#I have to plough the fields and see what comes up
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
good curation of books/films/audio drama is hard to come by. I just want someone to whack me with a curated list of books that will rock my world is that so difficult
#I know this isnât how it works#I have to plough the fields and see what comes up#put my own work into enjoying something yakity yak#all this to say Iâm forty two minutes away from finished r&g are dead and I feel a bit hollow
1 note
¡
View note
Text
â â SILVER FOX // JING YUAN.
i. SYNOPSIS : your lands refuse to grow your crops and the days trickle down to the last vestiges of your desperation. and so, you call upon a huli jing. ( jing yuan x reader )
ii. WARNING(S) : this is so messily written guys look away IKUHGFGH, fox spirit jing yuan, not much romance, it's pretty short to and is mostly a brain blurb spare me.
# masterlist
He comes to you quietly in the dark, after nine nights of praying â first as a small silver furred fox, then a man with moonbeams in his hair, pattering out of the shadowed corners and into your line of sight.Â
He seats himself on the floor before you and you place your offering forth: one fish, painstakingly hunted from the nearest river and some unseasoned rice in a chipped wood bowl. You think of your dead lands, and the starvation and the despair and the debt slinking at the bottom like a pacing tiger and you tell yourself to be brave. Thereâs more to lose, turning him away with fear. Thereâs far more to lose, with your dead lands.Â
âPour me a cup.â he speaks up, passing you a jar of baiju, then two glasses. âAnd one for yourself too.â
âYes sirâŚlordâŚâ you stutter and do so, first for him, with yours after.Â
The fox spirit laughs. You prickle up, staring into the clear drink with helplessness pulling at your throat. âAre you nervous? Just call me Jing Yuan.â He takes a sip before he settles with his fish and rice. âYouâve fed me, after all. Iâm less inclined to eat you now.â
You shoot him a horrified look.Â
âI jest.â he sighs after a few bites. âNow tell me, what do you need? You can ask me for one thing.â
You stutter. âIâŚâ Replenish our fields. âIâŚI donât know.â It feels like too much. Like an offer too willingly handed out with an air of ease. It was foolish, you think now, dealing with gods and spirits and their chaos. Foolish.
He barks, and you have a feeling that perhaps, he is unsurprised. âYou humans seem rather indecisive sometimes,â he admits. âI could never understand your ways. My forests and land are mine and I simply take what I need.â The gold in his gaze reflects into the rippling baiju. Itâs a sun, a fire, a molten piece of metal. It burns. He doesnât lie. They are his, for his claws to tear and reap and devour.Â
Still, you speak. âIâm not sure what to expect.â you admit, feeling stupid. Jing Yuan smiles. Thereâs a flash of white, the deathly glint of a too-sharp canine and you wonder if theyâve tasted blood. You might not be the first in the end. Huli Jings could be benevolent on one good day and let in abundance. On others they revel in the miseries of men.Â
âYour caution isnât uncalled for.â he muses. âBut I keep my word, if thatâs an assurance. I can heal illnesses, replenish your fields, win you a few battles. Maybe even spark some lightning if you like that.â he waves his hand as he rattles out his points. âAnd maybe I could bless you with a child. But I see no spouse and I doubt you need another mouth to feed.â
Your face flushes. âYour generosity is appreciated.â you look to the side, a little lost. The lands. The lands meant the crops could grow The lands meant the debt from those two catties of rice could be paid off. âMy lands.â you finally relent. âReplenish them please, milord.â
Jing Yuan narrows his eyes. A calculating shift darkens sunny aureate to simmering amber. âIs that all?â he asks again.
âYes.â you nod solemnly. âThatâs all.â
âAlright then.â he muses. âWake at dawn tomorrow and plough the soil. Do not stop till itâs done.â he tilts his head. âI reward hard work, and I trust you will earn it.â
âOf course.â you reply quickly. A part of you is peeved that no divine design is thrown aloft, no spectacle or show. But the unabashed authority, almost expectant in a sense, humbles that voice down quickly. Itâs fair you put your salt into it. Itâs fair. âI will. Thank you, milord.â
( There is always more to lose. Food, medicine, comfort for the coming winters; and what is plowing to your fields compared to the aching pangs in your stomach that scream and scream and scream for more than the meager bit of dried vegetable and rice you have once a day? )
Jing Yuanâs lips curl. He finishes the last of his fish, stifles back a sleepy yawn. You blink â and heâs gone, leaving behind the cleaned utensils laid before you.
You do what the Huli Jing asks of you. The sun bares down on your back. The plow is slippery against the sweat in your hands. Still, you work, and work, and work till you collapse into the night after the deed is done and every bit of dirt is scoured off rocks and dug into.
The next morning, you see the first signs of it.
The tiny bits of green poking out of the damp earth.
There is a silver fox within the bushes, watching you with an air of smugness. Your eyes meet and you smile at it, a little more than grateful and it stills, the tiniest wag of itâs tail betraying some contentment, at least.Â
( You place another bit of fish out for him that night. An empty plate is returned to your doorstep later ).
AINE | 2024. do no plagiarize, repost or rework this piece.
#&&. my writing !!#jing yuan x reader#jing yuan#honkai star rail#honkai star rail x reader#x reader#jing yuan x you
187 notes
¡
View notes
Note
a scenario: where tsumikis schoolmate says shes going to have a little brother, and then she hints at the reader and gojo like "those baby clothes are cute" or "that baby is so cute" and gojo and reader are like thisđđđ¤
A/N: this was ADORABLE I just had to write headcanons oh my GOD.
⢠Tsumiki comes home from school one day and sheâs acting⌠cagey. No cagey isnât right. Sheâs being suspicious either way.
⢠She tells you that she and Megumi are going to stay at Aunty Kokoâs this Saturday night, and you donât remember planning a sleepover for them? Did you forget?
⢠She ensures you that you didnât, she just wants to and then sheâs telling Gojo that he should take you to dinner on Saturday night. He blinks owlishly and glances at you, to which you shrug â youâve no idea where this weird behaviour is coming from. But sheâs 13, and kids that age are weird.
⢠Satoru does as suggested and you both have a lovely evening and dinner then you return home to be ploughed right into the mattress â the perfect evening.
⢠Things continue as normal for a few days after that, then Tsumiki is sitting beside you as you both get your nails done and she keeps showing you videos on her phone of sweet babies â tiny little things â even one dressed as a little bear. You giggle and coo at them with her, not even thinking twice about them, little girls love cute things â and whatâs cuter than a sweet, pudgy baby?
⢠A few days later, she dragged a box from the loft and it was full of you and Satoruâs baby photos â a tiny blu-eyed, white haired boy in professional photos and ones of baby you sitting in a field of flowers taken on a film camera by your mom, she keeps handing Satoru the photos of you and you the ones of him.
⢠She calls you in one day to her room, saying she needs help with her science homework â and shows you a notebook you know isnât her school one filled with 4x4 boxes sheâs drawn out. She explains itâs about genetics and can predict the genes of a baby.
⢠âSo letâs use you and papa as our experiment!â
⢠She proceeds to explain to you (werenât you helping her) what you and Satoruâs offspring might look like.
⢠By now youâre catching on.
⢠That night you and Satoru are laying in bed, and you fill him in on your theories about her antics lately.
⢠âSo she wants a baby sibling? Isnât Megs enough for her?â He laughs.
⢠âNo, she wants a real child, not one who acts like a 70-year-old man.â
⢠âWhat about you?â
⢠âDo I want a sibling? No â my brothers enough for me thank you âtoru.â
⢠âNo, dumbass. Do you want a baby?â
⢠âWith you?â
⢠âNo with Nanamin â yes with me!â
⢠âYou know I do, silly man. I thought we said weâd wait until my IUD was out. Iâve only 2 years left until I get it out. Then we could just, continue as we are and see what happens?â
⢠âThatâs a perfect idea â think we should get some practice in though, so we can get it right.â
⢠The next incident came when she was watching you get ready one morning, putting on your make up.
⢠âMama, where do you keep your pill?â
⢠âI donât take the pill, âMiki. I have an IUD.â
⢠âThe the inside one, right?â She asks, slightly crestfallen.
⢠As you were shopping that day, the boys off somewhere â you took Tsumiki to the clothes stores with you. She snuck up to you, and handed you a little bundle of yellow fabric. It was a tiny newborn sized Winnie the Pooh onesie.
⢠âThis might be a bit small for you, âMiki.â You joked.
⢠âNot for me! I just thought Iâd show you! Isnât it adorable?â Then she passes you tiny green socks and a red and white mushroom design sun cap for babies.
⢠âYou trying to tell me something, sweet girl?â You smile at her, one brow raised.
⢠She blushes, knowing sheâs been caught. Her subtle tricks hadnât been that subtle.
⢠âHana in my class, her baby sister was just born and heâs so cute! I was just thinking, that maybe I could have one too?â
⢠You giggle at her.
⢠âIs this whatâs been going on? The impromptu date night? The videos of babies? The questions about my IUD?â. She nods at you.
⢠âWould you be happy to wait 2 years? Because weâd love to give you another little sibling â youâre such a good big sister already. I promise we can go shopping in every baby store then, okay?â You say, planting a kiss on her head.
⢠She seems placated by that, starting to ask you what youâd name them when the time comes.
⢠Akio really would have loved her.
#jjk#jjk x reader#gojo satoru#gojo satoru x reader#gojo x reader#gojo fluff#anime#family formations extras#dad!gojo#family formations headcanons
621 notes
¡
View notes
Text
the bard of riverbrook farm, pt. ii
la belle dame sans merci, frank bernard dicksee
aemond targaryen x lowborn!reader
masterlist | ao3
summary | help with the harvest comes from the most unlikely source - the one-eyed man from the inn - and your curiosity about what he is hiding beneath his courtesies only grows.
tags | secret identity, soft romance, bard!reader, no use of y/n, hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending, discussions of trauma related to war, gender-neutral pronouns
wordcount | 3.8k
likes, reblogs & comments are greatly appreciated đ lyrics are not mine this time but from A Storm of Swords
The band of wandering men left empty-handed by the war moved on in the end, what work there was in the village done, what hospitality could be afforded to them spent.
You didnât even realise the man with one eye from the inn had stayed until he came wandering up the lonely track to your farm.
You were bent over, pulling up carrots in the field, stopping only to mop sweat from your brow, and your back was aching. You always bit back on your complaints, though, because your parents were working on the next row over, swapping the baby in her wrap between them whenever it got too much to bear in the summer sun.
Your father was the first to notice a stranger's approach and passed off your gurgling sister so he could approach the man.
âHo, stranger,â your father called, letting the one-eyed man know he was spotted in case that was enough to deter him. You recognised him from the inn, though, and felt a hint of a smile on your lips. No, you did not think this was some common thief.
âSer,â the man, strangely formal as ever, inclined his head. Even when he raised his voice to be heard over the distance and the wind, his tone did not change from that calm, collected way he had. âThe innkeeper in town said you might need an extra pair of hands for your harvest. I came to offer my services.â
Good Beck, always sticking his nose in, you thought, holding back a roll of your eyes. You made your way down the field, your half-full basket on your hip, and came to your fatherâs side. âI remember you,â you said, âfrom the inn.â You could still sometimes feel the ghost of his lips on your hand.
His eye met yours. He looked glad to see you but not surprised. âThe bard,â he said, âhave you finished your song yet?â
âNot quite,â you said, biting your lip to stop you from smiling.
Your father, for his part, looked wary. âYou fought in the war?â he asked, and the man nodded. He did not ask what side. It was generally accepted that you did not ask that question in these parts when the peace remained new and uneasy.Â
âAnother pair of hands would be good,â your father said wearily, âif only so that one of us could focus on the babe instead. But I donât have much to pay you.â
The man shook his head. âFood and shelter is all I ask for, ser.â
Your father hummed, noncommittal. âI donât much like the idea of strange men under the same roof as my wife and children,â he said. âNo offence meant, but you could be anyone. You understand.â Your heart dropped a little at the dismissal, but you noticed he was holding his shovel close to his body and sizing up the stranger. It made sense - men like this stranger were often bad news, driven to desperation by war or indulging depravities that had always been there, lurking just under the surface and only coming out now that the world had gone to hell.
âNo, ser, I understand - I did not mean shelter under your roof. I could bed down by the plough horse. I was not clear in my speech; I apologise,â the man said, âbut if it is still a no, I will be on my way.â
That spiked a slight panic in you, and you grasped for words. âFor what itâs worth, father, he was kind at the inn,â you said hurriedly. âHe wanted to ask me about my songs, the ones I write myself, but he was very respectful.â The man gave you a grateful half-smile for that.
Your father hesitated, considering both your words, just as the stranger was shifting to go. âStop,â he said. You could see him thinking. The door to the house was always barred at night, and you and your mother had carried blades concealed in your clothes since the war broke out. It might be worth the risk, to get an extra pair of hands on the field and get this sowing of carrots up before any started to soften. Most would need to travel to Raventree Hall before they were sold, and the steward would not pay the full price unless they were fresh. Your father looked back at your mother, who was bouncing the baby on her hip, and she gave him a slight nod. âOkay, weâd like to have you on for the next moon or so. Thereâs a spare stall in the stable where you can bed down if youâll help me clear some equipment out of it.â
The one-eyed man was visibly relieved and offered your father a hand to shake, which your father grasped firmly. âThank you, ser,â he said.
âIâm no ser,â your father said, but he looked a little pleased to be addressed as such.
âThereâs broth on for tonight,â your mother added helpfully, calling down the field and shading her eyes from the sun with her spare hand. âBread was fresh yesterday.â
âSounds perfect,â the man said, and for all the light in his eye at that, he seemed to say it genuinely.
Your father was clapping him on the shoulder and leading him off to the paddock that housed the small stable when you stopped them with your voice. âWait! What was your name?â
The man stopped dead in his tracks, and you may have been mistaken, but you thought you saw his jaw go a little tighter and his eye a little wider. He wavered, then cleared his throat. âUh, Luke,â he said.
Your mother and father did not seem to notice his hesitation, but you narrowed your eyes at him, and he had the good grace to swallow hard before he was led away.
Luke, you thought, testing the name on your tongue. You had a feeling that getting to know each other would be very interesting indeed.
â â â
âYou know, if you were going to lie about your name, you probably should have thought about that before someone inevitably asked what your name was.â It was the height of the day, and you were irritable, the collar of your shirt becoming damp and yellow with sweat, the basket on your hip growing harder and harder to lift.
It had been a few days since the man - Luke - arrived, and you had already learned to like having him around. He was an able young man, strong, and his pace of work meant that sometimes both your parents could afford to rest when the sun reached its peak. You were glad - they were not so young as they once were, and neither of them got to spend enough time with the babe anyway.
It was such a day today - the two of you were deep in the fields, pulling up the crops and loading your bounty onto a cart - and Luke gave you a bewildered glance. He was starting to do that more and more to you in answer to your pointed questions. âIâm lying about my name, am I?â He asked as though it was not already a foregone conclusion.
You huffed out a laugh. âGiven how you positively shit yourself when asked the most simple question a person can ask you about yourself, I would wager so.â
âSo youâre a gambler as well as a bard?â
âYou canât answer a question with a question,â you pointed out, huffing as you lifted your now-full basket onto your hip.
He raised an eyebrow. âYou didnât ask me a question; you just levelled an accusation at me,â he said, but there was no heat in it as he left his own basket for a minute to take yours off your hip and carry it to the cart for you. You did make to protest, but the sun was blazing, and you rather liked the way his shoulders could be seen shifting through his shirt as the sweat-soaked fabric clung to them.
âFine,â you sighed, âwhy did you lie about your name?â
He gave you a look, rubbing at his cheek a little where his eyepatch sat with dirt-stained fingers. You wanted to tell him to take it off - it was chaffing him in the heat, and you had seen worse injuries over the years than a lost or damaged eye - but you didnât want to push your luck. âMy name - the name my mother gave me, itâs⌠recognisable. I told you I donât know if I could face going home. If someone from my past heard my name being used around here, I donât think the choice would be mine anymore - to stay or not.â
You thought that over and nodded. âI suppose that makes sense,â you said. âMany folks are running from their pasts âround these parts.â
He sighed. âYou have an unforgiving way of cutting straight to the heart of the issue. Has anyone told you that before?â
âMm,â you hummed, smiling. âItâs a useful skill in a bard. People have a way of burying a lead and telling themselves stories, but theyâre rarely motivated by anything other than whatâs in their hearts.â
He was watching you with something unnameable in his eye.
âWho is Luke, then?â You asked, not letting up for a second.
The look of levity on his face darkened at that, and you almost regretted pressing the issue. âA boy I killed,â he said simply.
You didnât know what you expected, but you certainly hadnât expected him to be so blunt. âYou knew him?â
âWe were family,â he said, passing you back your now emptied basket, but he looked a little distant now. âWe found ourselves on different sides of things. He took my eye. I killed him. It was an accident, but it was still my fault.â
You nodded, a heavy feeling in your gut settling. Everyone had done things they werenât proud of during those years. Every stale crust of bread or overripe apple you stole to feed your family could have been the one that starved your neighbours to death. âSo you use the name⌠what, to keep him alive?â
He considered this. âI suppose itâs something of an apology, yes. I was a boy then - rash and angry. Now that Iâm a man, I realise that no matter the wrongs he visited on me, he didnât deserve to die. If I keep his name with me, I hope he lives on through me, yes, and I hope, wherever he is, he knows I have not forgotten him and what I did.â
âThat seems like all you can do,â you said.
âMm,â he looked away, âit still doesnât feel like enough.â
âEveryone has done things they canât make up for,â you pointed out.
He gave you a rueful smile. âI fear I have done more than most.â
â â â
The next time you made your way down to the tavern, lute strung on your back, he followed you.
You pretended you hadnât heard his footsteps until you were halfway down the village path. Then his boot struck a stone, sending it skittering, and you turned to look.
He was watching you, head tilted, and the look in his eye betrayed an appetite.
âYou know, you could have just asked to come with me.â
He smirked, slowly drawing up to you. âIâm not much good at small talk. Thought it better I didnât bother you.â
You hummed. âI like it when you bother me,â you said.
It felt like a leap of faith, but he was there to catch you.
The music fell from your strings and your lips so easily that night, flowing like honey, like gold, and you had the entire inn swept up in a reverie. There was dancing and laughing and singing along, and Good Beck was toasting to you over the bar and sending you mead faster than you could drink it as he struggled to keep up with his orders.
Your shadow, Luke, watched you from the back of the room all night. Heâd bought a pint but didnât seem to be drinking it, and he was surrounded by people but didnât seem to be talking to them. He just⌠watched. Like you were some enrapturing creature singing a sirenâs song.
You closed up with your own song, the newest one youâd finished. Youâd written it by the fireplace in the evenings, gently rocking your sisterâs crib with the toe of your boot. The warm glow of the embers brought to mind the glow of the day, the way his skin glistened, and how he smiled and laughed when you spoke even though he didnât want to, like he couldnât help it.
My featherbed is deep and soft,
and there I'll lay you down,
I'll dress you all in yellow silk,
and on your head, a crown.
For you shall be my lady love,
and I shall be your lord.
I'll always keep you warm and safe,
and guard you with my sword.
And how she smiled and how she laughed,
the maiden of the tree.
She spun away and said to him,
no featherbed for me.
I'll wear a gown of golden leaves,
and bind my hair with grass,
But you can be my forest love,
and me, your forest lass.
The song was the warmest of embraces: wildflower blooms in the air, the tickle of grass on your skin, and soft, hot kisses on your neck. You closed out the tune on your lute, and when you looked up, your regulars were roaring their approval, and other villagers were clapping for you. You pulled in ragged breath after breath, struggling after the full set, and when you met Lukeâs eye, you didnât want to fool yourself, but you thought him similarly⌠breathless.
You made your way from the little stage, lute on your back, free pints in hand, and jerked your head to the door, hoping heâd get the message. Fresh air was a must after a full set, as you were often overheating, and the smells and sounds of inside would become oppressive.
You set your tankards on an overturned barrel and sat down on the riverbank, away from any revellers also seeking fresh air. The brook was low right nowâthere hadn't been a proper rain in a moonâbut the trickling sound was still soothing, still enough to reset the thudding rhythm in your chest.
âJust as mystifying as the first time,â his voice and cadence were becoming deeply familiar at this stage. You looked up, and he was setting himself down next to you, giving you a soft smile.
You waved away his praise with a hand and took a deep drink of your mead. It was sharp and sweet and cutting. âYou should be ashamed of yourself, following me out here with a drink to ply me and sweet words on your lips; itâs so obvious,â you jested, and his cheeks went a delightful shade of pink.
He held up his hands. âI recall you beckoning me and supplying the drink. If anyone has ulterior motives, it is you.â
âYouâre a strange one,â you said, looking away for a second to follow the path of two village girls stumbling home over the wooden bridge downstream, having overindulged in Good Beckâs homebrew. This place was a different world from what it had been only years ago. You didnât think you could ever fall out of love with it. âWhat sort of conscripted village boy uses words like ulterior, anyway?â
He laughed. Heâd left his pint he hadnât been drinking inside, so you pushed the tankard you hadnât managed to get to towards him. He made a face as he sipped but went back for more all the same. âWhen did I say I was a conscripted village boy?â
âYou didnât,â you said, with a slow wave of realisation. âI just⌠thought. The book thing - youâre educated and all that.â
He grinned, and his face in profile was something to behold. You didnât think youâd ever found a nose so pretty. âEducated, but that never saved me from being a fool.â
âIt never does,â you pointed out. âSometimes, educated people are worse for being fools than farming folk. Youâve got all this extra⌠shite in your head that helps you make excuses for why youâre doing foolish things.â
âConcise, to the point,â he noted with a dry humour in his voice, drinking deeply from his tankard now. âHow did one of the farming folk come to know what ulterior meant if itâs such a graceful, airy word?â
He had you there. You smiled and averted your eyes, taking another drink. It was like a game. Take a drink when the other person proves theyâre fit for you, and you see how evenly matched you are in all the ways you never expected to be. âMy mother is a clever woman, trained in a mummerâs troupe. She knew the plays, knows how to play this,â you said, tapping the lute strung to your back. âShe gave up the mummerâs life when she was younger than we are now - she fell in love, found out she was having me. She says she wanted to build something solid, something permanent, and she wanted to do it with my father.â
He hummed. âMy mother was just a girl when she had me, too. She was not in love with my father, though, and he was not in love with her,â he said. âIt must be nice⌠to know you were made in love.â
You wanted to kiss him, then. Burned to. Being made in love was blessed, yes, but it was nothing you could not learn later if only you were willing to. You held back, though, if only because he looked sad and you did not think it was the right time. You reached out a hand instead and rested it on the back of his neck, sweeping your thumb over the base of his skull. He responded to your touch, pushing into your palm, and you smiled.Â
âWhy do you shave your head?â You asked. Youâd seen him the other morning, studying his reflection in a bucket of water, scraping stubble off his scalp with a well-kept razor and a bar of soap. It had only been enough hair for you to see that he was fair-headed, but youâd thought that already with his pale skin and piercing eyes.
He screwed his eyes shut for a second, then peered at you sideways, trying out a half-smile. âWould you believe I am already balding horribly? My family is cursed with it, indeed-â
You burst out laughing at that, a terrible snort slipping out, but it made him snicker with you. âShut up,â you said, âno, youâre not.â
âYouâre so heartless, mocking my plight. My grandfather was bald as a coot at four-and-ten, Iâll have you know.â
You snorted again, and he was laughing into his mead, and it was beautiful. As you laughed, you lay back on the riverbank, pushing your motherâs lute to one side for now and pillowing an arm under your head. The night sky was twinkling down on you, broken up only by the glowing light spilling out of the inn, and you sighed. âIâm guessing it has something to do with you being recognisable.â
He sighed and lay down next to you. âYes.â
Who is recognisable by their hair? You longed to ask, but you knew he would not answer. You rolled onto your side and used the hand not pillowed under your head to reach up and trace his cheek, under where his eyepatch sat. âAnd why do you never take this off? Even in the height of the day, when it chafes your skin.â
He watched you, either struggling to choose his words or struggling to find any words at all. âYou would not mind if I took it off?â
You shook your head. âIt causes you pain,â you said, âand I have seen⌠things.â You swallowed. âI have seen enough of war to know what is ugly in a person - cruelty, vengeance, rabid desire. No injury of the flesh could ever compare to that.â
âYou say that as though I have no injury of the soul to match my injury of the flesh,â he said, quiet, solemn.
âI have seen nothing of it!â You answered, sharper than you intended, but you were so sick of him painting himself in such dark colours when you had yet to see anything of the sort. âI see a man tired and worn down by a life that has not been good to him and dealing with that as best as he canâthe same as any of us. Only gods and kings are perfect; even then, itâs all just stories. You are doomed to fail if that is what you aspire to. Just⌠set your sights lower. If you make yourself feel good and you make others feel good⌠what else matters?â
He swallowed hard. âIâŚâ he stuttered, âI have never aspired to something so humble, yet so terrifying.â
You were cupping his cheek, and the glossy look in his eye was breaking your heart. âWhat do you want? Right now?â
Maybe the mead made you so bold, or perhaps it emboldened him to choke out an answer.
âYou.â
You pressed your lips to his cheek. âYou have me,â you murmured.
He reached up, slowly at first, then faster, and pulled you closer. âAm I not⌠taking advantage? Of your parentsâ hospitality?â
You smiled. He was sweet. âMy parents only wish to protect me from wandering hands I do not invite. I am not a blushing maiden whose virtue must be guarded by a shining knight. I am just a soul, and I wish to be cherished, like all souls.â
His kiss was as sweet as a sigh, like waking up warm and comfortable with the sun breaking through the window. You gasped into his mouth as he pulled you close, almost on top of him, arms twisting around you like he was afraid you might vanish if he did not hold on.
He was shivering under your lips and the tips of your fingers, and you wrapped yourself around him, chasing off the cold. He kissed like he was savouring something incredibleâslow and lazy, nearly forgetting to gasp for air. By the Seven, he was so severe, so earnest, he even kissed with seriousness and earnestness. Your breathing was haggard, and he broke the kiss at last, your lips shining and only an inch from his. He held your cheek, ran his thumb under your eye, and pressed a kiss to the bridge of your nose.
âGood?â You asked, your voice wavering and unsteady.
He smiled and kissed you again. âGlorious.â
a/n: experimenting with focusing on the writing more than the editing, so this might be pretty rough - let me know if you spot anything that needs fixed/improved!
taglist (dm/reply to be added): @dracaryxzs
#aemond targaryen x reader#aemond targaryen x you#aemond targaryen#hotd#aemond targaryen imagine#house of the dragon#ewan mitchell x reader
108 notes
¡
View notes
Text
ain't that the worst thing you ever heard? (part 2)
c/w: 22k wc, SUGGESTIVE, summer romance, strangers to fwb to lovers, eren can surf, this little story has kept me company for weeks now, it just kept stretching and stretching and demanding more so I tried to accomodate its needs. I hope you'll be able to perceive all the love & care I've put into it! thank you for having been part of this summer journey now I'll finally go lie down
PART 1
June melts away and July is as sweet as the ripe cherries that melt on your tongue.
Youâve always loved summer, both in the city and the countryside you grew up in. The summer season that belonged to your childhood came with watermelon slices consumed sitting on the engawa with your grandparents, a poor antidote against the oppressive humidity that glued hair and clothes to your skin. The only relief came from the small fan they kept on at all times, day and night, the low buzz a constant companion throughout the hours spent napping, going through your homework or demolishing the only thing your mother has ever been able to cook: teriyaki tofu.
You slept in the same room as your grandparents at night, two futons placed at careful distance to no avail as you couldnât sleep anyway between the noise coming from the fan, the chirping of the cicadas from outside and your grandpaâs snoring. Those were the nights youâd spend observing the ceiling, fantasizing about growing up and becoming an adult that worked as hard as your parents who woke up at the crack of dawn and came home several hours after you had finished eating dinner. Youâd daydream about the big cities they always told you about, Tokyo and Osaka and Yokohama and Nagoya, places where people didnât have to break their backs slaving away in rice fields every day.
Places where people wore nice shirts and ties and jackets and carried little leather briefcases and worked in clean offices and never had to scrape the mortifying dirt stuck underneath their nails.
Summer in the city came with apartments with little to no insulation, boxes as humid and hot as the outside, with no air moving around inside. Still, you bought a little pink fan when you couldnât afford an AC, made sure your fridge always had a consistent stock of watermelon and fruit popsicles. Youâd lie belly-down on the tatami floors when afternoons got too hot to move, and took the Yokosuka line from the central station along with some friends whenever you could gift yourself the luxury of spending a day at the beach.
It wasnât enjoyable. The drudgery that took to get there, sweat running down your back, crowded trains and a bus where you could barely breathe from how hot it was, sand crawling in between your belongings and sticking to your arms and legs. But the ocean? That was worth it. A body of water stretching as far as the eye could see, so boundless it felt like the city was miles and miles away, all your emotions magnified, salty breeze flooding your senses. You often wished to take your parents there, always daydreamed about how amazed your mother would feel and about your fatherâs calloused hands picking up a fishing rod instead of being busy ploughing, harrowing fields, harvesting grains.
You felt at ease in the water, gliding across it with bold strokes as your friends splashed around closer to the shore. You liked diving underneath the surface, eyes shut and ears filled with currents, waves and storms no one else could hear. A special sussurration made just for you, one you listened to until your lungs felt a moment away from exploding.
So far, summer on the island doesnât come close to anything youâve experienced before. Your vacation rental has an AC that you refuse to turn on and most nights on your first month there were so hot you could barely sleep. The sky is the kind of blue that is promising and has you excited for the day to unravel, clouds showing up and timidly crossing it fluffly and candid as snow. What was considered the glorious realm of the gods according to Mesopotamian mythology, the island holds as regular cedar forests, although so wonderful you can only guess it mustâve been blessed with a touch of divine nonetheless. You got to hike through more than one and paid homage to the ancient trees, some of Japanâs oldest living ones. Jean has been a sweet guide on your first time, carefully explaining to every member of the group he was leading both the history and ecology of the sights along the way.
Tropical storms are restless and unforgiving, you learn: wind shakes your windows, lighting tints rooms purple and the crack of thunder prompts the lighting up of your phone screen at any hour of the night, without exception.
Eren comes to know about your fear of thunderstorms on a late afternoon. He has taken the habit of showing up at your place with a little something for you from time to time: that day he had two plastic bags in his hands, a few groceries he had picked up on the way there âjust in case youâre out of somethingâ, kitchen counter slowly filling up with fresh milk, eggs, apricots, bread, one box of cereals, cheese and what were mostly his favorite snacks. And itâs never just an excuse to be there, he never expects you to reward him: Eren has his own way of putting away the groceries, his regular grumbling about how messy your cupboard is, an improved method of fixing the leaking of your sink and piling his book suggestions right next to your tv, so that you donât forget to check them out. More often than not theyâre not books he has read, just books he deems youâll find interesting.
That afternoon Eren wasnât there to sleep with you, he didnât have any particular motive for spending a few hours sprawled on your couch watching some dumb cooking show, except that he enjoyed it. He enjoyed how invested youâd get and the way youâd lightly pinch his thigh when youâd have it with his boyish, teasing comments. Sometimes youâd just slot your mouth to his to shut him up, a more than welcome distraction from pretentious chefs who presented dishes he never would have dreamed to replace Sashaâs wraps with. And while your kisses didnât always lead to anything (whatever it was that you had going on walking between blurred lines that comprised make out sessions, casual hang outs and Eren molding your body to accomodate his so perfectly you often found yourself questioning if you could ever even take anyone else and feel the same way), on that particular day you seemed more than willing to forget about the stupid cooking show. And then a loud crack his very much occupied mind could barely register, had you jolting away from him and covering your ears in a heated rush.
Eren makes sure to call or text you during storms but heâs way more subtle about it now than he was at the start. After your prideful âIâm fine, stop checking on me like Iâm some damn childâ, he developed a new, clever strategy to make sure youâre doing okay. Whether itâs by sending you a funny meme, the link to a tiktok video, some random update on Connieâs hectic dating life at 3 in the morning, he hopes the message gets across. And alhough most times you donât reply until several hours later, out of that same stubborn pride that makes him roll his eyes multiple times a day, you canât help but smile a little when the phone screen your eyes instinctively dart to at the beginning of every storm, lights up without fail.
Contrary to what you had anticipated, being friends with him is probably the easiest thing you've ever done. Eren gives a lot and takes very little, the only situations this selflessness doesnât really apply to include discarded clothes and skirts pooled around your hips when heâs too impatient and the steamed up windows of his truck blurry your vision and your mind as the pads of his fingers dig into the fat of your thighs. Those are the moments Eren takes everything from you. He claims each breathless gasp, the twitching of your legs, the way your pretty features freeze in silent pleasure and he gets to whisper reassuring praises against the corner of your mouth. Whether heâs aware or not about just how much he ruins you each time, is beyond your understanding.
Eren talks about you with his friends when youâre not there to hang out with them, which happens often anyway. Heâd casually mention something you did or said or once specified you enjoyed, an habit thatâs increasingly prompting knowing glances exchanged between Connie and Jean. Arminâs stare just turns a little worried, especially when Eren reprimands everyone and cares to remind them to be careful and not get attached because your presence is temporary.
Sasha feels as if, between one beer and the other, heâs the one heâs truly trying to convince. Itâs new Eren behavior, uncharted territory, and the odds of the whole thing ending in the shittiest way possible are incredibly high: which is why Armin decides to take it upon himself to test the waters and almost asks if you think itâs really best to keep going with the whole friends with benefits thing. He likes you and means well. Maybe itâd keep everyoneâs feelings safe if you and Eren discarded the benefits part and stayed as nothing more than regular friends?
But right as he was about to voice his question, you had stopped by a street fruit vendor and turned to look at him with sparkles in your eyes.
âWhat if we get some pineapples? I could try and make that ice cream Eren never shuts up aboutâ
Shit, he thought to himself. Maybe he had been way too optimistic.
Eren knows youâre not actually asleep. Not that heâs yet had the privilege of knowing what you look like when youâre sleeping: you never once stayed the night at his place, which was good enough of a reason never to spend the night at yours. Heâs never had the chance to lend you one of his shirts or ask if the coffee he buys now is better than the one you tasted so many mornings ago. Itâs not that heâs bothered by it, he just doesnât understand what sort of thoughts prompt you to immediately get out of his bed (or off of his couch, or out of his shower, or down from the kitchen counterâ), collect your clothes, flash him a smile and wave goodbye. He should be happy you do that, honestly. Itâs always saved both of you from experiencing any unnecessary awkwardness. Itâs convenient. Itâs practical. But still, it certainly wouldnât kill you to stay just once?
âStop thatâ your nose scrunches, the light touch of his fingers tickling you.
âBe an active part of the excursion, thenâ an airy chuckle leaves him as his fingertips skim the bridge of your nose again. You weakly swat his hand away.
âMâtiredâ you puff out your cheeks, eyes still shut. Eren rolls his eyes.
âIt was less than an hour long hikeâ
âYou own a trained body, I own an exhausted oneâ
âSo you donât want any snacks?â
Finally, you open one eye to peer at him, suspicious. Amused, Eren gently bounces his leg, the one your head is resting on.
âIt better be Sashaâs avocado hummusâ you grumble while making the process of sitting up dramatic enough for him snort.
âItâs something better: fresh fruitâ Eren meets your shocked expression with an innocent grin.
âYouâre a deceitful, unreliable little manâ you playfully narrow your gaze as he pulls out a plastic bag from his backpack. He huffs.
âStop complaining, these are from Kukikoâs gardenâ
âKukiko?â
âJeanâs grandma. She pretty much raised him and used to give us extra treats before we set off for schoolâ a small smile stretches his lips as he takes some peaches and a small knife from the bag.
âMy granny used to do the sameâ you smile too, the sweetness of the memories coming to mind causing a pleasant warmth to spread in your chest âsheâd pack my lunch and then several others for my friends, just in case their parents forgot. As if that couldâve been possibleâ
Eren looks up from the fruit heâs carefully peeling. Heâs doing it with such attentive care you canât help but wish, for a single, fleeting second, that heâd still be there to peel tangerines for you in the winter.
Thereâs fondness in his gaze, one you wish you didnât notice because it never fails to emerge whenever you share something personal, something belonging to a life he knows little to nothing about. He makes it painfully clear that heâd love for that door to be left half-opened for him.
âDâyou visit her from time to time? I assume she still lives in the countrysideâ
If the pang of sadness that clutches your throat and digs deep into your stomatch could have a physical representation, itâd probably be an icicle. Cold, harsh, unforgiving.
âIâm sorryâ Eren catches the change in your stare before you have the chance to say anything. With a small, bitter smile, you shrug.
âItâs okay. Itâs been years. Doesnât get any easier, thoughâ
Youâre sitting very close to each other, so he gently nudges your shoulder with his arm.
âYeah. Iâm sure she loved you a lot and that doesnât just go away, you knowâ
âJesusâ you chuckle and lean your forehead against his shoulder to hide the embarrassing tears stinging the corners of your eyes âyou just had to be good with words too, among everything elseâ
A silent laugh shakes him.
âWhat can I say, Iâm gifted like thatâ he hands you one slice of the peach heâs still holding and you accept it with a scoff. The fruit is mellow, flavorful and tangy as it melts in the back of your throat. It almost makes you want to cry again.
The observatory was his idea, one of the very few remaining places he didnât have the chance to take you to. Despite it having a large parking lot, restrooms and vending machines, itâs a sightseeing spot not many tourists come to know about, so itâs mostly empty. The view is stunning and, truth be told, you didnât mind the hike either: despite the inescapable sun shining high in the sky, not a single cloud in sight, you enjoyed climbing the path dotted with many tropical plants. Hibiscus, adan trees, cycads, Eren indicating and naming each one along the way.
From where youâre sitting, you can see the white lighthouse you had visited a few days prior, Erenâs friends having planned a picnic nearby that soon gave them the perfect excuse to take you all the way to the top of the abandoned tower. Connie smiled upon seeing your expression morph into pure wonder as soon as Sasha removed her hands from your eyes: you donât remember seeing an equally breathtaking view of the ocean sparkling beneath your feet, ever. If you squeeze your eyes really hard, you can almost discern the small bay you remember Armin helping you locate on the northernmost tip of the island.
Youâre not sure why Eren bothers hanging out with you when his days are less busy, why he doesnât mind spending his morning sharing fresh fruit underneath the July sun instead of being with his friends or riding a wave. Sure, you count as a watered-down version of a friend too at this point, and spending time with him feels so natural sometimes you wonder if you havenât actually known him for a longer time.
But it also feels intimate, oddly more than the moments when heâs pushing inside you. Itâs easier to kiss him than to hear him laugh at your jokes, especially when the sun hits the green of his eyes just right and you feel the sudden urge to tuck those stubborn strands behind his ears. Itâs easier to have his arms around you, lips tracing your collarbone, because that means he wonât be looking at you in that infuriating way of his, genuine interest floating in such intense irises whenever he asks a question in patient anticipation of another piece of yourself you may or may not decide to unravel for him.Â
Eren gently presses his thumb between your brows, to smooth out that little crease you get whenever you get lost in thoughts he isnât allowed to access. His hand is still wet and sticky from the peach youâve shared, so you pull back with a grimace and he laughs.
âSo pensive todayâ he brings that same thumb to his mouth to clean all the fruit remnants âdidnât even ask me if I really didnât bring anything else to eatâ
âDid you?â your brows shoot up in interest and he rolls his eyes, a ghost of a smile on his lips.
âI mean, youâre insufferable when youâre hungryâ
And just like that, he pulls out some neatly packaged banh mi sandwiches, the ones you remember casually mentioning liking to Sasha at the picnic by the lighthouse while he was busy discussing something else with Jean. As you stare at the herbs and mayo sticking to the clear cellophane, itâs hard to blink back the surprise. Or to swallow the lump in your throat.
Oh, no.
âErenâ you mutter his name carefully and he tilts his head with a responsive little hum âI kinda want to kiss you right nowâ
Another mirthful laugh echoes through the calm, fragrant air. Thank god he hasnât noticed the unusual hesitation laced into your tone because yes, this is a need, but also a test youâre not sure you want to know the output of.
He inches closer and gently tilts your head up with the softest grasp of your chin, lips pressing to yours in a chaste kiss that sends shock waves through your veins.
Oh, no.
Eren has to resort to quite the amount of self restraint not to chase your lips when you pull back, features impenetrable once again for god knows what thought now crossing your pretty little mind. He can feel his heart drumming in his ears, the scent of your hair and sunscreen mixing together well enough to almost, almost make him sigh. By now thereâs a giant, neon sign hanging over your head that reads proceed with caution, presence temporary. It blinks at him, flashing at regular intervals. He doesnât like it one bit.
âHow come youâre not in a relationship?â the questions rolls off his tongue before he has the chance to decide if itâs even appropriate to ask something like that so bluntly. Itâs clearly not, given how your lips purse. But even as he realizes your reaction indicates some discomfort, Eren doesnât apologize nor does he take the question back. He wants to know something new and while anything will do, this is a topic he holds a particular interest for.
âI was, we broke up a couple weeks before I booked this tripâ you clear your throat, attempting to come off as unbothered with a slight shrug of your shoulders.
âSo Iâm the tropical rebound?â heâs being playful but you catch the slight seriousness embedded in his words and shake your head.
âNo. Youâre nothing like himâ
âOuch?â
You huff, impatient.
âLast time I saw him, he was balls deep inside one of my friends. Youâre nothing like himâ
Eren pulls a face but thereâs relief expanding the lungs in his chest cavity.
Not so ouch-worthy, after all.
âWell, that sucksâ
âRight?â you smile âthis would be a good time to list all the wonderful qualities heâs going to be missing out onâ
The half-joking tone isnât enough to prevent him from taking your request seriously.
âI canât imagine scoring someone like you and then just fucking it up so royallyâ he scoffs âwhat an idiotâ
âOnce again, such a way with wordsâ you hope your teasing is enough to hide the heat crawling up from your chest to the very roots of your hair. Eren starts to unwrap your sandwich a little too harshly.
âI mean itâ and god help him, he really does âwhoâs gonna insult his coffee now, I wonder?â
Youâd playfully smack his arm and feign annoyance if it wasnât for the smile he gives you, the faint shadow of a dimple teasing his left cheek as his eyes crinkle at the corners.
âHow come youâre not in a relationship?â you fire the question back as you accept the sandwich he hands you, the first bite already having you swallowing back a moan. The cilantro leaves really do it for you.
âNo particular reasonâ he shrugs âwe broke up a few months agoâ
âAmicably?â
âYeah. We were together for a little over a year, it just gradually faded. I know it sounds sad as shit but really, we were friends before and we still are nowâ
âWhy is everyone in your life just so wonderful and mature?â your grumbling draws a chuckle. He appreciates that you refer to his friends as wonderful people.
âI mean, my previous girlfriend told me she fell out of love with me on my birthday and then I found out sheâd been dating her coworker for two weeksâ
âHmm. Yeah, you totally just evened that outâ
âI did my fair share of asshole moves over the years, itâs how life goes. But you grow and hope to become a better personâ he pauses ânot like your ex. Fuck that guyâ
He mirrors your airy laugh and you both finish your early lunch in comfortable silence, the ocean glistening underneath the same sun pleasantly heating up your cheeks.
Eren likes that youâd kiss him over something as trivial as a homemade sandwich, he likes that it doesnât feel weird either, given that you only really touch each other when his friends are not present. It would be strange to act any differently, it would feel odd and awkward and wrong. It would feel like a relationship.
When the breeze decreases in intensity and it gets too hot to stay at the observatory, he suggests taking off. However, before you hit the road once more, you draw out your phone and ask him if heâd take a picture of you. Itâs a funny reminder that youâre still a tourist, renewed amazement dancing in your features every time you turn to look at the scenery. Of course Eren agrees and carefully snaps a few pictures from different angles, so many your smile becomes a giggle and you actually attempt to snatch your phone out of his hand when he refuses to stop.
âTake one with meâ you propose unexpectedly âso I can look at it and miss summer once Iâm back in Tokyoâ and miss you, you mentally correct yourself.
Eren stares at you for a second, brows furrowed. Itâs the first time you openly mention your future departure, a detail heâs been familiar with ever since meeting you. Still, hearing it out loud brings the detail to a new level of concreteness. The sudden reality of it tastes bitter on his tongue as he bends down ever so slightly when you complain about feeling too short with his arm around your chest, safely tucking you against his. He keeps it friendly, basks in the warm sound of your giggle when you take the phone from his hand and he has to rest his chin on your head to be included in the picture. He keeps it friendly, even as he wonders if youâd look cute together, perhaps in a shot that captures that tender look in your eyes while his lips press to your temple.
Maybe itâs that specific thought that prompts him to blurt out the question.
âStop movingâ
âBut it tickles!â
âIf you make me screw this up Iâm gonna have to start from scratch!â
Sasha huffs and her breath is warm on your cheek as you inch closer, ring finger under her brow to lift her eye firmly. The gentle way youâre stretching her skin is enough to keep her eyelid smooth, which allows you to apply the eyeliner in short, light strokes from the inner corner to the outer corner of an eye sheâs having such a hard time keeping shut. Regardless, the wing looks sharp enough, although you decide to fix both her eyes with just a tiny amount of concealer.
When Sasha casually asked you do her makeup for the evening, you felt equal parts flattered and terrified of failure. You wanted her to feel pretty exactly the way she wanted to, which is why you both spent an embarrassing amount of time going through her belongings and planning the process each step of the way, refusing to accept her bubbly do as you please, I trust you!
She looks beautiful but thatâs not really something youâd count as your success. She always is.
âAre we done?â you can tell sheâs excited to peer at the final result, which makes you smile.
âAlmost. Just missing lipstickâ
You pick up the shade she decided on, a nice nude with a pink undertone that goes well with her fair skin.
As you attempt to gently sketch the lip liner around her lips, she giggles again, only keeping still after meeting your glare. Because youâve been warned that thereâd be food involved, you decide on further securing your work of art: after applying lipstick on top of lined and filled lips, you also apply some setting powder over it and then blot her lips with a tissue paper.
âNow youâre ready to win over that new coworker of yoursâ you grin as you hand her the small mirror she keeps on her desk.
Sashaâs eyes widen.
âI have no idea what youâre talking aboutâ
âSure you donât. Tall, blond, smile that could shake the earthâŚâ
âHey, I never said that!â
âSo you do have an idea after allâ you grin and promptly dodge the small, heart-shaped pillow she snatches from her bed to throw at you. She then focuses on her reflection for a few seconds, finger nervously twirling one of the loose strands escaping her low bun, eyes anxiously scanning her face from different angles.
âSash, you look gorgeousâ you gently take the mirror from her hands âhow about you go get dressed? Iâll clean up here and then we can head outâ
She sighs but gives you an appreciative, little smile in turn. Then, her brows knit.
âWait, what are you going to do with your hair? And what are you going to wear? I didnât see you bring anythingâ
âI mean, I already did my makeup. I wasnât planning on changing anything else, Iâm ready to goâ
âAre you shitting me?â
The horrified look on her face suggests that perhaps the casual floral dress you have on wouldnât be too appropriate for the star festival sheâs been gushing over for two weeks.
You awkwardly shift your weight from one foot to the other.
âI didnât really bring anything fancyâ youâre mortified. How could you not think of checking a store or two? This night is clearly a bigger deal that you had anticipated.
With a huff, Sasha gets up from her desk chair and starts a frantic search in the depths of her gigantic (and quite overflowing) closet. Dresses, tops and skirts are violently snatched from their hangers and drop to the floor in colorful puddles until she finally finds whatever it is sheâs looking for.
âSasha, I really canâtâ your lips are parted in surprise, mesmerized by the sheer beauty of the yukata sheâs holding.
âDonât be ridiculous, I wonât let you walk out in thatâ
âItâs too much, really, you should wear it!â
âI already have mine and itâs prettierâ her grin is void of any actual malice âcan I help you put it on?â
You swallow, so flattered that she trusts you enough to lend something so beautiful and certainly important to her. Thereâs a silly feeling squeezing your stomach and threatening to bring tears to your eyes, a gesture so simple that makes you feel not just welcome but accepted in a way that doesnât feel temporary anymore.
Sasha comes closer, whatever emotion has your mind feeling all over the place must be clearly noticeable from the outside because she puts a hand on your shoulder with the softest smile, squeezing gently. Â
âThis is not the time to get emotional, weâll get there but not tonight. Câmon, let meâ she holds the yukata up and wiggles her brows, succeeding in drawing a giggle.
âSorry. Yeah, okay, letâs do itâ
You get undressed and like the expert she clearly is, Sasha waits for you to slip your arms into the sleeves before adjusting the hemline to cover your ankles while aligning the center back seam with your backbone. She brings the right-side overlap to the hip bone on the other side, then layers the left-side one over the former. A waist cord is tied around you right above the waistline, from the front to the back, crossed and then brought back to the front to be secured. Sasha makes sure to tuck away the loose ends between the wrapped cord and places he extra-folded overlap over it.
She checks you all around and hums, satisfied. The obi is white, it matches the beautiful flowers, leaves and branches ramifying across the baby blue fabric of the traditional piece of clothing. Sasha wraps the obi around your waist from the back to the front, layers it neatly to ensure that it will not become loose. She then carefully straightens it and places its end on the back. After some holding, pinching, wrapping and tucking, you can feel what you have no doubt is a perfect bow pressing into your back.
âDone!â she doesnât give you the time to say a word, impatiently pushing you towards the full length mirror glued to one of her closer doors.
Itâs⌠well, something. You have never worn an actual, traditional yukata before, the ones you own are pretty cheap and the fabric is nowhere as high in quality as the one you can feel against your skin now. Soft, airy, comfortable, you canât help but smile and think it kinda suits you.
âI didnât think I could pull off something so gorgeousâ you check yourself from different angles, admiring the result of Sashaâs skilled ministrations. Her reflection smiles back at you.
âYouâre stunning. Eren is going to flip outâ
Your heart jumps in your throat at the mention of his name.
âHeâs notâ you chuckle nervously âheâs used to me by nowâ
Sasha giggles.
âPlease, you donât know how he gets with this stuff. He loves this festival more than any of us, seeing you dressed in traditional clothing, in his favorite color, will make him flip outâ
âIâm not wearing it because I want him to flip outâ you protest, sudden panic bubbling in your chest. His favorite color? Is that why sheâŚ?
âMy god, youâre weirdâ Sasha cocks her head, seeming genuinely confused âlet me fix your hair and then Iâll get dressed, weâre already lateâ
She couldâve told you so much more. That she finds it interesting and exhaustingly stubborn, that you wouldnât like the man youâre dating to be all over you. She knows dating is not exactly what you two have been doing but Sasha also knows her friend well enough to guess when heâs falling for someone and boy, has he fallen for you. She couldâve told you that heâs spent two weeks going over the fact that heâd invited you to the festival multiple times, wrecking his mind (and theirs) with a vortex of thoughts inevitably spiraling out of his usually solid control.
I donât know what came over me.
Sheâs gonna think itâs weird, isnât she?
What if she hates it?
And when Connie flicked his forehead, urged him to get a fucking grip and reminded him that friends can hang out and go to festivals and enjoy some time together even outside of the disgusting sex dungeon he insists on calling home, Eren sighed and deflated in his seat, something about his features being so heartbreakingly conflicted even Jean didnât feel like cracking any other jokes.
Sasha knows this night holds a special meaning to him, the festival heâs loved so dearly ever since he was a child, when he got to experience it hand in hand with his parents. The festival they always attended together, when their group was still far from falling apart and no one dreamed of leaving the island yet. The special occasion that rarely ever included girls or general outsiders, the one night he jealously kept to himself, his friends and his family.
Not all of them share his devotion for the star festival, Connie notoriously taking advantage of the sparkling setting to hit on every pretty girl within a 3-foot radius, but they understand it. The fact that he wants you there means more than what you can imagine and the whole thing would fill Sasha with joyful relief if it wasnât for the fact that you are going to leave in less than two months and she knows the ashes theyâre going to be left picking up are going to weigh heavy in their hands.
But sheâs not mad at you because how could she be when you make her friend happy and he clearly makes you happy too? Erenâs not the only one whoâs gonna get burned, the real tragedy is that youâre both still too blind to acknowledge it.
You head out shortly after, in the extra geta sandals Sasha has insisted on lending you. No one is there to pick you up but she lives fairly close to downtown, where youâll meet the rest of the group.
âTheyâre usually easy to find, probably going to be glued to a yakitori standâ sheâd said, making you smile. Sasha looks nothing less than dashing in her handmade crimson yukata and golden obi, you genuinely think that Niccolo guy would be an idiot not to shoot his shot the moment he sees her.
You come to learn that what youâre attending is the islandâs own version of the tanabata festival, the only night deities Orihime and Hikoboshi are allowed to meet despite the milky way separating them. Back in Tokyo you and your friends would write wishes on small pieces of paper and hang them on trees. However, tonight people will entrust theirs to floating paper ships released into the ocean.
The celebrations had started in the afternoon so you have missed the parade but youâre well in time to enjoy everything else: the streets you have come to know by now, are filled with a crowd you couldnât believe would fit in a space rendered narrower by dozens of colorful food stands and amusement booths. The air is fragrant, different smells mixing interestingly well together as vendors shout over each other to attract clients and tourists. Some of them wave back at Sasha and offer free samples for her to test out. You return their bows with a smile and then trot away with your friend to resist the temptation to pause at every single stand and get one of everything. At some point, she does stop to get a seafood okonomiyaki but youâre still trying to decide between a portion of takoyaki and some good olâ yakisoba when Sasha lets out a squeal and excitedly waves at someone standing a few booths away.
You turn around just as the guys approach her, all smiles and giddy greetings. They look better than expected in their yukatas, the most eclectic one being Connie who is sporting a pattern of turquoise waves on a white background and a headband decorated with the rising sun motif and the kanji for ânumber oneâ.
As you take a tentative step forward, Sasha moves sideways just enough for you to unexpectedly meet Erenâs gaze, which has been focused on you from the very first squeal his friend let out. And yet, he finds himself so pathetically unprepared for the sight, for how rapidly his heartbeat increases in pace. He doesnât even attempt to hide the wonder in his eyes as he smiles down at you and that unfiltered, pure astonishment in his gaze is more than enough for your pulse to spike. Youâve lost count of the oh nos at this point.
He opens his mouth to say something but Connieâs admired whistle comes faster.
âYo, you look hot as shit!â
The spell doesnât break even if you all melt in chuckles and you thank him with an exaggerated bow. Sasha clears her throat and takes him by the arm, Jeanâs friendly thumbs up and the flash of Arminâs sweet smile the last things you see before the group starts moving forward and towards another stand.
âWhat he saidâ Erenâs voice comes out different, thereâs no sign of his usual confidence and you can sense some weird nervousness laced into it. It makes you want to take his hand.
âYou look really good yourselfâ you say, although good is a heavily simplistic way to depict what youâre actually looking at. The indigo yukata compliments his tan skin and further enhances (something you could not deem possible) the color of his eyes. Itâs slightly open on the front, to reveal his smooth chest, and the hair heâs tied back leaves you no chance of escaping that intense stare of his. Heâs perfect.
As Eren motions to the rest of the group with a graceful gesture of his hand and you walk side by side, you think you hear him mutter something very similar to a ânot even closeâ under his breath.
âSoâ his eyes are back on you the second you speak âwhat should we eat?â
âAh, you have to try Ryoâs takoyaki, he has a special recipe for his mayoâ Eren smiles and, without a second thought, grabs your hand to drag you away from the stall where Jean and Armin are buying a grilled squid each.
âWait, theyâre stillââ
âTheyâll find usâ
And just like that, the warmth of his fingers and the broadness of his back are the only things you can focus on as he guides you through the bustling crowd.
He introduces you to yet another acquaintance of his, Ryo smiling fondly at him and insisting for five entire minutes on the takoyaki being on the house. Eren scoffs at your attempt at paying, genuinely offended, and after a heated argument Ryo eventually gives in and accepts his money. However, he winks at you as he hands you your portion.
âI added two extra ones, donât tell himâ he whispers and you share a chuckle.
Shortly after, Eren laughs at your wide eyed stare as soon as you swallow the first bite.
âWhat the hell is this?â you mutter, shocked âwhy is everything just so much better here?â
A softer smile lingers on his lips as he watches you gush over a food heâs eaten a thousand times, bite after bite an endless stream of exclamations voicing marvel he finds adorable. When Eren stops in his tracks and you turn around, confused, he almost takes your face in his hands and kisses you right then and there, for everyone to witness. Instead, he carefully swipes his thumb across your bottom lip as an excuse to collect some mayo from the corner of your mouth and then brings that same thumb to his mouth, successfully erasing any thought from your mind and melting every bone in your body.
âMaybe you should stay, thenâ
Heâs serious, so serious your breath hitches in your throat. Especially because your first instinct is to reply with a yeah, maybe I should you definitely canât afford to pronounce out loud.
He keeps you locked in place with a stare that leaves you no place to hide, the pads of your fingers tingling with need. You want to kiss him, you want to stay. He wants you to. Heâs waiting for you to say something.
Why?
Ask me to.
Tell me why.
Convince me.
I canât.
But do I want to?
âOr, I could take Ryo to Tokyo with meâ you swallow the ashes in your throat and attempt a smile. He purses his lips and it sucks that you can discern the disappointment flashing in his eyes. Just for a second, then itâs gone, pushed away, and Eren brings back his handsome smirk.
âIâm sure heâd love thatâ
He wasnât planning on half-asking you to stay, not right now, not like that. He didnât even realize heâs hoping for you to stay in the first place. What the hell, who does that? What is he doing, where are his friends?
You donât understand why, or perhaps you do and choose to ignore rational explanations for the time being, but you take a step forward and gently give in to the urge of taking his hand. Itâs big, rough but warm in yours.
âIs this weird?â the question is so soft he can barely hear it and yet his heart seems to miss a beat, perhaps even two.
âNoâ he carefully slides his fingers in between yours and takes a moment to get accustomed to the sensation only to discover that he doesnât need it âitâs not weirdâ
âGoodâ you smile âshow me around some more?â
Itâs unbelievable, the amount of people Eren knows and stops to say hello to along the way. Nearly every vendor, almost every booth, he makes sure to at least wave and if someone holds him a little longer, he squeezes your hand as he asks them about their families, sons, business. You recognize some of the tourists eager to have a word with him too, lots of them part of the groups he teaches to. Most of your mornings are not spent watching his lessons anymore: youâre too busy either putting into practice his teachings firsthand, or hanging out at the cafe with Sasha. If Armin and Jean show up too, you quite literally drag them into the water because youâre eager to showcase everything youâve learned so far. When heâs done, Eren always comes looking for you anyway.
Once heâs made sure youâve tasted a little bit of everything, your taste buds jazzed and your stomach a second away from exploding, you decide itâs time for dessert. Your treat.
âBut you donât know what Iâd like?â he teases, mischievous glint in his eyes.
You roll your eyes.
âIâm gonna take a guess. Wait here and donât peekâ
âYes, maâamâ he stands up straight and salutes like a soldier.
You wander away but not before sending him one last glance from over your shoulder. It makes you laugh that heâs still standing in the same way, silly, boyish grin mirroring yours.
Apples covered in sugar syrup are a no, way too sweet, and you skip the colorful clouds of the cotton candy booth for the same reason. You just know Connie is going to make an inappropriate joke if you get chocolate covered bananas on a stick so you opt for two portions of kakigori, shaved ice flavored with condensed milk and syrup. The consistency is smoother, fluffier in comparison to the ones youâve eaten in Tokyo throughout the years and endless other summer festivals, this one almost feels like fresh fallen snow. You pick strawberry as your flavor and pineapple as his, kindly asking the friendly woman working at the stall to reduce the amount of syrup of his cup.
You can feel the yukata sticking to your back as you swiftly return to where heâs waiting for you, the dessert you have picked the perfect weapon against the humid air of the evening.
âHeyâ you greet âsaw you standing here on your own and thought, wow, that guyâs cute. Maybe heâd give me a chance if I bribe him with foodâ as you hand him the colorful cup, your fingers graze his. Itâs disgusting that you think youâd like to bottle up that airy laugh and keep it close, listen to it whenever you feel lonely. Itâs probably one of the things youâre going to miss the most.
âGood strategy, Iâm soldâ even his fake wink is attractive âyou look like a tourist, howâs the vacation going?â he plays along with a silliness that makes you smile as you shrug.
âNot too bad, the locals are very friendlyâ
âAnd yet no oneâs had the heart to tell you that strawberry kakigori tastes like shitâ
You lightly stomp on his foot, brows furrowed in a frown he finds comical and way too realistic.
âJust changed my mind, I donât want that chanceâ
He displays a sorrowful grimace as he brings one hand to his chest, the fatal wound given by your sharp words almost making him curl in on himself.
âBut babyâ he coos, bringing that same hand to cradle your cheek, thumb delicately skimming over your cold lips âwho said I was going to give you one?â
Heâs already laughing when you swat his hand away, an asshole muttered under your breath even if you canât bite back your own smile, heart pounding with the same frenzy of a hummingbird. Erenâs only ever called you that while in compromising positions and the pet name never failed to prompt immediate reactions from your body but now heâs just kidding, in the middle of the street, among a hundred other humans passing by. He makes it sound every bit as devastatingly alluring as he always does, you suppose itâs a problem that youâd like to hear him call you that again right away.
âEren!â a voice you donât recognize snaps you back to reality and away from your embarrassing fantasies. Thereâs a pretty brunette next to him, hugging him actually, hands lingering on his chest even after she pulls back. He politely says hello, takes a step back but she follows the movement, with no intention of interrupting the skin to skin contact.
âWhere have you been? Iâve been looking for you all night, Sasha said youâd be aroundâ she has gorgeous gray eyes and the purple yukata looks amazing on her.
âYeah, mâjust taking a strollâ his eyes dart to you but it doesnât seem like he intends to introduce you at any point. You take a step back for good measure.
âWanna join us? Porcoâs here too!â
He smiles.
âReally? Iâll come say hi in a secondâ
She juts her bottom lip out.
âDonât be long. I thought youâd at least call me, especially after last night. You know I miss youâ
Perhaps he had a point when he said that strawberry kakigori tastes like shit because right not it feels like concrete in your mouth. You know you donât have any right to be upset, heâs not your boyfriend and by no means you expected your little arrangement to be exclusive. But even thatâs not enough of a reason to stay any longer and hear the continuation of a conversation youâre not meant to be a part of.
So you excuse yourself with a smile, her gray eyes acknowledging you for the first time and for no longer than a second, Erenâs hand almost snapping to grab your wrist to prevent you from leaving. But youâre quick and also stupid enough to give him a thumbs up from behind her back before swiftly turning around and letting go of the breath that had your lungs burning. Thank god you spot Sasha and everyone else not too far away, theyâre all positioned in a semicircle around Jean and Connie.
âIsnât this game supposed to be for kids?â you whisper to Sasha and she giggles.
âYes but they insist on trying every year. They never win anywayâ
The game consists in scooping goldfish with a small paper racket that torns almost right away when contacted with water.
âSon of aâŚâ Connie grunts when a child next to him succeeds in catching not one but two fishes among the applause of everyone gathered around the booth to watch. His mom glares at him and you chuckle.
âCan I try?â you chime in and Connie is happy to switch places, scowl so deep you can barely bite back a laugh.
âWe need a new strategyâ Jean whispers angrily.
âMaybe you shouldnât swirl the racket like thatâ you smile and accept the new one the booth owner lends you.
He huffs but stops his ministrations to focus on your movements, the fact that heâs damn near holding his breath is hilarious but you canât afford any distractions: thereâs a mission to accomplish.
It takes more than a few attempts and you can feel the warmth radiating from Connieâs chest practically pressed against your back in restless anticipation. When you catch one fish at last, thereâs another applause drowned in his howling: you barely have the time to let the fish slip into the plastic bag filled with water the booth owner is offering before Connieâs arms close around you in a hug that lifts you off the ground.
âBeginnerâs luckâ Jean is not as happy: itâs quite clear whoâs going to own the fish you captured.
You lift your cup with an apologetic smile.
âWant some?â thereâs another spoon planted in the soft ice, he may as well be the one to use it.
âStrawberry?â he asks with a grin, accepting your offer nonetheless âwe havenât taught you enoughâ
âSheâs going to tell all her friends weâre such snobsâ Armin sighs and you chuckle.
âOhmygod we should go try the target shooting booth! Like, right nowâ Sasha tugs at your sleeve and Jean catches your cup right as you lose your grip on it.
âWait a secondââ
âPlease, can we go?â
âI guess weâre going target shootingâ Armin concedes and Jean shrugs, now the happy owner of a dessert he didnât have to pay for as Connie gushes over his new pet.
âWhat should we call them?â he asks as your little group moves towards yet another crowded stall. You turn around, Sasha still quite literally dragging you.
âMmmh, what about Floater?â
âI think Miso would be cuteâ Armin chimes in but Connie snorts.
âI like Sea Beast. Yeah, thatâs the oneâ
You all erupt in laughter, Jean knowingly putting an arm around his shoulders.
âMan, I have a feeling youâre never gonna get laid againâ
âJokeâs on you, women are gonna find me adorable as shit. Right?â he raises his voice on the last word and both you and Sasha look at each other, amused.
âI guessâ she concedes.
âYeah, thatâs gonna be a killer icebreakerâ you agree.
Armin huffs.
âJust donât ask women if theyâd like to come over to meet your sea beastâ
Horrified, Connieâs mouth hangs open as he stares at his friend like heâs grown a second head while the rest of you just contain another fit of laughter, Jean almost choking on his kakigori.
As soon as you find a small opening to stand in line by the shateki stall, you understand why Sasha was so eager to try target shooting all of a sudden. Niccolo is there with his friends, waiting for his turn, and as soon as he spots her his eyes just light up. You gently untangle her fingers from your sleeve and give her a little push as encouragement.Â
âWhereâs Eren?â Armin stands in line next to you, Connie and Jean excitedly having a chat with other acquaintances of theirs just behind.
âHe met a friend, I wanted to leave them some spaceâ your tone is neutral but he furrows his brows.
âA friend? Who?â
âSome girlâ you casually take a look around but youâre still unable to discern the prizes lined up on the shelves. Someoneâs just lost if the disappointed groans coming from the front of the queue are an indicator.
âAhâ Armin clears his throat âwell, are you having fun?â
A grateful smile tugs at your lips, relief settling over you like a soft blanket. He is the most considerate person youâve ever met. How did this group of extraordinary people got lucky enough to find each other? You canât help but think itâs a little unfair. Itâs more than luck, maybe itâs destiny for them. Another pang of jealousy sticks in your stomach like an invisible needle.
âIâm never going to forget it. Not just this night, the wholeâŚâ you stop, because it feels so unfairly minimizing to address the whole thing as just a holiday.
âVacation?â heâs gentle with the word, makes it sound way less depressing than what you would have. You acknowledge his reply with a little nod.
âYou knowâŚâ he trails off âyou could stayâ
Just like that. You could stay. And it sounds so real, so doable, it breaks your heart.
âI really canâtâ you murmur, head hanging low to hide the embarrassing teary eyes. You hadnât anticipated to feel so at home among strangers who welcomed you in a heartbeat, kind and unpretentious and affectionate in a way youâve never experienced. Saying goodbye itâs probably going to be one of the hardest things youâll ever have to do.
âIâm sorry, I didnât mean to upset youâ Armin gently grazes your shoulder and you just have to smile. You trust him enough to know heâs not going to mock the wetness of your eyes.
âNo, donât apologize. I guess Iâm just going to miss you allâ
âWe really are the most unplanned part of the entire holiday, arenât we?â he smiles too.
âYeah, thank god you areâ
Armin melts in a sweet laugh but doesnât have the chance to say anything because suddenly, Connieâs arms are enveloping the both of you, squeezing so hard you let out a playful groan.
âWhyâs he the only one who gets to hear it? I wanna hear you say how devastated you are about leaving us, too!â
âConnie!â Armin attempts to turn around, probably to flick his forehead, but he only laughs harder and, despite yourself, you do too.
âIâm devastated and Iâll miss you a lot!â
He squeezes even harder, Armin cursing under his breath.
âWeâll miss you tooâ and yet, Connieâs voice is gentle to the ear, in sharp contrast with the suffocating embrace heâs holding you in. If you had any space to move around, youâd squeeze him too.
When you finally manage to get to the front of the line and itâs your turn to pick up the popgun, Sasha is still deep in conversation with Niccolo and you seem to be suddenly presented with a fun way to simmer some of the frustration still boiling in your core. Perfect.
Youâre quicker than Armin and casually snatch the little pot of cork from the man owning the stall. There isnât a specific prize youâre after, although the Squirtle plushie looks quite appealing.
You quickly learn that your aim sucks and Connieâs snickering from behind you at every missed shot is not helping. You appreciate Sasha interrupting her relentless flirting to cheer you on, though. That is until something warm and solid and oddly familiar presses against your back, bigger hands enveloping yours right after you push another cork into the barrel.
âYou have to get the barrel closer to the targetâ of course his breath is hot on your neck, cheek grazing the shell of your ear as he corrects the position of your arms.
You huff but maintain your composure.
âWhat are we aiming at?â he whispers and this time you know itâs deliberate, the way his lips brush against your skin. Heâs such aâŚ
âSquirtleâ you challenge and Eren hums, certainly not one to shy away from a challenge.
And sure enough, after knocking over a packet of chewing gum and a rubikâs cube, with a well placed shot you actually manage to bring down your target. Itâs infuriating.
He grins as he hands you your prize and you roll your eyes.
âPlease know I find it extremely annoying, how good you are at everythingâ
âYouâve never seen him play soccerâ Jeanâs grumbling is a welcome distraction from Erenâs eyes boring into yours but it doesnât last long enough, thanks to Armin who drags him away and towards another food booth. How they even have any space left for more food, is beyond your understanding.
âTook me some time to find you guys, it always gets more crowded ahead of the showâ Eren briefly glances at Sasha and flashes her a smile before redirecting his attention to you.
âI catched a goldfish for Connieâ you internally cringe at your pathetic attempt at changing the topic. But Eren smiles, genuinely incredulous.
âAre you kidding? He finally gets to have one?â
You shrug, mirroring his smile.
âFuck, canât believe I missed thatâ
âCanât believe you missed that either!â Sashaâs sour reproach chimes in even if sheâs standing a few steps back. You mentally thank her but Erenâs glare meets no further comments.
âHey, listenâŚâ he clears his throat but is soon interrupted. You turn around and then peer downward when you feel something, or someone, pulling at your yukata. A young boy holding what you can only guess is his momâs hand stares right back at you, expression as stoic as it can be.
âExcuse me, missâ you have to bite back a chuckle as he bows âthatâs my favorite pokemon, my brother tried to get it for me but couldnât. I was wondering, if itâs not your favorite, can I have it?â
Your eyes flicker to his mom, who seems a little uncomfortable and directs you an awkward smile.
âI told him he could ask but thereâs really no needâŚâ
âWhatâs your name?â, you return her smile but look down at his serious little face again.
âHiro, missâ
âOf course you can have him, Hiroâ you hand him the plushie and the biggest smile splits across his face as he holds it flush against his chest âmy favoriteâs Lapras. Water types are just the best, arenât they?â
âLapras is coolâ Hiro condescends âbut Squirtle is cooler!â
You all laugh, his mom erupting in several thanks and him turning around to wave at you before disappearing among the crowd. It makes you a little bitter not to have a little memento from such a special evening but it only lasts a second. Itâs nice to know that Squirtle is going to end up in a loving home.
âItâs almost time, we need to head to the beach!â Sashaâs excited chirp has you turning around once more, Erenâs warm smile stays in your peripheral vision as you meet her gaze.
âTime for what?â you ask, tilting your head to the side slightly.
âThe firework show!â Niccolo worms his way into the conversation and flashes you a thrilled grin.
âLetâs go!â Armin and Connie, standing a little farther, signal for your little group to hurry.
âIâll catch upâ you feel Erenâs warm hand press onto your back, giving you a gentle push. You deem unnecessary to investigate further, maybe he wants to go look for the girl he couldnât dedicate the necessary attention to and invite her to watch the show with him. Who are you to intrude, or worse, wonder? You give him a quick nod and catch up with Armin and Connie, Sasha and her new companion right behind as you all head to the beach. You think itâs sweet that Niccolo has decided to ditch his group to tag along with her and you genuinely hope that whatever may be blossoming between the two, ends up working out. She deserves it.
As expected, the beach is packed with people sitting on colorful towels or standing, some bent over little wooden tables or balancing small pieces of paper against their friendsâ backs to write down wishes that will soon be entrusted to the sea. You all take turns to write yours and when Jean hands you the thin piece of paper, it takes a few seconds to wrap your mind around what you feel like asking for.
A path, maybe. Something to follow to get wherever it is youâre supposed to be going. Or maybe the strength to leave, not to close yourself off to the world again. Happiness for your new found friends, because they deserve every ounce of the genuine affection they so naturally spread around. Health for your parents. Thereâs a new found feeling pounding alongside your heart, you want to visit them soon and let them know that you miss them and that youâre so sorry for not having been able to see them more. You want to share that youâre going to look for a new job and that hopefully youâll be okay soon. Hell, you even want to tell them about this entire holiday. Sit on the familiar, faded tatami floor, share a cup of caramelized almonds and just let it all out. Would they even believe you can more or less surf now? Ah, you wish they couldâve met everyone. You wish they couldâve met Eren.
He comes shortly after youâre all settled on the towels people are dispensing on the beach, youâre left pretty much alone as everyone else is sitting next to whoever theyâre busy talking to. Armin has run into a pretty blonde girl on the way to the beach, they seemed to know each other so for the second time in one evening you took a few steps back and gave them some space, made sure they could sit next to each other. Sasha and Niccolo are sandwiched together between Jean and Connie, the former is speaking on the phone with his lips curled into the biggest smile while his friend is seemingly socializing with a girl you donât know, part of a bigger group that also seems keen to have a chat with a few strangers. The general atmosphere is so warm and, all things considered, the night has been so enjoyable, you donât find it in yourself to be frustrated or disappointed anymore.
Eren doesnât have anyone with him as he plops down next to you with a telltale grin.
âWhat?â you ask, tossing him a smile back.
âNothing. Just lookinâ at youâ he shrugs and you donât buy it for one second but play along, gently nudging his shoulder with yours.
âYeah, that happens a lotâ for a second you donât believe heâs going to remember the silly exchange that took place on the late afternoon of your first surfing lesson, so many days ago. The way his smile grows, tells you otherwise.
âPeople lookinâ at you?â
âYou looking at meâ
âAhâ lips pursed, he nods as if to indicate an obvious, given fact âmight be because youâre beautifulâ
âAhhâŚâ you mock, a weak attempt at dissimulating your self-consciousness âyou fell prey of the charming tourist!â
He nudges your shoulder with his this time, tongue in cheek.
âGuess I really didâ
Your chuckles melt into one another and you realize itâs probably never going to be possible to associate the rolling of waves and the salt in the breeze that soothes your feverish skin to anything else but him.
Thereâs a bunch of people by the shore, bent down to fill shells with small pellets while the latecomers frantically attempt to scribble down their wishes to send off the last remaining paper ships.
âNothing happened with herâ Eren stares at his friends as he speaks, quieter and attentive with his choice of words âwe ran into each other and shared a beer, thatâs allâ
A beat passes, one where itâs hard not to acknowledge the absurd, unjustified relief washing over you.
âItâs none of my businessâ youâre not looking at him either, in fact your head is turned the opposite way, eyes focused on the little paper ships being slowly released into the dark ocean waters.
âItâs notâ he affirms âbut I wanted you to knowâ
So considerate and way too respectful of a person thatâs supposed to be nothing more than an easily accessible reliever. It does something funny to your stomach.
âI think she likes youâ why are you insisting? You shouldnât care at all, itâs not your life and itâs not your place. Youâre just a comma in the story.
âToo badâ Eren clicks his tongue and wishes you wouldnât be avoiding his gaze, maybe then youâd recognize something within it without him needing to say the word.
As the paper ships continue to sail, a pin-drop feeling of despair suddenly washes over him at the thought of the material easily dissolving into the water, hundreds of wishes being swallowed and erased so easily. And still, in some distorted way, theyâll keep existing. Is that what heâs going to become for you, is that what he is? Just some paper figure that will lose consistency as soon as you step on that plane? Yeah, itâs exactly what he is and he was fine with it. Until each day spent with you has given him the feeling of wanting to be more than a fleeting detail in your summer, more than a cute story youâre gonna recall with friends and lovers once youâre back to a life he doesnât belong to.
Will they recognize the crease you get between your eyebrows whenever you frown, deep in thoughts you never share? Do they know how you like your coffee, have they ever witnessed the charming inclination of your flirting? Are they already familiar with your witty comebacks and the way you laugh at jokes you donât find funny just so that the other person doesnât feel bad?
Did they ever have to bite back amused grins each time you tried to contain and swallow your annoyance only to fail miserably and explode in the face of clients who were being rude to Sasha? It was only a matter of time before you decided to help her on the mornings she was short on staff, until Niccolo showed up and made it easier. And yet you still feel the same responsibility to look after her, the same way you do for everyone else.
When Jean mentioned having forgotten to get a refill of surfboard wax, you casually made a stop to the store on your way to the beach and threw the small box at him. If Connie laments the lack of inspiration for his sketches, certain he wonât be able to get the job done before the deadline the publishing house has given him, you have entire sessions in which you both sit down and exchange ideas for charactes and stories and concepts for plots inspired by your beloved books. When him and Armin are done with surfing lessons or tired enough to simply catch a break from riding waves, most times youâll materialize by the shore with two glasses of frozen lemonade and a knowing grin.
Why shouldnât he get to keep you? Why donât you want to keep him, your affection apparently solid enough to take his hand but not to stay? Is his fate really to melt away and be shoved in a far corner of your mind as nothing more than a fun summer fling?
âI couldnât find another plushieâ he clears his throat a little and when you finally look at him again, suddenly everything feels right âbut you probably wanted something to remember this night by, soâ the small keychain dangles from his pointer finger, even in the dark youâre able to discern the small silhouette. Itâs Lapras.
Your lips part in surprise as you carefully hook one finger in the metal ring to slide the keychain out of his grasp.
âI know itâs flat and everything but I couldnât find anything better. If only someone didnât feel like giving up the plushie I worked so hard to knock downâŚâ the teasing is good-natured and it draws an incredulous smile as your fist closes around the silly gift.
The firework show starts right as you meet his playful gaze, dozens of shells launched simultaneously in a cascade of shimmering yellows, greens and reds all reflecting in starry eyes that get to be so bright despite the darkness. The hand thatâs not squeezing the keychain hard enough for the metal to painfully dig into your palm fists the towel youâre sitting on, itâs too close to the edge and you can feel little grains of sand making their way underneath your nails. Eren inches closer the same as you do, any other noise fades in the background when all you can hear is the loud thumping of your heart in your chest and all you can feel is the warmth of his breath on your lips as your noses are close enough to touch. Even when out of focus, heâs beautiful enough to take your breath away.
Thereâs hesitation, a thick tension coating the bubble enveloping the two of you and the small space left between whatâs been and whatâs about to change everything. He swallows, barely forcing himself to wait, to let you have control for once. But right as an invisible wire snaps and he gives in to gravity, closing whatever is left of the ridiculous distance between your bodies, someone plops down heavily next to you and you jump, lips grazing his chin as you turn with wide eyes. Eren exhales deeply, shutting his for a second.
âCanât enjoy shit with Connieâs loud babblingâ Jean pauses for a second, examining both your faces âdid I interrupt something?â cautiously, his eyes dart from the shy look on your face to the way his friendâs glaring daggers at him.
âNoâ youâre quick to say âalso, let him have his moment. Youâve been blushing on the phone for half an hourâ
He opens his mouth in an outraged frown but is cut off by Erenâs chuckle.
âHowâs Mikasa?â his arm reaches from around your shoulders to poke at his cheek with a harsh finger. Jean swats his hand away, cheeks dusted in pink.
âShut upâ he grumbles and makes a show of turning his attention back to the fireworks once more. With a giggle, you brush your hands off of the sand sticking to your sweaty palms, keychain secured in your lap. Eren doesnât remove his arm from your shoulders, the weight of it equal parts foreign and comforting. You could easily get used to it, thatâs what you think as you lean into him and let your head rest on his shoulder.
When you stumble back into his house late that night, sandals clumsily kicked off at the door, you collapse onto his couch right away. Your legs ache and your limbs feel heavy but the giddiness still hasnât worn off and happiness is still stubbornly vibrating in your chest as you free your hair from the tight bun Sasha has forced it into. Eren sits next to you with a light groan, his feet hurt and heâs tired but itâs certainly not enough of a reason to refrain from pulling your legs up to rest on his lap, the gesture met with your weary giggle.
âDid you have a good time?â he asks, head tilted back and half-lidded eyes focused on your smile.
âThe best timeâ you think of the little keychain resting in the front pocket of your bag and smile a little more.
Eren hums, fingers lazily massaging your ankles as his gaze flickers to the ceiling. He wasnât planning on asking you to come over, his kitchenâs a mess and bedroomâs even worse. But right as you were parting ways and hugging his friendsânow your friends tooâgoodbye, he just found himself blurting the question out. And although youâll most probably find it hard to believe, itâs not even the sex heâs after. He just wanted the time spent together to stretch a little longer, whenâs he ever going to have the chance to look at you dressed like that again after all?
âMâgonna fall asleep here if you donât stop thatâ with an airy giggle, you faintly kick one of his hands away from your ankle. Eyes back on you, his lips curl into a tentative smile.
âWhat if you actually do?â
You tilt your head against the couch pillows.
âPass out on your couch?â
Eren huffs, lightly pinching your ankle.
âSleep hereâ
âHow do you still have enough energy left?â you mutter to yourself and carefully remove your legs from his lap, escaping his warm touch. With a yawn barely hidden behind your palm, you tiredly motion towards his bedroom âfine, but I hope you know youâre gonna have to do all the workâ
He snorts out a light laugh.
âI meant sleep, sleepâ
You stay still for a second, then furrow your brows.
âSo you donât⌠desire me?â
Erenâs face changes instantly, dropping in quiet shock.
âWhat? No, I mean yes, I didnât meanâŚâ you cut him off with a hearty laugh, thoroughly enjoying the tender blush that blossoms across his cheeks. Itâs his turn to frown and you can barely catch the small pillow he throws at you, a worn out idiot muttered angrily that only has you laughing harder.
âFineâ itâs surprising how natural it feels to accept and trespass a limit youâve always been so careful to set for your own sake âbut all my clothes are at Sashaâsâ
âJust wear one of my shirtsâ he grumbles as he gets up from the couch and you follow suit, giggling when he shoots you another glare. Even if still feigning annoyance, he grumpily apologizes for the mess as he digs into his closet and picks up a clean shirt for you. You recognize it as he hands it, itâs one of the ones he throws on at the beach, usually when taking breaks at the cafe in between lessons.
âIâll leave you to itâ he clears his throat but then suddenly stops, one foot outisde the room and hand resting on the door knob âwould you want me to sleep on the couch?â
Confused, you return a perplexed look.
âWhy would I want that?â
Eren lightly scratches the back of his neck, not really sure how to word something you probably wouldnât even guess heâs been paying attention to. Youâve never stayed, you have never spent an entire night in his bed. He never got to wake up next to you and has no idea if youâre a kicker or a bed hogger but that isnât to say he hasnât been dying to find out.
He doesnât know how to properly say it so he simply resorts to the first true thing that comes to mind.
âI donât want you to feel uncomfortableâ
âYou never make me uncomfortableâ
The reply catches him by surprise, not because he finds it hard to believe but because youâre rarely ever this direct, gaze not faltering for a second while locked to his. With a small, almost shy nod, he shuts the door behind him to give you some privacy while you get changed.
He plans on keeping himself busy by tidying up the kitchen, frowning at his morning self who thought itâd be a good idea to leave a plate of unfinished eggs by the sink, leftovers of his breakfast now encrusted to the surface. But before he has the chance to at least attempt to scrape the remnants of what was once a decent portion of sunny side-up eggs, you peek through the door and call for him with a voice so thin Eren barely hears you.
âWhatâs wrong?â he asks, taking notice of your embarrassment.
âI donât know how to take it offâ you murmur and it takes everything in him not to chuckle. But it appears that you have memorized the meaning of each twitch of his lips, must be why you snort.
âIâve never worn a traditional one! And I donât want to ruin it, sânot mineâ you grumble, not even giving him the time to acknowledge your fair reasons before disappearing behind the door once again. Eren clears his throat to disguise the little laugh that slips past his lips and prays you havenât heard it as he makes his way to his bedroom.
Youâre sitting on the bed, look at him with those big eyes of yours when he enters the room and for a fleeting moment he selfishly thinks he doesnât want you to take the yukata off at all. Perhaps part of the night is still clinging to it, maybe taking it off means discarding each new, little moment tying you to him and starting from square one. Because he didnât make up all those fragments still frozen in time and his memory, did he? His fingers in between yours in public for the first time, that look in your eyes when you took the keychain in your hand, the way he almost, almost got toâŚ
âHello? Do I have to call Sasha?â youâre standing now, waving a hand in front of his face. Eren blinks, snapping back to reality.
âTurn aroundâ he demands, voice hoarse. You comply, mentally kicking yourself because of how the mere pitch is enough to send a shudder down your spine. Itâs all you can think of as his fingers work their way through Sashaâs intricate ribbon, a few curses being muttered for good measure as he fumbles with the fabric, tugging and tugging in hopes of loosening it enough to take the obi off. Your back is pressed to his chest with each pull and it takes a deep exhale to keep yourself from leaning into him the way youâve been dying to do for the entire night.
He pulls the bow one last time, not without a grunt, and the knot can finally be easily untied. You catch the obi before it falls to the floor and carefully fold it to then place it on Erenâs desk. Itâs fine, heâs done, you can take it from here. So why does he keep you in place, hands on your hips a gentle warning to keep still as his arms wrap around you and his chest is finally flush against your back?
His fingers find the tight knot of the cord resting above your waistline and take their sweet time untying it, your heart stuttering erratically against your rib cage. Eren wonders if you can feel his heart on your back, itâs throbbing almost painfully and he swears whatever is left of his chest fucking flutters when you release the tension in your shoulders and melt in the embrace the cord was nothing but a pathetic excuse to initiate.
Yeah, heâs invited you to stay over with no malicious intent but what the hell? The damn thing is coming off, whatâs going to be left of the night if he doesnât seal it on you somehow?
He doesnât let the yukata slip off your body, instead he accompanies it. Eren takes a second to appreciate the fabric gliding easily from his fingers, so cool, smooth and slick it reminds him of water. You do too. Just like water, a stubborn river or an unstoppable downpour with its persistent dripping, you have drilled yourself into his very being and patiently shaped every corner to make sure it could accomodate you and no one else.
Of course you donât see the point in staying still: patience wears thin whenever heâs there for you to have. You barely ever allow him to take his time, always so eager to get what you want and him yielding without fail against his better judgement. Look at what youâve become, just because heâs never been determined enough to teach you any better.
As you spin in his embrace, Eren lets you have it your way for a moment. He lets you take his face in your hands and dips his head to meet you halfway, a whimper already easing from your throat as you command his lips to part with the tip of your tongue. Again, he indulges you, lets you lick into his mouth and clumsily untie his yukata, allows it to unceremoniously pool at your feet. But you attempting to drag him toward the bed with you is where Eren draws the line.
His hands are not smoothing over your hips anymore, they feel everything else as they rise to cup your face. He only allows himself one harmless nip to your bottom lip, nothing but a gentle warning as his hold grows firmer to keep you in place while he finally kisses you the way heâs been dying to for so long. Itâs unrushed and deep and he hopes to god the slow swipes of his tongue over yours are sweet because heâs certain he doesnât want to taste anything else now that heâs tasted you like this.
âErenâŚâ itâs the only thing you have enough air in your lungs to rasp when he shows enough leniency to let you breathe, pulling back only to nudge the tip of his nose against yours.
âIâm hereâ he whispers back, head dipping lower to lightly nip at the spot where your pulse taps against your skin so fast itâs almost flattering. The way he lightly sucks at the skin of your neck draws another whine.
The change of pace, those butterfly kisses he slowly drags across your jaw are a novelty so unexpected you have to tighten the grip on his arms, sharp nails digging into the skin of his biceps as you urge him closer and attempt to steady yourself at the same time because you hardly trust your legs at the moment. When you breathe out his name again, mind short-circuiting as your head falls back to grant him more access, he hums comfortingly.
âWhat is it?â itâs exhilarating how youâre melting like soft butter under his touch and yet heâs the one feeling delirious over a hunger with smoother edges that now accomodates something bigger, something as tender as the sound you let out with a shuddering breath when he gently scoops you up and kisses you again while attentively settling you on his bed. You keep him close, arms around his neck not loosening for a single moment.
âWhat is it?â Eren asks again in a murmur, big hands resting on each side of your thighs to make sure they remain locked around his waist, abdomen tense to keep his balance on his knees and avoid crushing you. Â Â Â
Youâve never seen a gaze so intense, you never took it slow enough to count his heavy breaths and notice the painful thumping of your heart nor the unfamiliar wooshing in your ears. Holding eye contact is overwhelming and your stomach clenches at the coldness of one of your legs when one of his hands abandons it, knuckles leaving a scorching trail of pure fire behind them as they gently graze the right side of your face.
He lowers his head but doesnât kiss you, nose pressed to your cheek in a way that makes it hard for the both of you to breathe, in a way that feels raw and desperate.
âTell meâ heâs so close it feels like heâs whispering the words into your very bones, for a moment you think you can swallow them. The hand he gracefully sneaks between your bodies draws a breathless gasp.
I love you.
Time stops. The thought rings so sharply in your head, youâre convinced youâve voiced it out loud.
You love him, of course you love him. How could you not?
Itâs such a stupid revelation and thereâs really no excuse, no plausible reason to justify the tears that sting the corners of your eyes.
I love you.
Eren pulls back to breathe, or perhaps just to look at you. Even if you remain out of focus from such close distance, even in the dim light that bleeds through the door into his dark bedroom, he sees enough. The tip of your nose, your furrowed brows, lips parted and swollen. Heâs too busy thinking he wants you exactly like this, all the time, to notice the slight trembling of your body underneath him.
Heâs certainly made his point about not being in any rush tonight but still he is waiting for something, itâs evident in those devastating irises piercing yours. You tighten the hold of your arms around his neck, a bitter taste on your tongue as you pull him closer to whisper the wrong thing against his lips.
âI need youâ
Against all odds, he deems it enough. He can read all thereâs to read in your gaze alone, he feels it in the familiarity of your fingers through his hair and is determined to hear it in all the ways he wants you to chant his name over and over again, in every possible pitch and inflection. He wants it to be a prayer and a revelation.
You already have him, all of him, and you donât even know. So itâs only fair he makes sure you finally do.
You stir awake and the first things you register are the arm draped over your waist and the soft breath tickling your shoulder. Your body stills, frozen, equal parts terrified of waking him and absolutely scrambled by the rapid succession of resurfacing memories bound to the previous night.
The cautious, minimal turn of your head against the soft pillow results in a hitched breath. Heâs so close already and only seems intent on scooting closer, unintelligible humming somehow louder than the thumping of your heart as his hold grows tighter and he nuzzles further into you, nose effectively buried in the crook of your neck, lips pressed to your skin.
You feel dizzy. Mindâs all over the place, unable to pull itself together and make sense of the events that hold the power to potentially disrupt you life, change everything you have so carefully tried to keep together.
Not a single time Eren has been bad at sex, heâs never taken your pleasure for granted nor has he ever chased his without first making sure you were either getting your fair share or felt the determination to focus on him and only him. It just took a couple of encounters to memorize your body, the angles and rhythms and grips and praises and sometimes the harsher words that render you either boneless or a mess whose loudness he never even attempts to swallow.
Eren can be attentive, rougher and impatient on certain days, slower and languid on rainy afternoons, when he gets you ready for him with such care pleasure melts into pure anguish. Itâs never enough, you always need more of him and are not even shy enough to hide it anymore, shamelessly asking with an all-consuming force gradually blurring into straight up demanding. Thatâs when his low chuckle echoes like a melody. He enjoys every second of the reactions that showcase the effect he has on you.
But everything about last night felt different, from the way he kept looking at you to the newfound feeling of his fingers intertwining with yours over your head while the most tender whispers guided you through your high.
Heâs done nothing short of worshipping you, featerlight kisses trailing from your ankles to your inner thighs, the slightest touch more than enough for your back to arch, every inch of your body and nerves catching fire as he kept stroking your hair and pressing his lips to your eyelids, all while reassuring you of you good you were being for him, how beautiful you looked, how perfect you felt. Itâs a miracle you didnât end up melting into a puddle underneath him, because thatâs where he kept you the entire time, never once allowing your hands to grant him relief or your mouth to do anything else but welcome his. It was just you, nothing else seemed to matter in his entire universe and Eren didnât so much as catch his breath until you were reduced to a babbling, limp mess that couldnât even think about how to spell his name correctly.
And then heâs kept you close, pulled you into his chest as if scared you were going to slip away like the sand you probably brought inside the house with those sandals anyway. Heâs kissed your forehead, the apples of your cheeks, all while the pads of his fingers were busy drawing lazy, airy figures along the curve of your spine, the very last sensation you remember before falling asleep in an embrace so warm and protective.
Heâs made love to you. Whatâs more, heâs made love to you like nobody else ever has and now thereâs no further ignoring it. God knows if youâll have the strength to walk away from it at all.
âHiâ you wince when his sleepy drawl vibrates against your skin, lips sealing the simple greeting right below your ear. Itâs the first time you wake up next to him, the thought is enough to have the rate of your heartbeat spike.
âHiâ you whisper back. His hand traces a smooth pattern along your side, up and down, then it settles right where your ribs reside, thumb grazing the skin gently and feeling the little valleys in between the cartilage.
âHow are you feelinâ?â heâs still not raising his head, position either too comfortable or simply ideal to give you some extra time to adjust to⌠everything.
âGoodâ you murmur but Eren senses your discomfort and can feel the stiffness of your body. So he withdraws his arm and scoots away, retreating to his side and placing his head back on his pillow instead of using you as one. But now you can meet his half-lidded gaze and lazy smile, as charming in the early morning as it is in the middle of the night.
âHow are you feeling?â you canât help but ask in turn, which is weird and formal and draws a low chuckle.
âNever betterâ although he feels more than better, he feels the luckiest heâs ever been. He feels disgusting and psyched. He feels so in love.
âGreatâ you clear your throat as you pull the thin sheet further up. Eren keeps looking at you like heâs foolishly trying to map out your features. As if he needs to do that, as if theyâre not already burned into his memory.
âHeyâ he warns, fingers delicately flicking your forehead âno freaking out before breakfastâ
You peer up at him from long lashes.
âIâm not freaking outâ of course you are and of course he knows but that wonât stop you from frowning in protest, mockingly distorting his words.
âSure you arenâtâ he smiles to himself and rolls onto his back to rub his eyes with a loud yawn that has you giggling.
âWhat are you, a blue whale?â
He clicks his tongue, feigning annoyance as he stretches and intentionally avoids your gaze.
âThatâs no way to talk to the man whoâs about to put together the best breakfast youâve ever hadâ
Although Eren doesnât want to get up at all. He doesnât need food nor water as long as he gets to have you right there in his bed, as long as he gets to hold on to the hope of having you like this again and again.
âWhatever weâre going to do about this presumption of yoursâ you hide your smile in his pillow but he simply shrugs, not sparing you a glance as he gets up with a groan and collects some clean underwear from one of his drawers.
He only leaves the room after heâs playfully thrown his shirt at you, softness settling in the corners of his lips as he suggests you take a shower while he carries out his breakfast duty. Your heart swells at the attentiveness of it all, at the space heâs trying so hard to give you in hopes that you feel comfortable enough to catch your breath. Not to run away.
With a long, drawn out sigh, you comply.
The shower feels nice and his shampoo smells so good you donât mind the absence of your coconut scented one. Of course he also has conditioner, there really is no other explanation for that hair.
As you tiptoe back into his bedroom wrapped in nothing but a skimpy towel, you catch the glorious sound of something sizzling in a pan and itâs enough to bring a smile to your face while you shut the door and rest your back against it for a moment. Your eyes land on Sashaâs yukata, staring back at you from the ground in all its glory. You rush to pick it up and carefully fold it, embarrassment burning your cheeks at how little youâve cared about not ruining it. Along with the cord and the obi, you let it slip into an empty paper bag big enough to contain it because thereâs no way in hell youâre walking home in that.
The shirt Eren has given you is long enough to cover your ass but certainly not enough to step outside without drawing scandalized looks along the way, so you dig into his closet some more and pick a pair of bermuda shorts that will certainly look ridiculous on you but remain the best option currently on hand.
After patting your hair dry with the towel to the best of your abilities, you grab the bag, your phone from his nightstand, and pray to be ready for whatever is coming. The flutter in your chest is not entirely unpleasant, right? There must be a way to make this work. Whatever it is.
Itâs love, you goddamn idiot, a voice whispers from inside your dizzy mind. You pay it no mind.
âThat was fastâ Eren looks at you for just a second before returning his attention to whatever heâs cooking. You catch the smile anyway.
âSmells too goodâ you leave the bag to rest against the table leg and plop down on a chair. It feels like your seat already, given that heâs placed the mug you usually use right there, filled with coffee to the very brim. When he spins to serve the breakfast heâs prepared, Eren rolls his eyes upon meeting your already skeptical gaze.
âJust try itâ he mumbles âI got a different oneâ
For you.
As you take a tentative sip, you notice everything heâs filled the table with. Heâs pushing a portion of french toast in your plate right from the pan and taking a smaller one for himself, but thereâs also a separate plate available for all the other options: fried eggs, herb cream cheese, strawberry jam, some honey, toasted bread.
He sits down next to you and meets your amazed gaze only to crack a boyish grin.
âI didnât know what you likedâ
âIâm impressedâ you swallow the lump of whatever feeling got caught in your throat along with the coffee and raise the cup to indicate the object of your praise. As if he hasnât already called all your bluffs.
âI get that a lotâ he sticks his tongue out and itâs your turn to fondly roll your eyes.
Itâs the first time you taste something heâs cooked and itâs so very painful to find out heâs good at yet another thing.
The intimacy of sharing a quiet, sunny morning at his kitchen table is not as overwhelming as you thought itâd be: he holds the power of making it easy and special just like everything else. You feel eerily at home, suddenly filled with giddy excitement at the prospect of experiencing more of these mornings. At the idea of him welcoming you into his everyday life with such ease, willing to buy expensive coffee if it means you accepting to stay long enough to drink it.
It almost makes you want to say it. As you laugh at the funny story involving one of the students heâs going to teach to in an hour, with your mouth stuffed with french toast and the urge to collect the cream cheese remnants from the corner of his lips with yours, you almost blurt it out.
I love you.
I love your smile and your kindness and how you stay awake for me if the wind blows too hard and I know you wonder if my roof creaks just like yours does. I love your life and your friends and how thereâs so much space for everyone in a heart that may as well be as big as your beloved island. I love the touch of your hands and how you kiss me on the way home if no one elseâs around and now I wish you could kiss me awake each morning.
âStopâ he playfully throws a crumpled up piece of his napkin at you. It hits you right between your brows.
âWhat? Iâm not doing anythingâ you throw it back but he dodges it.
âYouâre overthinkingâ
âIâm thinking exactly the right amountâ
âCare to let me in so I can decide that?â
You open your mouth to entertain more of the familiar banter you hold so close to your heart but your phone screen lights up and the text you get is enough to capture your attention right away. Your heart drops to your stomach as you read it, the french toast still melting on your tongue now tasting bad enough to draw a pang of pure nausea.
âYou okay?â you recognize the sincere worry in his voice, even as he attempts to keep it light.
âYeahâ locking your phone again, you place it face down on the table once more. You donât think you can stomach a single other bite of food.
âI have to go now, will stop by Sashaâs to bring her yukata back. I borrowed that bag of yours, is that okay?â youâre not looking at him as you get up and he does too, confused.
âYeah, of courseâ he follows suit as you quickly grab the bag still resting on the couch and shove your phone in it. Eren doesnât have the time to enjoy the glorious sight that is you in his clothes, even with those ridiculous shorts everyone will surely be able to recognize as menswear.
But just as he thinks youâre going to leave him without sparing him a single glance, you stop in your tracks right before the door and turn around, the smile on your lips so artificial it makes his stomach churn with a sour feeling that erases all the sweetness that has coated his morning up until this very moment.
âWill you come over, later?â
Thereâs softness in the way you direct the question to him and he holds on to it for dear life.
âIf you want me toâ he replies with the same softness and something inside you just melts.
What you have to do is terrible, cruel in its unfairness, but unavoidable. So you should get to bask in a fantasy for a few seconds more, right? You should get to delay his disappointment, to give him a few more hours of peace of mind.
Itâs heartbreaking, the way he perks up when you take his hand and bring the chapped knuckles to your lips.
âOf course I want you toâ you donât let go as you rise onto your tiptoes and tilt your head in a silent plea. You wish the relief he exhales right into your mouth could take root in your lungs.
When Eren kisses you, the crackling electricity is still there. But itâs the tenderness that makes your eyes burn, the way he takes your face in his palms and squeezes gently to make sure youâll be looking at him as he pulls back enough to return your dazed gaze.
âWeâll figure it outâ he says it so simply, so genuinely, youâre not sure you can get out of his house before he notices the tears.
You find it in yourself to nod and reach for another peck, because itâs probably going to be your last anyway.
I love you.
Itâs that thought that carries you through the day, repeated over and over in your head until your lips follow suit and youâre muttering it like a madwoman.
You let the brief time spent with Sasha soothe your mind and itâs actually fine that she notices the redness of your eyes and the heartache embedded in your blank stare.
âDid he do something to upset you?â sometimes she reminds you of Armin, the attentive way she adapts her energy to match the one of whoever she is with is one of your favorite things about her. Although youâd much prefer a bubbly distraction at the moment.
âNo, neverâ you reply with a small, bitter smile âIâm the one whoâs about to do it, actuallyâ
You tell her because she asks and because sheâs part of the people youâre gonna have to say goodbye to. Since youâre absolutely not planning to go to the beach, you take your chances and ask her the odds of her breaking the news to everyone else.
âThereâs no way in hellâ she retorts with a glare so sharp itâs almost funny âtheyâd think you donât regard them as friends. Connie would never forgive youâ
With a light huff, you deflate against the backrest of her couch. Of course sheâs right, they deserve a proper goodbye.
âIâll come by tomorrowâ you capitulate with a weary sigh and Sasha takes one of your hands in hers with a smile that never reaches her usual bright eyes.
âIâll miss youâ she almost whispers it and it takes everything in you not to choke up on your own Iâll miss you too as you squeeze her in the tightest hug youâve probably ever given to another human being.
The first thing you do when you get home is get changed, his clothes are neatly folded and placed at the end of your bed because you canât bear the idea of more of his scent clinging to your skin: youâre not even entirely sure the shower was enough to wash it off.
With a certain degree of fatigue, you pull the suitcase out from your closet, the sweltering heat of the room suddenly suffocating and unbearable. Even with the AC turned on, it feels like you canât breathe.
You tear your clothes from their hangers, snatch them out of your drawers and toss them in your luggage, not even bothering to fold any of them. Itâs better to do it today, youâre not sure youâre gonna have the strength to do it tomorrow and you definitely donât want to spend your last day packing up.
Robert Lowellâs book is placed carefully on top of the chaotic mountain of clothes, itâs a gift you deem special and youâd hate to ruin it.
Connieâs sketch is stored in a plastic folder and you reserve it the same attentiveness as you put it right next to Arminâs book. Itâs a stylized portrait of someone who barely looks like you: your eyes do not have that glow in them and your smile most certainly isnât as bright. You like the overly accentuated features, he has a cool drawing style and itâs still so hard to believe he felt the urge to devote his free time to craft something so unique and meaningful just for you.
The sight of the tourist brochure draws a chuckle and you pick it up from your nightstand to open it and read Jeanâs silly inscription for the umpteenth time.
She believed she could so she did: to a summer spent outdoors!
Right underneath, heâs scribbled a list of the best spots to visit, the vast majority of them comprising the forests he spends most of his mornings and afternoons guiding tourists through. Youâre gonna miss his teasing smirk and predictable jokes, the way he nonchalantly worms his way into any conversation youâd be having with Sasha just to get a burger out of it.
One day youâre probably going to deem it hilarious, the fact that the brochure is what gets you. Fat, searing tears overflow at last, staining the stupid tank top Erenâs pulled over your head so many times youâve lost count.
You end up sliding down to the parquet floor, knees to your chest as you sob pathetically, hiccup after hiccup until youâre shaking so bad you have to wrap your own arms around yourself in an attempt to calm down. Phone screen lights up again and you catch the preview of a text from Sasha, one picture attached.
Developing this today, so you can take it with you!
Itâs most probably from the previous night, the only group picture youâve ever taken in two months. If you close your eyes, you can almost feel the familiar weight of Arminâs arm around your shoulders and Connieâs chin resting on your head.
You catch your breath at last, cheeks burning and eyes puffy. Your limbs donât carry enough energy to do anything else besides booking a one-way ticket, tossing your phone away and crawling onto your still perfectly made bed.
Itâs funny, the hollowness your chest tightens around as you shut your eyes: you could swear the exact same spot had been so impossibly full of love and light just a few hours prior. Itâs been so easy to get transported into some sort of fantasy world, a perfect reality that didnât include your actual life at all. But you do have a life you have to get back to and itâs been foolish of you to allow yourself to forget about it. Thereâs a job offer you cannot afford to refuse because youâre two months behind on your rent, thereâs the uncomfortable amount of stuff still waiting to be collected from your ex boyfriendâs house, the now irretrievably shifted dynamics of your friend group you have to navigate. And yet.
In two months youâve met people that have made this holiday so special. Talking to them has given you the courage of opening yourself to the world like you used to do when you were younger and filled with hope. It felt like stepping into the sun after a long, dark, tiring night.
Who knew you could feel so free, wrapped in foreign embraces and inspired by unfamiliar routines, who knew you could meet someone whoâd make you feel so lost and then, suddenly, found. Erenâs made you fall for him little by little, the invisible trickle of a covert fountain concealed by whispered conversations in your bedroom, failed dinners whenever youâd stubbornly insist on not letting him anywhere close to your stove, afternoons spent with your feet buried in the boiling sand in hopes to catch as little as a glance, the fleeting flash of a grin shot your way. Heâs made you fall for him gently, the idea of crashing to the ground never once crossing your mind, bones still perfectly intact even at the mercy of his touch.
Erenâs disrupted you while keeping you whole. Even better, perhaps heâs given you an entirely new form. One that adapts easily to life and chases adventures and isnât afraid of being seen.
You hate the idea of leaving him behind, insides churning at the mere thought of telling him youâre leaving with such short notice. But maybe itâs for the best. Those three words have been left hanging in the air after all, segregated in your minds and engraved in your bodies. Youâre content with tricking yourself into believing that itâs a little less real, if you donât say it. You feel it and perhaps he feels it too, but youâre just in time to nip what it is and whatever it may become right in the bud.
Unsurprisingly, the nap ends up proving to be absolutely useless and you wake up a couple hours later with a throbbing headache and an almost debilitating thirst. The birds outside are chirping mockingly as you lethargically drag yourself out of your bed and out of the room, the mess of clothes, bags and luggages still reigning supreme right in the middle of it clumsily stepped over without so much as a glance.
The living room is filled with corners you canât look at, although you briefly wonder if the books stacked by the tv will be collected and eventually find a new owner.
After gingerly pouring yourself a glass of cold water, you climb onto the kitchen counter and check your phone. Sashaâs already had the picture developed is what you can guess from the picture of a big envelope sheâs sent you a few minutes ago. Thereâs a flight confirmation email in your inbox and a text from Armin, asking why youâre not at the beach yet.
You actually end up turning the tv on at full volume while you finish packing, taking a break only to down a dry sandwich when the squeezing of your stomach gets impossible to ignore. No more pathetic tears gather along your lashes for the rest of the afternoon, turns out packing your things is a lot easier when you donât care about how youâre putting them away. All your clothes are probably going to need a heavy ironing session once youâre back in Tokyo, quite the minor inconvenience.
When Eren arrives, he announces his presence as loudly as usual, dragging his saccharine helloooo because it always makes you laugh. He has bags in his hands because heâs once again stopped by the market just in case and is already grumbling about how you never keep your damn door locked when you get up from the couch to greet him.
âYou really need to stop filling my fridge with so much foodâ the good-natured scolding meets the skeptical click of his tongue as he starts pulling out the groceries and piling them up on your table.
âSays the girl who raids said fridge and leaves it empty in the space of one eveningâ
You huff but Eren cuts you off before you can put together a comeback.
âItâs just some of Kukikoâs fruit and a few snacksâ
âYou mean those rice cakes, candy corn and ketchup chips you love?â
With a fond roll of the eyes, he finishes emptying the bags and waves a box of chocolate pralines half an inch from your nose. Your gaze flickers to the different products scattered across your table: peaches, figs, your favorite tourist-friendly ice cream and cream filled wafers. Thereâs just a tiny box of rice cakes.
âI actually wanted to get proper food and cook a nice dinner, you know, because you barely touched my fantastic breakfastâ he flashes you a quick smile âbut then I thought, I know this great place weâve never been to and they make an incredible pan-fried salmonâ
Eren knows somethingâs up, he obviously does. But that doesnât stop him from taking your cheek in his hand to gently tilt your head up and let you meet his painfully hopeful stare.
âWill you let me take you out, tonight?â
Will you let me do this right?
Instead of taking a step back, you place your hand over the back of his to press his palm deeper into your skin. He doesnât really know at what specific point he starts holding his breath.
âEren, Iâm leavingâ
Thereâs a slight spasm of his lips, one that wouldâve probably been imperceptible to a less trained eye.
âIâm awareâ thereâs a sour harshness in his tone he doesnât try to bite back âI was hoping we couldâve talked about this later onâ
Of course he knows youâre leaving. Still, the fact that this is the first thing you deem reasonable to bring up after the previous night, after that morning, is hurtful. Hell, he isnât even allowed a full day of timeout from reality? Are you really that eager to remind him?
You press his palm a little harder.
âIn two daysâ
The silence that settles over the small room is loud enough to make your ears ring, cheek brutally left cold as if your skin has suddenly turned scorching.
âWhat?â he attempts an incredulous smile âwhat dâyou mean in two days? You said youâd leave in September, itâs barely Augustâ
You take a quivering breath, forcing yourself not to lower your gaze.
âSomething came up. Iâve been offered a job I really need and they want me in Tokyo by the end of this week, I really didnât plan for it toââ
âDid you know?â he interrupts you with an aggressiveness you donât recognize âthis morning, as you were leaving, did you know?â
âYesâ you swallow the painful lump constricting your throat. He lets out a bitter laugh, one hand running through his hair in disbelief.
âDid you know last night, too? Before we fucked, I mean. Thatâs all it was to you anywayâ he storms past you and before you can even think of stopping him, heâs pushed the door to your bedroom open. The sight of your packed up luggage makes him want to throw up on the spot.
Itâd be so easy to indulge his version, allow it to gain consistency and distance yourself from whatever it is youâre both feeling. But you canât bear the thought of betraying him twice, you decide you canât carry the weight of a lie so big so you let it melt on your tongue.
âYou know thatâs not trueâ itâs pathetic, really, the strangled way words leave your mouth. Eren chuckles again, a sound so empty and dull compared to his real laugh. It breaks your heart, it makes you feel as if somethingâs clawing at your chest from the inside.
âWhat was it, then?â he challenges, it only takes two very angry, wide strides and heâs towering over you again âyou canât even say itâ
âWhat good would that do?!â itâs unfair, itâs really fucking unfair that heâs handling the whole situation as if itâs hurting him more than itâs hurting you âwhat if I say it, then what? This entire thing was bound to end anyway! Even if I stayed, how do you know we wouldnât end up going our separate ways in a month anyway?â so long for keeping tears at bay, you think as you angrily wipe your cheeks until they burn from the unforgiving friction.
âFucking hellâ Eren shakes his head with another mocking smile that makes your blood boil.
âWhat? Look at us, youâre already second-guessing everything about me!â you push past him and toward your couch, just to have something to lean against because your legs feel wobbly âacting like youâre the only one affected by this bullshit situationâ words donât come out as harsh as youâd like, dying in your throat instead as you fail to hold back a sob.
Eren stays by the sink with that irritating condescension he just couldnât fucking spare you. As if youâre not shattered already, wondering how youâll be able to put the pieces back together once more now that the edges are rougher and different and will probably never match each other again.
âYou canât do this. You canât make me fall for you and then leaveâ he spits the last word like itâs venom and it actually burns on his lips. Erenâs never actually planned to ask you to stay, he never thought heâd be selfish enough. Turns out he was wrong all along.
When he says it, you canât help the way your head lifts in surprise. Heâs said it and thereâs really no turning back now, no place to hide or run away to. Itâs all over him, the disappointment you feel so responsible for, itâs in the way his fists seem to shake and in the sharp edge of his tight jaw. Itâs in the way his eyes lack their usual spirit as they look back at you.
âThatâs rightâ he mistakes the shock on your face for dread and allows for another smile to split across his face, nothing but a cruel mask distorting his features âbet thatâs the worst fucking thing you ever heard, huh?â
It is. Because now your heart canât stop its swelling and the flutter in your chest feels suffocating. It is, because somehow heâs fallen for you the same way youâve fallen for him and if heâs experiencing half the sorrow currently knocking the wind out of your lungs, perhaps you should find it in yourself to be gentler.
âIâm sorryâ you whisper it quietly, with a slight shrug and fresh tears staining your cheeks âIâm not doing any of this to hurt you. I wish I could decide to stay, just like that, but I donât have a job and Iâm behind on rent and, fuck, I think even the only coat I own is still at my exâs house andâŚâ
âWhat are we?â he interrupts you once more but thereâs no aggressiveness this time. Heâs quiet as he steps closer but you donât dare look him in the eyes, choosing to focus on the milk white carpet beneath your feet instead. However, Erenâs not having any of it. With new found, blind obstinacy, he gets close enough to gently grip your chin and demand your attention. Youâre a terrible liar and, by now, he knows all too well where to look for a lie in your stare.
âTell meâ he lowers his voice almost in a plea and the lump in your throat only grows in size when you catch the redness framing his eyes.Â
âWeâre friendsâ you whisper âbefore anything else. I hope weâre friendsâ
His grip on your chin tightens.
âWhat else?â
âErenââ
âIâm in love with youâ he sighs, in disbelief at how easy itâs been to pronounce the words out loud at last, a familiar albeit pained smile finally making its way to his lips as he lets you go âam I really that bad of a contender?â
But he lets go of your chin only to take your face in his hands right as new tears start rolling down your cheeks, unfazed by how useless it is for his thumbs to try and wipe them away. Thatâs finally him, embedded in the tenderness he holds you with.
âI want thisâ he mutters âI want you and yes, that may go away some day but youâre letting it go away now. Youâre not even willing to tryâ
It takes so much effort to find it in yourself to gently grab his wrists and pull his hands down.
âYouâre asking me to give up my entire life. Sometimes love isnât enough, Eren, sometimes someone has to be an adult and do the right thing even if it shatters themâ
âIâm guessing youâre the adult in this scenario whilst Iâm being what, the irrational brat?â
âStop putting words into my mouthâ you tiredly wipe your cheeks again, so exhausted you can barely take another shaky breath in âyou want me to stay. I canât do that, even if I fucking hate that I canât. You think youâre the only one with a broken heart in the scenario, as you called it, so feel free to turn this into another sad story youâre gonna recall with the next tourist girl you sweep off her feetâ
Eren thinks a raw slap wouldâve hurt less. He looks at you like youâre someone he canât recognize and finally takes a step back with a slight nod of his head, acceptance slowly setting over his features.
A beat passes, one where the only sound filling the room is your accelerated breath.
âYou never asked if Iâd come with youâ
And just like that, something slams against your ribcage but it couldnât be your heart because you're certain it has stopped beating.
âYouâd never do itâ your tongue suddenly feels swollen in your mouth, too big and heavy to assist you in properly articulating a sentence âI know youâd never do it. You always say you canât imagine yourself anywhere elseâ desperation gets the best of you and your pitch turns squeaky. Eren smiles another one of his sad smiles, the ones youâve met today for the first time and are sure will haunt you in your dreams.
âHave you ever even thought of asking?â
For a few seconds, you believe those are going to be his last words to you. That is until he turns around by the front door, just a second, maybe to take a look at you for the very last time. Thatâs the real breaking point for whatever is left in your chest.
âDonât expect me to be around to say goodbye, tomorrowâ
A fragment of time is all it takes for him to be out, all signs of him having ever been there at all still scattered across your kitchen table.Â
The AC system of Arminâs car is currently not working and you only find out once youâre seated in a boiling passenger seat. He chuckles when you turn to look at him in pure horror.
âYou wouldnât have let me take you if Iâd told you. It already took me two hours of convincing as it isâ he reaches across you to roll down the window, the hint of a guilty blush tinting the tips of his ears. His hair is lighter now than it was in the early summer and the flush of his cheeks is harder to detect now that his skin is tanned.
âI couldâve taken the busâ you rest your back against your seat with a light frown: the parts of your skin that are not covered by your thin tank top stick to the scalding leather right away.
âI knowâ he offers a soft smile âbut I really wanted to do thisâ
Armin hated the idea of you having to go alone much like everyone else but he was the only one free enough to have a few hours to spare that morning. Sasha insisted on letting Niccolo handle the cafe for the day but she doesnât own a car and the backseat of Arminâs Ford Fiesta is already taken up by your luggage and backpack. You resisted up until the very end, stubbornly insisting on being perfectly capable of reaching the airport on your own, mumbling some nonsense about not wanting to be a bother until Armin had raised a hand, resolute.
So I donât even get to give my friend a ride?
Connie was the only one to laugh at the tears rapidly collecting in your eyes but it was a sweet, accomodating sound at odds with his usual exuberant cackle. Even he found it funny and kinda concerning that you still couldnât grow accustomed to being considered their friend.
âThank youâ you return his smile and Armin nodds, giving your shoulder a light squeeze before he starts the car.
The small vacation rental that has welcomed and taken care of you for more than two months shrinks and then disappears in the rear view mirror, the morning sun bouncing off the scraped off exterior youâve grown fond of.
You now recognize the small streets, alleys and shops you pass by, going as far as to lean out of the window to check if Masaru-san, who always treats you to an extra muffin on the mornings you drop by to buy his fresh bread, is having a smoke outside his bakery.
âCan I ask you somethinâ?â Arminâs gentle voice draws you back into the boiling car.
âSureâ
He shoots you a quick glance.
âHave you at least told him that you love him?â
You suck a sharp breath in, caught entirely off guard. There was never a direct agreement of not mentioning The Topic during the one-hour drive but, given how considerate Armin always is, silly you kinda thought thatâd be implied.
âI know itâs none of my businessâ he quickly adds because of course he canât help himself âbut I havenât heard from him in two days and Iâm kinda hoping he at least has that to hold on toâ
âYou havenât heard from him in two days?â it made sense for him not to be at the beach when you dropped by to say your goodbyes, you never expected for him to show up anywhere else until he could be sure youâd be sitting on that plane but to disappear off the face of the earth? Not even talking to his friends?
âNo. To be completely honest, weâre worried. Heâs never done this beforeâ Armin keeps looking ahead of him, tone oddly flat as if heâs having a conversation about the most casual topic.
âWe had a fightâ you mutter âdidnât exactly say goodbye on great terms. Heâll come aroundâ
âThat doesnât exactly answer my questionâ
Itâs not like him to be so pushy and you suddenly feel like the heat is too suffocating, the vehicle too small, your lungs too rigid.
âNoâ you clear your throat âbut he knowsâ
Thereâs no point in denying or feeling embarrassed about it. Youâre positive everyone knows anyway.
Armin hums, seemingly pensive, but doesnât say anything. Your neck itches and the pads of your fingers start tingling.
âWhat?â
âNothingâ
âArmin, just tell meâ
For fuckâs sakeâ
âSâjust that Eren can be really dense. I bet heâs convinced this was nothing more than a summer fling for youâ
Thatâs not true, heâs one of the smartest people youâve ever met. Well, when it came to most things anyway.
âHe knowsâ you insist, heart rate spiking for reasons not entirely clear. Armin shrugs.
âIf you say soâ
A beat passes, silence stretching past a comfortable interval.
âWhat if he doesnât?â you challenge, exasperated âeven better, heâll get over it sooner!â
Armin lowers his head slightly, hands sliding to the sides of the steering wheel.
âHeâs in painâ itâs not an accusation, just a mere observation. And yet it hurts all the same.
âI am tooâ why is it so easy for everyone to forget that?
Little do you know, Armin is perfectly aware. Everyone is aware. Youâre wearing that pain on your disheveled hair and the bags under your eyes, itâs embedded in your dull tone and in how easy it now is for any word to draw tears.
Itâs not like him to get involved in someone elseâs life, especially when the situation is so raw and delicate but not even him is willing to just sit and watch two people mutually agreeing to ruin each other and leave it at that. It may not be his place but heâs prepared to dismiss his usual reluctance.
âI knowâ heâs driving way too slow for someone whoâs supposed to rush you to the airport but youâre too distracted to notice âsorry, that was insensitive of me. Youâre right, itâs for the best, heâll come around soon enoughâ
You donât say anything back, attention harshly grabbed by the view behind him. The sun is high already and reflects in the sparkling ocean youâve grown so fond of. The sussuration of the waves lashing the shore doesnât quite reach you but if you close your eyes and concentrate, youâre almost able to taste their pungent, salty smell.
Will Jean have some time to bring his surfboard to the beach in the afternoon, after a morning of work? Is the cafe as packed as it always is in the mornings, the usual mob of tourists forcing Sasha and Niccolo in an exhausting frenzy? Which table has Connie decided to bend over to try and finish that comic of his? Are his fingers stained with ink or did he go for the digital alternative today?
What is he doing? Can he afford to just disappear, neglect the surfing lessons?
You remember seeing Eren for the first time, running around by the shore accompanied by Jean with that charming smirk of his, occasionally asking strangers to join a volleyball match if they were short on players. You remember thinking wow, thatâs a person that probably has it easy. He seems happy, is attractive enough to pull pretty much anyone. He sounded friendly and was literally smiling every single time youâd catch a glimpse of him, day after day, never short on energy. And then, youâre still not sure why or how, his eyes had actually found yours once, twice, then often enough for you to decide to do something about it. Â
You still see it all in your head, painfully vivid and oh so alive. It comes in unforgiving flashbacks, from the first time he took your hand in his to the way you fell asleep in his arms less than three nights ago. And now youâre going away and what if Armin is right? What if he doesnât even know?
âStop the carâ you murmur, mind not even quite catching up with your mouth yet.
Armin glances at you.
âWhat?â
âStop the car for a secondâ you can barely stop yourself from slamming the brakes firsthand, hand brought to the column of your throat in a silly attempt to calm down. He quickly but safely pulls over, the car coming to a full halt when he turns off the engine entirely.
The first time you drew a sincere laugh, the first hushed conversation you shared on a humid evening.
Iâm in love with you. Am I really that bad of a contender?
âYou okay?â Armin is now only slightly worried heâs gone too far as he takes in the way your chest is heaving.
Have you ever even thought of asking?
âHeyââ you unfasten your seatbelt and escape his touch, quite literally throwing yourself out of the car only to slam the door and lean against it. Armin gets out as well and rapidly walks around the vehicle to check on you.
âWhatâs wrong? I have water, dâyou want water?â if you werenât so out of breath, youâd find his panic amusing.
âIâm fine. Sorry, just⌠give me a secâ the smile you offer him is probably more of a grimace but heâs too kind to point that out anyway.
Armin tries to give you the space to calm down but judging by the beads of cold sweat forming on your forehead, the process isnât exactly going well. He feels guilty, mainly because his entire strategy has tragically backfired and he is on the literal verge of profusely apologizing until you meet his concerned gaze with heartbreaking despair.
âYou think I should go to him?â your voice trembles and it takes everything in him to hold back the biggest smile.
âWith some urgencyâ he quips immediately, motioning toward the car. Heâs been dying to drive you there the entire morning.
You take a step forward, allowing him to open the door for you but make no move to actually step in again.
âCâmon!â heâs openly smiling now.
A beat passes, you shoot the car a quick glance and then return his smile.
âKeep an eye on my suitcase, will you?â
And then youâre just gone, sprinting in the opposite direction, dangerously close to passing cars and absolutely deaf to whatever Armin is yelling from behind you.
Incredibly, your legs carry you across the entire main street and your exceptionally keen senses assist you in dodging bikes and pedestrians and you think you may have accidentally run past Connie on the sidewalk at some point because you recognize a familiar go get him! already fading in the distance as you race until your lungs feel a second away from exploding.
The strappy sandals youâre wearing are absolutely inadequate for the marathon youâre running underneath the scorching sun and people look at you funny when you melt against the stand of a greengrocer to catch your breath. Nevertheless, with a hand pressing to a chest thatâs never felt as tight, youâre soon on your way again, lips stretched into a frenzied smile and heart beating fast from both the physical effort and your favorite kind of anticipation. The idea of seeing him again gets your blood pumping, every other care or issue or flight disappears, literally fades to nothing in comparison to what youâre feeling at the thought of being in his arms again.
And yet you falter once youâre at his door, one palm resting against it and throat burning with every breath you attempt to take in, sweat dripping from your chin and running down your back. Youâre far from having a plan or a solution to offer, the only thing youâre currently certain of is that youâre not gonna board that plane today. The rest, you can figure out together.
It takes some persistance and a certain number of violent knocks, your nuckles are burning by the time he yanks the door open.
âJean, I swear to god if this is you againââ Eren freezes when he sees you awkwardly standing on the doorstep, phone trapped between his cheek and shoulder as he was clearly in the process of tying his hair back.
âHeyâ you smile but then frown, puzzled âwait, who are you talking to?â
He opens his mouth, then closes it. Then opens it again.
âThank fuck, talk to you later, bye!â a familiar voice chirps on the other line and you shut your eyes for a second because how could you fall for the oldest trick in the book? Havenât heard from him in two days your ass.
âWhat are you doing here?â his guard is very much up and by the look of those dark circles you can only guess heâs slept just as much as you in the last two days.
âUh, so, really funny storyâ you chuckle, painfully aware of your racing pulse and ragged breaths âArmin was driving me to the airport and we got to the seafront and he started talkinâ about you not knowing that I love you and stuff, which would be absurd because Iâm sure youâre pretty much aware even if I never actually said itâ you pause to clear your throat and take a hand to the currently cramping side of your waist âanyway, he said youâre dense and he was worried because they haven't heard from you in two days which, I now realize was a blatant lie but the point is, I started thinking about you and how much I hated our fight and the idea of getting on that plane because, well, Iâm in love with you, disgustingly so actually, and Iâm sure Iâll find another job and my landlord will understand and I was kinda hoping we could have more time to figure things out so maybe I could stay a little longer? If you still want meâ you finish whatâs probably the most awful, embarrassing, pathetic speech in recorded history with a coughing fit, throat basically occluded by sand. Perhaps you shouldâve accepted Arminâs water before deciding to run almost two miles in a 95 °F weather.
Erenâs blank stare is far from encouraging and the more the silence stretches, the less you think it was a good idea to barge in there unannounced. But right as you take a tentative step back, apology already taking shape on the tip of your tongue, he reaches over with lighting speed to grab your wrist and quite literally slams your body against his, trapping you in a suffocating embrace.
âIf I still want you?â he pokes fun at your words, distorts them with open incredulity âyouâre so stupidâ
âEren, stop, Iâm so sweaty right now!â your voice barely comes out, muffled by the fabric of his shirt. He only squeezes you tighter against him, lips pressing to the crown of your head.
âSay it againâ
You are finally allowed to wiggle your way out of his arms but he keeps you in place, rough palms trapping your cheeks and puckering your lips. God, those eyes. How could you have believed youâd be able to leave them so easily?
âMâreally fucking sweaty at the momentâ
Eren smiles, pressing his palms harder, until your lips part.
âNot thatâ heâs willing to be patient now, because you have just granted him the only thing that makes him feel whole again. Time.
âMmphââ you try to loosen his grip but he only raises his eyebrows expectantly, amused by your useless attempt âmâin lovewithyou?â
Just like that, his smile turns into one of those bright grins you adore but can barely return at the moment.
âDamn rightâ Eren meets your lips like that, pressing on your mouth firmly until he finally loosens his grip and you have some room to return his rough kiss right as he clumsily drags you inside and catches you when you trip on the cursed umbrella container he keeps by the door. You taste salty, just like the ocean, and he licks into your mouth with the softest groan when you lightly tug at the curling strands at the base of his nape.
âLet me hear it againâ he mutters but how are you supposed to collect the required air in your lungs if he refuses to stop kissing you stupid?
Through the dazed state of your mind, you manage to whisper the words into his mouth at last.
âI love youâ again and again and again, until your love and his violent adoration is all he can feel in every crevice of his body, in each jolt of the electricity buzzing through his veins.
But then Eren breaks the kiss so abruptly you lose your balance and awkwardly stumble forward, your brows knitting as he starts laughing so hard he has to rest his forehead on the curve of your shoulder, hot breath tickling your neck while he giggles so hard youâre both shaking.
âWhat?â as it always happens, you canât hold back a confused smile yourself.
Still barely able to contain the fit of laughter, eyes crinkling adorably at the corners, Eren straightens up to meet your gaze.
âI had just booked a flight to Tokyoâ
330 notes
¡
View notes
Text
Abby Anderson Headcanons: Farmer!Abby đž
Isgydpeoagafkaidggejosdhak- this fucking woman.
Is always walking around in tight blue jeans, a white wife-beater and a red plaid button up, topped with the classic cowboy hat đ¤
She's so hot- all sweaty and out of breath from swinging her axe all day.
Her pet names for you include: 'Sugar, Doll, Darlin' and sweet pea'
You call her 'pumpkin' because you know how much she finds it annoying lmao đ
Absolutely ADORES you- loves coming into the farmhouse after a long day on the fields, and seeing you all dolled up with dinner ready for her.
Your favourite job on the farm is taking care of the lambs.
Abby has walked into the barn many a time and seen you nursing calves with a bottle while their mothers were out grazing.
You always wear her clothes whenever you can.
And you ALWAYS sleep in her shirts and just your panties.
Leaving Abby muttering shit under breath like "Fuck sweet pea- the stuff you do to me is sinful..."
Abby ploughing fields? No. Abby ploughing you.
You've named all the animals, and get very annoyed at your wife when she gets their names wrong.
"Hey Darlin'?, Have you seen Fifi around? I can't see her anywhere, she must've broken off from the flock while they were grazing" Abby asked from the other side of the barn.
"What do you mean, pumpkin? She's right here" You reply, motioning to the lamb who was laying by your rain-boot clad feet and earning a scoff from Abby at the sickeningly sweet nickname.
"I thought that one was called Missy?" "No, Abby, this is Fifi" you look at her with a slightly ticked off expression, annoyed at her forgetfulness.
"Eek. Sorry Doll. Well that must mean the actual missy is missing then... Ironic"
Always is strapped up, both gun-wise and the otherway-wise
Takes you on evening horse rides, trotting along together with the sunset on the horizon â¤ď¸
Loves picnics with you-
There's a hill that overlooks all of your land and you often both have dates up there, cuddling and giggling with eachother as you eat the food you'd made for her. đ
--------------
Taglist: @aunslie @lonelyfooryouonly @strawberrysmoochesxo @daryldixonh0e @kittynnie @lovelyyevelyn @randomhoex @moonlightdivine @haerinwho @mufflaa @mial1l @sarahsmileslikesarahd0esntcare @moonlighting87 @escaping-reality8 @hejdevkdbdjsd @dergy @half-of-a-gay @ellieismami @cyberlainn @gollumsmygel @sseorii @kyleeservopoulos @taloulalila @ellieluhme @kiiyoooo @delusionalvioleht
Join my taglist here
#abby anderson x you#abby x fem!reader#abby anderson headcanons#abby anderson#abby x reader#abby headcanons#abby anderson fan fiction#abby anderson x female reader#abby tlou#abby anderson x reader#farmer!abby#southern!abby#lesbian fic#lesbian#wlw#wlw headcanons#tlou fic#the last of us fic#abby the last of us#tlou#the last of us#tlou headcanons
516 notes
¡
View notes
Note
hi, can i request something? i was thinking that we don't get to see rama hearing about sita (who's miraculous birth and deeds must have been stories that spread to ayodhya as well as other kingdoms) before they meet as we do see sita hearing about rama and admiring him in adaptations. so, it would be great if you could write an au on 5 times rama heard about sita and 1 time he told someone about her (maybe luv-kush or hanuman/the vanaras). thank you!
Hello there! Thanks for the ask, this was very interesting to write, and I discovered I have so many opinions and headcanons about a bunch of characters and their relationships I could make a whole entire post out of it. Also, this is a 4k+ monster, so beware :D
1.
âThey found her where?â
Rama looks up from his dessert blearily to where Bharata is frowning at their King Father. It is a sweet spring morning, and their family is gathered around the table breaking their fast. Beside his drooping self, Lakshmana bounces restlessly.
âI want the curd,â he whines.
Mother Kaikeyi answers her son as she passes the dish over. âShe was buried in the earth, and King Janaka found her under the plough.â
âHow was she not mowed down? Do people stare at the ground as they plough? Why did the oxen not trample her? How did she survive in the heat? Who put her- â
âBharata,â Mother Kaikeyi frowns at him. âOne question at a time. Someone must have left her there â a god, perhaps, or some poor peasant who did not have money to feed a child. How she survived the heat and the yoke and the oxen I do not know. A miracle, clearly, and proof that the child is blessed.â
âI hope Janaka raises her as his own,â Mother Sumitra says, waving her hand vaguely in the air, âsince he found her and everything.â
âFound who?â Rama asks at last, finally interested in the conversation.
âA baby,â Shatrughan grouses. He is five summers old and has formed many opinions on babies ever since Shanta didi brought Rahul over; not one of them is complimentary. âI do not understand what the fuss is all about. Surely, it is as ugly and dirty as all others.â
Mother Koushalya laughs. âYou know, a mere couple of years ago, you were a baby yourself.â
âEw.â
âNow, now,â Father chides him. âMithila is suffering from terrible droughts. Mayhaps the child will bring them good luck.â
âThat is an awful lot of hope to pin on a babe,â Mother Sumitra remarks, cynical as ever.
There is a blessed silence as everyone contemplates this. Mithila falling out of Indraâs favour is old news; over the past years many messengers have come and gone from Ayodhyaâs royal court, and many carts have rolled between the two kingdoms, bearing grains that would never be enough. Mithila had enough fertile lands to feed herself, but her people were more inclined to knowledge and learning, and rarely took up tools to divert rivers or dig canals. The seasonal monsoons watered most of their lands; without it the crops had withered and burnt in their fields, and the hard earth cracked open to gaping maws unsuitable for any agricultural endeavor. That a mere girl, however divine-born she might have been, could cure such a calamityâŚ
âIn any case,â Mother Koushalya says primly, giving their father A Look, âlet us hope King Janaka will take her for the blessing she is. Daughters are not to be forsaken.â
Father sighs. âDear, pleaseâŚâ he murmurs, then quails under his wifeâs glare. Daughters are a sore subject between Ayodhyaâs King and her eldest Queen.
âDo we know what her name is?â Rama asks, and Mother Kaikeyi smirks at his unsubtle attempt to steer the conversation away.
Dasharatha latches onto the distraction with both hands. âWhose name? The girlâs?â
Rama nods.
âThey named her after the furrow she was found in.â
âOh?â
âMhmm,â Dasharatha smiles. âShe is called Sita.â
2.
It is late when Guru Vishwamitra decides to halt for the night and invites the brothers to sit by their little fire.
âYou did well today,â he says, and Rama thinks the sage almost looks pleased.
âIt was all your blessings, Guruji,â he demurs, âand that of our parentsâ.â
Beside him Lakshmana supresses a snort, noting how he left Guru Vashistha out of the mix. While their companion ruminates on this with a beatific smile, his brother whispers in his ears, âYou are going to be a great politician one day.â
Rama elbows him. Lakshmana elbows back, and then it is a boyish game that is barely discreet. Rama can feel the beginnings of a smile twitching on his face.
They are interrupted by Guru Vishwamitra, who folds his hands sternly over his lap, turns to them, and asks, without the barest hint of hesitation, âSay, Rama, have you ever thought of marriage?â
Rama sputters. Beside him, Lakshmana tenses, prepared to fend off any and all questions until Rama decides what to answer, like he always did back in Ayodhya, because Rama has the best brother in the whole wide world. But Guru Vishwamitra rolls over any protests.
âWe shall stop at Mithila next, and the noble King Janaka has under his care four comely young maidens â two his own, and two his brotherâs.â
The crickets chirp in the shadow of the forest. Rama stares, unblinking and silent.
âForgive my impudence, revered one,â Lakshmana says at last, when it becomes evident that Rama will not answer, âbut my brother believes it is improper to speak of such matters without consulting our elders.â His brother chances a glance at him. âAnd he also thinks the man and the woman should get to know each other beforehand.â
The last part is entirely Lakshmanaâs own addition, since he despises the idea of marriage and has long hoped to turn away any potential suitors by acting churlishly. That is unlikely to happen, given that few fathers care for their daughtersâ opinions, and Lakshmana is charming even in his devilry. Rama refrains from mentioning any of this, especially because Lakshmana has clearly caught the âfour maidensâ comment.
Guru Vishwamitra nods, meanwhile, as if he has expected something such all along.
âThat is all very well, my boy, but let me tell you this. Janakaâs eldest child is the mightiest woman to ever walk upon Aryavart, and the most virtuous. When she was yet a child, she lifted with one dainty hand the Destroyerâs bow. Then her father declared that such a maidenâs hand may only be claimed by one who could perform a similar feat.â
âHow⌠awe-inspiring,â Rama manages at last, already daunted by the thought of this princess.
Guru Vishwamitra smiles. It is the kind of smile that Shatrughan has when someone is about to find dead fish among their clothes.
âDo not worry about your father,â the sage says nonchalantly. âWe shall reach Mithila by tomorrow. Look sharp, Rama, it is the princessâs Swayamvar. You will lift the Pinaka, and then knowledge and valour shall be wedded, and what a joyous day it shall be! Do you not agree?â
âAh, Guruji,â Rama gropes about for anything that will dissuade him. âThe Pinaka is a legendary bow, and I am but a young boy.â
âI have faith in your ability, Bhaiyya,â says the traitor heretofore known as Lakshmana, Ramaâs brother, âand as he told you, our Guru thinks similarly.â
âI do not even know her name,â Rama says, desperately elbowing Lakshmana when the latter starts to snicker.
Their Guru shrugs. âThat is easily solved. She is called Sita.â
3.
Rama is broken. There is no other way to put it â this empty haze that mars his sight, this endless sorrow that mires him down, this bleak, bleak search that shall never end â Rama is irrevocably ruined.
He feels nothing save grief and rage, and knows nothing save that they must go on and on and on, till they have eclipsed the earth thrice over, till they have searched every nook and cave and treeshade, pausing neither for food nor rest nor death.
He screams, sometimes at the forest and sometimes into the earth, and sometimes at foolish, foolish Lakshmana, who is so exhausted and so dear, and Rama thinks he knows what the Pinakaâs master will do at the breaking of the world, for he feels that catastrophe within the traitorous organ beating in his chest, calling through the bars of his bones like a forgotten prisoner, âSita! Sita! Sita!â
âBhaiyya, please,â Lakshmana begs, gripping his shoulders tighter than ever before.
Once Rama was stronger, but now he even struggles to loosen his hold. âLet me go,â he wails, writhing and unseeing. âI will not, I cannot- â
âYou need to, Bhaiyya,â Lakshmana insists, tightening his hands, pressing fingers to the hollow between Ramaâs clavicle and collarbone.
Rama shakes like Mount Meru trembling under Sachiâs wrath. âI need to?â he demands. âI need to? Like you needed to leave Sita, needed to search for me, despite your faith in me, despite knowing that- â
Lakshmanaâs hands unclench, and Rama finds himself sinking. His gaze clears, little by little, and he hears his brother make a strange, muffled sound, and he is sinking to his knees, familiar hands guiding him, but no longer restraining. There is an Asokaâs trunk to his right, and he is made to lean against it, all gentle-soft and slow. When he looks up, Lakshmanaâs face is turned away, tears leaking out of the corner of his eye, mingling with the blood on his chin from where he has bitten his lip to hold back a sob.
âLakshmana,â he murmurs, reaching out to him, and oh, there are flecks of dried blood on his knuckles, and oh, Lakshmanaâs temple is a sickly purple when he looks back, like the costliest dhoti muddied by rain, and when, oh, when did he strike the most beloved of brothers, and why?
Lakshmana is kneeling beside him, always one reverent inch behind the bend of his arm, running a thumb over the crimson remnants of violence.
âIt was not your fault,â he soothes, lilting like a childhood song. âYou did not see me coming.â
When? he wants to ask, how? But the haze returns like insidious tendrils of fog. He should be comforting Lakshmana, he thinks, for it was always his job to quieten his brotherâs temper. Lakshmana needs comforting, he knows, but Lakshmana is not angry. Why, thenâŚ
Someone shakes his shoulder. âBhaiyya?â
âUh,â he offers intelligently.
âI am going to get some water, okay? Please, please do not leave. You need to rest awhile; we are no use to Bhabhi if we are dead.â
He waits for Rama to nod his assent, and leaves with tear-tracks on his cheeks. That was why Rama should have comforted his brother â Lakshmana was crying. And now he is gone, and Rama is seated under a tree waiting for him to bring water, like that blind old couple had so many years ago waited in vain for Shravana Kumara. They cursed his father for slaying the boy, and that curse drags ever on, even today. What would Rama do if some stray arrow found his brotherâs heart? Would he curse the shooter, even if it was a chance of fate? No, he thinks, he would hunt them down, and then burn cursed Dandaka, all the way from the Vindhyas to the unresting sea, with every man and beast and rakhshasha in it.
Perhaps because he has such a keen ear, or perhaps because he is thinking about it, he hears a terrible, piercing groan, and shoots up. The sound comes again, and Rama runs. It does not occur to him that he runs the other way, or that he should take his bow. All he does is plough through the tall trees, tripping on roots and choking on outstretched branches, fighting against Aranyaniâs will.
When he finally stumbles upon the body, all he can think of is that it isnât Lakshmana. Then the groan comes again, and he rushes over to the feathered being, kneels by its side. Once, it must have been a great bird, but now there are only stumps where the wings would have been, and it has a gaping hole in its stomach.
âMy dear,â Rama says, already knowing it beyond saving, ârest. All will be well.â
To his surprise, the bird opens its eyes. âWho are you?â it asks, in a distinctly masculine voice.
âRama, son of Dasharatha,â Rama says, and looks up to some scuffling. âThat is my brother, Lakshmana,â he adds, as said brother tumbles into the clearing with wide eyes, twin bows and ruffled hair.
âDasharatha?â Clarity rushes to the birdâs eyes. âOnce, I, Jatayu, named him friend. Wait, you are Rama and Lakshmana? That woman called for you.â
âSo we are,â Lakshmana agrees, kneeling as well. âWhat woman sought us, noble Jatayu?â
âThe fairest of them,â Jatayu says, âwith the darkest curls and most beautiful mien I ever knew. She wept from the perch of the Pushpaka Vimana and called high and low for aid, even as Ravana took her ever southward to his golden state. I sought to free her, friends, and so I fell wingless from the sky.â
Rama dares not hope, dares not breathe. âSouthward?â he asks, settling on the least painful, and most important detail.
âSouthwards to Lanka,â Jatayu explains, words slurring again, âto that seagirt island he names his own. I shall not be here long, but I beg you, make haste my friends.â
There is a noose uncoiling from Ramaâs chest. He needs to thank Jatayu for his aid, for trying to save his wife, for being their fatherâs friend; he needs to make sure he passes away in peace. And he will do it all, only after one last question.
âDo you know who she was?â
âMhmm,â Jatayu hums. âShe called herself Sita.â
4.
Hanuman leads them up Mount Rishyamukh with nimble leaps and fleet feet. Rama and Lakshmana toil behind, each hard-faced so as not to give away how strenuous they find all this jumping.
âI feel like a stray goat,â his brother mutters, teeth clenched to hold back huffs. âHe is showing off for you, and naturally, I am the one caught in the middle.â
âIf you think I am enjoying thisâŚâ Rama begins, then sighs to mask his panting.
âThen why do you not ask our guide to slow down? He seems to like you well enough.â
Rama snootily turns his nose up in the air. âWe are the scions of Ikshvaku, heirs of the Raghu clan. We must endure.â
âYou mean you must endure.â Lakshmanaâs voice is sardonic as he continues, âIf my honour comes from attempted suicide by heat exhaustion, I care little for it.â
âIf I have to climb up this thrice-damned mountain without protest, then so will you.â
Silence. Rama turns, alarmed, half afraid his jesting has been taken seriously. They have not spoken about everything that came to pass in the weeks before meeting Jatayu, and although Lakshmanaâs bruise has long healed, Ramaâs heart has not. But no, his brother is smirking and shaking his head, and when Lakshmana speaks, his voice quivers with mirth. âYou are mean.â
Rama exhales, yet relief does not come.
âLak- â he begins, but is immediately interrupted by a joyous shout from above.
âPrabhu!â Hanuman beams down at them, âWe are here.â Then he turns and addresses someone else, âOh, please do tell Maharaj Sugriva, he shall be most elated.â
Lakshmana eyes the remaining steps and then surveys the distance they have come.
âThis should not have been so difficult,â he mumbles, and Rama is inclined to agree. Once the two of them could have scaled the peak without breaking a sweat and run three miles afterwards. All that crying and bumbling about the forest must have made them soft.
Sugriva â dressed in old finery and worn purples â comes to meet them in a great, cavernous hall, reeking of cheap wine and misery. The crown on his head is scratched and askew.
âShow them what we found,â he tells one of the attendants, after Hanuman has recounted their tale of woe, and nods to them. âPlease, have a seat, my lords.â
Rama sits and tries not to quiver with anticipation. This is it. He can feel it in the air â this is the key to rescuing Sita. Lakshmana stands by his side, half a step behind, and places a hand on his shoulder.
âWe found them on the ground,â Sugriva says, tail flicking nervously. âBy the time I was called, it was all over, but my Vanaras say a great golden chariot had flown across the skies, and from it came the weeping of a maiden most fair.â
He pauses, as a worn pouch is brought in, and a bearer places tall earthen glasses of drinks before them. Rama ignores the latter and reaches for the pouch.
âThis has the ornaments you found?â
âYes.â
Rama pulls apart the string holding it together and turns it over on his palm. A familiar necklace falls out, thick and glittering gold, followed by a lonely earring, a chain, and an anklet strung with little bells.
Rama stares.
âPrabhu?â Hanuman probes. âAre these the ones you seek?â
âYes,â he breathes, fingers trembling, stroking the trinkets as if they could somehow pass on his affection to their beloved wearer. âThese are hers.â
He looks up to an assortment of pitying glances. They can tell the woman is someone important, though neither Rama nor his brother had revealed in as many words that Sita was his wife. Did they think of him an idiot, a desperate father, or a maddened brother, or a lovelorn husband clutching to circumstantial proof of a dear oneâs presence?
As he has done these past weeks, and all their lives, Lakshmana comes to the rescue. âI recognise the anklet.â
Sugriva hesitates. âMy Lord Lakshmana?â
âThe anklet,â he repeats. âI saw it every morn when I knelt for her blessings. I would not confuse them for any other.â
âAnd the others?â
âUh,â Lakshmana blinks. âI would not dare be so importune with a lady as to stare at her personâ â here Rama catches Sugriva stiffen minutely, as a guilty man does when caught, but Lakshmana has spoken without malice, and it passes as quickly as comes â âbut her sister has an earring of similar fashion.â
âYou will not look at her but you will look at her sister,â Sugriva notes, and it is interesting how he has latched onto that.
Lakshmana turns pink. âI married her sister?â he says, phrasing it like a question, as if all those days with Urmila were a fever dream. Rama can relate.
There is an awkward pause, and his brother plows on with all the daintiness of the bulls that once ploughed the land Sita rose from. âWhat was she like?â
âI told you â I have not seen her. My people told me this: that she was the fairest maiden they ever beheld, shining like the sun at high noon, that her voice was like starlight, and that she called for the scions of Raghu to aid her. Twice she called for one Raghurai, and once for a Saumitra.â
Rama cannot help the smile on his face. Of course, Sugriva will surely ask for some terrible recompense, but he is an outcast King, and exiled besides. He will not shirk from helping.
Beside him, he feels his brother relax. âShe is no mere maid,â Lakshmana drawls. âShe is the daughter of King Janaka, of distant Mithila, and the wife of Rama, prince of Ayodhya. She is Sita.â
5.
Rama eyes the prodigious young twins seated on the floor of his court. They are young, barely a year older than Bharataâs oldest, and the sight of them makes something in Ramaâs chest tremble. It has been a long time since he has been blessed with the sight of his wife, save in the terrible gilded statue that occupies her place beside him. Today, though, he sees her everywhere â in the curls of the twins' hair, in the way the older one smiles, and the younger wrinkles his nose. He sees her even in the way they hold their veena, which makes little sense, given that most people hold their instruments the same way.
They had introduced themselves as students of Rishi Valmiki, without any patronymic. That means nothing. They could simply be referring to the one who sent them here. But their mother must have been pregnant the same time as Sita, if age is any indication, and Sita had been having twins, and they did look awfully like her...
âGreetings, Your Majesty,â says Kusha, the older twin, his hair sticking up like the grass he was named for.
His voice is a blessing, for it derails Rama's terrible thoughts, and a curse, for it sounds so like Sita's that he may as well be in Mithila's gardens more than two decades ago, facing a demure princess who would later be his wife.
This is folly, he thinks, nodding at the young ones, permitting them audience.
Kusha continues, âOur Guru, the mighty sage Valmiki, was immensely inspired by your tale. Thus, he composed an epic, so all the world may remember the valour of Shri Rama.â
âIt is still being written as we speak,â Luv says, picking up where his brother left, âbut we have learnt in song all that was penned down before we departed. If His Majesty pleases, we would be honoured to present it to you.â
Rama stares, then hesitates. Seeking self-praise is the path to downfall, and the story is painful besides. All save Lakshmana look eager â even Urmila, though she must have been told everything, either by her husband or by Sita. He should praise their dedication and send them away with blessings and a few gifts. There is no point in unearthing such sorrow again, not when the story has no triumph, and Sita is not by his side.
Luv and Kusha look up at him, familiar doe eyes wide and beseeching. They are clutching each otherâs hands, tense with anticipation. Rama opens his mouth to disappoint them, and instead says, âVery well, we shall hear you.â
He could have cursed himself them, but the answering smiles he receives wash away all self-recrimination.
The courtiers clasp their hands and lean forward, and the boys bob their heads in a semblance of a bow.
âHear us,â Luv proclaims, âfor we sing of Rama, son of Dasharatha, of blessed Ayodhya.â
It is a familiar tale, of the joys of his childhood and the days at the Gurukul, the love of his father and three gentle mothers. But Rama knows, the grief is about to come.
He allows a tremulous smile when they sing of Sitaâs Swayamvara, for it was a joyous occasion. He holds his breath when Ravana of the tale carries Sita away, but pain lances through him only once. He trembles when they exalt Sitaâs resolve in the face of misery, trapped in her golden prison, and shivers when they recount Lakshmanaâs deadly injury.
But just as he thinks that perhaps, having lived through it once, he has numbed himself enough to be able to get through this without the waterworks, the song rolls to their victory, and to Sitaâs freedom.
âAnd then Rama of the golden bow,â Kusha intones, âsays âI have not yet sunk so low, to take back unquestioned a spouse that has lived a year in anotherâs house.ââ
Half the court inhales, and Rama feels a telltale burn behind his eyes. What has he done? He wants to throw out the boys, forgetting his fondness for them, wants to scream and curse and run away. But he is an Emperor, and this is his court, and such behaviour is unbecoming. The lay turns stern and punishing, quickening to a chant.
Sita in the epic stands as straight and bold as she had all those years ago, before an army of thousands. Her hair is a riot of curls blacker than the length of Nishaâs dread night; her face is as gaunt as Dhumavatiâs terrible mien. When she speaks her voice is Indraâs thunder across the sky, devoid of any love or affection. âIf you shall question me, husband,â she says, âthen may Agni judge me. Lakshmana, son, make me a pyre.â
Lakshmana of the tale weeps, as he does in real life, both then and now. And Ravanaâs captive, all molten iron clothed in a delicate body, walks out of the pyre unblemished and unburnt, lit red and orange and yellow â a living flame. For she is Janakaâs daughter and Ramaâs wife, but she is also the mightiest woman that Aryavart would ever know, and the most virtuous.
The song ends with exaltations of their victory, and the joy of reunion, but Rama, seated beside a lamentable golden mockery of a woman he once named his own, hears none of it. His tears come hot and unbidden, like summer tempests across the plain, and he weeps and weeps and weeps.
+1.
Luv kneels on the green grass, wide eyes following an eagle's flight across the sky. Rama strokes his head, soft and gentle and in love. It is a tranquil morning, and Rama wonders if he should postpone court to prolong this moment. Beside him, Kusha hums softly, sprawled over the grass.
âYou look melancholic,â Rama observes.
Kusha shrugs. Rama has yet to learn all his sonâs expressions, but this one he knows intimately. His son misses Sita. Now that she is not here, it is his duty to comfort him. The thought warms Rama's heart nigh as much as it chills.
âYour mother,â he begins, then hesitates, unsure.
Kusha sits up. âWhat of her?â he demands, cornered and defensive.
Rama holds up his hands, feels Luvâs glower boring into the side of his face. Sita is a sensitive topic, lying between them with the treachery of a coiled snake, defying the peaceful manner of its namesake.
âWould you like to hear about her?â he offers at last.
Kusha frowns. Luv crawls over to look at his face. âHear what?â
âWhatever you wish to know.â Rama will likely come to regret this, for they undoubtedly will ask something difficult to answer, but as the furrows part from Kushaâs brows, Rama thinks they can push through. He opens his arms, gathering them close, and kisses the top of their heads. Like this, it is not hard to understand why Dasharatha thirsted so desperately for sons, even if he was fated to die grieving for them.
Kusha interrupts his musing with a question. âDo you love her?â
âOf course!â Rama is scandalised enough that Kusha has the decency to look a little guilty.
That, however, does not stop him from his next question. âWhy?â
âWhy what?â
âWhy do you love her?â
Rama cannot believe they are having this conversation, even though he can see why they might be curious.
âHow could I not?â he says at last, when it becomes evident that silence will not make Kusha forget his question. âSita was the loveliest woman â kind, generous, and brave.â
Kusha does not appear the least bit happy and Rama startles when Luv pokes his arm.
âNuh-uh,â his son says, âthose are easy things to say. You have to pick one.â
Rama opens his mouth to answer, then pauses. This is some sort of a test. Luv and Kusha have been wary of him ever since they arrived at the palace, hiding away from him and mingling mostly with their cousins. He is suddenly aware that this answer could have tremendous repercussions. But what can he say to such a question? How can he define peerless Sita with one virtue?
The children look up at him expectantly, so Rama clears his throat and tries to think. Sita was charming, and her beauty helped, but that was not the foremost of merits.
âSita was⌠good at being good,â Rama says slowly, barely able to keep himself from quailing at the twin raised eyebrows. âIt is hard to explain, you understand? But her virtues were restrained. She was terribly forgiving, but not so forgiving that she would take upon her a sentence twice over when she knew herself to be innocent. She could be generous, but never to a fault. She was selfless, but not so selfless that she would deny herself easy pleasures.â
And was that not true? Sita was pure, and in his heart of hearts Rama knows that even if Ravana touched or defiled her, even if Agni burnt her, it would only be her body that fell, only her vessel of flesh that would be blamed; her soul was far too pure and mighty to be affected.
And this is Raghuvamsaâs folly â they will cling to promises and tradition even in death, will give up sons to satisfy wives, forgive villainous servants and shy from righteous rage, forsake wives for the words of ignorant men. Had Rama not loved Sita for the same reason he loved Lakshmana? That even follies were to be embraced, even elders could be spoken against, even golden deer could be chased for the sheer joy of it.
âShe had no excesses,â Rama tells their children. âShe would forgive me for testing her once, but not twice. And I do not think I could have loved her as much if she accepted it.â
Luv and Kusha are looking at him. Rama tries to blink away his tears, but they come and come and come.
âSitaâŚâ His breath catches, but he plows on. âThey tell us that it is important to be selfless, to never ask for more than you have â not unless you can earn it yourself. But Sita knew I loved giving her things â clothes, jewels, flowers, anything. And even in the forest she would ask for a flower or a fruit or a sapling, because she knew it brought me joy. She cared.â The tears are falling now, but Rama cannot stop. âShe cared, and then I threw it away. I knew her, and I failed her.â
Rama puts his face in his hands and sobs. All this, and he is not even sure he has managed an answer. He starts at the feel of small hands, and of cheeks pressed against each shoulder.
âWhat is past is gone,â Kusha murmurs, close by his ear. âBut we are here. Father, we will always be here.â
The gong for the court sounds, yet no one moves. Perhaps, Rama thinks wearily, he has not failed at everything.
#i have so many feelings about this#I'm pretty sure I've rendered a few of them OOC bc that's how I see them in my head#but no way everything was as glowy as everyone makes it seem#will add on later about the other gods and goddesses referenced#rama#ram#lakshmana#lakshman#laxman#bharat#shatrughan#sita#hanuman#sugriva#ramayan#ramayana#hindu mythology#luv#kusha#ask#answered#boo writes#5 + 1 fic
27 notes
¡
View notes
Text
Inspired by an oc of @evenmorefatallyobsessed (mild nfsw alert btw)
Neptune: *Holding up a dating app on a Scroll in front of Sun, swiping either left or right at the Monkey Faunus' direction* Look, sometimes you got to take some drastic measures to get over a girl. Sure, you're saying you're happy to just be friends with Blake, but that doesn't mean you have to forget about your needs.
Sun: *Listening with half-a-mind* Sure... Left. Left. ... Right. Left. Ooh, Deffo Right. Says she also likes to use her tail for ~fun~.
Neptune: Yeah, you're getting it. Don't worry, bud. This Certified Lady's Man will help you get your groove!
Sun: *Pausing his swiping to give Neptune a pointed look* Certified, huh?
Neptune: *Coughs slightly* Ye-yes, now come on. Just a few more.
Sun: Uh-huh... Left. Right. Left. Left. ... !!! *Snatches the Scroll out of a surprised Neptune's hand* Oh, Right to the Hells to the Yeah! Bona-Fide Major MILF!
Neptune: Woah, seriously?! Lemme see, lemme see! *Grabs the Scroll back*
Sun: Never saw an office jacket and pencil skirt look THAT good before. And on an ass like that?! Gawd DAYUM!
Neptune: No way, someone look that good for you to... to- *Stares at the Scroll in abject shock and horror* Ah... fuck.
Sun: *Blinking away his surprise at Neptune's reaction* Whu... what, she got some super red flags or something?
Neptune: Uh... Yeah?! Holy hell, that's my Mom!
Sun: ...
Neptune: ...
Sun: Bitch. Would! *Starts climbing over the table to get at the Scroll and Neptune* Gimme that scroll back! I got to message her ASAP!
Neptune: Hell no! *Shoving a hand in Sun's face to keep him away* Back off, motherfucker! This shit ain't gonna happen!
Sun: *Smushed face* Fwuf hoo! ma honna bu a mahafaha fu wheel! Himme! [Fuck you! I'm gonna be a motherfucker for real! Gimme!]
Neptune: *Using multiple limbs to keep Sun away* Bros before hoes, dick-weasel! My mom ain't no hoe fo' sho'!
Sun: *Face unsmushed, trying his hardest to reach the promised land that is his Scroll* Imma weasel my dick into her! My hoe will plough her fields something fierce. Now give my Scroll back!
Neptune: That's a no from me, Bitch!
Neptune&Sun: *Start wrestling WWE-style*
~~~~~~~~~~
Yang: *Seated with Blake not far from the SeaMonkey Bros* So... that guy at one point, huh?
Blake: *Mildly embarrassed at the short-lived crush* At one point, yes.
Yang: *Grinning bemusedly* Certainly a catch that slipped away. Can't believe I got reeled in instead.
Blake: *Elbows Yang in the ribs* Shush you. I can still do a catch-and-release with you.
Yang: Hehe. Love you too, Blakey.
Blake: *Muttering* You better.
#rwby#rwby shitpost#neptune vasilias#sun wukong#oc#ariel vasilias#yang xiao long#blake belladonna#bumbleby
50 notes
¡
View notes
Note
A horse is ploughing its field one day, when it spies a military caravan passing by. There are columns of footmen, then archers, and then rank after rank of proud knights on dashing steeds, their manes blowing in the breeze, their mighty hooves thudding in rhythm on the road. Each is wearing a fluttering caparison of colourful silk, decorated in bold heraldic colours. The horse watches, his mouth open, as they pass. He has never seen a sight more beautiful. He didnât even know that a horse could look so fine. âOne day,â says the draught horse, âI will look as fine as that. Iâll bear a proud knight on my back, and Iâll be accorded all the honour in the world.â The farmer who owns him laughs, and says âhow are you going to be a knightâs horse? Youâve got all of this field, and the next, to plough, and thatâs before we even get any sowing done.â The horse finishes his dayâs work quietly in thought, and is led back to the stable.
The next day, the farmer wakes, and is amazed to find all his fields ploughed in the night, with his horse waiting patiently outside the stable. âI ploughed it all during the night, and saved you weeks of work. Surely you could send me to be a knightâs horse, now?â The farmer shakes his head, and says âYouâre the finest horse Iâve ever had, if you can plough these fields all by yourself, at night. Why would I send you off to be a knightâs horse?â âNow, come on, weâve got the sowing to do!â
A year passes, and the horse has resigned himself to his work. He works hard, but dreams of a better life. And then, one day, the horse spies another military caravan passing by. There are, again, columns of footmen, and columns of archers, and then a great host of knights in bright raiment, each riding a grand warhorse. Each is armoured in shining steel, and their flanks seem to shimmer as they pass by. The horseâs bit drops from his mouth in amazement as he watches them go past. âOne day,â he thinks to himself, âIâll be a mighty warhorse like that. Iâll wear steel plate armour, and charge into battle, and have a brave knight on my back!â His farmer laughs again, and says âCome on, youâll never be a war horse. Youâre a farm horse, youâve got work to do. Weâve got all of this field, and the next, to plough, and summerâs not too far off, weâll need you to pull the wagon so we can take our grain to market!â
The horse thinks quietly to himself as he finishes the dayâs work, and heâs led back to the stables. However, during the night, there is a fire, and the farmer and his family are killed. The horse struggles valiantly, but is unable to rescue them, and is coughing smoke and dizzy by the time he escapes the blaze.
In the morning, he is taken in by the people from the local town, who wonder out loud what to do with him. The horse, devastated by the loss of his family, stays silent. The townsfolk finally decide to sell the horse, and a passing trader takes him on the road. After a few days, the horse has mostly recovered from breathing all the smoke, and is walking along the road, and realises that the trader is talking to him. âI was wondering what it was you used to do, back on that farm?â The horse coughs, and then finally speaks up. âWell, I used to be koff a plough horse. I once ploughed two whole fields in a night, just to koff impress my owner. But I always koff wanted to be⌠no, itâs silly, donât worry.â The trader, being a kind and generous soul, inquires. âWhat is it? Tell me?â The horse replies âWell, I always wanted to be a fancy koff warhorse, and carry a knight into battle. Iâm strong, and Iâm smartâŚÂ koff I think Iâd do really well at it.â The trader thinks for a while, and says âWell, Iâm headed to a big city. I can always ask around and see if there are any knights who need a new horse.â The horse is overcome with joy, and thanks the trader enthusiastically.
A few weeks pass, and the horse and the trader reach the big city. They search the markets for days before finding an old knight whose last horse was retired. The knight inspects the horse carefully and asks him many questions. âHow old are you?â âWhat kind of work have you done?â âPulled a plough, eh? Hmmmâ âPloughed a whole field in one night? Well, thatâs somethingâŚâ âInjured in a fire, you say? HmmmâŚ. Thatâs a pity.â
âA pity, you say? koff Whyâs that?â Asks the horse, alarmed. âWell, a warhorse needs to be able to breathe hard as he gallops. You couldnât do that, not with that cough you have!â Says the knight sadly.
The horse, heartbroken that he would never get to be a knightâs horse and dress in bright armour, becomes intent on drinking his troubles away. The horse walks into a bar, and the barman and asks âWhy the long face?â
I have a really bad headache and can NOT read all that right now but I Must force others to read it.
7 notes
¡
View notes
Text
đđĄđ đđ˘đđđĄđđŤ đđ§đ đđĄđ đđĄđđđ¨đ° {The Witcher x F!Reader}
2: đđĄđ đđđ đ đ¨đ đđĄđ đđ¨đŤđĽđ (pt. 2)
The people in Lower Posada were strange. They were weirdly kind. Too kind actually. They gave the three of them - Dandilion, y/n and Geralt - some stew to eat. Y/n looked down at her bowl with evident disgust but reluctantly took a few bites. She looked at Dadnilion who was licking his fingers. She then spared a glance at Geralt.
"Thank you for the spread." said the white haired male, he licked his bone spoon and dropped it into the now empty bowl. "A hundred thanks, dear host. And now, if you permit, we'll get down to business."
Nettly, that was the man's name, nodded his head in agreement. "Well, that we can. What say ye, Dhun?"
Dhun turned out to be the elder of Lower Posada. He had a gloomy expression on his features and nodded to the girls who removed the dishes from the table and then left. Dandilion looked quite regretful since he was grinning at them and they were giggling at his gross jokes. Y/n though was mostly intrigued at the conversation that was about to follow. What kind of business?
"I'm listening." said Geralt, he looked out of the window. Y/n tried to see what he was looking at but she could not make out much. "Tell me how I can be of use to you."
Dhun cleared his throat and said, "There be this field hereabouts--" Y/n heard Dandilion slightly groaning, she looked underneath the table to see that Geralt had kicked him. "--A field." Dhun continued. "Be I right, Nettly? A long time, the field there, it lay fallow, but we set it to the plough and now, 'tis on it we sow hemp, hops and flax. It be a grand piece of field, I tell ye. Stretches right up to the forest--"
Dandilion chimed in, "And what? What's on that field there?"
"Well," He scratched himself behind the ear. "Well, there be a deovel prowls there."
Y/n's eyes widened as she raised her head and listened carefully. "What?" snorted Dandilion. "A what?"
"I tell ye: a deovel."
"What deovel?"
"What can he be? A deovel and that be it."
"Devils don't exist!"
"A devil?" y/n asked, pipping into the conversation, suddenly interested. "Can you describe him? Do you know where he came from? What exactly did he do to bother you?"
Dhun fiddled with gnarled hands, he then folded his fingers and looked at the female as if he now acknowledged her presence. He turned to Geralt, "Quite the curious lass you have there." Y/n knocked on the wood in order to get back to the main subject. "Right. Well, it be like this. He looks, ma'am, like a deovel, for all the world like a deovel. Where did he come from? Well, nowhere. Crash, bang, wallop and there we have him: a deovel. And bother us, forsooth he doesnae bother us overly. There be times he even helps."
"Helps?" Dandilion cackled as he tried to remove a fly from his beer. "A devil?"
Y/n shushed him. "Stop being rude." She scolded him lightly and turned her attention to Dhun. Geralt did not speak as he watched the female curiously. "But you have a good point. Devils don't help. But if that be true, what exactly does he help with?"
"Why are you so interested, ma'am?" Dhun asked her. "Are you perhaps a lady witcher?"
"I am a Shadowhunter." Upon the looks of confusion she received, she went on to explain. "Shadowhunters are also called the Children of the Nephilim. Our job is to hunt demons. So, honourable Dhun, I'll ask again and I'd like your response to be related to the main subject of this conversation. What does this deovel help with?"
He gulped anxiously. "Well, this be how he helps: he fertilizes the land, he turns the soil, he gets rid of the moles, scares birds away, watches over the turnips and beetroots. Oh, and he eats the caterpillars he does, they as do hatch in the cabbages. But the cabbages, he eats them too, forsooth. Nothing but guzzle, be what he does. Just like a deovel."
Y/n heard Dandilion cackling again, her eyes focused on Dhun with an incredulous expression, and she could not blame the troubadour. It was quite amusing - they were hiring Geralt to get rid of something which was helping them. Dandilion flicked a beer-drenched fly at a sleeping cat.Â
"Nevertheless, you're ready to pay me to get rid of him, am I right?" said Geralt. His voice was scarily calm, the h/c haired female thought with a shiver. "In other words, you don't want him in the vicinity?"
"And who would care to have a deovel on his birthright soil? This be our land since forever, bestowed upon us by the king and it has nought to do with the deovel. We spit on his help. We've got hands ourselves, have we not? And he, sir, is nay a deovel but a malicious beast and has got so much, forgive the word, shite in his head as be hard to bear. There be no knowing what will come into his head. Once he fouled the well, then chased a lass, frightening and threatening to fuck her." Y/n shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "He steals, sir, our belongings and victuals. He destroys and breaks things, makes a nuisance of himself--"
"Sir, you said that he was helping you. This sounds the complete opposite from your previous claims and it's getting exhasuting." The girl's voice was cold, starting to get annoyed by this mundane. "Just answer this simple question: does he bother you or not?"
Dhun was momentarily shocked by the female's bossiness. He shook his head. "Nay. He doesnae bother us. He be simply up to mischief, that's what he be."
Her left eye twitched but gave him a collected smile. Dandilion turned to the window, muffling his laughter. Nettly spoke up then, "Oh, what be there to talk about. Ye be a witcher, nae?" He addressed Geralt who kept quiet. "So do ye something about this deovel. It be work ye be looking for in Upper Posada. I heard so myself. So ye have work. We'll pay ye what needs be. But take note: we don't want ye killing the deovel. No way."
"Interesting," Geralt spoke, his head raised and nasty smile. "Unusual, I'd say."
Dhun frowned, "What?"
"An unusual condition. Why all this mercy?"
"He should nae be killed. Because in this Valley--"
Nettly cut it, "He should nae and that be it. Only catch him, sir, or drive him off yon o'er the seventh mountain. And ye will nae be hard done by when ye be paid."
Geralt remained quiet, still smiling. Dhun then asked, "Seal it, will ye, the deal?"
"First, Iâd like a look at him, this devil of yours." replied Geralt.
"It be yer right," said Nettly, then stood up. "And yer will. The deovel he do prowl the whole neighborhood at night but at day he dwells somewhere in the hemp. Or among the old willows on the marshland. Ye can take a look at him there. We won't hasten ye. Ye be wanting rest, then rest as long as ye will. Ye will nae go wanting in comfort and food as befits the custom of hospitality. Take care."
Dandilion jolted up from his stool and looked out into the yard at the freemen. "Geralt. I can't understand anything anymore. A day hasn't gone by since our chat about imagined monsters and you suddenly get yourself hired hunting devils. And everybody--- except ignorant freemen obviously--- knows that devils are an invention; they're mythical creatures. What's this unexpected zeal of yours supposed to mean? Knowing you a little as I do, I take it you haven't abased yourself so as to get us bed, board and lodging, have you?â
"Indeed. It does look as if you know me a little, singer."
"In that case, I don't understand."
"What is there to understand?"
"There's no such things as devils!" yelled Dandilion, shaking the cat from sleep once and for all. "No such thing! To the devil with it, devils don't exist!"
"True." Geralt smiled. "But, Dandilion, I could never resist the temptation of having a look at something that doesn't exist."
"Excuse me," y/n's voice was shaking a little as she now spoke directly to the 'witcher'. "I'd also like to take a look at this, uh, devil. I can help."
"I don't need it."
"And I didn't ask. I just wanted to let you know."
ăâ¤ă
"Bloody hell!" groaned y/n as her hair and clothes were now tangled with leaves and small branches. "I hope this nasty little creature is close!"
Geralt then muttered, ignoring the girl's comment. "One thing is certain" He swept his eyes over the tangled jungle of hemp. "This devil is not stupid."
"Good for him," Her voice dripped with sarcasm. "But how did you deduce that?"
Dandilion was also curious and added, "From the fact that he's sitting in an impenetrable thicket? Any old hare has enough brains for that."
Geralt answered them, "It's a question of the special qualities of hemp. A field of this size emits a strong aura against magic. Most spells will be useless here. And there, look, do you see those poles? Those are hops - their pollen has the same effect. It's not mere chance. The rascal senses the aura and knows he's safe here."
Dandilion coughed and adjusted his breeches. "Iâm curious." He scratched his forehead beneath his hat. "How are you going to go about it, Geralt? Iâve never seen you work. I take it you know a thing or two about catching devilsâI'm trying to recall some ballads. There was one about a devil and a woman. Rude, but amusing. The woman, you seeâ"
"If you finish that sentence I'll kick you where sun don't shine." The female spoke with an irritation that she had not experienced for a while. She saw the startled look on Dandilion's face and regretted her choice of words. "I'm sorry. That was rude. But I beg you, refrain yourself from making crude comments."
"As you wish, my fair lady. I only wanted to be helpful, that's all. And you shouldn't scorn ancient songs. There's wisdom in them, accumulated overgenerations. There's a ballad about a farmhand called Slow, whoââ
"Stop wittering. We have to earn our board and lodging." Geralt interrupted the troubadour.
"What do you want to do?"
"Rummage around a bit in the hemp."
"That's original," snorted Dandilion. "Though not too refined."
"And you, how would you go about it?"
"Intelligently." Dandilion sniffed. "Craftily. With a hounding, for example. Iâd chase the devil out of the thicket, chase him on horseback, in the open field, and lasso him. What do you think of that?"
"Interesting. Who knows, maybe it could be done, if you took partâbecause at least two of us are needed for an enterprise like that. But we're not going hunting yet. I want to find out what this thing is, this devil. That's why I'm going to rummage about in the hemp."
"Hey!" The bard had only just noticed. "You haven't brought your sword!"
"What for? I know some ballads about devils, too. Neither the woman nor Slow the farmhand used a sword."
"Hmm. . ." Dandilion looked around. "Do we have to squeeze through the very middle of this thicket?"
"You don't have to. You can go back to the village and wait for me. Take the girl with you."
Her brows shot up in surprise. "Excuse me? I am not scared of the woods! Mister poet could go back if he's not comfortable but I'm staying."
"Oh, no," protested Dandilion. "And miss a chance like this? I want to see a devil too, see if he's as terrible as they claim. I was asking if we have to force our way through the hemp when there's a path."
He is quite brave, for a mundane. She thought with a blush dusting her cheeks. She shook her head. No! Mother and father would be disappointed if they found out that I may be developing a crush on a mundie. She looked at the troubadour. Though I might be mistaking his foolishness for bravery.
"Quite right." Geralt shielded his eyes with his hand. "There is a path. So let's use it."
 "And what if it's the devil's path?" Y/n asked the witcher.Â
 "All the better. We won't have to walk too far."
"Do you know, Geralt," babbled the bard, following the witcher along the narrow, uneven path among the hemp. "I always thought the devil was just a metaphor invented for cursing: 'go to the devil', 'to the devil with it', 'may the devil.' Lowlanders say: 'The devils are bringing us guests,' while dwarves have 'Duvvel hoael' when they get something wrong, and call poor-blooded livestock devvelsheyss. And in the Old Language, there's a saying, 'A d'yaebl aep arse,' which meansâ"
"I know what it means. You're babbling, Dandilion." Y/n raised her hand sheepishly. Geralt sighed in exasperation which caused her to tense up a little bit. "Yes?"
"I am literally new around here. What-- What does it mean?" She asked. "I can only understand one word because it sounds like the English one."
"English?" Dandilion questioned, his head tilted to the side innocently. "Is this a language?"
She nodded. "Yeah? You speak it right now."
He shook his head with a chuckle. "No, my lady. You speak the common."
Y/n simply stared at him. "Let's just agree to disagree." She shook her head. "Anyway. What does that phrase you said earlier mean?"
He chuckled. "It means 'Into the devil's--"
"Dandilion." Geralt groaned.
"What? The lady asked!" The bard protested. "And who am I to say no to a lady so beautiful?"
She let out a small flustered giggle. "Beautiful? You're flattering me."
"I'd never lie! I'm merely stating what's obvious!"
"Will you shut it?" hissed the witcher.
Dandilion and y/n stopped talking. The former took off the hat decorated with a heron's feather, fanned himself with it and wiped his sweaty brow. The humid, stifling heat, intensified by the smell of grass and weeds in blossom, dominated the thicket. The path curved a little and, just beyond the bend, ended in a small clearing which had been stamped in the weeds.
"Look, you two." In the very center of the clearing lay a large, flat stone, and on it stood several clay bowls. An almost burnt-out tallow candle was set among the bowls. Geralt saw some grains of corn and broad beans among the unrecognizable pips and seeds stuck in the flakes of melted fat. "As I suspected, they're bringing him offerings."
"That's just it," said the poet, indicating the candle. "And they burn a tallow candle for the devil. But they're feeding him seeds, I see, as if he were a finch. Plague, what a bloody pigsty. Everything here is all sticky with honey and birch tar. What--"
The bard's next words were drowned by a loud, sinister bleating. Something rustled and stamped in the hemp; then the strangest creature Geralt had ever seen emerged from the thicket.
The creature was about half a rod tall with bulging eyes and a goat's horns and beard. The mouth, a soft, busy slit, also brought a chewing goat to mind. Its nether regions were covered with long, thick, dark-red hair right down to the cleft hooves. The devil had a long tail ending in a brush-like tassel which wagged energetically.
"Uk! Uk!" barked the monster, stamping his hooves. "What do you want here? Leave! Leave or Iâll ram you down. Uk! Uk!"
"What the bloody hell am I watching?" the h/c haired female questioned, her look was one of a surprise rather than horror. If she wasn't shocked, she would probably laugh and if Jace were with her, there would be a high chance for him to join her. "Is this the o so fearsome deovel everyone has been talking about? He looks like a sad goat."
Dandilion laughed at her comment and could not help himself but add. "Has anyone ever kicked your arse, little goat?"
"Uk! Uk! Beeeeee!" bleated the goathorn and y/n could not tell whether it was in agreement, denial or just for the sake of it.
"Shut up, you two," growled the witcher. "Not a word."
"Us?! He"- she pointed at the creature -"is the talking goat!"
"Blebleblebeeeee!" The creature gurgled furiously, his lips parting wide to expose yellow horse-like teeth. "Uk! Uk! Bleubeeeeubleuuuuubleeeeeeee!"
Y/n made a sound of disgust and muttered silently. "Someone is in serious need of a dentist."
"Most certainly"- Dandilion added -"you can take the barrel-organ and bell when you go home--"
"Stop it, damn you," hissed Geralt. "Keep your stupid jokes and your sarcastic remarks to yourselves---"
"Jokes!" roared the goathorn loudly and leapt up. "Jokes? New jokers have come, have they? They've brought iron balls, have they? I'll give you iron balls, you scoundrels, you. Uk! Uk! Uk! You want to joke, do you? Here are some jokes for you! Here are your balls!"
The creature sprang up and gave a sudden swipe with his hand. Y/n jumped out of the way quickly but Dandilion wasn't so fast or lucky and howled and sat down hard on the path, clasping his forehead. The creature bleated and aimed again. Something whizzed past Geralt's ear.
"Here are your balls! Brrreee!"
An iron ball, an inch in diameter, thwacked the witcher in the shoulder and the next hit Dandilion in the knee. The poet cursed foully and scrambled away, Geralt running after him as balls whizzed above his head.
"Uk! Uk!" screamed the sylvan, leaping up and down. "I'll give you balls! You shitty jokers!"
Another ball whizzed through the air. Dandilion cursed even more as he grabbed the back of his head. Geralt threw himself to one side, among the hemp, but didn't avoid the ball that hit him in the shoulder. Y/n mentally admitted it to herself that, for a sylvan, he had a really good aim and, unfortunately for them, a good amount of balls. The witcher, stumbling through the thicket, heard yet another triumphant bleat from the victorious goathorn, followed by the whistle of a flying ball, a curse and the patter of Dandilion's feet scurrying away along the path. One of the iron balls hit y/n when she was distracted. She winced in pain and ran with the others.
And then silence fell.
ăâ¤ă
"Well, well, Geralt." Dandilion held a horseshoe he'd cooled in a bucket to his forehead. "That's not what I expected. A horned freak with a goatee like a shaggy billy goat, and he chased you away like some upstart. And I got it in the head. Look at that bump!"
"That's the sixth time you've shown it to me. And it's no more interesting now than it was the first time."
"How charming. And I thought Iâd be safe with you!"
Y/n searched through her jacket for her stele.
"I didn't ask you to traipse after me in the hemp, and I did ask you to keep that foul tongue of yours quiet. You didn't listen, so now you can suffer. In silence, please, because they're just coming."
The female ignored the two as she removed the stele from her pocket. To Geralt and Dandilion looked like a long, slender twig but made out of silver or some metal. She took off her jacket and pressed it against her skin. A small light appeared in the tip and she begun making something. Black ink came out of it. She did a rune on the place she had been hit and then did another one.
Dandilion could not help but stare in amazement which followed up by him voicing his thoughts. "My, what kind of sorcery is that? It looks like art!"
"These are runes. They aid us and sometimes even give us special abilities when we kill demons." y/n said shortly, her eyes on her arm as she was being careful
"We?"
"Shadowhunters. I mentioned it earlier." As she finished, she put her jacket back on and the stele on her pocket. "Also, now I understand why you all can see me."
"Shouldn't we?"
"No. All Shadowhunters have a rune which keeps them hidden from the sight of the mundies." She adjusted her jacket. "The reason why you can see me is because all my runes have disappeared." Nettly and Dhun walked into the dayroom. Behind them hobbled a gray-haired old woman led by a fair-haired and painfully thin teenage girl. "I'll go check the place."
"Huh?" Dendilion blurted, baffled by her decision. "Is there something wrong?"
Y/n did not respond. Not at first. She looked at Nettly and Dhun, then to the old woman and the young girl. There was something off with this place and she was in no good mood for another discussion with them. "I'll be back soon."
And she left before anyone could stop her.
ăâ¤ă
She returned to the field, this time she had taken some precautions by marking herself with runes that would enhance her speed and protect her.
"Hey!" Y/n shouted, cupping her mouth. "I know you're here! Show yourself!" A rustle, an angry 'uk' and the snapping of stakes, reached her ears from the thicket. "Coward!"
"Coward yourself.â The sylvan poked his head out from the hemp, baring his teeth at her. "What do you want?"
She ignored his question and answered with another. "You are not a devil. You're a sylvan, right?"
"And what if I am?"
"We got off the wrong foot. I am y/n Lightwood and I just want to talk to you."
Silence.
"Are you making fun of me or what? You are with that witcher these peasants hired to get rid of me."
"I assure you, I met that man today. I simply came along out of sheer curiosity. Please, let's talk."
"That's what it's called now?" The sylvan mocked her. "I've seen that fancy dagger of yours. The one that you're hiding in your boot!"
"I am not going to hurt---"
"Throw it away!"
"Pardon?"
"You heard me! If you want to talk, then throw your weapon away!" Y/n really did not want to do this, but the satyr was not making it easy. She sighed and with a heavy heart took her dagger out of her boot. She looked at it for a long moment and put it down. "What do you take me for, an idiot? Further!" She bit her lip and with her foot she pushed it away. "Further!"
She kicked it, mentally noting where it landed. "There. Let's talk, now." She looked at the sylvan straight in the rights. He surely wasn't a beautiful sight to behold. "You do cause the mischief the stereotypical sylvan does." She begun as she examined around with her eyes. "But I've noticed the offerings." The sylvan looked at her, weighing his weight from one hoof to the other. "Quite a lot for someone as small as you. So... let me ask you this one question, and you better answer it." There was a moment of silence. The birds were chirping but she could hear something else. Galloping from a horse. She wanted to assume that the witcher was coming but she had a feeling that lady luck wasn't on her side this time. "Who are you trying to protect?"Â
The galloping became louder. She sighed and ducked as she could feel something being swung at her.Â
She dropped the ground and saw a man on horseback. She could not distinguish his face due to him being hooded and the sun too bright. This certainly wasn't Geralt, or Dandilion. He dismounted his horse as he took out a blade.
Y/n stood on her feet and backed away before he could strike her. It looked like a lion ready to catch its prey. Not so much different from hunting a demon, y/n thought to herself. She had to get her weapon, fast. She spotted it. It wasn't too far away but it wasn't too close for her to grab it without the man chasing her.
Her feet moved swiftly to the side, pretending to go the other way at first so she could confuse the man before her.Â
The rider quickly caught on to her attempt to deceive him. He grabbed her by the wrist, blade under her neck. Y/n kicked the male between the legs and gave him a quick butthead.Â
He grunted in pain as he let go and instinctively dropped his weapon to hold his head in pain. Y/n wheeled around and ran. Right on time because the rider healed fast. Just as she grasped her seraph blade, she turned around and her blade clashed with his own.
They engaged in swordfight. He was very skilful, his skill with the blade could almost match her adoptive brother's. If it weren't for her runes, he would probably land a hit on her.
She tried to keep her focus on the man's blade, but she could faintly hear the sylvan saying something to the man. Something about not killing her.
The rider grew tired of this soon and tackled her on the ground. He grabbed her wrists, pinning them over her head. She squirmed as she tried to break free of his hold but he held her with an iron grip.Â
"Who the fuck are you?" She demanded of the man but he did not respond.Â
He did not respond. Instead, he collided his head against her own. Knocking her out.
#the witcher x reader#the witcher#geralt of rivia x reader#edge of the world#the witcher and the shadow#dandilion#dandelion#jaskier#torque#geralt of rivia
52 notes
¡
View notes
Text
seven degrees east - chapter seven
Fandom: Masters of the Air Pairings: multiple Rating: E Chapter: 7 / ? Word Count: 4397
read on tumblr: one | two | three | four | five | six
Professor Harding moved amongst them, and the boys had the sense that they had been in the trenches of Walden together, that a bond had been forged between bean fields and the fundamentals of self-reliance, that the murky veil of authority between instructor and student had been thinned, all for the better. It was now mid-July, and the summer semester was almost at an end.
In the two weeks since the party in Cringleford, the boys felt their worldsâsocial and academic, personal and sharedâhad been changed. University, which in its functions and expectations cared little for the lush, revolving inner worlds of its students, ploughed ahead as though nothing were different. This meant it was time for the boys to immerse themselves in the plotting and planning and researching and revising of concepts for their final essays. It was time to show what theyâd learned.
Feeling he worked in the spirit of Thoreauâs project, Harding had permitted, for this last assignment, arguments which yoked Walden and each boyâs particular literary speciality. The professorâs aim was to make the essay useful to them, as Thoreauâs excursion to the woods had been to his own mind and methods. This allowed Hardingâs students more freedom for creativity, and so more space for development had also been allowed. Harding had allocated that dayâs class for the workshopping of final essay ideas.
Curt was sitting next to John. Had this arrangement been tried even the week before, it would have set the rest of the classâincluding Harding, who didnât concern himself with his studentsâ spats and scuffles but, like a barometer, always noticed a change in atmospheric pressureâon edge. However, Johnâs bruises had faded, and he and Curt had worked to clear the air. This had involved less effort than either might have expected. Since John hadnât hit Curt, Curtâs primary grievance had been the insults John had slung at him while baiting him into the two right hooks he had thrown. John had apologized sincerely and, because Curt understood he hadnât really meant what heâd said, had his apology accepted at face value.
Curtâs secondary grievance was all tangled up with Johnâs primary one: that John hadnât kissed Gale, while Curt had. When theyâd hashed the whole thing out over a smoke, Curt had placed the blame for all the shit between them on Johnâs failure to act on his feelings for Gale sooner. John had taken this criticism on the chinâclose to where heâd taken Curtâs fist at the party. Once John had cooled his head and his heels (and was sober), he had more easily accepted that what heâd seen through the door of that Philosophy classroom had been a combination of friendship, trust, and spontaneity. Gale had been newly (officially) single. Curt was known among their group to be the least uptight about his sexuality. Like Gale had told John the night of the fightâand other things as yet unexaminedâit had been a one-time occurrence. Had Curt enjoyed kissing Gale? Of course. (John had clenched his fingers into a fist beside his leg where Curt hadnât been able to see, then forced himself to relax them.) Was Curt rooting for John and Gale to get together? Abso-fuckinâ-lutely. Why hadnât it happened yet, Curt had wanted to know? What was this new weirdness between them that no longer seemed to have anything to do with Curt? John had staggered into a sentence he didnât know how to finish before just letting it float away like the smoke he sighed from his nostrils.
Now, Curt was ranting to John about his two favourite ideas heâd come up with for his final essay.
âYou got the travel narrative, right? You with me, John? You got fuckinâ Kerouac, fuckinâ On the Road. That,â Curt said, âversus Thoreauâs, I dunno what yaâd call it⌠his stayinâ-put story. Ok? So, we got movement and restlessness and how that gets channeled.â
âRight,â John said, more to show he was listening and less because he was totally following.
âOrâsecond idea, second idea now, Johnâwe got city and country. Another comparative essay, external conditions seemingly in opposition. And for this we go to Baldwin. Yo, Buck! Baldwin!â
Gale, who was mid-discussion of his own essay with Rosie, glanced over and offered Curt a thumbs up. His gaze slid automatically to John, who blushed for no good reason, scratched his head, and turned back to Curt.
âIâm a little less sure about that one,â Curt admitted, focus back on John. He kneaded the knuckles of his left hand into his right palm until they cracked. âBut if I could figure it out, itâd kick ass.â
âItâd be fucking killer,â John said, really quite at sea, but carried along on the tide of his friendâs enthusiasm and, more than anything, wanting to demonstrate his renewed love and support since the rupture in their friendship.
âOk, and for my third ideaââ
âYour third?â John had one idea for this essay, exactly one, and he rubbed worryingly at his chin as Curt prepared to launch into another pitch.
âYeah, dude. So, this one Iâm thinkinâ Hintonâyou know, The Outsiders?â
âSure, man. Patrick Swayze.â
âPatrick Swayze? Goddammit, John.â Curtâs hand shot out and lightly cuffed the back of Johnâs head. âThis is a fuckinâ literature class. Read a book, would ya?â He shrugged. âBut sure, Swayze, if it helps ya follow along.â
John scoffed before giving in to his grin. He planted his elbow on the table and sunk his head into his hand as he listened.
âThis oneâs simple. Itâs so good,â Curt promised. One thing they shared, luckily, was confidence in their work. âI look at belonging in a group and belonging in a place.â
âThatâs interesting,â John said. He meant it.
This time, the idea struck something deep within him, something that twanged back. He was warmed by the resonance. It was them, he thought. He could see that Curt, himself, and the rest of the boys fit neatly at the center of Curtâs concept. They were Thorpe Abbottsâ English PhDs, the Bloody Hundredth, their own favourite company to keep. And they were a part of this place, this university, these grounds, this country theyâd transplanted themselves onto in the hopes of learning something of books and life and driving on a different side of the road.
âThatâs the winner,â he said.
âYou think?â Curt asked earnestly.
âYeah, man. Run it past Harding.â
âAlright, alright, but tell me yours first. Whaddaya got?â
John smiled a slow smile and said, âHemingway.â
âIâm shocked,â Curt joked, and beckoned with his hand. Gimme more.
âItâs not much,â John explained, meaning the idea was spare, unadorned, not that he thought it was a poor one. He straightened up in his seat. âIâm just thinking⌠Thoreau. Hemingway. A man alone. Not sure yet if Iâd go Old Man and the Sea or For Whom the Bell Tolls, but one of the two.â
He nodded conclusively.
âI mean, yeah,â Curt said. âIf you say so.â
âI do say so.â
âThen fuck yeah!â
âFuck yeah,â John agreed, nodding again.
Curt shoved his chair away from the table, preparing to speak to Harding about his idea. He paused before rising.
âThatâs everything you got?â
âThatâs it.â
âSick,â Curt praised.
âThanks, man.â
A man alone, John thought when Curt had gone to the other end of the room. He drummed his fingers on the table. Without meaning to, he found himself gazing idly at Gale. Gale sat so still as he listened to Rosie, who was speaking with sweeping gestures of his hands. The other brainstorming groupâcomprised of Crosby, Nash, and Bubblesâalready had three members, so John knew it was Rosie and Gale he should join. And he would. Any minute. He made his body as still as Galeâs, heavy and content, chest moving in and out. Galeâs gaze swung over to meet his and John immediately pushed his chair back and went to join them.
Gale watched as John approached, as he flung his pen and notebook down and took an empty seat, stretching his legs out beneath the table. He wore a brown t-shirt. It mightâve been nothing on someone else, but dark brown on John made his hair look lustrous, his sunburned nose and cheeks peachy rather than painfulâthese were Galeâs thoughts, and this study of John as he moved, as he sat and unfurled his long limbs, recalled the John of two weeks prior, if only because of the contrast (and because that John had rarely left Galeâs mind in the interim). That John had been compact; Galeâs gaze had darted madly to take in the taut-muscled twist of his best friendâs body. John had been on his knees and ducking his head to avoid the jeepâs ceiling, though turned towards Gale, the hunch had resembled a bow. And his cheeks; the flush on his cheeks had been blood, not sun, lit up just enough by the porchlight that Gale could see the heat trapped beneath Johnâs skin. God help him, he had ached since that night to know what it felt like to touch the heat rolling off John when he came.
âWhadda we got goinâ over here?â John demanded, forcefully casual.
âPoe,â Rosie said, steepling his fingers against his own chest. He indicated Gale next. âJames.â
âHemingway,â John supplied with a grin, sticking out a hand for each of them to shake as though they had taken on the names of these authors as their own and were introducing themselves. They humoured him. Gale hung on a little long before letting his fingers slip free of the hold.
âLetâs hear it,â John encouraged, waving Rosie on.
âYou want my shpiel?â Rosie checked wryly. He smirked. âAlright. Picture Thoreauâs cabin.â
Gale had heard the shpiel already, so while John closed his eyes to center himself inside the narrative Rosie was constructing around him, Gale stared at John. They had talked, and the talking had been a relief after the days John had spent freezing him out. Unfortunately, they had talked about everything but the night of the party. Gale was beginning to wonder if they ever would, and the wondering filled him with a longing he couldnât have described with all of Henry Jamesâs winding, self-conscious language of introspection. Like Jamesâs characters, Gale felt divided between past and present existences. He felt he was leaving some version of himself behind with the new one not yet fully formed. Though he could not go back, he feared going forward alone. If only John would say something. Why was he suddenly such a good listener?
Listen was what John did as Rosie laid out the argument for convincing his reader that Walden could be interpreted as a Gothic story. He spoke of legacy and sustainability, the fickleness of memory, the blurriness surrounding whether the landscape intruded upon the characters or they upon it. âThe Fall of the House of Usher,â Rosie insisted, would help him break new ground on Walden.
âI like it,â Gale was quick to say when Rosie had wrapped up.
âSame here,â John said, and Gale felt the satisfaction of their agreement from his scalp to his toes.
Rosie, caught in the middle, glanced from one of his friends to the other with a knowing smile. A slight action of his shoulders showed his shy acceptance of their approval.
âGaleâs turn for show-and-tell,â he informed them.
John started a facetious drumroll on the edge of the table. Gale snatched up Rosieâs eraser and bounced it at him. When it landed in his lap, John gave Gale a look (You wanna pick that up? the look said) before slowly returning it to the table. His eyes glittered like Gale remembered the streaks of rain on the jeepâs windows had, catching headlights as Bubbles drove them home.
Gale cleared his throat.
âIâm thinkinâ of something a little cerebral.â
Through a fake cough, John barked out, âSnob.â
âMaybe,â Gale allowed, grinning. âMaybe.â He stared at the table for a few moments while he collected his thoughts. âSo, Thoreau spends a lot of time doing, but thereâs a lot of thinking there too. He talks about meditation. He, uh, he⌠really makes you see the value of patience, besides just that itâs necessary when youâre waiting for something like crops to grow.â
âSure does,â Rosie encouraged.
âYou wanna talk about whatâs worth waiting for?â John asked abruptlyâso abruptly that the question seemed to short something in Galeâs brain and he forgot, just for a moment, what it was they were discussing. He blinked and recoupled the cars on his train of thought.
âMore the worth of waiting at all,â Gale corrected. âIâm going to throw in Washington Square to complicate that. I think what James really shows is⌠the importanceâbut the difficultyâof trusting your own mind.â
âHmm,â Rosie said thoughtfully, which was a not-discouraging response.
âI think what James really shows is how much the mind sucks ass,â John declared. He added, âFiguratively.â
âYou do, do you?â Gale countered, slightly annoyed.
âYep. Itâs too much thinking that keeps whatshisname and whatsherface apart.â
âYou havenât read it.â
âYouâve talked about it,â John said shortly. âI listened.â
They had a brief, silent standoff during which Rosie wrote down some useless jot points in his notebook. Gale suspected he was working hard to resist the urge to break into a self-soothing whistle.
âMorris and Catherine,â Gale emphasized, âstay apart because her father believes Morris is after their money.â
âWhich he can never confirm?â John checked. âAnd neither can she?â
âThatâs right.â
âSo, itâs stupid.â
âItâs not stupid. Itâs a great work of literature.â
âYeah,â John drawled, âbut itâs stupid that Catherine decides to be suspicious and alone. If you ask meââ
âI didnât,â Gale pointed out.
ââeverybody in that novel thinks a little too much. Whereâs theâŚâ He snapped his fingers, attempting to summon the right word.
âSpontaneity,â Rosie provided without looking up.
âThanks, Rosie. The spontaneity. Why doesnât Catherine grab life by the fucking balls?â
âMaybe thatâs not who she is, fundamentally,â Gale said.
âMaybe it could be,â John challenged.
âSheâs a product of her time.â
âBullshit. Love is timeless.â
A laugh burst from Rosie, who could no longer pretend he wasnât listening to the exchange happening across him.
âIâm sorry,â he said, beaming. âI was imagining my grandmother embroidering that on a tea towel.â
His laughter cleared the accumulated tension from the air. Gale took a deep breath and stole a glance at John doing the same.
âMy essay is mind over feelings,â Gale said weakly. âItâs what I know.â
âItâs not all you know,â John said. âBut, for the essay, I get it. I think the âtrusting your own mindâ thingâll work with Thoreau, that pretentious fuck.â
âA little respect for our dead friend, Egan,â Harding called over.
âDonât worry, sir, I meant it as a compliment.â
Gale had his back to their professor, but he heard him sigh. The three boys chuckled quietly.
âBet he canât wait to get us out of his hair,â Rosie guessed.
âNah,â John said, âhe loves us. Especially me.â
Who wouldnât, was the thought that came to Gale unbidden.
As John took his turn, once again delivering his idea in a style so stripped-back it rivalled Hemingwayâs own, another trio was brainstorming in the opposite corner of the room.
Aside from the mandatory course texts for their class, Nash hadnât read anything written by a man since heâd spent the night with Helen. Helen hadnât directed or even requested this. It hadnât mattered, and Nash was already in deep. Rosie had walked into their floorâs shared kitchen in the dorms the other night to see Nash squinting at the fine print on the Pop-Tarts box (probably bored while using the toaster, Rosie had figured). To mess with his friend, Rosie had shouted, âA MAN WROTE THOSE NUTRITIONAL FACTS,â not expecting to laugh so hard he almost peed his pants after Nash dropped the box in horror.
Nashâs essay idea wasnât one the boys felt moved to mock though; he planned to set Charlotte Perkins Gilmanâs fictional Herland up next to Thoreauâs portrait of the actual Walden Pond and compare them as utopiasâwhat they had, what they were missing, through whose eyes the reader was meant to view them as idyllic. At another time in his life (pre-Helen), Nash might (would) have joked about Herland as the utopia to end all utopias because it was full of women, but he had grown, he had changed. He felt less eager to surround himself with women and much more eager to get himself drunk on Helen. Just intoxicated. Falling-down, slurred-speech sloshed on the sight of her, her laugh, the feel of her fingers raking through his hair when heâd had his head between her thighs.
Since the party, Helen had borrowed Sandraâs car to visit Nash once on campus. Heâd taken Rosieâs keys and seen her three times. Between these four meetings, it had felt as if theyâd barely been apart, and Nash liked it that way. He was up to his heart-shaped eyeballs in love and overflowing the joyful energy into writing his final paper, just so heâd have something to talk to Helen about when he called her at nightâas he had been every night they werenât physically together.
Where Nash deconstructed an idealized vision, Bubbles went for realism from the start. Feeling he hadnât spent enough time with his pal Steinbeck this semester, Bubbles was bringing that author into his final essay to help him examine the dichotomy of working man and intellectual. He thought Thoreau inhabited both archetypes, and while Thoreauâs life-on-the-land project had perhaps taken a few shortcuts, Bubbles was keen to dig into the messier side of a collision between two seemingly contradictory paradigms. The struggle was everywhere but in how he explained it, words rolling off his tongue.
Bubblesâ only distractionâthough he proceeded through itâwas Crosby. His best friendâs face was so serious as he listened. It was nice to be heard with such rapt attention, Bubbles felt, but he worried. Heâd overheard Crosby on the phone with his mom the night before. Touching base with home would be good for Crosby, Bubbles thought, but none of them would be making the trip back to the States until the semester ended. Bubbles knew Crosby, and if he was reaching out to his mom now, it suggested something was up, that his balance was off, that he was looking for someone or something to right it. Did Crosby really need to be reminded that Bubbles was right there? But then maybe he did. Bubbles had seen how mixed-up Crosby could get himself if he wasnât careful, and it was a shame when Bubbles thought the whole world of him.
âLast but not least,â Bubbles said, when he was finished and had turned towards his best friend. âWhatâve you got for us, Croz?â
âMystery?â Nash guessed.
And usually, knowing Crosby, this would have been the correct guess, the easy right answer, but today, Crosby leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms against his chest, his ankle over the opposite knee. His own limbs wound tight around him, he smiled a smile that troubled Bubbles.
âMaybe the mystery is why people are still reading Walden,â Crosby quipped.
Coming from Crosbyâusually so eager, so earnest, so desperate to get it right (whatever it was)âthis remark was shockingly irreverent. Bubbles and Nash looked at each other, at a loss. Nash made a noise between a laugh and a choked sigh. Bubbles pondered what to say. Long seconds later, it was their professor who was the first to come up with a response to Crosbyâs snark.
Sidling silently up to their clustered chairs, Harding ordered, âGo with it.â
Crosby jumped.
âSir?â
ââWhy are we still reading Walden?â Go with that.â
Bubbles cast his gaze from Harding to Crosby.
âI was justââ Crosby began, the flush of wrongfooted embarrassment creeping up his neck.
âAnd now you are,â Harding cut across him to state with finality. He fixed his student with a commanding stare which, despite its ferocity, wasnât without humour. âConsider writing the paper punishment for your curiosity. You asked the question, Crosby. I expect you to answer it.â
âBut I donât knowâŚâ
âFind out.â
Crosby stammered, but Harding turned abruptly away and went to Rosie, who had his hand raised. Crosby looked to Nash and Bubbles instead.
âWhat do I do now?â
âWrite the paper,â Bubbles suggested with a smug smile. âWhat other choice you got?â
âItâs one essay,â Nash reasoned. âJust write something.â
âYou can always start over if you donât like it. We both know youâd be doinâ that anyway.â
âYeah, but Harding assigned me this topic,â Crosby protested. âNormally, the only person pressuring me to get something perfect is me.â
âWhenâd he say it had to be perfect?â Nash asked.
âIt obviously has to be perfect!â Crosby picked up his pen and began rapidly clicking the end. In, out, in, out.
âThereâs not just one way,â Bubbles assured him. He reached out to stop the clicking and Crosby sighed, sliding the pen behind his ear instead.
âItâd be simpler if there were.â
âSimpleâs not really your style, buddy.â
âNobody overcomplicates shit like you, Croz,â Nash threw in.
Crosby bowed his forehead to the table and groaned.
â
The next day found Nash and Rosie in their suiteâs common area. There was no air conditioning in the dorms, so they usually left the windows shut on the hottest days in an attempt to keep humidity out. Today, they had shoved the windows up in their casings and surrendered themselves to the heat.
Rosie was lying on the floor in his boxers. Next to him was the boombox. An infectious pop songââWannabeâ by the Spice Girlsâhad come out earlier that month, and Rosie had found a radio station that was playing it on repeat. The first time he had heard it, heâd just listened. After a couple more listens, heâd sung the chorus under his breath. Now, he knew all the words and hummed the melody even when the song wasnât playing. This included when he was washing dishes, brushing his teeth, and getting gas in his car. Not when he was showering, of course; then, Rosie belted âWannabeâ at the top of his voice. Other residents of the dorms (and anyone passing by outside) were instructed to not go wastinâ Rosieâs precious time. As a boy, Rosie had never been particularly self-conscious. As a man, he lived in the same building as John Egan, who was not exactly a role model for shame or restraint.
Fortunately, Nash could work through pretty well any kind of commotionâit was silence that he found distracting, and he avoided the library accordingly, except when he had to collect a book. Also stripped down to his underwear, Nash sat at the desk and worked on his essay. The biggest hindrance was the damp paper, courtesy of the humidity the boys had failed to shut out. When the Spice Girls were silenced mid-verse, Nash swivelled around in the chair to see Rosie sitting upright.
âWhatâs up?â Nash wondered.
Rosie looked at him.
âIâm gonna ask Liss to marry me.â
âWhat?â
But Rosie leapt to his feet and strode into his bedroom, closing the door. When he reappeared, he was dressed in shorts and a polo shirt, the collar flipped under against his neck. Nash spied the glint of keys twirling around his roommateâs finger.
âRosie. Rosie.â
Rosie didnât seem to hear him, marching to the door. His jaw was set, his gaze determined.
âRosie!â
The door slammed behind him.
âROSIE, FIX YOUR COLLAR!â Nash yelled at the closed door.
Nash sighed in annoyance and tossed his notebook down before forcing himself to get up. The heat was oppressive and he hated to move. He went to the door, opened it, and peered down the hallway. Rosie was already gone.
Leaving the door ajar, Nash shuffled over to Gale and Johnâs dorm. John opened the door to Nashâs knock and automatically glanced down.
âAw, Jesus Christ, Nash,â he said, assaulted by the sight of Nash in his briefs.
Nash grinned and shrugged, then remembered why he was there.
âRosieâs being weird,â he reported.
Gale arrived in the doorway, encountering the same view that had provoked his roommateâs exclamation. He blinked and asked, âCompared to what?â
âHe just blew outta here. He said heâs going to propose to Liss.â
John chuckled and Nash, who was still smiling, raised his eyebrows to underscore the ridiculousness of such a thing. Gale, however, cocked his head thoughtfully.
âThatâs fast,â he observed. âGood for Rosie.â
âGood forâ what?â John demanded in disbelief. âRosie canât get married.â
âSure he can. Heâs a grown man, John. Knows what he wants.â
âKenâs married,â Nash noted when it looked like John was opening his mouth to protest.
âAnd Lemmons is a helluva lot younger than Rosie,â Gale added.
âI just canât believe he didnât talk it over with us,â Nash went on, affronted.
âHey,â John said to get his attention. âHeâll be back. Weâll talk to him then.â
And so they rounded up Curt, they rounded up Bubbles and Crosby, they went back to Nash and Rosieâs dorm (they made Nash put some clothes on), and they began their vigil. The aura of disbelief lingered, but the fact was that Rosie wasnât there. Had he really driven up to Cringleford? Did he have a ring? They asked Nash and he could only tell them there was no ring that heâd been aware of; it had seemed to be a spontaneous decision with no clear impetus beyond âWannabeâ playing for the zillionth time. The boys were perplexed.
They received some answers within the hour. Instead of coming back through the door, Rosie called the suiteâs landline. Nash picked up.
âLiss said yes,â came Rosieâs rushed voice. âCan you come meet us?â
âWhere?â Nash asked, flapping his arm at the boys to demand background silence when they tried to ask what Rosie was saying.
âNorwich City Hall.â
âWhat?â
âIâm getting married, Nash.â
Nash could hear the smile in Rosieâs voice. Still, he said, âWhen?â
And Rosie said, âNow.â
#my writing#seven degrees east#MotA#Masters of the Air#MotA fic#Neil 'Chick' Harding#John 'Bucky' Egan#Curtis Biddick#Gale 'Buck' Cleven#Clegan#Bucky x Buck#Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal#Herbert Nash#Joseph 'Bubbles' Payne#Harry Crosby
5 notes
¡
View notes
Text
All is bliss
Chapter 4
Cw: mentions of infertility, consensual infidelity, manipulation, surrogacy, spying
Gif by: @merlinaddams
Taglist: @mercedesdecorazon @aemondx @darylandbethfanforever9
âAnd this is a good thing how?â He asks her, because if there is no child they canât usurp her mother that easily.
As much as Aegon is against it, it is going to happen.
Aemma was a valuable hostage and gave them legitimacy and a reason Rhaenyra wouldnât rise against them.
House Velaryon would have no choice but to fall in line given she is Laenorâs only trueborn child after all.
Besides women needed children lest they be seen as failures even when the fault lies with the man.
âI never want to have his children, most women do not get that gods-given luxury.â She answered, moving away and sitting at a respectful distance.
Aemma had come so close sheâd been half sitting on his lap. Really, she had been so happy to tell her the secret he already had guessed at, she hadnât noticed her knee on his thigh as she clasped her hands on his shoulders in her joy.
Her perfume alone had reminded him of her wedding night, of that moment he saw her so beautiful and vulnerable in the candlelight he had to seek out a lady of dubious reputation to scratch that itch.
Gods, he might have to seek Lady Wylde out again.
His hand is no longer good enough for him.
âThe entire purpose of your marriage is to prevent a war. What happens when he dies without issue?â he really hates bursting her bubble on this, had Aegon not been needed he would have been happy for her.
âYou get to inherit his claim.
Although mine is much higher, so really, your brother dying without legitimate issue is more of a problem for the Greens than it is for the Blacks. I get to appoint an heir from those available or marry someone of my choosing and have my own.
I might even marry you if youâre still available and prevent your mother and grandfather from putting my family to the sword.â She answers, having thought all of this through already.
It is a tempting prospect, he could go ahead and skip the wait and just marry her.
Even if Aegon set her aside for being barren, one lucky man gets a crown and a chance to plough that fine fertile field of hers.
If he had been the one put forth to marry her, sheâd be fat with his child already.
âHow long have you been planning for this?â he is not shocked at her logic, and yet he couldnât fathom when sheâd have the time for this.
âFor a while now, my scheme is fool-proof.â She grinned with pride.
Four moons pass and the court is afire with the gossip.
Someone ---possibly Aemma--- has let it be known what his true illness was.
She has her blood without fail no matter what they try and if Viserysâ health hadnât had a turn for the worst nor Rhaenyra announced she is four moons pregnant, Alicent wouldnât have told Aegon about it.
âYou need an heir.â She said after pretending she is saddened by his plight.
He brought it upon himself and now he must live with the consequences of his follies.
Alicent had never been stern with him and now look where it got them.
âYou heard the Maester, I cannot sire children anymore. His mercury ointment shriveled up my seed.â Her son said not seeing the forest and focused on his barren tree.
âYour wife needs a lover. I hate this as much as you do, but the only way to keep her claim with us is by making her owe us her life and that of her heirs.â They could claim the child as Laenor claimed Rhaenyraâs sons, and use that as leverage to keep her loyal to their cause.
A mother would do anything for their child, even become a kinslayer if need be.
âDo I get to choose who my little wife cuckolds me with or have you decided for me?â He asked morosely.
âYou may choose. Just remember they must be discreet and that it wonât be a man who goes against you.â She said hoping he exercises that unused organ of his.
He'd be an idiot not to see it.
Aemond has never looked at a lady that way unless you really knew him.
His one eye allows him a good cover for when people rightly guess where he was looking.
Aemma was fond of swimming, wearing breeches and a shirt and sometimes only the knee length shift she wears under her clothes .
Like today.
Aemma thinks no one can see her from here, but Aegon ---and Aemond and sometimes even mother--- have come and seen the show she puts on.
She is a long legged beauty, even if her figure isnât close to full like Rhaenyraâs or Helaenaâs.
But the way the wet fabric clings to her like a second skin is enough to make any manâs prick stand at attention.
Aemond is no exception.
âYou can admit it, little brother, you desire her.â Aegon had the perfect man in mind. âEveryone does, even Cole
He was loyal, looked close enough to them to cast no obvious doubts like Harwin had and was on good enough terms with Aemma not to be rejected.
Aemond freezes and yet Aegon knows his younger brother has always envied him for everything.
âIf she wasnât such a shrew and a terrible lay, Iâd say she was perfect.â He adds knowing how much Aemond dislikes him speaking ill of her.
They were evenly matched, Aemond was as dull and bookish as her.
Once Aemond had been invited to dinner and Aegon had tried his best to find common ground but he felt stupid and resorted to drinking the night away.
It wasnât that he an idiot, he just didnât care for things beyond the simple pleasures of life like eating good food, drinking great wine, flying Sunfyre and fucking any woman that said yes.
Aemma liked reading, having opinions on everything most men agree women are too weak and emotional to grasp, music and worse, taking an active role in governing.
He will be happy to leave the Seven Kingdoms in her hands one day.
And for that to happen, Aemond needs to fuck his wife.
Mother will be so proud of him.
âYou shouldnât speak so ill of your wife.â Aemond begins.
Aegon waits for him to be drinking from his wine skin to say this, âWhich is why you would make a perfect lover for her.â
âCroneâs sagging teats, Aegon, donât joke like that.â Aemond coughs and Aegon hits his back a bit more forcefully than required.
âItâs not a jape, little brother. I need you to fuck her.â
Aegon then explains his predicament and wisely keeps their motherâs involvement a secret.
#aemma velaryon#aemond targaryen x velaryon!oc#all is bliss fic#aegon ii x oc x aemond#aegon ii x oc#ewan mitchell#tom glynn carney
28 notes
¡
View notes
Text
WHEN NOON COMES - DANIEL RICCIARDO
PAIRING: daniel ricciardo x fem!slavic!reader
GENRE: angst
NOTE: have to post it again since i lost my account :(
WARNINGS: poludnitsa, sickle
Daniel didn't know that sleeping on the field at noon could make him end up in a situation like that one.
It was like ten o'clock, when he finally ended ploughing the field and because of the heat and the fact that he didn't have any water with him, he lied on the grass with his hat covering his face and fell asleep.
And then noon came.
The wind knocked his hat from his face and woke him up. At first he didn't want to open his eyes because of the sunlight, but he did it after he heard a girlish voice.
And then he saw her.
He had no idea what a girl like her was doing in the wilderness like his family field, especially wearing only a white plain weave and holding a sack on her back. Her hair was dishevelled and in one of her hands she was holding something metal that reflected the sunlight.
âHello, miss! Are you lost?â he asked, getting closer to the girl, who lifted her head and looked at him.
She was extremely pretty. Her hair was blonde and long, eyes were light blue, she was skinny and tall â everything that was Daniel's type.
âDo you need help?â he asked again, worried about her a little bit.
As I said, the field was settled in complete wilderness and she didn't look like a person who drove there with a car.
âCan I ask you a thing?â the girl finally spoke after a while of looking at Daniel.
âSureâ he answered. He had no idea what she would ask him.
âOkay, so listen carefully nowâ she said and got closer to him. âWhat is always coming but never arrives?â
âThe fuck?â Daniel hummed with fear in his eyes.
He had no idea how to answer her question.
âIs this your final answer?â she questioned, looking at him.
âNo? No! Give me a second please!â he begged. He squatted and covered his face in hands.
He blanked out.
âYour time is running outâ the girl reminded and because of the gap between his fingers, Daniel saw what she was holding in her hand. A sickle was mirroring the sunlight and he knew that he was in the shit.
Because if he wouldn't answer â he was dead.
âOkay, I knowâ he didn't but he had to get more time.
âSo?â
âWell, I thinkâŚâ he started and looked at the sun. âthat the answer isâŚâ and then the answer came to his mind like it was nothing. âtomorrowâ
And even though he gave the right answer, Poludnitsa was angry â she waited too long for the answer.
Daniel knew that he had to run away. So he did it.
He didn't even look behind, because he immediately remembered the story his grandma was telling him when he was younger.
He knew that she wasn't that pretty girl anymore. He knew that if he turned his head, he would see a skeleton or creature with bones out and jagged skin and empty orbitals.
He didn't know for how long he was running. He ended up in a little forest and he knew that it was far away from the field. At one moment he felt extremely drained and fell on the ground.
He didn't have any strength to move nor open his eyes and he just fainted.
Daniel thought that he was dead. He thought that Poludnitsa had catched him up and killed him with her sickle.
Nobody knew for how long he was lying on the ground. But when his father came back home with the lead that on the field there were only a tractor and Daniel's hat but no Daniel, every resident of the village started to look for him.
Even his ex-girlfriend with whom he wasn't on good terms after his breakup.
âBut what could happen? He just ran away? He isn't like that, I know himâ Y/N said to her sister, when they were walking in the forest and looking for Daniel.
âWhy are you asking me?â the younger girl said outraged and turned right, where she found Daniel's body. She quickly got Y/N in, who called the ambulance and thanks to them he got transported to the hospital.
The doctor said that Daniel fainted because of dehydration and exhaustion. And it was actually true, because on that day Daniel drank a very little bit of water and he didn't get enough sleep, but no-one knew why he ended up in the forest outlying 3 kilometres from the field.
And after Daniel got a psychologist's appointment and told what he saw and why did he run away, the doctor said that it was only pseudohallucination.
But Daniel knew that there were two people that would believe him if he would tell him his story.
So after telling the truth to his grandmother, Ricciardo went to the house of his ex-girlfriend's family.
âCan I talk with Y/N?â he asked her father, who only smiled and called his daughter out. âG'dayâ he said as he saw her and she only hugged him.
âI'm glad you're okayâ she said only after she got off him as she remembered that they're not a couple anymore.
âI have to tell you somethingâ he announced, playing with his fingers. âYou were right, Lady Midday is real,â he whispered with tears in his eyes, and the girl hugged him again.
âIt's gonna be okay, I promiseâ Y/N said and after that day, as she promised, everything was getting better and better.
#daniel riccardo x reader#daniel ricciardo#formula 1#dr3#daniel ricciardo x you#daniel ricciardo angst#daniel ricciardo fluff#formula 1 x slavic!reader#discopaddock
40 notes
¡
View notes
Text
Aftermath - Going Home 8/20
A massive shadow appeared on the other side of the door, and his "little" brother opened the door and led him into the house. Guy smiled a wide grin, âJohn! Oh, this is amazing!â
John stood mouth agape, his parents had warned him that Guy had undergone some changes, but this was crazy. He looked up at his younger brother, âWow. Youâre huge.â
Guy with the ever-quick wit smirked, âThat's what she said!â
John returned the smirk, âOk. My little brother⌠Mom said youâd changed; I just didnât realize how much.â
Guy claps his brother on the shoulder, âCome in Johnathan, come in.â
John raised an eyebrow curious, âJohnathan? Are we formal now? Thanks for letting me in. I came to see everyone. Iâm glad youâre all ok.â John tried to take it all in stride, but seeing Guy was an adjustment.Â
Guy yelled into the house, âMOM! DAD! John's here!!â Then he turned around to John again, âI'm just happy to see you buddy.â Guy gave John a hug, with a little more force than he intended, but it was clear he meant to be easy but unsuccessfully so.
John grunted, returning the hug. âYour hugs have gotten strongerâŚand I thought Beauâs were strong. I am happy to see you too. Iâve got pictures on my phone of the work Iâve done on my home in Henford. I think youâd⌠well youâd probably be bored⌠but if you ever want to come over, just call.âÂ
Guy nodded, âI will come see you more, I can help you plough a field or whatever... I'm probably better than a tractor now.âÂ
#tac#ksu#the axiom conclusion#sims 4 story#sims 4#ts4 story#ts4#helenofsimblr#crossover#tales from the district s2
20 notes
¡
View notes
Text
Hamefura bonus story : ~I had a terrifying dream~ Catarina
This story was written by Satoru Yamaguchi to celebrate the release of the volume 6 of the light novel. I post it as promise, please enjoy it ^^
~I had a terrifying dream~
Pale pink walls, a black table, a bed in metal with a light blue cover and a blue cushion above the bed. Ah~ this is the room of my otaku best friend Acchan, whom I used to visit often in my previous life.
Ah, it brings back memories~. I felt relaxed. Then, out of nowhere, "I'm almost ready to clear the route of the new character." I heard the nostalgic voice of Acchan.
But I couldn't see her. Where is she ? As I was wondering, a game started on the TV in front of âŚâŚ. ă And on the screen, the words "FORTUNE LOVER II" were transferred. Wow ! Isn't this the game in which I was reincarnated as the villainess ? It's strange to see it on the screen again like this. âŚâŚ, or rather, did it say II ? Is it my imagination? I gaze intently at the game screen.
No, it's not my imagination! The "II" is out ! There are also new characters. Ah, this game was popular even before it was released. A sequel was released.
A new love story in the Ministry of Magic. Hmmm⌠Maria enters the Ministry of Magic and finds a new love ââââ.
I like it, it's nice.ă
Last time I was busy avoiding doom because I was a villain, but I don't think Catarina will appear in this story anymore (because Catarina should have been exiled from the country in the first game). I can cheer for Maria's love without worrying. Hmmm⌠I might end up being a love cupid.
As I was looking at the screen and grinning inwardly,
 I noticed that the suspicious hooded woman that the protagonist had been confronting earlier was named "? ? ? " said :
"I won't forgive you anymore, be prepared !" cried she .
She's probably the villain in II, and I don't recognize her, so she's probably a new character.
"? ? ? " then raised her hand, emitting something like black flames from it, and took off her hood.
The face that was projected there was a very familiar face. Yes, that's the face I see in the mirror every day. ă And the name "? ? ?" was changed to "Catarina Claes". ă Wh-what do you mean... Catarina on the screen politely explained to me who had hardened my thoughts
"Because of you, I've been exiled from the country ! I won't forgive you ! I have come back to take revenge on you !' ă No, no, no, what are you thinking âŚâŚ there?
"--- Just stay outside the country and plough fields like adults ďźďźďźďźďźďź'
I screamed and jumped up, and in front of me were Sophia and Maria with surprised faces.
What was that ? I looked around, this is the usual student council room.
Ah, that's right. I was talking about a novel with Sophia here after school, and then Maria came and gave me some sweets, and I ate a lot of them, and then I kind of got sleepy, so I just went to âŚâŚ.
"Um, Lady Catarina, are you alright, you seemed to be having a nightmare ?" Maria and Sophia looked at me worriedly. It seems that I had a nightmare after falling asleep.
"Yes, I had a bit of a scary dream."
"Really, what did you dream about ?"
"Well, that's the thing âŚâŚ."
I was about to tell her about the dream I just had, and I realised I couldn't remember anything about it.
"âŚâŚ that, when I woke up, I seem to have forgotten it."
Although I clearly remembered that it was a scary dream, I felt like I didn't feel refreshed,
"Oh, that happens, doesn't it ?" Sophia told me that and said, "There's nothing to worry about", so I decided to forget about it. ă And in fact, a few hours later I forgot all about the dream. ă
It would be a little while before I would have that horrible dream again. And I never dreamed that the flags would come again.
#hamefura#my next life as a villainess#katarina claes#translation#light novel#bonus story#bakarina#sophia ascart#maria campbell#otome game no hametsu flag shika nai akuyaku reijou ni tensei shiteshimatta
7 notes
¡
View notes
Text
Ok, time to deliver that dark fantasy vore story I promised I was gonna write ages ago!
Tw: vore, blood, injury
[Part 1]
What a gloomy day it was, dark clouds blanket over the sky and block out the sun, and the stench of smoldering ash hangs in the air. A swords man, who is neither knight nor nobility, trudges through the filthy, muddy battle field.
Despite the bloodied arm and bruised body, that come from a different battle, the field he was making his way through and empty and derelict of human life; the battle was won just days ago.
He thinks back to the day he started this little adventure, how he'd thought that it would be great to venture out of the city and see all the world's splendors for himself, and how wrong he was. His father was a farmer, and his uncle is a blacksmith, the family worked in conjunction to keep each other afloat along the outskirts of the main city, working the fields and mending farm equipment for fellow families.
Depressing as the current day, where he stands in this mass grave, was the day of his father's passing. This was a time before the Elven medicine, a time in history where you'd step into the wrong puddle with one foot, and then into a shallow grave with the other. It was a blood infection that killed his father, a deep gash was slit along the man's leg by a muddy plough, a moment of carelessness from a new farmhand. It only took a month for the once strong, healthy man to become bedridden, and then a week to pass away.
"Son, so long as you live, promise me that you will never sip from the evil edge of a tankard", he'd seen what binge drinking did to his grandfather, but with the invention of the distillery, hard liquors were so much more appealing than the dirty ales they sold from tavern. All his inherited, spend on bottles of booze to fill his sorrowful heart.
The day his grandfather passed away was one to be celebrated... by him. More money for booze, another house he could trash and then sell, and even the old man's old weapons and armour from his rebel days. Now with a leaking pocket full of change, a belly full of tavern food and fiery gin, he stumbles back home to play with grandad's old toys. Lifting and drawing the old bow, it creaks softly, he takes aim at a scarecrow and releases the string.
Fyewww- Thump!
The arrow flies straight and true, an exciting surprise for the giddy drunkard. Next, he yanks a short sword free from a rotting bench he had stabbed minutes ago, dawning one of the old rebellion's face masks. The drunken man stumbles forwards as the expectedly heavy face plate weighs down on his head. Crashing through his late grandfather's front door, he'd land into the arms of his neighbor, who sets him up straight and begins yelling at him.
"Oh thank God you're home! Y-you're still a mercenary, right Brut?", Brut? That was his Grandfather's name... he nods and decides to hear what the desperate man has to say, "Please, you have to help me, it's my husband! He travelled deep into the local forest to collect mushrooms, and he hasn't returned since sundown!"
He scoffs, this old lady's pathetic pleading meant nothing to him, he goes to turn his back to the woman- when she suddenly grabs his wrist.
"Please, Brut, we've always been there for each other. If it's money you seek, you can have it all, please... I don't want to die alone." Tears well up in the young drunk's eyes, had his grandfather really been so caring? Had he only seen the man at his worst? No matter in pondering now, this lady is desperate, and now there's money on the table. Daring not to match his grandfather's gravelly croak, he silently nods.
Now look where that had gotten him, the old, rusty plant armour barely clings to his wrecked frame, beast blood dries on the hilt of his blade and the edge of his mask. By this point, he'd talked to many of the travelers and locals around the area, it was most likely fairies, so there was little hope that the sweet, old woman would see her husband again.
The reason the false mercenary hard stumbled endlessly through a field of fire and death was to reach an arch mage's tower, against the warning of many-a town folk. The ancient, crooked structure leers over our protagonist, and for the first time since his last monster encounter, he feels dread. Considering his options of entry, he decided to take the most civil approach first, knocking on the door. He reaches forwards to rattle his knuckles against the mossy wooden door, but would never get a chance to, as it swings opens suddenly! Peering into the darkness, he steps a foot through the door frame, and then falls backwards as it is grabbed by an invisible force and pulled upwards, yanking his whole body up the length of the tower's spiraling staircase.
Screaming and flailing about, it takes forever to reach the top floor, but once he does, he's greeted with warm lantern light, and the smell of exotic spices. Illuminated by the lantern light, he could now see the force that pulled him to the summit of the tower, a pair of large, wispy, misty hand slither under a door leading to the very top of the building, the mage's lair. Maybe this magician was a little too powerful for what he needed, but he'd already come this far.
The door was slightly ajar, using his boot, he slowly inches the door open to peak inside. He stifles a gasp, it's a lamina, half snake half person, but this one was certainly more snake. Coils upon coils circle and hang about the pristine room that this mage resides in, the mage has their back to the mercenary. With one step into the room, the lamina would suddenly halt, and menacingly turn their head to the side.
"Come in, I was expecting a guest today."
And come in his did, he kicks down the rickety old door separating this half-man thing from him, pulling the string to his bow back and...
Gkhk!
He grimaces and lets the arrow fly before he can take aim, that beast's claws ran deeper into his flesh than he remembers. The mage scoffs watching as the arrow stabs itself into the stone behind him, "my turn!~". Three spells are cast onto the merc, one mutes him, another stuns his, and then the final one shatters all of his armor... almost all of it...
"Oh-hohohoho~ Did you truly believe you could threaten me into your bidding in your condition? You haven't a single enchanted item- except for... that mask, old rebellion? Who's corpse did you loot that off?", he goes to answer, but can't seem to get the words out, the lamina shrugs and begins to approach, "no matter, I shall retrieve it from my stomach once I am finished digesting you, and place it on my mantle to...", your thoughts drown out their words as you enter a daydream, conversing with your very conscience.
If their spell couldn't break my face plate, and they're weak to enchantments, then...
His self reflection was rudely interrupted by the hot, thick breath of an unhinged lamina's mouth. Just as they're about to snap their jaws closed around his head, a scorching rage would form in his heart, the kind that drops an ember onto your pride and burns a hole through you. Grabbing the silk bound shoulders of the mage, he leans his head back and slams it into the cranium of the snake person, his ears ring like church bells, and the world begins to spin beneath his very feet. The mercenary tumbles to the floor, along side their slithery assailant, and then blacks out...
===============================
Ok, thats all I have the energy for right now! I'll do a part 2 when I'm feeling it again!
3 notes
¡
View notes