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craomy · 4 years

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Genshin Impact: Albedo x Reader (Fluff/Agnst)

Genshin Impact: Albedo x Reader (Agnst)

AN: This is just a little bit of a story idea of what I can imagine for Albedo and with the traveler. This is one of my first times doing something like this and I hope that you’ll enjoy it :)

-=+=-

“Cecilia. A beautiful flower with a name that suits its appearance. It only grows where harsh winds blow, and is just as intangible as the true heart of an unbound soul.” Albedo had held a seedling towards the traveler, (Y/N). She stared carefully in bewilderment as the young alchemist had clenched his fist. A soft glowing light had radiated from his grasp as he slowly opened his hand, revealing an elegant flower that had blossomed from his chalk. The traveler watched in awe when looking at Albedo’s little performance.

(Y/N) was the one to encourage Albedo to take up alchemy from his Master. She’s glad that she was able to give Albedo a push into the direction that his Master would have wanted him to go. Now that he’s been studying and grasping a better understanding of The Art of Khemia, (Y/N) would be the one to listen in on Albedo’s rambles of new concepts of things that would be hard to understand for any ordinary person. Albedo had genuinely enjoyed her company, but he could also feel something else in his chest.

It was a warm feeling. Something that would give him enough energy to stay up countless nights just spending time with the young girl. He couldn’t quite put it into words of what this feeling meant, but Albedo knew that he must hold onto it as long as he can.

Albedo looked back up into (Y/N)’s (E/C) eyes and couldn’t help but appreciate how they glistened underneath the moonlight. Without thinking, Albedo had tucked the Cecilia behind the girl’s ear. “It’s so... heavenly,” The ashy light blonde haired boy had whispered under his breath, too captivated to realize he was staring too long. (Y/N) blushed, hoping that her ears had heard correctly. Seeing her blush had made him grow red, retracting his hand that once traced her cheek, “I-I meant the flower. C-Cecilia’s can also mean heavenly!” the boy had flushed timidly.

He doesn’t usually get embarrassed, but lately, he’s been acting differently towards his beloved friend. (Y/N) had let out her laughter. Seeing his reaction towards her had made her realize how blessed she was to be able to meet such an extraordinary person. Albedo hid behind his sketchbook to hide his face from the (H/C) haired girl to prevent himself from feeling any more embarrassed. After all, they both were just two young kids that could see what others couldn’t see.

(Y/N) had lowered Albedo’s sketchbook to meet his bright teal eyes. He timidly stared back at his friend, his words stuck in his throat with his heart hammering against his chest. She closed the distance between both of them and had placed a soft kiss against Albedo’s forehead.

“Whatever you say, my Chalk Prince.” she caught him off guard with a peck on the head. It took a few seconds for Albedo to register what she had done. As a sign of requited feelings towards each other, he had dropped his sketch onto the soft grass of Starsnatch Cliff. He entwined one hand with (Y/N)’s while the other had been placed behind (Y/N)’s head. Both of them smiled beneath the starry night sky of Mondstadt.

“(Y/N). I don’t understand what you’re doing to me. I lack the knowledge to fully express my feelings towards you. Out of all of the people I’ve ever met, you’ve been the only one that could pique my interest... I don’t ever want to lose you.” Albedo had confessed as he closely watched (Y/N)’s beautiful features. She had let go of his hands and grinned, wrapping her arms around the studious boy. She was delighted. So excited that she had pushed Albedo against the soft grass of the cliffs.

This enchanting atmosphere was enough for Albedo. This is all he could ever ask for. (Y/N) was the perfect person to help him pursue his future career and dreams.

(Y/N)’s laughter filled Albedo’s ears as he put a hand on her back to push her closer to his chest. Holding her against his heartbeat was a brave move, even for him to do. Choosing Starsnatch Cliff as a drawing location was the best option for both of them to enjoy each other’s company.

Young love beneath the captivating moon. There was nothing more to it than two soulmates basking in each other’s presence. Two crystal butterflies fluttered over the both of them, perhaps a symbol of the both of them.

Right now the only thing Albedo could think of was her.

(Y/N).

He studied her (E/C) eyes, so allured, so caught up in the moment. Laying on the patch of grass, he readjusted the Cecilia flower in her hair. She was perfect.

“(Y/N). I want to let you know that I...” he paused.

Albedo noticed twinkling stars that glittered in the sky. Comets and shootings stars had flown over their heads. (Y/N) looked up from Albedo and watched in awe. It wasn’t often that you would see such a sight.

“We should make a wish together.” Albedo had seen how she watched in wonder. That’s right. You two came out here to make a wish.

The traveler had grinned, laying her head back down against the young man’s chest. “If that’s the case then I wish for you to accept the position of Chief Alchemist!” she had said so proudly. He softly chuckled, “You don’t have to use your wish on me for me to do that. I want you to be happy with your wish, (Y/N).” he murmured.

“But it’s true. I think that wish alone will make me happy enough.” (Y/N) spoke confidently. The ash blonde alchemist felt it again. He felt his heart beating faster again. How was it that she could only think about his well being?

“What about you, Albedo? What do you wish for?” she asked with curiosity.

Albedo blinked.

He didn’t know if he had the courage to say it out loud. He gulped, feeling her gaze to be too much for him to handle. “If you’re wishing for me, then I suppose that I have no other option but to also wish for your happiness.” He shyly muttered.

(Y/N) couldn’t stop smiling.

She wished that this moment could last forever.

With that, both of them had embraced each other in this pure moment.

Albedo reached up in the air once again while holding the (H/C) haired girl in his arms. “The universe is the dark essence of the true starry sky, and the earth is the accumulated memories of time and lives. You’ve helped me come along this journey of mine to realize that I shouldn’t keep my distance from everyone anymore,” he spoke.

“You carry the aura of the stars. More beautiful than any other view there is, the liveliest flower in Teyvat, and the greatest thing birthed from chalk. Your serenity is quite enchanting and your laughter is music to my ears, I wouldn’t know what to do if I couldn’t hear it every day. Nothing can compare to you in the universe.” Albedo confessed with sincerity that tugged his heart.

(Y/N) couldn’t have fallen in love with anyone else in the world. Albedo’s charm is what lured the young girl in the most. His search for knowledge and interest in his research is unparalleled to any other.

He sat up, holding dearly onto (Y/N)’s smaller hands.

“In other words, this is my declaration of... love. It’s all so foreign to me so I’d appreciate it if you’re patient with me.” He bashfully told the girl how he felt. (Y/N) smirked, “If that’s how you truly feel, then I’d like you to tell me the special eight letters, three words.” she teased, seeing Albedo’s blush intensify.

Albedo slowly closed the distance between the girl.

“Then if that’s the case...”

“I...”

“I love you.”

Is what Albedo would have said.

Eyes fluttering open, he began to panic in the middle of his bed. Losing the warmth and presence of (Y/N), he came to the realization that...

(Y/N) was no longer there.

Reminiscing in his dreams would brighten his memories of his lover.

That’s right.

He still can’t stop lingering from the past.

Albedo sat up from his bed, the dream feeling too surreal for him to comprehend. (Y/N)’s melodic laughter couldn’t be heard anymore. The vivid dreams he’s been having of the young (H/C) haired girl has been too much for him to handle.

“I have to go back to conducting my research. It’s what (Y/N) would have wanted.” Albedo had to remind himself out loud. If he doesn’t then he would continue to coop himself up in his bed trying to recollect the memories of (Y/N)’s lovely scent.

He slowly got up from his bed and sluggishly walked towards his desk. On his way to his chair, he knocked down a pile of sketchbooks across the floor. Not bothering to pick it up, he began to focus on the sheet of paper in front of him.

“Yes. I have to continue writing this report.” He muttered, all slumped over as he grabbed his pen. The Cecilia flowers on his desk had withered long before he could realize it on his own. Time had seemed to fly past due to his grieving.

At first, it was very... difficult.

(Y/N) never seemed like the type of person to get sick very often. She was always brave and outgoing in the lands of Mondstadt. With her adventurous ambitions, you would think that she had no weaknesses. Of course, that’s what she would show to the others on the outside. Nobody else could know about her illness. The only one she could tell of her little secret was no one other than the Chief Alchemist, her beloved.

Yet, this was the beginning of a burden. Although Albedo enjoyed discovering the truth of the world and jumping into the unknown of unknowns, this was certainly a predicament that stuck a thorn in his thumb. Albedo was able to research and identify nearly any conflict within his path as an alchemist while utilizing his knowledge of what he knew from his Master. There was no way that he wouldn’t be able to find out a cure for her illness, right?

Right?

Wrong.

Albedo snapped out of his thoughts.

Coming back to his senses, it appears that he had unconsciously drawn... her.

Again.

A perfectly sketched portrait of (Y/N). It looked like an exact replica of what (Y/N) had once looked like. Yet again, Albedo knew that nothing else would compare to her beauty. He winced, finding it difficult to rip up the paper that had depicted (Y/N)’s soft features that used to grin back at him. Frustrated, he threw everything off of his desk. All of his testing tubes and glass graduated cylinders had shattered against the cold floor.

Nothing.

None of the drawings he had could compare to her.

No matter how hard he tried to perfectly sketch her entirety, it just wasn’t enough. Albedo couldn’t find any other way to let go of his (Y/N). How else can he get rid of these aching feelings in his chest? Wasn’t he supposed to be the most talented alchemist and a natural-born genius? Wasn’t he supposed to be the one to always find a way to get her out of her troubles? Just why in the world did the Archons curse him to lose one of the things that could bring him hope?

Albedo slammed his fist against one of the portraits, accidentally tearing the paper itself. His tantrum stopped as he took a look at what he had done.

There it was.

(Y/N)’s flower had been scratched out of the painting. The beautiful Cecilia flower that Albedo had once placed behind her ear while he cherished her dearly.

He dropped to his knees in defeat.

“Why..? Why did you have to leave me, (Y/N)?” He whispered in distraught. He could feel a lump in his throat as he clenched his fists, “No... I shouldn’t be blaming you for your passing. It is all but my fault for being incompetent.” his voice was saddening. This bitter taste of love was all he had left of (Y/N).

He could no longer look at his paintings and sketches the same now that she was no longer with him. Melancholy was a word that could not measure how much he had missed her. Looking up at the stars can only bring him the painful memory of when he had professed his love to her. Walking through the field of Cecilias can only remind him of how much he had missed what it was like to hold her hand and kiss her on the forehead. The times he stayed up to continue doing his research with (Y/N) on his side would remind him that things will never be the same because she’s gone.

Perhaps his grief has gotten the best of him.

He looked at all of the scattered pages that were ripped out of his notebook. All of the pages had perfect drawings of (Y/N) in her natural state. The bags under Albedo’s teal blue eyes were enough to show anyone how much he stayed up thinking about her.

Albedo walked up to a large canvas that was carefully painted and crafted to be almost flawless. (Y/N)’s body fit the painting and looked as if she could come to life.

It didn’t matter if Albedo broke the natural laws of life.

All he wanted to do was see (Y/N)’s smile once again.

Albedo gripped the portrait in front of him desperately.

If all fails, he’ll just continue to try again.

And again.

That’s what it takes to be an alchemist. It’s all trial and error. Albedo couldn’t leave any more room for doubt. He has to continue persisting to look for her fleeting love. He will face any consequence in order to get her back safely in his arms. He’ll obstruct and rip apart any law of alchemy to even receive another affectionate, “I love you”. He is the only person to understand her weakness, and he continues to walk the path of life to have her as his strength. His azure eyes widened with determination, a surge of light glowing from his hands.

He will continue saying this.

Again.

“Arise, lifeless dust of the universe and that within. Thou art reborn.”

#genshin impact #genshin impact imagine #albedo #genshin impact albedo #albedo genshin impact #albedo x reader #reader insert #genshin impact x rea #genshin impact reader #genshin impact fanfiction #fanfiction #albedo chief alchemist #albedo mondstadt #genshin impact albedo x reader

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coffeecaffineandeverythinginbtwn · 4 years

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Here is my @maribat-secret-santa-2020 gift for @liquid-luck-00

I’m really sorry It’s not finished (i had trouble finishing it due to school and some rough mental health problems) but I will be posting the outline so you can know the rest of what I had planned!

again i’m so so so sorry it’s not done. happy new year! please enjoy!

:readmore:

Marinette and the Runaway Assassin

Marinette Grason and the Runaway Assassin

The first thing they could remember was always flying.

Their parents always told them that the first thing a Grayson ever did was fly.

Whether it be him tossing his sister in the air as she did flips, or flying on the low swing trapeze with his mother and father. they were born soaring.

Their family was the best of the best. Humans with the agility and grace of birds. Their family never stayed on the ground for long. Nothing could keep a Grayson on the ground.

Until they fell.

Their wonderful parents never flew again.

Dick was trying his best to keep it together, for his sister, but the pain was almost too much. He was just 16. What was he supposed to do now? He wasn’t of age to care for Marinette and he certainly didn't have much money at all.

It was two days after the fall that killed their parents. Dick had cried himself to sleep, so full of grief, stress and uncertainty the night before. He wanted, no, needed to keep his sister safe, but what were they supposed to do? Live on the street? Marinette deserved better than that. Not to mention her schooling. There was just so many things he needed to think about he had no idea if they’d ever even survive -

A knock sounded at the door, startling Dick from his thoughts.

“Excuse me,” a deep voice came from behind the door, “I would like to speak to a mister Dick Grayson.” With those words the pit inside his stomach grew. It was probably some social worker coming to separate him from the only family he had left.

Dick opened the door and saw a large man with dark hair and blue eyes in a suit, “If you’re here to take me and my sister to some orphanage, leave now. It’s not going to happen. Get lost.” Dick, the normally polite boy, ended his statement by quickly closing the door.

“Wait!” The man jumped in, using his foot to jam the door. “I’m not a social worker. Mister Grayson I presume?” Dick just narrowed his eyes and nodded his head, “My name is Bruce Wayne. I was hoping to come to an arrangement that would greatly help you and your sister.

Dick had the urge to scoff, but he let the man, Bruce, continue.

“You see, I lost my parents at a young age as well. I want to make you and Miss Marinette my wards. You two would both get to live in my manor with your own room and have all the things you two would need to live a happy life. And you would not be separated. This can all happen effective immediately, as soon as you say the word. So, What do you say?”

This was insane. It was everything he and Mari could need. They could lead a normal, safe, and good life. There were so many goods that could come of this and yet…

Graysons are never tied to the ground my little robin. We must never be afraid to spread our own wings and soar. We are free spirits and we fly our own way.

With only that thought in his head, his ressove hardened.

“While I appreciate the offer Mister Wayne, I’m afraid I have to decline.” He began, “My parents used to say that we should never let ourselves be tied down. They were free-spirited and loved to travel. I want my sister and I to continue their legacy.”

Bruce looked a little shocked at this, and also a bit put out., but he quickly covered it with a determined look of his own.

“I see. If I cannot assist with housing, please let me help in any other way possible. Money is no issue, I can promise you that.” Bruce looked so ready to help them. And hell, if they couldn't use the help.

Dick was at a loss for words, “I- Mister Wayne- I can’t thank you enough!” Marinette would get to have the life their parents would have wanted for her. He didn’t have to worry about money any more. They could be free and go where the wind would take them. This flood of relief he felt did ease his grief a little for only a moment. It was one weight lifted off his shoulders.

“It’s the least I could do Mister Grayson.” He nodded, looking a bit relieved himself.

“Please, call me Dick Mister Wayne.” At that Bruce’s mouth quirked upwards the tiniest bit.

“Only if you call me Bruce.”

Over the next few years, Dick and Marinette went everywhere imaginable, traveling with the circus.

Eventually they decided to travel at their own pace. Marinette instided they spend more time in their favorite countries. They spent a few months in each, both gathering a love for each culture and language. Marinette especially took a bit of every country with her, absorbing each like a sponge.

Without the circus to keep them active in their travels and with barely any means to keep themselves protected, Dick and Marinette accumulated a mesh of different fighting styles. Neither ever truly mastered one, but both fought in a way very specific to them.

Currently somewhere in Italy, the two were waiting for one of their mentors to arrive for a meeting.

“Duckie!!” Marinette, now nine, ran to her brother with that particular spark in her eye, “Duckie! Guess what!”

Dick, smiled a little at the familiar nickname, “What’s up Nettie?”

Marinette jumped up and down excitedly. “Look what I can do!”

The small girl smiled and ran a little ways into the field nearby and did three handsprings to the shock, and pride of her brother.

“Good job Marinette,“ A voice that was not Dick‘s called from behind them, “I’m glad to see that you are improving well.”

An overall average looking man in his late 30’s wearing a firm, yet warm expression walked towards them.

Their mentor, Malachi Dobraski.

“Uncle Chi!” The Marinettw siblings voiced, running to him.

Malachi’s mouth turned upwards at the sibling’s outburst. “Yes, yes I have finally arrived. You two are, of course, ever so humbled to be in my presence.” There was a stretch of silence before the three burst out in laughter.

“Wonderful to see you two as always.” He said as he bent down to give Marinette a hug.

“So what did you need Malachi? You never call meetings so early in the month.” Dick said as he turned to face him.

Malachi hummed in an impressed manner, “Very astute Richard. I asked you here today because I wanted you to meet a friend of mine I had mentioned earlier. Gina, If you remember.”

At the mention of the woman Marinette perked up, The one who travels all around the world like us? We really get to meet her?” She topped off her questions with a wiggle of excitement.

“We’ll have to see about that Nettie.” Dick spoke fondly as he smiled at his sister’s antics. He then turned his attention to Malachi, “Will she be in town soon? You’re rarely one to throw out praise for no reason and you’ve spoken highly of her in the past.”

“She is a lady well deserving of my praise, Richard. To answer your question, yes. Ms. Gina will be in town Thursday evening.” their mentor said with another small grin.

Dick hummed while tapping his chin, “That’s about two days from now. Unfortunately me and Mari probably won’t be able to meet with her right away. We’re tied up until Saturday I believe. Will she be in town for long?”

“Gina is a free spirit, so it’s hard to say. However she has been interested in you two since I mentioned I was taking students again. I expect she’ll stay long enough to meet you.”

“That’s great!” Dick said, as cheerful as ever, “That settles it then.”

“Yay! We get to meet aunt Gina!” Marinette exclaimed, jumping up and down.

Instead of correcting his sister, Dick just shook his head with a laugh. Why does everyone we hear of instantly become family?

Marinette sat at a tall table in a quiet cafe. Her tiny legs swung eagerly underneath her as she hummed to herself. Her brother was up at the counter ordering their drinks. She was sketching, or trying to. It was really hard to focus when she was so full of jitters.

Today was the day they were supposed to meet Ms. Gina and while Marinette was excited, she was just as, if not more, nervous. She has always been this way with new people.

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That is the end of what i have written BUT NOW the outline:

Section One

Dick is older in this 16/17

Mari is 5 or 6

They grow up with their parents, until they die, again.

Dick is old enough to be emancipated/take custody of Mari

(Bruce didn’t adopt them but he helped Dick get emancipated and gave them loads of money)

Their parents were free spirits and loved to travel

Dick decides they should keep that alive.

The two stay with the circus traveling for around a year

And they continue to travel for 1 or 2 years

They meet Gina

Dick kinda wants to settle down Gina recommends Paris

They go to Paris

They get an apartment (thank you plot convenient Bruce money)

(she’s around 10 or 11 now. He’s 19 or 20 now)

Dick wants Mari to make friends or get a feel for regular school so she goes to FD

Section Two

Separately, Damian and the league are in turmoil (the coup happens)

Thalia might die Idk

Damian, not knowing what else to do, flees to Paris?

Tom and Sabine have always wanted children but were never successful

They find this aggressive child on the streets of course they take him in

Damian would grumble about their ‘lower status’ but would of course be secretly grateful and surprised at the unconditional love and care he receives from T and S

Section THree

Back to Mari

Being raised by Dick, she learned to be true to herself and also headstrong

She takes no crap from Chloé

(She eventually learns of her situation with her mother and they become less aggressive towards each other)

(she also learns a lot of different skills and fashion things)

Section Four

Damian arrives at FD

(He’s like 10 or 11 Mari is like 11)

Damian and Mari are both ahead of the curriculum (Both home schooled) same class

She is her kind self, doesn't know anyone else well and Dami is another new kid.

They stick together out of a sort of necessity

He’s cold at first but (go figure) he softens for her eventually

They slowly grow closer as friends

Dick becomes another behaviour mentor and Brother esq figure to Dami

Dick also sees Daminette’s in love right away

He teases Mari about it

Bada Boom they're 13 now

Section Five

Miraculos canon GO

Mari gets ladybug Dami gets cat

Mari doesn't get a crush on Adrien (the gum incident doesn’t happen because Chlo and Mari are on better terms)

Mari and Dami both immediately recognize each other in costume

Mari’s outfit is black with red detailing sans her cape/glider that’s full red with the five black spots. Has deep red boots that go up to the knee. Her ribbons are longer and can detach to use as a makeshift ribbon dance things (she also goes by Ladybird instead of Ladybug)

Damian’s outfit is his assassin outfit but black and tan undertones with cat ears (his pupils don’t change to slits) Damian goes by Leopard

Dick notices a change immediately He confronts Mari, She caves and tells him too

(She consequently reveals Damian’s Identity as well. No one could have that kind of chemistry with Mari that quickly)

He signs her up for many martial arts classes (She already had training in a few, picking up a lot from her travels)

Damian also helps train Mari in some ~Assassin Skills~

Basically, they’re bad asses.

The only thing stopping them from defeating Hawkey boy quickly is the fact that they can’t find where he is

Section Six

Moving on, Salt

Lila happens

Lila still sets her sights on Adrian (he’s got money at this point Damian is just a baker's boy to Lila.

Lila isolates the two from the rest of the class, even more so than they already were

Damian thinks the class are even bigger idiots

Lila is still an awful person and wants to make both Dami and Mari’s live miserable

Lila tries to go to Dick about Mari “bullying” her

He laughs in her face (he choses laughter instead of seething anger. thanks Hawky)

Lila then tries to get through to Tom and Sabine about Damian

This time it works, they have less reason to trust Damian (and he was also a major prick when they first took him in

(this happens over a year or so. Lila slowly gaining the trust of the class and Tom and Sabine)

The environment gets very toxic Dami and Mari decide to leave the school and go to online schooling (like at college level)

Section Seven

Time skip. They are 16 now

The two have had feelings for a while, they now realize them

Dami is less emotionally stunted, having both Dick and Mari around (Tom and Sabine too but they kinda suck now) so he doesn’t panic much

Mari is full panic mode

Dick is just in the corner all smug-like. (“you didn’t know you loved him? I’ve known this for years”)

Que pining

Lots of pining

There’s some angst, Tom and Sabine are negligent towards Damian (not mean but still neglectful)

He ends up staying with Dick and Mari more often than not

Eventually they both confess after a particularly rough akuma battle (the one where mari becomes the guardian?)

Both of them almost watched the other die. That was too heartbreaking for either of them to not confess

So they are together now.

It was an easy transition, they were already married pretty much

They’ve already figured out who Hawky boy is. They just need evidence

They get evidence. They also discover Lila was working with him

They take care of the Hawkmoth situation

Section Eight

Everything is good now right? Wrong

Batman Finally goes to Paris once Hawky is defeated,

(he kept in touch with Dick all these years and knew what was going on, {He practically became their “uncle Bruce”} He only stayed away cuz Hawkmoth)

When Damian sees Bruce visiting Mari’s House he freezes,

Mari: “what's wrong Dami?”

Dami: *whispers in her ear*

M: “He’s your WHAT???”

D; *whispers more*

M: “I- You- Um- WHAT”

D: *walks up to Bruce* “Hello, I know this is an odd way to meet but I am sure you know of Thalia Al’ Ghoul.” *B nods wairily* “Yes, well, I am your son. And unfortunately hers as well.”

“Yes, I’d be perfectly happy to do a blood test.”

Dick and Mari are shook

“Damian, You must come to live with me in Gotham”

Dun

Dunnnnnn!!!!!

End Part One

Again I am sincerely sorry I was not able to complete this story in time. Like I said before, I will (maybe/probably) be finishing this and planning a part two! I hope you enjoyed! (even though it’s the first fanfic i’ve written)

#maribat #maribat secret santa #platonic dickinette #sibling dickinette #daminette #maridami #mlb x dc

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thatslikely · 4 years

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Frosting On Your Nose - R.W.

Frosting On Your Nose- Ron Weasley x fem!reader

Warnings: marriage (to Ron), mentions of having a kid, food.

Word Count: 1.2k

A/N: this has been an idea of mine forver, here it is. writing for ron is actually kinda fun! i’ve been feeling really bad about my writing lately, so I’m glad at least to churn something out. also I renamed Ron’s son because Hugo is not it

Taglist: @amourtentiaa @probably-peeves @anchoeritic @theweasleytwinsgirl

if you want to be added, send me an ask or dm!

“I can’t believe our Benny’s already turning one year old! Feels like he was born just yesterday, doesn’t it, love?” Ron asked you from across the messy, crumb-coated kitchen, his chiseled hands steadily whisking a muckle of creamy, vanilla frosting in a bowl.

“Time really does fly when you’re having fun, I suppose,” you replied while carefully selecting a fistful of small food dye vials of various shades of the rainbow. The blank, white frosting will soon brilliantly decorate the rich chocolate cake cooling on the windowsill, basking in the sun’s lazy, late-afternoon rays.

Silence soon rose into the bright, cozy room like the soothing morning tide of the sea, calm and comfortable. Ron continued to rhythmically stir the batch of uncolored frosting while you had moved on to preparing various crystalline piping bags, selectively choosing each fine metal tip.

Inexorably, Ron soon removed the metal whisk from the bowl, long, red tongue out and ready to kitten-lick some of the deliciously sweet frosting off the whisk’s wired loops. “Ronnie, you better not be eating any of that frosting! It’s for Benny’s cake, remember,” you smoothly reminded the sweet-toothed redhead opposite you, not even needing to gaze at him to know what he had planned.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Ron denied innocently, placing the whisk back into the bowl inconspicuously. You ambled over to the tall ginger for a quick progress check, pleased to see that the frosting was now mixed to perfection, its texture silky smooth and ready for piping. You swiped your finger on the rim of the bowl, accumulating a dollop of the fluffy cream, before nonchalantly sticking it into your mouth with a pop. “Hey! You can have frosting, but I can’t, huh? That’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair, Ronnie-kins. But I’ll let you have all the leftovers after the cake is done, deal?”

“Fine,” - he grumbled - “deal. Now what colours are we gonna frost this mouth-watering cake?”

Countless rough sketches and outlines of adorable cakes filled the smudged papers of your notebook, the same one you doodled in since your Hogwarts days. You gingerly handed Ron the dog-eared bundle of bound papers, pointing at your favorite sketches and concepts, most of which included bright colours and childish smiley faces galore. The final design of the soon-to-be Benny’s first birthday cake was circular and slathered in white frosting, dotted with yellow and orange suns wearing wide-mouthed grins, which popped against frosted sky-blue ribbons. Little spherical sprinkles added miniature bursts of colour to the central letters of the cake which read, “Happy First Birthday Benny!” in flawless, fluid cursive writing.

“Wow, I didn’t know you had such a knack for drawing, sweetheart. Benny’s cake’ll look amazing, as long as you’re the one doing all those tiny details.”

“You’re not that bad at sketching yourself. We’ll pipe it together, but I’ll be sure to do the lettering. Don’t think I didn’t see your awful handwriting back on all your old Divination homework.”

“It was only that bad because I hated the class! It always smelled like old-lady perfume and Trelawney was a nutter!”

“She was better than Snape, at least.”

Ron gave you a concurring nod, his unkempt mop of ginger hair fluffing up and down with the movement. You suppressed a giggle at his charming, goofy grin you’d come to love before squeezing droplets of brilliantly-coloured food dye into the small basins of peaked, milky-white frosting.

Ron gently clamped his large, vermillion-freckled hand over yours’, guiding your wrist in circular stirring motions to tint the heaps of icing. Ron’s chin rested on the crown of your head, his warm breath blowing strands of your hair to obscure your gorgeous, light-catching eyes. You paid no attention to the falling tresses of hair, instead you absorbed the familiar sensation of being held in Ron’s delicate arms; the knits and stitches of his homemade maroon sweater caressed your skin.

Once the pigmented frosting was tightly wrapped in the metal-tipped piping bags, you daubed a thin crumb-coat onto the layered cake. When the coat had settled, cementing the loose specks of brown to the sponge, you smoothed on another layer of frosting, this time making it a silky, uncreased layer.

Soon enough, Ron was concentratedly piping an (uneven) border of blue around the base of the cake. Even though his strokes of frosting were messy, you admired his effort. His effort that was made quite prominent by the tip of his tongue poking out from his soft lips in focus, his minimally-blinking blue eyes glued to the slowly revolving cake.

“Honey, you did a splendid job. I’m so proud of you.” You pulled in a triumphant Ron for a tight, loving hug, twirling your fingers through his messy ginger hair. You were quick to notice little ivory specks of frosting was strewn through his fluffy locks. “How’d you manage to get frosting in your hair, silly?”

“It’s just part of the process of being a great baker, I guess.”

You both let out airy chuckles, your faces inching closer and closer. He finally pulled you by the hem of your apron into a sloppy, languid kiss, each succumbing to the familiar sensations of each other’s lips. The sensation you felt all those years ago after he confessed his love for you on a chilly night at Hogwarts, the sensation you felt dressed in a stunning sea of white on the day of your wedding, the sensation of his lips after looking at your son for the first time.

In quite a few minutes, after lingering kisses and tear-jerking memories came and went, you were back in the present, the clocks still ticking forward, finishing up the piping. You trimmed the sponge with varicoloured stripes and ribbons, meticulously spacing them out to perfection.

After the last pinch of beads of sprinkles fell atop the cake like bittersweet summer rain, the cake was finally complete. It looked adorable, exactly like the baked goods that would be proudly displayed in the window of a bakery. Ron gave you a goofy high five (which was commonplace) in celebration; after your hands smacked together, he wrapped his fingers around your palm, your hand dwarfed by his’.

“You did a wonderful job, love. Everyone at his party’ll be dying to try a slice!” he praised, pulling you to his chest for a hug.

You pulled back to glance up at his handsome face with doe eyes, his features illuminated by the golden, waning sunlight. Before you could give him a sweet reply and subsequent peck on his lips, he stated with a laugh, “Y/N, you have frosting on your nose.”

You retracted your hand from his sweater-clad chest, dipping your pointer finger into the leftover stash of glistening frosting before briskly smudging a streak of white across Ron’s sun-freckled nose, teasing, “now you do, too.”

“Oh, you’re in for it now!” Ron exclaimed mischievously, coating his hands into the bowl of sugary fluff, desperately attempting to slather your nose in white further. As the sunlight gradually faded away, and the moon elusively bathed your quaint house in pale beams, the evening was pin-drop silent and peaceful, except for the light, scampering footsteps and fearful giggling of you and your doting husband.

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wickedpact · 4 years

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Idea for a JoexNicky fic!! (anon here)- piggybacking off the other anon's nicky's mom idea, what if for an anniversary present, Joe sketches a portrait of Nicky's mother? (obviously she'd look like a beautiful warm goddess of kindness) Like maybe he has a dream of one of Nicky's most vivid memories ;-; I would literally die

so uh. this bloomed wildly out of my control

this ficlet is 5k words long so dont open that read more unless youre willing to commit to it

warnings: brief discussions of violence, extremely brief mention of sex, me not knowing how the FUCK one becomes a priest in Ye Olde 1000′s, and probably a criminal lack of historical accuracy as well as a criminal lack of the accented o in ‘nicolo’

yeehaw.

It starts with one of Andromache’s sparring sessions, and of course by ‘sparring’ session Nicolo means a session in which Andromache was in a piss poor mood for no obvious reason, and decided to take it out on the rest of them.

These sessions tend to start with Andromache coming hurtling into their camp with a dark expression on her face, and end with Yusuf and Nicolo sprawled on the ground, bruised and exhausted, while Andromache and Quynh beat the ever-loving hell out of each other nearby. (Yusuf has been convinced for a long time that it's some sort of mating ritual; Nicolo... doubts it.)

This time around, they are at some point after Nicolo has given up, and some point before Yusuf has joined him; Nicolo lies on the sand, starfished, while Quynh and Yusuf attempt to tag team Andromache with an abundance of vigor and middling results. Nicolo cranes his neck to watch the spectacle, catching a glimpse of Andromache flipping Quynh straight over her shoulder before twisting around and kicking Yusuf dangerously close to the groin. Yusuf stumbles, and Andromache grabs him by the shoulder, shoving his considerable weight off of his feet and towards Nicolo’s resting spot.

Yusuf, stumbling, manages to not trip over Nicolo by inches, and falls face-first onto the ground beside him with a groan. Meanwhile, Quynh has recovered and charges at Andy again, beginning their age-old dance yet again.

Yusuf grumbles at Nicolo’s side and peels himself off the ground, leveraging onto a knee. Nicolo drops his head back down to look at him, smiling when he swipes a hand across his beard to dislodge the sand accumulating there. Having been roasting under the midday sun and the excursion of the fight for hours now, Yusuf is layered in sweat and breathing heavily but evenly, chest and shoulders heaving slowly with each breath. Nicolo’s mouth goes crooked watching him.

“She doesn’t attack still targets,” he advises, amused, lying still atop the sand.

“Like a lioness!” Yusuf agrees with a zest Nicolo lost about thirteen minutes ago. He pulls himself onto both knees and balances on them, wavering in a way that makes Nicolo want to give him a steadying hand. “Hm.” Yusuf braces a hand on his thigh, face scrunching up in consideration. “No. I don’t think so.”

And then he plops, face first, back to the sand. Nicolo gives him an encouraging pat on the back with his knuckles.

“Are you two giving up?” Andromache calls over. Nicolo cranes his head up again to see that Quynh is on the ground yet again, slowly stumbling to her feet, and Andromache stands with her back to her, facing them. Her hands are on her hips.

“Yes. Thank you for checking in!” Nicolo confirms, lifting a hand to give her a thumbs up. Andromache responds to the sass with a raised eyebrow before whirling around and punching Quynh in the stomach before the younger immortal could sneak up on her.

Quynh goes down for the-- who knows how many times now, and Nicolo drops his head. He squints up at the wavering blue lines of the sky until Andromache’s white robes cross his vision, casting a shadow over his and Yusuf’s resting forms.

“Get up,” Andromache insists, nudging Nicolo with her boot. “I’m not done with you two yet.”

“You can’t make us,” Yusuf grumbles into the sand.

“You bet I can’t?” Andromache threatens, more a tease than a promise. When neither of them reply, she rolls her eyes and says, with a less than gentle kick to Yusuf’s side, “You babies are so soft.”

Yusuf hisses, rolling away from Andromache’s boot, into Nicolo’s side. “Son of a whore, Andromache, knock it off,” he grouches, dropping his shoulder atop Nicolo’s. Nicolo grunts with the weight of it. “Or daughter of a whore, that is,” he corrects himself, then adds thoughtfully, “No offense to your mother, if she were a woman of the night. What did your mother do, Andromache?”

Andromache laughs at Yusuf’s meandering insult-- a posturing bluster of a laugh that makes Nicolo blink, wondering if Yusuf’s actually offended her somehow. If so this would be the first time; Nicolo has always known Andromache to be thicker skinned than a mule.

But then she says, “I don’t remember my mother. Who knows,” and turns and heads back over to Quynh, who’s only just recovered from before. They resume sparring, Nicolo watching them with mild confusion.

Nicolo turns to look at Yusuf, wondering if he’d caught onto Andromache’s discomfort, but when Nicolo catches his eye, he just shrugs his shoulder against the sand and says, “Well, that’s a line that’ll end an argument every time, eh?”

Later on, Nicolo is still considering it, sprawled in front of the fire --that Quynh had constructed a couple hours prior-- with Yusuf, Nicolo slouched against his chest and bracketed by his bent knees. Andromache and Quynh are arguing over the linen tent a little ways off, and Nicolo watches Andromache carefully, the lines on her face and the muscles in her arms, the working parts of her that have existed on this earth for thousands of years. The things her hands have done; the things her eyes have seen.

The things her heart has forgotten.

“You are thinking very loudly over there,” Yusuf says from somewhere over Nicolo’s head. Nicolo shifts his eyes from Andromache and Qyunh, to the fire, to his and Yusuf’s legs stretched out before it. He tilts his head back, the top of his head against Yusuf’s sternum, but all he can see from that angle is Yusuf’s beard, so he drops his head back down with a little amused huff.

“Andromache is very old,” Nicolo says slowly.

“Ah, yes,” Yusuf agrees, amiable. “Also: water is very wet, and the desert is very hot.”

“S’cold at night,” Nicolo grumbles, just to be contrary, and is rewarded by Yusuf slipping his arms under Nicolo’s, bundling him closer to his chest and notching his chin over his head.

“What’s wrong, Nico?”

Nicolo requires no further prompting, not from Yusuf at least. The words come tumbling out of his mouth, one at a time. “She doesn’t remember her mother.”

There’s little more that needs to be said there. The immortal life is one that comes with many downsides, and the nature of it is that sometimes one discovers these downsides centuries later than expected. This isn’t the first time an unexpected side-effect of their unending lives has been thrust upon him and Yusuf, and likely won’t be the last.

Nicolo had never really thought he might one day forget his mother.

Yusuf hums thoughtfully in response, a non-answer that does little to soothe Nicolo. “That she doesn’t,” he adds after a moment. “What was your mother like?”

“I don’t--” Nicolo starts, and then, with an odd curiosity, realizes he’s having difficulty continuing. “I... didn’t know her very long. I was given to the church… very young. I don’t remember much of what she was like, other than that she was my mother.”

“Do you remember what she looked like?”

“Well…”

Nicolo remembers little of his life before the clergy. Two brothers. A sister. His father’s stern brow, and the calluses on his mother’s hand as she took his little fingers in hers, leading him down the dirt paths back in Genova. Her smile, silhouetted by the heady red glow of the afternoon sun.

“Brown hair,” Nicolo eventually answers. “Dark eyebrows. High cheekbones, too, and… and kind eyes.”

“What I’m hearing is you took after her very strongly.”

Nicolo smiles. “I do remember being told something of the sort before.”

“Her eyes?” Joe rests one of his palms flat against Nicolo’s stomach.

“Green, I’m pretty sure.”

“So you took after her very strongly, then,” Joe concludes.

Nicolo looks down, fiddling with the fingers of Joe’s free hand. “She used to take me to the shore. We’d gather seashells together.”

That he remembers well, plucking seashells and bits of coral out from dried seafoam after the tide had gone out near the end of the day, one arm bundling conch and clam shells against his chest, the other prying washed-up shells from the still wet sand. The sun would be low, but not low enough that they would feel the need to rush, and it would cast their shadows in long, blue lines across the beach. Time was an endless thing there, where the sun glowed red and bright, and there was always another conch shell wedged in the damp earth to dig up.

“She sounds lovely,” Yusuf hums. Nicolo pauses, tracing Yusuf’s index finger with his own. Yusuf almost never talks about his family. They have known each other for nearly three hundred years now, and yet Nicolo could store all the things he knows of Yusuf's family in a basket. Over the years he’s been able to piece together that both of Yusuf’s parents were dead before the Crusades began. And that they both died when Yusuf was fairly young. Beyond that… he knows little.

“Yusuf…” Nicolo starts, uncertain and fidgeting. “What about your mother?”

“My mother?” Yusuf repeats, as if Nicolo has somehow strung together two incomprehensible words.

“Yes.” When a pause stretches between them, Nicolo sighs and laces his fingers between Yusuf’s. “You don’t need to tell me.”

“No, no,” Yusuf insists before Nicolo can change the topic. He returns Nicolo’s grip on his hands, smoothing his thumb over the knuckle of Nicolo’s pointer finger. “I want to. My mother…” He sighs. “She was very anxious. Always fretting. She was a weaver; she liked making rugs.”

Yusuf’s thumb stills over Nicolo’s knuckle. Nicolo tilts his head. “Your prayer mat. Did she--?

“Yeah, she made it.” Yusuf pauses again. “Weaving calmed her down when she was nervous. My father and I, we would travel often-- business, you know. Trade deals and things. Mother always worried when we were gone.”

They both pause when Quynh yells something particularly loud at Andromache, breaking the moment for a split second. Andromache hollers something back, and the two women break out into abrupt laughter.

“Are you worried you’ll forget her?” Nicolo asks when they've settled again. “Your mother?”

“No,” Yusuf replies, though he trails off halfway through the word. “In part, I suppose… but there are many things I’d like to forget, I think.”

Nicolo peels himself out of Yusuf’s arms in response to that, twisting around to look at his companion. Yusuf’s brows are pressed together, the tilt of his mouth sad. Nicolo places a hand to his chest, fingers against Yusuf’s collar. “Yusuf?”

Yusuf sucks the inside of his cheek, looking far away before directing a sad smile at Nicolo. “She came with us, once. On a trip. Of course the one time Father allowed her to come was the time that it went wrong.” At Nicolo’s questioning look, Yusuf elaborates, “Bandits.”

“Yusuf...”

“I hadn’t really known how to fight, then, so it didn’t… really matter, either way-- but I got knocked out in the fight, and by the time I woke up again, it was all over.” With a slow breath, Yusuf looks down at their interwoven fingers. “I would like to forget some things. Not her, but…”

It takes Yusuf a long moment to continue. He looks up, towards the stars, lips pursed with thought, before eventually ducking his head again. Nicolo waits quietly.

“It is hard to remember them,” Yusuf says eventually, to their hands, “without remembering them in death. I had to bury them both.”

With a soft noise, Nicolo reaches forward and pulls Yusuf into a hug, arms wrapping about his shoulders; Yusuf responds in chorus and reaches for Nicolo back, his embrace tight enough to grind bone.

Nicolo rubs a hand up and down Yusuf’s back, his face tucked into Nicolo’s shoulder. Perturbed, Nicolo can’t imagine it- the comforting memory of his own mother, crossed and tainted by violence so cruelly. To lose her was enough. To lose the comfort of remembering her as well would be harrowing.

Yusuf pulls away first after some time, eyes red but dry, mouth turned down. Nicolo reaches up and thumbs at the crease between his brows, which quirks Yusuf’s lips ever so slightly.

“How old were you?” Nicolo asks.

Yusuf reaches up and takes Nicolo’s hand from his face, wrapping his fingers around his. “Twenty one.”

“A child.”

“Hardly, Nico,” Yusuf snorts softly. Nicolo disagrees, but he’s not going to start an argument over it. Not now.

With a sigh, Yusuf leans back against the rock formation behind them, wrapping an arm around Nicolo and tugging him sideways against his chest. Nicolo rests his head against Yusuf's shoulder.

“It’s not that I wish to forget her. Or my father. But I… would rather fondly remember the idea of them, the fragments, then remember them perfectly in death. That might make me selfish.”

“It does not,” Nicolo replies sternly. “It makes perfect sense to feel that way, Yusuf.” And then, “I’m sorry.” Yusuf only hums in response. It is, admittedly, a frail sentiment, so Nicolo adds, “I love you. In case you’ve forgotten.”

This earns him a huff against the top of his head. “I love you too,” Yusuf responds, and they fall into an easy silence.

After a few minutes, and with a great sigh, Yusuf tilts his head so that his cheek presses against Nicolo’s hair. “Nicolo…” he mumbles, hesitant, “I don’t mean to ruin the moment, but... I think we’re sleeping under the stars tonight.”

Nicolo lifts his head and twists around to find the half-assembled and frankly pathetic looking tent swaying off in the distance alone, with both Andromache and Quynh nowhere in sight.

“The consolidated wisdom of millenia,” Nicolo grumbles, dropping his head back against Yusuf. “And they still can’t assemble a tent.”

Yusuf laughs; Nicolo is by far more warmed by that than any comfort the damned tent could have offered.

Quynh has the little joke of hers whenever they go drinking. She’ll tell Yusuf, giggling into her tankard, “I miss when you didn’t drink!”

This is a joke because Yusuf gave up his abstinence of alcohol only a few months after he and Nicolo had met Quynh and Andromache, nearly two hundred years ago now, and when he’d announced his decision to do so to the two warrior women, they’d both admitted they didn’t even realize that he didn’t drink in the first place.

Nearly two hundred years later, Quynh continues to make this joke. Nicolo has yet to find it funny, but Yusuf laughs every time.

“It’s our anniversary, Quynh, you must be nice to us!” Yusuf insists in response to said joke. He is, as Andromache might say, drunk off his ass, swaying happily in his seat at the musty bar they’ve settled in for the night to celebrate. Despite how loudly he’s speaking, Nicolo can barely hear him over the clatter and bustle and chatter of the other, varyingly drunk, patrons at the bar.

“Three hundred years is nothing, Yusuf. You’re still babies,” Andromache replies, equally smashed yet bearing it more stoically, pitched against Quynh’s shoulder. One of her hands is still curled loosely around her tankard, unwilling to give it up just yet, probably.

Nicolo leans back against his rickety chair. “Do you two remember when you only knew each other for three hundred years?”

In response to this, Andromache pulls back from Quynh’s shoulder, propping herself up on the edge of a table with her free hand. She tilts her head, staring silently at Quynh with a quirked mouth, and Quynh stares back, eyebrows raised high. Nicolo’s gaze flicks between the two warrior women, eyeing them both, studying the emotion in their eyes and their mouths and their brows.

For nearly an entire minute they say nothing. They have no need to. The charged gaze between them could write entire epics; legions of words pass between them and neither woman even opens her mouth.

Nicolo finds himself slightly jealous. He wonders if he and Yusuf will ever hit a point such as this, where they could communicate without words, know each other so well that even a twitch of the brow or a press of lips could mean so much-- that words become irrelevant. Become small and useless compared to the years of their bond.

“It was a time,” Quynh answers at last, smiling a far away smile.

“That’s different,” Yusuf interrupts, slurring slightly and grinning widely. “because, this isn’t about how long you two have known each other, but how long I’ve known Nicolo,” here, he gestures broadly at Nicolo, sitting at his side, “and when you two will have known Nicolo for three hundred years, and-- and want to celebrate, I will not laugh at your paltry few years spent with him, in comparison to my many centuries! And you may-- may thank me for my generosity and kindness-- then.”

Quynh snorts. “That was very poetic of you, Yusuf.”

“Thank you.” Yusuf places a calloused hand atop Nicolo’s head. “I love him very much,” he states, very sincerely, if a little slurred.

Andromache, as always, seems to feel a compulsion to try and ruin the moment. Their Andromache, old and wise as she is, is a great many things: an elegant warrior, a stern protector, and a graceful leader-- however, a kind drunk she is not. “You know, you’ll get tired of each other eventually,” she points out, gesturing between the two of them. Yusuf rolls his eyes, his hand slipping from Nicolo’s head. “Quynh and I usually separate every couple hundred years for a time. It’s normal.”

“Bah,” Yusuf grumbles. “Andromache, you do not have a romantic bone in your body.”

“I do!” Andromache insists. Quynh sends her a sharp look that she doesn’t see because she’s too busy waving her hand widely. “I have been with, and wooed, and have been wooed by-- by more men and women than you’ve ever even set eyes on.”

Yusuf copies Andromache’s grand gesture, cheery and mocking. “That, what you’ve just described, is the opposite of romance, boss.”

“Whatever,” Andromache concedes with middling grace. “I’m happy for you two, either way.”

“Thank you,” Nicolo says, so that Yusuf won't say anything else. “Another round?”

“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Yusuf says to Nicolo an hour or so later, as Nicolo is trying to haul the damned drunk up the stairs without sending them both sprawling down to their temporary deaths.

Funnily enough, around the time Yusuf began drinking, Nicolo stopped-- not out of any particular thoughts on alcohol itself, but because someone had to remain sober in order to drag Yusuf’s drunken ass back to their room at the end of the night, and the responsibility fell to Nicolo for all of the obvious reasons, and also because he was happy to do it.

“Who?” Nicolo asks, steadying a hand on Yusuf’s shoulder when he sways at the top dangerously.

“Andromache,” Yusuf replies. Nicolo’s not sure what exactly Yusuf thinks she was wrong about-- they’d discussed many topics at the bar downstairs-- but he might succeed in having this conversation more so if Andromache and Quynh weren’t standing no less than five feet away, hovering just inside their room’s open door down the hall, stripping down to their tunics and trousers.

Probably standing by in case Nicolo and Yusuf took an unfortunate tumble down the stairs. Nicolo is warmed by their concern, but Yusuf is too busy being drunkenly confused by Andromache’s presence after she calls over an “about what?” to think of such things.

“Where did you come from?” Yusuf asks Andromache, only going half willingly when Nicolo rolls his eyes and drags him down the hall.

“Thank you, good night,” Nicolo tells the two women as they pass their door and head down the hall to theirs, floorboards creaking under their boots.

“Have a nice anniversary, infants!” Andromach calls after they manage to stumble to their door, sticking her head out of theirs.

Nicolo fiddles with the key the barkeep gave him, trying desperately to ignore Yusuf when he yells back, “Us infants will try not to fuck so loud you can hear it all the way down there!” probably scarring some of the tenants.

“I bet you can’t!” Andromache responds, gleeful, and ducks back inside to slam the door shut.

“Is that a fucking challenge?” Yusuf asks the empty hallway, going easily when Nicolo drags him inside.

It’s a humble room, but the presence of four walls and a floor makes it good enough for Nicolo, and the bed is only an added bonus. He leaves Yusuf to his own devices as he lights the lantern set in the corner, double checking that their bags --that they’d tossed in the room earlier-- haven’t been stolen. He nudges the bags with a toe as he unlatches his longsword from his belt, propping the sheath up carefully by the little table with the lantern.

Yusuf is being oddly quiet; Nicolo turns to find the love of his life lying starfished on the little bed, peering up at the wood ceiling as if the secrets of the universe are engraved on it.

“I am so tired, Nicolo,” Yusuf mumbles, mournful. “Why did you make me go up all those stairs?”

“I am infamously known to be cruel and unfair,” Nicolo replies dryly, crossing over and sitting next to Yusuf. He unbuckles the straps around Yusuf’s shoulders that keep his scimitar attached to his back while Yusuf lies still. When the task is done, he looks up to find Yusuf staring at him, brows drawn together. “Lean up,” Nicolo orders softly, and Yusuf complies without complaint, shifting his shoulders off the bed just enough that Nicolo can pull his sheath off.

He stands to go retrieve his own sword, so that both can be placed at their bedside, within reach, shucking off his boots as he goes.

“Can you grab my bag for me?” Yusuf asks from the bed while Nicolo is doing so, so Nicolo does, balancing the two sheathed swords under one arm and holding Yusuf’s rucksack in the other.

He drops the bag at Yusuf's side and sits beside it, setting both swords at his feet, on the left side of the bed. Usually Yusuf’s scimitar goes on the other side, but Nicolo does not trust him with access to a sharp object in this state.

Yusuf sits up to shuffle through his bag. “I got you something,” he tells Nicolo when he straightens. Nicolo frowns at him.

“You got me something?” he repeats.

“Yeah.” Yusuf pulls out his sketchbook, though he doesn't grab his bag of charcoals.

But I didn’t get you anything, is something Nicolo almost wants to say, but honestly, three hundred years into a relationship, you stop keeping track of how many gifts have been exchanged and when. Especially when their finances are so intertwined. Nicolo and Yusuf simply buy each other things whenever the urge arises, and they’re both such men that these gifts are usually just practical items: new boots, a thicker cloak, and so on.

But now Yusuf passes Nicolo his sketchbook, turning back to the bag to buckle it closed again.

“A sketchbook,” Nicolo muses with a smile, rubbing a thumb over the bound leather cover. “You shouldn't have.”

“Oh, stop,” Yusuf grumbles, snatching the book back once his bag is closed. He shoves it off the bed with a mildly worrying clank and sits in its vacated spot, next to Nicolo. “Your jokes will make you look a fool when you are crying tears of gratitude on me.”

Nicolo smiles. Yusuf’s thigh, pressed against Nicolo’s, is warm, and his shoulder knocks against Nicolo’s with such familiarity Nicolo wonders if he could identify Yusuf from that alone; without sight, without hearing. He thinks he could, given the opportunity.

Yusuf flips through his sketchbook quickly, scanning past images of landscapes and crowded marketplaces and Nicolo’s own smiling face until he stops at a certain page, angling the book away so that Nicolo cannot see. He peers sideways at him, suspicious or maybe anticipatory.

“Do you expect me to start the tears of gratitude now, or…?” Nicolo asks, grinning at Yusuf’s unamused stare before Yusuf shoves the book into Nicolo’s open hands.

Nicolo doesn’t understand what he’s looking at, at first. Not that he doesn’t recognize the image; he does, he just doesn’t... understand.

“How…?” Nicolo asks, trailing off in wonder. He lifts a hand to touch the image, then snatches his hand away, afraid he’ll smear it.

It’s his mother.

He doesn’t understand how Yusuf could do this; drawing his mother is one thing, but the accuracy of the drawing to Nicolo’s memory is astounding. The line of her cheekbones and the crinkles of her crows feet, the shape of her eyes set by happiness. The drift of hair over her shoulder is a little longer than his mother had it, and a little straighter, but other than that it is an almost perfect recreation. Down to the curl of her mouth, the small flash of teeth. Nicolo can practically hear her in the image, her eyebrows raised and surprised joy flashing in her eyes, as she says, “That’s a big one, Nicolo, good job!”

“How did you do this?” Nicolo asks, voice small.

“Do you remember when you told me what she looked like?” Yusuf asks. “When we were talking about Andromache’s mother?”

“Yes, I remember,” Nicolo replies, frustrated. “I told you she had brown hair and green eyes. Yusuf, how did you--” He peels his eyes off of the drawing that sends him straight to his childhood. “You even got her smile right.”

Yusuf presses his lips together in a fond little smirk. “I will tell you, but you must agree not to share my secret.”

“Yusuf.”

Yusuf scoots that much closer, tucking a hand under Nicolo’s jaw, thumb smoothing over his cheek. “I know how she smiles because I know how you smile. Because she’s your mother. And she lives in you, even if she’s been dead three hundred years. Even if you forget her to some small degree, she will stay with you. Here--” Yusuf touches the corner of Nicolo’s mouth. “And here--” His pointer swipes over Nicolo’s cheekbone. “And here.” He presses a thumb under Nicolo’s eye, and it comes away wet. He makes a small noise. “I was kidding about the tears of gratitude, Nico.”

The sketchbook almost falls off of Nicolo’s thighs in his urgency to pull Yusuf into a hug.

Yusuf returns the embrace with a huffing little laugh, arms wrapping around Nicolo’s waist and hauling him in close, the sketchbook folding closed between the press of their bodies, the beat of their hearts against each other.

“Thank you, Yusuf,” Nicolo murmurs into the crook of Yusuf’s neck, endlessly sincere. His fingers hook into Yusuf’s tunic, over his back, already pulled tight by the muscles there.

“Happy anniversary,” Yusuf responds cheerily. “To three hundred years, eh?”

“And three hundred more,” Nicolo reminds him.

“Fuck, Nicolo.” Yusuf leans back, hands lingering at his waist. He catches Nicolo’s eyes, his brows pulled together. “To three thousand more; Andromache doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

Nicolo frowns, recalling Yusuf saying something of the sort in the hall. “What did she say?”

“What did she say?” Yusuf repeats thoughtfully. “I don’t remember-- some nonsense about us getting tired of each other.”

“Oh.” Nicolo does remember that. “I don’t think she meant it like that, Yusuf. And after all, she is rather the authority on how the relationships of immortals work.”

“The authority!” Yusuf repeats, mocking. “When Andromache kills a man with her bare hands and comes out the other side of the experience loving him, I will give her credence to the idea that she’s an authority over our relationship.”

“I didn’t say she was an authority over us. Just that she may understand better.”

“What, do you think she’s right?” Yusuf’s brow furrows, voice lowering. “That we shall grow tired of each other?”

“No,” Nicolo immediately insists, his desire to assure Yusuf strong and instinctual. He lets his hand slide to his shoulder, gripping there. “At least,” he admits on second thought, “I’ve never once felt anything to give me the impression that I will. But it may happen, Yusuf.”

To be completely honest, Nicolo can’t imagine such a thing. He’s woken up every morning for the past three hundred years of his life at Yusuf’s side, and he can’t even begin to understand what kind of drastic shift in his heart would inspire him to grow tired or restless of doing so. Of Yusuf’s hands, of his voice, of his glittering eyes and his loud, joyful laugh-- and the way he furrows his brow when he’s thoughtful, like he’s doing at Nicolo right now.

“Because Andromache says so? I think not,” Yusuf argues. “Andromache is wise, but she’s known us barely more than a hundred years. Her experience does not allow her to see to your heart, or to mine. I will love you forever, Nicolo.”

“Forever is a long time, Yusuf,” Nicolo responds, smiling.

“Well, I will,” Yusuf insists. “When we are twice as old as Andromache is today, and the memories of our childhoods, and our warring, and even our three hundred year anniversary will be nothing but dust, I will remember loving you with certainty-- and that will be because I’ll have done it every day of my life.”

Yusuf shrugs and presses closer, bowing his forehead to Nicolo’s. “And if we forget every bad time and every good time with it,” he murmurs, looking down, “I will not care; it will all wash away in the sands of time eventually, but I have no intent to be separated from you. I won't let memory or time or violence take you from me. I don’t care what Andromache says. The only thing that will end us is your word, Nicolo.”

Amused, Nicolo lets out a throaty little huh. “You will be waiting a long time for that, Yusuf. Maybe even forever.”

Yusuf grins at that, eyes flicking up, and Nicolo has that split second thought he always has --you’re hiding dimples under all that beard-- before Yusuf tilts his head up and kisses him, leaning forward with all the drunken weight of his body.

Nicolo catches Yusuf’s jaw in his hand, shoulders bunching up as he shifts so that Yusuf doesn't topple them both; tilts his head and grips Yusuf’s shoulder and kisses him back.

It is not, admittedly, their best kiss. But Nicolo’s found over the years that a kiss with Yusuf is a kiss with Yusuf, which is to say no matter how much their teeth clack or their mouths miss their mark, it is still Yusuf, so none of them are actually bad.

And Nicolo is distracted. Yusuf is one to spew pretty words whenever the mood takes him, but his aptitude for the spoken word even in the worst --or most drunken-- of times always catches Nicolo off guard; even three hundred years into their relationship.

Every day of my life, Yusuf had said, and Nicolo finds himself giddy and weightless at the idea. Every day of our lives, Nicolo thinks to himself, unable to fight off a smile as Yusuf pulls him in closer, a hand at his neck. Every day.

It is a fair while later --after Nicolo has pried Yusuf’s boots off, after the lantern light was blown out, and after they are both under the admittedly threadbare blanket-- that Nicolo lies propped up on his elbows on his side of the bed, admiring the drawing of his mother by moonlight. Yusuf lies on his back beside Nicolo, either asleep or drifting, arm thrown over his eyes and mouth pulled into a frown.

“Are you going to sleep tonight?” Yusuf asks groggily after some time, revealing himself to be awake. “Or must I compete with my own drawing for your attention?”

“You made a mistake giving me this,” Nicolo replies, closing the sketchbook and leaning over to set it carefully on the floor. “I will do nothing but admire it for eternity.”

With a huff, he settles under the blanket, facing Yusuf, crossing his arms to his chest. Yusuf responds with only a smile, and after the silence stretches for a moment, Nicolo adds, “I wish I could give you such peace in regards to your own mother.”

Yusuf drops the arm from his face, squinting sideways at Nicolo. “Pfft. You have already brought me more peace than any other living being on this earth. Give making me the happiest man alive a rest for a few minutes, Nicolo; you’ll give yourself a complex.” He rolls onto his side. “But also roll over. What are you doing lying all the way over there, anyways?”

“Giving myself a complex, apparently,” Nicolo grumbles, doing as he’s told and shuffling onto his side. Yusuf throws an arm over him from behind, snuggling forward and pulling Nicolo back in unison until they are pressed against each other, shoulders to thighs.

“I am being truthful,” Yusuf murmurs after a moment, low and intimate and close, tired words slurring into each other. He yawns before butting his forehead gently against the back of Nicolo’s neck. “My mother-- I have many good memories of her, and some bad. I would like to forget some and cherish others, but in the end I will likely lose all or most of ‘em, as Andromache has. That’s just the truth of it all.” He yawns again, shifting his grip on Nicolo. “I could draw her if I wish, but I don’t know if even a thousand drawings will ease her memory. And losing memories is a simple trade-off of the life we live, even if we didn’t choose it. I may not keep my memories, but as long as I can keep you, I am at peace with it all.”

Nicolo considers that, tucking his own hands into his sides. As much as their immortality was not a choice-- it was nothing either Nicolo or Yusuf asked for or even really wanted, three hundred years ago, but it was gifted to them anyway. They didn’t ask for each other either, and yet Yusuf was given to Nicolo and vice versa in the same breath that their immortality was thrust upon them.

But of course, unlike the immortality, and unlike all the other positives and negative consequences that came with it, they did choose each other. They chose to put down their weapons. They chose to stay at each other’s side. They’ve chosen that every single day of the last three hundred years. Hopefully they will do so for the next three hundred -- thousand-- years.

He will lose his memories eventually, one day, one way or another. It is like Yusuf said: it is a simple trade-off of the life they live.

But if it had been a choice-- well. Even the innocent comfort of his mother’s memory, of those late afternoons picking seashells-- those memories are not nothing to him, but if it ever came between keeping them and keeping Yusuf… the choice is obvious.

But there is no choice. The memories will fade one day whether he wants them to or not, whether Yusuf draws a thousand portraits of his mother or not.

Yusuf will not fade. Yusuf will be here. Yusuf has been here, for three hundred years.

Every day of our lives, Nicolo thinks, and smiles.

“You know,” he says quietly into the dark room. “You are a very wise man, Yusuf.”

“Don’t tell Quynh and Andromache,” Yusuf mumbles into Nicolo’s nape. “It will ruin my image.”

Nicolo snorts, smiles, and, eventually, falls asleep in Yusuf’s arms.

#Anonymous #joe x nicky

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fiddlepickdouglas · 3 years

Text

Viva Las Vegas, Pt. 13 - Sketch/Ache

Summary: Sunset Curve Alive AU, Willex, so close yet so far, 3k

@trevor-wilson-covington is the bestie who makes these lovely edits, we stan supportive friends

WARNINGS: death mention

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12

October already? Looking at the work schedule posted on the wall, Willie ran a hand through his hair. The time really was just passing him by, huh? Another day over, he grabbed his skateboard and strapped on his helmet.

“Hey, Willie?” His manager, Kyle, called after him before he got through the back door.

“Yeah, man?” Willie turned to answer him.

“This Saturday we need some extra hands while we’ve got a group performing. Could you be there?”

“Totally, man,” he said, smiling with assurance before heading out into the street. Los Angeles was fresher than Vegas, at least for him. He loved the breeze from the ocean that swept in every evening and being near the water in general. There was so much more to do, as well, and he didn’t think he’d ever exhaust that list. Just the number of places to skate was constantly growing, without mentioning the rest. Of course, he had been hoping to do some of them with Alex by now, but that was easier said than done. Sunset Curve didn’t seem to be doing too many shows at the moment, and that was all he really had to track him with.

Stopping at an antiquated apartment building, he headed down a stairway into the basement and burst through the door.

“Guess who’s home!” he cried. Sheldon came pattering over with his ever-cheerful prrrp and rubbed against his leg. Kneeling to pet him, Willie chuckled. “Aww, I’m happy to see you, too.”

He immediately went over to the cat’s bowl and poured some food in, listening to Sheldon purr loudly as he ate his dinner. Willie grabbed some food for himself to snack on as he sat at his desk and looked at the unfinished drawing that had been left there early that morning. He’d begun covering his walls in sketches again, and this time he didn’t have to be afraid of everything being torn away. In fact, Willie couldn’t even believe he had convinced himself that his life was fine when staying with Caleb.

Things had changed entirely. Since his brief adventure out in the desert, Willie was fully independent. He owed most of it to Bessie, still, and he thought of that woman every day. She hadn’t left him any way to contact her, otherwise he’d want to send her a thank you card at least once a week. It even overshadowed the fact that he’d actually ridden in a plane with Harrison Ford.

Willie remembered how incredibly short the flight had been in comparison to the rest of his journey. Bessie had donated an old cat carrier that they strapped into the cabin for Sheldon while Willie joined Harrison in the cockpit. It was nothing like watching the man fly the Millenium Falcon, except that it felt like they had gone into lightspeed and landed not too long after taking off.

“You should be proud,” Harrison had told him. “You didn’t get sick.”

It had taken Willie until after they landed at the Santa Monica Airport to realize that he’d hardly spoken a word because he kept looking at him in pure shock at the reality of the man. His embarrassment must have appeared obvious, because Harrison Ford leaned down to look him in the eye.

“I’ve seen it a million times, don’t worry about it.” There was something sage about the resting expression on his face.

Chuckling in a flustered manner, Willie tried to think of the best way to thank him.

“Well, that was...that was really amazing, Mr., um...Mr. Ford. Thank you.”

The old actor smirked a little. Willie had seen a handful of actors come through the diner in Vegas before (at least, he’d been told they were famous, since he didn’t recognize most of them), and none of them were nearly as friendly.

“Willie, right?” Harrison had asked. It was enough to get him starstruck all over again, but he managed to nod. “Well, since I’ll never see you again, I’ll give you some advice.”

Willie listened intently.

“If you believe something is worth it, don’t quit. From what I already know about you, it doesn’t look like you do, so I have an extra piece of advice for you: planning and preparation is everything.”

Thinking back to when Bessie had scolded him about not riding the bus, Willie cowered inwardly. He couldn’t imagine how stupid he had sounded then.

“Do you know where you’re headed, kid? I can call a cab to take you anywhere you need.”

“How come you’re so nice?” Willie blurted. He hadn’t meant to.

Harrison Ford bowed his head, still smirking, and looked back up.

“I was twice your age before I really got anywhere. Now I’m just an old man who still does the job. Doesn’t mean I’m always nice, but sometimes….” He shrugged and gave him a wink.

Nodding, Willie had thanked him again. Harrison Ford held out a hand, which he shook with great enthusiasm before accepting the offer for the cab and saying goodbye. When he’d asked to go to the Hollywood Walk of Fame, the cab driver had looked at him in confusion.

“You do?” the guy asked. Seeing the definitive nod from Willie in the back seat, he just looked resigned. “Okay.”

Shortly after being dropped off, Willie had realized why the cab driver had responded that way. Standing before Grauman’s Chinese Theater, the street was just another place covered in gum, surrounded by people dressed as other celebrities. He saw other people taking pictures with them, and saw that the ones all dressed up were being paid. Some young woman dressed as Marilyn Monroe was doing her best to catch his interest with a flirty pose and a wink. Awkwardly smiling, Willie turned away and went to explore that area of the city. It was a good thing he hadn’t owned a camera then.

Now, he had decided to get a cheap one, just to capture anything he found interesting when he saw it. He’d accumulated a handful of things in the past few months: the basement apartment, a mattress, his writing desk and chair, and his job at the record-store-slash-cafe, among other things. The fridge had already been in the room, which was a nice perk. It was cool enough that the owner of the building had been willing to rent to him even though he was still underage. Working at the record store was much better than both the diner and the hotel, although his hopes of having Alex or his friends chance to stop in were dwindling some.

For now, it was much like before he’d left Vegas, only without Caleb’s dark shadow constantly looming over him and a few more memories restored. And, of course, he could keep Sheldon with him. It was strange how meeting Alex and being at the Pearl already felt like a dream. Willie often had the thought that maybe he should move on and start planning out whatever he wanted now. Maybe Alex had just been the catalyst to get him out of a bad position and help him move forward.

Staring down presently at the drawing on his desk, Willie sighed. Alex’s smiling face (what he could remember of it) beamed up from the page. Sure, he could tell himself to be over it, but was he really? Sheldon began running about the apartment like he was being chased by an invisible foe, creating a distraction from Willie’s thoughts. After a while, he went to bed and lay awake replaying in his mind the last few moments he’d actually seen Alex. It was still so vivid. If it was no longer important, why could he recall it so well?

He watched as Alex stood up and held out a hand toward him. Taking it, he was impressed by the strength with which he was lifted off the surface of the observation deck. His mind returned to earlier that day when the situation had been reversed, and he wondered if Alex had felt the same exhilaration from that moment of closeness. He already missed the feeling of Alex’s fingers through his hair. Gaining his balance, he let go of Alex’s hand and a nervous giggle escaped as a bout of giddiness came over him.

“You alright there?” Alex teased, grinning.

Shaking his head, almost to clear it like an Etch-A-Sketch, Willie grinned back.

“I’m having a good time,” he told him.

The warm smile that spread across Alex’s face and the way his eyes lit up deserved to be captured forever. Willie was sure he could fill a thousand pages of sketches, even if they were all of that one expression.

“Me, too,” Alex said, eyes wandering all over Willie’s face.

Before Willie could blush too hard, he picked up his skateboard.

“I know some shortcuts that’ll get us back to the hotel pretty quickly,” he started, pressing the button for the elevator. He didn’t want to go back so fast, but he had to remember his early work day in the morning. Caleb always had some sort of laundry list on the days he didn’t immediately go in to work at the diner.

“You’ve been a good tour guide so far,” Alex said as they stepped into the elevator.

Casting a wistful look back at the splendid view of Las Vegas, Willie watched the doors shut. Once they got out to the street again, Willie looked up at the hat sitting on Alex’s head. Impulsively, he lifted it up and put it on backwards, grinning at Alex.

“How does it look?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

Alex’s jaw hung open for a moment, his nervous smile betraying him.

“It looks good,” he said in a breathless manner. It was such a cute expression, Willie wished he could make it happen again.

Alex was wishing right then that he could keep a picture of Willie with the hat on. He usually didn’t let people just steal it off his head, but when the result was that handsome he wasn’t going to complain. He’d wait until they had reached the hotel to ask for it back.

“So,” Willie started saying. “Back to L.A. in the morning, huh?”

Ah yes, the feeling of being crushed by reality. Alex bowed his head. He wasn’t excited to address it.

“Uh, yeah,” he sighed. “You know, when I got here I was hoping to just get the gig over with and leave, but that...I kind of forgot about that.”

He glanced up at Willie, not sure how much he should go into detail about why he changed his tune.

“But then you met Sheldon and he was the coolest cat ever, right?” Willie teased.

A chuckle of genuine entertainment escaped his throat. Did Willie know how charming he was? Alex wished he knew how to tell him.

“Yep, it was definitely the cat,” he responded. “Although the owner isn’t too bad, either.”

He got a casual shrug in return.

“Well, I know I’m busy, but I could call you,” Willie offered.

Fear pinched everything in Alex’s chest. It almost made him stop in his tracks.

“God, I - ” he started awkwardly, forcing his body to keep moving. “I can’t. I seriously wish I could, but that’s just...not possible.”

He already hated the words the moment they’d been spoken. His parents suspected enough things about him and his activity with the guys in his band, but they would make his reality pure hell if they ever picked up the phone from a guy they’d never met who had shown as much interest in him as Willie. While he felt fine being open just about anywhere else, at home was where he remained most guarded.

Willie was looking at him with slight disappointment.

“That’s too bad, I guess,” he said. “At least I know I won’t be going anywhere for a while, so you know where to find me.”

It was the only consolation they could afford. Alex wanted to make plans right then and there.

“And what would we do if I did find you?” he asked, knowing he was prodding for signs that he wasn’t the only one with hopes. He tried to relax his stride to appear more casual.

“Lots of possibilities,” Willie told him. “I haven’t shown you my favorite museum, or seen you skate - ”

“Just putting it out there,” Alex interrupted, raising a hand. “I cannot skate.”

Willie blew a raspberry. “Maybe not now, man, but you will by the time I’m finished with you.”

The way he wiggled his eyebrows made Alex think of something much different than riding a skateboard. He cleared his throat nervously as he looked up at the street they were on. The hotel was already a block away.

“Whoa, how’d we get here so fast?” he wondered.

“I know my shortcuts,” Willie said proudly.

Unfortunately, he did. Alex wanted more time to figure out a way to see Willie in the future. There had to be a possibility in the future. His long legs could only go so slowly, however, and soon they were stopped outside the hotel doors.

“Are you gonna make it home okay?” Alex asked. “Wherever that is?”

“I’ll be fine,” Willie shrugged plainly. “It’s not too far.”

For a minute, they stood in awkward silence. Alex could feel his entire body burning to make some gesture that left Willie with the right impression. What would be too forward? A hug? A kiss on the cheek? He’d already checked off holding him and running his hand through Willie’s hair, so he wasn’t going to simply send him off with a hand wave or something.

“Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow before you guys go?” Willie said, smirking optimistically.

“Yeah, maybe,” Alex said, trying to return a smile with the same optimism.

“Oh,” Willie sputtered. He took off the hat and tried to place it back onto Alex’s head properly. It didn’t work, but Alex simply adjusted it into its comfortable backward position. His fingers twitched under the temptation to touch Willie’s hair again.

“One of these days…” he muttered.

“Hm?” Willie perked up curiously.

Oh, no, he’d said it out loud. Damn. There was no way he couldn’t follow up.

“Uh...one of these days I’ll be around here again,” he said, nodding to reassure himself. “I’ll come looking for you.”

Willie could only look up at him and smile.

“I…” Alex began to scratch the back of his neck, but forced his hand down into his pocket. It had to be said. “I definitely like you.”

He watched Willie’s face morph from surprise into a smile, and finally his trademark eyebrow raise.

“So do I,” Willie said, biting his lip.

They both giggled, now that their feelings were out there in the open. It only made Alex ache more to stay. Willie placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You take care, Alex,” he told him.

He nodded. “And you be safe, Willie.”

He got one more glance into those gorgeous brown eyes, longing to toss in a line and anchor himself in them. The dim lights from the street played off of the natural glimmer that was always present.

Feeling Willie’s hand slide off his shoulder and down his arm, Alex could’ve sworn there was a tiny squeeze he received at the end of his fingers before Willie let go and got onto his skateboard. He watched him leave until eventually he was staring out into the darkness all alone. Reluctantly, he headed back up to the hotel room.

Alex was lying awake in his bed, silent tears falling down his cheeks at the bitter memory. His last words to Willie had been powerless to protect him. What sort of sick and twisted universe would let that happen? He knew he had no control over those circumstances, but he still felt that if anyone died in a fire, it should be him. Willie had been too wonderful to deserve it.

Turning to his side, he still hated the sobs that wracked through his whole body months later. Most people would deem it pathetic to hurt this much over someone he’d barely known. It was strange, but it felt almost undeserved, like mourning as he did wasn’t allowed. What about the people that Willie had spent time with every day? How could Alex begin to fathom their pain? To them, his sorrow would appear as empty as if he were crying over Freddie Mercury. This hurt far more than when he’d cried over Freddie.

It didn’t help that he couldn’t tell his family. The guys had been okay at letting Alex have his space, but his parents kept making comments about his sudden upset over everything. They would only see death as something bittersweet, a “better place” to go for people who were doing the right things. Of course he was terrified of death - he wasn’t exactly considered worthy of anything good, by their standards. That only made the loss of Willie that much worse. He hadn’t bothered to explain himself to Abbey. He couldn’t put that emotional burden on her.

Before he could let his mind wander further into the dark, Alex tried to find something else for his brain to put on cycle. Oddly enough, it went back to singing for Julie’s mom at the hospital. The words immediately began to repeat in his mind: we all live in a yellow submarine…. It wasn’t a song that he truly loved, but it was catchy. It was the one Willie had suggested they do. Alex remembered how he’d imagined everyone in that room in their own world together, safe and free from worldly cares. Somewhere full of color and warmth and people could be happy as they were.

That’s all he truly wanted. Maybe he would have that with the band, and maybe he’d get away from his parents and finally be free from all of their pressure, and maybe one day he’d recover and find a guy like Willie again. He wasn’t sure what he really believed just yet, but there had to be something good worth holding onto. If it was just some stupid world where he and his friends lived in a yellow submarine, so be it.

#julie and the phantoms #jatp #fanfic #jatp fanfic #willex #alive au #sunset curve #alex mercer #willie #luke patterson #reggie peters #bobby wilson #julie molina #caleb covington #sheldon the cat #harrison ford #viva las vegas #sketch/ache #fiddlepickdouglas

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mythgirlimagines · 3 years

Photo

This week, I have a brand-new talentswap MAID especially for you! If you couldn’t tell by the pun in the first sentence, this Myth is the Former Ultimate Maid!

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BACKSTORY AND TALENT

Originally living with her sisters at an orphanage, Myth watched as both of sisters got picked up by loving families, while poor Myth was left in the dust. In order to make herself more desirable to prospective parents, Myth taught herself how to cook and clean after all of the other kids in the orphanage. Eventually though, much to her joy, she was eventually was picked up by a wealthy family that eventually ditched her, despite being great at her maid duties. Eventually, after going through many wealthy families and being tossed out/abused/ignored, without a second thought, one family managed to keep her: a warm and loving family with an artistic prodigy for a daughter. For once, Myth felt the love and affection that she was starved for, after all of those years of isolation and being tossed out like common trash. All of those skills accumulated from both helping out at the orphanage and being raised as a maid for all of these wealthy families, earned her the Hope’s Peak title of Ultimate Maid.

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RELATIONSHIPS

Wyre Anon, Former Ultimate Artist

Born into an influential family of artistic geniuses, with their father being a master sculptor and their mother being a expert sketch artist, Wyre mainly specializes in the craft of both their parents, even though they are a master in practically every art form their parents can throw at them. When Wyre heard from their parents that someone was going to be adopted into their family, Wyre was ecstatic at the idea, and Myth quickly proved themself as a great servant and sister figure. Myth regularly serves food and cleans up after Wyre, when they gets particularly busy. Every since Wyre heard about Myth’s past with all of the other families, they claim that they are willing to fight all of them, much to the protests of Myth.

Outfit: A brown paint-colored apron over a black sweater and matching pants and shoes, a tool belt with sculpting supplies, black fingerless gloves, glasses from original design.

Anon Scar, Ultimate Detective

Despite Scar’s eccentric behavior and constant talk of possessing an “All-Seeing Eye” under her eyepatch (which was actually lost in a battle between her and a particularly violent criminal), none of Scar’s clients can deny that she is a very competent detective, in spite of both that and her age. Her detective duties can get very stressful at times, but it seems Myth has a psychic connection to Scar’s distress, for she would always be there with whatever can calm Scar down. This has caused Scar to feel both intrigued (in regards to the possible existence of psychics) and concerned for Myth’s health and well-being (because of Myth‘s constant overexertion and overworking).

Outfit: A black and purple eyepatch on her left eye, a black jacket slung over her shoulders Yasuhiro-style, a black vest over a white dress shirt, black pants and black thigh high heels.

Fusion Anon, Ultimate Astronaut

Ever since he was little and went stargazing with his grandparents, Fusion has always showed an interest in reaching the stars and traveling beyond the boundaries. Having aced both the physical and written exams at NASA, despite his age, Fusion is well on his way to becoming a full-blown astronaut. Fusion also trains younger children who are planning on becoming astronauts just like him, via lectures on astronomy and little physical exercises to build up endurance, and he brought his astronaut-training seminars to the Kibo-Con. Myth regularly assists him in his seminars, and in return, Myth gets glow-in-the-dark star-shaped stickers and freeze-dried “astronaut grub” from Fusion.

Outfit: A blue galaxy printed jumpsuit over a red t-shirt with a yellow star on the front, black and dark grey gloves and matching boots, glasses from original design.

FU-510-N Mk. 2 (aka. Fusion Anon II), Ultimate Robot

FU-510-N Mk. 2 (or Fusion II as she’d like to be called) was a robot created by NASA, in order to both assist Fusion in his seminars and accompany him on his future space expeditions. Created to entertain adults as well as children during the lectures and training, Fusion II was written with more of a sarcastic edge to her dialogue with Fusion, making her a bit more of a straight man to Fusion’s cheerful and pun-loving funny man, almost like Fusion’s rebellious teen daughter. Fusion II bonded with Myth quickly over their shared statuses of being “assistants“ to others. But much to Fusion II’s dismay, it doesn’t seem like Myth is able to pick up on her sarcasm at all.

Outfit: A white exoskeleton, pink and black joints, and four small black wheels underneath her “skirt”, clothes from original design.

Just Anon, Ultimate Anthropologist

Running away from home, because of his massively rich, influential, and incredibly strict parents, with nothing but a backpack and his wits, Janon eventually found the one thing that actually interested him, while on his trek across the world: people and their cultures, which attracted him to the field of anthropology. After writing all about his travels and the philosophies he learned in a couple of journals he eventually published for the masses, Janon was revered as a genius in the field of anthropology. Despite planning on taking this secret to the grave, Janon has a secret soft spot for Myth, for she reminds her of the poor maids being crapped on by his influential family.

Outfit: A black facemask, a black overcoat over a pink t-shirt, a skull necklace, brown pants, black boots, a big brown backpack.

Sparkle Anon, Former Ultimate Entomologist

Specializing in lepidoptery and coleopterology, Sparkle intends on showing people all about the beauty of insects, in the most flamboyant and over-dramatic ways possible. Despite these idiosyncrasies, she is a respected figure by entomologists and aspiring entomologists everywhere. While Myth loves admiring the odd butterfly as much as the next person, Sparkle attracts insects like sugar water, and they are all a nightmare to remove and exterminate. The whole insect issue isn’t helped by the fact that Sparkle loudly and explicitly refuses to let Myth get rid of any of her “precious jewels”. Luckily, Sparkle shared some non-pesticide related methods to herd her insects, in case they get wild.

Outfit: A cape that resembles monarch butterfly wings with shoulder pads that look like rhino beetles, a green insect carrier, a brown skirt with darker brown ant patterns, the glasses, jacket, undershirt, leggings, and boots from her original design.

Egg Anon, Former Ultimate Child Caregiver, and Wet Sock Anon, Former Ultimate Aikido Master

With a childish, immature and cursed yet caring personality, Egg was a massive hit amongst the children of the orphanage that they and their twin Wet Sock were born and raised in. In order to protect the children that their twin cared for, the brooding and cynical Wet Sock decided to pick up aikido and self-defense skills, dominating bigger foes in all the tournaments they entered. Shouldering the burden of hearing the twin’s primary defense mechanism (read: cursed comments), Myth quickly bonded with Egg, thanks to their shared interest in caring for others. Myth tried to bond with Wet Sock, but because of them being tsundere, Myth only gets judo thrown in response.

Egg’s Outfit: Part of their hair tied up with a yellow scrunchie, a green hoodie with yellow sleeves, a fanny pack colored like their original shirt, black shorts, long yellow socks, green light-up-shoes, glasses from original design.

Wet Sock’s Outfit: Same outfit from the original, but with black aikido pants and matching sandals.

Curious Anon, Jr. Ultimate Supreme Leader/Assassin

With the dubious and odd title of “Jr. Ultimate Supreme Leader” and an enigmatic and stone-faced personality, almost nothing is known about this mysterious Jr. Ultimate, not even what their talent entails. What Myth and the majority of the media don’t know, is that Curious is that his title is actually the Jr. Ultimate Assassin and is current throneholder of a secret underground religious cult that is particularly known for brainwashing and teaching their children how to assassinate potential religious rivals. Luckily, Myth was fortunate enough to not cross paths frequently with Curious, for she would definitely try to adopt the preteen assassin with a messed-up upbringing, if she ever catches wind of the truth.

Outfit: A simple white robe with a green sash indicating leadership that hides their assassination weapons.

Anon Nerd, Former Ultimate Inventor

Being a mechanical genius born in a country that was ravished by a massive war, Nerd was quickly sent to work in manufacturing and inventing brand-new weapons for his nation’s army. This past has given him a hair-trigger temper and a hatred for being interrupted, when he is in the middle of inventing. And yet no matter how many scouter-burns she suffers in the process, she never remembers that little tidbit of information about, when she comes barging into Nerd’s lab with his dinner, much to the rage of the easily-enraged inventing prodigy. But beneath the foul mouth and even-fouler temper, could Nerd have fallen for Myth’s kind and earnest attitude, despite being very annoying?

Outfit: Black armor that covers everything apart from his head, and the scouter from his original design.

Eldritch Anon, Ultimate Pianist

Videos of a person garbed entirely in black and playing self-composed pieces have been springing up on the internet for the past year or so, and despite the mysterious person attempting to make absolutely sure that he wasn’t found, Hope‘s Peak found the true identity of the online piano prodigy: Eldritch Anon, a former piano champion, who has since retreated to the shadows in growing anxiety and fear. Whenever Eldritch thinks about anything he wants or needs, Myth would always be right behind him with his want or need in tow. Because of that, Eldritch now wears a tinfoil hat on his head at all times, to prevent Myth’s psychic powers from reaching him, to no avail.

Outfit: A black marching band outfit with white music note buttons, over a grey hood-up hoodie patterned with black sheet music, white gloves, tall black boots.

Dream Anon, Ultimate Magician

With infectious childlike cheer and unstoppable charisma on stage, Dream’s magical performances are truly a sight to behold, whether you’re a child or an adult. Dream has recently employed Myth as her magical assistant, and Myth regularly roped Dream out of trouble, just in case her magical performances go awry. But at the same time, Dream also took on sort of a mentor role to the maid. While Myth has entertained several guests with some minor parlor tricks, Myth would love to learn all about how Dream accomplishes all of her large-scale and stupendous, and how Myth can learn them herself. If Myth learns from the best, she would be able to entertain way more guests.

Outfit: A black and pink top hat, a black coat and white gloves over a pink vest, an orange bow tie and a white dress shirt, a pink skirt, grey stockings, and black tap shoes.

Iris Anon, Jr. Ultimate Cosplayer

Having been a regular consumer of fiction ever since she was little, she picked up sewing and fashion design from her parents and eventually began making accurate-to-the-show cosplay items, ranging from simple accessories to full-blown outfits. Despite being really clumsy when it comes to everything else, Iris is amazing at handicrafts. Myth and Iris consider each other “sewing buddies”, for their shared interests in sewing outfits and other such handicrafts. Iris regularly lets Myth model her cosplay, for they are about the same height and have the same proportions. Iris would be lying if she said she hadn’t tried sticking cat ears or dragon horns on Myth when she wasn’t looking.

Outfit: Hair down with a heart barrette on each side of her head, a pink jacket with sewing supplies in her pockets and on her sleeves over a seira fuku with a red ribbon and a blue skirt, black stockings and red Mary Janes.

Purple Anon, Ultimate Adventurer

As the daughter of two famous and affluent ambassadors, Purple has been to practically every corner of the globe. Because of her travels, Purple regularly talks in archaic terms mixed with the insertion of gratuitous foreign vocabulary into her sentences, which means that the majority of the Anons can‘t understand a word coming out of her mouth. Purple is also stunningly timid for the daughter of two ambassadors, and often hides behind Anons that are bigger than her for when she doesn’t want to be seen by the crowds. Even if Myth can’t understand much of what comes out of Purple’s mouth, Myth still loves seeing Purple slowly but surely come out of her shell and talk about her travels.

Outfit: The beret from her original design, a dark purple overcoat and brown gloves over the sweater from her original design, lighter purple pants, brown boots, a brown carrier bag.

This AU will center around the maid getting helped for once, much to her protests.

——————————————————-

PERSONALITY

Despite her less-than-stellar past, Maid!Myth has a cheery and energetic attitude that belies (and bolsters) her sheer aptitude as a maid and her joy is described as “infectious” amongst Wyre’s family. With definite “mom energy”, Maid!Myth always comes prepared with the wants and needs for each and everyone of the Kibo-Con attendees, and seems to have an almost telepathic ability to whatever they all want, which unnerves a couple of the Anons (namely Eldritch, Scar, and Purple). Even though she overworks herself to a fault and everyone constantly tells to take a break from her work, she constantly shoulders every burden and duty placed upon her, in hopes that they won’t abandon her, just like every other family before Wyre’s family. This gave her a case of “chronic hero syndrome”.

——————————————————-

APPEARANCE

Maid!Myth’s naturally brown hair is tied in a prim and proper bun, complete with a white and light pink French-maid style headdress. As for the rest of her clothing, Myth wears a white and light pink French Maid dress with the only exception to the “white and light pink style” being a ribbon around her waist with a pink-to-purple-blue gradient, purple socks and red Mary Janes.

——————————————————-

I hope you like this AU! Let me know what you think of the AU and its roles in your reblogs!

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mythiica · 4 years

Text

amber astrolabe | ikevam | leonardo

The museum looms in front of you, practically swallowing you with its grand glory as it reaches for the sky. Sunlight sparkles in the new windows, yet to be touched by peoples’ hands as they stare into the street. Even from the outside, you can see the top of the arched glass roof letting natural light pour in.

You remember it when it was the train station and how you would sneak past the guards to climb the stairs hidden behind the walls. Tipping your head back, you squint hard against the bright sun to spot the window of your old room on the top floor.

It’s a bad idea to return to the museum– this beautiful building hosts so many memories that are not as wonderful. Still, against your better judgement, you pay your admission ticket like any other tourist that clamours through the doors of the Musée d'Orsay before melting into the crowd.

In honor of the museum's grand opening, more people have gathered to see the new displays for themselves. You were specifically interested in the exhibit that you had read about in the newspaper a few days prior. After nearly five decades, the lost works of a famous artist have resurfaced. A trove of sketches – namely hundreds of half-finished drawings of an unknown woman. Pieces of her face were scattered across blueprints, hidden on the backs of oil paintings, and even etched into the lacquer of strange wooden contraptions.

You walk past the main exhibit, not really having an interest in seeing the Mona Lisa again. Still, the painting smiles at you from over the churning sea of heads, as if she knows something you do not.

Now in the traveling exhibit, you take your time, pacing around to admire the art. You marvel at the broken wing of a plane that did not survive a test run, awe at the elaborate blueprint of a flying machine with gold sails, and even laugh at the obligatory comedic comment that this mystery artist must have had an obsession with someone.

However, from the corner of your eye, you notice something glinting in the spotlight just a few meters away. As you approach it, you can’t help but be a tad bit sad to see that it has lost its original shine over the years – in fact, you had held the astrolabe when it was brand new. The hands of the device point towards the end of the exhibit just beyond the corner, but you don’t pay it much attention. Instead, you search your memory, thinking hard to collect the pieces of the past before you can fall against the events that transpired nearly a lifetime ago.

“Cara mia, close your eyes. I have a gift for you.”

“If you drop a screw in my hand again and say you found it behind my ear, I’m going to throw it at you!”

His laugh rumbles deep in his chest, but you close your eyes to humor him. Without wasting a moment, he takes your hand and presses a cold, circular object into your palm. “You can look now.”

Your eyes flutter open, but you don’t know what to say. “A pocket watch? Did you steal this from Arthur?!”

“No.” He pulls the lid back to reveal a much more complicated interior. You take a moment to admire the fine engravings around the edge of the disk before your eyes graze over the centre of the object: an oblong piece of metal resembling the hands of a clock stretch across the diameter, overlapping the intricate second layer that sits atop what looks like a miniature map of the world. It is a deep copper color, and you immediately think of his eyes. They are nearly the same shade of amber, so deep and intoxicating that you wonder if he made it like this on purpose. “It is an astrolabe.”

“Well, it looks like you took a watch and a compass and made some… strange hybrid. What does it do?”

When he cups his hand over yours, your breath catches in the back of your throat. His hands are so large and warm. “It’s used to calculate the position of the Sun and other stars in the sky. Here, I’ll show you.” Now, his fingers lace with yours, the astrolabe pressed between your palms. It fits there perfectly, as if it were made to be held by your hand and his.

The two of you step over the incredible mess that has accumulated over the past week. No matter how hard you try, this place always remains a mess. It is no use to scold him for it now, for he has something set in his mind – nothing you say or do will be able to draw his attention away from showing you what this strange device is capable of doing.

He allows you to climb up the winding staircase first.

What a gentleman.

Then again, it’s the perfect opportunity for him to place his free hand on your waist. To ensure you don’t fall, he explains with the slyest of smirks.

Upon reaching the roof of the building, he leads you to the large telescope pointing towards the night sky. A breeze ruffles through your clothes, so he pushes you between the device and his body. Warmth radiates from his chest, so you lean against him slightly as he explains what he is doing.

“This telescope is completely uncalibrated, alright? Cara mia, are you paying attention? Look inside. You’ll see that it is not pointing at anything memorable.”

You smile to yourself. He always is so passionate about his work. To humor him, you take a peek through the lense. There is only darkness.

“I see.”

“Now, if you’ll give me a moment…” Lifting the astrolabe to the sky, he fiddles with it, mutters to himself, and then changes a few settings on the telescope. It swings around to point at a seemingly equal void in the sky – you cannot see anything of importance against the night sky, but he nudges you slightly, prompting you to look through the lense once more.

“Is… is that Venus?”

“It is!”

You lean back and squint, trying hard to see a flicker of green against the black. However, your eyes are too weak to spot anything. “That’s very impressive.”

“Oh, but that’s not all!” He side steps around an open box of art supplies and turns over a large piece of paper. It is obviously a flying contraption, but it looks so strange… like it is straight out of a steampunk novel. And is that gold on the sails? How is this thing supposed to fly?

Raising an eyebrow, you take a seat on the small stool next to the lamp resting on the ground. “What is it for?”

A grin captures his lips. “I’m taking you to the stars. No more sitting around on Earth. I’m tired of this place. When we wed, I promised you a life of adventure. We left the mansion, and now we’re living in the closet of a train station. This isn’t the glamorous life you should have.”

“I think it’s pretty fancy, actually–”

He shakes his head with a laugh, and his dark brown hair falls over his forehead. “We’re going to fly amidst the galaxies that make up the vast universe. How tiny we are, compared to them.” He whips around. “Imagine, reaching your hand out and catching a handful of dust from the time of creation. How amazing that would be…”

You laugh, but don’t correct him. Instead, you take his hands between yours again and kiss his calloused knuckles. “Where would you like to go first?”

He leans his head against yours and points at the horizon. “Sirius. It is one of the brightest stars in the night sky.” Turning to meet your gaze, he brushes his thumb against your cold cheek. “There is only one star that rivals its beauty. Would you like to know which one?”

“Of course.”

“A moment, if you please.”

Taking a dramatic step backwards, he plays around with the astrolabe until it clicks into place. The long hand is pointing directly at you.

“I don’t understand,” you tell him.

“Cara mia, you are the brightest star here tonight. You will always be the most beautiful star as well. Trust in that.”

You flush at his words, and it is hard to contain your smile. “You’re such a smooth talker, why can’t you put some of that effort into cleaning your room! I swear, it looks worse than it did when I first arrived here. Remember that time I found a mouse amongst your things?!”

“Don’t bring Lorenzo into this, he’s done nothing wrong!”

The two of you break into a fit of laughter, and that’s when he puts the astrolabe in your palm once more. “This is yours though.” He’s looking at you again with those pools of ochre mischief. “In the case that we are separated before we can reach the stars, use this to find me. Go towards Sirius, and I will meet you there. I’ll wait for you.”

The white noise of the museum filters into your mind as your eyes flutter open, and you ease back into reality. Tears roll down your cheeks, but you do not move to wipe them.

Looking at the astrolabe again, you see the tender scratches against the metal: his initials coupled with yours. An impressive layer of grime dulls the shine of the device, making it less impressive than how it looks in its natural state.

A week after he showed you his plans, a tank of a train exploded, plunging the east side of the station in flames. As the fire grew, it stretched to the opposite side, where the hotel was. You had begged him to escape before the roof collapsed, but he insisted on returning for the astrolabe and his telescope, because he had been using it to calculate stars the night before.

As you had expected, the wooden beams were not strong enough to withstand the fire but, by some stroke of luck, he managed to thrust you to safety before everything collapsed.

Neither him nor the damned astrolabe made it through.

A painful hatred for the device burns in your lungs, so you turn away from it and nearly run into someone. Tossing an apology into the air, you hurry forward and move past the rest of the salvaged artworks without paying them much attention. Guilt tugs at your heartstrings and weighs your feet down, retarding your motions.

Despite the tears blurring your vision, you throw your head back and glances back at the astrolabe. You don’t know if it is taunting you or trying to tell you something. And yet, your eyes follow the long hand forward, just beyond where you’re standing, until you realize that it is pointing directly at the final, most impressive display of them all.

It towers over your head, stretching up the entire length of the wall. Pieces of blueprints, canvases, loose papers, wood, and more are all arranged to create a larger than life depiction of– you.

The eyes.. Her nose.. That beauty spot on her cheek that you hate… it is all there. He had to have reproduced it all from memory because you don’t remember him taking any photographs or sketches of her.

In the bottom corner, you see a plaque:

Believed to be a portrait of his lover, our favourite artist would have had to spend years creating this piece: in fact, our experts needed months to put the pieces together in order to reveal a face! In the left margin of the paper with her eye, the phrase ‘my star’ is written, so we have named her ‘Étoile’ for reference. Who was this woman? It was thought that this was lost to a massive fire in the nearly five decades ago, but the recent excavation proved fruitful in its treasures among the basement of the Gare d'Orsay when preparations for the museum began...

You hear his voice loud and clear in your mind.

Cara mia, I am waiting for you, but do not rush. When you are ready, join me, so that we may explore the world beyond this one together.

Unable to contain your emotions anymore, you break into sobs. The sadness ebs from your broken heart and stretches through your body, making your legs click in place. You lose your balance and fall to the polished tiles, clutching your chest in an attempt to relieve the pressure. Other guests swarm to your side, offering you help or to call for someone, but you ignore them all.

Even overwhelmed with memories, you can feel the warmth of his promise, just as if he were standing beside her.

I’ll meet you again, Leonardo.

I’ll meet you at Sirius.

#ikevam #ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikevam leonardo #ikevam x reader #ikevam leonardo x reader #cybird #otome

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xiaomoxu · 4 years

Text

Xu Mo - Painting Gallery Date (Translation) Part 1 and 2

SPOILER ALERT!!

This date from CN server which hasn't been released on EN server yet. Might contains some spoiler.

Brace yourself for angst moment from Lucien (as usual)☹

I'm doing this translation for personal reason, so I'm sorry if there's some mistranslation. Kindly tell me if you found some :) feel free to read it~ ^^

I used Lucien CN name on it, Xu Mo.

Read prologue part here

PART 1

I looked at the sketchbook on the door that I hung up by myself.

The paper stays on the page where I lost the puzzle, the missing part is just like my current mood, empty

Several days have passed, Xu Mo still did not reply.

MC: Is he still busy

Just when I was about to enter the house, my cell phone rang suddenly.

Seeing the name on the screen, after two seconds of shock, I quickly answered the phone.

MC: Xu Mo!

Xu Mo: Yes, It's me.

Different from this tone before, this time his voice has a familiar temperature.

Xu Mo: MC, how are you recently?

MC: I....

"Very good" That two words choked in my throats, unable to tell.

There was an inaudible sigh on the other end of the phone.

Xu Mo: It seems that we are the same now.

Xu Mo: Sorry, my research has entered a new stage recently. I spend most of the time in the laboratory and don't look at my mobile phone often, so I can't reply to your message in time.

Xu Mo: The results of this research, is related to the fate of many people.

Xu Mo: Therefore, even if there are many difficulties, I will still finish it.

He paused, then said as if talking to himself

Xu Mo: Moreover, I also want to give myself a chance.

His voice is very soft, but it makes me feel a little uneasy

After a short silence, Xu Mo returned to his usual tone

Xu Mo: Have you found those pieces of puzzles?

Hearing what he said, I was a little surprised.

MC: So you saw it.

Xu Mo: I will not miss everything you recorded, but I haven't had time to reply.

Xu Mo: Sure enough, as I expected, some anxious little fool began to think again.

I was busted and my face turned red involuntarily

MC: Xu Mo, do you have time on the weekend

Xu Mo: Yes?

MC: The puzzle is still not found. I think if you are free, can you accompany me to buy a new one? It's not very far from here,

I know that my excuses are very bad, but I only have one thought at the moment... I want to see him.

There is a sound of even breathing. He seems to be hesitating

Not wanting to burdened him, I quickly tried to change the subject.

MC: What are you doing?

As soon as the voice fell, a chuckle came from over there.

Xu Mo: I'm nodding (?) Dozing off. 我在點頭.*

(* I'm not pretty sure with the translation so I put the original text)

PART 2

On Saturday afternoon, I came to the agreed place early

The weather today is surprisingly good. The sun is transparent and bright, and the air is full of colors, which warms the heart.

It was obviously not the first time I met Xu Mo in private, but I still felt a sense of tension.

MC: So many people...

Looking at the pedestrians coming and going, I couldn't help but feel a little worried in my heart. Should I call to confirm my location, in case he can't find me.

Xu Mo: Don't worry.

Xu Mo: Even in the crowd, I can see you at a glance.

I turned back subconsciously.

The breeze blew, and the leaves trembled in the wind. Golden light Use gentle brushstrokes to outline the slender and tall outline like a sketch.

As if he had a mind reading technique, he pointed out my worries as soon as he spoke.

Xu Mo: Sorry, I am late. Have you waited a long time?

His brows are slightly furrowed, his face is full of guilt.

MC: No, I just arrived.

I smiled at him and said with some guilty conscience. In fact, I

have been waiting for about half an hour.

I looked at Xu Mo quietly from the corner of the light, raising my hand to sort out his hair unnaturally.

He was wearing a white shirt, a dark gray tie around his neck, and a document bag in his hand. He had apparently just pulled out of work.

The thought that he hurried over before he had time to rest, I couldn't help but blame myself.

There was a heavy sigh from above.

Xu Mo: It seems that you are still mad at me.

MC: What?

I raised my head and looked at him for unknown reasons.

Xu Mo: Since when did you start hiding things from me?*

(*this is the edited translation)

The leaves trembled in the breeze. I looked at his Xu Mo eyes, which were full of emotions that I could not understand.

I faintly feel that Xu Mo today is unfavorable in peace.

Xu Mo: Don’t you want to buy puzzles? Let’s go.

The familiar smile returned to his face, as if it was just my illusion

MC: I don’t want to buy it anymore.. It’s just a few puzzle pieces, so I don’t need to buy another one.

MC: It's rare that we are all free. Compared with this, I want to do other things with you.

Xu Mo's eyes narrowed slightly as he watched me, and my heartbeat, which was so easy to calm down, became chaotic again.

After thinking for a moment, he asked softly.

Xu Mo: Would you like to go to a place with me?

Without thinking too much, I nodded and agreed.

MC: Okay.

A smile appeared at the corner of Xu Mo's eyes.

Xu Mo: There are so many people here, be careful not to get lost.

He got closer, trying to hold me.

I couldn't help but step back, avoiding the hand he extended to me.

A hint of surprise flashed across his face. After reacting, I also felt a little flustered at my actions.

MC: I didn't mean to avoid it, I just....

It's just that the palm of my hand is sweating a little, so I don't want you to notice it.

A simple sentence, but I can't say it, like a fishbone stuck in my throat, a dilemma.

Xu Mo: Okay, I know.

Xu Mo slowly lowered his stiff hand in the air, and he nodded slightly, with a clear look.

Xu Mo: It's getting late, let's go quickly.

After speaking, he turned around without looking at me again.

The wind rustled the leaves, and it was clear that winter was over, but I felt a little bit of chill.

Seeing Xu Mo's back getting further and further away, I had to hurry up to keep up.

I keep blaming myself in my heart, and I have accumulated a lot of words when I realized it, but I don't know where to start.

For some reason, a bunch of withered platycodons suddenly appeared before my eyes.

The flowers are in season and will wither afterwards.

Will people's feelings become indifferent because of long-term absence?

Just when I lowered my head and thought, my left shoulder was suddenly hit hard.

I raised my head and realized that the familiar figure had disappeared from my vision.

MC: Xu Mo...

The faint sound was like a pebble in the noisy street and fell into the vast sea without a single echo.

MC: Xu Moー

I clenched my fists and shouted loudly.

The passers-by slowed down and looked at me curiously, but quickly resumed their pace.

I stood before the crossroad and stopped.

The sound of whistle, footsteps, and noise gradually disappeared. All the passing scenery and crowds were blurred in outline, and only the sound of my own heartbeat was infinitely amplified.

For some reason, a vague picture flashed in my mind. It was a little girl sitting under the camphor tree. The voice soft said to me...

Little girl: I also know that this elder brother will not come back after he leaves.

Suddenly, I felt flustered for no apparent reason, and subconsciously looked for him everywhere.

Xu Mo: MC.

I looked for the voice and turned back-

Xu Mo: I am here. (CG Karma included here)

The noisy city streets, like a weaving crowd, bustling, I can only hear my heartbeat like thunder.

Through the haze, through the sea of people, my eyes meet that pair of eyes that have been searching for a long time.

Without the slightest hesitation, Xu Mo locked his eyes firmly on me.

Maybe it's like what he said, even if there are crowds, he can find me at a glance.

Everything around us suddenly slowed down, just like a framed lens in a movie. In our eyes, we only have each other.

MC: ...

No matter how flustered, restless, anxious, or even fearful before.

As long as you meet the eyes of the person in front of you, the heart that is wandering in the air and helpless can instantly settle down.

The spring sun shines softly through the gaps of the leaves, layer by layer, passing through hesitation and depression, and blooming freely beside those who are struggling to pursue it.

The sadness and sorrow that I have experienced have become worthwhile, and the thoughts that have been carefully hidden are finally conveyed.

The longing that I have always had but cannot express is pouring out at this moment, and it has become the most transparent thought and the most meaningful collection.

Everything is wonderful and incredible.

>> Proceed to next part

#mlqc spoilers #mlqc translation #mlqc lucien #mlqc xu mo #mr love Lucien #mr love xu mo #mlqc date #mr love date #mldd lucien #mldd date #lucien date #xu mo date

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peakyblinders1919 · 5 years

Text

Shelby Tattoo Parlor

With a baby finally on the way, it was time to make room for him. Yes, Polly and Arthur insisted it was a boy, but you had your own family traditions and maybe you were biased but it was definitely a girl. Boy or girl, you still had a room full of stuff you two had accumulated over the years and it was time to transform it into a nursery.

“Arthur, get up here!” You heard him waking up the stairs with a grunt, but how could you get any of this done by yourself if he didn’t even allow you to move boxes? Even if you were only 3 months gone and barely showing, you’d use it to your advantage.

“What do you want, woman?” He joked.

“We need to go through this mess. And I can’t move anything, so get in there,” you smiled, kissing him on the cheek before pushing him into the mess of boxes, standing in the threshold with your hands on your hips.

“Alright, you hand me a box and I’ll go through it, you go through that one there. We’ll make a pile of things to keep and things to get rid of, deal?”

“Deal,” he smiled as he passed you a box and for the next hour or so you were sorting through mostly garbage but some memories as well. The great progress you two were making quickly was often interrupted with an antidote associated with some old teddy bear from your childhood or some trinket Arthur had taken to France. It became a lot of “remember when” or “remember that time when I got you this…” and of course you said you remembered even when you didn’t and suddenly the keep pile was growing out of nostalgia.

The sun was setting quickly now, another sign of just how long you two had been at it, both ready to call it quits when you stumbled upon the best memory of all. You kept it to yourself first, flipping through every page, running a hand over the markings delicately, purely amazed that you were looking at a quick sketch rather than a painting worthy of being hung in a museum.

“Arthur, come look at this.”

After maneuvering, and falling over some of the boxes, he came to stand over your shoulder, though you turned to watch his eyes fill with joy and pride as he looked at the pictures in your hands. “These are your drawings, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, yeah, they are.” He took them from our hands, flipping through and looking over the sketches of horses and landscapes with hills and valleys, some other animals and a few buildings. You sat silently, watching a smile across his features before he coughed and handed them back over to you. “I was shit, wasn’t I?”

“What? Arthur, are we even looking at the same thing? These are wonderful.”

“You can’t tell me that looks like an elephant?”

“I….oh...I thought it was a horse.”

You both looked at each other before breaking into a fit of laughter, showing his shoulder playfully as he was teasing you of course.

“I remember when I first met you, you were always scribbling in some notepad.”

“I was a boy Y/N…”

“But you were good at it and you liked it, didn’t you? You could give it a go again, you know? Instead of that mechanic shop you want, you could become an artist or something, I don’t know. You could make a real living off of something your love, you won’t need to rely on your brother… think about it, yeah?”

“Arthur! Dinner’s ready!”

“I’ll be there in a second!”

“I’m hungry Arthur, if you're not in here in five minutes I’m starting without you.” Your little babe was ravishing now as he or she was big, so big in fact you couldn’t see your feet over your watermelon stomach anymore.

“Start without me love.”

You sighed but were more than happy to dig in. This had been common for a few months now, ever since you found his sketches in the newly painted yellow nursery. He had taken your words to heart, which you couldn’t deny warmed your heart, but he seemed to be busier now than when he worked for Tommy.

Still, at least this work made him smile. He was calmer now, not the same Arthur everyone claimed they knew. Even if he was busier, at least usually came home with his hands covered in charcoal or ink rather than blood.

You had already devoured half your plate of meat and potatoes by the time he showed up and just seeing his face free from stress and full of calm made you smile as he took his seat across from you.

“What’re you busy working on now?”

“A sketch for the Garrison window. But I’ve been brushing up on my skills and flowers and all like you said. A few more weeks and our little Shelby will be here and only a month after the shop’ll be open.” The smile on his face as he explained the business plan was genuine and even if it meant he really wasn’t going to be around anymore, you were happy for him.

“Show them to me after?”

“Sure.”

The buzz of the machines in the shop could soothe Arthur to sleep. No one ever really yelled from pain; most of his customers were ex-army men or Peaky Blinders or the like who could swallow pain like a pill. Smoke always hung in the air mixing with the smell of ink and the undeniable smell of metallic coming from the machine and needles.

The shop was successful, almost surprisingly so, but that was due to the fact that Arthur didn’t always believe in himself. Thankfully you did and he wouldn’t have opened his own tattoo shop if it wasn’t for you finding his old sketches buried in those boxes. Tattooing gave Arthur a way to continue to draw and also make a respectable living.

Arthur was finishing up a ship tattoo in black and white thoughtfully placed on the client's biceps, his hands steady for once as he dragged the needle across his skin, making quick and precise movements to add depth to the image. He was just about done, wiping the excess ink from his arm and showing off the artwork. The man thanked him before he started cleaning up the show, turning to yell that he was closed when the bell chimed over the door. He was surprised to see you however, little Alexander in the pram.

“Hey, someone wanted to stop by to see Daddy.”

“There’s my boy,” he smiled as he walked over and kissed you before looking at the baby sleeping. It was a rough day in the Shelby house when it turned out Arthur and Polly were right about the baby being a boy.

“Just wanted to see how everything was going.”

“Great, great. Just finished a piece, cleaning up the shop.” It filled your heart that he was happy, he was taking such pride in his craft. And he was good at it. You looked at the sketches he had before he transferred them to skin and his skill honestly surprised you; the horses and guns and roses and skulls were all drawn to precision and explosive colors. Honestly, since he opened the shop, you couldn’t remember ever seeing him as happy as he currently was.

“I’m proud of you.”

“Yeah? Well, thanks love,” he smiled as he turned and kissed you, wrapping his arms around you. “I’m happy, really. I like this work, it keeps me calm.”

It was great to hear; he was happy doing something he loved while making enough money to provide for his new family. But for Shelby’s it was never that easy and the Blackhand currently sitting in their mailbox at home would change everything.

#peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders fic #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders imagines #arthur shelby fanfiction #arthur shelby imagine #arthur shelby fanfic

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imagines-to-quench-thirst · 5 years

Text

Misfit God and a mortal: Loki x Reader

Some Loki fluff with Frigga making an appearance in it. Enjoy ❤️

‘Y/n...’

‘That’s a lovely name.’ Frigga says happily reaching for her son's cheek caressing the cold skin. 'Invite her here. For the Banquet.' The glorious Banquet. A night full of joy, mead, laughter and unforgettable moments that imprints itself on each guest. An event that stood up for luxury clothes, drinks, and food. Something that couldn't be said about the guests. There are going to be royals and noblemen but only their clothes could enhance their shallow personality.

Loki walked into the very familiar building passing many employees waving with a small smile on his face. Opening the door of the highest office on the highest floor he sees his Y/n. Talking on the phone her white crisp suit made of the shiniest silk bounced off the glaring sun giving her the well-deserved halo.

'I don't like the sketches...I improved them and want your feedback by the end of the day... that's why I gave them an improvement....Jackson, just... send it.' placing the phone down with a faint thud letting her tired shoulder slump down. 'Penny for your thoughts, darling?' Y/n hesitantly turns around to see her Loki in front of her in his all-black suit. 'The suit looks great.' She spoke inching closer to Loki placing her hands on his chest 'Of course it is. You made it.' He leans down to kiss her lips feeling the chapped texture as his tongue sweeps into her mouth. Dragging his dove closer, his arms encircle her in a comfortable hug feeling the soft white silk pressed against his black suit. An angel and a demon. His angle and her demon.

Pulling his tongue back and then his lips he smiles inquiring 'Mother, wants to invite you to the Banquet. In 2 days.' Y/n looks up seeing his lips twitch in anticipation knowing just how much her job held her hostage 'I can-' she stops letting her eyes look to the side squinting quietly thinking '...Yeah... I think I could.'

Loki smiles brightly as he kisses her again 'Outstanding, love. It's official you are accompanying me to the Banquet.' Y/n nods at her Loki seeing the smile that could be only described as if it was taken from the happiest 7 years old child.

-----

Walking through Loki's room Y/n takes one of the hundreds or even thousands book plucking only a small skinny book laced with brown leather. Flipping the pages open her eyes fall on the polaroids photos 3 of them and each of them is Loki and Y/n looking in complete and utter love. Portraying just how much of a softy Loki is.

'I still can't believe you have a whole library in your room.' Y/n gasped out as Loki watched her curious hands touch each book picking which one he will read to her. Picking a dirty old book with a green leather cover she hands him as he arched a brow in question 'This one? This is a tale of Thor when he loses his hammer to the giants and has to go through a humiliating ordeal in order to get it back.' Loki spoke with a glorious grin appearing at the end of the sentence.

'What?!' Y/n stood next to him gobsmacked scrambling immediately 'Start reading it. I NEED to know.' Loki ushers her to the nearest chair letting her gown flow speaking over the wooden stool 'Our tale of Thor starts with an amusing laugh...' Loki stops as he looks at his lover 'from the God of Mischief his laugh-' 'Of course it was you.' Y/n butted into his sentence halting his speaking. 'As I was saying, the God of Mischief laughed malevolently as he watched Thor return with new news.'

(The name of the story is true, I googled it, but the words of the tale aren't I just made up the starting part just so you know)

'Loki, son.' a soft voice interrupted Loki. Frigga peaking into the chamber like a mother carefully announcing her presence so that her teenage son can successfully show off to his date. 'It's time.' she says leaving the two lovers alone.

'Darling, are you ready?' His voice asked behind her jeweled out back. Twirling to face him she asks looking down at her gown hints of green and gold (I know, predictable) flowing through the fabric tailing up to her chest as a gold metal belt held the puffy fabric in position. 'Marvelous. Solely marvelous.' Walking to her in his royal attire of green and gold he intertwines his arm with hers leading her towards the imperial feast already crammed with various guests.

Entering the Banqueting hall there was no shortage of food and drinks and entertainment. People accumulating in jewels and gold showing each other the superficial respect they deserved. That's what they thought. Holding Loki's forearm tightly she glances at him as he pushed the people in front of them making away to shift. 'Are you alright Y/n?' Loki asked his lover standing next to a hallway that leads to the nearest balcony. 'For now, yes. Thanks.' Smooching a kiss on his cheeks she always appreciated when he asks her about her anxiety since being in large crowds isn't always manageable for her. So having a private balcony with fresh air is a great exit.

Y/n's eyes draw to a nearby puffy flowing dress coming their way looking up she sees the same tired resting face...Jane with the ever so cheery Thor by her side. Thor drags away from Jane's grasp hugging Y/n tightly shouting a delighted 'Sister Y/n!' Y/n responded equally happy 'Brother Thor!' His hugs were always the best warm, fuzzy and everything in between. Jane and Loki exchange only nods not bothering to fake any emotions. 'Brother.' Thor cheers at his brother and giving him a forced hug.

Loki pushes his brother away as he places an arm behind Y/n's back giving her devotion. Jane looks at the pair in front of her an unnatural smile dawning on her face. Y/n turns to Thor inquiring 'You look jolly as ever Thor.' 'Thank you Y/n. I started again to workout. It is stressful but Jane is forcing me-' 'Because you need to be in the best shape possible.' Jane cuts him rudely off letting her fake smile plunge. Jane started to bicker at Thor and that was a clear sign to go. Nudging Loki she whispers 'Balcony?' 'You read my mind.'

With a snap of his fingers, they are on the safe and private with the distant music behind them drowning out as they let their hearts best in unions. 'She is so mean.' Y/n says not preferring the way she addressed Thor. 'Yes, she is. I don't see why Thor reconciled with her again.' 'Well, ever since his weight gain and depression maybe she helped him through it to be a little happier but I feel that she is rushing the process that usually takes a while to make a prominent step.' Loki agreed as he looked at the scene in front of him. The trees, lakes, and sky coated in the black gloom. Surrounding the lovers giving them the privacy they had the right to. Loki's hands land on her cheeks pulling her close giving her a sweet intoxicating kiss. A kiss that demanded more after.

'Runaway with me princess. Let's run until out feet give up and until my magic runs dry.' He hushed giving each word enough space to set themselves into Y/n's mind. Y/n looks up at him saying in a mere whisper 'Of course, my King.' Loki smiled at her silly nickname as he shushed her once more feeling her warm lovable hands on his shoulders tracing down on his chest as his heartbeat accelerated. He pulls back asking her 'You feel it?' Y/n closes her eyes letting her hands feeling the heavy and strong beat of his heart 'Yes.' 'That heart beats for you.' Y/n stuns on the words as she looks at him seeing a smile on his face that was dawned in darkness and the smile shine through 'Only for you.' He added as he pulls her into his arms hugging her placing her between a pillar and his body.

His kisses overpowered her body mind and soul and she gladly gave her control to the God of Mischief enjoying the hush quiet ambiance only a few steps that passing them. Pushing away from his lips she looks at the long and dark hallway Loki inquiries 'What's wrong, darling?' 'I think someone passed us.' Letting a chuckle escape his mouth Loki answers back 'Don't worry, no one saw us.' Y/n looked back at him and nodded apprehensively. Maybe just someone passed a maid or guard too engrossed into their job to see a mortal and a God exchanging forbidden kisses. Loki stopped as whispering into her ear 'When I become King I will need you by my side.'

There he goes again. 'Loki, we talked about this...' 'I know we did. But I overheard my mother talking to Odin talking about a new King since he is...he is...' Loki whispers not knowing how to finish his sentence in a respectful way, even if it's about Odin 'You mean old, right?' Loki nods and proceeds to talk 'And I have an equal chance as Thor, thanks to you.' Y/n points to herself 'Yes, you. You have given me the love I craved for and pulled me out of my misery. I am certain that if I am King I can not do it without you.'

Seeing his pricing blue eyes she gleams at his words. She never did anything but be herself, a normal person with her own problems and yet somehow helped God for the betterment. A God who had problems similar to hers if you remove the sheer size of his it was about the same and when they are together they can overcome it all by being each other anchor 'Of course, Loki.' Sealing his deal with a kiss trumpet sound off.

'An announcement is ensuing. Let's go.' He grabs her hand running towards the rustic sounds of the most golden metal instruments. 'King and Queens, Princes and Princess, Royal men and women... I bring you a joyous announcement.' Loki and Y/n run into the ballroom almost stealing all the attention from Frigga. Almost. 'My husband and I have had reigned over the Nine Realms for most of everyone's life span in this room.' The crowd laughs at the kernel of truth 'I will be truthful here it has tired us a lot. So a decision has fallen in our hands, fortunately.' Her green eyes scan the room stopping at Loki and Y/n seeing his hand in hers 'A beacon of hope appeared before us. Someone who is worthy of descending the throne. Someone who went through all of the stages in existences deceit, betrayal, sorrow, suffering but even after all of the odds he raised up to be a better example of his past, to show that past doesn't distinguish a person but only the path he went through with a special someone.' Frigga's eyes now move to Y/n and Y/n felt herself melting at Frigga's smile. 'And so our decision is that the next descendant of the throne is...' Frigga lets the tension rise further seeing the apparent nervousness of Thor and Loki as well as their partners. 'Loki Laufeyson.'

The crowds erupt in cheers and applause and Loki feels his heart stop at the immense wave of love of complete strangers. These royals who viewed him as Thor's shadow and a misfit was now applauded by the people he will rule over with Y/n by his side. He turns to her smiling ear to ear 'The future looks luminous my love.' Y/n nods adding to his sentence 'When we are together.'

'Bow before your new King and Queen!' Frigga announces as the guests obey all bowing to the misfit God and mortal.

Hope you liked it. Feedback is always appreciated.

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theflowergirl · 5 years

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🤍 Wangji Week 2020 🤍 #1, Gentians

“Lan Zhan.”

Experience taught him not every call demanded a response, so all Lan Zhan does is raise his eyes from the table. Wei Ying isn’t even looking at him, he just continues talking, fingers dedicated to their task.

“Do you think it’s selfish to ask something from your parents?”

The question causes him to pause. Wei Ying folds the paper with meticulous precision, and while Lan Zhan searches for words, he allows himself to be impressed that someone like Wei Ying, capable of running from one side of the school to the other in minutes while chattering about anything and everything, is not only capable of doing handcraft work, but is also good at it. Following a mapped guide in his mind, the paper flower slowly takes form. A lotus, for Jiang Yanli. Based on the extensive knowledge of the young woman that Lan Zhan has accumulated over the course of his acquaintance with Wei Ying, he knows it’s a considerate choice. He can picture her loving it.

He licks his dry lips before replying with a question of his own. “It depends on what you’re asking.”

Wei Ying’s tongue sticks out the corner of his mouth as he ties all the separate parts of the origami flower together, and every petal opens under his fingertips, the flower slowly blossoming under his attentive care.

“What if it’s something big?”

Lan Zhan looks down at his own work. Several gentian flowers lie in wait for him to put them in a bouquet, a message carried under their soft folds. A gift that could never wither; a memory of something good, something beautiful, something old; the blue of home.

“Is it something important to you?”

The lotus flower stands on his kitchen table, vivid in pink and green, perfect like the videos that they watched, almost as if Wei Ying didn’t spend a whole package of origami paper in failed attempts. The boy touches it with a fingertip, slowly twirling it around, like it’s swayed by a passing wind.

“Yes.”

Lan Zhan nods in mute agreement, gently folding another gentian. The clock on the kitchen wall marks the seconds of his thinking, and Wei Ying waits, watching with transfixed admiration as Lan Zhan adds one more delicate flower to his batch. Wei Ying is rarely ever this quiet, though he’s always been attentive. Lan Zhan remembers their fights when they were but small kindergartners, and how he wouldn’t let anyone but himself tease Lan Zhan’s weaknesses. They got separated, became slightly different boys after puberty, but upon reuniting at the beginning of high school, some details seemed to never change; like the curves on a flower petal, mirrored on paper.

“And if you never asked?”

Wei Ying’s finger taps on the table, his fingernail echoing the clock. It’s almost time. The sun has already set. He wonders if Wei Ying would like to stay over, and there’s more than one feeling affecting Lan Zhan in either his acceptance or denial. His stomach hurts, not for the first time, over something that is not hunger.

“I... don’t really know.”

Lan Zhan finishes his last flower and starts putting them away in a box. Noticing that he’s finished, Wei Ying remembers his own gift box, decorated in swirling shades of pink and lavender, and places the lotus flower away. Lan Zhan moves to help him tie a pretty bow on top, and Wei Ying smiles, even if it’s dimmer than usual. And even though they’re comfortable in each other’s presence, his question lingers like a scent between them.

“I think they’d want to hear what you have to say,” Lan Zhan says, his finger keeping the silk thread in place as Wei Ying works on the bow. He looks over, beyond the box and their hands, locking his gaze with his friend’s. “If it’s something important to you.”

Their teachers often assume Wei Ying never thinks of things of consequence, always fooling around when he should be serious. But in the wrinkles around his eyes, soft sketch lines in his youth, Lan Zhan sees his worries and contemplations.

When Wei Ying smiles again, he sees the setting sun.

“Lan Zhan, you always know what to say! Thank you.”

He doesn’t. He really doesn’t. He barely ever speaks because he can’t think of anything to say, which Wei Ying knows, but still, still he says it and means it.

“I’m home!”

She’s right on time. Lan Zhan closes his box and hides it under a textbook as Wei Ying jumps on his feet, calls out “Mrs. Lan!” with a beaming smile, and bows respectfully once she crosses the threshold into the kitchen.

“A-Ying! Oh, you’ve grown taller since I last saw you. It’s late, you’re staying over, right? We can order from that favorite restaurant of yours.”

“Oh no, I’ve got important business at home tonight.”

Lan Zhan’s mother sighs, and Lan Zhan actually believes she’s disappointed.

“Okay, I’ll take you back, come on.”

“It’s okay! Really! My bike’s still here, I think?”

He looks at Lan Zhan for confirmation and his friend nods.

“It’ll take no time at all, Mrs. Lan. But thank you for the offer! Have a good night. See you tomorrow, Lan Zhan!”

He throws Lan Zhan a wink before he sees himself off, missing the way the woman chuckles in his wake.

“Guess it’s just the two of us again, A-Zhan,” she says, patting his head, and he nods, picking his things from the table with one hand and opening the app on his phone with the other, pretending he doesn’t hear his mother sigh again, the sound loud in the kitchen.

***

He finishes his bouquet not long after dinner. When he knocks on his mother’s door, even if the lights are already out, he knows she’ll answer and let him in. It’s not yet 9pm, and though she fights it, some habits are hard to break.

His stomach churns as he watches her smile under the yellow light of her bedside lamp. She holds the small jar of paper flowers like it’s something precious, and he feels like a cheater, like somebody conniving and manipulative. He doesn’t think the gift would lessen the blow at all, and when he swallows, he can feel a painful lump lodged in his throat, like a disease. Maybe it is.

“I think they’d want to hear what you have to say, if it’s something important to you.”

“Mother,” he hears himself say, sees her turn with bright eyes to him. He licks his lips before he continues. “Can I go see brother on New Year’s?”

The light in her eyes fades with her smile, her lips parting in surprise. He’s panicking under his skin but outside, he barely blinks. He waits, clutching at her sheets until his knuckles turn white. He misses brother so much, Gusu is so far. And he hopes she knows that it’s really just brother, that other than brother’s absence, he doesn’t want his life to change much at all. He doesn’t miss the fights before the divorce, doesn’t miss her crying, and even if she’s a faded image of the mother he remembers from when he was small, from when Wei Ying first pranked him in sandboxes, he’s fine, they’ll be fine, he knows. It’s okay, it’s...

He’s already opened his mouth to say what has been running around his thoughts when she reaches out and cups his face with her hand.

“Oh, A-Zhan.” She looks sad though she smiles, her eyes shining with tears. “Of course you can.”

Maybe she pulls him, or maybe he moved out of his own volition, but whatever the force that acted upon him at that moment, he ends up on her lap like he’s still seven years old and afraid of the dark. Though he’s tall now, taller than most in his class, he thinks he still fits perfectly in her embrace, her chest welcoming and warm against his face.

“I’m so sorry, A-Zhan. I know the past year has been hard,” she says, but even as she says it, he’s shaking his head, tightening his arms around her. A whole year without brother’s presence, only his voice in phone calls, but a whole year relearning that a home can be silent and serene and with sound sleep.

“It’s okay, mother,” he says, and he means it. It’s simple but it’s true and right then, it feels like just enough to say.

It’ll be okay, in the end.

***

Wei Ying is skipping his steps the next day. He’s like a soda bottle ready to burst all through their classes, throughout lunch time, and when the bell rings, he’s back to skipping, to smiling so wide that his eyes are but crescent moons. He speaks once it’s just the two of them walking home, Lan Zhan on foot and Wei Ying wheeling his bike beside him.

“Mom says I can stay here when they have to move for work,” Wei Ying says, and Lan Zhan must look surprised because Wei Ying laughs. “I know, isn’t it great?”

“Are you staying alone?” Lan Zhan asks, more than a little concerned. He’s been to Wei Ying’s room multiple times and he does not want to imagine what that would look like in a bigger scale.

“She said I could do that, but father prefers I stay with uncle Jiang.”

Lan Zhan nods his approval at that idea.

“You can stay over whenever you’d like.”

Wei Ying’s shoulders move with his contentment and Lan Zhan can’t help smiling, can’t ignore the fact that all of the big changes in his life lose some of their impact when faced with Wei Ying. His own shoulders feel lighter under Wei Ying’s attention, under the affection with which he says the syllables of his name. Happiness is like the wings of a butterfly, dancing in and out of view, around his stomach.

“We can have a sleepover on New Year’s!”

Lan Zhan looks down, feels the tips of his ears warming.

“I’ll be going to Gusu on New Year’s, to visit brother.”

Wei Ying deflates and perks back up so quickly that Lan Zhan almost laughs.

“We should buy a present for brother Lan Huan! Let’s go downtown, Lan Zhan, quick!”

Lan Zhan nods, moves to climb on the back of Wei Ying’s bike.

“Mn.”

“Hold on tight!”

He does, arms secure around Wei Ying. His back is warm like mother’s chest, and when he speaks or laughs, Lan Zhan can feel the vibrations of every action against his skin. Although it’s still winter, although he and mother are still patching each other up in the aftermath of the fallout of their family, he feels the sun on his back, the wind against his skin, and he holds on tightly to those he loves.

Mother keeps the paper gentians on her bedside table, like the vase she used to keep at their home in Gusu.

#wangjiweek2020 #The Untamed #Mo Dao Zu Shi #Lan Wangji #Wei Wuxian #fanfiction #mine #Alternate Universe: Modern Setting #it is not yet the 20th here #but I am IMPATIENT dkbhsjgfjd

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imaginaryelle · 5 years

Text

Take This Piece of Me as Part of You

For the day 5 Untamed Winterfest prompt, “ribbon.” ~3.5k, wangxian, post-canon. This one is rated Mature, mostly for implied offscreen things that accompany heavy kissing. There’s also some biting, and a marriage proposal.

This fic can also be read on AO3 and is part of the same series as Light a Fire They Can’t Put Out and Kiss Me, Keep Me (Never Leave Me), but does not require reading either of them. Many thanks to @roamingjaguar for giving this a quick read and setting my mind at ease, and to @soundsaboutrighttumblr for this lovely picture prompt.

Note: xingan (心肝), according to what I’ve read, is a quite serious term of endearment that means “heart and liver” or “one I cannot live without.”

Wangji commissions the forehead ribbon as soon as he’s sure, which corresponds roughly with his first night back in Cloud Recesses without Wei Ying.

He doesn’t sleep much. Even two short weeks of Wei Ying pressed against his side in the evenings, of warm skin and soft lips against his own and fingers trailing through his hair, is enough to change his habits. The Jingshi is too quiet. He finds himself listening for Wei Ying’s breath. Reaching for him in a space he’s never occupied. Expecting him to turn up with a fresh supply of water or some treat he’s purchased from a street seller, even though this is Cloud Recesses, and Wei Ying hasn’t so much as stepped across the threshold since Wangji was named Chief Cultivator over a year ago.

He meditates. He cleans his guqin. He thinks, quite seriously, about retrieving the rest of the Emperor’s Smile he’d hidden away and drinking some, just to pass the time, but he sets that aside fairly quickly. He combs his hair and polishes the pin and ornament, and dresses for the day, and waits.

At five, he leaves the Jingshi and makes his way to Lan Shu’s workshop. He brings tea, to facilitate matters.

Lan Shu listens to his request, and drinks the tea, and doesn’t ask questions. She hadn’t asked questions about the ribbon for Sizhui, either. And she’d never mentioned anything to Uncle.

“A marriage ribbon will take several months to complete,” she tells him, which he already knows. “I can’t guarantee delivery before Qingming.”

He won’t see Wei Ying until after Qingming anyway. It’s not an obstacle.

She gives him a long look, then shakes her head. “Go eat your breakfast, Chief Cultivator,” she says, setting down the tea. “I’ll let you know when it’s done.”

The weeks drag on. The Spring Festival is an extended trial that feels endless and is made longer by the sure knowledge that Wei Ying is in Yunmeng, not Gusu, or Lanling, or any of the other places the Chief Cultivator is required to be in the days leading up to New Year’s Eve. Xichen-ge agrees to break seclusion and help him hang decorations at the gentian cottage, and Sizhui returns just hours before the reunion dinner begins, but still Wangji feels keenly aware of a missing presence, despite the fact that Wei Ying has never spent the Spring Festival at Cloud Recesses and so he should have no expectation of such a thing.

Next year, he promises himself. Next year he and Wei Ying will clean and decorate the Jingshi together.

The close of the Lantern Festival brings a letter that speaks of Yunmeng’s beauty, of the promising young Jiang cultivators and their cleverness with fireworks, of papering over old wounds with new memories. There is also a gourd delicately painted with the Yunmeng lotus and several pages of sketches, but he hardly has a chance to savor them or think of writing back before he’s called away again, chasing rumors of something feeding on villagers and cultivators alike in the south.

It is a long, bloody hunt, and when he returns to Cloud Recesses to see the gourd still hanging where he left it and a new letter waiting, he knows it will be more than a year before Wei Ying joins him here. He will not make his father’s mistakes. He will not give less than all of himself, and he can offer nothing but a cold, empty room and his own repeated absence for as long as he remains Chief Cultivator.

He nearly resigns on the spot, but there is no one to replace him. The Jin sect is struggling to find its stride after a decade under Jin Guangyao with only the young, brash Jin Rulan to take on his duties. Xichen-ge has returned to seclusion and Wangji cannot fault him for it. Nie Hauisang insists on maintaining his distance from politics. Wangji doesn’t want to consider what might happen if Jiang Wanyin took the post. Perhaps he can start with the smaller clans, plant the seeds for a new shape of the world. One where a single cultivator can never again hold as much power as Wen Ruohan or Jin Guangyao, or at least one where more than one man might be held responsible for success and disaster.

Weeks turn to months. Long months, full of new duties and squabbles between cultivators who seem to have little else to do but pick fights and endlessly practice sword forms, waiting for spring thaws. He writes many letters, precious few of them to Wei Ying and nearly all of them terse and direct, but he receives new missives every day, complaints and ambitions and worries and petty rivalries besetting him on all sides from every household in the cultivation word. There are arguments to settle and ceremonies to plan, and to attend. Coming of Age ceremonies. Foundation laying ceremonies. Marriage ceremonies, which strike him as particularly unfair even though he’s told no one else of his intentions. The invitations threaten to engulf his writing desk. Worse are the genuine requests for aid, some of them from small clans scattered through the mountains and others from towns without a cultivation clan to protect them. He understands, quite thoroughly, why Jin Guangyao was so very insistent on setting up the watchtowers, but for all the man’s crimes and plans the system is still shockingly inefficient. Wangji spends more time visiting cultivators and convincing them to grant money, or food, or martial aid to their neighbors than he does actually night hunting himself. Worse, he does not have Jin Guangyao’s gift of pleasing words, and yet everywhere he goes people want to speak with him. Continuously. Exhaustively. No matter how far into silence he retreats or how firmly he refuses to adjust his position.

A week after Qingming, Lan Shu gives him a sandalwood box, subtly carved with clouds and mountains and symbols of longevity in love: butterflies, shuang-xi characters, and paired magpies. The ribbon inside is a close copy of his own, but the silk is freshly woven, the blue embroidery newly dyed; the embedded talismans glitter in the box’s shadowed confines.

He seals it away without touching it, slips the box gently into a qiankun pouch, and resigns himself to waiting.

Three years. That’s how long it takes him to get a working replacement for the post of Chief Cultivator in place. If Wei Ying thinks of marriage during those years, or if he resents the time Wangji spends on the rest of the world, he never shows it during their meetings. He could perhaps be described as clingy, when the weeks and months extend too long, but Wangji is no less possessive of their time together. He is sometimes melancholy, but neither of their lives has been easy and Wangji knows Wei Ying has regrets, for all that he rarely dwells on them. He takes hope from the fact that Wei Ying always returns to him. That his greeting is always welcoming, always eager. That even with so much time apart, his passions burn just as bright as Wangji’s. But hope is a poor substitute for certainty when such assurance is so immediately close to hand.

The sect leaders are displeased at his leavetaking, of course, but they’re always displeased. The ink is still wet on the agreement, red seals settling in cinnabar and silk, but Wangji makes it clear he will not be available for further discussion—he will return to Cloud Recesses for the official announcement, three days hence, and no sooner. In the meantime, they are all welcome to review the paperwork he’s accumulated. And even though it is already well past sundown, and even though his presence is not expected, he mounts Bichen and flies to meet Wei Ying as quickly as spiritual power will carry him.

It only occurs to him later, as he stands in the middle of the town’s main road, that he doesn’t know where, precisely, Wei Ying is staying, or even if he’s kept to the travel plans outlined in his latest letter.

The handful of people still out at night are very polite to him, but not very helpful. Despite years of night hunts, travel, and overlong political conferences, he is not nearly so efficient at soliciting information from strangers as Wei Ying is. Yes, they say, they remember a young man of that description. Yes he did appear to be a cultivator, though he carried no sword. He’d offered to look into a hungry ghost for one family, and disappearing ducks for another, and sold some protective talismans. No. They don’t know where he might be staying.

An inspection of the nearest inn’s stables shows no sign of Little Apple. Wangji grips Bichen tighter and hurries to check the next. Footsteps behind him suddenly speed up and he whirls, sword drawn.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying looks at him up the length of Bichen’s blade, a smile teasing at his lips. “Aren’t you supposed to be at a conference in Gusu?”

“It ended.” He sheathes his sword and studies Wei Ying, marking as many details as he can. His clothes are a little more worn than on their last meeting, months ago, but not badly so. His movements betray no sign of injury as he steps closer, a slight curve in his path and confusion drawing a line between his brows. He smells faintly of ginkgo and chrysanthemum, and his hands are slightly stained. Perhaps he has been gathering supplies.

He looks tired. Drawn thin, the bones of his face too-prominent.

“You’re not eating,” Wangji observes. Wei Ying rolls his eyes and leans in close enough to bump their shoulders together.

“I eat,” he insists, setting off again in a slow walk in the direction Wangji had been heading. “I eat plenty. I don’t need all that money you send me you know, I can earn my own.”

“You give it away,” Wangji reminds him, falling into step at his side. He’s witnessed Wei Ying’s generosity more than once.

“I do fine,” Wei Ying says, and then spins around to face him, walking backwards and changing the subject. “Lan Zhan, if anyone needs to take better care of themselves between us, it’s you. You’re letting all those Sect Leaders run you around, and then you still fly all the way here the same night? What were you going to do if I didn’t find you?”

“Keep looking,” Wangji says, both because it’s true and because he thinks it will make Wei Ying smile. It does.

“Even past nine?” he asks.

“Mn,” Wangji confirms, and Wei Ying laughs. He grabs Wangji’s sleeve and tugs him toward an inn’s brightly lit gate.

“You always wear so much white, Lan Zhan. People will think you’re a ghost come to haunt them.” His grin is teasing. “You should come inside with me so no one gets worried.”

It’s a ridiculous excuse. Wangji doesn’t bother to hold back his smile.

The inn is not the best in town, but it is clean and well-appointed, and the owner seems happy to supply a light meal despite the late hour. Wei Ying’s room is small, with little more than a table, a seating cushion and a bed, but Wangji hardly gets a chance to see it; as soon as the door slides closed behind them Wei Ying takes his face in his hands and kisses him, insistent and covetous like he thinks the opportunity will be snatched away.

It won’t be, but it wouldn’t be the first time that duty or disaster came unexpectedly calling.

“How long before you have to go back?” he asks, already slipping his hands under Wangji’s outer layer, pressing clever fingers down his sides to slide under his waist sash.

“Two days,” Wangji says, letting his own hands settle on Wei Ying’s waist and returning the kiss. But after that. After that... The qiankun pouch feels heavy in his sleeve. He wants to reveal it now. To know, immediately, but there’s a void opening up in his stomach, a swirling suction of doubts he can’t ignore any longer. Wei Ying may refuse him. He may be happy with what they have, despite his pout and the complaints of so soon, too soon, he’s muttering into Wangji’s chest. He may have a different vision of their future.

Later. He’ll ask later. For now he picks Wei Ying up—to a shout muffled against his shoulder—takes four steps, and spills the both of them onto the bed.

“Lan Zhan, if you tell me it’s nine already—”

“It’s not,” Wangji assures him, nuzzling his way up Wei Ying’s neck to his ear. “We have time.”

Wangji wakes at five, as usual. Wei Ying is asleep, curled in on himself with his back pressed warm against Wangji’s side. His eyelids flicker with dreams, and the dim light of the coming dawn paints him with soft gray shadows, smoothing away the worries he carries by day.

He’s beautiful.

He always has been.

Today, Wangji determines. He’ll ask today. This morning. As soon as Wei Ying wakes, or perhaps soon after, depending on his mood.

He allows himself a few moments to watch morning light move over Wei Ying’s skin as he breathes, to memorize, once again, the soft curve of his eyelashes and the gentle slope of his mouth. Then he sighs and sits up, ready to prepare for the day.

“Mnnnn, no, Lan Zhan, come back to bed.” Wei Ying rolls over and grabs him around the waist before he can stand.

“It’s five,” Wangji reminds him, even thought they have this conversation nearly every morning they wake up together and he knows that Wei Ying knows what time it is.

“This isn’t Gusu,” Wei Ying says against his back. Warm lips press against his skin. “Even the innkeeper’s family isn’t up yet. If you rise too soon you’ll disturb them.”

The statement is obviously untrue; Wangji woke to the sound of movement in the kitchens, and the both of them can clearly hear a child feeding the chickens and collecting eggs outside their window. But still, Wei Ying moves himself around on the bed until he can kiss Lan Wangji’s thigh and hip.

“It would be rude,” he says grinning and mischievous even as his hands slide over Lan Wangji’s stomach.

Wangji hesitates, which Wei Ying takes as surrender. He kisses his way up Wangji’s chest, to his lips. It’s a lingering, coaxing kiss that turns more heated as he slips himself into Wangji’s lap.

It makes a much better argument than anything to do with their hosts, and Wangji gives in easily, willingly. Wei Ying pushes at his shoulders until he lies back and then Wangji rolls them both over and catches Wei Ying’s hands between them. Wei Ying tugs at his grip, more playful than forceful, grinning wider and wrinkling his nose as Wangji’s hair tickles his face. He arches his back, seeking more contact, and rolls his hips and—and grabs the trailing end of Wangji’s forehead ribbon in his mouth.

Wangji bites his shoulder in retaliation and Wei Ying laughs through his teeth, no longer tugging at his hands, but wriggling as Wangji drags teeth and tongue over his chest and down his ribs, on his way to lick at his stomach and nip the curve of his hip bone. And then … then Wei Ying yanks his head a little too hard. The ribbon slides off Wanji’s forehead and keeps falling. The silver emblem smacks against his cheekbone on the way down, and then it and the rest of the fluttering white-and-blue length slips down to land on Wei Ying’s bare stomach.

“Ah!” Wei Ying spits out the ribbon end and looks immediately remorseful. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to—here, I’ll—”

“Keep it.” The words slip out of his mouth without the permission of his rational mind, the weight of three years of longing and waiting pressing behind them, closing his throat to anything else.

Wei Ying goes still. His eyes are very wide.

Wangji is doing this wrong. This is not at all how a proposal is supposed to go, he’s certain, but he’s said it. He can’t take it back now. He can only keep going, struggling toward a future that suddenly feels as substantial as mist.

“Keep it,” he repeats, willing the intent to be understood, but Wei Ying is still staring. Wangji needs to do this properly. He wrenches himself off the bed despite Wei Ying’s wordless protest, finds the qiankun pouch, and shoves the sandalwood box rather unceremoniously into Wei Ying’s hands.

Wei Ying cradles it against his chest for a moment, Wangji’s ribbon still hanging from his fingers and his mouth slightly open, like he wants to speak but can’t think of what to say.

Wangji collects his own ribbon from Wei Ying’s unresisting grip and smooths it carefully. Then he kneels, and waits.

“What…?” Wei Ying sits up and looks down at the box, then frowns and looks closer. He holds it delicately, as if he thinks opening it could release a demon. Or perhaps like a firework that’s already been lit. But he must know what it means.

“This is for me?” he asks, the words sounding half-strangled.

“No,” Wangji corrects, holding out the ribbon he’s worn most of his life. “This is for you. If you want it.”

Wei Ying looks at the box again. His fingers trace over the carvings.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, almost at a whisper, “this is—Lan Zhan are you asking me to marry into the Lan clan?”

It occurs to Wangji, sudden and shocking as water from the Cold Spring, that he could have done this differently. They don’t have to follow the Lan clan’s customs in order to be cultivation partners. They could simply travel together. Live together. Perhaps start their own sect. They don’t have to go anywhere near Gusu or Cloud Recesses. He could have waited three days and then disappeared into the night with Wei Ying at his side and no one the wiser.

His hands clench tight around the ribbon. Cloud Recesses is his home, and being a Lan is woven into the fiber of his entire self. He wants to share that, not set it aside.

“Yes,” he says, trying to keep his eyes on Wei Ying’s face. “If you want it.”

Wei Ying sinks to the floor across from him. He reaches out, then pulls his hand back, as if he’s now afraid to touch the ribbon he’s touched so many times already. That he had in his mouth. He sets the box on the floor, almost reverently, and stares at it for a moment.

Then he laughs, the sound turned strange and high. “I don’t think I’ll make a very good Lan,” he says, as if it’s a joke.

Wangji thinks the void in his stomach might engulf him whole. He looks away. Down at his hands and the ribbon stretched between them. His throat aches with words that can only make this worse.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying’s hands are on his shoulders, a warm, strong grip. On his face, coaxing his chin upward.

“Xingan, don’t look like that.” Wei Ying is smiling. Wangji feels the ribbon pull free of his hands. “I accept, I accept, I just—” Wei Ying laughs wetly. There are tears slipping down his cheeks. “It’s just that you really should have been part of the Yunmeng-Jiang Sect, you know. Attempt the impossible.” He laughs again. “I just keep thinking of your uncle’s face when he sees—how am I supposed to wear this?”

Wangji can’t speak. He wants to say, Are you certain?, and I don’t care what Uncle thinks, but xingan is echoing through his head, blocking out everything but Wei Ying’s face as he clumsily tries to tie on Wangji’s forehead ribbon.

“It’s crooked.” He reaches up to straighten it and ends up retying it completely, intensely aware of Wei Ying’s breath against his arms and chest, and the soft touch of his hair, and a sort of whole-body tingling that makes him feel slightly unreal.

He draws back.

Wei Ying is wearing his forehead ribbon.

None of the marks he’s left on Wei Ying’s skin the last three years made him feel like this. Like his blood is heating up too quickly. Like he needs to kiss Wei Ying immediately, which he does, doing his best to claim him with lips and tongue and teeth.

Wei Ying, gratifyingly, climbs into his lap once more and melts against him, whining slightly as Wangji bites at the hinge of his jaw.

“Lan Zhan,” he pants as Wangji mouths down his neck. “Xingan,” he repeats, sending a full-body shudder through Wangji’s frame. “Am I supposed to give you the other one?”

“Later,” Wangji tells him.

He is not currently interested in self-restraint.

#untamed winterfest #wangxian #wangxian fic #the untamed #chen qing ling #the untamed fic #chen qing ling fic #lan wangji #wei wuxian #alex writes #light a fire verse #long post #winterfest2k19 fic

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 5 years

Text

Christmas without Miracles

I’ve fallen a bit behind on my contributions to @drawlight’s Advent Calendar, but behold!

One fic using two prompts so I feel less guilty!

This one takes place in the early 1800s. No specific location - just isolated, outside of England, and cold.

This is supposed to be a few years before the 1862 argument, but if you want to headcanon a universe where this happens instead of the 1862 argument, that’s cool, too.

06 - Sleigh Bells/07 - Silent Night (2,630)

Snow had started to fall.

Just lightly, each white flake twisting down from a sky dark with clouds.

All the usual nighttime noises – insects, animals rustling in the undergrowth, even the wind in the trees – were silenced. Just the gentle hush of snow accumulating, molecule by molecule.

Aziraphale knew he should be inside. There was a fire blazing in the hearth, the cabin bright and warm and empty. Two of the three would be an improvement on what he had out here, standing on the porch, looking across the rolling, tree-dotted hills.

Cold. Empty. Silent.

He hated the silence most of all.

Crowley didn’t hate snow, so long as he didn’t have to travel in it.

Walk, and your boots filled up with snow.

Ski, and you looked ridiculous anywhere outside the Alps. And in them, too.

Riding a horse was out – if he went the rest of eternity without ever sitting on one of those again, he’d be happy.

But anything with wheels was also out – carriages and wagons and carts could barely handle clean city streets.

Trains were good, if the tracks were cleared, but so far Hell had not been interested in his proposal to build a train line that stopped at every human residence in the world. Which was fine, that had only been semi-serious, anyway.

The only remaining option was to use some form of sled.

He glared at the…sled? Sleigh? Whichever. It was small, just enough room for one person, or a small pile of supplies, to sit in it the seat, but whoever drove it had to stand behind on the runners. It was pulled by some kind of long-maned pony or very small horse that looked like it had its own ideas about who was in charge.

The bridle and reins were covered in bells.

“Do you have one without the bells?” he asked, not even really hoping.

“Nope,” the man said with the cheerful joy of one who knows he has the transportation market cornered for the next few months. “Those bells let people know you’re coming even when they can’t see you. And anyway, they keep off the evil spirits.”

“So I’ve heard.” Crowley reached over and flicked a finger at one of the large silvery bells.

Chk-chk-chk

The whole line jingled, sending shivers up and down his arms, settling at the back of his neck.

He hated that noise most of all.

Too many frivolous miracles.

First, a letter full of such threatening language that only a trek through a revolution-torn city to find his favorite pastries – as well as a not-quite-chance encounter with a certain demon – had been able to calm him down again.

Then, a commendation. Congratulations on performing your job perfectly as always.

And now, a “meditative retreat” – five months alone to think about what he should and shouldn’t be using his powers to achieve. No miracles allowed.

A month and a half in, he’d decided – he hadn’t the faintest idea.

Take the most simple of duties: sometimes, he was assigned to keep a person safe.

Did that mean use a miracle to stop them from being injured? Or to heal them afterwards? Or was he supposed to guide them, miracle-free, as if he were another human? Do what seems best, he’d be told, but what seemed best to him never seemed best to anyone else.

Or protecting himself – his corporation, rather, since Aziraphale’s true self was rarely in danger. Could he use a miracle to avoid a dangerous situation? Heal himself from an injury? Was his body the same as a human body, or less valuable? Was all this a waste of Heaven’s resources when he could simply get a new body? How many miracles were equal to one body, anyway?

Questions he shouldn’t ask. Shouldn’t have to ask. He should just know. Angels received their orders, obeyed them, and chose the best course of action, because that’s what angels did.

Angels weren’t supposed to get confused.

But Aziraphale did. All the time. What did that make him?

Crowley preferred to do everything by miracle.

Need new clothes? Manifest them.

Need money? There it is.

Food? Never bothered to learn to cook. When he was hungry, he pulled fully prepared meals out of the nearest cupboard.

Hell rarely tracked exactly what he did, as long as he could demonstrate evil had been accomplished.

But they did track where he was, using miracles. It didn’t do to be more than a few miles from where you were supposed to be.

This wasn’t anywhere near Venice, which was a pity, because he’d rather like to be in Venice right now.

He stared around the bakery. “I don’t know. Just get me several things that are hot and edible.” He had a list, but it wasn’t helping. “Do you have a…stuffing? Or butter?”

“You can get butter from the general store,” the baker’s wife offered, putting together his packages.

“No. The shop person said they didn’t have any dairy.”

“He just meant milk and cream. They’ll have butter, and cheese if you want it.”

Crowley dragged the heel of his hand across his forehead. He’d lived in agricultural societies. He knew perfectly well that butter and cheese were both dairy. “Fine. I’ll go back. How about the stuffing?”

“You’ll want to make your own.”

“Really don’t.”

“I can give you a family recipe!” She started writing in pencil on the brown wrapping of one of the packages. “You’ll need ground beef, sausage…”

A few minutes later, Crowley opened the door to the bitter cold wind outside, making all the bells in the wreath jangle up and down his already-raw nerves.

Chk-chk-chk

He paused, cracked his neck, and kept walking.

Aziraphale finally had to return to the cabin, as the snow had piled up higher than his feet.

Only a single room – wood stove, table and benches, rug; there was a bed even though he didn’t sleep, a few pots and pans even though there was no food.

No chair. No books. Well, one book.

Gabriel had left him a journal, and pen and ink. Encouraged him to write down his thoughts.

Aziraphale thought best when he was reading, talking, engaging with someone or something. For the first few weeks, he’d talked to himself a lot, arguing with the empty room, having mock conversations, even reciting poetry he had memorized.

But slowly the oppressive quiet had settled across his soul. And he found himself picking up the pen to write –

What? What could he write about? His doubts? His confusion? What would he even say?

When it got to be too much, he tried drawing, sketching out what he could see. That helped a little, but once he’d scribbled down images of the room, the hills outside, the one tree he liked to walk to…well, he was back to the same dilemma, what to write?

Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to list a few questions. Just so he could think about the answers.

Chk-chk-chk

The door of the last shop slammed behind Crowley, bells clattering. Shaking his head to clear it, he checked his list one more time. It looked like he had everything, though the ink was already smudging where snowflakes fell on it.

He settled the packages into the sled, tucking a blanket all around them, and pulled up the collar of his coat against the biting wind.

“Better leave room for yourself,” said the kid.

Crowley looked him up and down. Seventeen or so, son of the man who had rented him the sled and horse. He was supposed to drive it out and return with it.

“Nope. I’m driving, you’re staying.”

“That’s not how this works. We only have a few, and we need to be able to get supplies out in an emergency –”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Crowley handed over a pile of money. “This should cover the sled and the horse, in case I don’t come back. Plus a bit. Give it to your dad.” He considered the kid another moment. “You have, I don’t know, a girl you like? Boy? Anything?” The kid tried to give him a stubborn, blank look, but some of that pink wasn’t just from the cold. “Whatever, not my business.” Crowley handed over the rest of his money, saving only what he would need to get back to London. “Give him, her, or them something nice. Cheers.”

While the kid was still staring at the pile of money, Crowley climbed onto the runners of the sled and took the reins in both hands.

Chk-chk-chk

He felt that one in his stomach.

With another jingling of sleigh bells, he shook the reins –

And nothing happened.

“Go.”

Nothing.

“Move, horse!”

Now it was just embarrassing.

The kid leaned against the sled. “Are you sure? I don’t think you know what you’re doing.”

“Of course I don’t!” He jerked the reins back, trying to ignore the way the sound of bells hammered into his spine. “But no one can know where I’m going.”

With a shrug, the kid shoved the money into his pocket. “Pull on one side, gently, to turn. Not too sudden, it’ll tip over. Whoa to slow down, walk to go, and remember, you’re in charge.” He winked, and walked away with a swagger that wasn’t quite as good as the demon’s, but better suited to over six inches of snowfall.

Clutching the reins again, Crowley called: “Walk. WALK!” He shook them hard. “COME ON YOU BLESSED HORSE, WALK!”

Nothing moved.

Once Aziraphale had started writing, it was hard to stop.

Page after page. Whatever entered his mind.

It was nice just seeing the ink flow.

Hearing the scratch of the pen fill the silence.

Crowley got off the back of the sled and walked up to the horse, grabbing it by the bridle. “Listen, here, you, I am in charge!”

The horse snorted and stomped directly onto his foot.

“Nghaa that was not – ugh!”

The horse shook its head, jingling the bells again and again until Crowley was ready to tear his own ears off, until Crowley let go and stepped back.

The horse lashed its tail.

“Look, fine.” Crowley grumbled trying to stand where the horse could see him clearly, despite the snow that was now falling thick. “You’re in charge if that’s what you want. But I need to get somewhere. I should have been there hours ago. Days ago. You are my only way of getting there. I have nothing to bribe you with. I promise, you get fed either way, you get brushed either way, and you will absolutely get enough apples and sugar to make you sick because I’m not doing anything else with those.”

He reached out a hand to touch the horse. He had lived in agricultural societies, but he was much more comfortable around the crops and plants than the animals. Still, rather to his surprise, the horse let him stroke its nose. “Please. This is more important than you can imagine. Just get me there.”

He stepped back onto the runners, picked up the reins. “Walk.”

The horse didn’t walk. It moved much quicker than that.

Aziraphale lay down his pen, wiggling his fingers after all that writing. There were a lot of words on the page. Perhaps he should read over them.

He found himself walking back to the door, stepping into the silent night outside again.

The snow was falling so fast it was almost a physical thing, blocking his view even where the light from the door should have been enough to see the edge of the woods. It spilled across the porch, piled at the corners of the cottage.

And still, everything was so quiet. Even the wind, which had picked up, seemed to carry only the flakes and not any sound –

Were those sleigh bells?

A moment later a horse came into view – one of the small, sturdy northern breeds – pushing on through the unbroken snow, pressing through the storm with determined strides, pulling behind it a small sled and clinging to the back of that –

“Crowley?”

“Whoa,” called the dark figure. “Whoa – I said whoa! We’re here!”

With a final jingle of bells, the horse stopped in front of the porch, and Crowley fell backwards, off the sled runners and into the snow.

“Crowley! What the Hell are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too, Angel.”

“You’re supposed to be in Italy!”

“Yeah, I am. No, don’t worry, I can pick myself up.” He started to rise, then stumbled again.

Aziraphale rushed forward. “I’m – I didn’t realize – what’s wrong? What happened?”

“Bloody sleigh bells. Chase off evil spirits.” He clasped Aziraphale’s hand, pulling himself up. “I’ll be fine, just need to get a drink and warm up.”

“Of course, but – I don’t have any food or drink.”

With a very tired grin, Crowley tossed aside the blanket in the sled. “Happy Christmas, Angel.”

Crowley had needed to compromise on a few things.

He had the goose, and what he was assured were all the ingredients needed for stuffing and gravy.

Potatoes, brussels sprouts, and parsnips had been easy to find; and something he was almost certain was redcurrant sauce.

There had been no plum pudding this far from England, or mince pies, or fruitcake – though he wasn’t certain fruitcake was something you bought, it was possible all fruitcakes already existed and were simply eternally exchanged. He had managed to get a variety of sweet pastries.

Lots of wine.

And two bundles of books – the ones he had picked out at stops on the way, and the ones he had taken from the shop. Aziraphale shouldn’t have been surprised Crowley knew his favorites, but the demon was pleased at his smile either way.

There were two things to take care of first.

Crowley spied the notebook as soon as he stepped in. He only glanced at it long enough to see that Aziraphale had written a lot.

Then he picked it up and dropped it into the flames of the stove.

“Crowley! That was a private journal!”

“No it wasn’t.” He pulled off his glasses and glared at Aziraphale. “What did you think, they were going to let you keep that? Ask you to tell them the important parts? They left you here alone to write your own confession.”

Aziraphale clenched his teeth, didn’t say anything.

“I don’t like it.” Crowley grumbled. “They’ve never done anything like this before. I don’t know what’s changed.”

The other issue was the horse.

“No, I can’t have a horse in the cabin!”

“You can’t leave it outside, Angel, it’s a storm!”

“I thought you didn’t even like horses.”

“I don’t! But this one got me here and…” Crowley shrugged. “And it’s as much of a bloody-minded stubborn bastard as you are, so you’ll probably get along.”

Aziraphale sighed, and Crowley could see him start to give in. “How am I supposed to hide the fact that there’s been a horse in here when Gabriel gets back? We can’t miracle it clean.”

“Eh, just tell him some traveler lost in the storm stayed here a while. It’ll be true enough.”

And so, with the horse in the corner working through its feed bag and having the night of its life, Crowley and Aziraphale set about figuring out how to make a Christmas dinner.

It wouldn’t be perfect.

Neither of them had ever cooked without miracles before. There was immediately an argument over how one peeled a potato, and what exactly stuffing was for, really.

It wouldn’t be perfect.

But the jangle of the bells had ended, the silence had been driven from the cabin, and once again they were together.

And that, in a way, was perfect.

#good omens fanfiction #good omens prime #31 days of ineffables #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley #christmas #look this one actually is a christmas story #my writing #incidentally there is only one bed #;)#maybe don't read too much into that though #aziraphale doesn't sleep #and that horse has a judgy stare

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randomoranges · 4 years

Text

i blame my enablers; @quatschmachen who came up with this au and gave me permission to run with it and @allbeendonebefore for making art before i could even put this into actual words. somehow or other it was mostly as i had seen it go.

anyways, here’s a new au i told myself i would only start after completing the current au im trying to finish - but we all know how that story works

the au where étienne meets kate before he meets edward [that needs a better monicker] part 1

The fact of the matter is that Étienne Maisonneuve had not checked the weather that morning, before he left, slightly in a hurry. Therefore, when the deluge of the year opens up above his head, the only thing he can do before his precious cargo is drenched and ruined is to duck inside the closest building he can find and hope the storm passes.

Luckily, the closest building happens to be a cute little café that he runs towards at breakneck speed, even if he only ends up more drenched. He scans the area when he gets there and is dismayed that it seems packed, not an empty seat in sight. He supposes everyone else is lingering in, waiting out the storm, but then, a patron shifts ever so and there seems to be an empty spot by the bar.

He makes his way in, tries to dodge purses, bags, and humans and finally let’s himself plop down on the empty seat. He removes his rain soaked windbreaker, drops off his bag and art tubes on the counter, and then passes a hand through his mop of now dishevelled curly hair. He’s thankful for the hair tie he keeps around his wrist and collects his wet hair into a half-bun – anything to get the wet strands out of his face and away from dripping down his front. There’s nothing to be done about his shoes and he hopes maybe the washroom has an electric hand-dryer, but right now, he just wants to sit and catch his breath. The run into the café had been less than stellar and quite wet; it’s a good thing he was done for the day and headed home.

He’s about to consult the menu – get something, anything to let him stay here for a bit, when one of his art tubes rolls to the side and comes close enough to the patron on his right. He lunges for it before it can make impact and soak the poor woman as well, or at least, knock over her drink and cause another disaster, but in his haste he brushes up against her shoulder and it startles her enough that whatever she’d been writing becomes suddenly jittery.

“Shit – sorry, I’m so sorry, ah damn, sorry,” He says as accumulated water on the rivulets of the tube rolls towards the woman’s notebook. He grabs a wad of napkins from the napkin holder and tries to stop this mess from getting worse.

“It’s fine – it didn’t get wet, here, let me help you,” The woman says and together they manage the small flood on the table, art tubes are righted, notebooks are saved and they both laugh it off afterwards as Étienne sits himself back and doesn’t knock anything over.

“I had a small hope you were an artist, but looks like what you’re working on is in a whole different language,” Étienne says as he looks to the woman’s notebook, now safely pushed away. There are – what looks like – math equations and formulas written out that look foreign to Étienne. He’d hoped for an easy excuse to keep talking to her, casually mention his own art tubes and his own work, but now he fears he’ll have to work harder for a connection.

The woman looks back to her notebook and then lets out a low laugh. Étienne is surprised by the way it makes him feel, as though someone’s thrown a blanket over him and handed him a nice warm beverage – it’s so full and inviting that he can’t help but chuckle himself, “That? No, not art, sadly, a pain in the ass I’m trying to help a – friend with.” Étienne thinks she’s being generous, if she’s helping a friend with something so complex looking, but maybe she’s a student, maybe she solves complicated math for fun and maybe the problem isn’t as complex as it seems. He’d passed math by the skin of his teeth anyway, so who is he to judge?

“And what about you? Are you some kind of architect?” She asks pointing to the art tubes in turn.

“God no – I’m an artist – or trying to be one. Had to go pick up these sketches from the gallery where I had them up,” He’s bragging – a little bit, but he’s proud of this series of work and it had been his first actual real show. He’d even sold three pieces. Plus, this woman is really pretty, now that he’s gotten a good look at her. He likes the brightness of her eye shadow that makes the hazel of her eyes pop out. He likes the way some of her dark brown hair spills from her hair tie and frames her face just so. She looks – soft, in her cable knit magenta sweater that falls a little off her shoulders, her dark denim jeans and her high suede looking boots. Étienne looks, for a moment, and the woman’s cheek colour ever so.

“Ooh, an artist, that sounds like fun, are you any good?” She teases, easy smile gracing her face as she takes a sip of her drink.

“I don’t know, would you like to see and judge yourself?”

“My, my, aren’t you the confident one?”

He likes the banter – likes how easy it’s coming and so he uncaps the art tube and carefully takes out a few of the sketches inside. She puts her own notebook away, makes the terrible, horrible math disappear in her messenger bag and she leans a little closer to get a better look at his work. Étienne catches a whiff of something fruity and the vivid thought of furrowing his face in the crook of her neck flashes by.

He likes what he sees; he has no shame about that.

“Oh, I wasn’t expecting this!” She says and it sounds sincere and not like the snide remarks he’s often got. He knows his style isn’t everyone’s cup of tea – he knows he tends to go more abstract and that he’s heavy in his distorted figures, but it works for him. He’s getting noticed in his own right. Plus, these are sketches, his real potential in his painting and his murals – but he has a habit of working on giant surfaces and he hasn’t any of those on him at the moment.

“You have a very unique style, but I really like the motion in your figures,” She says and Étienne thinks that this is a woman who knows her art. He thanks her for the compliment and then rolls up his work once she’s done looking through it.

Étienne fears that this is the end of his pleasant exchange with her, but the conversation keeps going – about the weather, about the news, about this café and about a million other little things and Étienne is charmed by her. He eventually orders himself something to drink – to chase the chill from his bones and he gets a pastry as well, feeling famished all of a sudden.

“I wouldn’t have pinned you for a frothy drink person,” She says, teasing tone still in place and Étienne wonders when he’d ever last met someone who wasn’t afraid to tease back – to give as good as they received. It seems as though this woman is not afraid to engage in conversation and to banter and Étienne finds it ever so refreshing.

“Yes, well, life is short and I’ll have you know that I’m absolutely full of surprises,” He winks at her as he takes a sip and if he makes a show of licking the foam off his upper lip, it’s mostly for laughs and only partially to get a reaction out of her. Which he does and she laughs a great deal even if her cheeks are still a little rosy.

“Are you equally full of mysteries or will I ever get your name?” She asks, once she recovers.

“Maybe – but only if I get yours in return.”

“That sounds fair, I’m E – Kate. I’m Kate.” She tells him.

Étienne grins, pleased and reaches across the distance to shake her hand, “It really is a pleasure to meet you, Kate, I’m Étienne.” They shake hands as though they’ve just closed on an important deal and it makes them both laugh at the silliness of it all.

They remain at the café for a while longer, past the end of the showers, and it’s only when Kate’s phone goes off that they part ways. She excuses herself as she gathers her things and Étienne wishes her a nice end of day as she heads out. He lingers a little more, before he decides to head home as well, and it’s only much later in the evening that he berates himself for not asking for her number.

Still, he thinks, it had been a really nice afternoon and something tells him, that if he’s lucky, he’ll run into her again.

CURRENT: I NEXT: II

#pc: montreal #pc: edmonton #edward murphy #kk the magnificent #pc: kk the supreme #étienne maisonneuve #au #ficlet #drag meeting au #3 sentence fic meme thing

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