#Sharp and single minded. He is cruelty. But he is also joy. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

doridoripawaa · 4 years ago

Text

Zenderella

What’s the point of wishing upon a star at night?

Could stars even hear wishes from up in the sky?

Zen continued to dream, with aspirations bright,

And hoped that one day, he would be able to fly.

Each day felt like a nightmare, trapping him inside,

As he strained to endure his family’s abuse.

Their cruelty was something he could not abide,

As they treated him like some hideous refuse.

But he found a release in the form of the stage

When he was not tidying up around the house.

Theater helped to free him from his family’s cage

That forced him to act as a quiet, ugly mouse.

One fateful night would transform his entire tale.

A night that’d show dreams and love would always prevail.

Clean as could be. Not a speck of dirt or dust in sight.

To meet these goals, Zen would likely need to work all night.

His parents and his brother would be off to the ball,

While they expected him to stay home and clean the halls!

Little did they know, tonight in that grandiose gala, the primary source of entertainment would be coming from the one who they had scorned, ridiculed, trampled, abused. The highlight of the night would come not from the dancing and music--which were to be expected at this type of event--but from the players who would take the stage and enchant the guests with a whimsical tale. Apparently, the princess of the kingdom had been struggling lately, living a life devoid of joy, hope, wonder, or optimism; thus, the king and queen had demanded a riveting tale that could restore the spark to their child’s eyes.

What kind of life was that? Even Zen, pitiful as he was working on his hands and knees in his family’s home, had his dreams. He had a reason to live, a reason to keep pushing forward. Did royalty ever feel troubles, though? At first, he hadn’t been sure; he thought all nobles and royals were born with a silver spoon in their mouth and would never understand what it meant to truly toil and suffer. However, after hearing the plight of the princess….

Maybe, just maybe, that princess was different.

A sudden rap at the door interrupted Zen from his tumultuous thoughts. With a grunt he lifted himself off the floor to his feet, and he brushed the dirt and dust off of his apron and his knees before heading over to the front door. The rest of his family had already left for the ball, leaving him behind to make their home sparkling clean before they returned.

Maybe, just maybe, today would be the day he wouldn’t have to return.

A second knock came, sharper and more urgent than the first. Zen brushed some sticky, loose strands of his feathery grey-white hair out of his face, and then he hurried over to the door, not wanting to keep his guest waiting.

Honestly, he’s lucky that he decided to run, because as soon as he opened the door and saw a brunette woman scowling at him, he realized that she probably would have broken down the door if he had taken much longer.

“J-Jaehee,” he stammered as he looked down at his castmate. Out of all of the members of the troupe, she was the one with whom he felt the closest connection. She had an incredible work ethic, a true passion for the stage, a meticulous eye, and a personality that wouldn’t shy away from any task given to her. She would always be the first person to speak up if she didn’t like the idea for an upcoming show, but she’d also be the first person to shower the rest of the cast in praise for their heart-wrenching performances.

She also seemed to have a special fondness for Zen, which did wonders not only for his ego but also for his motivation. An actor’s job wasn’t to smile--it was to make others smile.

However, Jaehee also was the type of person who could easily kick you to the ground in three seconds flat if you messed with her or her crew. Apparently, running late was something that could land you on her hitlist, because the glare that her fierce coffee-colored eyes gave him was one that sent shivers down the young man’s spine. He was already ashen, but somehow, he felt as though that stern look made his face grow even paler. “What a delight to see you, babe.”

A soft blush rose to her cheeks, but she quickly managed to force that down. “Don’t b-babe me,” she muttered. “You were supposed to arrive backstage an hour ago. I had no choice but to fetch you myself.”

A whole hour? Zen glanced at the clock and his ruby eyes flew wide open in a panic. “Shit,” he muttered. “I got so distracted by this stain that I… well, that isn’t important.” He sighed and began to untie his apron. “Let me gather my belongings, and I’ll scamper off with you into the sunset, okay?”

He couldn’t tell if her face was flushing red from embarrassment, ire, or exasperation. “P-please make haste!” was all she managed to sputter before Zen headed to his room with a wink and a flick of his wispy ponytail behind him.

~~~

Ball gowns and smiles, pressed suits and polished shoes.

A room full of guests who appeared amused.

As MC stepped down the staircase that night,

Her eyes swam with woe, rather than delight.

Royal life was difficult to abide.

She felt lonely, with no one by your side.

What sorrows could have the heir to the throne?

A life of solitude, scared and alone.

She hoped to enjoy herself at the ball.

She wondered if you would feel joy at all.

When she descended the steps, her eyes glowed.

They had arranged for her to see a show.

The lighting in the room dimmed down and a hush fell over the attendants as actors made their way to the elevated platform at the front of the room. Murmurs and mumbles began to spread throughout the crowd. What was happening? Was this planned? Of course, the king and queen would never allow for any tomfoolery to take place at their event, so this must have been carefully orchestrated. But why take time away from the socializing, the dancing, the mingling? Would this show be enough to dazzle the audience?

Zen had the drive and the skill to ensure that it would.

A sharp inhale of breath, as Zen smelled the perfumes of the ballroom.

A twirl of his long, cascading hair around his fingers, as Zen relished in its softness.

A glance at Jaehee, as Zen sought comfort in her level smile.

A bite of his lip, as Zen tasted the remnants of berries on his tongue.

A twitch of his ears, as he strained to hear the music that signaled his cue.

And as soon as the clock struck, Zen departed from behind the scenes, and Cinderella strode out onto the stage.

Cleaning, cooking. Obeying, behaving. Little “Cinderella” was stuck, trapped at the whims and wills of her abusive family. As Zen knelt down to “scrub” the stage and enact all of her chores, he couldn’t help but feel a growing pit growing in his stomach and anxiety welling in his mind. He wasn’t worried about not portraying the character accurately-- on the contrary, he was nervous that he had embodied her too well. The parallels in Cinderella’s life with his own were almost frightening.

But here, on this stage, this was the one place where his chains were released, his shackles were open, and he could fly, free as a bird. He could forget his worries, he could abandon his burdens, he could become someone else and live his ideal life.

He could sing to his heart’s content, as a free bird, rather than a caged one.

A step. A song. A smile.

The fairy godmother was spinning her magic and casting a spell on the entire crowd, watching with wide eyes and gaping mouths. Above all, however, Princess MC found herself absolutely entranced, hooked on every word and her eyes tracking every single motion, every spin, every twirl, every wave of a wand, every flutter of a skirt. The costumes, the dances, the makeup… they were all spectacular. But above all, the star of the show, Cinderella, really shone like a princess in her own right. Who was this actor with skin as white as snow, hair as soft and pale as the clouds, and eyes that sparkled brighter and warmer than the reddest flame?

Cinderella, despite all of her hardships, had never let go of her dreams.

As Cinderella spun around and her filthy rags turned to magnificent robes, MC’s eyes twinkled and she felt a rush of excitement flood her. When was the last time she had genuinely felt so… happy? Watching this character’s aspirations be realized, watching Cinderella break free and manage to escape for one night of whimsy and fantasy at the ball, made MC’s heart swell. She wanted to cheer Cinderella on, encourage her, support her. Cinderella, who suffered at the cruel hands and horrible words of her family.

The way the actor walked forward, radiant white locks tumbling down his back as he took those first steps towards his dream. The way his drab brown and grey costume melted away, revealing a soft pink tunic and radiant periwinkle cloak, perfectly accentuating his figure while giving him an air of regality. He reached up and clutched a hand to his chest, and then when he opened his mouth to speak, MC felt certain that she had died and been transported to heaven.

That was no mere mortal whose voice she was hearing. She was currently being serenaded by an angel.

Princess MC was only snapped back to reality by the sudden sharp increase in volume of the music.

“And so Cinderella went to the ball,” the narrator announced in a booming voice, trying to orate over the echo of the strings and percussion. “Hoping to grab a dance before midnight should fall. Please, esteemed guests, enjoy your time to dance. Like Cinderella and her friends, may you find your fairytale romance.”

At once the actors and actresses began to mix with the crowd. Most of them moved in pairs and began dancing with the lads, lasses, lords, and ladies of the party. A few of guests rushed up to the actors and actresses--one of the actresses, a slender young woman with short chestnut-colored hair and eyes warm like mocha, was particularly popular--to try to woo them and coax them into a dance.

Perhaps on any other day, MC would have rolled her eyes and tutted softly, disappointed in their fawning and flattery. Today, however, she felt… softer. More in touch with her emotions.

Emotions that she had feared had disappeared into thin air, vanished as she drowned in the duties and obligations of her station, without a chance to fantasize or dream like she had done as a child.

The princess wasn’t normally one to take advantage of her station, but as she stepped forward, heels clacking against the tile ground, the crowd seemed to part ways before her. Out of reverence, out of fear, or out of pity, she couldn’t be sure, but their motives were the least of her concerns. As long as she could reach her destination, her goal, the means didn’t matter.

“Excuse me, Cinderella?”

Silence befell the folks gathered around the grand actor, as the princess of the kingdom spoke. The actor himself looked somewhat startled, but he masked it well; MC could only detect a faint glimmer of apprehension flicker in his rich red eyes before it faded away and a smile settled onto his white lips. “Good evening, Princess,” he greeted MC with a wink. “Did you enjoy our show?”

Enjoy? That would be putting her feelings mildly. “I absolutely loved it,” she whispered, and then she cleared her throat. No point in being meek with her request-- she was determined to obtain exactly what she wanted. “In fact, I liked it so much,” she went on, tilting her shoulders back and lifting her chin to stare directly into his eyes, “that I have a request for you.”

He tipped his head to the side in confusion, causing his flowing white tresses to sway with the movement. Nevertheless he kept that same smile on his face. He then nodded firmly and asked with that little coy look in his eyes, “Of course. Anything for you, babe.”

Babe? Now that was a new one. MC could feel her face flushing as crimson as the actor’s eyes, but she tried to ignore it and hoped that he wouldn’t be so brash as to actually draw attention to it. Nobody would dare to tease the princess, right? “If I may be so bold as to tear you from your fans,” she began, “then might I ask Miss Cinderella for a dance?”

A new expression lit up those eyes, that pair of flames that stood out in stark contrast to the rest of his ashen features. Was he… surprised, flattered, bewildered, flustered, or…?

She couldn’t be sure, but despite whatever turmoil was burning in his eyes, he kept the rest of his expression level. In fact, the corners of his mouth twitched upward into a… smile?

“It would be my honor,” he told her with a wink and a bow at the waist.

“We haven’t much time left in the night, so to the dance floor, we shall make haste.”

And so he extended his hand, which MC graciously took with a squeeze.

To the center of the dance floor they scurried, where they could dance as they pleased.

With one hand on MC’s shoulder and the other resting right on her hip,

Cinderella led her across the floor, with a waltz, a twirl, and a dip.

The princess, for the first time, let herself give in to another’s demands.

She simply followed, losing herself to the feel of his step and his hands.

His grip was firm but gentle as he guided her to and fro ‘round the floor.

The princess could lose herself in his rhythm, dance with him forevermore.

His radiant ruby eyes matched the ribbon in his flowing, snowy hair,

But it was the warm smile on his face to which no gem could ever compare.

His statuesque features glimmered under the chandelier’s glorious light,

And as she took them in with her gaze, she knew she’d never forget this night.

As the music reached a crescendo, the actor pulled her close to his chest.

“Thank you, mademoiselle,” he whispered, and she felt her heart pound in her breast.

“The pleasure is all mine,” she told him, as she reached up to caress his face. “Thank you for making a world of magic and wonder in this humble space.”

He laughed at her words, and as he leaned in with his breath hot against her ear,

“Princess, you’re the one who made my night magical,” he whispered, “my dear.”

The chime of a clock tower suddenly boomed, and quickly they pulled apart.

Princess MC felt relief, as she struggled to steady her pounding heart.

The actor’s expression, however, had shifted from mirth to misery.

“They said they would return at midnight,” he murmured, “which has arrived, I see.”

Before she could ask what he meant, he lifted her hand and gave it a kiss.

“Thank you for this memory,” he told her, “and for a night I’ll truly miss.”

Then he dropped MC’s hand and dashed away to the entrance to the grand hall.

As he flew away like a frenzied dove, something from his outfit did fall.

Princess MC tried to scamper after him, but she was left in his wake.

Then she spotted the fallen accessory, which from the ground she did take.

A ruby-red ribbon, which matched the mysterious actor’s gorgeous eyes.

“I never got his name,” she said; his identity remained a surprise.

~~~

As soon as the sun rose the next morning, Princess MC followed suit. She knew that she had to hurry after that actor in fast pursuit. What if he belonged to a traveling troupe and they’d be gone by the end of the day? Princess MC knew she could not allow the object of her affections to get away.

With any luck, he was still somewhere within the territory, but she would have to act fast. The princess carefully scrutinized the team of knights she had amassed. She told them, “We’re searching for a young man with hair and skin fair.” Then she lifted the ribbon: “With eyes the same color as this ribbon,” she declared.

Near and far, to and fro, the princess’s team began to search. They checked the shops, the plazas, the gardens, the parks. They asked residents, merchants, children, adults--anyone who might have a hint. Every now and then, the princess would find someone who looked vaguely reminiscent of her prince, but as soon as she lifted the ribbon to their hair, she would just shake her head and sigh; his hair would be too dark or his eyes too brown. What was it about her Cinderella that made him so… ethereal? Someone that beautiful must have been a mistake from God, an accident that wasn’t supposed to bless mortal eyes.

Here and there, high and low, the princess’s team continued their quest as the sun traveled overhead. They had left at the first pink and orange streaks of dawn, carried on as the burning bright sun hovered directly overhead, and now they were finally allowing themselves to take a rest as the sun grew ever closer to the horizon once more.

Could the troupe possibly have left town? That thought kept creeping into the back of her mind, and she desperately tried to push it away, push it down, push it… somewhere else. She couldn’t afford to let such doubts sneak up on her, or she couldn’t promise that she wouldn’t give in to her despair and cease her search altogether. This Cinderella, her first glimmer of light, her first ray of hope, in days, weeks, months. While her life as a princess was entirely different from Cinderella’s, who was practically a slave in her own home, MC could relate to the feeling of being trapped in one’s duty, being trapped by one’s circumstances, being trapped by one’s family, being… a bird with clipped wings.

This actor had given her the power to fly again.

“Your Highness,” one of the knights murmured to her as they rested for a minute underneath the overhanging shade of an oak. “May we take a moment’s respite? Most of us haven’t eaten since the morrow,” he asked tentatively. He looked full of trepidation, which only served to send pangs of guilt emanating from within her chest.

“Of course,” she told him with a feeble smile. “Let us find some food or drink to sustain us, alright? I wish to keep searching until the sun goes down, but…” Her gaze flickered to the sky, and even though the colors of the sunset were unobscured in the clear sky, she could feel dark clouds beginning to rumble in over her heart. “I’ll go fetch something,” she offered, barely suppressing a sigh. “It’s the least I can do,” she insisted quickly, before her knight could open his mouth to object. With a reluctant but firm nod, he watched as MC walked away, in search of a cheap, quick bite. They could feast upon their return to the castle, but candidly… as twisted as her heart and stomach were right now, the princess didn’t have much of an appetite.

This was a part of town with which the princess didn’t have much familiarity-- while the constant growth of her city was definitely a welcome sight, since she hadn’t ventured out of the castle too often recently, she found herself a little confused and disoriented by the unexpected developments. Had that shop always been there? What about these homes?

Exhausted, distressed, and admittedly hungrier than she had initially realized, MC nearly began to weep with joy as the sudden scent of batter wafted up to her nose. A freshly baked bun, calling for her, crying her name, luring her person. What delectable treats had she almost passed? What delicious delicacies were waiting in the middle of the street?

MC followed her nose and her soul, yearning to fill every one of her senses with whatever this mysterious morsel may be.

Her surprise upon reaching a humble little stall in a side alley was, to say the least… significant.

‘Don’t judge a book by its cover,’ she chided herself gently as she neared the stall, although anxiety began to tug at her and drag her feet. ‘Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.’

Sometimes, gifts came in the least expected places. That actor had been a surprise to her last night, after all. Maybe this snack--a fish-shaped bun, judging from the sign--would be a pleasant surprise as well.

Nothing could have prepared MC for the surprise that awaited her as the customer in front of her turned around, though.

Glittering white hair, like sunkissed snow.

Pale, translucent skin, with a gentle white glow.

Above all, the element that caught her by the most surprise,

Was this young man’s resplendent ruby-red eyes.

With a gasp, she immediately began to shuffle around in her satchel for the ribbon. “E-excuse me,” she stammered, “but… have you… lost this?” Her hands trembled as she pulled the little accessory out of her bag, but judging from the way his mouth fell open and his eyes grew wide, he was equally as stunned as she was. Nervously she reached up to brush a feathery lock of hair from his face; his hair was pulled back in a ponytail, so she couldn’t be exactly sure that this was the same man who had enchanted her last night.

As if on cue, he put down his bag of fish-shaped buns and pulled his hair out of the hairtie, allowing it to cascade around his shoulders and tumble down his back.

As if that hadn’t already confirmed her suspicions, MC lifted the ribbon and placed it gently in his hair. In the glow of the setting sun, its scarlet hue shone vividly, perfectly matching the sparkle in his eyes.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, princess,” he murmured, and a shy smirk played onto his lips. “Have you been… looking for me?”

MC felt a coy grin tug on the edges of her mouth as well, but the salty tears that were beginning to sting the corners of her eyes were probably ruining the effect. “Only for my entire life,” she breathed.

A Cinderella who dared to dream.

A princess who dared to wish.

Their fates overlapped by chance,

But were now sealed with a bean-flavored kiss.

This is my piece with @/watereddowncoffee on instagram for the @mysme-rbb! I hope you enjoy our fairy tale!

#zen #hyun ryu #mystic messenger #mysmes #mysme #mmrbb #cinderella #fairy tale

41 notes · View notes

baoshan-sanren · 4 years ago

Text

Chapter 29

of the wwx emperor au I’m thinking of calling Lan QiRen’s Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week oh god it’s only gonna get worse

Wei Ying has watched the lanterns on every fifth night of his birthday festival for as long as he can remember.

His earliest memories are pale and indistinct, a collection of images and sounds, slithering through his fingers even as his grip tightens. The cold rooftop tiles under his hands, being lifted up onto his father’s shoulders, his mother’s delighted laughter. The Empress of the Shan Empire, a cool and dignified statue in the daylight hours, dancing over the moonlit roof peaks in her bare feet. Falling asleep in her lap while the lanterns drifted above, the soft murmur of his parents’ voices lulling him into sweet dreams.

Eighteen years, and eighteen lantern festivals, but most of those he remembers clearly are filled with an ache of loss. He has often cursed his unreliable childhood memories, lamenting the cruelty of recollections that deny him access to those early years. Guilt usually follows after, as relentless as the passing of time. He has never had a cause to feel abandoned; not one festival has gone by where he was allowed to sink into despondency and isolation. Even on those years when copious amounts of wine were needed, his brothers had always been by his side, prepared to chase away the loneliness by any means necessary. Without Nie HuaiSang and Jiang Cheng, Wei Ying is certain that he would have grown twisted and warped by the loss, forever attempting to lean into the warmth that no longer existed. All that he is, and will still become, he owes to them. To shijie, to Wen Qing, to Wen Ning and A-Yuan.

But the easy, uncomplicated joy of watching the lights dance across the sky, that had gone away on his twelfth birthday. He had been convinced that it would never return. Not because of the loss, or the accompanying ache which had, over time, grown dull and heavy instead of sharp and bright, but because he believed it impossible, to feel a child’s joy once having reached adulthood.

There are many things he believed to be impossible before meeting Lan Zhan.

The outskirts of YiLing are sparsely populated to the east, a few sprawling farms and long pasture fields stretching between the town and the river. They have a small hill to themselves; the ground is still warm from the sun, the air saturated with the syrupy scent of the late autumn harvest, the fireflies rivaling the lanterns with their lights. They can hear the sounds of celebration from YiLing, but the noise is far away and muffled, barely penetrating the comfortable cocoon of silence between them.

Wei Ying’s little finger is hooked around Lan Zhan’s.

They are lying down, eyes locked on the sky. Wei Ying is sure that he will have grass and dirt in his hair, and probably a liberal smear of both on his robes. He is also sure that Lan Zhan’s hair and robes will be as pristine as they were before he cautiously stretched himself out by Wei Ying’s side.

Their shoulders are almost close enough to touch. Lan Zhan’s hand had trembled once, then settled into stillness. Wei Ying can hear him breathe, the rhythm slow and even. He thinks, if he were only to shift a little closer, if the din of YiLing were to fall quiet, perhaps he could hear Lan Zhan’s heart beating as well, and discern if it flutters as restlessly as his own.

The touch is small and insignificant. Wei Ying has already held Lan Zhan’s hand in his own, had tangled their fingers together, had felt the warmth of his palm. But it does not feel small. The contact overshadows the lights above; a bright, single point of happiness that Wei Ying would give anything to keep.

“Lan Zhan,” he says.

“Mhm.”

Wei Ying bites his tongue.

It is not the lack of words that gives him pause. He possesses a river of words that relentlessly rushes whichever way it pleases, paying no mind to his intentions or wishes. He has had to learn how to dam this river; the Emperor must always take care of how he speaks, least he means to start a war with an offhand remark. But Lan Zhan is not a an overbearing sect leader, or a supplicant asking for favors. Nothing Wei Ying wants to say can ever be simple, because complexity is rooted in his birth, his status, his entire existence.

And yet.

What can be more simple than a feeling of emptiness finally filled, a sense of completeness, of irrevocable rightness?

Lan Zhan turns his head to look at him. There is a firefly hovering over his temple, a tiny burst of light traveling across a flawless cheek. In the gloom, his eyelashes seem thicker, his eyes black, their depth an endless abyss.

Wei Ying wants to look at him forever.

“Lan Zhan, I really like you.”

The dark eyes widen, then immediately return to their study of the sky. Wei Ying watches his throat move, a heavy swallow that could mean anything at all. He cannot tell if there are words building behind the movement, and despite the obvious surprise in his gaze, as brief as it was, Lan Zhan’s expression has not changed.

No, Wei Ying is wrong. It has changed.

There is a faint tremble to his eyelashes. The tips of his ears appear slightly darker. His throat moves again, but his mouth does not.

His little finger is still hooked around Wei Ying’s. It has not pulled away.

There is an entire language being spoken in front of Wei Ying’s eyes, but it is a language he does not yet understand. It is frustrating and painful to think, that he may never have an opportunity to learn, that Lan Zhan may not want him to know.

His future stretches in front of him, a lone seat on top of a dais, as decades endlessly melt into one another, seasons coming and going, favors given and taken away, a continuous tedium of birthdays, and festivals, and sect leader meetings. Lan Zhan nothing more than a cool and collected face, glimpsed twice a year among the sea of others, forever remaining a half-met stranger.

It is unbearable.

“Lan Zhan--“

“You are the Emperor,” Lan Zhan says, his voice stiff.

“Yes, but--“

“Young Master Lan!”

Startled, they both jerk upright, reaching for their swords.

“There you are,” an annoyed voice comes from the bottom of the hill, “if not for the Lan Sect funeral robes, I would have passed by this hill a dozen times.”

Wei Ying cannot make out the small shape climbing closer to them, but he recognizes the voice easily.

Lan Zhan has already gotten to his feet and moved back, placing himself a respectable distance away. Wei Ying was right. His hair and robes are as immaculate as they were before. Wei Ying, on the other hand, is pretty sure that he has grass sticking to his entire back.

“Why is it always you?” he snaps at the small disciple.

The boy, now close enough where he does not need to shout, offers him a sloppy bow and a disgruntled greeting.

“Your Majesty.”

“Your Majesty, Your Majesty” Wei Ying grumbles, “not two days ago you tried to bite me. I should have you tossed in the dungeons.”

“If it pleases Your Majesty,” the boy says, “this one would rather spend the night in the dungeon than traipsing through the YiLing countryside. Sect Leader Nie asks Your Majesty to meet him at the Lan Sect camp. There has been a development.”

“The Lan Sect camp?” he glances at Lan Zhan, but this time, the other boy’s face is truly unreadable.

“What is a Lan Sect camp? What development?”

“This one does not know,” the disciple says with exaggerated patience, “but if Your Majesty were to go there, I am sure it will all be made clear.”

Wei Ying ignores him.

“Lan Zhan, what is he talking about? What camp?”

Lan Zhan is silent for a few moments before he speaks, “The Lan Sect escort. The disciples that accompanied us to YiLing. There are no accommodations to be had in the town itself, so they have made camp on the outskirts.”

“Why?” Wei Ying asks, feeling bewildered, “all the other disciples are in the Immortal Mountain City. Why would you leave yours in YiLing?”

Lan Zhan’s throat moves again, but he does not need to speak. Wei Ying understands the moment the words have left his mouth.

They were not invited.

Uncle has always been the one to send out invitations, the Jiang Sect lotus prominently placed next to the Imperial Seal, his signature replacing Wei Ying’s, who could not be bothered with such minor formalities.

Fury rises in him for the second time that night, but this one is cold and already settled, not likely to wane any time soon.

“They will be coming with us,” he says, turning to head back down the hill.

What other small formalities have been left to Jiang FengMian over the years? Many more than Wei Ying can count; if he is to begin questioning his uncle’s methods, each must be addressed, reinspected, and altered if necessary.

This will take weeks. Possibly months.

Striding ahead, wishing he could kick something, he turns to the small disciple.

“Little beast, what is your name?”

The boy grimaces, but offers a half-bow, even sloppier than the one before, “This one is Nie XuanYu.”

“Nie XuanYu,” Wei Ying says, “You have a bad temper and a terrible attitude. Try and pay attention to the Second Young Master, and you may yet learn how a disciple is supposed to behave.”

#the untamed #cql #mdzs #wangxian #ficlet #m #wwx emperor au #alright my chickens #we're back on track #i hope #sleep is still on the iffy side #but some writing is finally happening #ily

313 notes · View notes

starstwinkleplanetsshine · 3 years ago

Text

Dear Wormwood

Inspired by the song "Dear Wormwood" by The Oh Hellos, Darth Vader looks back on the last 20 years of his life and the events that led him to becoming Emperor Palpatine's apprentice and wishes he could take it all back. But just when all hope seemed lost, when Vader accepted he was doomed to live a shell of a man, every day filled with pain and regret, a glimmer of hope and Light appears to him in the form of his son, Luke Skywalker.

Luke believes there is still good in Vader, and deep down, he knows his son is right. But is it enough to make things right, or is the Light buried under too much darkness?

Read on AO3

“When I was a child

I didn't hear a single word you said

The things I was afraid of

They were all confined beneath my bed”

Vader awoke from his agonizing nightmare with a start, the same way he greeted every new day. As images of red rivers and blue blades and flowing brunette hair and bouncy lekku and burning suns faded away into the stark grey walls around him, he cursed his sleep for reminding him of a time long gone. In the early years when the weight of his losses still threatened to crush him, when the mere thought of the man who called him brother or the woman who called him husband or the girl who called him master threatened to crumple him into a ball on the floor with a single thought, he never allowed himself to sleep. He survived on hatred and anger alone, letting his suffering be his rest. It was the only way.

But now, nearly 25 years later, those thoughts brought only a sharp sting. Vader didn’t know if he was becoming numb to the pain or if he wasn’t as affected by it anymore, and he didn’t know which answer frightened him more. And now, nearly two decades later, events had taken place that caused all those old feelings to rise to the surface, all the memories of his life before which he had forced into the darkness were being dragged out to the light, and they were too blinding.

The first crack had appeared three years ago when he stared into the eyes of a man he thought was a ghost. The moment when the blade of his saber struck his old master for the last time, Vader felt a shattering deep within him, inside a dark and dusty corner of his heart that he hadn’t felt in decades. He felt a thin and decaying string, once golden and shining, finally snap. Vader didn’t even know his bond with Obi-Wan was still there until he felt it break forever.

The next crack appeared one year ago when Vader had learned of the survival of his son. Being a father was a dream that died alongside the Republic, alongside Padme, alongside Anakin. Just another loss to add to the growing list. Learning that that was not true, that the child born of the only woman he had ever loved was living, breathing, moving with The Force, had awoken something deep within Vader that he thought would stay dormant forever. But Vader could only remember his son in times of absolute strength, for thoughts of Luke always led him back to his mother, and those thoughts led him back to the time when his days were filled with laughter and golden sunlight. A time of blue eyes, not yellow, of smooth skin and golden-honey hair, not black metal and machinery, a time where the world was shades of blues and greens and purples and golds, not red.

A time of Padme Amidala. Ahsoka Tano. A time of Anakin Skywalker. Obi-Wan Kenobi. Names that all died with the Republic.

Obi-Wan.

Now that was a name that caused fire to burn inside Vader, a fire full of passion and hatred and love and regret. They say the line between love and hate is thin, that those two emotions were closer than any other, and since that day on Mustafar all those years ago, Vader knew why. He couldn’t think of the man he once called master without being filled with bitterness and regret, for his betrayal stung so because his love for him once ran so deep. Obi-Wan was the one person the man who had once been Anakin loved the most, trusted the most, the one who could always calm the storm swirling within him, the only one who could contain it when it threatened to erupt and destroy everything good and light.

Now he was the man who Vader hated with every ounce of metal keeping him alive.

He thought finally killing Obi-Wan would also kill the ache within him, the pain he blamed on his old master. But it turns out it was never Obi-Wan who caused the pain, it had truly been Vader all along. For twenty years after that dark night on Mustafar, the image of Obi-Wan that was frozen in Vader’s memory was the one who cut off all his limbs and left him for dead, burning and gasping for air beside an unforgiving torrent of fire. But ever since he had struck the fatal blow, his revenge upon Obi-Wan that Vader had dreamed about for nearly two decades, that was no longer the image he associated with Obi-Wan Kenobi.

For the past few years, the thought of his old master brought back images of warm smiles and reassuring shoulder pats. It brought back fondness and memories of fighting alongside him during the Clone Wars, even memories from before that when Anakin was still a child. Their first sparring match. Sitting across from his old master meditating. The nights Obi-Wan would stay up late helping Anakin with his Temple assignments. All those nights Anakin sheepishly walked into Obi-Wan’s room after a particularly bad dream, his eyes still wet with tears. Remembering how he would let Anakin curl up next to him under his pillow and sing ancient lullabies to him until his breathing steadied and his heart slowed enough for him to finally drift back to sleep.

Only in his moments of strength could Vader remember the words Obi-Wan spoke to Anakin all those years ago, when his old master would remind him he no longer had anything to fear, that no matter what dangers or trials the young boy faced, he would always be by his side, guiding him and protecting him.

Obi-Wan promised that he would always be there.

But deep down, Anakin could never truly believe him.

-----

“But the years have been long

And you have taught me well to hide away

The things that I believed in

You've taught me to call them all escapes”

One year since Vader found out his child survived. Four years since Vader struck down the man he labeled his greatest enemy. 23 years since Anakin Skywalker died on Mustafar. 24 years since Anakin failed his padawan and she walked away from him. 26 years since Anakin lost his mother on Tatooine. 36 years since Anakin first entered the Jedi Temple.

If only Vader could go back and tell that little boy of nine years old all that was in store for him in the years ahead. All the fear and pain and heartbreak and suffering. But also the joy and laughter and bliss and growth.

If only he could tell him that it would all be worth it, that he could survive the pain without using the help of the Darkside. That he could trust the people who loved him, who truly cared for him, and that being a Jedi was the greatest gift he had ever been given.

If only he could say that that was true.

But time didn’t work like that.

Vader sat alone in his silent chambers on the very planet where the only thing more red than the lava flows beneath him was the glowing of his lightsaber and the hatred deep in his soul. He thought back on all the years, on all the moments that led him to becoming the empty shell of a man he was, and he wondered just where he went wrong. Looking back, he could see it all so clearly, his mistakes like a map leading him straight to the dark. He often wondered where it all started--if he had never left Tatooine would it still be like this? Was it his selfish choice of love over duty, or maybe it was his first violent outburst of revenge against the Tusken Raiders who murdered his mother? Or was it every soul he couldn't save during the Clone War? Or perhaps the way he failed his padawan and lost trust of the council forever? Or could it have been his outrage at not being granted the rank of Master?

Or was he doomed to darkness from the moment he was born under the harsh cruelty of the Twin Suns?

Vader tried to keep himself occupied with anything, everything--military strategies, saber techniques, even tinkering with droids--just as long as his mind was busy so he didn’t run the risk of remembering. He couldn’t let himself dwell on those thoughts for more than moments, for if he did, his strength threatened to fail him.

No.

He had to remember the way Obi-Wan failed him. The way Padme betrayed him. The way Ahsoka abandoned him. The fact that Anakin Skywalker was too weak. For if he remembered the truth, then he could never actually live with himself.

-----

“I know who you are now

I know who you are

I know who you are now”

Vader could feel the shifting tides of the Force like a riptide surrounding him. Ever since he had learned that the young rebel who blew up 20 years of strenuous work with a single shot was his son, Vader hadn’t known peace.

If he was truly honest with himself, though, Vader had never known peace. But the man Vader once was did, and its name was Obi-Wan Kenobi. Padme Amidala. Rex. Ahsoka Tano.

He slowly walked to the large window in the side of his ship and gazed down to the Forest Moon below. His son was down there, he could feel his presence in the Force like a beacon of light in a dark tempest, guiding him to safety.

Maybe, just maybe, could it be possible for Vader to know peace once again?

No.

Any hope of that was long gone.

But perhaps…

Vader closed his eyes and opened himself up to the tides of the Force, just as his old master had taught him to do. For the first time in a long time he didn’t try to control it or channel it through his anger, pain, or passion, he simply let go and let the Force show him what she wanted him to see. He wasn’t surprised when the face of a man with sky-blue eyes and a kind, bearded smile swirled around his memory.

For the last four years, the face of Obi-Wan had followed him like a shadow he could never run from. At first it only fueled his anger, but now it piqued Vader’s curiosity. Why now, years after his death, years after he killed him, did the face of his old master continue to haunt him? He was beginning to wonder if it was for a purpose, if maybe The Force was trying to tell him something, something he was refusing to hear.

The Force used to sing to him, back when he was called Anakin, and she would wrap herself around him in golden light and carry him along her gentle current.

But it had been years since he had unplugged his ears and let himself listen to her song, and Vader wondered if she could still sing.

He also wondered if this feeling that he felt when he thought of Luke, the ache in his heart he felt when he gazed upon his son, if maybe that was the same feeling that Obi-Wan once felt when he looked upon him. He remembered a time long ago when he felt something similar when looking at a young Togruta with the kindest eyes and an even kinder heart.

Vader thought he could almost name the feeling.

Obi-Wan once said he had loved Anakin, and now Vader could admit that that must've been true.

And Anakin knew he had once loved him too.

-----

“There before the threshold

I saw a brighter world beyond myself

And in my hour of weakness”

You were there to see my courage fail”

All Anakin ever wanted was to protect the ones he loved. He believed in the hope of a world where he could keep pain away from all those he called his own, a world where everything was right and just and beautiful and safe, all because he had made it so. He was raised to stand up for those who couldn't, to use his gifts and power to help others, both by his mother and his master. He always knew he was special, but he never wanted to be great for his own sake. No, everything Anakin ever did was motivated by those he loved, and he just wanted to create a better, brighter world for the galaxy.

Everything he did, he did for others.

Or so he thought he did.

He thought that by becoming a Jedi he would be able to spread goodness and light, justice and peace to the galaxy. So where did it all go so wrong?

Looking back on it all now, Vader could see how blind he was. How blinded by fear and possessiveness, obsession and the inability to let go. Like a child who loves an injured bird too much and squeezes it between its fist, never realizing that it was its desire to help and protect that ultimately ended up killing it. He called it the need to protect the one he loved, but now he could name it for what it was: selfishness. And it was that selfishness that brought his whole world crumbling down around him. All that was left in the wake of that dark night on Mustafar were shattered dreams and dashed hopes crashing around the one who used to be Anakin like forsaken ashes, his old life going up in smoke along with the Jedi temple.

And who was there to watch him burn it all to the ground but the one man he never wanted to let down. The one man he had striven to please since he was a small boy of nine, the one man who he had loved like a father, a brother, a best friend.

Obi-Wan had sworn to always be by Anakin’s side, so it was only fitting that he would be there to witness his worst mistake.

Anakin never wanted to fail anyone, especially Obi-Wan.

And in the end, he failed everyone.

You're breaking my heart…

You were my brother…

I won't leave you, not this time…

Vader still couldn’t think of all that he lost without hearing the echoes of his past.

-----

“For the years have been long

And you have taught me well to sit and wait

Planning without acting

Steadily becoming what I hate”

Vader could remember a time long ago when he confided in a man he thought of as a grandfather, a man who he trusted, who told him he could trust him. He couldn’t see it then, the years of careful manipulation and meticulous planning that Palpatine went through to gain Anakin’s trust. Like a serpent whispering in Anakin’s ears telling him he had to keep secrets from those who truly loved him, making the boy believe he was the only one who would understand. Feeding him the lie that if he ever truly opened up, everyone would hate what they saw. If he shared his fears with Obi-Wan he would be kicked out of the order and sent straight back to Tatooine, back into the chains to which he was born.

So he kept it all inside.

And he told his feelings to only one man, the one man who only ever saw him as a pawn, a means to an end.

But by the time he saw the truth, it was too late.

It wasn’t until Anakin was gone and Vader was clad in metal and machine, and he felt the first of many lightning bolts that Palpatine used to keep him in line. It wasn’t until he tried to speak of his fears, his losses, his hurt, to the now-Emperor only to receive nothing but punishment in return that he realized it was never real.

So he retreated even further into himself, for now he was truly alone.

He looked back in regret on all the years he thought he had no one to turn to, able to see now that that couldn't have been farther from the truth. How had he let himself feel so alone in the days where he was surrounded by those who loved and cared for him, immersed in a community of family bonded by The Force?

It almost made him laugh to think of how wrong he was.

For in Anakin’s emptiest moments he still had more than Vader ever would at his fullest.

Vader stood in front of the Emperor, the man he had called master for the last 20 years but who never truly deserved the title, with his shields high and impenetrable. He couldn’t let Palpatine see the turmoil within him, and over the years Vader had gotten skilled at hiding his true feelings, even from himself at times. But especially now as his master told him of how he would have to either turn his son to the dark or destroy him, he was thankful that his thoughts were only his own.

The path of the darkside or destruction.

‘Those are the same thing’ Vader thought to himself. ‘And I will not see my son fall down the same path that I did.’

Vader stared forward, and the smallest part within him was grateful for the mask that hid his features from the prying eyes of Emperor Palpatine. For years Vader had suffered under his hand, doing his will without complaint or hesitation because he had nowhere else to turn. In his greatest moment of weakness he had burned everything good he had ever loved, and so there was nothing left to do but turn away from the light of the flames and follow the dark. It's what he deserved--torment and pain and suffering.

But now there was the smallest glimmer of light, and it was burning inside Vader once again. Inside the shell which used to be as black as a bottomless cave there was now a long-forgotten ember, lit by the boy called Luke. Luke Skywalker.

Skywalker.

But even with the light beginning to glow within him, Vader knew it was too late for him. He was already doomed, and the man he once was had been destroyed.

Palapatine had made sure of that.

-----

“I know who you are now

I know who you are

I know who you are now”

Palpatine.

How many years had Vader spent blaming Obi-Wan, blaming Anakin, blaming the Jedi, the council, the Republic, the war, anything but the one man who’s fault it truly was.

And why had it taken so long for him to see the truth?

Why was it not until Vader came face to face with his son, face to face with goodness and light and hope for the first time in decades, that he was able to see his master for who he truly was?

-----

“I have always known you

You have always been there in my mind

But now I understand you

And I will not be part of your designs”

For years Vader played his part, doing his master's terrible bidding without hesitation. Denying the parts of himself that refused to die, the soft spots in his crystalized heart which he could never turn completely to stone. In the beginning he had told himself that he was doing the right thing, that the Jedi were traitors and the reason the Republic fell. That the Empire would bring peace and security to the galaxy, that he was ushering in a new age of prosperity for all. That The Emperor saw things clearly and that he wanted the best for him and the people in the Empire. But eventually he could not be blind to those lies, so he traded his optimism for apathy, following orders out of a sense of duty and the feeling that he was in too deep to get out now.

When Vader, no, Anakin, was a boy he had been a slave. His life was not his own, everything he did was controlled by another. When he ate, when he worked, when he played, when he slept. He could be beaten or even killed in an instant for something as insignificant as his master's poor temper. It was an exhausting existence, one without peace or rest.

But he was given a new life when he was nine years old. For the first time in his life, Anakin was given freedom. But even then, even from his first moments of true happiness and liberation, Palpatine was there whispering lies in his ear.

“You’re still calling someone master” he would hiss.

“No, it's different. I’m a Jedi now. It’s an honor to call Obi-Wan master.” Anakin would counter, believing every word.

“You're still being told when to eat, when to work, when to play, when to sleep.” Palpatine’s manipulations started from a very young age.

“No, it’s different. I made a choice to be a Jedi, I’m not being forced to do anything.” Anakin’s new life as a Jedi was nothing like being a slave on Tatooine.

Right?

“But was it your choice? Is this really the life you want? I only want you to be happy, my boy.”

Anakin never knew how to respond to that.

Slowly, steadily, over time, Anakin began to wonder if there was truth to the venom Palpatine had been injecting into his brain. Maybe he was still a slave. A slave to duty. A slave to the Republic. A slave to the Jedi.

Anakin never wanted to be a slave again.

So he swore to put an end to it. To get out. To be free and the only one in control of his life. But the only thing he succeeded in doing was in tightening his chains, wrapping himself with ropes of metal and locking himself in a prison of hate.

For Vader could now look back and see what he could not see then, that he was never a slave as a Jedi.

But he was one now.

And now his master was requiring of him an impossible task, to hand over his son to endure the same fate he did. To doom Luke to serve the same dark master and force hatred and passion and anger to consume his soul and corrupt him into something unrecognizable, twisting him into a monster.

Vader hadn’t failed his master in years, but he had a choice to make now. Should he continue to be faithful to a man who took everything from him, to an Empire that only left death and destruction in its wake? Or would he finally put an end to it all, finally turn back towards the light that used to be his home?

Vader had been a mere pawn to Palpatine for as long as he could remember.

A slave.

He vowed when he left Tatooine he would never be a slave again.

-----

“I know who I am now

And all that you've made of me

I know who you are now

And I name you my enemy”

Vader’s heart was a whirlwind of conflict as he stood in front of his son and his master. As much as he tried to fight it, to push it down, to keep his mind focused solely on the Dark, he couldn’t ignore the call to the Light that plagued him at the mere thought of his son. It was even stronger now as Luke stood before him, like a beacon of hope, and Vader didn’t know how much longer he could fight it.

He couldn’t bear to listen to the words the Emperor was speaking to his son, the same lies and empty promises that were made to him so many years ago. He only hoped that, unlike himself, Luke was able to see through the falsehoods for what they truly were, and he hoped his son could resist.

For even now the Dark had such a strong hold on Vader that he was still doing his master’s bidding, fighting his son and trying to turn him. But his mind was at war with itself, and his soul was being torn in two, his loyalty to his Dark master being ripped apart by his love for his son and his old connection to the Light.

His unfocus betrayed him and he soon found himself on the ground at the mercy of his son, bested in combat as he felt anger and darkness swirl around Luke. No, he could not destroy his son, but it was not out of weakness. As he felt the Darkside grow like a rising tide around Luke, Vader’s heart tightened in his chest. He could not bear to see his son fall down the same path as he did, he didn’t want the same pain and torment to follow him and fill his days with nothing but agony and regret. And as he lay with Luke looming over him, hearing The Emperor urge Luke to finish him off, to take his place at his side, to join the darkness and rule the galaxy with fear and terror, Vader, for the first time in over two decades, could finally see it all for what it was.

For now he knew.

Vader wasn't born of Anakin, buried deep within the boy just waiting for the right moment to emerge.

He was made.

Forged by Palpatine and molded out of the hatred and desperation the Emperor had instilled in the boy, carefully crafted over years of subtlety.

It had taken decades, but Vader finally saw through the lies.

In an instant Vader had the Emperor in his hands lifted high above his head. He could feel the Force lightning coursing through his suit, singeing whatever flesh was left of him, overheating circuits and frying power couplings. He knew that this would be the last act he ever did, and yet Anakin felt a peace flow through him that was more powerful than the electricity.

For the first time in a long time, Anakin was finally doing something right.

-----

“I know who I am now

I know who I want to be…”

For years Vader had wanted nothing more than to turn back the hands of time and take it all back, take back every mistake he ever made that led to the destruction of everything he ever loved and held close. He wished through strangled sobs that he could hold his wife again, that he could see the smile of his old master with his shining blue eyes, hear the banter of his young padawan who always made him so proud. What he wouldn't do to feel the sunlight upon his skin as he strolled through the gardens of the Jedi temple, listening to the sounds of murmured conversations and ringing laughter as the Force flowed through him like a gentle river, carrying with it peace and love and Light. For twenty years he had cursed himself for his selfishness and greed, for his destruction of anything good and pure in the galaxy. If he could take it all back, he would. In an instant. Without hesitation. Even if it meant losing his life, he would give anything to go back to how it was, before the dark times, before the Empire.

But he never could, he told himself it was impossible.

But now, looking at his son, now he saw there was a way.

He couldn’t turn back time, but he could make a better future, for his son had been right. There was still goodness in him, and Anakin was done leaving it in the darkness.

It was time to return to the light.

For he finally understood.

All of the mistakes he ever made he made because he couldn’t let go. He couldn’t let go of his fear of losing those he loved, he couldn’t let go of his pain, his grief, his losses, his doubts. He couldn’t let go of his need to control. And so this refusal of peace had led him to darkness, down a path where everything was gripped firmly in his hands, even if it burnt or cut him.

But he had finally learned to let go, and in doing so, he could finally make things right.

Luke saved Anakin, so it was only fair that he saved his son in return.

Anakin could feel the Second Death Star rumbling around him and he fought the call of unconsciousness as his son dragged him towards a ship, but he knew what Luke did not, that it was too late for him.

No, not too late. It was just in time.

“Help me take this mask off” Anakin struggled to speak as his life support began to fail.

“But you’ll die.” Luke was still holding onto hope.

“Nothing can stop that now,” Anakin had accepted his fate, the death that seemed long overdue. “Just for once, let me look on you with my own eyes.” Vader was dead, he fell to his destruction alongside Emperor Palpatine, and that mask belonged to him. But those eyes, those blue eyes who longed to gaze at his son's face for the last time, those were Anakin’s.

As the Force began to swirl around him, gently singing her ancient lullabies, songs Anakin used to hear but had been deaf to for so long now, he needed to say one final thing to his son, the one who saved him, who reminded him of who he truly was.

“You were right. Tell your sister…”

How Anakin wished he could look upon her in this moment, too. He regretted all the time he lost, he hated that his only times with his daughter were moments when he was hunting her, hurting her, causing her to fear and hate him. He thought of her resilience, her strength, her determination, her beauty. Her commitment to justice and goodness in the face of tyranny, how she never backed down from a fight. He remembered how she could command a room, how she knew her worth and she never let anyone diminish it. He thought of her love for her family, her people, her planet, and her love of the light, and he was so proud of her. In his daughter's eyes he saw Padme Amidala, and he stole a smile thinking of how Leia was continuing her mother’s legacy, whether she knew it or not. He could only hope that she would listen to Luke and maybe, just maybe, be able to forgive him enough, even though he knew he didn’t deserve it.

“...you were right.”

The world around him grew darker now, the Force moving in closer and transitioning his spirit from this world to the next. He looked into his son’s eyes one final time, seeing nothing but goodness and light, and he breathed his last, letting go and releasing himself into the larger will of the Force.

And as he went, he felt only peace.

Darkness gave way to light, and as he opened his eyes in a new plane of existence, he was greeted by a face that he would recognize anywhere, regardless of the effects of age and two harsh suns beating down upon it.

“Hello there, my old Padawan.”

And without a moment of hesitation, eyes brimming with tears, Anakin Skywalker fell into the open arms of Obi-Wan Kenobi.

“...I want to be more than

This devil inside of me.”

10 notes · View notes

crowsent · 4 years ago

Text

AUgust 2020: Angels & Demons

Challenge given by @augustwritingchallenge

Summary: Goro won’t ever get justice. Vengeance, though... Vengeance Goro could get.

“Don’t you want vengeance, Goro Akechi?” A hand shot out from the darkness. "I can offer you vengeance. All I ask is possession of your immortal soul."

Pairing: N/A can be interpreted as ShuAke

Characters: Goro Akechi, Joker (Akira Kurusu/Ren Amamiya)

Word Count: 2305

CW: N/A

Notes: the tumblr version is unformatted. for that reason, i highly recommend you to read the ao3 version instead so yall get that sweet sweet tone difference.

i didnt include the “angel” part of the angels & demons but you know. potato potahto. also, big thanks to @yusuke-of-valla for giving me an AMAZING prompt. hope i did it justice

AO3 Link: HERE

She was buried quietly, without fanfare and without mourners. Goro remembered staying at her grave hours after sunset, clutching the single flower he brought for her between his fingers so tightly it had crushed the leaves and petals and stem into a mangled mess.

The sky was a dark inky blot by the time a woman with tightly bunned hair and a blue and white striped uniform came for him and said that since his last living relative was six feet underground, Goro would be put into foster care. Dark clouds swirled over the horizon, flanking the boom of oncoming thunder. Goro wanted to tell her that he had a living relative still, a piece of trash masquerading as a man. Shido. Masayoshi Shido.

But who’d believe a dirty bastard child over the nation’s darling upstanding politician? The son of a whore with not a single yen to his name against a “respectable” and reliable Masayoshi fucking Shido. Even as a child, Goro understood that he won’t get his justice. This biased, pathetic excuse of a system won’t ever give him his justice. He followed that woman into an orphanage and let the years pass being shuffled from place to place. No roots. No friends. No bonds. Just a pebble thrown into sea, meant to be swallowed and spat back out again.

Goro won’t get justice. Justice for the years he suffered unwanted, unneeded, and unloved. He won’t get justice for his mother whose only mistake was being too kind and loving something that deserved no love at all. Justice for the society that looked at his face and deemed him unworthy to be saved and left him to drown.

Goro won’t ever get justice.

“But I can give you vengeance.”

Vengeance.

That word, over and over again in his dreams, a promise, a vow, an offer and an absolution. Goro didn’t know when it started, exactly. All he knew is that at some point in the blur of his adolescence, a voice started calling out to him in his dreams. Hands with black-painted nails, perfectly manicured, beckoning him into the depth of an endless void. Pointed horns and red eyes. A smile and the glint of shiny teeth. And in his mind, the voice would ring out, “Vengeance. Vengeance. Vengeance.”

Justice is for children. Wide-eyed children with petty idealism and a gross misunderstanding of how the world works, of how cruel the world is, of how unwanted and unneeded and un-special they were. Vengeance, though… Vengeance for his mother’s life ruined by the selfish ego of one man undeserving of every breath he deigned to steal, his cruelty, his blatant disregard for the one thing that Goro had in this sham of a life. Vengeance for Goro. Vengeance to quell the pit of hatred and despair and the thrashing of wild listlessness and chaos.

Vengeance, Goro could get.

“Don’t you want Vengeance, Goro Akechi?” asked the voice in his dreams. “Son of a whore and a bastard child. You are playing an unjust game in a world that will never deliver justice.” A hand shot out from the darkness. Pale skin. Dark nails. And past that, further in, gleaming eyes. Blood red. Inhuman. “I can offer you vengeance. I can offer you Masayoshi Shido’s head on a pike, his legacy tarnished, the vision of Japan he was willing to burn the world down for handed to you on a silver platter.”

And in his dreams, Goro always refused. Denied and rejected and lashed out with violent words and the hurl of his fists that only ever seemed to pass through smoke. Even in his dreams, he was taunted. Taunted with something he can never truly have.

That time though, that night, on the eighth anniversary of the day of his mother’s death, on the day Goro stood alone over her grave crushing a delicate flower in his murderous, loveless hands, the creature lurking in Goro’s head won.

In that dream, Goro had reached out back into the darkness, hands shaking as he hesitated mere inches from the flawless hand beckoning him into a mad abyss. “And you’d want something in return, I presume?”

There was almost a chuckle in response to that. “But of course,” said the creature. Horns flashed for a brief moment, sharp and black and angled forward. Flames seemed to lick up the creature’s smile. “All I ask is possession of your immortal soul, Goro Akechi. Give that to me upon your death, and you will have all that you want and more.”

A soul. A soul to finally see Shido fall. To see his pathetic excuse for a father finally get his just desserts. A soul to get the justice -the vengeance- for his mother, for himself. Goro leaned forward, let his bony half-starved hand grasp the one shrouded in darkness, and spoke:

“You have yourself a deal.”

Because really. His soul was dirty, broken, and worth less than the mud on his shirt.

If that’s what he had to give, then he’d give it. Gladly. A hundred, a thousand, a million times over.

The figure in the darkness of his dreams grasped his hand, grasped it tightly, too tightly, until it began to hurt but Goro held on. Then the hand shaked his, slowly, deliberately, and a burning searing pain followed. Not in Goro’s hand but further in, his chest, his head, his heart. His soul. It burned and burned and burned a searing pain, like something was peeling his skin away bit by agonising bit. Still Goro held on.

“Stubborn,” chuckled the voice in Goro’s dream. The hand receded, the pain faded, until all that Goro was left with was darkness and the piercing red eyes. “We will get along well, Goro Akechi.”

The eyes vanished and left behind an echo.

“You may call me Joker.”

Goro woke up.

He was not a child, not a teenager fraught with dreams of deals and vengeance and darkness. He was Goro Akechi, a respected detective fresh out of the academy, praise and accolades and connections to his name. Loved by the common folk for his humble beginnings, an orphan who had to work and bleed and sweat to claw his way into the upper echelons of society, a beacon of hope that maybe they too can make their way up the ladder. Loved by the elite for his charm and wit and charisma, his flawless manners, his cadence, his posture, his mask. One of his masks.

It took years. Years longer than what Goro would have wanted, years longer than what Goro could have been patient with, but at last, he could begin the endeavor that kept him going through years. Bring down Shido. More than a quick death. More than humiliation. More than anything Goro himself could have thought of.

The thing that Masayoshi Shido valued most. Himself. His reputation. His power. His legacy. His control. Brick by fucking brick, Goro would tear it all down. Watch the ruins burn in ashes. Have Shido’s name cursed for years, for generations, for future historians to come. Have the entirety of this nation sneer at the mere mention of his name.

All it took was a soul.

The best damn thing Goro’s soul could ever be worth, honestly.

“I can do many things, Goro, but even I can’t delay a dedicated media crew,” came a voice in his head. Familiar, after years of hearing it. Joker stood at the doorway, insouciant, relaxed, leaning against the frame of Goro’s bedroom door with that irritating nigh-permanent smirk on his face.

He looked human now, which was probably the most unsettling thing about him. No horns. No face wreathed in fire. No clawed hands, no tail, no wings. Joker’s red eyes were a very human black, framed with glasses that made him look innocent and harmless when he was anything but. “Out of bed Goro.” Really, the only thing that belied Joker’s true nature was his smile. The glint of canines just a bit too sharp to be human, visible for only a breath before vanishing once again into this perfect veneer. A mask. “The new Detective Prince can’t be late for his own interview, Goro. Out of bed.”

The pillows were soft, the mattress inviting, the window positioned just so to let the right amount of sunlight in. Ultimately simple, so that when reporters and paparazzi invaded what little semblance of privacy he had left, all they’d see was a humble man living a humble life. The image Goro wanted to cultivate, that Joker advised him to cultivate. The perfect mask.

With a heavy sigh, Goro dragged himself back to the realm of the conscious with a false smile, practised so often it reached his eyes, crinkled them at the edges and lit them up how a real smile would. It was terrifying how he didn’t even have to think about it, how it was as easy as breathing. “My interview isn’t until after noon.” Goro can’t quite remember the last time he smiled genuinely. It was terrifying that Goro didn’t care. And though sleep clung to him still, Goro sat straight-backed, knees slung over his bed and crossed at the ankle. An image. A mask.

Joker gave him a smile. Well, it wasn’t entirely a smile. There was joy in it, sure, and more than a little excitement, but Goro had never quite seen another human being give that look. One of hedonistic greed not for power or wealth but for thrill, chasing something that can’t be caught and loving every second anyway. A dangerous thing, an incorporeal thing, an emotion or an experience or just the mere imaginings of something too alien for Goro to grasp.

“It isn’t. But wouldn’t you want to witness the death of the IT President that eats from Shido’s hand like a loyal dog?”

But then again, Joker wasn’t human.

For all Goro knew, this look was how creatures like Joker smiled. If they could even smile. If Goro could even smile. His camera-ready expression slipped into something other at the news. Lips stretched wide, teeth bared. It might have been a smile. It might have been him imitating the expression Joker’s face. It might have been simply Goro, delighted to know that the crumbling of Shido’s empire had already begun. Sadistic and feral and removed.

“I thought you said that Shido shouldn’t die,” said Goro conversationally, in the same tone one might discuss the weather. Despite how still and steady his voice was, he could not hide the excited tremor that ran through his body, the thrill of seeing his dream finally begin to take root and bloom into an ugly thorny rose.

If Joker noticed, he did not say. “True. I said Shido shouldn’t die. But I said nothing of the men working under him.” Goro was on his feet. Wordlessly, Joker handed him a simple summer outfit, a coat, his gloves. “The ultimate suffering for Shido is a life without power, without influence. A long life of being less than nothing. His subordinates though?”

“Weapons,” said Goro as he dressed himself. To be used against Shido. To have their lives be the sword and the bullets and the gun. To have their deaths be a wound.

For a split second, Goro could have sworn that flames erupted in Joker’s eyes. But when he blinked, it was gone, and Joker was laughing.“Right you are, Goro. They’re casualties in the war. Trash. Tools that have outlived their usefulness.” Joker led Goro out the bedroom, into the hall. Handed him a cup of coffee and a sandwich. “A threat to Shido perhaps?” Joker paused his stride just long enough to look into Goro’s eyes. “Maybe our IT President found something about Shido that he shouldn’t have.” They did not stop in the dining room for Goro’s breakfast.

“Did he?”

“Does it matter?” Joker asked.

“It doesn’t.”

Joker chuckled. The hallway light flickered with each breath and the shadows curled at his ankle. “We’ll create a story, Goro. The president dies from some… unseen force and you’re simply the good samaritan who wanted to help. You’ll get closer to the public, you get an in with Shido, and you get to watch the fall from inside the ivory tower.”

Goro took a sip of his coffee. Roasted to perfection. “And you will get my soul.”

They passed by the floor mirror in the living room. Joker’s reflection was not that of a man with fluffy black hair and a dark button-up. It was shadow and flame and a creature with horns and black-clawed hands. “And I will get your soul. But only after you watch Shido get dragged through something worse than hell. Such is the terms of our deal.”

All for the price of Goro’s soul.

“Well,” Goro smiled, sharp and fake and utterly convincing, “I suppose I’ll take my morning walk. I have an interview coming up, after all. I should clear my head.”

Joker laughed. Deep, hungry, triumphant. He vanished into black smoke and receded into the dark corners of the house just as Goro opened the door. He wasn’t gone though, not really. There was a fire in Goro’s chest, painful and freeing and damning all at once. A brand of malediction and a stain on the soul he already sold.

And when Goro saw a brown-haired man in nice clothes with a laptop bag slung over his shoulder suddenly collapse in the middle of the street, grasping his throat for invisible hands that slowly strangled life out, he heard Joker’s voice in his head again. Loud, clear, and malicious.

Vengeance.

Goro dropped his coffee and his breakfast and rushed forward, putting on a mask that fit far too well on his face. “Are you alright sir!?”

Vengeance.

#crowsas writes #persona #persona 5 #p5 #goro akechi #akira kurusu #ren amamiya #au_gust_2020

14 notes · View notes

imtryingthisout · 5 years ago

Text

A Story for Virgil: The King and His Songbird

[for @sanderssides-magicalgirlau by @nachosforfree

Word count: 1686

Warnings: Unsympathetic Patton, imprisonment, implied abuse]

Once Upon A Time there was a kingdom that lay by the Sea. A beautiful kingdom, if there ever was one, for the King liked beautiful things, and wished to surround himself with them.

The marble halls were lined with grand oil paintings, depicting ancient battles and long past rulers. Intricate silver leafing was sprawled around every doorway, twisting about the numerous large gemstones embedded in the walls. Pale blue like the noon-day Sky.

Yes, the King had a great many beautiful treasures, all of which he loved to admire, yet none he adored so much as his prized Songbird.

The King had met his songbird when he was just a young prince, who had not yet inherited the burden of his father. He had been walking in one of the palace’s many grand and spiralling gardens, enjoying the way the sun’s rays reflected off the blooming flowers. When he heard a most wondrous noise. For there, perched upon a pale-white branch, was a singing songbird. Who had feathers so dark a black they shone violet, and eyes so pure they reflected the emerald leaves.

The Prince was transfixed, for though he had every luxury afforded by his status, he could not have recalled a voice so lovely in all his life. It was softer than even his Mother’s lullabies, and so full of hope it nearly made him weep.

“Hello pretty bird” the Prince called, “why do you sing so sweet?” and the Songbird answered with a rising melody- that if the Prince was a Songbird he would have known meant ‘The sun is high, my stomach is full, the world is fair- so why shouldn’t I sing?” But the Prince was not a bird, and so he simply smiled without understanding.

Eventually the Prince was called inside by his Tutor, and the Songbird was without company. But the Prince returned the next day, and the next. Bringing with him seeds to lure the Songbird down from his perch. Bringing with him stories of laughter to win the Songbird’s trust. And trust him the Songbird did, for it had never had reason not to.

And for a time, all was well.

When the Prince was crowned King, somethings changed, and somethings did not. He still wore square-rimmed glasses, he still made awful jokes. He still loved beautiful things.

Every evening he would walk into his garden, which held itself in a dome of crafted glass, and he would wait for his songbird to fill the air with music.

And for a time, this was enough.

Then one night, after a long day of tiresome work with tiresome people, the King walked into his garden heavy-minded and in his last nerve. For in all his silk and finery, nothing seemed to comfort him anymore. Nothing except his Songbird.

Which is why he was shocked to find his Songbird singling, not to him, but to the son of the palace chef. Who seemed to be enjoying the sound very much- if the relaxed smile on his face was anything to go by.

An unpleasant feeling stirred within the King’s chest. Something dark, somthing ossessive. What had the Chef’s son done to earn his Songbird? Why should he get to listen to it’s grace? He was not a king, just a worker’s child. No one worthy of such a prize like his Songbird.

“Guards” he commanded “There is a trespasser in my garden. Seize him and throw him in the tallest tower”so they did. And For a time, the King though it was good.

But when the King returned to his garden, his Songbird did not sing. When the King asked his advisors, they suggested if he wanted the Songbird so badly- then he should cage it. And so he did.

Like everything else in the King’s palace, the cage was beautiful. Crafted by hand from molten gold, delicate spires of shining wire overlayed each other, letting in the sun. Keeping in the Songbird.

But still days went by, and the Songbird did not sing.

“What did you do?!” Demanded the King, as he stood above the Chef’s son- whose brilliant eyes were dull, and whose leg was most definitely broken “What did you do to my Songbird?”

The Chef’s son wanted desperately to spit upon the King’s face, instead he gave a lazy shrug and slowly said, “I have no idea what you mean? I didn’t do anything to your precious songbird” he smiled, with a tad too much teeth, “nothing he didn’t want anyway”

By the end of the King’s visit the Chef’s son was no longer smiling, and still the Songbird would not sing.

“Pretty Bird, my dear Songbird” the King asked “Why won’t you sing for me?” The Songbird just looked at him, with eyes empty and spiteful. ‘You have taken my love, broken my wings, and caged me in metal and loneliness- what cause do I have, to sing to you?’ But the King could not hear the Songbird’s thoughts. And so they remained.

The Songbird was not the only creature the King kept in his Palace, in fact he had many exotic and fascinating animals. A toxic green octopus in his lake, a komodo dragon in his yard. But perhaps the most deadly and dangerous of these creatures, was the King’s orange tabby cat, which loved to roam the halls.

One day the tabby cat found its way into the room that held the Songbird’s cage. Maybe it was curiosity, or boredom, or simple cruelty- but for whatever reason the Tabbycat decided to jump up upon the table wood- and see what was inside the golden cage.

“My, aren’t you a lovely thing” said the Tabbycat “I wonder why he keeps you up here?” The Songbird said nothing, too focused on the sharp claws scraping along his cage to hear. “Maybe it’s for your feathers, they are such stunning feathers.” He paused. “I wonder what they would feel like between my teeth”

The Songbird said nothing, for what was there to say? They just looked at each other, the Bird and the Tabbycat, until the awful smile slid off the feline’s face, and he told the other “You know- it’s no fun to mess with you if you aren’t going to say anything.”

“....”

“Besides I already know why he likes you, and it has nothing to do with those feathers of yours”

“....”

“Still nothing? How about a deal, if you give me a song, I will use my strength to knock the cage over the table, so that it will break open and you will be free”

The thought of freedom was so great, that it caused the Songbird to open its mouth, and sing.

And sing he did, he sang of sorrow, he sang of joy, he sang of his mother, and he sang of the Baker’s boy. He sang everything the could not say, if only to live for another day.

And when every note faded from the air- the Tabbycat made good on his promise- and kicked the cage off of the table chair.

The Songbird’s wings ached from disuse, and he could not fly with the fractures in his bones. But he still climbed his way up to the Tallest Tower. Where the Chef’s son was being held.

It was dark, in his prison, for the tower had no windows, and whatever slivers of moonlight escaped through the cracks- were hidden by the clouds tonight. It was fitting, in some twist of fate, that the boy who could never stand the sunlight now lived in enteral shadow.

The funny thing was, he didn’t regret it. The King was growing into himself, a man worse than even his forefather, so it was only a matter of time until The Chef’s son slipped up. He was never quite good and falling in line.

Besides, who wouldn’t have snuck into the King’s Private garden? When the orchards were barren and the food scarce- who wouldn’t try to grab some forbidden fruit, when everything good and plentiful was hidden behind the King’s laws and walls?

The fact that the garden also housed the world's most enchanting songbird was non withstanding.

The fact that, that very songbird was now climbing over a hundred flights of stairs to reach him, was something unbeknownst to the Chef’s Son. But it was a fact all the same.

The guards outside the door were overworked and underpaid, dreariness etched into their bones. The songbird bird barely had to chirp before they were out like a light. Asleep at their post.

When the Chef’s Son heard the rumbling of keys being put in the door, he braced himself for another ‘visit’ from the King. His leg had not yet healed from their last chat, and he was not looking forward to another wound. But it wasn’t like he had a choice in the matter.

You can imagine his relief when he saw, not the crazed smile of His Majesty, but the small form of the songbird- the guards keychain still held in its beak.

“Hey babes, what brings you around here” he said casually, but God he could almost cry. He gently picked the Bird up, cradling it in his hands. “I guess he broke you too huh. Wonder what you did to make him so mad?” The Chef’s son was no mind reader- but he swore he could see a mischievous glint in the Songbird’s eye.

“Come on Bonny-Bird, let's get ourselves out of here”

And so the Songbird and the Chef’s Son escapes from the Tower, from the Palace, and from the Kingdom itself. They fled into the Wild Forest, where the sun did it shine bright enough to hurt the Boy’s eyes, and where a flock of Songbirds made their nests within the tall trees. It was land grown feral, and untamed. Beautiful, but not in the ways the King’s Palace was beautiful. It was not perfect, but it was safe. And eventually, it was home.

And so the Boy and the Songbird had many more adventures and lived happily ever after. The End.

#Sanders sides #magical girl au #Virgil sanders #Patton Sanders #unsympathetic patton #remy sleep #Remy Sanders #Remy x Virgil #sleepxiety #fic #writing #story

224 notes · View notes

typicalmidnightsoul · 4 years ago

Text

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓒𝓻𝓸𝔀𝓷 𝓟𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓬𝓮𝓼𝓼- Chapter 10

𝕨𝕖 𝕜𝕖𝕖𝕡 𝕓𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕒𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣

Neither of us is happy but neither of us wants to leave so we keep breaking one another and calling it love. - Rupi Kaur

Chapter 1, 2, 3, 4 5, 6 7 8 9<- here

Annabeth whirled on Algeron "That's not the full story!"

Algeron growled his cool demeanor snapping,

"Your flaw has always been that your unconditional love has tendencies to blind you, so I ask you Annabeth, you have been in Nesta's head, do they deserve to know Nesta's story? Will they respect that bit of her story or will they twist it to their accord and make insults out of it. To me, they don't. I cannot tell the story to people who don't care. My words are done." He held up a hand as Annie opened her mouth once more, "Go Annabeth."

The people of the hill vanished in mists and puffs of green smoke, the nature around them bringing them back inside them

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

They had came back to a horrifying scene. Annabeth claiming she needed rest and retreating to a nearby room, while everyone else went to see Nesta.

Nesta's eyes seemed to be drenched in bleach. They were wholly black.

Clare shook her, "Nesta stop you're scaring me!"

Nesta's body convulsed one more time before going limp.

Safia held her hands over her, "She's alright."

Clare let out a sigh of relief before going back to her endless watch over Nesta.

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

Annabeth was in a room Cassian had directed her into. She needed answers, from the Lord himself if he’d give it to her.

She kneeled in front of nothing; hands cupped in front of her, whispering an ancient language into it.

All she saw behind her closed eyes was smoke, nothing was clear. Until Cassian came in. He did not know she was praying and lightly touched her shoulder.

She inhaled a sharp breath, the smoke clearing.

Cassian lay on top of Nesta,

“Sweetheart what’s wrong?”

Nesta smiled at him, tears forming in her eyes,

“I’m pregnant.”

Cassian froze.

“You...you’re pregnant? With my baby?” His eyes widened.

She nodded, laughing, “Of course, you brute who else’s would it be?”

He laughed too, his eyes sparkling with pure joy.

She put a hand on his cheek, “Are you happy?”

He gave her a bewildered look,

“My mate is pregnant with my baby! Why the hell wouldn’t I be happy?!”

Cassian moved his hand.

“Lady Annabeth, are you ok?”

Annabeth froze. Mate. They were mates.

She plastered a smile on her face, “Yes dear, of course I am.”

“Nesta’s was awake a few minutes ago; her eyes were wholly black I thought you should know.”

She let out a breath, she couldn’t tell anyone. Not with the state Nesta was in.

“I’ll talk to Vera about it; she’ll probably have a healer specified in that area.”

Cassian nodded heading out of the room.

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

Nesta woke up in silence her eyes were filled with fury. Audrey came to her side,

"Nes, you should-"

"After i had my outburst at the lake in the human lands, i had a vision, you were there, was that-that really you?"

Audrey's eyes hesitated, "Nesta this is not the-"

"Answer the question please."

Audrey sighed, "Yes that was me."

Tears slipped down Nesta's face, "You were in my head, so you saw everything right?"

Audrey dropped her eyes, "Yes."

Nesta pushed her hands away, "I told you I needed you," her voice broke, "WHY DIDN'T YOU COME FOR ME?"

"I WANTED TO KILL MYSELF WHY DIDN'T YOU COME FOR ME."

Audrey sobbed, "It wasn't the right time."

"When would've been the right time? When I took my own life? When I let my powers get the better of me?"

Oliver crouched down next to her taking her hands, "We would have never let that happen."

Nesta flung his hands away, "And you?! You left me! You left me there on the lake with them!! You let my powers override, you didn't do anything except give me more grief."

Clare said from Audrey's side, "Nesta you're not in your right mind."

"YES I AM. This is the clearest I have been with myself since I was thrown out of the Cauldron."

Feyre said softly with a hint of fear in her voice, "Nesta we can talk about this after your health improves."

Nesta's eyes went to Feyre, her voice took on a different tone, one filled with pain and grief and anger,

"You and your court dragged me here, you used me to help you win the war and when i stopped listening to you to save myself from more grief YOU EXILED ME, YOU THREW ME AWAY!"

Her eyes went to Amren, "I TRUSTED YOU, and you did the same thing your court did! You told me to listen to your high lord and lady, you told me to try- like your high lord could just order me to be alright and i would be fucking fine."

She took a glass bottle and smashed it on the floor in front of Rhysand's feet, "You knew NOTHING about me! About those years we spent in poverty! Yet you came to my house and JUDGED ME, you always have and you always will, I almost died to protect your world and YOU DIDN'T GIVE A FUCK YOU HYPOCRITE!"

"267 proposals, 267 TIMES I WAS PRESENTED TO A MALE WHO WAS MORE INTERESTED IN MY DOWRY THAN ME and who wouldn't be? Marry Nesta

Archeron and become the next Prince of Merchants, that is what was announced in the continent and in Prythian. You know what chased them away? When I said in a meeting, when I presented my opinion that slaves should not be buried alive with their masters if they died, I made a vote that tipped the weight in favour of slaves and courtesans and I was humiliated in front of the whole court, I was told that my vote didn't count, that I was inferior THAT MY VOTE WAS CONSIDERED HALF A VOTE. Not a full one because women are incomplete they are inadequate and they will not decide the future of anyone as they cannot be trusted."

Jonah sat on the edge of her bed holding her close to him, "We know Nesta, we know, please calm down your health will go worse."

"I DON'T CARE."

"I do, please Nesta I beg-"

"Nesta listen to Jonah, I know you're mad but please don't take out your anger on your health," Azriel said his voice midnight smooth.

"Oh!" Nesta replied her voice sickeningly sweet, "Now you've decided to say something, I wonder what's so special about this situation that you of all people decided to speak up now WHEN YOU DIDN'T SPEAK UP WHEN I WAS PHYSICALLY BREAKING. None of you did."

Her face went pale with fury, "EVERY SINGLE PERSON IN THIS ROOM IS RESPONSIBLE FOR BREAKING ME, FOR MY SUICIDAL THOUGHTS," She started picking up bottles and vial chucking them on the floor, glass crashing, "EVERY TIME I LET SOME ONE IN THEY REMIND ME WHY THE HELL I HAVE MY WALLS IN THE FIRST PLACE."

“You came to my house and insulted me” It didn’t take a genius to figure out she was talking to Cassian, “Your high lady was such a hero that you humiliated me for it, one question,” Nesta’s eyes swirled with the power Feyre saw that day in Hybern, “Where was Feyre when they crippled me in a cell that let in no light in the asylum? Where was she when they dragged my broken body to the lab and pushed drugs into me to thoroughly clean the Fae essence off me? Where was she when Thomas Mandray decided he wanted a prize for putting up with me, and if I didn’t give it to him, he’d take it himself? Where. Was. She?” Cassian dropped his eyes as if in shame.

Jonah held her by her shoulders, "Enough, Nesta, you were never responsible but I am not going to lose my sister for them. I refuse to.” Nesta looked at him,

“I have told you this a million times.” His voice took on an angrier tone, “They don’t deserve you.”

The doors crashed open, Annabeth and Vera examining the mess.

They ran to her, Annabeth slowly prying Jonah off her and Vera sat beside the curled up figure, silently raging against the cruelty of the world and rested a hand on her temple, “Not another word my love,”

Annabeth touched her arm-

And they were gone.

“What the fuck?!” Luna, who had winnowed in at the end of the outburst, was the first to say.

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

Cassian had trudged outside, his temper getting the better of him, Luna had followed him out.

“Cassian are you ok?”

He nodded. “Do you think she’ll be ok?”

Luna nodded, “You might not see her, but she is safer with them than she is anywhere else.”

They were silent for a long moment until-

“Cassian I have been meaning to ask you,” She swallowed, “Eris told me that in the war, when you were with the Ariel legion, Nesta called out your name…to save you,”-He tried shutting out the memory-“How could you have possibly have heard her?”

He stayed silent.

“You could not have heard her with the height you were at.”

No answer.

“When someone is asked a question they usually answer, Cassian.”

“Luna this is not a conversation to be having now.”

Luna sat down walked in front of him, “I knew I wouldn’t get a straight answer from you, so I did think of a way this would be possible…” He froze, “Is Nesta daemati?”

He almost let out a sigh of relief, “I do not know.”

Luna let out a light disbelieving chuckle, “Well the how could you have-“

She froze, taking him in.

“Are you mates?” She whispered.

He growled, grabbing her arm and dragging her to a distance they wouldn’t be heard.

“Don’t tell anyone.”

Luna dragged a hand through her hair, “You’re mates?!”

“Yes, ok, but you are not allowed to tell anyone.”

Her eyebrows furrowed, “Why?! Are you embarrassed of her?!”

Cassian gave her a disbelieving look, “What?! No! She just… I don’t deserve her and she hates me, she has made that clear on many accounts. I don’t want to force a relationship on her when she has gone through so much.”

Luna’s face was lined with outrage, “That is NOT for you to decide. Nesta deserves to know.”

“And then what? You don’t know her reaction. The only form of ‘mates’ she knows is Rhys and Feyre. So what if she feels pressured to be like them?”

“Do you know Nesta? When has Nesta ever done something because she felt like she had to?”

“Please, Luna try and understand. This is not just about her, even though I know she is the one you love and will forever look out for, this is also about me. For a male to be mates with a female and then be rejected might kill them, might kill me.”

Luna went red with rage, “So if she never falls in love with you, you never tell her?”

Cassian shook his head, “I just need to figure out what to do. Before I tell her could you please no tell anyone?”

Luna considered. Then nodded, “This makes no difference, however because you two being mates isn’t a god given miracle. If Nesta says no, then it is a no. If Nesta says yes the she will say yes not because of a stupid bond but because she has genuinely fallen for you. Look, I know Nesta and even if there wasn’t a bond and you two fell in love with each other then she’d love you till the day she died. A pathetic mating bond would never have changed that.”

He nodded and Luna stood,

“Your secret is safe with me.”

She walked a few steps before turning,

“A word of advice, Cassian. If Nesta does indeed fall in love with you then respect it. The people who are loved by Nesta Archeron, as few as they are, are deeply honored because to be loved by Nesta Archeron is an honor of the highest command. Her life is the least she’ll give. Cherish it.”

As he heard her shoes crunch away in the sand, he wondered if he’d ever be worthy to be loved like that.

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

Tags : @mis-lil-red @wannawriteyouabook @absolute-dissapointment @skychild29 @aesthetics-11

#nessian #nessian fanfic #nesta archeron #cassi #feyre archeron #luna #elain archeron #azriel #rhysand #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acosf

20 notes · View notes

beyond-the-mirror · 6 years ago

Text

Nocturnal Encounters - An Incubus! V x Reader story

Finally after a ver busy week, here’s the first chapter of Nocturnal Encounters. V finally makes his appearance! This chapter is mainly centered around his point of view. Also I think I made it a bit too long, hope it’s not a problem.

Not sure if I should put a warning though. Nothing explicit really happens, just V being a creep and watching reader sleep (he’s an incubus so it’s not surprising at all I guess).

Without any further ado, here it is:

First Night: Perfume

The chilly wind of the night flowed through the jet-black plumage of his wings, green eyes scanning the streets bellow thoroughly.

It had been a long time since he had been in Red Grave. Though he still recognized some of the buildings, the city had definitely changed a lot since his last visit. Hopefully the cozy coffee shop he frequented was still open, he wouldn’t mind a warm coffee and some pastries while reading a good novel. However that would come later, tonight he had a rather special hunger waiting to be sated.

He kept flying silently above the buildings, hoping to find an ideal meal. It wasn’t a particularly urgent issue, he was not starving per se. This would be more like a little snack, a self-indulgent treat for the night being.

Suddenly a soft breeze blowed gently, caressing his soft hair and face. His eyes widened in surprise, the wind was laced with a very subtle but enticing scent. The demon stopped in the middle of his flight.

“What is this? Hmm… ” he asked to no one in particular, intrigue audible in his voice.

Closing his eyes, he focused on the scent trying to identify it better. It smelled of delicate lavenders and roses, and a slight tint of chocolate and berries. A very pleasant aroma definitely, one that made him roll his head backwards and a mischievous smirk appear on the demon’s lips. He had found what he was looking for.

“Love seeketh only self to please, to bind another to its delight.” With a powerful movement of his wings, he followed his new lead.

The more he advanced, the stronger and more seductive the scent would become. Curiosity sparkled in his eyes, he pondered on who could be the bearer of such delicious aroma that strongly captivated his senses. The demon followed the trail to a small building, the delicious perfume coming from a balcony on the second floor. Summoning his cane, he landed onto the reduced space, careful not to step on any of the potted plants that decorated it. Now only a glass door and a curtain stood between him and his prey, and with a swift snap of his fingers, he dissolved into black wisps of smoke.

The creature found himself in a bedroom with pale light blue walls, cream-colored furniture decorated it in a minimalist fashion. He also noticed a short bookcase with stuffed toys placed on the top along with a bouquet of faux forget-me-nots inside a teapot shaped vase. Quite adorable and endearing.

His attention however, was focused on the woman sleeping peacefully in the bed before him. The covers had fallen to her waist, revealing her long-sleeved button-up pajamas, her soft hair was sprawled on the pillow forming a halo above her head, her plump lips were slightly parted in a ‘o’ shape that made her features look even softer than they already were. From where he was standing, he was able to see the gentle glow at the center of her chest that was her soul. He ran his long tongue over his lips, no wonder the aroma was so alluring to the point that it was making him delirious. For demons like him, there was nothing more tempting and seductive than an untouched woman.

The demon stepped closer silently as to not disturb the angel’s peaceful slumber, not even the tap of his cane or his sharp talons against the wooden floor could be heard. He took a seat on the bed at the girl’s side, admiring her sleeping form. He ever so gently ran his knuckles over the girl’s cheek after tucking a few hair strands behind her ear.

“Such a bright soul before me, full of beauty and innocence” he whispered in a deep voice that felt like the smoothest silk the world could offer. “A precious and rare jewel indeed, and to believe that such flower has remained completely untouched by another…” His green eyes were centered on her face and eventually he diverted them to her soul, its glow warm and rich in color.

“Now, shall we take a peek?” The creature raised a clawed finger towards her chest, tapping into her soul and exposing her true self. He often did this to the humans he found interesting, whether it was for obtaining critical information he needed or simply out of curiosity, this case being for the latter reasons. He could see some of her fondest memories, the times she spent with her best friend, her love for all animals and the great kindness she would give to others; he could see passion, perseverance, curiosity, wisdom, wonder… a whole spectrum of colors and hues that painted her bright spirit.

He kept watching with attention, until the sadness that lied in her heart started to come out. Insecurities, doubt, self-consciousness… all in the form of negative comments she had received from strangers, acquaintances and even close family members.

“Why do you keep wasting time on those books of yours?” “You want to study Literature? Arts? That’s ridiculous! You should take a more useful career” “With that uninteresting personality of yours, it’s no wonder you’ve never had a boyfriend” “You’re pretty and all, but… you’re just so boring and dull”

As the painful words poured out, a single tear ran down her cheek. The sight made his blackened heart ache, how could anyone dare to show cruelty towards a bright light? Humans were indeed foolish.

“What is this? Tears? Tsk tsk. Well we can’t have that now, can we?” Wiping her tears away, he shifted to lay down on his side next to her.

“Don’t cry my little one, for as long as I’m here, no more tears of sadness shall fall from your eyes. Allow me to take away all of your pain… and leave nothing but bliss and pleasure.”

And with those words, he placed a kiss on the girl’s forehead. Now that the dream had been planted, it was time to wait.

Opening your eyes, you expected to find your own bedroom, instead you were surprised to find yourself laying down in the middle of what appeared to be a gazebo, flowers of different shapes and colors surrounding it as well as a small pond next to it. You sit up trying to figure out how you got there, your pajamas replaced by a white silk dress. Maybe a dream? But then why did everything seem and felt so incredibly real?

Something fluffy grazed your hand, turning to look what it was, you find a small white rabbit suckling at your fingers. Smiling softly, you pet the little critter with your other hand, the rabbit leaning and nuzzling against your warmth. Suddenly the small rabbit raised its long ears, eyes widening and focusing on something behind you. You furrowed your brow in confusion, and just like that the rabbit sprinted away in fear.

Suddenly a pair of thin arms surrounded your form, making you jump and release a gasp os surprised. You noticed how the arms were completely covered in rivers of black ink that almost seemed to be alive, moving and flowing smoothly across pale skin.

“Sweet babe in thy face, soft desires I can trace”. A deep velvety male voice spoke into your ear in a murmur. Turning around, you lock eyes with the man who held you in his arms, he had chiseled features, his milky skin contrasting against soft jet black locks of hair, his enticing emerald eyes keeping you from looking away.

“Secret joys and secret smiles, little pretty infant wiles” The man kept whispering to you, his voice capturing and hypnotizing you. Not only he possessed an ethereal, almost supernatural beauty, but his smooth voice basically melted you, making you fall into a deep trance, leaving you completely at his mercy.

“As thy softest limbs I feel, smiles as of the morning steal, o'er thy cheek and o'er thy breast, where thy little heart doth rest.” Soft hands caressed your shoulders, and arms as he continued whispering sweet poetry. You could feel his full lips moving against your ear, eventually nipping at it, drawing a long moan from you.

A warm, fluttering feeling made its presence known inside you belly, growing and growing as the mysterious man kept going with his ministrations. Warmth coursed through your whole body, concentrating on your core. The man’s actions, the wind that flowed through the landscape, the fragrance of the flowers around you, the soft chirping of birds in the distance… everything summed up made you feel overwhelmed, but strangely enough, a sensation of peace engulfed you completely.

You closed your eyes, losing yourself to these wonderful sensations.

The girl squirmed and trembled on her bed, a pink blush tinted her cheeks while her lips let out sweet sighs and whimpers.

The demon was hovering over her sleeping form with his arms supporting his weight, admiring his prey beneath him with lustful eyes. Quite a sight she was indeed, he could even feel his own arousal waking up.

“Yes, my little rabbit. Let yourself go for me, allow me to taste your essence and relish in your pleasure”. He grinned in a malicious way, revealing his fangs.

Suddenly the woman let out a loud gasp, signaling she had finally reached her peak. Her soul glowed brighter than before, and he immediately proceeded to feed from the energy released from it.

His eyes snapped open in astonishment, his arms tense and his breath shaky.

“What- What is this?!” A powerful sensation overwhelmed him, making his skin burn in the most delightful way he had ever experienced in his long life. The energy he drank put all of his senses on overdrive, sweet ecstasy flowed and filled his entire being with life and light. The scent was now intoxicating him, making his feel drunk and light-headed, his arousal becoming stronger and unbearable. His eyes rolled back into his skull, and he let out a dark laugh.

“A single drop. I only took a single drop from you. And yet its effects were simply… extraordinaire. My child, you are indeed fascinating”.

If those were the effects of a single drop, he couldn’t fathom how would it feel like when he finally got to claim her fully.

Once both their breathes were regulated, the demon brought his hand to wipe away the sweat that had formed on the woman’s forehead, he reached for the covers and tucked her in, before giving her cheek one last caress.

A soft smile appeared on the girl’s lips.

“Little one, this won’t be the last you hear from me. I shall come back to you, and soon enough, the time for us to meet personally shall arrive. That is my promise to you”

With a clawed hand, the creature plucked one of his black feathers, imbuing it in with his essence and magic. Stepping out into the balcony, he placed a kiss on the feather before tucking it nearby one of the potted flowers, a gift for his precious little girl to keep her safe and protected.

The demon extended his wings and took off towards the night sky. Suddenly settling down for a while in Red Grave didn’t look like a terrible idea any longer.

#devil may cry 5 #devil may cry v #incubus!v #vitale #v x reader #v x you #v x fem!reader #fanfic #fanfiction

122 notes · View notes

maddie-grove · 5 years ago

Text

The Top Twenty Books I Read in 2019

My main takeaways from the past year’s reading:

Sometimes you think something is happening because of magic, but then it turns out to have a non-magical explanation so weird that you find yourself saying, “You know what? I wish faeries or God were responsible for this. I’d honestly feel less disturbed.”

Stop bathing and changing your clothes and shaving for three years, three months, and three days. You’ll find out who your real friends are. I promise you that.

I want more books about bisexual ladies!!! Give them to me!!!

Anyway...

20. The Prodigal Duke by Theresa Romain (2017)

Childhood sweethearts Poppy Hayworth and Leo Billingsley were separated when his older brother, a duke, sent him away to make his fortune. Years later, the duke is dead, a financially successful Leo has come back to England to take his place, and Poppy has become a rope dancer at Vauxhall Gardens after a life-shattering event. New sparks are flying between them, but is love possible when so much else has changed? Leo and Poppy are believable and charming as old friends, Romain makes great use of obscure historical details from the oft-depicted Regency period, and I loved Leo’s difficult but caring elderly uncle.

19. Simple Jess by Pamela Morsi (1996)

Althea Winsloe, a young widow in 1900s Arkansas, has no interest in remarrying, but almost everyone in her small Ozarks community is pressuring her to remarry, and she still needs someone to help farm her land. Enter Jesse Best, a strong young man with cognitive disabilities who’s happy to take on the work. As he makes improvements to her farm and bonds with her three-year-old son, Althea gets to know him better and starts to see him in a new light. This earthy romance could’ve been a disaster, but instead it illustrates how people with disabilities are often...uh...simplified and de-sexualized in a way that denies them autonomy. Morsi has a similarly nuanced take on Althea and Jesse’s community, which is claustrophobic and supportive all at once.

18. Leah on the Offbeat by Becky Albertalli (2018)

Outspoken and insecure, bisexual high school senior Leah Burke is having a tough year. Her friend group is in turmoil, her single mom is seriously dating someone, and she’s caught between a sweet boy she’s not sure about and a pretty, perfect straight girl who couldn’t possibly be into her...right??? The sequel to the very cute Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda, Leah on the Offbeat pulls a The Godfather: Part II with its messy protagonist, sweetly surprising romance, and masterful comic set piece involving the Atlanta American Girl Doll restaurant.

17. Copper Sun by Sharon M. Draper (2006)

Kidnapped from her home in eighteenth-century Ghana, fifteen-year-old Amari is sold into slavery and winds up on a South Carolina plantation, where she faces terrible cruelty but finds friends in an enslaved cook, her little son, and eventually a sulky white indentured servant around her age. When their master escalates his already-atrocious behavior, the three young people flee south to the Spanish Fort Mose in search of freedom. Draper’s complicated characters, vivid descriptions, and deft handling of heavy subjects makes for top-notch historical YA fiction.

16. A Prince on Paper by Alyssa Cole (2019)

After her controlling politician father was jailed for poisoning a bunch of people in their small, prosperous African country, Nya Jerami gained unprecedented freedom but also became the subject of vicious gossip. Johan von Braustein, the hard-partying stepson of a European monarch, wants to help her, partly because he sympathizes and partly because he has a crush, but she thinks he’s too frivolous and horny (if wildly attractive). After an embarrassing misunderstanding compels them to enter a fake engagement, though, she begins to wonder if there’s more to him. I’m not a huge fan of contemporary romance, but this novel has the perfect combination of heartfelt emotion, delicious melodrama, and adorable fluff.

15. One Perfect Rose by Mary Jo Putney (1997)

Stephen, the Duke of Ashburton, has always done the proper and responsible thing, but that all changes when he learns that he’s terminally ill. Wandering the countryside in the guise of an ordinary gentleman, he ends up joining an acting troupe and falling in love with Rosalind, the sensible adopted daughter of the two lead actors. Like another Regency romance on this list, this novel celebrates love in many forms: there’s the love story between Stephen and Rosalind, yes, but there’s also Rosalind’s loving relationship with her adopted family, the new bonds she forms with her long-lost blood relatives, the way her two families embrace the increasingly frightened Stephen, and the healing rifts between Stephen and his well-meaning but distant siblings. Stephen’s reconciliation with his mortality is also moving.

14. My One and Only Duke by Grace Burrowes (2018)

Facing a death sentence in Newgate, footman-turned-prosperous banker Quinton Wentworth decides to do one last good thing: marry Jane McGowan, a poor pregnant widow, so she and the baby will be financially set. Then he receives a pardon and a dukedom at the literal last minute, meaning that he and Jane have a more permanent arrangement than either intended. I fell in love with the kind-but-difficult protagonists almost at once, and with Burrowes’s gorgeous prose even faster.

13. Eleanor and Park by Rainbow Rowell (2013)

It’s 1986, and comics-loving, post-punk-listening, half-Korean Park and bright, weird, constantly bullied Eleanor are just trying to get through high school in their rough Omaha neighborhood. He’s only grudgingly willing to let her share his bus seat at first, but this barely civil acquaintance slowly thaws into friendship and blossoms into love. Far from being the whimsical eighties-nostalgia-fest I expected, this is a bittersweet love story about two isolated young people who find love, belonging, and a chance for self-expression with each other in an often-hostile environment (a small miracle pre-Internet).

12. Shrill by Lindy West (2016)

In this memoir, Lindy West talks about the difficulties of being a fat woman, the thankless task of being vocally less-than-enthused about rape jokes, the joys of moving past self-doubt, and the very real possibility that Little John from Disney’s Robin Hood was played by “bear actor” Baloo, among other subjects. I was having a hard time during my last semester of law school this past spring, and this book’s giddy humor and inspiring messages really helped me in my hour of need.

11. Seduction: Sex, Lies, and Stardom in Howard Hughes's Hollywood by Karina Longworth (2018)

In 1925, very young businessman Howard Hughes breezed into Hollywood with nothing but tons of family wealth, a soon-to-be-divorced wife, and a simple dream: make movies about fast planes and big bosoms. He got increasingly weird and reactionary over the next thirty years, then retired from public life. More a history of 1920s-1950s Hollywood than a biography, this book has the same sharp writing and in-depth film analysis that makes me love Longworth’s podcast You Must Remember This.

10. The Beguiled by Thomas Cullinan (1966)

In Civil-War-era Virginia, iron-willed Martha Farnsworth and her nervous younger sister try to run their nearly empty girls’ boarding school within earshot of a battlefield. When one girl finds Union soldier John McBurney injured in the woods, she brings him back to the house, where he exploits every conflict and secret among the eight girls and women (five students, two sisters, and one enslaved cook). Charming and manipulative, he nevertheless finds himself in over his head. Cullinan makes great use of the eight POVs and the deliciously claustrophobic setting; it’s fascinating to watch the power dynamics and allegiances shift from scene to scene.

9. A Gentleman Never Keeps Score by Cat Sebastian (2018)

Reserved tavern keeper Sam Fox wants to help out his brother’s sweetheart by finding and destroying a nude portrait she once sat for; disgraced gentleman Hartley Sedgwick isn’t sure what he wants after having his life ruined twice over, but he happened to inherit his house from the man who commissioned the painting...plus he’s not exactly reluctant to assist kind, handsome Sam in his quest. I wrote about this heart-melting romance two times last year; suffice it to say that it’s not only one of the best Regencies I’ve ever read, but also possibly the best romance I’ve ever read about the creation of a found family.

8. Frog Music by Emma Donoghue (2014)

Blanche Beunon, a French-born burlesque dancer in 1876 San Francisco, has a lot going on: her mooching boyfriend has turned on her, her sick baby is missing, and her cross-dressing, frog-hunting friend Jenny Bonnet was just shot dead right next to her. In the middle of a heat wave, a smallpox epidemic, and a little bit of mob violence, she must locate her son and solve Jenny’s murder. This is a glorious work of historical fiction; you can see, hear, smell, and feel the chaotic world of 1870s San Francisco, plus Blanche’s character arc is amazing.

7. The Patrick Melrose novels (Never Mind, Bad News, Some Hope, Mother’s Milk, and At Last) by Edward St. Aubyn (1992, 1992, 1994, 2005, and 2012, respectively)

Born to an embittered English aristocrat and an idealistic American heiress, Patrick Melrose lives through his father’s sadistic abuse and his mother’s willful blindness (Never Mind), does a truly staggering amount of drugs in early adulthood (Bad News), and makes a good-faith effort at leading a normal life (Some Hope). Years later, the life he’s built with his wife and two sons is threatened by his alcoholism and reemerging resentment of his mother (Mother’s Milk), but there may be a chance to salvage something (At Last). Despite the suffering and cruelty on display, these novels were the farthest thing from a dismaying experience, thanks to the sharp characterization, grim humor, and great sense of setting. Also, I love little Robert Melrose, an anxious eldest child after my own heart.

6. The Perilous Gard by Elizabeth Marie Pope (1974)

In 1550s England, no-nonsense Kate Sutton is exiled to the Perilous Gard, a remote castle occupied by suspicious characters, including the lord’s guilt-ridden younger brother Christopher. Troubled by the holes she sees in the story of the tragedy that haunts him, she does some problem-solving and ends up in a world of weird shit. Cleverly plotted, deliciously spooky, and featuring an all-time-great heroine, this book was an absolute treat. The beautiful Richard Cuffari illustrations in my edition didn’t hurt, either.

5. An Unconditional Freedom by Alyssa Cole (2019)

Daniel Cumberland, a free black man from New England traumatized from being sold into slavery, and Janeta Sanchez, a mixed-race Cuban-Floridian lady from a white Confederate family, have been sent on a mission to the Deep South by the Loyal League, a pro-Union spy organization. Initially hostile to everyone (but particularly to somewhat naive Janeta), Daniel warms to his colleague, but will her secrets, his shattered faith in justice, and the various dangers they face prevent them from falling in love? Nah. Alyssa Cole’s historical romances deliver both on the history and the romance, and this is one of her strongest entries.

4. The Lady’s Guide to Celestial Mechanics by Olivia Waite (2019)

Heartbroken by the death of her father and the marriage of her ex-girlfriend, Lucy Muchelney decides she needs a change of scenery and takes a live-in position translating a French astronomy text for Catherine St. Day, the recently widowed Countess of Moth. Catherine, used to putting her interests on hold for an uncaring spouse, is intrigued by this awkward, independent lady. I’ve read f/f romances before, but this sparkling Regency was the first to really blow me away with its fun banter, neat historical details, and perfect sexual tension.

3. The Wager by Donna Jo Napoli (2010)

After losing his entire fortune to a tidal wave, Sicilian nineteen-year-old Don Giovanni de la Fortuna sinks into poverty and near-starvation. Then Devil makes him an offer: all the money he wants for as long as he lives if he doesn’t bathe, cut his hair, shave, or change his clothes for three years, three months, and three days. This fairy-tale retelling is an extraordinarily moving fable about someone who learns to acknowledge his own suffering, recognize it in others, and extend compassion to all.

2. Vampires in the Lemon Grove by Karen Russell (2013)

In this collection, Russell weaves strange tales of silkworm-women hybrids in Japan, seagulls who collect objects from the past and future, and, yes, vampires in the lemon grove. She also posits the very important question: “What if most (but not all) U.S. presidents were reincarnated as horses in the same stable and had a lot of drama going on?” My favorite stories were “Proving Up” (about a nineteenth-century Nebraska boy who encounters death and horror on the prairie), “The Graveless Doll of Eric Mutis” (about a disadvantaged high school student who discovers an effigy of the even more hapless boy he tormented), and “The Barn at the End of the Term” (the horse-president story).

1. The Wonder by Emma Donoghue (2016)

Lib Wright, an Englishwoman who has floundered since her days working for Florence Nightingale during the Crimean War, is hired to observe Anna O’Donnell, an eleven-year-old Irish girl famous for not eating for four straight months. With a jaundiced attitude towards the Irish and Catholicism, Lib is confident that she’ll quickly expose Anna as a fraud, but she finds herself liking the girl and getting increasingly drawn into the disturbing mystery of her fast. Like The Perilous Gard, this novel masterfully plays with the possibility of the supernatural, then introduces a technically mundane explanation that’s somehow much more eerie. Donoghue balances the horror and waste that surrounds Anna, though, with the clear, bright prose and the moving relationship that develops between her and Lib, who grows beyond her narrow-mindedness and emotional numbness. I stayed up half the night to finish this novel, which cemented Emma Donoghue’s status as my new favorite author.

#books #reading #top twenty

5 notes · View notes

killthebxy · 6 years ago

Photo

this verse is based on the idea that Jon was brought back from the dead by the Night King, rather than Melisandre, and it was inspired by this fanart: CLICK. it is a mix of book and show canon, with some points of divergence from both. as it is my only verse where i explicitly write Jon as a villain/antagonist, a disclaimer is in order before anything else:

while not present in this background, the threads and plots within this verse may contain references or explicit mentions of topics such as violence and cruelty, murder and genocide, humiliation and degradation, manipulation and abuse --- among others of similar nature;

i am not my muse, which is unfortunate because i would love to be Jon Snow; out of jokes, though, mun =/= muse and i am the first one clearly stating that i do not condone and will try my best to never romanticize any of the topics mentioned above. this verse exists for creative writing purposes only, as it allows me to explore ideas and scenarios that i could never do in any of my other verses --- considering that Jon is inherently a good and kind character.

with this taken care of, let us get started. in this verse, the mutiny still happened but it took place beyond the Wall rather than at Castle Black --- more precisely, at the weirwood grove where the brothers who keep the old gods say their vows. as all attention was captured by the mutiny unfolding, they failed to notice the approaching of wights and the Others, which non-surprisingly did not end well for them. only one of the mutineers managed to escaped among the chaos that ensued, climbing on a horse to return to the Watch with the news. while everyone else was immediately turned into wights, Jon’s corpse was brought back to the Night King --- who, recognizing him from the events at Hardhome (this point will always follow show canon, even in book-based threads, as it is relevant for this verse’s background that the NK is aware that Jon has the power to destroy Others with his sword), decided he would be of more use if he retained his awareness, rather than becoming a mindless wandering corpse. therefore, the NK himself turned Jon into an Other named Snow --- symbolism of the cold and eternal winter, but as well of the stigma of being bastard-born, which is Snow’s ultimate drive for action and the grudge he constantly upholds (as will be explored in the next paragraphs).

appearance wise, Snow looks like Jon but with the typical Other traits: deathly pale skin, hair mostly changed to grey and white, piercing blue eyes, cold black hands. while not visible, he retains the scars resulting from the stab wounds during the mutiny. his usual attire consists of armor also similar to what the Others carry, but his is entirely black --- and he continues wearing his lord commander cloak, as symbol of the role that brought him to his current state of existence. personality wise, and as a quick sum-up, Snow is everything that Jon was not: he’s cunning and deceitful where Jon was honest and honorable, heartless where Jon was merciful, ambitious where Jon was humble, selfish and egotistical where Jon was selfless. whereas he is aware of his origins and retains all of his memories as a human, Snow refers to Jon as “the boy” and as though they are two entirely separate entities; and, whereas he often refers to Jon as stupid and naive and gullible, he’s fiercely protective of Jon’s memory and his main goal is, exactly, to bring revenge upon every single person who once wronged Jon and caused him to suffer one way or the other. the main object of his hatred is, non-surprisingly, the Night’s Watch.

Ghost was also caught up in the mutiny and, after being reborn, Snow himself brought him back as an undead direwolf whom he named Life --- a word play on his previous name and his current nature, but also symbolism for the very thing Snow wishes to eradicate from this world. Life looks similar to Ghost in everything, except he’s got blue eyes, and he’s as loyal to Snow as Ghost was to Jon. further along this verse, and after that one mutineer brought the news to Castle Black, they sent ravens both to the Iron Throne and to Daenerys --- seeing as how a lord commander turned to the armies of the dead isn’t as simple to ignore anymore, given his knowledge about the Night’s Watch and the Wall and, thus, the capacity to strike in all the right spots to bring them over to the realm. realizing this, an expedition was organized like in the show’s s07 (but far better organized lbr), and Danerys herself brought her dragons beyond the Wall to either somehow retrieve “Jon” or be rid of him for good. in this verse, it was Snow who tossed the ice lance that resulted in Viserion’s death and, as reward for his actions, the NK also allowed him to be the one to bring the dragon back to life. Snow named him Noiresiv --- it’s Viserion spelled backwards, as symbolism for his turning from fire to ice. based on the events that i’ll describe next, Snow eventually becomes the undead dragon’s rider and the one to have him bring down the Wall. all of the facts concerning Viserion/Noiresiv are also part of @qeldliie‘s own verse and headcanons.

as i mentioned above, Snow is extremely ambitious and power-hungry and, from the moment of his revival, he was not satisfied with simply acting under the NK’s orders --- he actually wanted that role for himself, and to become the supreme ruler of every living and undead being in Westeros (and eventually beyond). therefore, while overtly acting dutiful and obedient, Snow conspired at every step to overthrow the NK and eventually succeeded --- this event may be susceptible to changes according to threads and plots, but the default will follow ideas i have discussed with @cerbinwen. with this goal accomplished and the Wall destroyed, all that’s left is to bring the Long Night to the realms of men. based on what what i just mentioned, plus everything else above, it’s easy to see that Snow is thoroughly narcissistic and demands unconditional and unfailing worship --- to the point of referring to himself as God. he considers humans as infinitely inferior beings and has no love nor mercy to offer to them, though he may be open to keeping a few of them around --- either for recognizing some usefulness to them, or simply for his own amusement and sadism.

Snow is as skilled with a sword in hand as Jon was, but he’s ruthless in combat and, therefore, very difficult to overcome. on the other hand, he’s considerably less agile than Jon, considering the weight of his armor and also his weapon of choice. because, obviously, an Other cannot wield Valyrian steel without risking to accidentally destroy himself at each move, Snow has discarded Longclaw and instead kept an ancient weapon he unearthed at Hardhome. i headcanon that it is similar to Pyramid Head’s Great Knife (CLICK) --- a huge, heavy, rusty sword that grates and shreds rather than actually slicing. its size makes it sluggish and relatively easy to dodge for somebody who’s fast --- though, if the blow is not stopped right at the start, then it becomes impossible to parry or block against. because the thing is huge and Snow isn’t exactly tall (as Jon wasn’t), he’s got the habit of simply dragging it after himself; which he does very casually and like it’s the most natural thing, often provoking that characteristic, nerve-wrecking noise as the blade grates over the ground. Snow is impervious to wounds made by any sort of common weapon, no matter how sharp or powerful, which also explains his choice of sword and how reckless he is in combat. as with all the Others, his only weaknesses are fire, Valyrian steel/dragonsteel, and dragonglass/obsidian. Snow is effectively a dead being, having no blood circulation and no beating heart. whereas it is unnecessary to him, he usually continues breathing out of habit. and, due to the death of his human nature, he’s incapable of feeling positive emotions for the most part --- he completely ignores the meaning of empathy or mercy, and the joy he feels is solely derived of twisted motives and actions. as a final curiosity, he’s actually thoroughly confused and/or entranced by anything that is innocent and chaste, such as a child’s toy for example --- as he has lost the capacity to understand anything of that nature, or its use and usefulness.

ONE IMPORTANT FINAL NOTE: please be aware that Snow is a terrible, wretched creature in every aspect and he’s not to be approached lightly and much less disrespectfully. unless your muse is of similar power (e.g., a deity, a supernatural being), if you get to him with a cocky attitude, you will get stabbed right through the throat and that thread will be over as soon as it starts. as well, don’t expect to be able to “change him back” or make him “good” again --- it’s not going to happen. the only person who is able to make Snow feel a semblance of human emotions is Arya, considering she’s the only one who was ever unconditionally on Jon’s side. Snow actually is afraid of/very uncomfortable around Arya, and avoids her presence as much as he can --- because she’s the living memory that he once had a heart. towards persons like Ned or Robb, Snow is indifferent for the most part but also a bit ambiguous --- because, while they were dear to Jon, they didn’t actively go out of their way to stand up for him like Arya did. towards anyone who ever wronged Jon in any way (like Sansa or Catelyn), Snow will be downright hostile at the very least. Snow is inherently cruel, manipulative, vengeful, heartless --- and i will not tame him nor tone him down. so, if you ever want to plot/write anything in this verse, please always keep his nature in mind.

#long post #「ᶜᵒᶰᶜᵉᵖᵗ」ˡᵉᵗ'ˢ ᵇˡᵒᵒᵐ ᶠˡᵒʷᵉʳˢ ᵒᶠ ᵃᵗᵗᵉᵐᵖᵗᵉᵈ ˢᵘᶤᶜᶤᵈᵉ #ᵛᵉʳˢᵉ ✻ ʰᵉ ᶰᵉᵛᵉʳ ᶠᵉˡᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ⁴ᵗʰ ᵏᶰᶤᶠᵉ

30 notes · View notes

royalcordelia · 6 years ago

Text

Time Turns to Amber (2/11)

Summary: The line between universes is blurred when Anne Shirley of Green Gables suddenly switches lives with Ann Shirley-Cuthbert, a university student living in the contemporary world. Suddenly Anne must learn how to navigate the modern world, one which contains a boyfriend, a part time job, and another year of university. Meanwhile, Ann struggles to tackle corsets, farming, and a world without electricity. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, but most people can’t tell the difference between the redhead they know and the girl who replaced her. Dedicated to the ever-beautiful @hecksinki

A Time Travel, Soulmate AU

Rated T+ • 7k words • Read on ao3 • Part 1 •

If the circumstances had been different, Ann might’ve secretly wished to never move from this spot. Where else was better than this corner of the world with its enduringly beautiful Avonlea sunsets and comfortable July breeze? She also didn’t mind leaning up against the armrest of the plush porch swing with her legs on Gilbert’s lap. Her eyes fell on him and the one hand that rested on her leg, the other typing something into his phone.

“Alright, Ann-girl. I’ve successfully hacked into your bluetooth speakers. The music choice is yours,” he said. His fingers ran up the skin of her leg in a particularly gentle caress, sending chills down her nerves.

“Gilbert Blythe letting someone else choose the music for once? The world must be ending.”

“Ha ha,” he replied sarcastically. “Maybe I’ll blast something raunchy and obscene so that even Rachel Lynde blushes two miles away.”

“You wouldn’t ,” Ann gasped. Temptation slipped into his face, but drained away as quickly as it came.

“Not today I wouldn’t,” Gilbert admitted. Not with Matthew in the hospital in the middle of an open heart surgery after a small stroke he’d had in the fields early the day before. With Matthew condemned to the ICU, Marilla was glued to his side. She insisted that Ann stay home, an assertion that the 22-year-old redhead rebutted with a fierce conviction. But then Marilla began to cry, and Ann realized that the cost of this battle was more than she was willing to pay.

She called Gilbert, who arrived almost instantaneously to drive her home, and the rest was history - less than a day of moving through the house with the ghost of Matthew following her and the eminence of the inevitable looming over her head. The only thing that kept her eyes from glazing over completely was Gilbert’s kind presence at her side - humble and empathetic. What would she do without him, her very best friend who cooked her comfort food and held her when she felt she’d drown in worry?

He was one of the only people who understood her. He was the only one that could have known that when her eyes burned from so many tears that the cure was the spirit of the island in its sunset and summer wind. Only Gilbert could have known that the one place she could rest was on the veranda of her home, swaying on her favorite porch swing and listening to her favorite music.

“Hey, where have you wandered off to?” Gilbert asked gently, scratching his fingers into the skin behind her ear. “You’ve been staring at Hozier’s album cover for a good minute now.”

“What can I say? I love to appreciate art,” she replied weakly, pressed play, then handed Gilbert his phone. As the opening notes of “In a Week” hummed from the small speaker set on the porch railing, Ann shifted so that her head was buried in his neck and his arms could wrap around her like a protective shield.

Yes, if circumstances had been different, she’d be running away from her rapid heartbeat and the peace of being the recipient of many head kisses. And Gilbert would let her flee, knowing that she would have to do it if they wanted to keep this pretense of friendship free from his growing feelings. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time it had happened.

But for now, this was okay. Matthew was going to be okay, too. They repeated it in their heads, a simultaneous and silent mantra.

When Marilla called Gilbert’s phone later that evening, Ann had already been pulled down by the last purples of the sunset into sleep. She didn’t stir when the folksy melodies had turned to the tritone chime of his ringtone. Gilbert, confident that Ann was deep in the reprieve of a dream, answered the call.

“Hello?” There was a pause, then - “Oh, hey Miss Cuthbert. No, no, everything’s okay. We didn’t hear the house phone because we’ve been on the porch...Yeah, she’s asleep.” There was another pause, a sigh of relief from Gilbert that carried an entire day’s weight with it. “That really is great news, Marilla. I’ll tell her as soon as she wakes up. We’ll be here when you get home. Is there anything you needed done before then?...Are you sure?...Yeah, you too. Bye.”

Gilbert set his phone down and pressed a kiss to Ann’s hair.

“Look at that, Ann-girl,” he whispered into perfumed strands. “Looks like Matthew’s going to be okay after all.”

Ann believed that if the world was against her, she had acclimated to its cruelty. She had developed a sixth sense for predicting whether a single moment would tear apart the peace of the present, or bring days worth of joy.

When Gilbert’s name lit up across her phone at three in the morning, paired with the chimes of a phone call, Ann’s sixth sense told her to steel herself.

“Hey Gil,” she answered, voice groggy. “Everything alright?”

She was met with silence for a few seconds, long enough that Ann began to wonder if Gilbert had really meant to call her at all. Maybe he’d been dreaming or slept with his phone in his hand and -

“Ann, can you -” his voice broke off and she heard him swallow. “I’m sorry to wake you up.”

The strain in his voice was enough to stir her awake completely, and she sat straight up in bed.

“Gilbert, what’s wrong?” She heard a sharp inhale, a few indistinct voices in the background, some strange beeping noises, then a shuddering exhale.

“My dad was...he’s….he was in an accident. Th- There was nothing they could do.”

Ann deflated as if a massive weight had fallen on her chest. She pulled the phone away from her face, almost as if to hide the whimper that came from her lips and the tears welling up in her eyes. Gilbert’s father was all the family he had left. There were no uncles, no grandparents, no long lost cousins.

And now there was just Gilbert - the last, the only. Her heart split down the center at the thought of him living the way she’d had to, orphaned and lonely.

“Gilbert, I…” A tear slid down her cheek and she swallowed the lump in her throat. “Where are you? I’m already on my way.”

She found him in a waiting room of the Carmody hospital, thirty minutes outside of Avonlea by car. He was slumped in a chair against the wall in the corner of the sterile space, pale faced and red eyed. Ann waited in the doorway, wondering if she should break his quiet grieving, only to have him look up through heavy lashes.

Ann didn’t have to be told what to do then. In a moment she was kneeling before him and wrapping him in an embrace that she hoped would shield him from the anguish closing in around him. His stiff arms came around her in an instant, his face pressed into the comfort of the crook of her neck.

“It’s alright, I got you,” she soothed. Gilbert let out a quiet whimper fingers digging into the soft fabric of her shirt.

They stayed like that for a while, Ann rubbing his back and soothing him as he wept. She couldn’t ask him what happened, only able to ask one of the passing nurses once Gilbert had gotten up to use the bathroom and wipe off his face. John Blythe had been in a car crash driving home from his job late that night, the nurse told her.

“There are only two types of people on the road that late,” the nurse said. “Third shifters and drunks.”

Ann rubbed her hands over her face and sighed.

“Ann,” Gilbert called quietly out behind her. “Can you take me home?”

She looked back to the nurse, unsure if there was any paperwork to be filled out or procedures to be completed, but the nurse nodded.

They drove home in silence, Gilbert’s cheek pressed against the window of the car, glassy eyes watching the blurry trees pass them on the highway. Ann kept her fingers on the wheel, trying her best to keep her focus centered on the snowy January roads. The car had grown cold, so Ann reached a hand over to turn up the heat and face the vents toward Gilbert, who’d forgotten to take a coat when he left the house.

“I don’t know how to plan a funeral,” he admitted quietly.

“I do,” Ann said, “I’ll help you. I’ll write the obituary and call the hospital and funeral home in the morning.”

Gilbert nodded his head, then turned to look at her.

“At home. We’ll have the funeral at home.”

“Whatever you want,” Ann said, pulling into his driveway. The gray house was all shadows when the pair walked up the front porch steps, Ann’s hand entwined with Gilbert’s to keep him standing. She released his hand and watched him collapse on the couch, face turned away from her. She stood across the room for a few seconds, watching his chest rise and fall with an odd, unsteady rhythm. But then, as if a switch had been flipped in her mind, she began to work.

Caring for Gilbert was much easier than she could have anticipated, not because his pain was less than she expected, but because her heart knew his needs without having to be told. She knew that he was most comfortable when he had his own pillow and the large blanket his mother quilted for him during her pregnancy. Ann wrapped him in his quilt and placed the pillow beneath his head wordlessly, wiping a stray tear from the corner of his eye as she stood up.

Gilbert watched as she moved quietly around the room and turned down pictures that had his father in them, knowing that seeing them would hurt too much. Even in his grief, or maybe because of it, he had a strange, quiet realization. Ann Shirley-Cuthbert was quite possibly the most beautiful thing he’d ever laid eyes on, with her messy bun of auburn hair and strength in her brave shoulders. Bathed in the moonlight coming in through the windows, he could stared at the milky skin of her neck and the tear trails on her cheeks.

Then she came to his side with a plate of peanut butter toast and a shot of whisky.

“How’d you know where that was?” he murmured in a scratchy voice, nodding down at the shot glass. He brought the copper substance to his lips and let the burn travel down his throat.

“I’ve watched you sneak it out a few times,” she confessed. “I brought you some toast in case you’re hungry.”

He wasn’t, but he took a bite out of it to soften the worry lines on her forehead.

“Thanks,” he said, mouth dry from the peanut butter. “You can go home now, Ann. I’ll be fine.”

“If you think I’m leaving you now, Gil, you’ve got another storm coming,” she said, running her fingers through his hair. “If you want to be alone, I can go up to the guest room.”

“No, I don’t want to be alone.”

Ann nodded, standing up to take the chair next to the couch, but Gilbert opened his arms, causing Ann to pause. With no room on either side of him, she settled with her chest pressed to his, legs tangled together. She thought back to the day of Matthew’s surgery, how she’d wanted Gilbert to hold her just like this in her own sadness. That day she’d been too distracted to notice how her heart raced in his chest. Now she was acutely aware of the effect of his breath in her hair and the intimacy of her heartbeat thumping to the same tempo as his.

She thought he’d fallen asleep when she murmured into his shirt, “Do you think you’ll be okay, Gil?” To her surprise, his embrace tightened and she felt a tired sigh blow through her hair.

“Someday,” was his whispered reply.

The wake, funeral, and reception went by in a blur to Ann and Gilbert, who played hosts to dozens of bodies coming and going through the Blythe household. Ann stayed by Gilbert’s side throughout the four days, knowing how exhausting it must have been to spend the last weeks of winter break in mourning. Marilla and Matthew helped too - Marilla bringing by meals and clean clothes for Ann, Matthew coming to fix the wood furnace in Gilbert’s living room when it malfunctioned hours before the reception. Diana came by to help clean the house for a few hours because, You’re supporting Gil, Ann, but who’s supporting you? And when it was all finally over, Ann felt like she could release a breath she had been holding onto since Gilbert called to pick him up from the hospital.

Perhaps she relaxed a little too soon.

“I’m sorry, what?” she choked out. She and Gilbert were sitting on the docks of the Lake of Shining Waters, the pond that separated the Barry and Cuthbert lands. Ann’s face was white, even paler with the sunlight reflecting off of the snow and onto her cheeks.

“It’d just be for a year, Ann. I just have to get out of here for a little bit,” Gilbert said, placing his hand on her shoulder. “Walking through Avonlea is like walking beside the ghosts of my past.”

“I’ve haven’t left your side for the past two weeks and you haven’t thought to tell me about this?”

“I knew if I told you I was thinking about it, you’d react like this.”

“And how am I reacting?”

Gilbert took a deep breath and gave a melancholy smile.

“Heartbroken enough that it’d make me consider staying.”

A small little sob escaped her lips and she stood up. She looked out over the frozen pond with its icy fractals, puffs of hot breath blowing fog in front of her face.

“No, I won’t ask you to stay. I know why you have to leave,” she said finally, wiping her cheeks.

“Just think about the sorts of cool souvenirs I can send back from an internship on a cruiseliner. The first stop is Trinidad, you know.”

She turned back to him, biting her lip to keep from smiling. There was no staying angry at Gilbert Blythe for long.

“You’ll call?” she asked.

“Everyday.”

“And send pictures?”

“As many as you want.”

“And when you come back, you’ll finish school?”

“It’s just a gap year, Ann. I’m not waving the white flag yet.”

Ann crossed her arms over her chest and set her face into his shoulder. She hadn’t expected this turn of events, otherwise she’d have cherished his company more, paid more attention to making lasting memories. He brought a hand up to her head and ran his fingers through her hair in a way that was so very Gilbert.

“I’ll miss you too,” he said gently. “I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done since Dad…”

“You’ve done the same for me,” she said, pulling back.

“Still, I appreciate it.”

Their gazes lingered on each other’s for a few seconds, bringing back that same warmth that had started blooming in Ann’s chest whenever she really looked at him. How easy it would be to just rise onto her toes and press her lips against-

“Well, I better start packing,” Gilbert said, clearing his throat. Ann blinked a few times, turning her heated cheeks toward the ground.

“Do you want some help?”

An affectionate spark lit up in his eyes.

“I wouldn’t mind some company. The house is a little lonely.”

Two days later, a small crowd of Gilbert’s favorite people followed him to the Public Bus station. He carried two suitcases with him, his other belongings already mailed to the cruise liner that was to be his home for a year. Ann walked in pace with him at his side, with Diana and their friend Jeri trailing behind. The rest of their friends would be meeting them there, Charlie and Moody, Ruby and Jane.

“I didn’t think everyone would spend their last day of break saying goodbye to me,” Gilbert admitted as he laid eyes on the crowd waiting for him.

“Everyone loves you, Gilbert. Some more than others,” Jeri said, pushing a long strand of brown hair out of her face. She gave Ann a sneaky, sly grin, only to be shot daggers in return. Before Ann could say anything terribly embarrassing, the group at the bus station exploded with They’re here! and There you are! You finally quit dragging your asses!

Ann was quiet as everyone said their goodbyes to Gilbert, who was nearly rendered speechless at the overwhelming explosion of affection on his behalf. His eyes lingered over to her every few seconds, noticing her unusual silence as easily as if she’d been yelling. When she was the only person left to say goodbye, he walked up to her and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“Whatcha thinking about, Ann-girl?”

“I’m wondering who I’m going to study with, or who’s going to come annoy me at Patty’s Place when you’re gone.”

“I’m sure Roy Gardner will be happy to fill my shoes.”

“Big pass,” she groaned, nudging him in the stomach with her elbow. “It’s gonna be a long year without you, Gil.”

“You too,” he replied in a reverent murmur. “But I’ll call and text and send pigeon mail and smoke messages just as promised.” She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it, but he could tell there was something waiting on the tip of her tongue. “What is it?”

“I’m about to do something I probably shouldn’t do in front of all of our friends,” she stated seriously.

Gilbert felt his heart leap into his throat, and he swallowed it back with difficulty. There was nowhere else to look but down at Ann, red hair in two braids down the front of her sky blue winter jacket and freckles like snowflakes floating on her cheeks. The chatter or their friends had either fallen silent or he’d simply grown unable to hear it. Ann rose her brows as if asking for permission, and he nodded, entranced and grinning.

Then she was holding the sides of his face and kissing him. Tension drained from them the second their lips made contact, like a long carried weight finally gone from their shoulders. Gasps came from their friends, but neither minded, content to stay held in a tender embrace.

When she pulled back, Gilbert had to remind himself where he was, what he was doing. The look in her eyes was almost enough for him to reconsider the whole internship and stay home to kiss her as long as he wanted.

“They just gave last call for boarding,” she reminded him quietly. Gilbert nodded, not really hearing her. Ann laughed. “That means get on the bus, you idiot!”

Gilbert blinked, looking around at their smug friends.

“ Oh! Right. I’m going. See you guys soon.” He picked up his bag, turned around, took two steps, then turned right back around. Ann, who had deflated the second he’d gone, let out a small gasp when he marched right back up to her.

“Let me take you to dinner when I get back,” he said bravely. Ann let out a half hysterical laugh and covered her face in her hands.

“Okay, okay! Just get on the fucking bus. It’s going to leave without you.”

“You will?” he asked, crooked grin on his face.

“I said I would!” she laughed, then horror crossed her face. “Gilbert, they’re closing the back doors, get on there!”

He pressed his lips to her cheek, gave one last wave to his friends, and jogged onto the bus. It pulled off before they could find the window he sat by and give their last goodbyes. Then it had pulled out of the station, a distant speck in the horizon, Diana pulled an arm around Ann’s shoulders. She might’ve said something, but Jeri cut her off.

“Well, it’s about damn time,” she stated.

“Leave her alone, Jer,” Diana scolded, then tugged Ann closer to her side.“Come on, babe, let’s get you home.”

The kitchen smelled of dried cranberry and crush rose petals several mornings later, the sun dripping in through the translucent cream curtains. When Ann came down the creaky stairs, she found Marilla working over the stove with her back turned to her. The older woman had her long gray hair tied in a single braid down her back, a style which made people who didn’t know her assume she was some sort of nonconformist.

Ann stood in the doorway, enjoying the swell in her heart at the comforting sight of Marilla at work. Then she pulled her phone out and snapped a picture of the scene for days when it was raining and lonely in Kingsport.

“Morning, Ma,” Ann said lowly, as not to startle her. The nickname was one that had originated from Ann’s pressing desire to address Marilla as Mom, and Marilla’s insistence that Ann merely call her by the name her parents had given her.

“Good morning, Ann,” Marilla replied, wiping her arm against her sweaty brow. “You’re just in time. Can you hand me the rose oils? I can’t read the small print on the bottles.”

Ann swept across the fragrant kitchen over to the counter, where Marilla had her open case of essential oils.

“Who are you making soap for this time?” she asked, rifling through the tiny vials in search for the rose colored one.

“I’m making a large batch this time. I’ll be donating some to the church for their craft sale, but you may take the extras and send them to Gilbert if you’d like.”

“Ah, found it!” Ann said triumphantly, handing Marilla the oils. “Is that your long winded way of suggesting that Gilbert isn’t bathing?” Marilla sent a glare over her shoulder, mixing the soap in the warm pan. “No, Gilbert doesn’t like soaps that are too sweet. Diana might like some, though! She’s been having a hard time at home.”

Marilla turned off her mixer.

“Why’s that? Her parents aren’t fighting, are they?”

“No, it’s not that. They just...share different opinions with her on certain things, I guess. It breaks her heart to see her parents talk the way they do.”

“You don’t ever feel that way about me, do you?” Marilla asked carefully. Ann draped an arm around Marilla’s back and leaned her head on her shoulder. She took a deep breath, inhaling the aromatic perfume of the soap, then handed Marilla the bowl of dried berries and petals.

“Not even a little.”

At that moment, the back door swung open with a creak, followed by familiar heavy footsteps. Matthew appeared then, wiping his hands on his jeans and smiling at his girls.

“I see Rachel convinced you to make that soap, after all.”

“She reminded me of my ‘Presbyterian duty’ and was more than happy to remind me of all the filthy people just waiting to be cleaned by the soap of the Lord.”

“Oh I see,” Ann said with a nudge. “You just wanted her to shut up.”

Marilla chuckled, turning off the heat on the stove.

“You watch how you talk about her today. She’ll be here any minute now and you know how that woman doesn’t knock before making herself at home.”

“Wait, why is Mrs. Lynde coming over?” Ann grabbed a piece of Wonderbread from its bag and stuffed it into her mouth. “Did someone die recently? Get pregnant? Find their long lost twin on Eharmony and have tear jerking reunion?”

“Rachel doesn’t always come over to gossip, Ann,” Marilla scolded.

“Come on, Marilla, you have to admit that she’s only ever over when she wants to talk shit about people.”

“Language, Ann,” Matthew said with a cup of morning coffee at his lips. Ann knew he wasn’t terribly upset, since he hadn’t even bothered to look up from his newspaper.

“If you must know, Miss Shirley Cuthbert, Rachel is coming over to drive me to the optometrist. I have an eye surgery today. I won’t be able to drive afterwards.”

“You didn’t tell me you were having surgery done,” Ann murmured. “Is it serious? Why can’t Matthew drive you?”

“It’s nothing to worry about. Matthew has things to accomplish and Rachel needs to get out of the house every now and again,” Marilla insisted, pulling off her crafting apron and folding up. “Now, don’t you have somewhere to be soon?”

She gestured down at Ann’s outfit, a tie dye shirt and a pair of boyfriend jeans with a tiny flag sticking out of the back pocket. The flag and shirt featured three colors - fuschia, purple, and blue. To top it off, she had a pin above her heart that read Kiss Me, I’m Bi!

“Oh Marilla, my first pride officially out of the closet!” Ann said excitedly. “I just wish everyone could be so lucky.”

“That’s why you’re going today, Ann-girl,” Matthew said, sticking his mug in the sink and then pressing a kiss into her red hair. “Lots of people don’t know that’s okay to be who they are, but you’re an expert in that.”

“I suppose I am,” she agreed quietly.

“Stay safe. Call me if you want to come home and I’ll pick you up,” Matthew said. Ann was about to utter her thanks when Rachel Lynde came bursting into through the door. She pulled off her flashy sunglasses, sticking them in her purse, then took one look at the college student standing unashamedly in the kitchen. Then she turned right to Marilla.

“The kids of today are losing their minds,” Rachel remarked.

“Oh thanks Mrs. Lynde,” Ann said sarcastically, “I’m only standing right here. ”

“I’m just saying that-”

“Rachel, do I need to I remind you about Harmon Andrews’ party back in ‘73 when you and Nancy McLean -”

“ Marilla! Rachel choked out, but the damage was done. Ann’s brows were raised into her hairline as she tried, and failed, to take the image of Rachel’s sapphic experiences out of her mind. “We’ll be late for your appointment!”

Rachel grabbed Marilla by her wrist, dragging her toward the back door.

“I guess we’re off. Have a nice time, Ann!” Marilla called, grabbing her purse from the back table before she could be completely kidnapped.

“I suppose that means I should get going, too,” Ann said to a red faced Matthew. “I’ll be back to make dinner.”

She was standing on the park staircase handing out various flags to empty handed passersby when she saw him. He was a lanky fellow, long limbs and honey colored hair. He had some sort of book in his hands, bounded in a mustard yellow fabric, and judging from the fluid motions of his pencil, he was sketching. Ann only noticed him because every few seconds, he’d peer up at her, then snap his eyes back down to his paper before she could think twice about it. Sitting a few steps down, he kept his bag above him to rest his elbow on. The messenger bag had a few tiny buttons on it, one of which was a thumbnail sized rainbow pin.

Ann left her station for a short moment, and took a few steps down to crouch by him. His eyes went wide when he noticed her before him, and watched nervously as she pulled a rainbow flag from her hands and handed it to him.

“Happy pride,” she said warmly.

“Thanks,” he murmured back, pulling his book against his chest.

“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to look at what you were drawing,” Ann said. “You just looked so lonely over here all by yourself.”

The boy averted his eyes to the pavement but gave a genuine smile that sent a familiar wave of warmth through Ann - the kind that accompanied an interaction with any new kindred spirit. He tugged his book from his chest and handed it to her.

“I hope you don’t mind.”

Ann’s jaw dropped when she saw just what the boy had been drawing. He’d been drawing her - every freckle, every smile line, every loose strand of hair. In fact, Ann didn’t think all the instagram staging or filters in the world could ever make her look so beautiful. There was something raw and ethereal about his sketch, something that made Ann want to be the girl on the paper.

“I...I don’t know what to say. It’s amazing.”

“Sorry I drew you without your permission,” he said meekly. Ann shook her head.

“There’s nothing to apologize for. I’m honored you chose me as your subject. I’m sure there are prettier girls to draw-”

“Aw, come on, that’s not true,” he cut in. Ann shrugged.

“At any rate, thank you for showing me.” Her smile lingered on a moment as she gave him a second to either continue the conversation or return to his work. Bright blue eyes blinked at her, but the boy said nothing. “I should let you get back to it.”

Just as she turned to leave, she heard, “I’m Cole.”

Ann felt a relieved laugh escape her lips; today was not to be a day of lost kindred spirits, after all!

“I’m Ann,” she introduced, sticking a freckled hand in his face, “No E. Though if it were up to me, I’d spell it with an E. Fits my aesthetic a bit more, ya know?”

“I think I can understand that,” he said, smiling as Ann settled down beside him.

“Here, take a handful,” she said, pulling some more flags out of her pocket. “That is, if you want to help me hand them out?”

“Yeah, sure!” The more he spoke, the more be blossomed into happiness, like a flower that needs like but has been kept under shadows too long. “I tried to sign up to work the event, but I couldn’t sneak out of the house without my mom knowing. Even today, she thinks I’m on a field trip for school.”

Ann gave a sputtering laugh.

“It’s the middle of June!”

Cole shrugged. “My mother isn’t known for being the brightest crayon in the box.”

“Speaking of which, you’re an artist?”

A red hot warmth covered Cole’s face, as if he were ashamed to admit it. He pulled the sketchbook back out and opened it to the first page.

“Kinda I guess. I’m not as good as some people.”

Star-struck at the beautiful works in his soft journal, Ann flipped through the pages with gentle fingers and a tender eye.

“I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit. These are spectacular. You’re an artist for sure.”

“Are you an artist too?”

Ann shrugged, thought about it, then shook her head.

“My medium is language, words strung together into pretty constellations of poetry and stories,” she said with a flair.

“So...a creative writer?”

“Ding ding ding! But I’m not good enough to make anything of it. Now you, on the other hand, I think you’re good enough to do whatever you want.”

“Maybe someday,” he said, knowing he had to take some of the compliment or risk disappointing her. “Umm, actually, there is- well, that is, if you’re interested. You can say no! I realize that maybe you wouldn’t want to-”

“Cole!” Ann laughed. “Out with it!”

“I’ve been trying to find someone to model for me so that I can practice more portraits. I think I could really make some decent commission money doing them, but I haven’t drawn many - er, women.”

Ann’s face had fallen with shock, and for a second, Cole thought he’d offended her.

“You know what, that’s okay, I shouldn’t have asked,” he murmured quick under his breath. He handed her the flags and moved to pack his things, but she placed a hand on his wrist.

“Wait. I’m not upset you asked me, Cole, I’m just...I was serious when I said there are prettier girls to draw. My looks are nothing special.”

“Well I beg to differ. I look at pretty things for a living and before we met, I was looking at you. Maybe it can help us both out. I can show you how you look through the eyes of other people.”

“I know already how people look at me.”

“I mean the ones that count.”

Ann flipped back to the sketch Cole had been drawing of her minutes ago, and stared at it for a second. Then she made the mistake of looking up at his hopeful eyes, the ones that longed for a kindred spirit for too long, the ones that had taken this one risk.

“Fine, I’ll do it. But it’s your fault for choosing me if your pieces come out looking odd.” Cole only smiled.

"I'll risk it."

They met every Tuesday in the late afternoon. Ann chose the time because she said it was when the sun was directly outside her window, bathing her the pastel turquoise of her room with “the most beautiful golden light in all of Avonlea.” She could have chosen three in the morning seven days a week for all he cared, he just wanted out of his house. Besides, if he’d brought a girl home, he knew for sure that his mother would say, “Cole MacKenzie, did you finally get over that homosexual phase you were in?”

Ann’s home was one were he felt safe, the first few visits showing him all he needed to see of Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert, the kind siblings who’d adopted Ann.

“How long ago did you come out to Marilla and Matthew?” Cole asked one day, not taking his eyes off the intricate details of his sketch. Ann herself sat in the window seat, cross legged and looking off to the right.

“Matthew knew from the first day,” she confessed. “I was sitting outside my group home in Bolingbroke. One of the boys had just teased me about having a crush on one of the girls from school. Really, I think he was just projecting a bunch of his bullshit onto me. Matthew originally intended to adopt him - he and Marilla had planned on adopting a boy, and James was the only guy in the house - but then he met me and the plans changed. Matthew heard all about my crush at our first meeting, among other things. I talked his ear off.”

“And it didn’t bother him even a little?” Cole couldn’t imagine the unconditional acceptance of a parent, not with the way things were in his household.

“Nope. He never dated women, so I’ve often wondered...But in the end, his acceptance of an LGBT youth was what convinced my case worker to assist him with the adoption. The rest is history. I told Marilla several months later, and was officially out in Avonlea earlier this year. All of it made for a very undramatic coming out story.”

“You’re one of the lucky ones,” he murmured bitterly.

“I am. I’m blessed,” she replied sincerely. “But Cole, you’re my friend now. You’re part of this family, whether you like it or not. You’ll be one of the lucky ones soon.”

Cole smiled at this, considering offhandedly that she was right about the sunset in her window. In that moment, she looked like a fiery angel, fierce and strong.

“I’m already one of the lucky ones,” he decided.

The moment was broken by Ann’s phone chiming with a recognizable little chime. Ann didn’t budge, but only moved her eyes to see her phone sitting on the seat beside her. A smile erupted on her face and she broke her pose, swiped across her screen, and held the phone up.

“Hey stranger!” she said.

“ Hey yourself, carrots.” He was as lovely as she remembered, with those soft brown curls and warm hazel eyes. His face lit up as soon as he’d seen her, and Ann was sure she mirrored the expression. It’d been so long since he’d had time to call, giving her plenty of time to remember parting at the bus station.

“You’re lucky I’ve missed you too much to acknowledge that abominable you just called me,” she said sweetly. “Oh, Gil, how are you?”

Instead of Gilbert answering, she heard another voice come in from the background.

“ Alright Blythe, the shower is yours, but don’t take too lon-” A face appeared in the screen, bearded and dark eyed. “ Is that your girl there? Ann?”

Gilbert swatted the man away as Ann laughed, “Guilty!”

“ Can’t a guy make a call home in peace? Ann, that’s Bash, one of the guys I met working here.”

Cole came around and poked his mop of blonde strands into the frame.

“Any friend of yours is a friend of mine,” Ann said. “This is Cole, the friend I told you about from pride.”

“Oh hey, man! Nice to finally put a face to a name! ”

“Cole, this is Gilbert, my…” Ann gaped for a second, causing Gilbert to raise his brows. “This is Gilbert.”

“I’ve heard lots of good things about you,” Cole said with a smile. “Medical man, right?”

“ The very same,” Gilbert replied.

“Hey, Gil, I thought you were rooming with that Nova Scotia man. What was his name? Matthew? Marcus?”

“ Maddox,” Gilbert offered. “ Bash’s roommate was being a racist asshole, and so the room director let us switch.”

“ The man didn’t want to shower in the same place I had. Can you imagine?” Bash cut in.

“Oh, I think I could,” Cole grumbled the same time Bash called out, “Oh, tell her the news, man!”

“News?” Ann said carefully. “Everything alright?”

“ No no, everything’s great. Seriously, Ann, you’d be the first to know if something was wrong. I have a feeling you’d feel a disturbance in the bosom connection between the two of us.”

“Now wait a second-”

“ But I called to let you know that my supervising doctor onboard is thrilled with my performance the last few months. He wants to get in touch with a colleague at the University of Toronto. You know, set me up an interview so that I could meet the board and get a head start on planning for grad school. It’s an amazing opportunity, and a great connection to have. Plus, the University of Toronto is one of my top choices.”

“That’s great, Gil, but isn’t that...you know, really far away?”

“Not any farther than Trinidad and the rest of the Caribbean.”

Ann bit her lip and forced herself to smile. While Gilbert was off saving lives and delivering babies, where would she be? In the back of his mind?

“Don’t forget about the small people when you’re becoming a big fancy doctor.”

“Forget about you, Queen Ann? Never.” Ann blushed, feeling the same way that she might if he suddenly told her he was in love with her - heart racing, stomach fluttering. Suddenly the image on the screen shifted away to a very passionate face of a very passionate Bash.

“ Oh Ann, I wish I could tell you of my plans for you once I graduate medical school! I’m going to be a biiiiig fancy doctor and we’ll get a biiiiig fancy house.”

“Hey!” Gilbert cried. The image on the screen turned into a rollercoaster as Bash swung the phone away from Gilbert’s grabby hands.

“ And we’ll get married and have teeny, weeny little spitfire babies. Twenty of them!”

“ Sebastian! I’m serious!”

“No? How’s twenty-five?”

Ann exchanged an awkward look with Cole, who’s smirk gave off tangible energy.

“Gilbert’s cute,” he murmured knowingly.

“ See!” Bash laughed.

Finally Gilbert was able to snag the phone away from his obnoxious roommate, and his distressed face greeted Ann when he finally managed to steady his hand.

“ Sorry about that. ”

“Not at all,” Ann said, shaking her head. “It’s just nice to hear from you, even in embarrassing circumstances.”

“I know I haven’t called much lately. I’ll fix that.”

“Effective immediately?”

“Yes ma’am,” Gilbert said officially with a solemn nod of his head. “Listen, I have to get back to my post soon. I really will call. Next time I want to hear all about how Diana’s doing and Marilla’s eye surgery, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Ann said, forcing her voice to stay even. “Hey, Gil, you know…” If it was Marilla, Matthew, or Diana, the call would have ended with Ann’s typical I love you. But she couldn’t say that now, not to Gilbert. Not because it wasn’t true, in fact, each day she knew more and more that it was true. The fact that it was true made it terrifying, especially now that he was thinking of going to Toronto. Cole grabbed her hand where Gilbert couldn’t see it, seeing some of her thoughts across her face.

“ What is it? ” Gilbert probed.

“Take care of yourself, yeah?” she said finally.

“Love you too, Shirley.” Ann’s heart gave a pleasant little jump. If only he were home. “Talk to you later.”

She smiled right as the phone beeped and went black. Ann heaved a heavy sigh and threw her phone onto her bed.

“Well, I feel like my life is complete now that I’ve finally met Gilbert Blythe: the man, the myth, the legend,” Cole said dramatically.

“Oh please, it’s just Gilbert,” Ann said, settling back into her pose. Taking the cue, Cole grabbed his sketchbook again and sat in front of her.

“But he’s not just Gilbert to you.”

Ann sighed and gave Cole a surrendering look.

“No, no he’s not.”

#anne of green gables #anne with an e #shirbert #shirbert ff #shirbert fic #tessa writes #Modern Ann Ahoy!#enjoyyyyy ♥

18 notes · View notes

eternalsterekrecs · 7 years ago

Note

Hi, I was hoping you could help me find any fic that were regency/historical aus with Stiles as a lower class than Derek. The more misunderstandings and angst the better. Thanks!

HISTORICAL/ROYALTY AU WHERE STILES IS LOWER CLASS

You’ll See Me Again by matildajones

Stiles is standing there in his uniform, hair long and hands behind his back. There’s a blush on his cheeks and he can barely look Derek in the eye.

“Hey,” he whispers. He’s wearing the medal Derek had presented to him.

Derek stares. He doesn’t think he’s breathing anymore.

Stiles is the soldier who saved Derek and brought him back home. He doesn't seem to care that Derek's a prince or that he's a little bit broken. Derek falls, quick and sure, but it's not easy knowing that Stiles will soon have to return to the war.

Worlds Apart by siny

Derek Hale, Heir Prince of Betonia and Italy, meets Stiles Stilinski, college boy.

Paint My Spirit Gold by Red_City

There was a gift.

There was a curse.

There is a power in the house of Hale, given to the firstborn son of every generation - the ability to turn everything he touches to gold. Though the original intent of the power was thought of as a gift, in reality, it is a dreaded curse that causes the bearer a life of fear, isolation, and danger.

Thus, Prince Derek is born.

remember my love by bleep0bleep

Stiles wakes up and suddenly the war is over, he's no longer a penniless mage, and living in an exquisite manor married to the man he's been in love with for far too long.

“It’ll be fine,” Stiles says gallantly. “I am certain I will just fall in love with my husband all over again, and I will find plenty of joy doing that.” He winks at Derek for good measure.Derek blinks.

Thank You For This Dance by matildajones

Derek picks up another glass of champagne, and that’s when he sees him. A man stands at the edge of the room, chewing his lip and staring at the dance floor longingly. Every person walks past him. Derek must have done it a hundred times this evening. --Derek is not one for dancing, but at a ball he meets Stiles, an orphan, and he becomes quickly attached. He does not care what other people think about Stiles' wealth and status, but it's a lot harder for Stiles to ignore the comments that have haunted him his whole life.

It's even harder to convince Stiles that Derek's feelings are genuine.

The Rapture in the Dark Puts Me at Ease by secondstar

Derek Hale returns home from war to find that the home he knew and the family he had are gone. Greed, poverty and cruelty have replaced his idyllic memories. Despite the new harshness of Beacon Hills, Derek refuses to believe that all hope is lost. And it seems he is not alone as the mysterious Night Watchman deliver hope to the people of Beacon Hills by giving food and money to those who need it most.

The Night Watchman will not tolerate this injustice. Will Derek?

Scowls and Sarcasm by dr_girlfriend

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single alpha in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a mate.

Whether or not Derek Hale felt that way was hardly a concern to the neighborhood — the very fact of his arrival was enough that the surrounding families seemed to consider him the rightful property of one or another of their eligible sons and daughters. That was, of course, before they met the man.

Here Comes the Sun by ajeepandleather

He has never been known to sit still very well. Apparently that also extended into jobs, because Stiles Stilinski cannot settle on a job even if his life were depending on it. Maybe that will change when he becomes house master to the infamous Hale manor.

Burning Glances (Turning Heads) by Yiichi

Stiles is a lower-class tailor, who has always dreamed of attending the fabled, annual Hale ball. His good friend, Lord McCall, somehow managed to procure an extra invite.

Stiles doesn't expect anything of the evening. He certainly doesn't expect to capture the gaze of a dark, mysterious stranger wearing a wolf mask.

Cinder-Boy and the Nightmare Prince by Saucery

The epic love story of Stileserella and his mysterious, rather creepy prince.

Day for Night by andavs

Stiles could honestly say he’d thought that fitting through the drain pipe would be the hard part.

When he’d formulated his escape from Beacon Hills' inescapable dungeon, the biggest obstacle in his mind had been the drain pipe. Of course it was. He was going to squeeze his perfectly average sized body through a small hole in the floor that hopefully led to the sewers unobstructed and didn’t have any sharp turns for him to get wedged in.

To put his horrible plan in context: he was less than an hour away from being publicly executed for theft. Desperation did funny things to critical thinking.

All that once was, remains. by countrygirlsfun

Life is only a long list of constants.

Being a part of a royal family, being a prince, has been a constant in Derek Hale’s life since he was born and swaddled in silk cloths.

Wherein Derek finds himself in love with a stable boy who is more than he seems.

The One With The Scottish Wolf Lord by Stoney

I just... okay, there was a ridiculous bodice ripper cover with "SCOTTISH WOLF LORD" and I went from there. THE PREMISE IS CRACKY BUT THE STORY IS NOT. *crosses heart*

The Hales are alive and a royal family in Scotland; Stiles is the waif sent to work in the kitchens, elevated to personal attendant/servant to the young Lord Hale. Who happens to be a wolf who can't shift back. (Not without finding... *spoiler*)

(I just really love romances, can't stop won't stop.)

The Wrong Hale by Dexterous_Sinistrous

“I apologize,” Stiles started.

“You apologize often,” Derek commented.

“It's expected,” Stiles explained. “But I am sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I haven't seen … I haven't seen much in life.” His heart was beating fast with excitement.

“And you're here to see much?” Derek softly asked, curious why such a perfect creature would be hiding away when a ball carried on elsewhere.

“I'm here to meet someone,” Stiles replied.

~*~

In which, Stiles and Derek find themselves in a star-crossed predicament.

As the river flows into the delta by ElisAttack

Stiles never planned on squiring for a laird, but he figures fate has a funny way of doing things.

Or the one where Derek is a kind-hearted Scottish laird, and Stiles is his saucy squire.

#sterek #eternalsterek #haleinski #fic rec #royalty au #historical au #au #asks #justatumblerlurker-blog

458 notes · View notes

rainieblack-blog · 6 years ago

Text

if i asked, would you stay? [Chapter One]

This story can be found on fanfiction.net under the account rainieblack and also archivesofourown, under Raineee.

Summary: Meeting your soulmate is a blessing, they say, but if your soulmate leaves you every single lifetime, that is agony. To remember your soulmate is a privilege, but can you really call it a blessing if your last memory is of his retreating back? Sawada Takara is just a girl, but when she dreams, it’s of her past lives, always intertwined with heartbreak.

Tags: Fem!TsunaxReborn, R27

When Takara is seven, the scrapes on her knees are the badges of victory from the playground that she wears proudly, and she is too young, still too bright-eyed to fathom the cruelty of children. She dreams of stars like pinpricks of hope in the sky, of whispered vows, of a girl so vibrant, her every step brought flowers blooming beneath her feet, of a boy with sharp eyes and whose every step brought on war and bloodshed, of how as she walked on the dew-slick loam, her steps rang with the surety of only those blessed by Persephone Herself could, and how the boy whose every steps the shadows faithfully chased, was believed to be blessed by the ruler of the Underworld, and how they would forever stand at opposing sides, eternally warring.

Her hair is of the damned pomegranate which entraps the vibrant Persephone, and his eyes are the gaping chasm of land beyond the living, the land of which they whisper he rules.

But those are but the stories that mothers tell their children, warning them to beware of the monsters shrouded in death.

The truth is something much simpler.

When Takara is seven, the wind tangling the flowers in her hair with playful fingers, she knows that Persephone had never been such a foolish girl, and as she splits the fruit, it stains her fingers like how his touch left her forever electric. She swallows the six seeds, burnished red like the roses at feet, and smiles. Ichor, the divinity that runs in her veins, sing when he smiles back.

When she wakes, it’s with the weight of a babe, warm, beautiful, and perfect, with his abyssal eyes and her flaming hair in her arms, but his scornful eyes as he walks away is the only thing Takara can remember.

Then, Takara is ten, and she dreams of quiet afternoons under a rustling willow, the promise of forever, a smile made of warmth and eyes like the abyss she steps fearlessly into, knowing that he will always catch her if she falls. When she wakes, she finds that she has been crying in her sleep, Mama smoothing the hair from her brow like she was still seven, with blood staining the soft youthfulness of her skin. Takara knows now, that dreams that are made of gold but shattered as easily as glass, and they hurt the most when only she bled from their jagged shards. She knows now that promises, no matter how sacred, could be easily muddied, of broken promises, and when she hears Mama’s tired cries, her heart singing a mourning tale of pain, aching for Papa, she wonders if the bone-deep ache in her chest is what Mama felt when Papa walked away.

She thinks that dreams are fickle things and that nothing is worth the heartbreak that he brings.

Takara is eleven, and she dreams of an emperor, with a tongue like razors but with a smile like warmth, and a gilded cage, a princess without her crown, a queen without a kingdom, her legacy that he had muddied with blood. He promises, forever, but around them, her people burn and cry for their empress to ascend the throne. Takara awakens to the shadowed curve of his face, war in his eyes and a cry on her lips. She thinks, her soulmate wanted nothing of her, and maybe, she might just be fine with that.

Years later, she has sadder eyes and scars that her guardians despised, for all it did was remind them that they were not enough, always, not enough. After years of sleepless nights laying on the roof, watching the stars twinkle, wishing to just forget, Takara will wake up, and on the good days, she will believe that she is good enough.

Takara turns twelve, with bruises like ugly smudges of purple and muddy green that makes Mama cry everytime she sees them, splotching her ribs like the cruelest gift from god, and she dreams of a girl who is a fighter in all ways that her failing body isn’t, of a messiah whose steps parted oceans and touch that healed the ailing. She thinks of warm hands, a warmer smile, lazy mornings in the sun, with eyes that promise her the world. When she wakes, all Takara can feel is the weight of his hand on her back, knowing that he will catch her if she falls. Somehow, when Lilith’s gaze burns like flickering embers, her golden eyes slitted and sharp in the shadows, Takara doesn’t feel so alone.

She doesn’t think about how all her dreams always end up with him walking away, of how her heart always ends up in pieces, for that sort of heartache is reserved for the silence of dawn, where the sun rises like it was always meant to be with the sky.

When she meets Ryohei, her darling Sun, there are no words to describe the lump in her throat, and Takara tells no one of the sudden blur in her vision, a man with an all-too-sharp, an all-too-familiar smirk curving his face, a man whose presence makes her feel two inches tall and suddenly, inadequate, overlapping with Ryohei’s.

Over Ryohei’s shoulders, Lilith’s eyes are sharp, like they know anyways.

When Takara is thirteen, she dreams of an empress, and her hair is the sepia of the land she rules, but she is only one, and her ravenous cousin yearns to ascend the throne, if only to run her kingdom into war, fill their rivers with the blood of their people.

She dreams of a girl made to grow up too early, too alone, and fear is the cloak she wears until she meets him. Her advisor whose hands were tarnished in the name of his queen.

When Takara wakes, a trembling sob breaking from her lips, it is not the curve of his smile that she remembers, but rather, it is of the apathetic light in his eyes when her cousin slits her throat, and blood, the colour that her cousin carries so proudly in his eyes, the echoes of their heritage sing in her heart like a wardrum.

Takara wonders if his eyes will flicker when she tells him that their babe dies with her. She does not get to see, for death has already dug its unforgiving claws in.

The breeze rustles the curtains on her window, and all that she is reminded of, is him waiting there, a language she doesn’t remember learning, rings clearer in her mind than Lilith’s instructions do.

“συγχώρεσέ με”

(They remain in her mind longer than Lilith’s words too)

(Takara does not want to know what they mean)

Now Takara is eighteen, on the cusp of womanhood, her hand in marriage yet still sheltered by her youth. She is Vongola Decimo, the tenth to rule the Vongola empire, the first to bring about change, to wash the blood and sin from her birthright. Its hard to imagine that she had championed the revolution for a future she wants for everyone who deserves better when she is trapped in this precarious situation, begging for mercy.

“Lilith, please,” Takara says, fear crawling up from the darkest pits of her heart to fester angrily beneath her skin. “You can’t do this, please-” Takara tries again, tears fogging her vision like how her unspoken emotions clog her throat. Between them, the briny air is stilted, as if the world was holding its breath, Takara feels like she is free-falling, clawing desperately for the assurance that she would never have to meet him again.

(Not in this lifetime, the wind mocks, but Takara does not listen)

“Do you know how painful it is to encounter your soulmate, and have them walk away from you every single lifetime?” Takara whispers, the last of her words dissolving into a broken sob, disgusted at herself, at how easy it was to finally let it off her chest, after years of harbouring those emotions, at how easily it falls off her lips, at how Lilith’s face barely even twitches at her pained admission

“What is the use of snatched snippets of joy, when they make his back the last thing I see even the more painful?” Takara says raggedly, like it physically pains her to admit that every sleepless night spent in silence underneath the starry night had been of her tears, of her worth, stealing away from her, every single thought dissecting her self-worth turning into an endless loop of not good, not enough.

“Takara.” Lilith says, softly and tenderly, so unlike her brutal, straightforward way of getting to the point that Takara drags a desperate lungful of air, trying for some composure as she turned to face her tutor.

(Her friend, Takara would come to realise, like Lilith has always been silently calling, and slowly, bit by bit, Takara had been answering.)

“This is your last trial as my student, Takara,” Lilith says quietly, and their figures must cut a striking, if not contrasting one against the ethereal moonlight of Okinawa’s beaches, Takara in a white sundress, and Lilith in her form-fitting black dress, the frothy waves lapping gently at their ankles. One would never tell that they both concealed weapons within easy reach, a lesson that an assassin had learnt painfully.

Solemnity hugs the elegant lines of Lilith’s figure, and like a goddess, she is bathed in the light of the waning moon above them. But for some reason, Takara finds herself thinking the proud set of Lilith’s shoulders lonely.

Takara and Lilith, student and teacher, stand across each other, Lilith with her face too cold, too smooth and Takara, with her bleeding heart, always feeling, always living.

There is innocence, and Lilith sees it in the arch of Takara’s back, the lilt in her laugh, the generous curve to her lips, but she has drawn out the poison that will protect her student, much like the belladonna that Takara favors, Lilith has made sure that the Takara will be just as, if not more than beautiful as she is deadly.

Lilith has done everything there was to do, but there was something she had never been able to fix no matter how much she had tried.

(Takara just didn’t see how much her guardians treasured her, despite whatever they did)

(Lilith, no matter how much she understood why, hated him for doing that to Takara)

Takara stares at her with her desperation of a drowning man, all that her innate pride, one that Lilith had reckoned was akin to Nana’s, silently regal, ancient from weathering through storms, will allow. Lilith wavers slightly, filled with the resigned acknowledgement that Takara will hate her, however briefly it would be, for this. But she stands firm in her decision because Lilith knows that after this, with unshakeable security, Takara will face the darkest that the Underworld has to offer and come out laughing, and people would scramble to make way for their queen, as most who have encountered her already have.

All she has to do is to see that she was worth something.

They are different, as the sun and moon often were, and Takara and her hair like the sun, milky skin flushed with warmth and lips like the first bloom of spring, is life, if life could laugh and speak and love. Lilith, swathed in darkness, a smear of deep wine red on her lips against the lily white of her skin, a shade too cold to pass for a human’s, was death, and as death did, it just took and took.

They stood opposite each other, never one, but Lilith knew that wherever Takara went, she would gladly follow.

Afterall, for lifetimes before this one, she had done the same.

(tell me the story, of how the moon loved the sun so much, she died every night to let her breath)

(but you already know that story)

(sing our song louder so i will never forget)

Well, tell me what you think! Many more posts are coming your way, just give me some time to sort it all out!

#khr #katekyo hitman reborn #R27 #rebornxtsuna #fem tsuna #female tsuna

2 notes · View notes