judging from his expression. and then his face morphs into one of surprise before it’s taken over by a smile. he claps sam on the shoulder and sends him off. you almost miss the look that dean gives you as sam heads back towards you because you’re so focused on the sweet smile that sam’s now wearing. you only catch dean’s look for a second before sam is back at your side. it’s easy to assume dean as the older brother, with his eyes on you being protective, proud, careful, and happy all at once. and they’re close enough that sam told him about you right away.

walking home with sam at your side is both completely strange and familiar all at once. it’s strange for a number of reasons, the main being that you’d never invite any other unknown man to your apartment, especially not one with a cryptic identity and such an imposing build. and yet, you’re not afraid or worried because of how familiar and safe it feels. it feels familiar because it feels right, it feels like exactly what you should be doing.

on the way over, he asks about you a little bit, trying not to overwhelm you with questions or seem overbearing with how eager he is to hear what you have to say. his kindness and carefulness are clear to you, and you love it. you answer happily, despite knowing he’s partially asking to avoid talking about himself until you settle down.

once inside, sam follows you right to the couch in the living room, sitting when you motion towards it and plop down into a chair across from him. he takes in the space, eyes roaming over your furniture, decor, and every little detail. he wants to know about you, just like you do him.

“it’s really nice in here,” he compliments, sounding so sincere that it’s just sweet.

“thank you,” you respond softly, wondering exactly what parts of the room he likes. you let him look around a second or two more before speaking again. “so… can i ask? you know, about it all, i guess? about you?”

he doesn’t say it aloud, but he thinks the way that you ask is so lovely. half of him wants to make up some silly, somewhat believable explanation to spare you the truth, but he knows that would never work out well. not if you choose to stay together in some way or another. already, that’s what he wants. he doesn’t doubt that you’re indeed his soulmate, the one who he’s been sharing wounds and flowers with for as long as he can remember. sam has both yearned for and dreaded this moment. he tries not to be obvious about it or over do it, but he’s sort of a total romantic. he’s had doubts about how this whole idea of soulmates could really be real or make much sense, but those thoughts are eased with each moment he spends with you. he still wants to get to know you before he does anything with you, but the way that he wants to get to know you is something he’s never felt before. it’s undeniably special.

the dread is because he’s known ever since he got back into hunting that he’d never be able to hide the truth of his world from you. he has no idea how he’s going to get to you to believe him or convince you that he’s not completely insane, but he’s going to tell you the truth anyway. even if you do believe him, he wants to give you a choice. you shouldn’t have to get involved with this life in any way at all if you don’t want to. he’d never force you to try things with him if it’s too strange or too scary or hard or anything. and already, he knows that he’ll never stop thinking about you if you do choose to stay away, but he also knows that he’d never try to change your mind or force you to do anything else other than exactly what you want.

“of course you can ask,” he responds, matching the softness of your own voice. “i, um– i’m honestly not quite sure how to say all of this without sounding totally crazy, and i completely understand that, but just– try to bear with me, i guess. and if you need proof, which i also understand, i’ll do my best to get it for you, it’s just– sort of hard.”

honestly, you’re wildly confused as to what the hell he could possibly say that would make him this anxious. it worries you a little bit too. you don’t want him to feel afraid to tell you anything at all. so, you nod at him in encouragement, trying not to seem nervous yourself.

“my brother and i, we– we hunt monsters. real ones. ghosts, vampires, demons, the works. they’re all real. your coworkers who died, they were– they were killed by an angry spirit. we got rid of it last night,” he says those words like they’re a ten ton weight off of his chest, but he’s still got another ten sitting there as he awaits your response. he looks at you so carefully, trying to gauge any sort of reaction.

you raise your eyebrows in surprise, and probably disbelief and a million other things. “angry spirit? like a ghost?” you’re not sure why that’s the first question that slips out, but you suppose it’s an easier one than are you insane? or what the hell are you talking about?

he nods his head carefully, like he’s waiting for you to freak out or call him crazy and tell him to go. “yeah. the ghost, she had died there, near the bathrooms where you felt the cold spot, in the 90s. she was triggered to kill when the man suspected of her murder was granted parole.”

“okay,” you breathe out, sort of nervously. the craziest thing is that you don’t disbelieve him. you’re not convinced by any stretch, but when you look him in the eye and listen close to his voice, there’s nothing but sincerity there. “i mean… that is sort of a kinda crazy thing to say,” you begin, “but i’ve always sort of believed in ghosts, so i don’t think you’re completely, you know, insane.” you laugh a bit, trying to lighten the mood a little. you don’t want him to stress, however unbelievable his words are. “the rest is a bit… shaky, i guess. it’s a hard thing to believe, i mean… vampires. and– and demons. it’s a lot. and honestly, i’m not sure how much i’ll really, truly believe until i see, i don’t know, something, i guess,” you admit, “but… but i don’t think you’re lying to me either.”

“thank you for that,” he says, voice as sincere as ever, “and i completely understand. honestly, part of me didn’t want to tell you at all, but… it’s sort of my whole entire life at this point and it wouldn’t be fair to hide from you. or– or to not give you a choice right off the bat of whether or not you wanted to be involved. it’s– it’s a lot and it’s dangerous. and if it’s what you want, i promise i’ll try to find a way to prove it to you, it’s just… hard to do that without putting you in danger. and i really don’t want to put you in danger.”

“that’s sweet, sam,” you say, not really bothering to hide the way you feel. “i’m not, you know, eager to meet any monsters anytime soon, but whenever it’s… the least dangerous, i guess, you can show me. until then… i’ll just trust you. and in the meantime maybe we can sort of just get to know each other?” you suggest, surprising yourself with how ready you are to trust him on this.

sam smiles at you sweetly. “that sounds perfect to me. i just– i don’t want to force you into something you don’t want for yourself. i live out of crappy motels and my brother’s car while hunting monsters that shouldn’t be real. i’m just… i’m sorry i’m not someone easier.”

you smile at him sort of sadly. “that’s not your fault, sam. i never asked for someone ‘easy’ anyway. just someone kind and respectful and you seem to be just that so far. besides, there’s gotta be a reason, right? that… we’re soulmates. honestly, if you were anyone else i wouldn’t trust you like this. an–and it’s not like i’m trusting you blindly because of something that we’re supposed to be. we just met. i’m only trusting you because it feels right to. and this whole soulmate thing never made too much sense to me until i met you. now it sort of does, because this feels right so far. at least, it does to me.”

“it feels right to me too,” he quickly assures, not wanting for you to misunderstand that for a second.

⟢⟢⟢

as two people who aren’t quite ready to jump into such a committed relationship with completely different lives, it’s a little bit strange to be soulmates. and yet, nothing about it is anything but honey-sweet to you. the night you met as soulmates for the first time, you ended up talking for hours. all you had to do was sort of ignore the huge and slightly unbelievable bomb he dropped on you within the first hour of talking. oddly enough, that was sort of easy. you learned that sam’s appetite for knowledge is just about insatiable, including when it comes to knowing about you.

he had words rolling off of your tongue, asking the best, most interesting questions and providing such sincere and in-depth responses. that night, he was just lovely, and that’s pretty much all he’s been since. he’s this adorable mix of confident and shy, awkward and knowing just the right thing to say. and he’s incredibly smart, an almost stanford pre-law graduate who was headed for bigger things before he was pulled back into hunting a little over two years ago. this explains the difference in all his injuries from the past two years versus the three beforehand. secretly, you mourn for the life that he, and subsequently you, might have had, but only because he gets a little wistful every time he talks about stanford.

mostly, you talk on the phone, only stopping late in the night when one of you catches the other yawning. he seems to sleep so little, yet he lives such a tiring life. you almost always seem to be the one who gets too tired first. one night, you fell asleep to his voice, and since then, you feel like it’s the single best way to drift into dreams.

sam tries to avoid the topic of the supernatural, but you ask him about it anyway. as you get used to the idea of monsters being real, you find yourself wanting to understand it all better. you want to understand him better. and you don’t want him to feel like he has to hide the biggest parts of his life from you or for him to have trouble fitting you into his world.

he always answers your questions, omitting any extreme gore or death, but it doesn’t take long for you to realize how many people he really saves. that’s his life; saving people.

it takes three weeks for you to see him again since the first night, and three more plus a whole lot of convincing on your end for him to bring you on a hunt with him. he tries to hide it, but he’s so worried for you, despite all the reassurances he’s made that this particular ghost isn’t really all that violent or dangerous. by now, you’ve already come to mostly believe all that he's told you, but to see it in real life is still the final confirmation that you need to be fully convinced.

sam keeps you by his side the whole time, one hand on you every moment that he can afford it. the second the ghost appears, he blasts it with a salt round from his shotgun, and he thinks he could cry when you flinch at the loud noise. yet, he feels comforted that you don’t seem all too scared. and strangely, you really aren’t. sam easily makes you feel safe. luckily, the next time the ghost appears, it bursts into flames moments later thanks to dean burning the bones.

the moment it’s gone, sam drops the gun to the ground and turns to you, accidentally ruining the now unnecessary salt line around you in his rush to check on you.

“are you okay?” he asks gently, a hand on your shoulder and the other cupping your cheek as he looks you up and down.

“i’m alright, sam,” you reassure. it’s true that you’re a little shaky, and just the tiniest bit scared, but to have your confirmation and sam by your side is much more important to you.

“i’m sorry,” he apologizes anyway, pulling you into a hug that’s more for his peace of mind than yours. of course, you don’t complain, easily finding his arms to be your new favorite place in the world.

oddly enough, taking it almost slow works well. he kisses you the next time he sees you, a week and a half later, and you’ve never wanted anything more than to have him keep kissing you, over and over again. he just feels like yours and you feel like his and you’ve barely known him for long, but when he kisses you it’s like there’s stars hung from the ceiling and flowers made from nothing but love and healing growing all over you. when he kisses you it’s sunlight and moonglow bottled up and mixed with sweet, pure maple syrup. his lips on yours feel like lucky four leaf clovers, like it’s possible to taste heaven on someone else’s tongue.

and though it mostly works for him to just visit as often as he can, which sometimes isn’t often at all, and to call him at every moment you can, the yearning only grows. you swear that you’re addicted to his lips, to his big hands cupping your jaw all gentle and sweet or his bulky arms boxing you in as he kisses you so hard that you melt right into the sheets.

and some nights, though he tries to hide it, you can hear him struggling with what seems to be the weight of the world on his shoulders. his job is anything but easy or fruitful. before, you thought that you might worry less when you found out exactly why your soulmate was getting injured so often, but now every time new blooms appear on your skin, you spend all day fretting until you can get him on the phone to make sure he’s alright.

you suppose he gets just as worried as you, despite the fact that you’re never in nearly as much danger as he is. a week ago, a jagged edge on a metal wire fence snagged at your skin, drawing a very shallow, but long line of blood down your forearm. seconds later, you had a frantic sam on the phone, so worried about all the little blue flowers on his arm.

it’s not as hard as he thinks for you to tell how much fear and worry he lives in. you know that he doesn’t tell you the half of it sometimes, even when you ask. all you want is to have him a little closer, to be there for him and provide the sort of comfort that you’re sure he’s never really had before. and though he’s told you that having you to talk to, so receptive and encouraging for him, has been a complete blessing, you still wish for more. you want his arms enveloping you and his lips on yours and his warm body in your bed. really, you just miss him. all the time.

⟢⟢⟢

tonight is one of the glorious nights that you get to have him with you. his broad frame takes up so much space in your bed, and you love it more than just about anything. he props himself up on one elbow and you mirror his pose as you let your eyes roam over each other’s features and take turns rambling about every little thing from this past week. unable to resist, sam kisses you often. he just leans over, swiftly closing the small space between you and pressing his lips to yours. he looks so beautiful like this; at peace, his shirtless body and protective tattoo framed all prettily by clean white sheets.

eventually, comforting words turn into a comforting silence, and you drop your head to your pillow. your eyes droop a little as you play with the idea letting a few more words slip from your tongue. you want to say something to him, but you can’t tell if it’s the right time.

sam settles on his pillow, just like you. “what is it?” he whispers, inviting and respectful. his voice tells you that you’re welcome to say whatever you’re thinking about, but that it’s okay if you don’t want to quite yet.

you smile a little at how well he’s able to read you. since he asked so sweetly, you say it. “i can’t be away from you, sam. i love you, i really do.” this isn’t the first time you’ve said the three special words to each other, but his eyes grow infinitely softer than they were before each time you do.

this time, his eyes do soften, but he cringes a little too, because he feels sorry and because he feels the same exact way. “i can’t make you live like i do. i love you, too, so much. and i hate being away from you, but this? this life, it– it’s sort of awful, and it’s dangerous and hard and–”

you swiftly cut him off with a kiss that he more than willingly melts into. “i know,” you whisper against his lips, barely moving from him to speak. “but– but what if we tried something else? you still go on your hunts and all that, but you and dean can stay here in between. there’s this cabin in the woods i’ve been eyeing, it’s sort of small but it’s isolated and we could ward it. i’ve been looking into protection and warding spells, and i think we could make it work… only, you know, if you wa–”

this time he’s the one to cut you off with a kiss, passionate and sweet all at once. when your lips part, he keeps his forehead pressed against yours like he can’t bear to be any further from you.

“i want to,” he says, voice so sure and sturdy. “i really want to… but how’re we gonna get the house? it’s not like me or dean can buy property, and i can’t make you–”

“i want to,” you echo his words, just as sincerely. “please, sam, let me do this. i’ve been saving money for a long time and it’s a little run down so it’s not too expensive. and i’m getting sick of this apartment.”

“you’re gonna live there?” he asks, not bothering to hide his hope and sparkling joy at that idea.

you grin. “of course. there’s three bedrooms and it’s so pretty and i can’t, you know, pay for that and the apartment at the same time. and i– i wanna be there every time you get home.”

that word gets to him. sam doesn’t really have a solid or normal concept of home—the closest thing he has is the impala. but it sounds so right when it comes out of your mouth. “and– and you’re okay with that?” he asks, still needing to be reassured, “you said it was isolated, and–”

“i’m sure, sam,” you emphasize, “it’s only 20 minutes from town and the roads to and from are never busy. i’ve always wanted to live in the woods, i swear. and if it meant i could be with you more, i’d never ever say no to this. please… can we talk to dean about it?”

“yes,” he gushes. “yes, of course, i– you’re amazing.” he seals the deal with a firm, giddy kiss. “and if dean says he doesn’t like the idea, i don’t care. i’m gonna do this with you.” another kiss and your heart softens infinitely. “besides, he loves the pie from the bakery on morrison street, which means he can’t say no.” he gives you another kiss and pulls away again, and you know that he’s bound to keep rambling if you let him, so you wrap an arm around his neck and thread your fingers through his soft, pretty hair. then you kiss him hard until he can’t breathe. he returns the favor by tenfold, whispering through labored breath how much he loves you and wants you and thinks that you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

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cha-mij · 8 months ago

Text

Joey Batey writing for Jaskier...

"My love for you will nev'r abatе

For these memorries will never fade

This flow'r you left behind

A sign of endless love

Resigned will never die

But do you know why

Because my fair Etariel

This flow'r's not damp with dew

But damp with tears, tears of you

Enchanted flowers will never die"

Meanwhile Joey Batey writing for TAD:

"And in years to come, you'll wander to the place up on our hill

And then you'll cry to our painted sky, "I loved him then, I love him still!"

And you'll strew some sage and lilies and roses where I rot

Of all the flowers you picked, I knew you would forget

Forget-me-nots"

I've said it once, I'll say it a thousand times. That man really is Jaskier in real life.

#elder speach #jaskier #dandelion #witcher jaskier #the witcher #the witcher series #the witcher season 4 #joey batey #the amazing devil #tad #elsa's song #ruin #tad ruin

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firenati0n · 3 months ago

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forget-me-nots, breeze, forehead kiss - a triple drabble for @hollivens 💐

It’s a cloudless day, sky an endless cerulean as Henry walks home from the shelter. He’s holding a bouquet of blue forget-me-nots, courtesy of a delivery from Alex. Every year on this date like clockwork, he receives flower arrangements at work—some from shelter staff, a particularly colorful one from Pez, but a striking blue one always from Alex.

His eyes sting as he rounds the corner to the brownstone. It’s been years, but he isn’t ever sure what the morning will bring on this day. Maybe it’s sinking into his bed, watching his father’s movies with memories flickering behind his eyelids, faded with time. Or, it’s a day of courage, spent in the shelter or in a park, David and quiet contemplation keeping him company.

Today, in the gentle breeze, there’s a whispered affirmation—you can do this, I believe in you, I am always with you, I’m proud of how far you’ve come.

He wipes at his eyes before rummaging for his keys, a futile exercise—the door suddenly swings open to a beaming Alex.

“Just in time,” Alex says, before pulling Henry in by the sleeve of his coat. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

Between the caress of his father outside and the comforting smell of Alex’s efforts inside, Henry knows—he will be okay.

Alex carefully watches the flicker of emotions cross Henry’s face before pushing himself up on his toes to give Henry a forehead kiss, tender and sweet. He always knows, because he’s Alex, and his fidelity to Henry’s emotions knows no bounds. And isn’t that lovely? The knowledge that Henry is never alone, that no matter how the day goes, whether he’s cocooned in a blanket or braving through the workday, he always has this to come back to. A bouquet of flowers, a forehead kiss, and Alex’s cooking—home.

#rwrb #rwrb fic #red white and royal blue #triple drabble #roop writes #drabble #hollivens #idk what this is but i like it and it's the most i have written in day so #thank you poms <3

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sammyluvr · 3 months ago

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forget-me-nots — sam winchester

cw : gn!reader, soulmate!au, fluff, very light angst, light mentions of canon typical death, violence, and monsters, shirtless sam aaaaa, light descriptions of injuries and blood, reader believes in ghosts before knowing about the supernatural, drinking/alcohol mentions, silly criminal minds reference to my gf elle, kissing, poor editing, 5.6K words. requested !

summary : in a world where flowers grow on your skin in the exact places your soulmate is injured, you’re constantly covered in forget-me-nots.

sometimes, you’re covered in so many forget-me-nots that you’re too worried to do much of anything at all. more than once, you’ve wondered how your soulmate could still be alive, and the continuous flowers on your skin serve as your only proof that they’re still around. there were a few years where you barely had any blooms, just the usual flower on a fingertip to signify a papercut or the occasional few because of a small accident. but one night the flowers came in bunches and never stopped.

but for now, you’ll have to move on and get ready for the day. the flowers always linger, though.

⟢⟢⟢

he approaches you and you can’t help but watch as he grows closer.

“hi,” he greets with a small smile, “i’m agent greenaway with the fbi. can i ask you a few questions about the deaths from this week?”

“i’m not sure i’ll be much help, but sure,” you nod, folding your arms over your stomach. agent greenaway doesn’t make you uncomfortable, but the topic at hand certainly does.

you shake your head. “not really. i mean i didn’t work closely with macy, and i never noticed anything off about lex.”

“and the building? any strange cold spots or flickering lights?”

“okay. thank you for your help,” he smiles at you again and for a reason you can’t quite place, you don’t want the unusual conversation to end. you have to hide a hint of delight from your expression when he hands you his card. “call me if you think of anything else.” you accept the card with a nod. he looks like he’s about to walk away, but he pauses. “and, uh– be careful. you should go home early tonight.”

“oh. okay, i will.” without knowing why, you trust him. you want to see him again.

⟢⟢⟢

the bartender slides you your drink and you thank them. there’s a small red carnation on their thumb, and you wonder if they’ve met their own soulmate yet. you suppose that at the end of the day, you’re scared of what just about everyone else is. without trying, you worry about not meeting your soulmate until you’re old and left without much time together. you want to meet them, and you think the sooner the better. the idea’s been particularly stuck in your mind since last night.

and simply, you’ve been feeling a little lonely these days. how nice would it be to have your literal soulmate by your side?

he’s facing away from you, and with a friendly smile, you slide into the seat across from him.

“hi,” you greet over the noise of music and talking, “d’you mind if i sit here?” it takes him a moment to answer, like he’s lagging a little bit.

when you touch him for the first time, your breath gets caught in your throat and it feels so right that you never want to let go.

“i’m sam,” he says, only letting his hand fall away from yours after a few moments. even then, your fingertips are merely inches apart now.

“it’s really nice in here,” he compliments, sounding so sincere that it’s just sweet.

“it feels right to me too,” he quickly assures, not wanting for you to misunderstand that for a second.

⟢⟢⟢

he always answers your questions, omitting any extreme gore or death, but it doesn’t take long for you to realize how many people he really saves. that’s his life; saving people.

it takes three weeks for you to see him again since the first night, and three more plus a whole lot of convincing on your end for him to bring you on a hunt with him. he tries to hide it, but he’s so worried for you, despite all the reassurances he’s made that this particular ghost isn’t really all that violent or dangerous. by now, you’ve already come to mostly believe all that he’s told you, but to see it in real life is still the final confirmation that you need to be fully convinced.

the moment it’s gone, sam drops the gun to the ground and turns to you, accidentally ruining the now unnecessary salt line around you in his rush to check on you.

“are you okay?” he asks gently, a hand on your shoulder and the other cupping your cheek as he looks you up and down.

“i’m alright, sam,” you reassure. it’s true that you’re a little shaky, and just the tiniest bit scared, but to have your confirmation and sam by your side is much more important to you.

⟢⟢⟢

“i want to,” he says, voice so sure and sturdy. “i really want to… but how’re we gonna get the house? it’s not like me or dean can buy property, and i can’t make you–”

“you’re gonna live there?” he asks, not bothering to hide his hope and sparkling joy at that idea.

you grin. “of course. there’s three bedrooms and it’s so pretty and i can’t, you know, pay for that and the apartment at the same time. and i– i wanna be there every time you get home.”

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victoria-writes · 10 months ago

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I will never forget you.

Pairing: Legolas x Reader (gender neutral)

Summary: Legolas proposes to you and reassures you that he wants to be with you. Fluff & Angst with a happy ending + bonus ending

Word Count: 1605

Notes:

Reader is human

No gender or pronouns used to refer to the reader. Reader is briefly mentioned to have short hair

MENTIONS OF DEATH (reader's). Don't read if you're not ok with thinking about your own mortality xoxo

Read it on AO3 here

Story:

It has been months since you moved to Mirkwood with the prince following the disbandment of the fellowship and destruction of the one ring. Sometimes your mind would drift to what could’ve happened had the ring fallen into the wrong hands or if any other evil lies dormant, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. You could never sit with these thoughts for long, though. Legolas seemed to have a sixth sense for when you needed to see the good in the world again. Today was one of those days.

“Come, there is something I wish to show you”, the elf smiled as he stretched his hand out, waiting for you to take it from your place sitting in a wooden chair inside the royal palace.

“It better not be another elk giving birth in the woods. I’m still traumatized from your idea of ‘the beauty of nature’”, you grimace at the memory still not extending your hand.

“No, no, nothing like that. I promise”, he chuckles softly.

“Fine”.

Legolas had brought you to a clearing in the forest, surrounded by old-growth trees and wildflowers. White queen anne’s lace, forget-me-nots, and flowers whose names you did not know, who only seemed to grow near where elves trot, filled your eyes. This is not the first time he’s found a quiet spot in nature to take you, and it will surely not be the last. While overlooking the rainbow of colors seemingly dancing in the field in front of you, you sneak a glance at the elf from the corner of your eye. He stands confidently with his hands behind his back next to you and smiles. If it were anyone else looking at him, they’d think he was completely at ease. Anyone but you. The look in his eyes said “Do you like it? Do you? Please tell me you like it.”. He always wanted to impress you, whether it be shooting three arrows at once when one would suffice, wearing his nicest clothes (“Legolas why are you wearing your ceremonial attire?” “Don’t worry about it, father”.), or finding the best places to take you. Be still, your beating heart. For a nearly 3,000 year old elf, he acted like a lovesick teenager.

“It’s absolutely beautiful”, you finally say after a long silence. Legolas releases tension in his shoulders he didn’t even realize he was holding.

“I knew you would. Let us sit in the grass.”, he guided you so that he was sitting with your back against his chest, his legs on either side.

You felt your tongue form teasing words about him taking you on a hike to a remote spot just for a cuddle, but they faded away as he wrapped his arms around your sides and began to plant soft, slow kisses on your neck and shoulder. You melted into his warm touch.

“May I braid your hair?”

“Yes, but there’s not much to braid.”, you reply. You had recently gotten a haircut and felt as though Legolas may be disappointed. He was very enthusiastic about your new look the first time he saw it, but now you fear he may not enjoy it.

“Nonsense, I shall make many small plaits instead”.

“Alright”, you relaxed into his hands as he began to weave strands of hair behind you. You closed your eyes, as you reveled in the feeling of the sunlight on your face as he worked. All was quiet aside from the occasional bird chirping or squirrel running up a tree. A warm feeling took hold in your chest and you couldn’t help the smile that formed on your lips. You were safe. You were happy. You were in love.

Millenia seemed to pass before Legolas announced he was done. True to his word, he had formed many braids in your hair. He may have gone a little overboard with just how many he made, but he just loved the feeling of being so close to you and never wanted it to end.

“Thank you”, you whisper as your turn to face him, giving him a peck on the lips. You move your hand to feel the back of your head, itching to feel the braids your lover gifted you. Soft. Your fingers feel something soft. Something thin and soft.

“Forget-me-not flowers”, Legolas clarified, seeing you trying to decipher with your fingers, “I thought them appropriate”.

“Why is that?” “They are gifted to one whose presence you enjoy, so as not to forget them, as the name implies. I could never forget you and I hope you would not forget me. Each past day with you is a beloved memory and each day to come cannot come soon enough. I treasure each moment with you. I feel myself drowning in my affection for you. No, peacefully swimming. I adore you. I cannot bear to be without you.”, he says softly as he holds both your hands and kisses each one, never breaking eye contact.

“Oh, Legolas”

“Meleth nîn”, he uses his hands to guide you both to your feet. As you look up into his bright blue eyes, he whispers “Please allow me to never be without you. Allow me to walk beside you for all the days we may share together before death takes us. I have lived millennia without you. Now that I know what life is like with you in it, I never want to go back. I want you with me, always.”

“Are you asking me-?”, you begin as he kneels down in front of you and pulls out a ring from his pocket.

“Y/N, will you marry me?”, he gazes at you with hope in his eyes as he lifts the ring towards you.

“Yes. Yes. Yes!”, he quickly puts the ring on your left ring finger and you pull him into a harsh kiss. You and the elf wear matching smiles as you kiss long and hard.

“I’m so happy, Legolas…but is this what you really want?”, your smile drops as your nerves hit you. “Of course, my love. Why do you question my intentions?”.

“It’s not your intentions that I question. It’s just that you’re…you”, you vaguely gesture at the elf.

“I’m not following.”

“You’re a prince. I’m poor. You’re an elf that’ll live thousands of years. I’m a human that’ll be lucky if I make it to 70.” “I don’t care about that.”

“Your father won’t approve.” “I care not what my father thinks. His opinion of our union will not sway me.”

“Then what of my mortality? One day I will die and leave you alone.”

He sighs before he speaks, “I must admit I have thought long and hard on this subject. The thought of your death pains me to no end.” “Exactly. Our marriage would be short-lived in your long lifetime and I will become nothing but a memory to you, one that will fade one day.”

“What are you saying?” “I’m saying you love me now, but one day I will die and you’ll move on and I’ll mean nothing to you. One day you’ll laugh at how you ever loved a silly human”, tears began to well in your eyes, shame overtaking you as you finally let out the fears you’ve been harboring all this time. Your gaze drifts downwards, unable to face your elven lover. Legolas’ eyes widened in realization, shocked at your true feelings. He manages to compose himself and lifts your chin up with his index finger.

“Meleth nîn, look at me. Y/N, please.”, he whispers his request.

“It is true that my life will continue when yours ends.”

Hot tears began to run down your cheeks at this.

“But”, he swipes the tears away with his thumb, “You will always be a part of it. Even when you are gone, I will love you. You have shown me love that I did not think was possible. When you are gone, I will visit your grave with flowers each day. I will braid my hair and miss the touch of yours. I will never remarry. I will walk the paths we have taken together. I will meditate in this very spot, remembering this moment. I will never forget you. In life and in death, we are connected. I love you”.

“And I love you”, you barely choke the words out through your tears.

“Knowing all this, my silly human,”he teases before turning serious, “Will you marry me?” “Of course, I’ll marry you, you ridiculous elf”.

You both grin as Legolas lifts you up and spins you in his arms. When your feet are planted on the Earth again he kisses you deeply. As you feel your lips on your own, you imagine a thousand more kisses each day with him for the rest of your days.

Bonus

Many moons have passed since your passing. Legolas meant every word of his promise and has done all that he said. Before he rests each night, he reads the book on his nightstand, your favorite book of poems. He recalls reading it to you on nights your eyes were too tired as he pet your hair while you laid on his chest. When he wakes each morning, he glares at the large empty space beside it, wishing it were you. Although his heart pangs at the loss of you, he finds joy and comfort in revisiting your old haunts, his favorite being the spot where he proposed to you. Today, our elf wanders into the cemetery. “Hello, meleth nîn”, he smiles as he places a bouquet of freshly picked forget-me-nots on your grave.

#angst and fluff #human reader #legolas x yn #legolas x y/n #legolas greenleaf #legolas x reader #legolas #lord of the rings #lotr x reader #lotr #the lord of the rings #lotr x you #lotr x y/n #legolas x you #legolas/reader #legolas/yn

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starxanemone · 8 months ago

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꩜ⴰ ࣪˖ THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS

tighnari x gender neutral!reader — oneshot. romance.

if you read between the lines, colors, and shapes of the petals, perhaps you might find meaning conveyed to you through the language of flowers.

— wherein you are a secret admirer of tighnari and you decide to send him flowers and along with equally-flowery words.

Rukkhadhava Mushrooms? Check.

Kalpalata Lotus? Check.

Padisara? Check.

Scarab fluid? Check.

“Do you find all of the necessary ingredients to be satisfactory enough?” An employee asks Tighnari as he counts the number of each ingredient separated into containers on top of the table.

“Yes, thank you very much.” He responds busily.

“I wish you the best in your endeavors. I will be off now.”

“Yes, thank you.” Tighnari nods his head as his pencil drags off carefully against the page of his little notebook, crossing small boxes listed between the grid lines. Work was constant and even more so now as he feels its amount in waves lately with the sudden new virus spreading around due to the withering zones. Fortunately, only a few were infected and it is not taking too much of a toll on his body—with him balancing the role of being a Forest Watcher and a sort of doctor on the side.

He sighs as he closes his notebook shut and sits down on the chair. He looks around him, wide dark emerald eyes admiring the abundance of greenery inside Pardis Dhyai and taking in the cluster of herbal and floral fragrances between each soft inhale.

He then glances at the clock.

3:29AM. Any minute now–

“Delivery for Tighnari!” A deep, gravelly voice enters the vicinity and Tighnari immediately stands up to respectfully bow to the delivery man.

“Ah, Arkan.” Tighnari greets the tall, burly man right in front of him politely. There is a bundle of purple hugged between Arkan’s arms and he eyes it promptly; expectantly; disposition still even despite the slight anticipating twitch of his ear. “I assume that is for me.”

“Ya got that right.” Arkan agrees gruffly, extending his arm out to hand him the bouquet of vibrant purple Forget-Me-Not flowers. “Your lover’s been quite consistent.”

“Perhaps ‘admirer’ would be a more suitable term. I still don’t know who they are.” Tighnari shakes his head before glancing down at the flowers now in his arms. Its petals are the shade of mustard yellow at the center, transitioning to vibrant purple as he eyes the petals down to its rounded tips. He wonders what is their motive behind all of this. How was he to fall for a person whose identity he had no slightest idea of? It was unreasonable to fall for a figment of his imagination—the mere idea built from expectations of who this person might be.

But still, he keeps the flowers close to him. It stays displayed inside his home, consistently being replaced every week upon each delivery. So far, he had received a total of four flower deliveries, all appearing to be freshly-picked and very healthy.

I’m keeping them because it would be a waste not to. Tighnari nodded to himself.

“Well, then, I’ll leave you to think about it by yourself.” Arkan dips his head slightly for a temporary farewell. He would be seeing Tighnarini again soon, no doubt.

“Alright. Thank you for the delivery, Arkan.”

Tighnari sits down once again, placing the wrapped bouquet on his lap, supporting it with one arm. He counts the flowers and the snowy Gypsophila surrounding each small bundle of Forget-Me-Nots. He brings it up to his face, breathing in the floral fragrance before noticing a small piece of rectangular paper pasted onto the wrapping. His fingers gently move the flowers to read the text.

“What if you forget to forget-me-not and we fade away?”

A new piece added onto the puzzle of the admirer’s hidden painting. Clever. Forget-Me-Nots. Tighnari thinks back to the previous pieces of paper he had received along with the bouquets of flowers. So far, the compilation of all the notes reads:

“You can open up to me; show me what’s inside. Mother nature made us to intertwine.”

“Lavender elixir so full of pheromones, give me one taste and you’re gone.”

“What if I can’t get you out of my thoughts? What if my seasons don’t change?”

And today, “What if you forget to forget me not and we fade away?”

The admirer seems troubled today, Tighnari thinks, humming to himself in deep thought. Perhaps they liked him more than he had initially expected. He expected to be receiving about only two to three deliveries of such things, but it’s turning out to be more of a consistent thing now. Looking forward to Monday’s every time the clock strikes thirty minutes after the hour of three in the afternoon has become a sort of habit.

But he wonders: When would this end? When would he get to meet the individual who has been going through the effort to send these on a weekly basis?

Perhaps he must do a little bit of investigating for himself.

The next week comes slowly as the virus dies down significantly with Tighnari providing the patients with treatment. It has provided time for him to give some thought onto the next course of actions he might take to look for the admirer, and perhaps, the best person to ask first is the person consistently delivering the flowers.

Arkan comes marching to the front of Tighnari’s house at exactly 3:30PM, and he’s there to receive him just in time.

“Arkan, I have a question.” Tighnari began as he accepted the bouquet. Today’s flowers were a fresh bundle white Tropical Morning Glories wrapped in black paper. He fishes for the note stuck onto the wrapping paper behind the flowers and silently reads it.

“You’re my little flower blooming in the night.”

Blooming in the night... Morning Glories were also known as Moonflowers.

He purses his lip in thought as his ear unconsciously twitches. He scratches the back of his neck. Why are my ears warm? Perhaps it is hotter today than usual.

“What is it?”

He looks up from the bouquet and eyes Arkan curiously. “By any chance, do you know who’s sending these flowers?”

Arkan lets out a loud guffaw at his question, pressing his hands onto his abdomen. “I thought you’d never ask."

“It’s just that I was too busy to be pondering about that previously with the virus and all.” Tighnari places the flowers onto the ledge of his porch before crossing his arms. “So? Will you tell me who they might be?”

“No can do.” Arkan shakes his head.

He sighs. “As I suspected. Looking for them is not going to be as easy as that.”

“How ‘bout I give ya a hint?” Arkan places his hands on his hips, grinning down at him widely. “You know them.”

Tighnari squints his eyes.

He knows them.

He browses his memories for the list of people that he knew but it was turning out to be rather difficult when he was practically familiar with more than half of Gandharva Ville and many from Sumeru City. It cannot possibly be Collei; she is much too young and she has been quite close with a boy her age lately that lived near their home. Cyno was way too subpar with his linguistic skills to be able to construct mellifluous words such as these, and it is apparent with his dry jokes, thus it is unlikely to be him. Paimon and the Traveler on the other hand had long left the vicinity of Sumeru. And Alhaitham… Well, he’s Alhaitham. Could it be Kaveh?

“Do they live closeby?” Tighnari asks after a few moments of thinking.

“They live in a sort of paradise. Sort of like a garden, if you will. That’s all I gotta say.” Arkan laughs before saluting to him. “Welp, I’ll leave ya to it.”

So it’s not Kaveh, then. Thank goodness. Tighnari breathes out a sigh of relief before taking the flowers from the ledge once again. He must quickly put them in a vase.

Another week comes and Tighnari is finished trekking through the forest with Cyno after dealing with one of the few remaining Withering Zones left.

“So you have been receiving a bouquet of flowers every week.” Cyno summarizes after Tighnari explains the entirety of the situation. “I see.”

“Yes, so if it is not any trouble and if you aren’t busy with work, would you mind helping me investigate this matter?” Tighnari tilts his head, waiting for his friend’s response.

“I’m afraid that I must refuse.” Cyno answers, quickly pulling his eyes away to look up at the nearby trees.

“Hm? And why is that?” Tighnari crosses his arms. “You are looking suspicious right now, my friend. Don’t tell me that you’re actually the secret admirer?”

Cyno sends him an offended look, or at least, as offended as his typically-stoic face could look. “Do I appear to be the type who writes poetry? I must say that my jokes are quite great, but poetry on the other hand?”

“Yes, it is exactly as I thought. Except for the jokes part.” Tighnari nods, ignoring the second wave of offended expression that paints his friend’s face. “But why were you acting suspicious just now? Perhaps… you know who they are. You know who has been sending the flowers to me.”

Cyno shakes his head. “It’s not that I knew. I only figured it out when you told me about the flowers just now.”

“How?”

“Easy. I suggested the flowers, or rather, I told them you liked plants, and maybe, flowers.” Cyno explains before suddenly looking thoughtful. “But now that I think about it. The notes do sound like something they would do.” He hums thoughtfully. "Hm... they even went all the way to Sumeru City to ask about something like that."

“Well? Are you not going to tell me who it is?”

“No.”

Tighnari sighs, rubbing his face in annoyance. This was becoming more frustrating with the way Arkan and Cyno were being so secretive.

Cyno pats his shoulder comfortingly. “You will find out who they are soon.”

“Why? Will they reveal themselves?”

“I do not know. But upon meeting them, it is only time before they slip up. They’re not as patient as you believe they are.”

“Yes, maybe…”

Tighnari receives three stems of Tulips today, tied together with a thin white ribbon that also holds a piece of paper along with it. His eyes squinted a little upon realizing that the texts today were a bit longer, and the handwriting was a bit messier.

Hm… Tulips…

“All I see are Tulips (you) and

I’m a hummingbird;

Heavenly ambrosia in every curve.

Honey dripping over my imagination;

The fragrance keeps flowing straight

down to my soul.”

He doesn’t hold back the warmth that spreads across his light-skinned cheeks and tips of his ears—or rather, he couldn’t. Whoever was writing him these notes and sending these flowers seemed to know just the precise words to make a person’s heart quiver. That, or this was simply born from the inexplicable feeling of adoration; one that Tighnari himself still doesn’t understand.

Perhaps, you would care to show him—to make him understand where all of these saccharine poems flow from inside you and onto paper.

He flips the paper around and is surprised to see an added note.

“I heard you were looking for me. Why don’t you come and find me, then?” He looks down further at the bottom of the page. “Here’s a hint: I live in paradise.”

Paradise? Tighnari squints rubs his chin at the familiar word. Where and when could he have last heard it?

Paradise… Ah! His eyes widen as he remembers his conversation with Arkan about two or three weeks before.

“They live in a sort of paradise. Sort of like a garden, if you will. That’s all I gotta say.” Arkan laughs before saluting to him. “Welp, I’ll leave ya to it.”

Paradise… Paradise— Pardis? Pardis Dhyai? If his suspicions were correct then… then the admirer was much closer than he had initially suspected. He had assumed that they lived in Sumeru City due to the weekly access to new and foreign flowers being delivered there frequently. This had caused him to forget about Pardis Dhyai completely—the actual grounds for producing an array of different plants and flowers.

He set the flowers into a vase filled with water and began preparing to clean up his things. Turns out that he had a trip to make towards Pardis Dhyai outside of work hours.

Tighnari arrives at the vicinity as the Sun had already set, leaving the shrounds of orange to be submerged underneath the dark blues littered with specs of white. Strange to him as it may be, but his heart is racing fast against his ribs as he takes rapid steps to enter the greenhouse. Perhaps it may be from all the running, or maybe it was the nerves swallowing his being, but one thing is for sure and that is the fact that his curiosity and the need to understand cannot deter him from finding out the one behind all these things.

He enters the greenhouse and the silence engulfs his ears aside from the crickets resounding from the distance. He steps forward, moving to the area where the flowers were born side by side, and there, he sees someone standing there, tending to the plants at this hour.

“You’re my little flower

Blooming in the night…”

His eyes widen as hears them sing softly as they hold the watering can over the vibrant leaves and petals.

“Only for an hour,

The northern lights.

My Casablanca sweetheart,

Nectar so divine.

Baby, you’re the best part

Of my life.”

“So it is you.” Tighnari’s voice cuts through the pause of their singing. He sees their shoulders jolt a little in surprise before they turn around slowly, sheepishly. It was you, the employee in Pardis Dhyai who guided him throughout each time he collected ingredients for new medicine.

“So you have found me.” Your smile is relaxed as you take a step towards him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He shivers at the contact but doesn’t move away, causing you to chuckle. “Shall we have a chat?”

“W-What makes you say that I have the time? I could be here for some herbs.” He blurts out, a little out of character from his typical self.

You chuckle at his nervousness. “Well? What can I do to convince you to stay?”

#SoundCloud #genshin #genshin fanfic #genshin x reader #tighnari #tighnari x reader #tighnari x you #fanfiction #genshin fanfiction #sumeru #genshin cyno #tighnari fluff #gender neutral reader #genshin x gender neutral reader

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fictionlag · 9 days ago

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First chapter of "Flowers Bloom at Midnight" on AO3.

The old bell above the door chimed softly as a gust of cold October air swept into the shop, scattering the scent of dried lavender, marigold, and rosemary through the dimly lit room.

Xie Lian looked up from the potted chrysanthemum he’d been tending, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the cold draft. The shop, small and nestled at the end of a quiet, tree-lined street, was his sanctuary. Though autumn had cast a chilly, quiet spell over the town, turning leaves to crisp golds, rusty reds, and somber browns, the warmth inside his little floral shop was always inviting, like a hidden bloom peeking through the fading season.

It was a modest place, Xie Lian's “Eternal Blossoms,” nestled between a line of brick buildings and just on the edge of an old graveyard that was as famous for its haunting beauty as it was for the stories whispered about it. Gravestones leaned like forgotten memories, mossy and faded, stretching under canopies of oaks that had stood watch for centuries. The locals told stories of the ghost who wandered the graves at night, an old legend that Xie Lian had long since stopped listening to. A harmless tale, he thought, one meant to thrill bored teenagers and make the night walks through the cemetery that much more exciting.

Yet, the graveyard brought him solace. Its peacefulness mirrored his own life here, as he spent day after quiet day trimming roses, bundling marigolds, and arranging bouquets. His only customers were those who sought flowers for the deceased— a simple arrangement of daisies or a soft bundle of forget-me-nots to lay on graves.

A dying breeze rattled the dry leaves that had gathered outside the door, catching his attention. Shadows pooled like ink at the edges of his shop, the early evening already surrendering to night. Xie Lian glanced at the old clock on the wall. He hadn’t had a customer since morning, and closing time was fast approaching.

With a sigh, he moved to the small counter to begin packing away his day’s work, fingers idly tracing over the soft petals of a bouquet of snow-white lilies, their scent fragile and ghostly, like a faint memory. Just as he turned to reach for the broom, the bell rang again.

The sound surprised him. The door creaked open, letting a deeper, richer shadow spill across the wooden floor, and a man stepped inside, carrying with him the scent of damp earth and cold night air. He was tall, draped in a black coat that seemed to merge with the shadows behind him. His hair was black, long and slightly tousled, falling over one shoulder as he paused in the doorway, silver rings glinting on his fingers as he adjusted his coat.

The strangy looked at Xie Lian with a small, almost imperceptible smile—a smile that seemed to hold secrets of a thousand autumns.

“Good evening,” the man’s voice was rich and warm, somehow both inviting and distant, like the low notes of a forgotten song. “I hope I’m not too late.”

Xie Lian quickly recovered himself, giving a slight nod and a shy smile. “Not at all. Welcome… Please, come in.”

The man moved forward, his presence filling the small shop with a magnetic weight. His gaze drifted around, lingering on the vases of autumn blooms and dried bouquets that Xie Lian had so lovingly arranged. There was something otherworldly about the way he moved, as if he were slipping through the spaces between shadows, not quite of this world.

“I’d like a flower,” the stranger said simply, his gaze meeting Xie Lian’s once more, his lips curling up in that same enigmatic smile. “Just one.”

Xie Lian hesitated, looking over his collection. “Any flower in particular?”

“A white one,” the man replied. “Something pure.”

Xie Lian’s gaze drifted to the lilies he’d been arranging just moments ago. He carefully lifted one of the delicate blooms, offering it to the stranger. “A lily, perhaps?”

The man reached out to take it, his fingers brushing against Xie Lian’s in a brief, startlingly cool touch. Xie Lian felt an unexpected thrill at the contact, a shiver that tingled through his fingertips. The man’s hand lingered for a moment, holding the lily with a reverence that bordered on worshipful. His eyes lifted to meet Xie Lian’s again, and for a moment, Xie Lian could almost see something like longing in that silver gaze.

“It’s perfect,” he murmured, his voice soft, almost wistful. He slipped his hand into his coat and produced a single coin, which he pressed into Xie Lian’s hand.

“Oh, you don’t need to—”

But the man merely shook his head, his smile deepening. “Please. I insist.”

Xie Lian looked down at the coin, its surface tarnished yet etched with a faint, elegant pattern that he couldn’t quite place. Before he could say anything more, the man inclined his head slightly.

“Thank you, Xie Lian.”

Xie Lian’s heart stuttered. He hadn’t introduced himself.

The man’s smile took on a secretive edge, and he leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I’ve seen that shop before. I wondered who it belonged to. Your flowers are beautiful.” His gaze swept over the shop, lingering on the lilies, the marigolds, the roses—all the blooms that Xie Lian cared for so meticulously. “I wanted to see them up close.”

There was something haunting in his words, as if he were more familiar with this place than he should be. And yet, there was no malice in his gaze, only a quiet intensity that made Xie Lian’s heart race in a way it hadn’t in years.

“My name is Hua Cheng,” he finally said, his voice like the quiet roll of distant thunder. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Before Xie Lian could respond, Hua Cheng lifted the lily, nodding in a soft gesture of farewell. He turned, stepping back into the shadow, and the bell above the door gave a final chime as he disappeared into the night.

For a long moment, Xie Lian stood frozen, staring at the spot where Hua Cheng had been. The shop was silent, the warmth of his small sanctuary slowly returning, though it felt somehow altered, as though Hua Cheng had left something behind, something intangible and lingering.

Xie Lian moved to lock the door, his fingers brushing against the silver coin Hua Cheng had left behind. He turned it over in his hand, inspecting the unfamiliar design—an etching of something almost ceremonial, ancient.

He took a steadying breath, shaking off the spell of the encounter. But in the quiet of his shop, with only the whispering petals of his flowers for company, Xie Lian could still feel the touch of cool fingers against his own.

#writers on tumblr #my writing #ao3 author #ao3 writer #ao3 fanfic #fanfiction #archive of our own #ao3fic #hualian #hua cheng #xie lian #tgcf #heaven official's blessing

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hashtagartistlife · 2 years ago

Photo

bunch of twitter doodles from jan-march!

1. ish from ro and my vampire au, lucifuge

2. 2023 rukia b-day picture

3. the ichihimes were kicking a fuss about captain ichigo headcanons so i spite-drew this

4. vague pirate x siren au doodle

5&6. ichiruki ishihime school pastimes

7. rukia hates going on double dates she’s surrounded by giraffes & she can’t see shit

8. forget-me-nots mean true love (fade to black is a crazy movie)

9. hell butterfly rukia

10. prinz von licht

#bleach #ichiruki #ishihime #artist life #bleach art life #bleach fanart #Kurosaki Ichigo #Kuchiki Rukia #inoue orihime #ishida uryuu #lucifuge

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rainintheevening · 7 months ago

Text

Susan Anna Pevensie

No one else could have picked out the tremor in those graceful loops of ink, but she did. He did.

His hand, as he took the pen, was warm, and she caught his whisper as he bent down: "See there, you are an artist. What do I keep telling you?"

She smiled, just a little.

He signed and dated, and she leaned into his hip, grateful, throat aching as she wrapped her fingers tighter around the bouquet in her lap. Five white lilies, and two red roses, and forget-me-nots all around.

They would drive out to the cemetery afterward. Fred had been the one to suggest it, to let her know it was alright, even natural, to remember the dead on a day celebrating new life.

She looked up, sat straighter as he laid down the pen and made room for the witnesses to step in.

Fredrick Maxmillian Pilkington

She let herself smile at the dreadful, smudged left-handed signature. "No, that's what tells me you're the artist, dear."

"I suppose I'll have to choose which name to put on the paintings," he said thoughtfully. "Ah, Pilkington for the bad ones, Pevensie for the good ones, I suppose."

And when her eyes filled up with tears, she felt his arm around her shoulders, and his kiss in her hair, and she closed her eyes, thinking I don't deserve him. I don't deserve him at all. How did he ever come to choose me?

She was so uncertain about things, so careful and guarded and prickly. She had very nearly driven him away twice. But he had come back, he had stayed in her life, and now he was choosing to be in it for the rest of it.

As long as we both shall live.

Susan closed her eyes as their lips found each other, let the tears spill down her cheeks.

I don't think I deserve it, she was saying in her heart. But I choose you back. I choose you too.

The tears didn't show in the pictures, only her standing there in Mother's old wedding dress, clutching her flowers, and Fred in his old uniform, arms around her waist, resting his chin on her head.

Susan, from the Hebrew Shoshana/Shoshan, meaning lotus flower or lily, also suggestive of purity and beauty. The name of Dr. Susan Crocker, a pioneering physician. The name of Susan B. Anthony an American suffragist. The name of Susan Hiscock, MBE, who crewed with her husband aboard their sailing ship.

A name, before it's explosion of popularity c. 1930, characterized by several poets, societal reformers, physicians, journalists, and freethinkers.

It was his suggestion, taking her name on the end of his.

"Look, I've got five older brothers, Lord knows there's enough Pilkingtons in the world. We aren't rich, we aren't titled, honestly, I'm not sure my parents would even notice if I went and became a Communist. They won't mind. I'd be honoured to carry on the Pevensie name, and no mistake."

Susan had thought of her father, how she'd brushed him off, ignored his advice, called him old and 'stuck in tradition'. She hadn't said anything mean when she'd left for America, but she certainly hadn't said anything kind or particularly loving.

She'd come back after the accident, come back to England with one suitcase and a hatbox, and never even considered leaving again.

How could she leave when all that had really mattered was here? Here but gone. All gone to ghosts, holes in the fabric of her reality, in the space of an empty armchair, a silent kitchen, rumpled sheets on a bed, unfinished letters, overdue library books.

Fred had been the first real, solid thing in her life After.

And she couldn't help thinking how her father would like him. All this time, and she still cared what he thought, wished he could have been there to walk her down a church aisle– She tried not to think too hard about that.

"Fredrick Maxmillian Pilkington Pevensie. That's as posh a name as my mother could possibly wish for." Fred had taken her hand, let his grin fade down to a soft smile. "But only if it's alright with you, love."

To her knowledge, Peter had been quite comfortable as a bachelor, but Ed had been close to engaged (she'd found the ring in his sock drawer); they would both have been wonderful fathers, both would have liked Fred.

She'd wiped her cheeks. "Sorry, I keep thinking I'll stop crying one of these days."

"Doesn't have to be today," he'd said, passing over a hanky.

"I think they'd be honoured," she said at last. "To have it be you. My family name—it's something I share with them, and... I'd be happy to keep it."

"Then keep it you shall."

Anna, Latin form of the Hebrew Hannah, meaning favoured one or one shown grace. The name of a prophetess and attendant at the dedication of Jesus who is called Christ in Jerusalem.

"And she coming in that instant gave thanks likewise unto the Lord, and spake of him to all that looked for redemption in Jerusalem."

An elderly widow, a faithful worshiper of God in His temple, great in fasting and prayer, one of the first evangelists.

The taxi pulled away from the cemetery as the sun set into a bank of rising cloud, and Susan knew that rain was on its way.

But the rain was just as important to the spring as the sunshine, she thought, and shuffled over on the seat to curl into Fred's side.

He patted her knee, left his hand there, warm and heavy. Real. Solid. For all his dreaming artist eyes, Fred was solid, certain, strong enough to hold her on the difficult days, of which there were always more than she wanted.

The ring on her finger was its own kind of heavy, permanent, binding, and she needed that, needed a promise, needed something to quash the fears that choked her in the night.

They took a taxi home on their wedding night, home to the house she'd sworn she couldn't stay in, found she couldn't sell, and so compromised by working two jobs, and hardly ever being there.

Home to the old house she'd grown up in, rebuilt from the bombings, adapted and weathered and haunted by the empty places of people gone.

It had gotten better since Fred. She'd changed things, deliberately, a curtain here and a painting there, opened up the crates and jumbled everybody's books together on the shelves.

As they climbed the steps, she saw the lamp glowed in the front window, with another light shining back in the kitchen, and smiled, thanking Coraline in her heart. Her friend would no doubt be ducking out the back door that very moment, scampering across the back garden, and shimmying through the hedge, as if she were a girl of sixteen, and not a woman of thirty. There would be something warm in the oven, and the kettle waiting on the stove, and two places laid.

"Well, Mrs. Pevensie." Fred put his hand on the doorknob, drew her close against his side. "Shall we?"

Shall we go in? Shall we go into the home that is everything that came before, but is ours now too to make new? Shall we start something? Shall we continue? Shall we come home together?

She stood on her toes, and kissed him with a tremoring smile. "Yes, Mr. Pevensie. With pleasure."

#she carried the fourth child through that door #a little girl in a soft blue blanket #'grace' she said #'grace' to helen and pete and tommy crowding round and talking fast like a flock of crows #'her name is grace'#susan pevensie #post last battle #narnia fanfiction #my writing #chronicles of narnia #loved using the middle name anna #it's my name :)#and grace. she finds a lot of grace in it all at the end of it all #fred i actually invented a few years ago #i love him so much #he's an absolute brick #peter and edmund really would like him a lot #narnia

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rippleclan · 10 months ago

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RippleClan: Moon 30

Puddlespeckle went missing for a few days.

[Image ID: Weedfoot stands alone, calling “Father?”]

Rabbitjoy told Weedfoot that outsiders often saw the Clans as “imprisonment”, where others bossed you around and controlled your every step. This was far from the truth, of course. While apprentices had to be escorted due to the danger of the wilds and the Clan asked all who could to share the load, once you completed your tasks for the day, you were free to do as you may. No one would force a cat to follow commands all day.

But they still returned home. They weren’t supposed to be gone so long. Especially not an old, tired elder lost just before the start of winter.

“Father?” Weedfoot called. Harsh wind whipped her voice through the trees. “Father?”

“Puddlespeckle!” Parsley yowled from somewhere unseen. “Are you here?”

“I know you don’t like us much, but there’s no reason to leave!” Oilstripe half-laughed beside Weedfoot, nearly piercing her ear. Weedfoot shivered and rubbed her ear. Somewhere far behind her, the distant calls of the codekeeper’s patrol fluttered in the wind. With two patrols scanning every part of the territory for Puddlespeckle, someone was bound to find him, surely.

Oilstripe gently bunted Weedfoot’s shoulder. A soft trill slipped out of the ginger molly’s throat.

“I’m alright,” Weedfoot sighed, rubbing against Oilstripe. “I hope I didn’t drive him off.”

“He’s a stubborn old fool, but he’s grown to like the Clan!” Oilstripe chirped. “Somewhat, at least. He wouldn’t run off.” An emptiness swallowed the space after her words. Oilstripe was right. Puddlespeckle wouldn’t run away. But that meant something far worse had happened.

Soft pawsteps approached from behind. It was James. The former kittypet shook out his faded black ribbon and fluffed his fur against the early winter chill.

“James,” Weedfoot sighed, touching noses with her friend. “Did the codekeepers find anything?” James tucked his face into Weedfoot’s chest. His ribbon tickled her nose. His tail searched for Weedfoot’s.

“Weed…” James sighed quietly. “Rustshade says he’s been out there for a while. I don’t think you should see it.”

[Image ID: Oilstripe is surrounded by the spirits of StarClan as she says, “I see StarClan whenever they come to visit. I’m tired of pretending I don’t.”]

Weedfoot didn’t want to know the details, but when that was all RippleClan could talk about, she was bound to hear them. According to Mousepaw, Puddlespeckle’s body had decayed enough that bringing it back to camp for a proper vigil would be worse than taking it straight to the graveyard. They couldn’t tell what did him in. Or maybe they did, but they were better about keeping it from Weedfoot’s ears than anything else.

Since the body was unpresentable, Fennelspot, Rabbitjoy, and Rattlepelt crafted a proxy. There were still some wilted forget-me-nots in the elder’s den from the last flowers Puddlespeckle managed to find to decorate his pelt. Rabbitjoy wove the petals into tufts of Puddlespeckle’s fur and Rattlepelt wrapped the creation in a freshly tanned pelt. With a simple blessing from Fennelspot, the wrap would be, in every spiritual sense, Puddlespeckle. At least for the night.

Weedfoot couldn’t say she was broken by this. She could never characterize her relationship with her father as something really positive, after all. But they had gotten better, hadn’t they? They were closer, even if Puddlespeckle sneered a bit when Weedfoot talked about James and complained about having to share his den with Parsley. Things were better. She should have had the chance to say goodbye.

James and Oilstripe were her closest companions during the vigil. She had expected Downstar to make an appearance, to say something, but as she had been prone to do for moons by that point, she stayed in her den. James and Oilstripe kept Weedfoot occupied with various stories of Puddlespeckle. Oilstripe had a shocking memory of the old gray tom; had Puddlespeckle actually told her about her apprenticehood misadventure at the Great Northern River? That didn’t seem like something he would share with her. At least she had stories to share, Weedfoot supposed.

Most cats did not stay long at the vigil. The search had taken up most of the day, leaving the whole Clan craving sleep. Even James bid farewell come moonhigh. Weedfoot and Oilstripe were the only ones stil awake at the end.

“You can sleep, Oilstripe,” Weedfoot eventually sighed, running her paw over the leather wrap in front of her. “Thank you for staying up with me.”

“I don’t think I can sleep tonight,” Oilstripe mumbled. Her eyes were half closed and her ears constantly twitched. Her nose would curl up on occasion before she forced her face to relax.

“Try to,” Weedfoot suggested. “You look exhausted.” She bunted Oilstripe’s shoulder.

“I’m going to the dirtplace,” Oilstripe suddenly snapped. She stood so quickly, she knocked Weedfoot aside. Oilstripe scampered to the dirtplace, kicking up sand as she went. Was she more hurt by Puddlespeckle’s passing than Weedfoot first thought? She didn’t think the pair were that close. Oilstripe never really spoke to Puddlespeckle unless she was spending time with Weedfoot, after all.

Weedfoot wouldn’t be a very good deputy (or friend) if she let Oilstripe suffer. She patted the leather wrap and followed the path to the dirtplace. The ocean’s hum filled her mind and tried to muffle Oilstripe’s words. Words? Yes, words; Oilstripe was speaking to someone. Weedfoot paused in the darkness of the shipwreck and listened.

“Why would I tell you?” Oilstripe snapped. “I don’t tell anyone about this.” Weedfoot spared a glance into the dirtplace. Oilstripe was alone, but she stared at the empty space beside her with what little fury her exhaustion let loose. “If you wanted a vigil over your body, maybe you shouldn’t have left camp!” Weedfoot knew Oilstripe had a tendency to talk to herself, muttering half a conversation when she thought no one else could hear. Wasn’t Fennelspot helping her with that odd quirk? How severe were her symptoms to have her arguing with shadows.

“Puddlespeckle, I told every story you asked me to share,” Oilstripe growled. “What else do you want from me? From Weedfoot? She loved you, you old mousebrain, even if she isn’t broken about it. Go to StarClan already and leave me alone! You’re pushing me into madness!”

“Oilstripe,” Weedfoot huffed, stepping into the dim moonlight. Oilstripe stiffened, one ear cocked toward Weedfoot.

“Not again,” Oilstripe muttered, closing her eyes. “I’m alright, Weedfoot. Go back to your vigil.”

“We need to see Fennelspot,” Weedfoot said. She marched up to her old apprentice and gently coaxed her toward the dirtplace exit. Oilstripe, however, stood her ground.

“No, we don’t,” Oilstripe snapped. “I told you, I’m fine.”

“Your symptoms are getting worse,” Weedfoot grunted. “Fennelspot will know what to do for you.”

“My…” Oilstripe stammered, “my symptoms?” Weedfoot nudged Oilstripe forward, but Oilstripe looped behind her.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Weedfoot insisted, turning to face her friend. She kept herself small as Oilstripe’s fur rose. “You haven’t slept much. It makes sense that your hallucinations—”

“StarClan, Weedfoot,” Oilstripe gulped. Her voice cracked like cold water splashing on a hot stone. “I, I know other cats see me talking to myself, but I didn’t think… you think I’m mad? How many cats think I see things that aren’t real?”

“It’s—” Weedfoot said.

“I am not hallucinating!” Oilstripe cried, stomping after each word. “I see ghosts, Weedfoot, real ghosts. I see StarClan whenever they come to visit. I’m tired of pretending I don’t.” She wildly waved her tail to the empty spot beside her. “Puddlespeckle has been here all night. He hasn’t stopped complaining about how long it took us to find his body. I’m tired because he’s been ranting in my ear all day!”

“Oilstripe—” Weedfoot tried to interject.

“You want to see Fennelspot?” Oilstripe snapped. “We’ll see Fennelspot. He knows they’re real. Locustseeker proved it to him. And once he makes you believe, he’s going to tell the entire Clan. I won’t have my friends look at me and think I’ve lost my mind.” Oilstripe stomped up to Weedfoot and paused beside her. “If you believed I was seeing things this whole time, you should have said something. I don’t need you to pity me.” Oilstripe marched past Weedfoot and whipped out of sight.

“Oilstripe, wait!” Weedfoot cried. She ran after Oilstripe. All the clever and soothing words she planned to say fell away as she hurried deeper into the rising chaos.

(Weedfoot: 79, female, deputy, charismatic, very clever, formidable fighter)

(Parsley: 124, female, elder, righteous, great speaker)

(Oilstripe: 34, female, historian, charismatic, ghost speaker)

(James: 106, male, caretaker, charismatic, den builder, formidable fighter)

Graythroat recovers, but her tail is scarred.

[Image ID: Graythroat stands with a scar on her tail, saying, “Do I look wonderful or do I look wonderful?”]

---

“Do I look wonderful or do I look wonderful?” Graythroat purred. She stretched her scarred, freshly healed tail as high as she could. Most of RippleClan were enjoying their sunhigh naps, soaking in the sunshine of a uniquely warm winter’s day. Mousepaw and Rattlepelt, meanwhile, were more than happy to look at Graythroat’s new scars.

“They don’t hurt?” Rattlepelt wondered, her eyes following the trail of each scar like one watches a river’s current.

“Not at all,” Graythroat insisted. “I’ve always wanted a battle scar. I wish it covered more of my tail though. It’s hard to see without craning my back.”

“It’s a shame it isn’t from a grand battle, then,” Mousepaw mumbled. “Shadowdrop says you killed a fox minding its own business.”

“My brother also said a fox may have been the beast that took Puddlespeckle from us,” Graythroat huffed, tucking her tail away from Mousepaw’s judgy gaze. “Foxes are dangerous.”

“Not much more than a cat,” Mousepaw pointed out, whiskers twitching. Before Graythroat could come up with a clever response, something shifted in the corner of her eye. Downstar limped out of her den. She managed well on three legs, although the splint that bound her broken bone would likely come off soon.

“Mom, look at my scar,” Graythroat chirped. She wiggled her flank in front of her mom. Downstar studied the scar quietly. She then limped in front of the Shiprock, her face still and expressionless.

“All cats old enough to catch their own prey, gather below the Shiprock for a Clan meeting!” Downstar called, making Rattlepelt and Mousepaw jump. The sleeping masses scattered around camp stuttered to life, trying to collect themselves. Fennelspot stumbled out of the medicine den with weary eyes.

“Downstar, why are you calling a meeting in the middle of the day?” Fennelspot yawned as the rest of the Clan tried to wake up.

“You’ll see in a moment,” Downstar said softly. “Graythroat, come sit by me.” Graythroat happily trotted up to her mother. She nuzzled her mother with a deep purr.

RippleClan was slow to gather. Their yawns and grumbles turned into quiet questions as they glanced between each other. Graythroat’s paws danced over the sand as she silently yowled for the group to come together already. Graythroat couldn’t take the suspense!

[Image ID: Downstar faces Graythroat, now called Wildclaw. Under Wildclaw, it says LEVEL UP! GRAYTHROAT -> WILDCLAW. Fennelspot sits in the foreground, saying, “Downstar, I don’t know about this.”]

“Since the day she became an apprentice,” Downstar began, “my daughter Graythroat has put her all into the defense of this Clan. She would gladly lay down her life if it meant RippleClan would survive.” Graythroat puffed out her chest. “She is everything I would want in a strong and loyal caretaker. She takes initiative to keep us safe and will always rise to the occasion. Her new scar is proof of this commitment. She deserves to be honored for her bravery. As such, today she will earn an honor title, which she will carry with her to StarClan.”

The rest of the Clan faded away. An honor title? Graythroat was getting an honor title? She was getting a new name? Only the greatest in the Clan ever got an honor title! And they didn’t get theirs from their mother!

“Downstar, I don’t know about this.” Fennelspot’s worry tried to pierce Graythroat’s fog of joy, but Graythroat ignored him. She stood in front of her mother, chin and tail high, ready to erase her new name like pawprints in the sand.

“Spirits of StarClan, you know every cat by name,” Downstar declared. “I ask you now to take away the name from the cat you see before you, for it no longer stands for what she is. By my authority as Clan leader, and with the approval of our warrior ancestors, I give this cat a new name. From this moment on she will be known as Wildclaw, for her wild and daring spirit deserves to be honored.”

Wildclaw. Wildclaw. Wildclaw! What a beautiful name! Wildclaw’s heart fluttered as her Clan’s sleepy voices called her new name. It sunk into her very being. It was everything she was, deep inside. She didn’t care that the strained looks in her Clanmates’ eyes did not match the pride of their voices. She was proud of herself. Her mother was proud of her. That was enough.

(Wildclaw: 22, female, caretaker, fierce, trusted advisor)

(Rattlepelt: 13, female, artisan, fierce, prey cleaner)

(Mousepaw: 7, female, codekeeper apprentice, loyal, oddly observant)

(Downstar: 89, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Fennelspot: 87, male, cleric, insecure, trusted advisor, incredible runner)

#warrior cats #clangen #rippleclan #warriors #rippleclan story #downstar #oilstripe #graythroat #wildclaw #mousepaw #rattlepelt #fennelspot #weedfoot #james #parsley #puddlespeckle #tw death

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pollenallergie · 2 years ago

Note

Happy Spring! How 'booout something short and fluffy about Billiam Knight picking wildflowers for you? 🥰🌼

ahahsbdbsbsndj this is the dream come true!! also umm so he’s not picking flowers for you???or well, he doesn’t start out picking them for you… i hope that’s ok!!! 💖💖 also i know you said something short… but i love this man too much to get him anything less than 1k words. enjoy!!!

He Loves Me

CW: Just fluff. Billy mentions making love to you (uses those exact words) once, but it doesn’t get any more suggestive than that.

Word Count: 1.9k

18+ only!!

“He loves me,” you pluck off a small petal from the delicate flower in your hands, a tiny little sweet violet that you’d plucked from the forest floor, “he loves me not.”

From just a few metres away, where he’s camped out near a small brook, crouching down by the flowing water as his eyes attentively scan the small patch of land in front of him in search of his beloved Forget-Me-Nots, the tips of Billy’s ears flush a bright cherry red as he catches wind of the words you utter to yourself. He temporarily halts his flower search as he straightens up, rising from his stooped position by the flowing water, now looking around the wooded area in search of you.

Once his eyes finally land on you, Billy’s breath hitches as he takes in the lovely sight of you, bathed in the rays of sunlight that leak through the forest’s overstory, looking positively radiant as you deftly meander around the forest floor, careful not to crush any of the flourishing fauna beneath your feet as you walk. He knew you’d look beautiful here, otherworldly even. Granted, Billy thinks you look beautiful anywhere you go, but there’s something about seeing you like this, at home in nature, that seems to highlight your elegance more so than the gloomy city ever could.

That’s one of the main reasons he brought you here, to this serene timberland, a stunning nature trail near Woolstone that his late mother used to bring him to when he was a young boy. One of the other reasons, of course, was that Billy wanted to collect some freshly bloomed wildflowers that he could press and add to the multimedia piece he’s been working on in his spare time. The final reason was that the doom and gloom of the fading winter season had been getting to you two, and he knew that heralding in the first weekend of spring with a picnic in the peaceful English countryside would be the perfect thing to liven both your spirits again.

The picnic portion of your day trip ended long ago, the two of you making quick work of the cucumber sandwiches, sea salt crisps, and orange slices you’d packed to eat. Then, you both began simply wandering along the trail, looking for the perfect flowers to complete Billy’s artwork. The two of you had started your meanderings with hands clasped together as you walked side-by-side, relishing the continued closeness. However, you’d soon split up, wandering off a little ways away from each other to search for different kinds of flowers; he’d wandered over to the babbling brook to look for his beloved Forget-Me-Nots and pileworts, while you’d kept more towards the greenery, searching for windflowers and sweet violets, as well as any stray snowdrops leftover from the harsh winter months. And now, well… Now, you’re both a bit distracted, halting your initial flower searching; you’re distracted by the innocent little game you’ve begun playing, and Billy’s distracted by you. Your beauty, your grace, your soft, sweet happiness, it captivates Billy, it enchants him, beguiles him to the point where he finds it difficult to focus on anything but you. Although, that’s not necessarily a unique occurrence, Billy often finds himself distracted by you and, adorably, even merely by the thought of you.

This time, though, he’s pulled out of his enchantment by the sound of you uttering the horrible words, “He loves me not,” as you pluck the final petal from your flower, dropping it and letting it fall to the ground as you breathe out a wistful sigh.

Oh, no, that simply won’t do, Billy decides as he reluctantly refocuses his energy on searching for flowers, crouching back down near the bank of the stream to get a better look. Billy makes quick work of gently snatching up a divine little pilewort before rising to stand once again and jogging over to you so that he can hand it to you.

“Here,” he murmurs, capturing your attention as he holds the dainty little yellow flower out to you.

You sport an adorably delighted expression as you huff out a surprised chuckle.

“What’s this for? You’re not going to make me carry all the flowers, are you?” You ask bemusedly as you accept the flower from Billy.

He grins bashfully, his cheeks going rosy with blush, as he shakes his head and replies, “No, no. I just- You should keep going.”

You crinkle your nose as you flash him a confused expression, “Keep going?”

“Erm, you- you should- you know- erm- the thing with the petals,” Billy stutters bashfully before abandoning his attempt at a verbal explanation and, instead, simply miming plucking the petals off of a flower. You catch on pretty quickly and giggle at the implication.

“Well, alright,” you respond softly, bemusedly, before plucking off a delicate little yellow petal from the flower he’d given you and following it up by murmuring, “He loves me.”

Billy watches intently as you gradually rid the flower of its pretty petals until, finally, you end up with another green stalk and petal-less peduncle. Unfortunately, you again end on the words, “He loves me not,” so Billy immediately springs into action. He rushes back over to the brook to grab a cluster of Forget-Me-Nots, opting for grabbing multiple flowers this time with the hopes that it will increase the odds of you getting a happier ending. He then rushes back over to you and thrusts the bundle of flowers towards you, practically forcing them into your hands as he silently urges you to continue. You chuckle at his adorably peculiar behaviour but oblige him nonetheless, resuming your petal-plucking.

Once again, Billy watches intently as you continue with your childish game, gnawing anxiously on his lower lip as if the sanctity of his future relies on this silly little game, and, to him, it sort of does. So, imagine his disappointment when you once again end on, “He loves me not.”

Of course, Billy can’t have that, won’t have that, so he rushes back to the brook to collect even more flowers, grabbing as many as he can possibly carry before hastily bringing them back to you.

“Billy,” you exclaim humorously, “you’re gonna pick all the new pretty flowers at this rate! All the plants’ patience this past winter, as they waited and waited for the weather to warm up so they could finally prosper, will have been for naught!”

“It’ll be alright, dove, just keep going,” he urges you, flashing you as encouraging of a smile as he can muster, though the feeling of his heart dreadfully sinking to the pit of his stomach hampers his ability to maintain the happy expression.

This is incredibly important to Billy; that much has become evident by now thanks to his odd behaviour, but you can’t for the life of you figure out why that is. Rather than questioning, you simply decide to indulge him as you once again begin plucking the delicate little petals off of all the flowers. Meanwhile, Billy waits with bated breath, nervously picking at the skin around his nails and shifting from foot to foot as he watches you.

As you begin to pluck the petals of the last in-tact flower in your grasp, Billy feels his heart lurch up into his throat, acting as a lump that he struggles to swallow around. This time around, your utterance of the words, “He loves me not,” aligned with you plucking the first petal of the flower. However, in your past attempts, you’d always had to start with, “He loves me.” Perhaps this change is not all that significant, but it gives Billy a bit of hope that maybe this time, you’ll finally end on the right note. Although, that thought in and of itself fills him with even more anxiety because, if his hopes do come to fruition, that means he’ll have to confess something to you, something that he’s not sure you’ll react favourably to.

Suddenly, the moment Billy’s been waiting anxiously for finally comes to pass. In your grasp, you’ve got a tiny little Forget-Me-Not with only two petals left on it. As you go to pluck one of those petals off, Billy feels as if he may vomit, or pass out, or both, or worse.

“He loves me not,” you breathe out quickly as you pluck the second to last petal. You both know what comes next, but only one of you seems to recognise the significance behind it.

“He loves me,” you murmur as you pluck the final petal, releasing it from your hold almost as soon as you’ve removed it from the flower, making it slowly fall to the forest floor, the tiny blue floral tissue fluttering in the wind as it sinks down, down, down. Before you can comment on this novel ending to your little game, Billy surges forward, capturing your lips in a warm embrace with his own. You let out a surprised squeak at the suddenness of the kiss before swiftly melting into it, dropping all the stems once clutched in your hands as you wrap your arms round Billy, tangling your fingers in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

All too soon, he’s breaking the kiss, offering one last peck to satiate you before pulling away just slightly. He rests his forehead against yours with his eyes still closed as he tentatively whispers, “He does love you, you know?”

You had no memory of closing your eyes, too wrapped up in his sweet kiss to notice, but soon you find yourself opening them again to fix him with a curious look.

He can’t possibly mean…

Your thoughts are swiftly interrupted by the sound of Billy exhaling a shaky breath. He suddenly opens his eyes, his gaze meeting your own, filling your line of sight with the image of his lovely brown eyes.

“I love you,” he confesses softly, nervously.

The most radiant smile Billy’s ever seen soon takes shape on your features, seemingly lighting up the whole world around you, though that joy is only meant for him. You can feel the raw emotion clawing up through your throat and stinging your eyes, making tears well up as you softly, genuinely reply, “I love you too, Billy.”

The breath of relief he sighs is genuine, as is the beaming smile he flashes you just before he leans in to kiss you again. This kiss is much deeper and more passionate than the last, though it’s just as sweet.

When you finally part, Billy giggles and says, “Give me a few minutes to grab some more flowers, and then we can leave.”

You look at him with an expression that is both quizzical and fond as you reply, “Why would we leave?”

“Love, why would we stay? ‘S not like I can make love to you here; people come ‘ere with their kids,” Billy replies as though it’s obvious. The chuff you let out in response to that is equal parts shocked and amused.

“Just give me five minutes, petal,” he calls out to you as he begins to jog back to the brook nearby, “and maybe grab me a couple of sweet violets while you wait! Oh, and some snowdrops if you can find any!”

Your heart warms at the sound of the new pet name he’s given you whilst you chuckle at his antics, shaking your head with a sickeningly fond smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you look down and resume your search for flowers. That’s your man, your bashful Billygoat, and he loves you.

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