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vera-keller · 6 months

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switchblade | masters of the air | taster

Coming here is functionally a grounding. That much is clear. The B-17 is a metal coffin that, by some aeronautical miracle, has managed to attain the gift of flight despite everything – poor defensive coverage, inadequate range, weak nose structure – that suggests this should not have been the case.

Olivia Mariner looks up at the B-17s sitting obliviously in the hangar at Thorpe Abbotts and thinks about what it might be like to shoot one of them down.

It would be an easy target. B-17s are not intended for aerial combat, and their one singular, solitary tactic is apparently to fly continuously in formation even when being shot at, because performing evasive manoeuvres runs the risk of disrupting the formation and causing collisions. Mariner imagines herself in her P-51, armed with its two fifty-calibre nose-mounted machine guns and four thirty-calibre wing-mounted machine guns, the only conceivable match for the Luftwaffe’s fire-spitting death machines that she isn’t afraid of as long as she’s facing them down in her Mustang. She imagines herself as the enemy. How would she approach a Flying Fortress? How would she bounce it? It wouldn’t be difficult at all: she could outmanoeuvre a B-17 without breaking a sweat. She would move into its blind spot and break into a steep spiralling dive downward so the B-17’s Brownings – for which they do not carry sufficient supplies of ammunition that could last them over a minute of continuous gunfire – wouldn’t be able to maintain a target lock on her. Then she would pull her aircraft back up, sharply, abruptly, until she’s below the body of the B-17, where she has the perfect vantage point to shoot out the unprotected fuel tanks within the wings.

That’s all well and good, a strategic manufacturing error that could be fixed, without a doubt, throughout the Flying Fortress’s production run that will last until the end of the war. Until Mariner remembers that, in this scenario, she will no longer be the one in the fighter plane but rather the one getting burned to a crisp in the B-17 because the fuel tanks just exploded and eviscerated the fuselage before anyone even had the chance to bail.

Perhaps the situation would be less grim if she knew how to fly a B-17 at all.

How did she even end up here?

Fighter squadrons come before bombers. That is the standard principle of air warfare. Once air supremacy has been gained by more aerodynamic single-engined high-speed fighters – P-51s and P-40s and P-47s that require only a light touch to manoeuvre, the deft hand of a skilled pilot who knows their plane and its operational mechanisms as though it is an extension of their own body – that is when larger, long-range bombers come in to deliver their payloads of air-to-ground weaponry to strategic targets. Bombing raids cannot take place without the prerequisite of air supremacy as bombers, sufficiently implied in their name itself, are not themselves intended for aerial combat against enemy aircraft.

And therein lies the problem. To Mariner, it’s difficult to see the B-17 as little more than a large and defenceless flying flak-magnet. A warplane that cannot roll on its longitudinal axis, cannot pull into vertical climbs, cannot dive or loop or fly at steep angles or allow for aerobatics without disembowelling itself, is hardly a warplane at all, at least not in the sense that she defines what should constitute a warplane. She understands that heavy bombers are an entirely different grade of aircraft, one that requires a different series of skills that are no less demanding than that of a fighter pilot, one requiring the ability to work with a team, first and foremost, the idea of which she finds herself thinking of with a pit of tension in her lower stomach. She understands that this is necessary because a war cannot be won with fighter planes alone, as much as she would like to think that is a possibility. What she does not understand, however, is why she has been presently chosen to fly a bomber.

So that was what she told her squadron leader, word for word, when she first learned of her reassignment.

“I understand your concerns, Mariner,” was what her squadron leader, Tillotson – a thirty-something USAAF officer who had been in the Eagle Squadrons with her, primarily because he knew her father for some reason or another that she never bothered to find out – said in answer. “But it is an operational need. The 100th has a shortage of pilots and they can’t continue flying missions at the volume they’re expected to if this shortage continues. We’ve reached a point in the war where our strategic focus must shift toward bombing campaigns. You have the relevant flying experience that qualifies you for retraining and reassignment toward where the war effort needs you most. Repurposing you as a bomber pilot now, of all times, makes every sense to me.”

Mariner blinked in disbelief. She didn’t like the suffix makes every sense to me, the finality of it, the implication that this was now a non-negotiable and non-retractable decision already made by her superiors, a decision that centrally concerned her yet one she had no part in making.

“Sir,” she began, “heavy bombers require escort fighters. Our squadron can do that. I’ve been asking for it in my sitreps since we first started strategic bombing. Wouldn’t it be more practical to keep me here and deploy us as escorts as I recommended, rather than retrain me from the ground up?”

“It is something we thought of, yes. But having enough pilots is crucial for whether the 100th can remain operational. If they can’t fly missions, you’ll have nothing to escort. Now is when we need our best and brightest to step up and fill in for the shortage of pilots capable of flying those missions that a complete novice coming out of flight school cannot.”

Best and brightest. The sudden compliment took Mariner by surprise, filled her momentarily with a glow of pride radiating from that little hollow at the base of her throat that warms up every time she receives some kind of validation. She cleared her throat self-consciously.

“Who else is getting reassigned? Smith? Heppell?”

Tillotson paused briefly. “We decided that you alone would be the best fit for the transition.”

Apart from the fact that it made no sense to single out one member of a squadron for a reassignment, there was almost no chance that she would be the best natural candidate. Mariner thought for a brief half-second that she would not pick herself to be reassigned to a bomber unit if she had the choice of other members in her squadron, members who would indubitably be more patient and longsuffering when it came to flying a heavy bomber, both of which she was not.

And then the realisation dawned on her, like the awful downward shudder of the blade of a guillotine. The previous glow of pride disappeared, replaced immediately by a simmering indignant rage that bubbles to the surface. “You’re bumping me out of the squadron!”

“Mariner—”

“That is exactly what you’re doing! Best and brightest my ass. You think I don’t fit in with the rest of your squad because of how I fly. Because you think I’m going to collide with my wingman every time when I so much as move my aircraft a centimetre to the left. Because that one time on patrol, when I was guarding your tail, I said your call sign when I wasn’t supposed to and broke formation, and that was because I saw three 109s above us on our six about to pulverise us and you hadn’t even seen them yet!”

Another thought came to her then, one that sent a fresh wave of anger coursing through her as though her dam of restraint – which admittedly was never a particularly robust structure – had broken. She was aware that she was losing her temper. She was aware that she was not to lose her temper around her superior officers under any circumstances. But that awareness was purely academic now, and at any rate it was disappearing quickly out the window.

“You can’t trust me in a single-seat fighter, is that it? You think I need a whole team of people behind me to make sure I don’t fuck up?”

It was less of a question and more of an accusation, and the very idea of it was absurd to Mariner. Saying it out loud only cemented its absurdity. Who in their right mind wouldn’t trust her in a fighter? She’d been in combat with Bf 109s since before Pearl Harbour and America’s formal entrance into the war. It was indubitable fact – one that seemed to be obvious to all except Tillotson and the others responsible for making this ill-conceived decision – that she was one of the most competent fighters in the squadron. Three years of flight experience with the No. 71. Seven aircraft destroyed. An ace by the end of the Battle of Britain. Such accomplishments were not coincidental. Mariner knew it. And unless you have some kind of malfunction, she thought bitterly, then you don’t transfer a pilot with those accomplishments under their belt out of your squadron as petty punishment. You’re supposed to keep them and hold onto them and deploy them on high-risk missions that accurately reflect the value of their skill set!

“Lieutenant Mariner,” Tillotson said, raising his voice now, in a way that brooked no argument. “I was hoping to save both of us from this conversation and let you accept your reassignment amicably, but it appears you’re determined to have this conversation, in which case I’ll be clear with you. You’re not a good fit in my squadron. You take unnecessary and ill-calculated risks that endanger not only yourself but also your wingmen and the outcome of the mission as a whole. On our last sortie, you completely disregarded formation and went off on that solo chase of yours after an enemy fighter, leaving your leader’s tail vulnerable to attack. And what is most alarming is the fact that this incident is not an isolated one, nor is it the first time you’ve flagrantly disregarded orders to do what you think is clever. We’re lucky nothing catastrophic has happened so far, but luck won't always be on our side, as you seem to believe it will always be on yours.”

He paused for a moment, his brow low and creased, his eyes fixed upon Mariner’s, as though examining her closely for her reaction.

“You’re rough on the stick, Olivia, but I’ve seen potential in you. Even so, talent alone won’t cut it and your consistent lack of discipline is compromising the overall effectiveness of our unit. I’ve seen pilots like you – good pilots capable of exercising mathematically precise command of their aircraft – shot down for less. You should know better than anyone that, up in the air, in a Mustang, split-second decisions can mean the difference between life and death. I need to be able to trust every member of my squadron to make those decisions, and make them correctly. And right now I can’t trust you to do that.”

There was a long agonising pause. Mariner’s expression remained unchanged, though she thought her stomach had vanished. She was suddenly conscious of how she was standing up very straight with her body held up at her sternum, and of the tachycardic rhythm of her heartbeat that for a brief moment she irrationally feared Tillotson might hear it.

It is a rare thing for words from a superior officer to cut so deep, though Mariner doesn’t like the idea that any words might be able to cut her at all. She has gone through flight training like everyone else and made her share of mistakes in every plane she has learned to pilot – Mustangs and Warhawks and Thunderbolts alike – and she has grown accustomed to the stony visages of instructors, their crushing expectations and the feeling where you irrevocably begin to question your own strength of character and purpose and worth whenever you fail to meet them. Yet she came through with top marks and everyone who has ever been disappointed by her has eventually been proven wrong. She would have thought that, by now, her skin has already thickened into something comparable to steel.

Yet, when she stood there in Tillotson’s office, being told that she could not be trusted to fly, Mariner felt utterly reduced. It was a humiliating kind of reduction. And humiliation made her angry, a unique cornered anger of its own kind that seethed all the way down to the bone.

Tillotson seemed to sense this. His voice softened slightly, becoming conciliatory, in the way only a victor acutely aware of his own impending victory could afford to do.

“This is not an exile, Mariner,” was what he said. “This is when you prove yourself. Maybe a change of perspective will help you understand the gravity of your actions and teach you some restraint. It is an opportunity. Don’t squander it.”

“It’s an opportunity?” Mariner’s jaw clenched. She knew now the reassignment was inevitable. She knew that the decision had indeed been made on her behalf without any of her input and she had, somehow, been played so well that she happened to be the last to figure it out. And if she was to start learning restraint on her reassignment, she supposed that she didn’t need to begin now. “It’s not a goddamn opportunity, and you know it. It’s punishing me for something I haven’t even done. Yeah, I went after that enemy fighter on my own. And you know what? I shot it down. I saw an opportunity and I seized it instead of waiting around for the 109s to regroup. Isn’t that what we’re trained to do? Adapt, improvise, overcome, all that?”

“There’s a stark difference between adapting, improvising and overcoming, Olivia, and putting the rest of your squadron at risk,” Tillotson replied firmly. And then, what really pissed her off: “You have to learn, one way or another, that the USAAF is an ecosystem where every element, down to the individual fighter, must depend upon command structure to function. It’s not a place for young Turks wanting to prove themselves and be a hero. Don’t worry. I’'ll make sure no one else takes up the Switchblade call sign when you’re gone.”

At this Mariner felt her blunt fingernails digging pink crescent moons into her palms. That was an extraordinarily low blow. It was not merely the complete misconstruction of her character – as a willful contrarian who thinks only of their own glory, apparently – that incensed her, but beyond that it was the fear that thrummed at a deeper sub-cellular level, a fear that this may be how she was truly seen by her superiors, how her efforts and achievements were being interpreted by those who disregard her as little more than an ordinary pilot who likes to think of herself as extraordinary. And the placement of the command structure meant that she could not rectify this mistake or defend herself against this obvious besmirching of her name and reputation without risking a dishonourable discharge from the military altogether.

So she did what she does best.

“Fine. You want discipline?” she said, her voice lowering into something hard and cold and stubborn. “I can do that. I’ll get into a bomber. I’ll drop a few bombs. But mark my words, sir, you’re making a mistake. Both you and I know exactly what I can do and what I should be out there doing, whether I’m in a Mustang or a tin can with wings. And when the time comes, when you need someone with enough balls to fly through hell and back under twenty-millimetres and flak, don’t be surprised when you come back to me because there’s no one else up for the job.”

She did not resign herself to waiting around for Tillotson’s reaction. Instead she saluted him sharply in a way that suggested an obvious grudge, pivoted on her heels and marched out of the room. She refused to even attempt to try and understand Tillotson’s reasoning as there could be no possible reasoning on God’s green earth that could justify this decision. Perhaps an attempt at figuring out his reasoning, however unfounded it may be, could come later, when she has spent enough aimless months with the 100th to supposedly have learned her lesson and earned a place back on her former fighter squadron. But the embers of rage were still very much scorching hot in her hands, hissing and spitting and burning wherever they touched her skin, and she refused out of pure spite to put them down, so she carried them with her all the way until she reached Norfolk, England.

#series: switchblade #oc: olivia mariner #masters of the air #meet your local cocky flyboy #or flygirl #olivia mariner is an unreliable narrator

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lifestyle-foodies · 2 years

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#AirFryer #McdonaldFries #NutritionFacts

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littlemissnoname13 · 3 years

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Blaise’s Cup of Tea (D.M)

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Reader

Warnings: some mentions of alcohol, very mild sexual themes, nothing too explicit, Draco being a fûxkboy ,Draco being a huge simp

Summary: where Draco is secretly in love with his best friend’s fiancée

Word count: 2122

A/n: had this idea in the shower and I couldn’t help myself. The blog has been a mess recently and for that I apologise.

For Draco Malfoy, a typical night usually consisted of three things.

First, a glass of his favourite spirit; preferably scotch in his hand.

Second, a cigar tucked in between his fingers

And third, a random girl in his bed chambers. It didn't matter if his company for the night shared the same interests as him, it didn't matter if she liked him for who he was or if she liked him solely for being the heir to the massive Malfoy fortune.

Come morning, he would never have to see her again anyway.

His Father, Lucius always chastised him for bringing a different girl as a plus one to social events. Even Narcissa wasn't all too pleased about her son engaging in all these hedonistic activities and bedding random girls.

The friends he’d grown up with were all well on their way to settling down and having children while he was still not even close to having a serious relationship.

“Why can’t you be more like Zabini?” Lucius would say, everytime the Malfoys sat down for a family dinner. Narcissa would agree to this while expressing her desire for grandchildren and Draco would have to refrain from choking on his dinner.

Blaise Zabini, was happily engaged to longtime girlfriend Daphne Greengrass and they were busy planning their Summer wedding.

Every time Draco would meet Blaise for a drink, all he’d talk about was Daphne, the wedding, floral arrangements, invites and party favours. Just last week, Blaise even confessed to having already thought out names for his future children.

Taking a final sip of his scotch, Draco placed his glass on his desk and returned to his bed, where a random brunette girl was peacefully asleep.

He took a few moments to recall her given name in his mind but this attempt remained futile. He couldn’t even remember how he felt while they were doing the deed a few hours prior.

His father was right, he was slowly turning into, for a lack of a better term, “Pig person.”

As he quietly slipped into his bed next to the brunette, he started to think about all the one night stands he’d had in the last few months.

One night stands are appropriately called one night stands for a reason. He knew that.

But it wasn't his fault he couldn’t get that one particular night from four months ago with that one particular girl out of his system.

It had all started out so innocently.

A chance encounter at a bar, alcohol fueled conversation, his hands on her hips on the dance floor and his lips on her lips by the end of the night.

He’d never before met anybody so charming yet painfully frustrating in his life.

Y/n. Y/l/n.

Distinctive features, expressive eyes and lips that quirked upward with a wicked smile.She had one of those faces that had the capability of engraving itself into one’s subconscious and the way her brows furrowed in annoyance indicated that she might have been aware and unnerved by it.

In the few hours he’d spent with her, she’d stimulated his brain with her wits and intellect. She’d made him care about uninteresting things like the witch burnings in the 14th Century. She’d challenged his predetermined notions and world view.

Everything about her was vivacious.

Her effervescence reminded him of a freshly opened bottle of sparkling Rosé on a hot summers day. Crisp yet sweet if you took in a moment for the flavours to sink in.

And Merlin was this girl could kiss!

The way she gently nipped on his lower lip and teasingly traced her tongue left him with something more to be desired.

Nothing happened with Y/n that night. Nothing except feverish kisses and whispers of “I want you.”

They’d spent the whole night talking. He’d never spent the night with a girl and not done anything before.

And she’d left before he could even manage to open his eyes the next morning.

She’d disappeared without a sign or trace.

Nothing but her fruity fresh scent on his pillows remained to remind him that she was in fact real and not some hallucination.

Draco went the the very same bar again the next day with his hopes held high. He wanted to see her again. He needed to see her again.

But to his utter dismay, y/n never showed up.

Soon, it became a habit of his to go to the bar and wait for her.

He’d gotten so desperate at one point that he even interrogated the bar keep about the girl that had seemingly managed to capture his attention in the span of a night.

But no matter how hard he tried, Draco never got any answers.

She became nothing but a distant ghost of a rather blissfully perfect night.

Just when he was about to toss away the memories of y/n and her pretty lips inside a locked and chained box in his head, he heard his house elf appear with a pop into his bed chambers.

“Master Malfoy, this letter just came for you.” The elf said quietly as he stretched out his arm to hand Draco a sealed envelope.

Draco would have told his elf off for appearing in his chambers in the middle of the night but decided against it when he saw the scrawl of Blaise’s messy handwriting on the envelope.

It was two in the morning and a rather odd time for Blaise to be sending him a letter.

Assuming that it must be something urgent, Draco quickly ripped open the seal and unfolded the letter.

Draco,

I write this with a heavy heart and I write this with nothing for company except a bottle of bourbon.

Daphne left me this morning.

The wedding is off and it is all my fault.

To be honest, It did feel like things were going too fast and we were jumping to life altering decisions without taking the time to think and contemplate.

After thinking all day, I have decided to get married after all.

Your mother has been rather kind and offered to set me up with a girl that is supposedly “perfect for me.” Although I definitely trust her judgement, It would be great if you could “assist” Narcissa in her search. You are my best friend after all.

B.Z.

By the time Draco was done reading Blaise’s letter, the girl sleeping next to him had started to toss and turn in her sleep.

~~~

When his mum flooed into his residence the next morning, Draco’s company for the night, who was named Sylvia by the way, was just on her way out.

Sylvia was rather laid back and was looking for nothing other than a rebound. Draco had offered her tea but she’d politely declined stating that she had brunch planned with her friends anyway.

“And who is this charming young lady, Draco?” Narcissa asked.

“She’s Sylvia and Sylvia was just on her way out.” Draco said in a clipped voice before literally shoving an annoyed looking Sylvia into the fireplace.

“It was nice meeting you Mrs. Malfoy.” Sylvia said in a calm and polite voice, with floo powder in her hands. “See you around Draco.”

“And I thought, you were finally serious for once.” Narcissa sighed before sinking down into one of the many chairs Draco had in his living room.

Draco wanted to say something sarcastic in response but he bit his tongue and held it all back. There were more pressing matters at hand that required his attention. Like helping his mum find an appropriate match for Blaise who has so casually placed such a huge responsibility on his shoulders.

The responsibility required him to go on multiple, rather tiresome “dates” set up by his mother.

The first girl he met mistook him for Blaise.

The second girl he met confessed that she was being coaxed into the meeting by her overbearing parents and had a secret Muggle boyfriend that she loved with her whole heart.

The third girl he met was one of Blaise’s ex girlfriends.

The fourth girl turned out to be one of Draco’s own one night stands that had ended on a sour note.

It was safe to say that Draco returned to his mother that night with his shirt stained burgundy from the wine she’d poured over his head. He deserved it though.

Narcissa even agreed that he’d deserved it because she broke into a chuckle when her son walked into the Malfoy Manor with drops of wine falling from his blond hair.

“Well this is a disaster.” Draco muttered to his mother who gave him an accomplished looking smile in return.

“This was a Disaster.” She quipped, before leaning towards the coffee table to pour herself some more tea. “Luckily, I’ve already found someone I deem to be a suitable partner for Blaise.”

“You have?”

“I have. I too have been pulling some reins and meeting people personally for Blaise. He is like a son to me after all.”

“Looks like I got splashed with a vintage red for no apparent reason then.” Draco muttered before using his wand to summon a clean cotton shirt.

Narcissa simply shook her head at her son and stood up from her chair. “I’ve actually invited her for tea today so that you’d be able to meet her as well. Why don’t you fix your hair and put on a clean shirt before she gets here hm?”

Draco knew there was no point in arguing with his mother.

When Narcissa Malfoy wanted things done, she’d sure as hell go ahead and get them done. A true Slytherin she was.

He quickly unbuttoned his shirt and used a cleaning charm on his hair. He would have preferred to shower but he didn’t really have the time to dilly-dally around.

“Fancy seeing you here.” He heard a voice say, just as he was about to put on his clean shirt.

It was a familiar voice and it raised prickling goosebumps all over his exposed flesh.

The goosebumps were a natural reaction to hearing a voice he’d replayed over and over in his head every single night for the last four months.

In front of him stood Y/n Y/l/n in the flesh. Very much real and not a ghost of his imagination, clad in a blush coloured midi dress with a sweetheart neckline.

He opened his mouth to answer but his mother beat him to it.

“Welcome to our home. Sit down, have some tea with us.” Narcissa said in her best hostess voice and all Draco could do was force his hanging jaw shut.

~~~~~~

The next few hours felt like the longest yet shortest few hours of his life.

He was still processing the fact that he had in fact seen the girl, the ghost, the memory right in front of his eyes, wearing a dress that made her look like a scene in a vintage film.

His palms were sweaty, his head was reeling, his throat was as dry as the Sahara and he could barely pay any attention to a word his mother was saying.

“Draco?” Narcissa cleared her throat when he failed to respond. “Draco dear, are you listening?”

“Yes mother.” He replied curtly before taking a sip of his tea in a desperate attempt to soothe his throat.

After what seemed like another torturous hour of tea and polite conversation, you thanked Narcissa for having you and leaned in to place a chaste kiss on his cheek before taking the floo network.

“The Y/l/n family has been a friend to our family for years.” Narcissa commented. “I think Blaise would be rather fond of y/n. What do you think, Draco?”

He wanted to tell his mother about the time he spent with you four months ago.

He wanted to tell her that he was ready for a serious relationship if it was with you.

He never really cared for the colour pink but it suddenly felt like a rather nice colour.

You were witty, clever, sincere and extremely gorgeous. Of course Blaise would like you. He’d be a fool not to.

After taking a few more seconds to carefully contemplate the situation at hand, Draco finally opened his mouth.

“Yes, I think Blaise would like Y/n.”

Narcissa looked at him with a satisfied smile and the weight of a fully grown giant landed on Draco’s shoulder.

Maybe you weren't Blaise’s cup of tea.

Maybe he’ll get back together with Daphne. Yeah, that would be perfect.

But what if he didn’t?

Could Draco live his whole life knowing that he was absolutely smitten with his Best Friend’s soon to be Fiancée?

~~~

Draco/ General HP Taglist: @maybesandohnos @justfangirlthingies @dlmmdl @desiredmalfoy @trainintersection @wh0re4blaise @marrymetheonott @quacksonsssandtea @letoof @rvaldez7569 @lolooo22 @emma67 @berriemalfoy @thegaudess @itchywitch33 @lunar0se10 @savagelysarcasticslytherin @fleursbabe @teawineaddict @malfoyxxdraco23 @fantasyfairysworld @trashyvicks @h0ggyw0ggyh0gwarts @l0vely-lupin @linasylveon @dracomalfoys-wh0re @dracomalfoyisindahouse @the-bisexual-bitch @sycathorn-slush @lalunemoonstone @supermisunderstoodoceans @belladaises @riddleswh0r3crux @justreadingficsdontmindme @axdxis @97santoki @laceycallisto @haroldpotterson @thetipsysaquatch @darlingmalfoy @letsmariya @malfoysbiitch @turn-to-page-394-please @malfoysgem @m4lf0ym1lk3rs @ameliasbitvh @slythermuf @wolfstar_lb @underappreciated-spoon-321 @yiamalfoy @louweasleymalfoy @fa-me @dracoswhore007 (sorry if I missed anyone. Please look into your privacy settings if I was unable to tag you. Love you all. x )

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Lots of love as always,

#draco malfoy #draco malfoy imagine #draco malfoy x reader #draco x reader #draco fanfiction #draco fluff #draco angst #draco x yn #Draco x you #draco lucius malfoy #draco malfoy one shot #Draco fic

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ererokii · 4 years

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Warmth of your Touch || Eren Jaeger

➳ Eren Jaeger x Fem Reader

Word Count: 4K Warnings: contains spoilers from season three Taglist: @jaegerbomb20 @sleepysnk (message to be on it in the future)

➳ Note: This is from my canceled december event and it was just laying around in my drafts, i might start posting more of those! Also ignore the typos and such, this is HEAVILY UNEDITED.

The members of the Survey Corps couldn’t remember the last time they let loose and had fun. Around here, everyone was on their tiptoes, waiting for any enemy to strike. Really, all of humanity was like this. But the Scout Regiment was the first line of defense, and they always went underground first before anyone else.

Many casualties swept over the brigade. The return to Shinganshina hit hardest. With the Beast Titan arrival and the fight put up by the Colossal and the Armored inflicted more damage than any group of titans could. With the death of Commander Erwin, and the retrieval of Reiner by the Cart Titan and Zeke, it wasn’t right. With the soldiers returning back home, it was quiet. No one dared to speak another word.

Only 20 or less able bodies made it back home to their families and were lucky enough to see the rays of the sun and breathe in the air that the Earth gave them. Too bad others were left on that battlefield on that day, their bodies becoming one with mother nature once more.

The days slowly but surely started to get shorter as summer turned to fall. The colors of the leaves changed for the season, right on time. The hot sticky air turned to crisp, and more damp. The sky let out it’s tears and covered the earth with grey blankets more often. The sun was hiding behind the clouds, as the fluffy white shapes overtook the sky. The rays barely peeked through them, unable to give light for the day.

With the help of Eren’s new hardening technique, he was able to make a new weapon that saved many soldiers from here on out. Hanji was enraptured about it. This experiment, that was a success, was all she could speak about. Nothing else mattered in her mind, and Captain Levi knew that as well.

Eren was pushed to the brim with this. Day after day, night after night, the boy was exhausted. They pushed him beyond his limits for the technique. Sometimes, he was in and out of consciousness. His titan form decreased in size, his bones would crack upon another transformation to the point where he couldn’t even stabilize himself with his own legs that had the width of twigs.

Fall soon turned over for the year and gave the duty of the seasons to Winter. Winter came rather hard, and quick at that. The harsh winds sent chills up and down the soldiers' spines as they paid their respects to their fallen comrades. An assortment of bouquets were placed in front of the many grey stones that represented a daughter, a son, a father or a mother.

The dirt underneath the boots of the breathing was moist from the rain. The crunches of leaves was the only noise that rang in a soldier’s ears, despite the sobs from others.

Eren couldn’t help but carry the burden. He felt as if it was his fault for their deaths. Their sacrifices, only to keep him alive and well. Humanity’s Last Hope. With the newfound memories from his father, he knew that everything laid in his hands.

☽✧ ✦ ✧☾

The seasons passed as they always did. Life in the walls became busy once more. In a year, the Scouts were able to wipe all the leftover titans in Wall Maria. This meant old residents of this wall were able to return to their homes and start all over again. There was nothing wrong with that, but it meant that the fight for their land was over.

Everyone seemed to show gratitude towards the Scouts. At first, they hated the soldiers who would risk their life to put an end to the Titans reign of power. Called them ‘fat pigs who lived off of our hard working money’. Many soldiers of course took offense to this, but decided to stay silent. After all, they were right about the hard working money. Their earnings were the only things that allowed them to have the supplies they needed to survive.

Winter approached once more to the soldiers of the Survey Corps. Adjustments were made as they needed to happen. Hanji, was appointed as the new Commander of the regiment. The news of humans being Titans spread like wildfire between every man and woman in the walls. The children stayed oblivious.

The outside word began to shine brighter if possible. The world was rid of the filth that the Titans had left behind. The grass was able to dance in the wind as flowers began to grow from the soil. Animals were able to come out from years of terror, finally realizing they were free. Even though the man eating creatures weren’t attracted to animals, the sight of any being over an average height could place fear into the hearts of anyone, including living creatures.

The gust of wind blew against the windows of the rooms in the headquarters. Despite everything being closed, the nooks and crannies were able to fill the once warm shelter, making it cold and gloomy.

The Levi squad, that consisted of those left over from the battle at Shinganshina, were put to cleaning duty. Of course, that’s what you guys always did when Captain Levi felt it was time for a new cleaning, which was about every other day.

Currently, you got stuck in a room with Sasha and Connie. Your job was to clean the room, wipe the shelves, mop the floor, wipe the desk that was in there, make sure to sweep the room as well. It was a lot of tasks for a room that was meant for one person.

A hum vibrated in your throat as you stood on your tiptoes, using a rag that was given to you by the Captain, to clean the upper shelves. It wasn’t even that dirty. You would give it at least another few days before it needed to be cleaned. It was like Levi had a secret eye for spotting microscopic dust particles. It was absurd to say the least.

Behind you were the other two, Connie and Sasha. They did do their work! They actually helped, but for some reason they decided nothing to. You could hear their giggles and the clanging of their broomsticks knocking against each other. The buckets getting knocked over with dirty water didn’t help either but hey, if they got in trouble that was on them. Least you were doing your part.

Maybe you could laugh from your room as you watched them run until their legs fell off, begging for mercy as the hot sun burned against their backs. It always amused you when the Lieutenant stared up at them, unamused.

You flinched when you heard Sasha let out a screech and a cry of anguish discharged from Connie’s mouth.

“What are you guys doing?” you questioned as you swiveled on your heel, turning to face them. Connie’s ass had met the floor, a hand against the floor to keep him upright and the other on top of his head. Sasha on the other hand, still had her arms raised in the air, a look of revelating shock on her features. They seemed to be playing ninjas again by the way Sasha had her leg up and bent in a right angle.

“She hit me, that's what she did!” Connie abruptly stated, looking up at the two girls in front of him. “You promised not to hit me! I never hit you!”

“It was an accident Connie! Your head just happened to come into contact with my hand! It wasn’t intentional, honest!”

“What’s going on in here?”

Your eyes widened as you held the wooden stick with a vice like grip to your chest. Your heart began to beat a bit faster than usual. Your posture straightened up as you turned around to look at the short man.”C-Captain Levi!”

The said man looked up at you, then turned his head to Sasha and lowered his gaze to Connie, who was still on the floor. No words were exchanged as he took a step back, realizing the mess that occurred. The cleaning supplies were scattered across the floor, the mop and brooms were on the floor instead of the hands of Sasha and Connie, and not to mention the dirty water was spilled and engraved into the rugs. Yeah, they were in deep shit.

Without warning, Levi made a ‘come forth’ motion with his index finger, to the pair, glancing his silvery eyes to your stiff body. “Keep cleaning, I’ll make Eren come help you.”

“Yes sir!” you saluted him as fast as you could, internally shaking as the three of them walked out of the messy room. As soon as they left, you could hear yelling from the corridor and their terrified squeaks.

A huff escaped your lips as you bent over, picking up the spare cleaning supplies. Looks like it would be awhile until someone else came to help you.

He said Eren right?

At the name of the boy, your face heated up as you shook your head rapidly, ignoring any thoughts of them. It was often that the brunette invaded your unconscious mind and overtook every crevice of it. His eyes were absolutely beautiful. They had to be your favorite part of him, besides his personality. The way the irises shined in the sunlight, the rays giving them an ethereal look. His lashes complimented them. They weren’t long, but they weren’t short. Whenever he stared at you, you swore you could just lose yourself in them.

His appearance was changing. His hair became longer and rested at the base of his neck. His shoulders began to broaden as he got a bit taller as the year passed. His loud mouth quieted down as he became more realistic with his goals. He was still the same driven boy you met three years ago.

“Hey.”

Your jaw slacked as you looked over your shoulder. Eren was standing in the door frame, as he looked down upon you. It took you a second to realize what position you were in, on your hands and knees with your back facing him. Scrambling off the floor, you swiftly fixed the shirt and pants of your uniform. “H-Hi Eren!”

Fuck you probably embarassed yourself in front of your own crush. He probably thought you were a weirdo.

“Hi Y/N,” he spoke calmly and walked into the room, brushing a strand of brown hair out of his face as he placed a hand on the desk, using it as leverage to crouch and grab a mop. “They made a big mess huh?”

“Yeah they did..they always manage to get themselves in trouble. Kinda shocked..how they lasted this long in the Levi Squad.”

An amused noise came from Eren as he looked out the window, squinting his eyes. Without speaking, he advanced forward to the glass and moved the curtain out of the way. “Well would you look at that..”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“It’s snowing,” he muttered and took a step back, letting the drapes loose from his hands. “Wonder how they’ll get punished.”

“No way it’s snowing?” you asked, ignoring his last words as you rushed to the window, placing your hands on the cold glass. You had just finished cleaning it, your hand prints would now be stuck to it. “Wow it is,” you whispered, a joyous feeling growing in the pit of your stomach. “We should go outside right now.”

“Now? Are you crazy? Captain Levi would punish us twice as hard than those two! We could probably be on our deathbed if we don’t get to work!”

“Oh hush up Eren! When was the last time we were able to have fun huh? Years right? Literally! Live a little!” you exclaimed, tossing the stick on the floor.

The brunette grumbled in protest as he shook his head, his strands of hair following his movement. “Thanks but no thanks. I rather live my life peacefully.”

An annoyed groan left your lips as you approached him, your lower lip jutting in an agitated pout. “Come on Eren. Please? For five minutes I promise! Levi is probably on the other side of headquarters right about now!”

He turned his head to the side, his eyes piercing into yours. His eyes were dull, but the curve of his lip meant otherwise. His fingers slithered around the silver pole of the mop, the pads of them moving up and down slowly as if he was thinking about it.

“Guess it can’t be helped,” as dramatic as he was, he let out a loud sigh and dropped the mop of the floor. “Let’s go. Before Captain Levi rips us a new one.”

“You’re the best Eren!”

“Uh huh. Now hurry up!”

☽✧ ✦ ✧☾

The two of you put on your winter coats. It was the same one as the ones you were given in your cadet years, just a bit more efficient. The hoods were over your head as you walked beside Eren in the falling snow. It could have looked like any soldiers left the building. Soldiers with no chores, is what you guys were going for.

“I think we’re clear now,” you said as you took your hood off, looking around the vicinity. Eren glanced down at you and did the same, running a bare hand through his hair.

“Well go crazy then. You brought us out here,”

“Shut up Eren,” a huff of air passed your lips, the fumes becoming visible to the eye as it turned to mist and disappeared. Your eyes wandered across the dark clouds in the sky, small white particles falling from the insides of them. The grass that you walked on, began to get covered by the blankets of snow, the crunching increasing underneath your boots as you moved an inch or two. Your fingers itched inside your pockets, begging to touch the white mess.

The tip of your nose began to grow cold as you let out a sniffle, scrunching your nose as well as your upper lip in the process. The cold was nothing compared to this though. Honestly, you wouldn’t have minded coming with someone else, but something about Eren made it ten times more special than a random person.

Eren watched you from his peripheral vision, staying silent as the shock and awe look on your face was enough for butterflies to appear in his stomach. You looked like a child in a jewelry store in Wall Sina. You had to have seen snow before, but it was just in the moment that made you look adorable. His cheeks burned with a rosy red as he looked away from you, craning his neck upwards to look at the grey blanket of darkness. If he looked close enough, he could see the sun trying to peek through the stubborn clouds, but to no avail, it could not.

He fluttered his eyes shut as he exhaled slowly, letting the days stress wash away from his body. Eren was exhausted. Emotionally, and physically. His body was used for experiments constantly, he rarely took breaks as he mentioned that he had to be ready for whatever. Emotionally, he hated his power. He hated being a monster like everyone said he was.

He attempted to be normal on so many levels. At first he knew he wouldn’t be better than those ugly creatures that used to roam the land. The townspeople weren’t his biggest fans. They tried persuading the Military Police to shut him down when he first found out about his shifting ability. It was horrendous. He just wanted to be seen as normal amongst those that were classified as a regular human being.

He tried so hard, yet no one could listen to him. He couldn’t see himself as human. In his eyes, he was disgusting. He was ugly. He was a monster.

Oblivious that Eren was in his own state of mind, you decided to take a moment to admire his looks. His eyelashes rested peacefully on the top of his cheeks, small puff of air exerted from his lips as his shoulders heaved up and down slowly. The tiniest of snowflakes landed on his supple skin, and melted away automatically from his warm body temperature. His hair started catching the fall snowflakes. The pieces of the small ice crystals scattered across his locks. He seemed like a snow angel, literally. The tip of his ears were a faint red, freezing from the cold atmosphere.

He was alluring. You wanted to know more about him. You craved to hear his deepest of secrets that only you would know. You desired for him to be by your side, and for you to take care of each other. The only person that knew of your crush on the boy was his friends, Mikasa and Armin.

Mikasa seemed to notice right away. In your third year of training, she took notice that you were more upbeat when Eren was nearby or you would try your best to be partnered with him, if she wasn’t already. Sometime in that year, she had approached you straight up, with the same look on her face and said--

“Do you like Eren, Y/N?”

“W-What do you mean?! Course I don’t like Eren!”

“You’re lying.”

She was in fact right. You begged her a hundred times not to bring it up to anyone, especially Eren. You would have rather been eaten by a titan, spit out and get devoured once more instead of having to confront Eren about your feelings. And of course since the universe loved messing with you, Armin happened to walk in on the moment you were begging with mercy and got curious as to what you were speaking about.

“Y/N, do you like Eren?”

“No Armin, why would you think that?!”

“Yeah she likes him.”

“Mikasa!”

At the embarrassing memory, you didn’t notice that Eren had already been staring at you, knowing that you were gazing up at him.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m not looking at you in any way! Why are you looking at me like that?!”

“I asked you first, Y/N!”

Panicking, you quickly bent over and grabbed a clump of snow, modeling it into a sphere as you muttered things under your breath. He couldn’t know why you were staring because you wanted to kiss him, oh god no he could not.

“Y/N?”

“Shut up!” you said quickly and threw the ball of snow at his face, a sound of shock leaving your lips when a noise of surprise left Eren as the sphere slid off his face. He blinked rapidly a couple times, small clumps of white stuck to his eyelashes, making his eyes more alluring.

“Did you just…”

“Yeah I did..”

It was silent as he crouched down, staring forward but not at you. His hand dug into the blanket of snow and modeled a ball, letting out a shaky sigh. His nose has gone incredibly numb already at this point. His fingers dug into the delicate shape as he made eye contact for a split second before winding his arm back, and brought it forward with full force.

Before you had a second of protection, the ice crystal came into contact with your neck, the shape exploding upon contact and sending pieces flying. Some even fell down your coat and into your uniform. “Eren what the hell?!”

“What?” his grin that has been gone for too long, made its way back onto his face once more. Your heart fluttered at the sight. He looked like his old self once again. As much as you wanted to admit it, you missed him. You missed Eren. “shouldn’t have done that if you weren’t ready for a comeback huh?”

“Oh it's on,” you grunted.

Little kids is what you became once more. Your shouts and his laughter could be heard miles away from headquarters. Shots of snow were being sent back and forth from either side, some hits being successful, others not so much.

Both of you had to have looked the same by now. Your eyelashes were damp from the melted crystals, as well as chunks of snow staying on top of your hair. Your nose was frozen off as the snow came down a bit harder than you expected, but you didn’t care.

It seems like hours have passed since you’ve come out here with Eren. Chores were forgotten in the back of your mind as your smile seemed to brighten by each second. It was sure that the water stains in the room dried, but left a foul stench in there. Captain Levi would for sure come and hunt you guys down for leaving your job unfinished.

A loud laugh left your mouth when Eren tripped over a covered branch. His body folded as he fell forward, a yelp withdrawing from his lips. His face came into contact with the snow, his body leaving a decent sized human hole in the ground.

“Eren are you okay?!” you called out for when you stopped laughing, small puffs of air leaving your mouth as you walked over to his limp body.

He grunted as he pushed himself up, giving you an annoyed look. “Yes I’m perfectly fine,’ he grumbled and shook his head, reminding you of a dog as the pieces of snow fell off of his head.

“Run.”

Puzzled, your eyebrows furrowed as you looked down at him in curiosity. “I’m sorry, did you say run? Run for what?”

“Five.”

“Eren what the hell are you talking about?”

“Four.”

What the hell was he on about? If this was another one of his ramblings from his father’s memories, you would personally knock him out and tell him to quit it. But there was a different look in his eyes. His eyes were squinted, small creases formed at the corner of his eyes, a mischievous look in his orbs. His fingers clenched around nothing as he slowly got up from his position.

“Three.”

Realization hit you like a wagon being pulled by horses as you took a step back cautiously, a small lump forming in your throat. Yeah, no. You rather not be crumbled to the ground by a boy, who weighed more than you. That was a death sentence.

Instead of running, because you wanted to be cautious of any possible injuries, you decided to speed walk in the direction of the doors that led to the inside of headquarters. He couldn’t try shit if you were already inside. God, why was Eren like this?

You didn’t even hear the crunches of the shoes from behind you as a pair of arms wrapped around your midsection and knocked you down onto the ground. With a sharp intake of air, your back collided with the pillowy bottom as you wheezed for air. Your eyes widened when you realized how close you were to Eren.

His hands were by your biceps, caging you underneath him. His brown locks fell forward, but they weren’t long enough to tickle your face. His cold breath fanned against your face as you felt yourself drown in his eyes. His eyes glanced down at your lips before looking into your eyes. He felt all of his willpower from keeping him sane.

It seemed that his body moved on his own as he leaned down lower a fraction, as if he was getting ready to kiss you, but came to terms that it might not be the best idea. You took notice of it as you moved suddenly, bringing a hand up to his hood and pulled it over his head, making sure it covered his eyes. Your other hand raised up to his face, cupping the swell of his cheek as you leaned forward, pressing your cold lips against his own.

His whole body tensed for a few seconds before melting into the kiss. His eyebrows furrowed as he sat you both up, cradling a hand behind your neck as if to bring you closer. Your hands moved from his hood to the front of his coat, your fingers curling around the material. A new sense of heat seemed to wash over your entire body. His fingers danced on the base of your neck, shivers running down your body, not only from the cold, but from his electrifying touch. With him being at an advantage, his forehead pressed up against yours. Your fingers weaved into his hair, slowly running up to his scalp, desperately trying to stay in the moment.

He began to get shaky as he pulled away slowly, tugging on your lower lip with his teeth in the process. His eyes fluttered open as he took a look at your face. It looked like you were struggling to open your eyes after the kiss. It made him a bit prideful when he noticed this.

“Open up,” he whispered, tapping your cheek with his fingers, a boyish smile on his face. He watched as your eyes fluttered open, a hazy look in your orbitals.

“Hi Eren,” you forgot where you were as you glanced around the area, realizing you were still in the snow. “..I’m a bit cold.”

“Yeah? Me too,” he responded as he looked over your shoulder before pushing himself off of the ground, lending a hand for you. Gratefully, you took it as he hoisted you up.

“Do you think Captain Levi found that we weren’t there?”

The boy stayed silent as he thought for a moment before shrugging. “Who knows. Maybe he did and he’s looking for us right now. I think we should go back then, before we get punished,” he muttered and grabbed your hand, lacing his fingers with yours.

You stared down at his calloused palm rubbing up against your own. His hand was different. It was warm and it made you feel safe. Who knew a connection between hands was more than enough to know about your requited feelings.

“Eren I like you,” you blurted out, your face heating up as you looked down at the ground, listening to the crunches underneath your feet as you advanced forward.

“Yeah? I knew already.”

“Huh?!” A look of bewilderment and a choke of air was all you could express at the moment. Who betrayed you.

“How—“

“Mikasa,” he interrupted, a hint of smugness in his tone. “I asked her to find out for me last year.”

“Mikasa?” You whispered, voice wavering. You remember that she swore to not tell a soul, not even him.

“But it worked out right?” He asked and looked down at you, a grin on his face. “You should really thank her one day. She may be silent, but she knows what she’s doing.”

You rolled your eyes as you nodded, hugging his arm close to your chest. “Yeah you’re right. Maybe we should both thank her. She does save your life after all.”

“Hey that’s one thing I would not do. I never asked for it!”

Your laugh could be heard from a few feet away in the midst of the snowfall. Fog began to cloud the outside word as you held onto Eren as a guide.

Upon hearing your laugh, it made Eren feel human again. His heart was beating faster than normal, a sign that he was feeling another emotion besides fear. The touch of your hand set a fire full of adoration within him.

Unbeknownst to the two teenagers, their short Captain watched with his hard eyes, his arms crossed over his chest. He had just checked up on Sasha and Connie, who were cleaning the stable and happened to come across the scene not too far away from him.

Instead of deciding to approach the pair and punish them, he let them have their fun. Even if Eren was one of the most hated people in all of Paradis, even the most hated deserved to have someone warm their heart.

#eren jaeger x reader #eren x reader #eren yeager x reader #aot x reader #snk x reader #attack on titan x reader #shingeki no kyojin x reader #aot imagines #snk imagines #eren jaeger imagines #eren yeager imagines #eren imagines #attack on titan imagines #shingeki no kyojin imagines

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gryffindors-weasley · 4 years

Text

A Known Love

Draco Malfoy x Fem!Reader

Summary: Draco felt as though his relationship was kept secret, though one person sees everything.

Warnings: angst, anxiety, fluff, kissing

(not my gif)

Dawn was rapidly approaching, the navy hues of the sky beginning to lighten and the stars began to disappear as slivers of orange stretch across the horizon. It was Draco’s least favorite time of day, for it was when he had to say goodbye to you until the following evening. The hours in the day had always passed as if each were an eternity, one longer than the last, agonizing as he thought of nothing else but you.

“You really should be going now, love,” he murmurs softly, his lips ghosting over the skin on your neck. His hand enveloped your own as he pulled you farther behind the shadows of the crumbling stone statue, impossibly closer to him.

“I suppose I will once you let me go, Draco,” you laugh softly. A kiss is pressed just below your ear, another to your cheek, and another to your lips to quiet your very logical reasoning. He hadn’t wanted to let you go yet. He never wanted to let you go.

He pulls back to look at you, still close enough to feel your breath on his lips, gray eyes twinkling under the soft moonlight as a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. His attempts at goodbye were quickly becoming more pitiful with each moment that passed him by, and he knew it. He had the same problem every time the moment arises.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” you say with a smile, your thumb brushing over his slightly pouted lip and he finds himself leaning into your touch. “You’ll have the whole day to miss me.”

For that, he closes any remaining gap once more, delicate kisses pressed to the underside of your jaw. He’s very knowledgeable of the way it makes you squirm, your jovial laughter slipping out into the crisp summer air, unable to be controlled much like his smile. His lips find yours in another attempt to silence you, soft and sweet as he hums lightly, your lips melding in a kiss he hadn’t wanted to end.

He’s reluctant to pull away, but the cooing of the morning doves is too hard to ignore. A sigh is exhaled and the sight of your kiss swollen lips leaves him wanting to do nothing but continue to kiss them, more so with the way you’re beaming up at him.

“Promise you’ll be here tonight?” He murmurs, forehead pressed to yours as his eyes fall closed. A quiet laugh escapes you and fans against his lips.

“I promise.”

“Promise me you’ll be careful?” He asks in a quieter tone, something akin to fear weaving around his words even if he’d tried to hide it.

“I will try, my love,” you murmur.

He pulls away once more and looks at you with narrowed eyes, a frown pulling at his lips. You tilt your head and look at him with a sweet smile, settling your hand on his cheek. He was not happy with your nonchalance. “It is not funny.”

You couldn’t stifle the soft laugh you’d tried to hold, appeasing his grumbling and worry as you brushed the platinum strands of hair out of his eyes.

“I will be here and I will be fine,” you say, kissing the very tip of his nose.

The tension in his embrace lessens considerably at your words, tightening his hold as he rests his face in the crook of your neck. Even with your reassurance, he was still rather scared that this would be the last time he kissed you, the last time he held you. So he relished in every second of it. He memorized the sweet smell of your perfume, the taste of your kisses, the softness of your skin. He took it all in and stored it away in his mind for safe keeping.

He released you with a chaste kiss to your neck, and one to your lips as his arms dropped to his sides. Your fingertips brush over his cheek once more as you smile, and in a matter of moments he’s standing by himself behind the moss covered statue, looking at the spot you’d once been standing in just seconds ago.

—

Draco spent the entirety of the day in his bedroom, pacing around in front of his bed aimlessly. He’d tried to get some sleep, he had been rather busy running around in a secret endeavor the night before. But he only found himself staring at the deep green velvet curtain splayed high above each of his bedposts. He hadn’t wanted to leave his room for a good while, however, there wasn’t reason to and he certainly didn’t want to run into his father. The man had become more insufferable with each passing day it seemed, if that was even possible. Besides, his mind was far too busy to hold any sort of meaningless conversation with him should there be any.

His boredom was near maddening, the Manor wasn’t exactly a place that had been bustling with entertainment. It was a place filled with silence and luxury that was made to be viewed but not touched. He looked at his clock, the hand only inching closer to eight o’clock in the evening much to his dismay; it was as if it was taunting him.

On a more positive note, it had been late enough for him to feel as though he could venture into the halls without chance of running into anyone. So he did. He found himself navigating the gray corridors with a practiced ease, eyes darting around each and every corner he passed. The residence was practically a maze; anyone who hadn’t been familiar with it would surely get lost in a matter of moments, unable to find a door to exit. He’d lived there for nearly eighteen years and still found himself wandering down unfamiliar halls.

In a matter of minutes, he finds himself standing in front of an old mahogany door, intricately carved like most others. He twisted the tarnished metal knob and pushed it open, wincing at the very audible creak it made. The scent of old books had immediately hit him as he closes the door behind him, trickles of sunlight streaming in through the latticed windows. The golden light illuminated the dust particles floating around the unfrequented room, nearly making him sneeze.

He just about jumped out of his skin when a soft voice broke through the silence in the air, his heart racing momentarily as he searched for the source. His mother sat in the corner, a half-read book propped open in her lap.

“I was beginning to wonder where you’d been all day,” she says with a soft laugh, peering at him over the tops of her glasses.

“I was in my room,” he states when he settles, trying to sound believable even though that’s exactly where he’s been.

He smooths his hair behind his ear before spinning on his heel, unable to withstand her stare a moment longer. His hands were growing clammy as he wandered the familiar aisles, lined floor to ceiling with books ranging from the history of magic to even some Shakespeare classics. Those were Narcissa’s favorite.

“Draco, what ever is the matter with you?” Narcissa asks suddenly, her brows furrowing as she looks over at her son and marks her page.

“Nothing, Mother,” he says, plucking a maroon book from its spot on the dust covered shelf, looking over the aged cover briefly and putting it back before moving onto the next.

They were the very shelves he roamed between with you in the late hours of the night, speaking in hushed whispers in the nearly abandoned library. The very shelves you hid behind to share stolen kisses and tight embraces, gently whispered ‘I love you’s’ spoken against flushed skin. They house books of fabricated fiction and tales of forbidden love, stories he finds himself reading and wishing he didn’t understand what it had felt like to be the lovers within them.

Regardless, you loved when he read to you, his voice soft as he spoke each word with ease. You’d lay on his chest, tucked away somewhere private in the Manor, somewhere with enough moonlight streaming in to ensure there was no need for a light to draw any attention. His fingers would absentmindedly tangle through your hair as he read, stopping occasionally to press a kiss to your forehead. He’d stop once you fell asleep, his eyes bouncing around the room for any chance of prying eyes. He was quiet for any chance of listening ears.

“Draco?”

He startled slightly as looks over at his mother as she continues to sit in her black velvet chair, her brow raised curiously and expectantly. His cheeks flush a pale pink as he realizes he’s gotten lost in his thoughts.

“You’re distracted,” she states.

“No I’m not,” he says almost immediately, too fast to be believable.

She chuckles, shaking her head briefly. “Then what have I just told you, darling?”

He averts his gaze and focuses on the tattered book spines stacked in front of him, the heat in his face now burning down his neck as he scrambles to think of a proper answer for her, one that isn’t foolish.

“School has been rather busy. That amongst other things,” he says, tone sharp though she knows precisely what he’s talking about. “I’ve got a lot on my mind, Mother.”

She overlooks the bite to his words as she gestures to the seat just paces away from her own, wordlessly telling him to sit down. His finger stops it’s tracing on the old books and drops to his side, wiping his hand on his blazer and leaving a smear of pale dust behind on the pristine black fabric. He takes a seat, her gaze having him fix a stare on anything but her.

A quiet tension settles over the room, thick and unwavering for a few moments, the only sound being the ticking of the grand clock in the far end of it. He knows his reasoning couldn’t have been any good, at least not half of it. It had been summer break, one that was highly anticipated before the start of seventh year. So his excuse for academic stress didn’t seem to be quite as fitting at this very moment.

“What is her name?” She asks abruptly.

His heart stills in his chest at the question, and he looks at her immediately before narrowing his eyes to contain the flurry of emotions raining down on him. Had he heard her correctly? He had to have, she couldn’t have said anything else.

“I don’t believe I know what you’re talking about,” he dismisses, sitting up a little straighter as he smooths his tie.

She knew about you, of course she did. She’s known about you for far longer than Draco could ever be privy to. In fact, the first time she had ever been made aware of your relationship was last summer. It was dawn, and she was unable to sleep, though she always had been an early riser. She had her morning tea in hand as she made her rounds around the Manor, that’s when it had caught her eye. Narcissa had known the place like the back of her hand, therefore it had been easy to note anything out of place, such as the tracking of mud in a very familiar shoe print leading from the door to her gardens.

Upon closer inspection, she peered out of the windows into the moonlit maze of roses and finely manicured bushes. She had caught glimpse of her son weaving through flowers and statues, hand enveloped with that of a strikingly beautiful girl; and even with such a distance she could see the smile on his face, big and bright.

She had seen you once or twice before, knew enough to know you wouldn’t have been someone her husband would approve of. But technicalities aside, she stayed put and she watched the sight before her for a few moments longer for she hasn’t seen her son quite this happy.

Her eyes fell on Draco, the blush that had spilled from his cheeks to the tips of his ears now a very noticeable shade, one that was very indicative that he did in fact know just who she was talking about. He began to fidget in the grand velvet chair, twirling the ring around his finger in nervous habit. His mind raced with the possibilities of what could happen, panic flooding his chest.

“Your father wouldn’t approve of this, you know,” she says, though there’s a soft laugh in her words. Regardless, the thought makes Draco’s stomach swirl with nausea, anger building and pressing within his chest.

He knows this, he knows you don’t fit his fathers preposterous ideals because he’s too caught up in pleasing the Dark Lord’s wishes to see with even an ounce of rationality. However, he’s always been one for conforming to absurd standards to better his reputation, he supposes.

“You don’t understand,” Draco defends in hushed anger, his jaw tensing as he fights to reign in his temper.

“Then enlighten me, my dear boy.”

He stares at his mother for a few moments, then shifts his gaze to the dark hardwood floors, seconds feeling like hours as his heart hammers in his chest and the heat crawls up his neck. His mind is bombarded with intrusive thoughts, one after another. If he tells her what’s been plaguing his mind, who has been residing there for the better part of a year, he could very well lose you. If he doesn’t, her suspicions will ruin any chance of time spent alone with you in fear of wandering eyes.

“I’m in love with her.”

It tumbled from his lips before he could stop himself from saying it, it’s as though all sense had left his body. You have a habit of doing that to him. Though his words were a bit shaky, the declaration came out clear as day, not a single drop of doubt in his words. He doesn’t know what she’ll say next, and quite honestly he does not care, not entirely. Not enough to hide his feelings for a moment longer, feelings that are so strong he doesn’t quite know how to handle them.

The look on her face is unreadable for the first several moments after he sputtered his confession, and the panic simmering in his chest is beginning to build and boil over. But something softens in her stoic expression, and she nods slightly. He doesn’t know what it means, doesn’t know what to make of the small gesture until she speaks up.

“I see.”

That’s all she says.

He finds the statement hard to interpret, unable to find any sort of relief from those two words as he swallows thickly and tugs at the collar of his black dress shirt, loosening the tie around his neck a fraction. The large room suddenly felt terribly suffocating and he desperately wanted some air. He was quickly beginning to regret ever opening his mouth, even though it seemed it had done so of its own accord. He could never keep anything from her, she could coax his deepest darkest secrets out of him with just a simple look. Right now, he felt it’d be perfectly suitable if the ground opened up and swallowed him whole.

He had to take the statement back somehow.

“Mother, I-”

“What is her name?” She asks once more, effectively cutting his stammering short.

He looks at her cautiously, surprised to find her to be truly interested, and not for malicious reasoning. Hesitancy still clouds his mind as he wonders whether or not he should give her such details, but a part of him feels as though it’s okay if she’s privy to it.

“Y/n,” he says softly, almost too quiet to be heard, his eyes darting around the room in search of anyone who may be listening in. “Her name is Y/n.”

She smiles softly with another nod. “She’s beautiful, Draco.”

He smiles lightly at his hands, his mind wandering to you once more. To the way your lips curve, to the soft freckles smattering across your cheeks that he could spend a ridiculous amount of time kissing. Perhaps his favorite is the way your eyes crinkle when you smile at him, the way you look at him. He will never feel as though he’s worthy of such affection, it doesn’t make sense to him. For that very reason, it worries him everyday that you’ll slip through his fingers. That you’ll realize the person you’ve chosen to love, you’ll come to your senses and you’ll disappear.

It wasn’t easy loving a Malfoy, after all. Anyone who simply hears the name turns their lip up in disgust. He can’t say he blamed them, his family wasn’t known for anything noble or kind. He wasn’t proud of himself either, which was all the more reason he feared your seemingly inevitable epiphany.

“I know,” he chuckles softly, shaking his head. His hands are shaking as he reaches up to swipe at the hair dipping in his eyes. “How…how did you know?”

“I haven’t seen you smile like that in quite some time, Draco. It was rather easy to figure out,” she starts, her words bittersweet the more she allowed herself to think about it. “The smell of perfume had given it away in an instant. It lingers, you know.”

His face reddens, and he reaches up to scratch the back of his neck, his hair falling back in his eyes again.

“Does she treat you well?” She inquires.

He smiles lightly as he nods. “She’s quite wonderful, more than I can say about myself.”

It was true. In his eyes, you were the embodiment of sunshine to put it simply. You were the kindest person he’s ever known, so much so he hadn’t been used to it at first. He had been skeptical. You treated him far better than he could have ever anticipated, though you did not hesitate to correct him when he was wrong.

“Mother?”

“Yes, my dear?”

He gulps, his mind swimming in horrific scenarios he hadn’t ever wanted to think of, possibilities he wished he didn’t have to fear. Each one was worse than the last, and paired with his pounding heart, he wasn’t sure if he could hide his internal conflict from her. It felt as though his throat was impossibly dry and the air had been stolen from his very lungs.

“Please don’t tell him,” he whispers, the lump in his throat becoming hard to ignore. The thought of how his father would react out of spite made his stomach churn and twist in knots. “Please.”

She looks at him with furrowed brows, her crimson nails tapping on the curved wood of the chairs arm. You hadn’t entirely fit the ideals set in place for the only Malfoy heir, and she knew for certain that repercussions would follow such a romance. But the unease and the color draining from her sons face had shown how truly distraught he was, and she couldn’t bring herself to tamper with it. She had never seen him care so deeply for something. She had seen just how much you had been keeping him afloat amidst the troublesome darkness trying to pull him down. Maybe she will warm up to you if he ever decides to introduce you, she would have to. For you kept him happier than could be imagined and she didn’t want to take it from him.

She fought for her love with Lucius, she fought desperately and unrelenting for it. It quickly became apparent to her that it wasn’t her place to stand in the way of it, it would be rather hypocritical if she did.

“As you wish,” she says with a soft smile, one that eased the tension in his body as she grabbed her book again. “Off you go now, Draco. I believe someone is waiting for you.”

She nodded slightly towards the window and he gets up without another word, promptly exiting the quiet library upon her dismissal making quick strides. A soft smile tugged at his lips that he had fought desperately to contain, but the attempts were proving to be pointless every time he caught glimpse of the setting sun. The hues of oranges and yellows painting the somber walls of the Manor only reminded him of you, of how you’d be waiting for him behind the decades old statue in the garden.

His conversation was brief and unexpected, one that offered waves of comfort and lightened some of the weight on his chest. Only some. Because consequences of his love were uncertain, but it hadn’t seemed to matter in that very moment. Maybe it was selfish of him to think that way, and maybe his purposeful walk had given way to the fact that he had something to look forward to. Maybe he shouldn’t have told his mother about you, he did not know.

What was known was the steady pounding of his heart within his chest and the scarlet in his cheeks.

What was known was that he loved you.

—

Tags: @theweasleysredhair @amourtentiaa @hahee154hq

#draco malfoy #draco malfoy angst #draco malfoy one shot #draco malfoy fluff #draco malfoy fic #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy imagine #harry potter fic

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fruitcoops · 4 years

Note

If you're still taking requests, could you do one where someone is making Remus really uncomfortable and someone from the team helps him out? (Preferably Sirius, Leo, Logan, James, or Dumo but everything you do is so good so it really doen't matter 😂❣)

Yep! Please take a look at the TW below before reading, since there are parts of this that are a bit intense. SW credit goes to @lumosinlove!

Combined with protective Sirius and Leo/ Loops friendship!

TW for a super creepy guy, unwanted handholding, unwanted flirting/ not taking no for an answer, innuendo, moderate panic attack, and alcohol

The folding chair next to Remus creaked as a tall man in a perfectly-tailored suit sat down hard in it. He was clearly a drink or two past tipsy, and something in Remus’ throat itched at the way the man’s eyes flickered across his chest and arms. “You’re Lupin, right? The new Lion?”

Remus set his drink down. “That’s me.”

“Stan Martin, nice to meet you.” Stan held his hand out and Remus shook it; his palm was clammy, and he held on just a second too long. Remus was the first to pull away after he felt a light squeeze from wrinkled fingers.

“Pleasure’s mine,” Remus said with a polite smile. Sirius was nowhere in sight, and everyone else was occupied in their own conversations. He swallowed hard. “Do you own a team?”

“Nah, I just fund ‘em,” Stan snorted. “Too much work otherwise, not enough time for play, if you know what I mean.”

Remus forced a laugh. “Right, yeah, totally. Are you involved with the Lions? I’m a bit new to the whole administration thing.”

“Even after being a PT for so long?” Stand gave him an incredulous look, but beneath it there was a shadow Remus didn’t like.

“Yep. I was pretty contained to my tape pallets and charts.” Joke it off, Lupin.

A hand, heavy from alcohol and lack of inhibitions, fell on Remus’ forearm with a few clumsy pats before settling on his wrist. Stan looked directly into his eyes. “If you ever need someone to, ah, show you the ropes, give me a call.”

Remus cleared his throat and tried to pull his arm away, but the hand didn’t budge. “I don’t think that will be necessary, but thank you for the offer.”

“No, really. The NHL is a complicated world. I’d be more than happy to take some of that weight off your shoulders.” Stan leaned closer and Remus tensed as his eyes roved his face. “Your freckles are much more striking in real life, Lupin.”

“Please let go of my arm, Mr. Martin.”

“Call me Stan.”

“Let go of me, Martin.”

An awful little grin spread over his thin lips. “You’re a spitfire, aren’t you? Too much for Captain Solitude, I bet.”

He jerked his head to the side of the room, where Remus saw Sirius making polite conversation with a woman in a long dress. A spike of fury bubbled up. “Are you talking about my fiancé?”

“Easy, tiger, I’m just saying—” He hiccupped and Remus tried to pull away, but Stan’s grip tightened by a fraction. “—I’m just saying, you could do better with someone who knows how to handle you.”

“I can handle myself just fine. If you don’t stop talking shit about my fiancé, I’ll—”

“What? You’ll do what?” Stan leered at him and Remus paused to shove down his nausea. “You know, you were much prettier before you tried to be like the rest of these jocks.”

“I’m leaving now.”

“I’m just being honest,” Stan huffed, never releasing Remus’ arm from his hold. Remus could feel his shoulders starting to shake. “You’ve got those cute little cheekbones. Very delicate, like—almost feminine. Those training regimens they put you on ruined it, in my opinion. Look, Lupin, when you get tired of tall, dark, and boring over there, gimme a call and you can be pretty aga—”

“What’s going on over here?” a falsely bright voice cut in. The chair on Remus’ other side clicked at its joints as Leo sat down, looking between them with icy eyes. “Am I missing out on all the fun?”

“Hey, Knutty,” Remus managed, wincing as his voice cracked. Stan leaned back in his chair and Remus quickly yanked his arm away, tangling his fingers together.

“Lupin and I were just having a chat,” Stan said, glancing back down at Remus’ lap until he tucked his hands under his thighs. “Nothing big and important.”

Leo’s knee pressed against his own. “Sirius was looking for you a minute ago.”

Stan’s jaw tightened. “What, we can’t finish our conversation?”

“No.” Remus channeled all his roiling discomfort and the urge to knock the creep’s teeth in as he stood up. “No, this conversation has been done for a while. Have a nice night, Mr. Martin.”

Leo’s arm was steady across his shoulders as they walked away; Remus’ vision tunneled, sparkling black at the sides. “Are you gonna be alright?” Leo asked under his breath, his accent soothing. Remus nodded. “You’re shaking, Re.”

“No, I’m not.” He grabbed a plastic cup of water off a nearby tray and nearly sloshed it all over himself. “Jesus fucking—”

“Re.” He could feel his teeth starting to chatter and sweat rolled down the too-tight collar of his shirt. Leo’s hand closed loosely around his own and took the cup. “C’mon.”

“Sirius was looking for me,” he protested as Leo led him down a side hall.

Leo shrugged. “Probably.”

“…he didn’t talk to you.”

“Nope.”

“You came to get me anyway.”

“Yep.”

The clog in Remus’ chest grew and he nearly tripped over his own feet. “Thanks, Knutty.”

A sharp puff of air cooled his burning face. “I’m sorry I didn’t get there sooner.”

“I tried to leave.” The words tangled around his tongue as Leo pushed open the bathroom door and led him to the sinks, dampening some paper towels. “I—fuck, Leo, I’m stronger than him but he was holding my arm so tight and I was so fucking freaked.”

“Easy, Re.” Leo sounded like he was trying to calm a spooked horse.

The towels were a balm in Remus’ hands and on his face as he pressed them over his mouth to muffle the wheezing noises. “I’d rather be called a slur to my face than have that happen again.”

The gentle circles on his back stopped for a second. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head. “I don’t—no. I just wanna go home.”

“Deep breaths.” Leo handed him a new towel to blow his nose, then pulled his phone out.

“Has anyone told you that you’re a kickass friend?”

A weak smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, but his face was still troubled. “Once or twice.”

Remus’ lungs were tight with a mix of fear and disgust; he felt a little like he wanted to throw up, and while Leo’s hand on his back was an anchor to the world, the rest of him screamed ‘don’t touch me’.

Barely two minutes later, the bathroom door swung open. “Honey? What happened?”

“Holy shit,” Remus managed as gray eyes swam into his field of view. Sirius. Sirius meant safety. Reality zoomed back at double speed and the dam broke—tears poured down his cheeks as his whole body began to shake again. “Holy shit.”

Sirius shushed him softly, pulling him close with a kiss to the top of his head. “D’accord, mon loup, je t’ai.”

“I love you,” Remus sobbed. The fabric of Sirius’ suit was probably wrinkling under his tight grip, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “I love you so much for exactly who you are, okay? Don’t ever doubt that.”

“I know.” Confusion edged his voice, but he kept it low and gentle. Remus loved him for it, wildly. The door creaked as Leo left, and then there was silence.

He finally pulled his face out of Sirius’ chest, kissing his jaw, cheek, and lips before resting his forehead in the curve of his neck. “Thank you.”

Sirius’ hands eased through the curls above his ears as he cupped Remus’ face in his hands. “What happened, Re?”

Remus shook his head as revulsion rose again. “There was this creep and he wouldn’t let me go. Said some shitty stuff.”

“He was homophobic?” An angry furrow appeared between Sirius’ brows.

“I wish.” Stan’s words rang in his ears and made his mouth bitter with shame. Remus closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see Sirius’ face during his confession. “He, uh—he propositioned me. Kind of.”

“He what?”

“I didn’t catch on until he already had my arm.” Remus sniffled, pressing the heel of his hand below his eye to stem the tears. “He followed it up with some bullshit about you, and then some bullshit about me, and just wouldn’t shut up. I just froze. I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, mon amour.” Sirius’ touch was so gentle on him, warm and broad compared to the crushing discomfort of Stan Martin. His hands were heavy, but they let Remus move however he liked.

“I love you,” Remus said again.

“I love you, too. Are you ready to go home?”

“I need a minute.” He rubbed his face against the soft lapels of Sirius’ jacket, desperate for comfort around the guilt wedged in his chest; his next words spilled out before he could choke them down again. “You still like me, right?”

“I love you so much—”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. You—am I still nice to look at? Now that I’m not, y’know, pretty and kinda twink-y.” There was a long stretch of silence. “Is that a yes?”

“Sorry, I had to take a second and stop myself from putting that fucking idiot through a table.” Sirius took a step back and met Remus’ eyes, fixing him with a hard look. “First of all, I love everything about you, and you will always be the most beautiful man on earth. Second, your muscles are the hottest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen. Third, you’ve never been—what word did you use?”

“Twink-y. It’s like…delicate. Femme. Etcetera, etcetera.”

More anger sparked in Sirius’ eyes. “Yeah, and you’ve never been delicate. You are the strongest person I know, Re. Whatever he said to you, it wasn’t true.”

“Can we go home now?”

“Absolutely.”

The ballroom was still crowded with high-end management and people Remus never wanted to see again when they finally left the bathroom; thankfully, the throngs of sparkles and dark suits made it easy for them to slip away with minimal human interaction. Stan Martin was over by the water cups, dabbing uselessly at a large wine stain across the front of his crisp white shirt—Remus saw Leo watching him like a hawk with a suspiciously empty wineglass in his hand and internally vowed to give him the biggest hug of his life at the next practice.

Remus slowed down to take in the fresh nighttime air, holding Sirius’ hand tight in his own as they crossed the parking lot. He paused at the passenger door and tugged him in for a slow kiss. “I love you,” he mumbled, breathing in the scent of his shampoo and cologne.

Sirius’ arms wrapped around him and Remus melted into the hug. He felt him trembling slightly, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t from the chilly breeze. “You are the best part of my life, Re,” he whispered, his voice thick. “The best part, no matter what. I’m so sorry for what happened tonight.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“It wasn’t yours, either.” Sirius kissed the top of his forehead once before giving him a squeeze and going to the other side of the car. “I’m sure Hattie will agree with me once we’re home.”

Two hours, one hot shower, and thirty minutes of puppy cuddles later, Remus curled up against Sirius’ ribs and felt his chest rise and fall under his palm. “I love you,” he said quietly.

Sirius let out a slow breath and entwined their fingers, kissing the inside of his wrist. “Love you more.”

“Love you most.”

“Impossible.”

He could hear Sirius’ smile, even in the darkness of their bedroom, and fell asleep to the steady sound of his heartbeat.

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stupendousconnoisseurpuppy · 3 years

Text

The son's warmth

Yandere! Hinata x Reader

Notes: This is my entry for @seijorhi's Deal with the devil collaboration~

Warnings: DARK CONTENT, Violence detail, injury detail, manipulation, kidnap, yandere.

Please refrain from reading if you are uncomfortable with the above!

That said, please enjoy!

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

Generosity. You suppose it could be a bit of a double-edged sword.

Although in hindsight, all you had wanted was to care for the exuberant ball of sunshine you had believed was dealt a bad hand. Parents and younger sister deceased, orphaned at the tender age of 14 and placed in a less than ideal environment - one devoid of love.

You had always been one of a large sympathetic capacity and it had always been a goal of yours, born of the principle’s kindness and compassion, passed on by your parents and sanctioned by your entry into adulthood; allowing you to action your desire to care for a young child struck by tragedy…

You’re not exactly sure, however, how that’d landed you in the basement of your own house with a broken leg and shattered kneecaps.

It was to be expected you'd reasoned at first, you had defied common sense and made a deal with a less than savoury entity.

Too bad you hadn't considered the fact that demons could come in the shape of fair seeming, walking tangerines with an aptitude for overbearing affection.

To his defence (something you’ve now come to consider a very ironic concept) Hinata wasn’t exactly - as far as signatories go - the one you'd even made this... deal with. It had been his orphanage, an institution shrouded in fraud and doused in the bitter aroma of embezzlement that had sealed your fortunes in the form of crisp white adoption papers.

You didn’t mind his clingy nature, the crushing strength of his grip when his hand found - sought - yours… actions that could and would have seemed to untrained eyes like a misplaced and overwhelming sense of desperation, like the shock of betrayal carved upon his features when your focus wasn’t solely trained on him, or the unnerving intensity pooling beneath glittering brown iris’ whenever they met yours during his volleyball matches. Again, this was something you’d chalked down to an amalgamation of a passion for the sport, desire to win and an appreciation for the fact that his beloved mother had come to show him the support he had clearly lacked in the early stages of his teenage years.

After all, what was a guardian without unconditional devotion to their child?

He was the coolness of your eyes whilst paradoxically, providing an all-encompassing warmth (much like the sun) and with an ostensibly boundless supply of energy. Such was the ardour that made your heart swell with pride. It was just a terrible pity – in your case at least - that this energy he had was now being put towards severing your contact with the outside world.

Wanted to go outside? He’d want you to help him practice.

Meeting someone? He’d pout and complain.

How could you refuse? You’d naively attributed such possessiveness to the trauma of losing his family and would excuse such behaviour in consideration of the circumstance. It was only natural. You’d decided to be there for him, accepting the responsibility as soon as you’d inked your name on the dotted line… if he needed a little more attention, that’s what he’d get.

And so, the story progressed until towards the end of his third year of high school, he’d decided the affection you were providing him with, however plentiful, wasn’t nearly as satisfactory as he knew it could be. For you still to be surrounded by others must mean his slice of the pie was diminished in size and a growing boy such as himself needed all the nutrition he could get. He’d reasoned that the entirety of said “pie” belonged to him, anyway. Surely no one could chastise him for exercising a due right over his own property?

He didn’t want to be the occupant of most of your time, he wanted all of it… And it was to be brought to your attention as soon as he arrived home from school.

No sooner had he entered through the front door than he was skipping towards your location (in the kitchen) with a blinding smile on his face, proceeding to grip onto your shoulders with a force that clearly betrayed his cheery demeanour.

“What’s wrong Shoyo?” You queried.

He’d went on to detail how neglected he felt whenever you enjoyed the presence of anyone other than him “It feels like you don’t love me anymore!”, like he’s not good enough, y’know? But it wasn’t your fault, all you needed was the chance to see that he was fully capable of being the only one you needed to depend on.

You were, at first, inclined to think of such proclamations as some silly prank, followed by laughter, declarations of how well and truly you’d been fooled and fabricated in boyish mischievousness. You’d managed to ask as such, but the speed and surety of his response had you becoming increasingly concerned.

“Nope!”

You forced out a nervous puff of laughter, clutching at the rapidly burning straws of denial because surely, he couldn’t be serious, but your dismissal had only served to become the source of his irritation and he squeezed you harder, fixing you with a determined stare that could only have been described as no less than peering into your soul.

You had ignored the red flags and were getting your just rewards.

“Sho- stop that hurts!”

“Reeeeeally Okaa-san?!” He quipped with insincere concern “It hurts more when you don’t care for me…”

It was at this bitter intonation that you’d scrambled back in shock and had prepared your body’s primal function of flight in the direction of the nearest exit.

But were you really going to run away from him? Shoyo, your own child, the coolness of your eyes and springtime in the haggard winter of your life?

Yes, yes you were.

And you would have gotten away with it too, had not the subject of your internal conflict taken advantage of your moment’s irresolution. For in a ginger blur of motion you were on the ground, he had taken a hold of your leg…

SNAP

He roughly covered your mouth to silence the scream, pinning you down with the weight of his own body as hot, fat tears rolled down your cheeks. The pain was excruciating, but you wouldn’t feel it for long, as with a swift hook to the jaw you were out cold. It hurt for him to have to utilize violence on the one he cherished; however, it’d seem a tad counterintuitive for him to give you the opportunity to run away.

You’d forgive him, you’d come around. You always did.

He’d swept you up and carried you to the large basement of the house, gently placing you on a worn settee; sickly ochre in colour - the one you’d been meaning to dispose of for years. His actions were soft and caring and his thoughts clouded almost entirely with his overwhelming love for you.

In passing hours he observed your peaceful state mindfully as his core pulsated in the cosy warmth of his rib cage, imagining what a future found solely in each other’s embrace would hold… eventually you’d stay of your own accord, he reasoned. He’d have no need to harm you or to keep you under the low, flickering lights of the basement. Defiance would become a thing of the past. You’d realise how happy you are he’d made the decisions for you, both of you, together…

“Why?” That was a question you sometimes took to asking yourself; more out of pure, unadulterated boredom than anything else. Something you’d already explored the answer to but thought it better to keep your mind occupied with trivial matters than to succumb to insanity (or the intensifying ache of your battered legs).

On that same note, though, contact with the world outside wasn’t the only thing he’d severed.

At the time, such an observation had very nearly made you laugh (and you could probably blame it on the fact that you’d always been quite partial to the more gruesome forms of satire). It was in an impulsive burst of inappropriate and rather facetious humour that you’d wanted to entertain yourself in the recital of depressing hymns (expected, given the nature of your surroundings), to congratulate your stupidity and wallow deeper into the marshes your own self-pity; only to be met with the simple fact that you didn’t have the option.

Your tongue? Gone.

And it hadn’t been the work of the proverbial cat, but your own son, who – cheery as always – had explained that it was another necessary action to stop you from hurting yourself, done behind the ever-wise teaching that prevention was indeed, better than cure. Could you not see he only wanted what was best for you?

It was then you were sure he’d dangerously distorted his self-awarded role as your protector and had lost his mind.

“Okaa-San, Its aright…” He beamed whilst you’d engaged in silently cursing your weak will “You won’t feel a thing!” - he flashed a guilty smile - after I knock you out…again.

And you didn’t. He’d sutured the wound (with what you really didn’t want to know) and made sure you didn’t choke on your own life juices, patching you up like the loving, doting son that he is… It was your job not to worry about the extremity of his actions, as a mother that should do everything in their power to put their beloved’s mind at ease.

Saved from the fate of Exsanguination… shows how much he adores you right? Not that you'd had half the courage or audacity to end your own life in such a macabre fashion, but even if you hadn’t been relieved of the burden of speech; you weren’t one to shatter another’s fantasies - especially if they were high school athletes with inhuman amounts of strength.

In the passing weeks, your mind had dawned upon the realisation that no one was coming to save you - and did you even need saving? – for your parents were far too busy, friends far too distant and dashing officer that’d do everything in his power far too non-existent. Shoyo was the only one who had cared for you, providing you with physical and emotional sustenance you’d never thought you needed - maybe for the reason that he had made himself the only source.

Another thing you’d come to realise, this time regarding unintelligible murmurs, is that they are very much open to interpretation. So even though his barrage of saccharine words were met with your limited arsenal of what might be considered responses, they been understood as absolute agreement, alongside the reciprocation of his affections. Which, to be honest, wasn’t that far off from the truth, as it was by that point, you’d learned the path of resistance was futile and that you were beginning to get used to (and even bask in) the flattery and praise he showered you with, silently and psychologically solidifying the notion that he was yours and you were his.

“You’ll stay with me forever right, Okaa-San?”

He giggled, placing a soft, lingering kiss upon your lips as if he were certain of your answer. And so were you. However, when he looked at you, tenderly caressing your form there was something amiss, a dormant hunger that hadn’t been there before, one that when coupled with the intensity he’d always regarded you with gave birth to towering waves of nausea and accentuated the persistent throb of your injured legs as if in subtle warning…

But you could deal with that later.

Because, despite the fact that his, short, brilliant orange hair had grown long and luscious with time and his scrawny figure had evolved into a mass of lean muscle, he still looked to you … like he did the first day he entered your care. Young, innocent and without fault. Unfairly dealt a bad hand and with you tasked to be the provider of everything he never had. So, as per the contract signed…

You nodded.

After all, what was a guardian without unconditional devotion to their child?

#deal with the devil collab #yandere #hinata shoyo x reader #hq hinata #hinata shoyuo #yandere hinata #yandere x reader #yandere haikyuu #hinata shoyo x you #haikyuu hinata #yandere hinata shoyo #tw yandere

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seimeinotaka · 3 years

Text

Rêverie (An OberonXGudako fic)

MASSIVE LOSTBELT 6 SPOILERS INCLUDING OBERON'S PROFILE AND BOND CE

Summary: Oberon has been unexpectedly summoned to Chaldea. He wonders why he is even there as he reminisces what happened in Avalon Le Fae. But it seems Ritsuka isn't leaving him alone, much to his annoyance.

Thanks to jellyfishy for beta-reading this!

Once again, the story has major spoilers for LB6, Oberon's profile and Bond CE, as well as important plot points of Solomon, LB1 and LB5.

There's implied one-sided love, mentions of heavy topics such as loss, and mentions of deceased characters.

"Master, Master, you've gotten better at this!"

"Thank you, Gogh! I've been practicing a lot using the tips you and Oui gave me. Even Jeanne Alter praised my background, hehe!"

"Hey, I said it was passable. Pas-sa-ble!"

Ritsuka Fujimaru has been drawing something in the cafeteria, surrounded by many servants that come and go. No one asks what she is doing, they all seem to know or if they don’t, they don’t bother to ask.

It is so bothersome. Annoying.

So many people surrounding her, like an ultraviolet lamp that attracts all the bugs. Never mind that they end up getting zapped the moment they ever dare to touch it.

The people, the sound, the merriment, it all annoys Oberon, who only watches in silence as he eats some ice cream with melon.

To be able to smile like that, even after discarding all of those stories...Oberon doesn't hide a crooked smile. In the end, the lostbelts are no more than faint dreams doomed to end, forgotten by the winners, the panhuman history citizens. Ritsuka Fujimaru isn't different. For her, it's like reading the doujin the swimsuit berserker is making. Once the pages are closed, the story ends and it ceases to exist. She can choose to forget.

Truly detestable.

Oberon stares and then walks away, just as Ritsuka lifts her face. She looks around, the feeling of being watched faintly breaking her concentration.

But in the end he doesn't say a word as he leaves.

“Hey, you keep looking at Master!” Jeanne Alter slams her hands on the table where Oberon is sitting. Said Master is working again, too enthralled talking with Gogh to notice Jeanne Alter slipping away to talk to him.

“Does it bother if I do?” He gives her a crooked smile as she huffs and scowls. Though of course her face turns slightly pink.

“Tch, of course not! It's just your stare is getting on my nerves! Wouldn't you get distracted if someone is looking at you intensely?”

“I am a creation, not a creator. I wouldn't understand what you're saying. Besides, I wasn’t looking at her or you anyway,” he says mockingly.

“Hmph, whatever you say. Leave when Master is drawing, what she is doing is very important and I won't let you make it messy.”

“Hah, a page of your little comic? As if you need a lot of care. But fret not, I am certain that with your keen insight and guidance it will be something so memorable, up to the level of the famous writers here in Chaldea.”

“You bug...Bring it, I will burn you to a crisp! Moths do like fire, don't they? Surely you will feel at home then!” Jeanne Alter laughs. “I'll let you know that it is something so impressive that it would make you cry, if you're capable of that anyway.”

Though her Saint Graph right now is one of a Berserker, it seems the insight of the Avenger still exists deep within. After all, only those who are similar can recognize each other. Fake recognizes fake. Emptiness recognizes emptiness. Hate can only recognize hate.

Though come to think about it, Ritsuka has always been writing, he noticed she kept a small book on her, during quiet times. Perhaps a diary of sorts. It wouldn’t be surprising, to record everything she has experienced, as the writer of the winning history.

When we die, we'll become like those stories. Our lives are stories that might be discussed and forgotten, so it's not that different from your midsummer night dream.

A dream you forget once you wake up from your slumber.

“You're a tsundere,” Ritsuka says flatly as she rests her chin on her hand. She even dares to give Oberon a shrug and a smile, as if she can tell the truth between the lies.

“Ah, you're annoying.”

“That's exactly what I'm talking about, hehe!”

An obnoxious smile continues to be on her face, and he simply looks at her with unveiled disgust and apathy.

“Why am I even here?”

“Well, you answered the call, so you can only blame yourself for that.”

“What.”

“The rayshift system call can be refused. That's an inescapable truth. You lie a lot but there are some truths in your words. Or actions in this case. You wanted to be in Chaldea, even if you don’t want to admit it.”

“Ah there it is, your virtuous nature shining through. One day you'll be fooled by someone who is pretending to be your ally...ah, my bad, that has already happened, isn't that right? Maybe you should learn your lesson.”

“Ah, yes. But it doesn't change that you are here. And because you lie often, that means I can just take it whatever way I like. You'll just deny it even if I'm right. But you can't deny we get along pretty well!”

“We do not!”

“See, that's a lie!”

“Ah, I'm going to the cafeteria! Don't follow me!”

Yet we thrive on dreams, don’t we?

“How long do you think I've been in this business? Have you interacted already with some of the servants here? I can tell you don’t mind my company.”

“I quit, I'll break the contract!”

“So, one cube or two?” Ritsuka dares to offer him the sugar cube container, even holding some tongs, just to put the amount he requests in his cup.

“You really want a poisoned tea, right, wonderful Master?~”

Even if they are something that doesn’t exist, we yearn for them, even to make them a reality. No matter how impossible. No matter how painful.

That is why we can never get rid of them.

Even if we forget once the veil of dawn has ended, something of it remains.

“There's so much that is subjective. For example, you were Artoria's Merlin, weren't you? For a moment you were Merlin, that was her truth. There's different Merlins, I mean we have different Artorias here from different eras and classes. You were a different Merlin than the one I know.”

Ritsuka is busy trying different colors. Oui and Gogh got into a discussion on how to best get the tones she was aiming for, and they even went to do some research on their own. The reds of a forest seem familiar yet not quite right, not that Oberon was looking at the notebook.

It has to have a dreamlike feeling, that’s what she wanted, but that’s not easy to pour into a painting.

“What we see as a lie or as truth, it changes with our perception. Your lies and my truths might be different, but it's ok. In the end we have only one perspective. That's why lies and truths can mix, that's why contradictions exist. I mean, that is why you are here.”

“Here's some advice from the bottom of my heart, don't quit your day job, Master. Stick to the world saving and leave the philosophical dissertation to virtually anyone else.”

In the end, does the truth really matter?

Something that can change when you close your eyes. Something that is as fleeting as a moth's life.

Would anything change in the grand scheme of things?

To protect Ritsuka, Chaldea forged a story, one where Romani Archaman was at fault for everything that happened.

To the world that is on the verge of disappearing, that became the truth.

To everyone in Chaldea, the truth is that this girl worked harder than anyone to protect this world.

That was what Sherlock Holmes said once they met. Oberon didn’t like him, but in a way he seems familiar. Holmes is a great detective, but since he keeps everything to himself, he might be wrong the entire time until the last minute.

So it’s not like Oberon can take him that seriously.

Even so, he told him the story of the great journey before Panhuman History was at risk by the Alien God. A story of which he was somehow aware, but it seems different when it is told by someone else.

To Oberon, it was a story of selfish survival. A fitting story of those who fight in the mud to continue existing.

To Holmes, it was a story of humanity bravely fighting to avoid destruction. An unlikely event that might have inspired others. Or rather, that is how the Leonardo Da Vinci from that time would have framed it, since Holmes isn’t an author and the current Da Vinci is someone different now.

The events are there, what changes is our perception of them. Perhaps this is where truths and lies take root, the lie of today becomes the truth of tomorrow.

The lie allows the fake existence to continue even when the dream has already ended.

But in the end, everything will fade, so nothing really matters.

"Well, I don't know if it has a meaning, but doesn't that mean you can give it your own? Just like how I can take your lies the way I want."

"Aren't you a simplistic one? No, perhaps it is that kind of thinking that has let you get this far. What a naive Master Chaldea has. Though it helps you accomplish your goals. "

He is not sure why they are taking tea while chatting, but here he is. Perhaps it is to hide his annoyance, the Master won’t stop until she gets what she wants anyway, so he is just avoiding a pointless squabble.

"You can think whatever you want~ and in any case, even if the feelings of today will be nothing in the future, that doesn't mean they are worthless. Because they affect the you of today and that is the moment when you are alive.”

The joy of living, that is something Oberon can’t understand nor tolerate. It angers him.

Of course, he is an entity of the abyss so how could he comprehend that?

The will of self-destruction, the cessation of existence. That something is so fundamentally wrong that it must wiped out, for there is no way to fix something that crooked.

Faerie Britain wished for him because it had to be wiped away from all records, because it had no way of being salvaged.

Therefore, he can only listen to those words.

(Perhaps it is the envy of not having something? Perhaps it is the bitterness of no longer having something to do, to dream for? Or simple ennui that no matter what, in the end it doesn’t matter?)

Ritsuka ignores his silence, as she continues.

“I don't know but for someone who likes stories you don't seem like you're actually enjoying them.”

“Would you enjoy a story where you fade away like everyone in the lostbelts you have erased? Ah, my bad. Surely, as the winner you can afford to disregard those stories. Silly me, of course you would be able to believe that as the victor you can claim to be the true history. Panhuman history is in the end mankind's right path, after all, and everything else can fade into the abyss.”

Her smile is complex, almost a facade. From one angle it looks like a forlorn frown, from the other a faint smile. She plays with the spoon on her table.

"Hmmm, I wonder..."

Dr. Roman, we finally beat the British Lostbelt. It was unlike any other places we were, and I keep thinking of Percival's words...

I wish you were still here.

The sacrifice of someone can mean the whole world for a single person. The sacrifices of millions can become a mere statistic, a simple cold number to show how bad an event was. In the end, it doesn't matter.

What was once lost will never come back.

The void left in one's soul will never heal, it only becomes more bearable with time.

But even so, that lingering pain is the proof that someone was alive, that they left a mark on the others they met as one looks at the twinkling stars and reminisces of the never-happening-again past.

“Did you know the true opposite of love isn't hate but indifference?”

“Haaah? Perhaps you didn't think so but I was being honest about my suggestion. Thinking too much will only hurt your head. You should only focus on what's in front of you.”

“Whether you love or hate, you end up putting a lot of attention to the object of your affections, but if you're indifferent to it, it ceases to exist. Perhaps your hatred of everything is because there's something you cannot afford to lose.”

Titania was the wife of Oberon in Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream. She was the only one who could accept the king's eccentric personality.

But in reality, she was just a creation for the story, a being who was never real.

Of course, there isn't a person like that in the world.

Someone who accepts a hollow entity like me.

“I don’t know, if Arjuna Alter was able to come to terms with his own humanity, well...nevermind. I was just thinking aloud.”

(Ideals are just that.

A concept not belonging to this world.

It is when you reconcile with the flawed reality that you can grasp your happiness, the one you have.)

“Heh-Hahahaha, that's rich, Master!”

This is so sickening.

Only Titania could have loved(tolerated) such an unpleasant existence. Only Titania could have loved(tolerated) a being born of hate, a destructive force whose only purpose is to rend everything to ashes.

But the fact is, Titania doesn't exist. This means no one could accept someone like him.

That is the unpleasant truth.

That is why people are entranced(poisoned) by falsehoods, lies to sweeten the body and protect the soul. It's a sweet elixir to hide from the harsh reality, the ultimate end of the journey of everyone, a pointless, worthless life. Because at the end of the dream, no matter what one has accomplished, it doesn't change the finale of this story and it is doomed to be forgotten.

Just as the one princess from before, who also fell in love with the Fairy King. The one who tried to give fire to his cold body. But he didn't notice this, not even when her snow body had ceased to move, a protection of love.

So in the end, if it's not acknowledged, it is the same as it never had happened.

“Tell me, does it matter to you? Are you going to tell me you know how I feel? That you understand what I'm going through? Come on, tell me your important story, that everything is going to be alright as long as I'm not alone-”

“I can't. I don't know how you feel. Even if we had suffered the same, I wouldn't know how you feel.”

Her words or her smile, the same as before. He doesn’t know which but it cuts him short.

“All I know is the pain of losing someone important to me, but that's not what you're feeling, right?”

The Titania I wish for doesn't exist in this world. The Faerie Britain that gave birth to me no longer exists, even if I have accomplished my goal.

I am merely a dream whose purpose has been fulfilled and thus, the curtain shall be down as I exit the stage.

The things I yearn for are merely dreams. Even so, I hope, because I saw it existed for someone else. For another Oberon, not the one I am.

The illusion of happiness, the hope of a love.

I don't know how it is to not be Oberon, the lying king. The king without any other purpose. The villain that has exited the stage having won, but now even that victory is pointless.

Then, why am I still here?

“For what it's worth, I like you. You're nice company, lies and all.”

“You’re an odd one.”

“I've been told that often.”

“It's not a compliment, you have no taste.”

“You know, for Panhuman history I am the hero, ensuring our world survives. But to everyone else from every lostbelt erased...I am the worst of the worst, the villain that destroys their world.”

Ritsuka traces the notebook on her hands. The contents of the rest could be disclosed but Oberon doesn’t open any of the other pile of notebooks, so they all lie on her bed.

“Patxi cursed me for showing him a world that he thought was happier than his.”

Tears fell from her eyes as she smiled weakly. “I wonder if that was ever the right choice.”

“Panhuman history isn't the perfect utopia you can imagine. Humans seek hatred and war, there's suffering and agony. While some can lead happy lives, there's so many who can't even enjoy a warm meal or think of a future. Kirshtaria saw that, he wanted to make a better world because ours was so imperfect.”

“Why are we still going?”

“Why was ours the correct one?”

“Even now, I don't know. And I'm not sure if I'll ever know. Any justification might seem a rationalization, something to feel less guilty for killing all those people.”

“That is why I cannot forget, I cannot let the history of those lostbelts be erased. Even if I'm the only one who remembers,” her grip on the notebook tightened, “I can never forget them.”

Like a dream, one time Oberon caught sight of what she was drawing, finally reaching the dreamy red hue she long sought, depicting the autumn forest Oberon knew and hated.

The words depicting what happened in Faerie Britain, the stories of Artoria, Morgan, of Barghest, Baobhan Sith and Melusine, of Aurora, of Mike, of Ector, of Knocknarea, of him.

“Even if the rest of the world forgets, I cannot. That's why I want to record as much as I can. I caused them to disappear, remembering all of them is the least I can do.”

“That's guilt for you.”

“...Yes, I can't deny that. I've caused many people to suffer, that is why I cannot stop.”

“You're an idiot. Pursuing a fleeting dream that will only cause you to hurt, as your heart tears itself apart with these thorns you surround yourself with.”

“I guess. But someone has to do it right? But even so…

“I enjoy the moments with everyone here in Chaldea and I can say I'm happy.

But I also feel deep sadness for everything that I have done and continue to do.”

There are many contradicting truths, woven into each other.

Like overlapping threads in a beautiful(horrible) story.

“I could think Panhuman history is the correct one because it was there. There was a reason why it was chosen.”

“And if there isn't? If there is truly no meaning to your journey? That the reason your world was chosen was a mere whim of fate, a sudden lucky roll of the dice? That there is nothing special to your world that makes you worthy of the title of proper human history?”

“Then I guess I will have to make it so that there is one.”

“And if you can't?”

“Just because I can't doesn't mean I shouldn't try.”

“Trying doesn't mean you will succeed. Morgan tried her hardest, but in the end, she still failed, crumbling in despair as her Faerie kingdom burnt to ashes.”

“Well, that will come bite me when the time comes, but for now, that’s all I can do, right?”

In the end, as long as it entertains, does it matter?

What is the purpose of a story? To bring joy(tears)? To break one from that moment of boredom, of despair, and heal the soul even if just a little?

And in the end, does it even matter?

“I like this Saint Graph more.”

It’s been a long time since he has donned the clothes as King Oberon. Once the façade was over, once he could ascend, he has never worn anything but the colors of the depths of the abyss. Anyone else would think they are unsightly, hateful, depressing.

After all, the warmth of King Oberon’s butterfly wings makes children smile, makes people trust him. His monstruous limbs right now are not enchanting.

“I thought you were a butterfly girl. And I have been wearing these ever since, why are you even saying this up until now?”

“I just wanted to say that. I like the fluffy cape and the butterfly wings, but you sound less pained right now. And this outfit is cool too.”

In the end, perhaps Titania isn't meant to be someone who brings the sun to your eyes, with laughter so contagious that she makes the bitterness of a day go away. She's not a neverending warmth on a cold winter, nor a guiding bright star up in the dark sky. She's not the simple to your complicated, the light to your dark, the smile to your frown, the opposite of your miserable existence that brings joy to your life. An illogical being that accepts you in spite of your incompatibility.

Was I wrong all along?

A companion when watching a wonderful(decadent) play.

Someone who walks by your side in a crumbling world.

Someone whose company makes the poison more bearable and hell, tolerable.

Someone who simply loves me for who I am. Who gazed at the abyss, saw the void yet didn't run away.

Ah, this is so laughable, an amateur terrible tragicomedy, a hideous play with no sickeningly sweet ending.

(Perhaps it is because Titania is a wretched creature herself. Or perhaps because Titania's wings have been torn off that she understands a small fragment of you. Even if true understanding is a lie, a pipe dream. Titania has seen her own hell and can sympathize with yours, with the emptiness and resentment you hold. Not fearing it, not judging it. Just accepting you as the flawed existence you are.

If that is the case, then there is nothing beautiful about Titania.)

But even so...

"...You are..."

"Did you say something?"

"No, nevermind."

Ritsuka smiles as Oberon looks away. He grumbles about the cramped space as he hoards the bed, swatting a mosquito away while she writes in her diary. The boring stories she writes that he doesn't care about even if his fingers have traced those letters.

But even so, he stays.

Ah, love is a bothersome thing.

Thank you for reading!

Now, OH BOY WHERE TO BEGIN. Title comes from Debussy's Rêverie. I wanted to play with it, seeing that Oberon's Bond CE is called Pavane for a Dead Princess, which is the title of a melody by Ravel. I am sure it is no coincidence. Both Ravel and Debussy were considered the cornerstones of Impressionism in music, however, they both HATED being labeled like that.

Pavane for a Dead Princess is one of Ravel's solo compositions for the piano. However, unlike what the title implies, Ravel specifically said that it wasn't meant to be a melody of a funeral, but he wanted to evoke the idea of a princess dancing to the pavane. However, some people didn't really listen to him. So in this case, I think that rather than to see Oberon's CE as a funeral to Blanca, it is a way to celebrate her story, even if it didn't end on the happier note we would have wished. You can listen to it here

Now Rêverie is by Debussy and it's meant to feel like a dream, hence the name. The melody became a massive hit, though Debussy later hated this piece because he felt that he had written better pieces but this one was the one that made him famous. Since it was written when he was young, he felt he was still lacking a lot, but the melody became one of his most popular compositions nonetheless. I think that story ties nicely with what we perceive vs what others perceive. You can listen to it here

Now onto the actual fic, I had this vague idea when part 3 was released, especially after all the spoilers about Oberon's true identity. I really wanted to get him, and I was super lucky. In between getting him, his profile and bond lines being translated, I just got possessed to write this as a way to honor and thank him for coming home AND to give him a sort of happy ending after Avalon.

Oberon in that bed is thanks to that comic on Twitter where he is eating chips without any care and the kind reminder of his voice lines that in spite of him constantly complaining, he spends an awful lot of time on our room. Hehehe.

Best of luck if you are pulling for him! And once again, thank you for reading!

#fate grand order #ritsuka fujimaru #obeguda #fgo oberon #oberon vortigern #fgo

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aquaticstyles · 4 years

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unchained

A while ago I was asked for a “Have You Ever Been In Love” sequel, and while this is probably not the direction you guys were expecting, this is what I came up with. Also, this one’s (loosely) inspired by the song “Scott Street” by the lovely Phoebe Bridgers (highly recommend listening to the spotify sessions version while listening). Fun fact, for forever I misheard the lyrics, thinking she was saying “unchained” instead of “ashamed.” After noticing that I have, in fact, been wrong this entire time, I realized I kinda liked my version better (sorry Phoebe). And, me being me, I ran with it and it spun into this quick, 1.4k part two. Reblogs + feedback help so much! Enjoy!! xx, Jane

“Have you ever been in love?”

Harry’s heart stops.

The question catches him off guard, and not just because he’s not used to interviewers asking such personal ones (he guesses this is what he signed up for when he agreed to be the first male flying solo on the cover of Vogue). It makes his heart stop because of his answer, because of the woman that had once asked him the same exact question.

Harry has never been one to linger in his sadness; he finds it unproductive, and quite honestly, completely depressing. After a break up, one can find the caramel-colored curls belonging to the world’s latest phenomenon sweating out his sorrow, or frustration, at the gym, pounding the boxing bag again and again and again. “Nothing another set can’t fix,” his trainer, Mike, would often tease the man in denial, knowing good and well by his posture upon entering the ring, slumped shoulders and an ever-present crease between his eyebrows, that another one had bit the dust the night prior. Mike had learned fairly quickly to never ask questions, to simply let Harry work out his emotions as he pleases, even if that means letting him walk out with wrapped fists masking throbbing, crimson knuckles.

Harry has never been one to talk about his sadness either; he finds it prolongs the pain rather than diminishing it, an annoying gnat swarming around an abnormally large bite from a crisp apple, halting his progression in enjoying his afternoon snack because he just can’t catch the bloody thing. His sister has tried to break him from his stubborn ways, even resulting to getting the lanky man drunk off tequila in hopes of him finally opening up about his incessant missed targets; however, that only ever ends up with Gemma’s arms holding up the giggling teddy bear and folding his bulky body into a taxi, mimicking cramming a cotton ball into a straw. Therapy was suggested and waved off with an inked palm, because if he doesn’t want to talk to his sister about it, how on earth is he supposed to talk to a stranger?

Never-ending claims of “I’m fine,” and “It just didn’t work out,” and “Don’t worry ‘bout me,” and “It wasn’t even that serious.” Sure, each breakup took a little something out of the man that insisted he was “fine,” but eventually, a couple dozen inked journal pages later, Harry would be back to his normal, happy-go-lucky, perfectly-kind self.

All of these rang true for most of Harry’s young adulthood.

All of these were common occurrences, that is, until Harry met you.

You were unlike anyone he had ever met. Selfless, but not in an over-bearing, walk-all-over-me kind of way. Funny, but not in an underlying-hatred, fake-laugh kind of way. Genuine, but not in a look-at-me, fake kind of way. Honest, in a I-want-to-know-everything-that-makes-you-you, ask-you-questions-until-the-sun-rises kind of way. Drop-dead-gorgeous in the most unbelievable, glowing, ethereal, kind of way that he constantly reminded you of. You were the perfect balance, the missing diamond to even out the coal on the other end of the scale.

Loving you felt like the ocean.

In the morning when there’s a hazy screen covering your lenses, clouding the soft sunlight in a muted, white-washed filter. It’s more gray, yet still golden as the shining mass of fire lazily rises from its slumber. It’s calm, clouds stretched apart like cobwebs in the faded blue sky above, waves leisurely, almost too relaxed, crashing along the bleached shore then disappearing back into the horizon. Still sleepy, still new, an entire day ahead of you.

In the afternoon when the sun is at its highest and hottest, radiating down ultraviolet rays that burn your skin, causing alarmingly red shoulders in need of aloe that soon progressively heal and turn into a bronzed exterior. Speckles of light dancing upon excited waves, similar to a neighborhood of children dressed in pink polka dots and orange overalls running towards the ice cream truck filled to the brim with dreams of sugary stomachaches. It’s saturated, every color its brightest and loudest, pops of cerulean and coral. It’s a blanket of comfort, a suffocating scarf. It’s sweet. It’s sour. A cool glass of lemonade sinking into a bed of quicksand. Annoying and astonishing.

In the night, when the yellowing presence is long gone in the awakening of the moon, the deepest indigo swirling in between pockets of stars dotted and flecked into the atmosphere like freckles. It’s black and blue. You don’t know where the earth stopss and the water begins, familiarity lost as the waves erase each new footprint in the sand. The tide is an abuser, sweet as it sings you in, terrifying as it pulls you under. Skinny dipping, vulnerable, exciting, adrenaline, heart thumping, diving, sinking, drowning.

The morning, the afternoon, the night. The happening, the honeymoon, the heartbreak.

Ever since it ended, everything Harry had ever known was cast aside, thrown out like a Gucci jumper from last season. For the first time in his twenty-six years of living, fourteen of those juggling the obstacles that relationships can and will bring, Harry was irreversibly numb, a pair of frozen, gloveless fingertips blue from the icy wind. Not only did he linger in the gut-wrenching grief, he was absorbed by it. Instead of waking up each morning tucked into the bare side of your body diffusing innocent warmth, sipping a steaming cup of black coffee received by hands much smaller than his own, he woke up with a stranger laying on his chest, cold, with a pounding headache the bottle of whiskey had gladly supplied from the night before. The days felt as if they lasted an eternity, time stuck in slow-motion, tick, tick, ticking, one second, one and a half, one and three quarters, two. He watched the seasons pass, the grass dying and regenerating into its natural emerald shade from his bedroom, dust pocketing in the corners of a picture frame containing two pairs of sparkling eyes and genuine, toothy grins sitting on the windowsill. Nights consisted of him lying sleepless on his back, eyes wide awake, thumbs twiddling as the echoes of helicopters overhead drone in and out. Dozens of missed calls remained unanswered: Mum, Gem, Mitch, Mike, Adam, Sarah, Mum, Mum, Gem, Mum, Mike, Mitch, Gem, Mitch, Mum…

He was stuck, a pancake glued to an ungreased pan, charred. It was when this melancholy had prolonged for nearly its sixth month, and all at home remedies (which included drinking, writing, drinking because he was writing, and writing because he was drinking) failed to provide any peace that he decided to give in to the recommendations from almost every single one of his friends: therapy. After the first session, he was ready to book it and sprint off to a deserted island with nothing but a coconut filled with rum to accompany his solitude. Turns out that one session was the mento to his coca cola of bottled-up emotions, exploding months’ worth of buried feelings and memories in an hour. It took the will of God (and Gemma purposefully lying and telling him they were going to get lunch) to get Harry back in the baby-pink-painted interior of his therapist’s office. After months of talking, sorting, compartmentalizing, yelling, crying, healing, unpacking, and reflecting, Harry tackled down the closure he had been chasing. A year and an album later, when he heard your name, he no longer felt trapped, heart beating rapidly, trying desperately to break apart his ribcage, he felt unchained—a prisoner uncaged, pounds and pounds of metal unlocked from his wrists, free.

Before, your name was paired with a colorless photo album, snapshots of vibrancy draining into black and white, frozen, lifeless, still.

Now, your name resembled a film reel of the best moments, your sweater hanging in his closet, your arm thrown around his mother’s shoulder in a polaroid candid, your laugh echoing in the acoustics of his shower after you nearly slipped on the lavender bubbles coating sudsy toes, your hands massaging his scalp, twisting curls into detailed plaits, your foamy lips smushing against a stubbled cheek, leaving remnants of peppermint mocha in the winter air, your satin skirt contrasting from his purple flares in his backyard, playing thumb war and whispering confessions in the moonlight. The good memories built a brick wall to block out the bad, dimming the light of your downfall.

“Have you ever been in love?” The question echoes again in Harry’s ears, causing a grin and a dimple to pop into his cheek. The fuzzies. Once, twice, three times. Click, shake, tape.

“Yeah, I have.”

279 notes · View notes

jimlingss · 4 years

Text

Moirai [5]

Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6

➜ Words: 5k

➜ Genres: 60% Fluff, 40% Angst, Isekai!AU

➜ Summary: Death is supposed to be the end. Or at least that's what you assumed when you're hit by a TRUCK. But the moment you open your eyes again, instead of being sent to the afterlife, you've become a baby. And not just any baby. You're the female villain of a video game.

“Thank you for inviting me, Lady Anastasia.” Lucienne sits across the rounded table from you, oblivious to the blossom petals that have drifted down and tangled itself into her hair. The tea party invitation rests beside her teacup, neat and crisp like she held and opened it with the utmost care. “Yes, thank you.” The other lady beside her pipes up. “It’s an absolute honour.” “The Royal gardens are lovely this season,” another adds. “I’m glad I can enjoy it like this.” “It’s not a problem, everyone.” A friendly smile stretches across your face. “It can get quite lonely being the only lady in the castle, so your company is welcome.” More like Lady Devon and your other tutors was pretty damn insistent that you build a good reputation and inner circle, but whatever. What they don’t know, won’t hurt them. But you do remember that in the original game, Anastasia used this opportunity to shame the heroine. She invited her to a tea party and made snide remarks about how she danced with the Prince. Of course it seems petty now but it’s understandable that Anastasia resented the heroine so much. Even if she didn’t intend it, she humiliated Anastasia by stealing her fiancé. And the fact of the matter is that you’ll also become the laughingstock for what she’ll do. “If I may ask, have you started the wedding arrangements yet, Lady Anastasia?” You nearly choke on your tea, sputtering for a moment until you’re able to set the cup down on the saucer and cough into your napkin. The ladies around the table appear concerned, but you plaster on another smile. “Well, there’s been no discussion yet. The Royal family and the Devereux house are in no rush. There’s still quite a bit of time, so who knows what could happen.” “What could happen?” One of them catches on quick and you cordially nod. “The engagement was made when both Prince Jungkook and I were very young, but now that we are older, we can voice our own opinions on the matter.” You choose your words carefully and your smile widens. “I am not opposed if changes are made. If the leaders of the empire cannot exercise their own freedoms, then how can the people?” They nod in agreeance, a few in awe at your deep thought process. “That is very mature of you, Lady Anastasia.” You laugh stiffly and lift your tea cup for another sip. “Oh, but the Crown Prince is so wonderful.” You choke. Again. You wonder if you’re going to die at this tea party from the warm liquid constantly going down the wrong pipe. “I am sure he wouldn’t change his mind with how lovely you are, Lady Anastasia.” The girl beside you smiles, laying it on thick to win your favour. “You two are a very fitting couple.” “I agree.” Lucy smiles softly. “Prince Jungkook is very courteous.” “And very majestic.” You remember when you dueled with Jungkook, he lost within a minute. He threw a tantrum in the following days and gave you the silent treatment. Or that time you went horseback riding, you decided to race each other and he fell off his own horse into mud and started crying. Uh-huh. Majestic indeed. You chalk up your wheeze to nothing and dab the corner of your mouth with the tablecloth napkin. “Yes, well, Jungkook will make a fine King someday.” “And you’ll make a fine Queen,” a soft-spoken voice pipes up and your eyes connect to Lucy’s. Unlike the others surrounding you, you know her words are genuinely spoken and you shift uncomfortably in your seat. “I’m not so sure about that,” you honestly admit as you fidget with the edge of the porcelain saucer. “A queen must be kind and generous and know the suffering of the people. I’m afraid I have a lot left to learn.” Your gaze meets Lucy’s again. Her smile is all too gentle for high society and its naturally cunning, heartless nature. She’s awfully naive, but that aside, you know her benevolence will make her beloved in the empire. // Once the tea party is over, you’re able to breathe a sigh of relief. Christ, thank god that’s over. You escort most of the ladies towards their carriages, bidding them goodbye with polite waves as the palace servants clear the dishes, chairs and table away from the garden. And you turn around to head back to your room to sneak in a break, but your name is frantically called— “Lady Anastasia!” You turn and a girl in her purple, simple gown comes barrelling down the open hall. Her chest rises and falls, completely out of breath even when she only ran two meters. It makes you laugh unabashedly. “Is everything okay? You don’t need to run.” She hunches over, lungs probably burning, but she fixes her posture a moment later. “S-Sorry, my lady.” “Anastasia is fine.” Lucy nods. “I...just wanted to thank you again. I was very excited when I received your invitation. It’s an honour….Anastasia.” “There’s no reason to thank me so much.” You walk alongside her. Your hat with pinned pink peonies, matching your gown, shields the sun away from your face. “It’s just that I don’t get invited to these sort of events often considering….considering I’m just a baron’s daughter and adopted one at that.” She doesn’t need to tell you — you know her backstory well. You’ve played through it from her perspective. Her father abandoned her mother who died of illness when she was five and she was picked up on the streets by the sympathetic baron. It seems like every character in this game has some tragic backstory. They are defining moments that make that person. But you suppose life itself is like that. “Can I give you some advice, Lucy?” you ask after a quiet moment and she nods. You stop walking and the girl halts beside you. “Your humility makes you likeable, but be careful not to self-deprecate yourself. Your worth is more than what you consider yourself to have.” Her eyes widen and you add, “Plus, it’s not good to thank a host more than once like they’ve done you a big favour because they’ll start to think you owe them for it.” Lucy nods and you smile, resuming your stroll. “I’ll be inviting you to more tea parties in the future.” “Thank—” She catches herself. “Yes, I will be looking forward to that.” A grin spreads into your cheeks. “On a different note, I never got to ask you how your dance was with Jungkook at the debutante ball.” “Oh, yes, the Prince was very kind. But I’m sorry if it was inappropriate, I know he’s your fiancé—” This time, your laugh is unrestrained. She looks up at you in surprise. “Do you think I’m getting jealous?” Lucy opens her mouth and then closes it, not sure what to say and you bat the air with your hand. “Jungkook is like a little brother to me.” If she was surprised before, now she looks entirely off guard. “It thought the Prince and you were the same age.” You laugh stiffly. “Yes, we are, but I guess that’s what childhood friends are like.” “Oh, I’ve never had a childhood friend.” “Have you ever had a friend?” Your eyes meet her’s and you smile. “Because I’d be happy to be your first.” The conversation soon ends and as Lucy walks away, you breathe another sigh of relief and pat yourself on the back at the positive interaction. Even if she’s just a countryside girl, it’s nerve-racking when you’re supposed to be the villainess. You like her and you even offered your friendship, but with each interaction, your demise is always lingering at the back of your head. “I didn’t take you for being such a mentor.” You whirl around, nearly startled to death by the voice and you discover a tall, dark-haired man leaning against the marble pillar with a sly smile. “How long have you been there?” Taehyung grins. “Not long. I was just passing by. It was a coincidence.” He turns in the direction where Lucy went. “I heard you had a tea party, how did it go?” “It was exhausting.” You stretch your arms over your head and walk over to lean against the stone ledge next to him. “I don’t think I’m quite fit for the palace life.” Taehyung smiles and you look up at him. “Are you going to the garden again?” He nods and there’s a strong urge to ask him if you can come along. Just for a small break before they find you and you’re swept up in another lesson. But you’re not sure if you should— “Would you like to come?” Taehyung asks the question for you and your eyes meet one another’s. There’s no one around. Not a soul in sight who could stop you from going or leaving. You know you should keep your distance from him. You know. But… “Okay.” You take him up on the offer, following after him, just for a moment of indulgence.

With the arrival of Spring also comes the Hunt. It’s a rather eventful time in the castle considering it's generally symbolic of the harvests of this year, thought to prevent famine if those attending can bring back large game. An irony that isn’t lost on you. But it’s an undoubtedly lively time and one that you don’t mind. “You better bring back a whole moose,” you mumble as you tie the blue ribbon on the belt of Jungkook’s armour, making sure it’s tight and secure. The ribbon is a gift of good luck and one of affection. You’re obligated to tie one for Jungkook considering you’re his fiancée. “I’ll bring back a dragon,” he declares brazingly and you lightly scoff. This is his second time participating after winning last year, but you remember he was practically shaking back then out of fear and pressure. “Okay then. Just make sure you don’t fall off your horse this time.” “That was only once!” You take a step back when you’re done tying the ribbon. “I should be the one going on the hunt instead of staying back for idle chit chat. I’m pretty sure I would be able to catch something bigger than you.” “Probably.” Jungkook grins. “You’re good enough with your sword to be a knight.” “They’d never let me.” You sigh. God knows your mother would be mortified and probably faint and die. But while staying back and waiting for the men to return with their kill is boring as hell, at least you’re removed from the pressure of having to hunt large prey in the first place. It’s a competition after all and one that can get quite competitive from your knowledge. You follow Jungkook to his prized white horse and watch him caress its muzzle. “If you win, you should give the prize to Lucy.” His brows furrow and he turns his head to you. “Lucienne? The girl I danced with at the ball? Why?” You shrug half-heartedly. “Because she has no one and I feel bad for her. I already have a few knights who are going to dedicate their game to me.” Jungkook hums, not thinking much about it. “Fine by me.” He puts his foot on the stirrup and swings himself over, sitting on top of the majestic horse. Preparations almost complete, you turn to the King who’s seated at the top of the stands in a throne-like chair. He looks across the field with an approving expression. Your parents are beside the King and you spare them a mere glance before turning away. You haven’t spoken to them since the end of the debutante ball and you don’t plan to. It might be childish to give them the silent treatment, but you wonder to what end they’ll try to force you. The attendant steps up. “Is everyone ready?” At that exact same moment, as if he was called upon, a familiar dark-haired man with eyes the hue of deep honey enters your peripheral vision. Taehyung emerges onto the field filled with knights on horses and soldiers in armour. His navy cape draped over his left shoulder sways with each movement, twinkling in the sunlight as if there were stars sewn into the fabric. He’s grasping onto a steel pole, a magical staff and his presence garners whispers from all. “Isn’t he the bastard son?” — “The first son of the King.” — “The one born from the maid.” They’re all startled to see him — the nobles sitting in the stands, women murmuring underneath their breaths, men watching with their eyes wide, knights and guards. And most of all, you’re stuck at a standstill. Heart thunderous in your ears — blood drained from your face — you can’t look away when all Taehyung is looking at is you. He comes close and his expression melts into a tender smile, a softened gaze when he reads your eyes’ fixation on him. Jungkook, on the other hand, grins and mounts off his horse. “Taehyung?!” The Prince welcomes his brother warmly — an action not unnoticed by the crowds watching. He hugs him and lets go a moment later. “What are you doing here?” “What can I say? I’m here to steal your victory.” The younger laughs and you can tell he’s genuinely excited. Jungkook’s cheeks are practically pink and bulging, and his eyes have brightened. “Do you want to put a bet on that?” “How much are you willing to wager?” Taehyung quips back. “My pride and dignity.” He scoffs playfully. “How about your private library collection?” “Deal. And if I win, I want you to come to the feast tonight.” Taehyung grins. “Looks like this year’s going to be difficult for you, Your Highness.” “I’ll keep up.” Jungkook laughs again and gets back on his horse. A stable-boy comes rushing over with a horse for Taehyung and before the King can utter a single word or you have a chance to speak to him, the games have begun. Taehyung glances over his shoulder at you for a single beat and then he’s off into the woods with the rest. In the original game, Taehyung never participated in the Hunt. He looked on from the window of his tower and even sabotaged Jungkook. In the original game, Jungkook became injured but still conscious enough that before he fated, he declared he would give his prize to the heroine since Anastasia was so overbearing. It sparked the girl’s jealousy and was the reason why she decided to conspire with Taehyung. It was the first domino in the chain — the beginning of the villains working hand in hand. But none of that is happening. You wonder how far your choices will continue to deviate from the story. How many more mistakes— “Are you alright, Anastasia?” You jolt, torn out of your deep trance by a worried gaze. Lucy has leaned in towards you, her brows knitted together and you smile. “I’m fine. I was just thinking about something.” You quickly change the subject. “Have you given your ribbon to anyone yet?” The pair of you are walking down the castle hall, heading towards the dining hall where you know the noble women will be having tea and making small talk while waiting for their sons and husbands. Lucy shakes her head and unties the blue ribbon she had around her wrist. “Why not?” She stares at the soft satin for a second and then looks up at you, mustering a small smile. “I wouldn’t know who to give it to.” “Well, you still have time to decide. You can give it to someone when they get back.” You hum to yourself. “How about giving it the Crown Prince?” Lucy’s eyes are as large as saucers and she blinks thrice. You’re a bit endeared with how surprised she seems at your suggestion. “Don’t you admire Prince Jungkook?” “I...I do,” she admits quietly and peeks at you again. “But I wouldn’t want to overstep—” “Not at all!” You reassure her. “Prince Jungkook likes the admiration. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind whatsoever. He might actually appreciate it.” The girl smiles to herself and nods. Evening sets in after meaningless conversations, cordial expressions and polite responses. The only interruptions are the horns that ring as each participant in the Hunt slowly arrives back. Jungkook returns sweaty and out of breath, but with a whole moose like he promised. There are cheers and applauses, but more importantly, silent gasps when he beelines straight to Lucy to give her the prize. She blushes, a stuttering mess full of ‘thank yous’ and ‘it’s an honour’, and you discover Jungkook’s bashful behaviour at her sincere gratitude. He scratches the back of his neck, diverts his vision, mutters ‘it’s fine’. It’s fascinating to watch considering he’s always been arrogant and bratty to you since the day you met him. But you don’t get to observe their moment for long. Not when the horns ring again and a figure appears over the horizon. This time, no one moves. Truly stunned. Breaths hitched. Holy shit. Taehyung arrives back with a bear and he doesn’t even look like he’s broken a sweat. “Wow!” Jungkook is the first to react, moving out of the crowd to his brother. He’s genuinely amazed and impressed, jaw dropped and brows shot to his hairline. “You did this?!” “Didn’t I say I would win?” Taehyung grins languidly. “This...is incredible!” Jungkook’s admiration for his brother causes the unsettled crowd to finally calm. It starts off slow, a clap here or there and then it’s applause, cheering and murmurs of acknowledgment. “Has anyone ever brought a bear back before?” — “Did he use magic?” — “Why didn’t the eldest son participate in the Hunt before?” And you know that it’s the first time people have clapped for Taehyung. The attendant rushes forward, sputtering on his words. “T-The winner for this year’s Hunt is His Highness, Prince Taehyung!” Taehyung wins a chest of gold, worth more than fifty commoner’s lifetimes and you watch as he bows his head as he receives it. You watch as he holds it and strides towards you. You watch until his arms have extended and a smile draws upon his features. “What are you doing?” you ask, a whisper that’s befallen off your lips, spilled past the astonishment. His gaze and smile never wavers. “I’m giving my prize to you.” The crowd’s stirred to silence, watching the two of you, and you receive the wooden chest. The attendant quickly announces the feast in the hall and servants begin ushering the people inside. But you continue watching Taehyung, your eyes connected to his, both grounded in the private bubble. No one notices the King sitting on top of the stands, his brows tightly knitted. // The dining hall has shifted. No longer are there laced tablecloths, towers of pastries and teapots from the afternoon. It’s large plates that have stretched along the surface, meats and cheese, breads and butters that have begun the feast. There are grandiose chairs all around three different tables, arranged based on importance and connections, conversations that have filled the enormous room. The darkness of the night is casted away by the chandeliers overhead, illuminating the room in a golden hue. Yet, while each is high on the atmosphere, drunk by the wine, you can’t swallow the food down. The tapping of utensils on glass has you looking over. The room simmers down. By the coaxing of Jungkook beside him, Taehyung rises from his chair and clears his throat. It’s customary for the victor of the Hunt to give a speech and you’re guessing this is it. “Thank you all for coming.” Taehyung appears unfamiliar and awkward addressing the crowd, quickly rushing over his words as if to get it done and over with. “I have never participated in the Hunt before this year and it was only because of beginners luck that I won. That—” Suddenly, Taehyung looks right at you. “—and the support of those most important to me.” Then, as quick as he stole his glance, he turns away. “I hope the harvests of Ashea will prosper this year.” There’s thunderous applause and the feast resumes. You’re overwhelmed, dizzy, the celebrations of the room getting to your head — laughter, questions, comments louder by ten decibels until it feels earsplitting. You look over at Jungkook, finding that he has two blue ribbons pinned on his left side. He’s smiling widely, oblivious. Then, your head whirls over to your parents sitting down the table. They might have friendly smiles plastered on their features, but you can tell through their eyes that there’s seething anger. They’re unhappy, most likely with you, most likely with what happened earlier. “Anastasia.” Lady Devon, who sits beside you, calls you out of your thoughts, disapproving at how your listening skills could be so poor. You blink, pretending you were in deep thought about her discussion of silver forks and the corner of your mouth tugs. “If you’ll excuse me…” After a delayed moment, she nods and you push your chair back, blurring into the massive paintings on the wall as you slip out to the terrace. The night is cold. Each exhale of yours is visible and you tug the soft pink shawl around your shoulders closer to your body for some warmth as you lean against the railings. You look up at the star-filled sky, finally able to calm yourself from the noise inside. You’ve always been glad that no matter where you are, what universe it is, there’s always the same sun, stars and moon. A constant. One thing you don’t have to worry about. “Is there something wrong?” You know who it is before you’ve even turned around. It’s a relief. You’ve waited all day to be able to speak to him, to be away from prying eyes and in a private moment. It’s easing. Your nerves take comfort in the familiarity, somehow finding his very presence soothing. Yet it’s unsettling at the same time. You have too many questions, too many suspicions and you don’t know if you want to uncover the truth. But you gather your strength and face Taehyung. “I’m just thinking.” “About what?” Taehyung approaches your side. The warm light from inside the palace spills out and your shadows cast onto the grass beneath the terrace. There is not a soul in the hall when they’re all inside the dining hall, celebrations and conversations muffled through the many walls. You inhale a breath. “Why?” Taehyung frowns. You ask again, “Why did you give me your prize?” “Should I not have?” Half of his face is illuminated, the slope of his nose and dip of his cupid’s bow sharp against the glow of the chandeliers, reminiscent of the chiaroscuro of a painting. “That’s not it. Just…..” Why does he treat you so kindly, why does he want to go out of his way to talk to you, why does he look at you like that— “Why?” In the original game, Anastasia was Taehyung’s chess piece and nothing more. “Does there need to be a reason?” The corner of his mouth tugs gingerly. “I wanted to, so I did.” “But there’s so many eligible bachelorettes you could’ve them them to, like Lady Myoi or Lady Paxton—” “None of them matter,” he injects without needing to blink or think twice. “Not like you do.” Your head snaps up and your eyes meet. Taehyung gazes at you tenderly, searching your irises with a small smile and he swallows hard. His voice lowers when he asks, “Are you cold?” Oddly enough, even with the chilly wind whisking through the branches and swaying the leaves, you aren’t cold if he’s here. Yet suddenly, Taehyung snaps his fingers and you’re engulfed with the warmth of an embrace. It’s the heat of a winter fire crackling underneath the mantle, the Summer sun casting down on your cheeks, and it travels from your toes to your head, and you can’t help the giggle that spills from you. “What did you just do?” He grins and leans closer to you. “It’s a simple warmth spell.” Your brow cocks. “How much magic do you exactly know?” He even managed to get that bear without looking like he had to fight. Your efforts to get him not to tap into magic all those years ago were in vain, but you have to admit it’s pretty cool. Taehyung looks away, smile easing. “It doesn’t matter how much magic I have. It’s not enough for what I really want.” Your breath hitches in your throat. The implications of his words welcomes the tension back into the air that had snuck itself away for a simple moment. But it isn’t uncomfortable. It isn’t the kind of tension that comes when you’re speaking to the Duke and Duchess, not the stiffness that arrived when you were being scolded by Edith. No. It’s different. It’s….intimate. Especially when he sneaks a glance at you and you hold it, eyes fixated into his. None of you speak, breathe, bat a lash. Not when Taehyung starts to lean in close. Not when you begin to feel the heat of his cheeks on your skin, when you can hear the thunderous noise of his heartbeat bruising his rib cage. His lash tickles yours. But before your lips can brush— You push him away. Taehyung stumbles back, nearly falling over, but he grasps the railings. Your breath heaves and you stare at him in shock, in horror with what was about to happen. And before anything can be said or done, you turn away. “Wait! Anastasia!” Taehyung calls after you. “I’m sorry!” “I….I need to leave.” You can’t deviate from the story more than you already have. This is a mistake. In the midst of your panic, you return to the dining hall and cut through the room. It’s the quickest way back to your chambers, so you don’t hesitate to move your steps, never once looking behind your shoulder. Luckily, Taehyung doesn’t follow after you. He can’t. But while each is celebrating and distracted with their company, a certain girl notices your distraught and frantic form beelining to the massive doors. Something doesn’t sit right in her, so she immediately stands and bows her head to the woman she was speaking to. “If you can excuse me, thank you, I’ll be right back.” Lucy follows after you, eyes pinned on your backside. The only people who pay any mind is your mother, the Duchess of Devereux. Her senses are sharp and she taps your father on the shoulder until he follows her line of sight to the girl. The castle grounds are dark, the moon waxing but not yet full enough to provide a bright light. But enough is shed for you to see. It’s enough for shadows to cast along the stone walls. You would never walk outside at this time of night, but you need air. More of it. Something you can breathe in and hope will clear the cloudiness inside your mind, the noise that’s earsplitting. A gentle tap on your shoulder has you screaming. “It’s me!” Lucy puts her hands out, her eyes wide. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you.” You catch your breath, steadying it and you swallow hard. “W-What are you doing outside? I thought you were still celebrating the feast.” “I saw you walking by and I thought something was wrong and I got worried, I’m sorry.” She looks at you when the silence is ongoing. The concern is evident through her knitted brows. “Are you alright, Anastasia?” It seems like everyone is asking you that question today. A question you don’t know how to respond to yourself. But you manage a nod and a smile. “I’m fine. I was just tired. I was thinking of retiring to my room early.” “Oh, okay.” You step towards her and grasp her hands within your own. “Can you do me a favour, Lucy, and keep Jungkook company tonight? He might be looking for me too and I don’t want him to be worried.” “I will.” She nods. “But do you want me to escort you to your room? I could call someone—” “No, it’s quite alright. I’ll be fine.” You smile and let go of her. “You should go back now before someone goes looking for you.” Lucy nods for a second time and she bids you a goodnight as she walks back. You’re left by yourself and you turn to tread your own way. The weight of so many decisions lie upon your shoulders and slow down your steps. You wonder why you have to bear the heavy burden of knowing your future, of knowing all of theirs while trying to escape your own fate. It feels like you’re a pawn trying to control the whole chess board. You exhale a breath, watching the cloud dissipate and unbeknownst to you, there’s a rustle in the garden’s bushes. “That’s her, isn't it?” Two shadows emerge from the darkness and before your ears can pick up on the noise, before you can turn around and meet the figures, a cloth is clamped over your mouth. Your shout is muffled and arms begin to drag you in the opposite direction of the castle. What the fuc— Immediately, your elbow juts out and the man behind you sputters, cowering over with a curse. You manage to slip out of his loosened grip, about to sprint and yell. Until another overtakes you and grabs hold of your wrists, yanking you back. “Wench!” A cold blade sits at the juncture of your throat and you freeze, breaths tearing out of your throat frantically. You can fight him. Years of swordsmanship didn’t render you useless after all. But his threat delays you— “Shut your mouth if you don’t want Baron of Liza dead too.” What? Your mouth is stuffed with cloth and you’re roughly ripped into the darkness. At the same time, Taehyung, still at the terrace and about to leave, turns around.

#bts fanfic #bts scenario #taehyung fanfic #taehyung scenario #taehyung fluff #jungkook fanfic #jungkook scenario #OOOOOOOOH

275 notes · View notes

bigg-city-riders-au · 3 years

Text

A Close Encounter

This takes place just as the two captains are getting ready to take off, and try to undo the curse. TW for violence, intense scenes, and some angst.

Captain Star made sure the supplies were secure in the small shrimping boat he had managed to buy at such short notice. Such an offer had been scarce since everyone else in the city had fled, either by car, bus, or boat. He looked back at the man in black, Captain Zero, his once competitor, now an unlikely ally as he stomps his cigarette out.

“Are we ready? Anything we missed? Might want to go over the list of supplies we have.” Zero narrowed his eyes at Star, who shook his head.

“We went over the list three times already. We need to get going as soon as possible if we are to get this taken care of before anyone else gets killed.” Captain Star sighed, looking back at the dark port. What was once a place of bustle and noise was quiet, and desolate. It was almost eerie. Captain Zero looked at the boat his hesitant ally had chosen. It was small, so it made it easier to get out of the port unnoticed, but was it enough to get them to where they needed to go? Only time will tell.

“Alright. Let’s get going while it’s still nighttime. We can use the cover of darkness to hide.” Captain Zero climbed into the small vessel, looking over the controls, and wheel. Deep down, he was afraid. Afraid of what may happen if they fail, or if one of the tugs manage to get out of the port, and cause more havoc. He pushed those fears to the back of his head. He couldn’t let his fear get the best of him. Otherwise, the port, and the citizens alike will likely be destroyed.

Captain Star nodded, and climbed into the boat, turning the engine, making the small boat start right up. So far so good. He could hear thunder rolling in the distance. Hopefully they can beat the storm, and get out of the port. He was almost about to take off before stopping when he heard the water being disturbed.

Zero immediately shined a flashlight where the noise came from, but saw nothing. Now he was on edge, looking around, and listening closely. The port was practically pitch black, with the exception of a few lights that remained undamaged in the tugs’ rampage.

“I don’t see anything.” Zero shined his flashlight in the other direction, and the color left his face at the sight before him, or rather behind the boat. The light illuminated the tug’s face. It was Hercules. He towered over them, glaring down at them with fangs bared, and venom oozing from his jaws, some of it landing on the boat. The venom easily corroded the metal shell within seconds. Zero was left trembling in utter fear as the ocean tug lifted his claws that looked similar to anchors out of the water, and slammed it down next to them, making the ground shake, and sending a shockwave through the water as Hercules snarled at them, eyes feral, and glowing with a ravenous hunger.

Star felt the impact, and looked back. His eyes grew wide at the sight of the tug, feeling both terrified, and heartbroken by how much of a monster this curse had changed the usual level headed Hercules into. He immediately turned back to the controls, and the boat took off at full speed. He didn’t dare to look back as he heard the deafening roar of Hercules. The whole port seemed to shake from the raw power from it.

….

Hercules let out a powerful roar before quickly taking off after the small boat, easily keeping up with it, and gaining on the two humans. He tried to snatch one of them right off the boat, but barely missed. Zero clung to the boat for dear life, terror clearly seen in his eyes. Oh how much did the ocean tug enjoy a good chase. Whenever the boat would turn, he would follow, easily turning on a dime. These new abilities… This new body gave him all the more of an upper hand over the two humans.

….

Zero can only scream as he watches Hercules easily rip through obstacles with his razor sharp claws. It seemed with every turn the boat took, Hercules kept getting closer, and closer. He could feel the tug’s hot breath beating down on him. It reeked of blood, and felt like a mighty blast from a furnace. Hercules opened his jaws, and unleashed a blast of flame at the boat. Zero immediately ducked and covered just before the flames would have burned him to a crisp. The heat was immense, hotter than dragon flame. If it were a direct hit, the boat would be destroyed, and they would be dead.

Star could see an opening leading to outside the port come into view, glancing back at the massive ocean tug, he immediately made the boat go to it’s maximum speed. Everything seemed like a blur now. One wrong move, and he and his colleague will be dead, and the curse will never be undone.

….

Hercules immediately stopped the moment the boat reached the open water, knowing it would be a waste of energy to pursue it now. He lets out one last roar for good measure before it dies down to a whine as the darkness within him lightens up.

He blinked, looking at the boat disappearing over the horizon before looking back at the port. He had left a trail of destruction in his wake, and almost killed his own captain to boot. He whines like a dog, and looks down at his claws, now feeling sick to his stomach, knowing what may have happened if he had been only a little faster. He lets out a choked sob. Why can't he be normal again? When will this end?

He never had wanted to kill anyone until now. The blood lust was simply insatiable, always demanding more than before. He didn’t know how much longer he could take this. He can only hope that his captain can fix this.

He lets out a screech as he feels the curse start to take hold again, struggling not to give in. He didn’t want this to happen again. He kept pushing the urges back until they finally overcame him. He closed his eyes, and sobbed, letting the curse overtake him once more. When he opened his eyes, his eyes were feral once more. The level headed tug was not there, only the beast remained. He snarled at the direction where the boat went, frustrated that he had lost a potential meal before silently retreating into the port.

#this is tugs #TUGS Hercules #TUGS Captain Zero #TUGS Captain Star #curse!au #tugs au #bigg city port #my writing

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taehyungsgrowl · 3 years

Note

"because i dropped Duncan's hand while dancing left him out there standing" because "Nate's hands are in my hair, his clothes are in my room."

(Ooop I don't know if I can request two but I thought a combination between these two might sound angstyyy. Otherwise you can pick just one 💋 - 🧁

i started working on the paper rings prompt the other day but i wanted to write something angsty so started this one instead fkjsfk

and youre right - this combination is breaking my heart! ily and i hope youre doing well!

changed the prompts a tiiiiny bit to flow w the story but its the same concept idea rather than the direct quote!

duncan should've know - should've seen the shift in the way she looked at him long before this moment. his love for her was always his biggest blind spot.

the soft glow of the twinkling lights that hung above their heads illuminated her skin and made the sequins on her dress sparkle like the stars.

duncan had set in motion the most perfect night to ask her to be his forever.

after dinner at her favorite restaurant on the pier, they walked hand in hand along the boardwalk. he felt the cool summer breeze hit his skin and was thankful for it. the nerves were making him run hot. he shrugged his blazer off his shoulders and placed it over hers to help keep her warm, leaving him in his crisp white button down. still too hot, he undid the top few buttons and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows in a poor attempt to feel the air.

they stopped at the end of the, overlooking the vast ocean. the depths of it couldn't compare to the depth of duncan's feelings.

he reached forward and brushed her face with his knuckles, taking in exactly how she looked in the moonlight - burning that into his permanent memories.

"y/n," he grabbed both of her hands in his. he felt his stomach twist and he took in a long, deep breath. "i've never loved someone the way i love you. you make me so happy. you make me a better man," he choked up, but attempted to cover it up with a laugh.

y/n could feel her pulse pounding in her ears. even in the soft lighting she could see the wash of pink over duncans cheeks. she knew where this was going.

her stomach twisted in knots for a completely different reason than duncans.

she felt her life had become mistake after mistake; snowballing beyond her control.

and even yet - she wasn't sure if she regretted what might have been her biggest one.

"this is the last time," she panted against his open lips. his hands gripped her hips, pulling her closer before trapping her lip between his teeth.

"that's what you said last time,"

she moaned feeling him press against her entrance.

she couldn't honestly and truthfully call nate a mistake - not when he was the one thing in her life that made her feel alive.

she loved duncan or at least she knew she was supposed to.

he was good to her; good for her.

at one point, he had been the one to make everything around her feel electric.

but as things got serious... as he began to love her, she started to feel like she didn't deserve that.

and maybe it was her self destructive tendencies to ruin a good thing that lead her into nate's arms, but it was the carnal desire and lack of feeling that kept her in them.

maybe nate's detachment mirrored her own so much she was drawn to it; maybe she used it as a distraction... a buffer... from allowing herself to be dug any deeper with duncan.

not even twenty-four hours had passed since her clothes were scattered on another man's floor with his hand in her hair and now she stood before the one who loved her - about to commit himself to her entirely... and she wanted to run away as far away as she could.

how could duncan really love her when he didn't know all of her?

duncan reached into his pocket and pulled out a gorgeous vintage ring. it had been in his family for generations; the marquis cut diamond was surrounded my smaller, but just as sparkly diamonds that sat perfectly symmetrical on a thin, solid gold band.

"will you do me the honor and make me the happiest man by marrying me? i promise to love you everyday past forever." he continued. she could almost hear his heart pounding in his chest, but maybe that was just the blood rushing to her own head.

he presented her with the ring, taking her hand in his to place it around her finger.

but she couldn't say yes.

not when she knew her problems would only bring duncan down.

not when she'd been doing the unthinkable to him.

she dropped his hand, shaking her head silently as tears streamed down her face. "i'm sorry," she managed to choke out before darting away.

as she sped down the pier, she recognized friends... family... his and hers... approaching. bottles of champagne and flowers becoming a blur as she ran faster - trying to get away from it all.

she left him standing there with all of his hopes and dreams.

a part of her wondered why he didn't run after her. maybe it was the shock. maybe he realized what she'd known the whole time - he deserved better.

she knew he'd find someone who would fix the glass she shattered.

with mascara running down her face, her finger hovered over nates number in her phone.

duncan was frozen. his whole world stopped in place the moment she dropped his hand.

suddenly his mom was standing in front of him, taking his face in her hands. he shook her off and kept his composure long enough to make everyone leave and give him some space.

he took a bottle of dom perignon from someone's hands before they left and sat down on the wooden platform, letting his feet dangle above the sea.

he took one long swig of champagne, feeling the bubbles pop on his tongue.

the rest of the night, he tortured himself, replaying every bit of their relationship wondering where he went wrong.

his mom stayed close enough to make sure he was safe. eventually she approached him again, taking the bottle away and leading him back to her car.

"guess i won't be needing this," he handed her the ring back as he stumbled into the backseat.

once in bed, he closed his eyes and saw the future he hoped for being licked away by flames in his dream.

i hope you like it babe!

taylor swift inspired prompts

#duncan shepherd #duncan shepherd angst #taylor swift prompt #champagne problems #cody fern #house of cards #hoc #nate #🧁 anon

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samstree · 4 years

Text

You are too well tangled in my soul (4/5)

In which Geralt tries to apologize, Jaskier has some unexpected encounters and Roach is the best.

(love confession, kaer morhen, 6.1k, no warnings)

read on AO3.

War breaks out.

Nilfgaard mercilessly scorches the continent, and Jaskier survives. The next time he sees Geralt, there’s a lost princess in tow.

The girl has pale blonde hair, just as Jaskier remembers from when he performed at her birthdays. Her green eyes are big and wary, staring at the bard from behind Geralt’s armored bulk.

Jaskier wouldn’t blame her, from what he learned from his encounters with Nilfgaard the girl must have been through hell. And from what he heard about Cintra, well, she has more demons to run from other than the evil army. She looks exhausted too, hair dirty and eyes alert, studying Jaskier intensely.

“You were at my birthday. You sang the songs.” The princess’s crisp voice breaks the silence.

“Yes, Princess Cirilla. I was at three of your birthdays, though you were too young to remember the first two.” he bows. “Jaskier the bard, at your service.”

She softens, nodding at Jaskier’s gesture. Her lips tug upward.

“Just Ciri.”

“Ciri, then.” Jaskier smiles at her.

“I loved your singing. It was beautiful.” she bites her lips, pausing, before putting her arm around the witcher’s. “Geralt only said we were looking for a friend. I didn’t know it was you.”

The mention of the name snaps Jaskier’s attention back to the witcher, who remains motionless and silent. This entire time, Geralt has been staring at Jaskier’s face, like he could blink and the bard would disappear. Jaskier stares back, and the bruise in his chest throbs anew.

“A friend, uh?” he feigns nonchalance and fails, suddenly his throat feeling dry. “Now you use the word, after all these years. Thought you’d keep insisting on not being my friend until the end of time. Thought I gave you life’s blessing –”

“Jaskier,” Geralt exhales. The word is barely a whisper, but it’s enough to stop the bard from landing a blow. The witcher doesn’t seem to have more words, despite continuing to look at Jaskier with remorseful sorrow.

Good. The pettiest part of Jaskier thrills at his regret, after all he’s the one who spewed all the venom on top of that mountain.

But one look at Geralt, Jaskier realized that he is just as tired and disheveled as the girl, if not more so. Being on the run from Nilfgaard is no fun, he learned that from personal experience.

Knowing Geralt, he is going to neglect his needs in favor of Ciri’s, gritting his teeth through everything. Jaskier finds himself searching all over him for injuries, familiar worry bubbling of its own volition.

Jaskier cannot even stay mad at him for long. Damn him.

“Why are you looking for me then?” he asks.

“I –” Geralt pauses. “Nilfgaard is looking for us. Hunting us. They want something, and they are willing to raise armies to chase us across the Continent.”

He tightens his hold on Ciri. The young princess looks away with a haunted expression.

“And they are also trying to hunt down whoever might know your location. They’ll torture them for the information.” Jaskier adds. His two near escapes are too vivid in his mind. The first time he only got away by the skin of his teeth. It turns out he’s not so bad with a dagger when faced with two Nilfgaardian footsoldiers.

As for the second time, he may have had help from an old friend. Not that Yennefer would be thrilled if he ever called her that. The story of his life, he thinks, it seems to be.

Realization dawns in Geralt’s eyes. “You already know they are looking for you. Are you – did they get to you, Jaskier?”

“Get to me? No,” Jaskier chuckles tightly. “I wouldn’t be standing here, would I? Your secrets are safe, Geralt. Not that I knew your whereabouts for the past year. They didn’t get anything from me, if that’s your worry.”

“No. Fuck –” Geralt curses under his breath, frustrated. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

Jaskier challenges him, raising an eyebrow. Geralt struggles for words and starts to look like his usual brooding self again. It is Ciri who speaks up.

“Come to Kaer Morhen with us. It’s the safest place on the Continent,” the girl says.

Jaskier breathes, stunned. Of course, it makes sense for them to go. It is a home for Geralt. He remembers the first time Geralt told him about the witcher keep, in that greenhouse, a lifetime ago. To him, it is as much of a myth now as it was back then.

“You are sweet, Ciri. But I don’t think Geralt would want that.”

There’s a bitter tang in those words. Ciri scrunches up her brows, confused. “But he’s the one who wanted –”

“What Ciri meant,” Geralt interrupts, “was that Nilfgaard is still out there looking for us. When they can’t, they’ll come for you again.” Desperation bleeds into his tone. Or is it annoyance? “Come with us, Jask. You’ll be safe in Kaer Morhen.”

“I can take care of myself.” Jaskier’s resolution is swaying despite his pride.

“Jaskier…”

“Geralt.” He stays emotionless, waiting for the Witcher’s reasoning, but it doesn’t come.

It is the lost Cintran princess who decides for Jaskier.

“Can you just come with us?” her voice is uncertain, and it tugs at Jaskier’s heart. “Please?”

Jaskier looks into her green eyes and only sees the loss she endured. The fall of Cintra reached Jaskier like a punch in the gut. He thought Geralt’s Child Surprise – the bright-eyed little girl who danced to his songs – was lost with it, so when those soldiers started questioning him about her escape, Jaskier only felt relief. Now, the lone wolf stands protectively next to the lost lion cub.

Jaskier is glad Geralt went to find her, truly.

He finds himself nodding, and Ciri brightens up ever so slightly.

“So, you are the boy?”

The dark-haired witcher says upon meeting Jaskier for the first time at the gate of Kaer Morhen when Geralt and Ciri have gone to stable the horse. He’s the same height and build as Geralt, only his shoulders are just a bit wider. Unlike Geralt, his hair is a muddy brown, and three nasty scars run down the right side of his cheek, making him look almost grotesque.

“Pardon?”

“The boy Geralt kept seeing.” His eyes fix on Jaskier with amusement, the golden color eerily identical to Geralt’s.

“Oh, I didn’t know anyone else –” Jaskier is rather surprised that another witcher knows about Geralt’s condition. “Yes, that’s me. But I’m hardly a boy anymore.” He extends a hand. “Jaskier.”

“Eskel.” The Witcher takes it with a friendly smile. Huh, not all of them are broody and rude.

“So you know about our…” Jaskier trails off for lack of a descriptor. Their bond? Their relationship? They certainly are not in one.

“Not much. If you’ve known my brother for this long, you’d know how little he talks.” Eskel offers an understanding pat on Jaskier’s back. “He just came back here one year and couldn’t shut up about an annoying bard. Then he came back another year. Disappeared in the middle of the day, and scared the shit out of us. We’d thought he was cursed out of existence by some angry mage. When he came back, out of thin air too, he looked like he’d seen a ghost.”

“Not a ghost.”

“Not a ghost, only the same bard. As a boy.”

It makes sense, according to however little they know about the mechanism of it. Wintering at the witcher keep is the longest Geralt is away from the bard, so destiny has to drag him to Lettenhove. It would be hard to sail away from your anchor.

“Guess I’m too much of a nuisance. He can’t escape me even here, in his own home.”

“He never –” Eskel seems surprised at Jaskier’s remark. “I might need to have words with my brother, bard. And he was only upset because he worried for your safety.”

He smiles tightly. “It’s kind of you to say, Eskel. Though you don’t need to protect my feelings. I understand now. I would take myself off of his hands if I could.”

Too bad he can’t. Even if the invasion blows over, destiny would still work against Geralt’s attempt at free will at every opportunity.

He ignores Eskel’s inquisitive eyes as they stroll into the stone castle when Geralt and Ciri rejoin them.

Geralt is trying to apologize.

He knows by the way Geralt follows him outside, and onto the trail behind the keep, somehow with guilt written all over his posture. It’s a nice place for a walk and for Jaskier to clear his head and compose under the pine trees.

Geralt has tried several times in the past few days. Every time they are left alone, the witcher assumes an expectant look on his face and begins to find words. Every time Jaskier interrupts him before it starts, making up whatever poor excuses he can find. Every time Geralt swallows and lets him go. He puts on a stoic face but Jaskier always sees the disappointed droop in those amber eyes that anyone else would have missed.

Jaskier can’t avoid it anymore, between the fresh smell of pine – his favorite scent in the world – and the sky, there’s nowhere to hide, so he stops to face it.

“Just say whatever you want to say,” he lets out a sigh.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt blurts out without a beat. “I never should have said what I said. I didn’t mean any of it, Jask. I was upset and I took it out on you. It wasn’t fair.”

Jaskier blinks.

“No, it wasn’t.”

“You’ve followed me for twenty years. You’ve known me for even longer. Fuck, Jaskier. Your whole life, you’ve known me, and yet you chose to stay.”

“I did,” he whispers, “but you tried to push me away, like everything else destiny forced upon you.”

The hurt in those golden eyes is unbearable to watch, so Jaskier averts the burn of his gaze to take a deep breath. The smell of pine fills his lungs, crisp and soothing.

“It was a mistake. I know that now, Jaskier.” The contrite is unmistakable. Geralt’s gravelly voice is as pained as Jaskier feels. From the corner of his eyes, Jaskier notices Geralt reach into his pocket for something. It is a small notebook, leather-bound and abused at the edges.

It’s his notebook.

It’s their notebook.

“I’ve kept records of everything, just like you did.” he holds out the book for Jaskier to take. “I’ve seen the future, you –”

“No!” Jaskier steps away as if the book might burn him. “You can’t use it against me, Geralt. You think I’ve never seen the future? I know where we are going. I know I’ll still choose you, because how can I not?” his voice breaks at the possibility of him leaving Geralt by choice. “But it doesn’t make it alright. I can’t just forgive you and pretend we are fine, just because the future says we should be.”

Geralt lowers his hand and the book with it. “I meant that…I understand you now. Why you would stand by me when no one else does, when it’s so much easier to just leave.”

“And how exactly did you arrive at this grand revelation?”

Geralt softens, his lips quick upward ever so slightly. “I saw you. In a little cottage by the sea, years from now, happy.”

Jaskier’s breath hitches. He’s so used to knowing all different versions of Geralt, so used to having the upper hand in this little dance, that the idea of his own future laid out like this makes him queasy.

“You told me – or will tell me, rather – why you spent your entire life choosing me when I’ve done nothing but push you away.” Geralt’s voice breaks at the obvious regret in it.

Because I love you, Jaskier thinks. I’ve loved you for too long.

He’s become so familiar with the notion it’s as easy as breathing.

“What do you want, then?”

“A chance. To prove myself again,” Geralt pleads. “To prove myself a worthy companion to you. Because you are my friend, my best friend. You have been since you were so young and I was just blind to it. Jaskier, I –”

I love you.

“– I choose you too. If you’ll let me show you. For the rest of my life, I’ll prove it to you every day, because I –”

I love you.

“– I love you.”

The words come out soft and reverent, the whisper so careful as if to avoid the birds overhearing him. Geralt stills after the confession, his eyes fixed on Jaskier in earnest.

For a moment Jaskier believes the declaration an echo of his imagination, conjured up from years of longing and heartbreak. But when he holds his breath and looks into Geralt’s resolved eyes, the truth washes over him like a cool shower on an autumn morning.

Deep in those ember eyes is the same affection he’s seen many times, during those too-short visits from his older Geralt, in the teasing smirks he carried at the corner of his mouth, or in the sweetness hidden behind his kiss, under a cold Cintran sky and addled by too much ale. It’s in the way Geralt takes him apart with deft fingers and gentle touches, over and over again throughout the years.

It’s the same love that propelled Geralt to ask for his trust and his faith when this moment comes.

“You love me.” Jaskier muses.

“I do. I have… for a while now.” Geralt’s breath forms in the crisp mountain air. “I understand if you don’t feel the same way, Jask. But please believe me when I say it. I love you. It’s the truest feeling I’ve ever felt in my life. Without any djinn magic, or destiny deciding what’s best. Please, at least have this much faith in me.”

After all this time Geralt still thinks it’s possible for Jaskier to not love him back.

I’m going to make mistakes, the older Geralt once said, don’t lose faith in me.

He made a promise after all.

“Okay,” Jaskeir exhales.

“Okay?”

When he looks into the amber glow again Geralt looks expectant.

“Okay,” Jaskier repeats, “You have it. A chance for us to try again, if you want it to go back to… before.”

Geralt exhales like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. “It won’t be like before. I’ll do better, I give you my word.”

The sincerity is palpable in Geralt’s expression. The words come out so solemn and he’s clenched his jaw tightly. It looks like he just might break something if Jaskier doesn’t give him an out.

A smiles tugs at the corner of Jaskier’s mouth. And they say he’s the dramatic one.

“Oh, relax, you big oaf, before you hurt yourself. Of course I believe in you. It might be the most words I’ve ever heard from you. Didn’t think it was possible.”

He pats Geralt on the arm, before resting his hand there and squeezes. If Geralt leans into the touch, he doesn’t mention it.

“You,” Jaskeir continues, “You are forgiven, Geralt. I’ve always known I’d forgive you. You are not the only one who’s seen the future. Even if fate didn’t tell me to, I would still know you to be the best man I’ve ever laid eyes on, and I would choose to stay by your side every time.”

The shuddering breath that chokes out Geralt’s throat is almost like a sob. Rumors say witchers can’t cry, but Jaskier learned it not to be true long ago, and he can see how much Geralt is affected right now.

He reaches out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Geralt’s ear before resting his hand on the spill of silver on his shoulder, and revels in the familiar feeling of silky hair against his palm.

“As for the other thing.” Jaskier thinks back on Geralt’s heartfelt confession, not sure if he has truly wrapped his head around it. “I think… I’ll need some time before we can do something about it.”

Geralt nods, his warm hand coming up to capture Jaskier’s wrist in a loose grip, the pad of his thumb stroking slightly again. Jaskier’s chest warms at the motion.

“Take all the time you need, Jask. I’ll be right here.”

They spend the winter in the keep, in this safe bubble they created.

Ciri’s progress is obvious even to Jaskier’s untrained eyes. Her stance becomes more confident every day, her moves faster. The clanking of blunt swords echoes above the training ground as Jaskier watches from a bench in the corner, plucking his lute absent-mindedly.

The lion cub is starting to look like her grandmother, with her hair tied back and the sword cutting through the air with force.

The rise in confidence is doing her wonders. Her smile is becoming more often as winter settles in. The first time Ciri laughed out loud at the usual tomfoolery Lambert starts at dinner table, all four witchers and Jaskier stopped to stare at her for a brief moment before joining in.

Later that night, Geralt got emotional when it was just him and Jaskier, cleaning up in the kitchen.

“It’s just… it’s the first time I’ve heard her laugh.” Geralt’s throat bobbles when he says, and Jaskier’s heart breaks for them both, so he takes the plates from the Witcher’s hands and pulls him in for a hug, one that’s a little too tight.

In the courtyard, flurries of snow fall steadily as Ciri disarms Geralt with a twist of her wrist, the heavier sword flying off to the side. She squeaks in excitement.

“Take that, old man!”

Geralt goes to collect his blunt weapon, his chuckle rumbling deep in his chest. “You only did it because I let you, Ciri. Your enemies are not gonna let you disarm them for practice.”

Her pride morphs into a slight pout before it’s tucked away by her regal stance. They’ll make a warrior princess out of her after all.

“You just can’t let me have this one, can you?”

“Yeah, old man,” Jaskier chimes in. “Just admit your loss. I’m sure the White Wolf should know when he’s beaten.”

From Geralt’s glare, Jaskier knows he’s enjoying this too much, but he just can’t get the proud grin off of his face. Ciri sends him a smug smile when she puts away her weapon and gears.

From a distance, Lambert and Eskel are sheathing their training swords as well when Jaskier notices the snow falling harder by the minute, sending a shiver through his body despite the heavy coat wrapped around him. Ugh, his fingers are numb now.

“All right?” Geralt is all packed up, cheeks flushed from the exercise. He’s only wearing a simple tunic and yet it looks like the cold does not affect him at all. Ridiculous witcher biology.

Mischief lights up in Jaskier’s mind when he puts down the lute and walks towards Geralt, before putting his freezing palms flush against the Witcher’s neck.

“Jaskier, what – Fuck!”

He expects Geralt’s usual grunts and retaliation at the blatant offense. Roughhousing has never been a stranger to them, especially now that they are at ease in their friendship again.

What he does not expect is the concern that appears in Geralt’s eyes after a moment of shock and the warm hands that gently cover his.

“Oh Jask, you are freezing.” Geralt’s brows furrow in seriousness, calloused fingers starting to rub the back of Jaskier’s hands in a slow rhythm. Now that he notices, the heat radiating off of Geralt’s skin is lovely, tingling the numbness in his rigid hands and sending a different kind of shiver down his spine. “Gods, you might get frostbite like this. Don’t you have gloves?”

“Er – that’s not…” Jaskier stammers, suddenly aware of their closeness and the lack of everyone else on the training ground. Thank fuck they’ve all gone inside before his foolish prank. “I – I lost them…?”

Now Jaskier is the one blushing, but Geralt pays no mind to his embarrassment and continues to rub heat back into his exposed skin.

“I’ll make you new ones then. Can’t let a lutist lose his fingers,” Geralt murmurs.

The urge to kiss this sweet man is overwhelming, Jaskier has to look away from the beautiful golden yellow to calm his fluttering heart. It’d be too soon. He’s still raw from what went down in the past year.

Thankfully Ciri calls for them to get inside before they freeze over. Jaskier pulls away to answer her, immediately feeling empty without the warm touch. Now he’ll settle for walking to the great hall where a hearth is lit with Geralt by his side.

A week later, Jaskier finds a pair of newly knitted gloves on his bed. They are made with Geralt’s favorite wool – a thick, soft material – and fingerless so he can play. When he slips them on, the urge to track Geralt down in the keep and kiss him all over fills him again.

Roach bites down on the second apple Jaskier offers her and munches gracelessly.

Jaskier pats her mane while she tries to chew off the fringe on his doublet. Now that he’s reunited with her master, Jaskier can spoil the mare as much as he wants. Not that anyone objected before. The mare clearly has a soft spot for the bard, Geralt is just too stubborn to admit it.

He is just saying goodbye to Roach when the familiar swoosh of magic startles him.

Destiny’s pull rarely works when they are together, so much so that Jaskier has almost forgotten about it for the months he’s within Kaer Morhen’s walls. On top of that, what greets him is not the bulk of a witcher.

Standing by the stalls is a scared little boy.

Jaskier is terrible with guessing children’s age, but this boy is definitely no more than six or seven, wearing plain summer clothes and holding a small bucket for dear life. The boy has a head full of dark curly hair and tears streaking down his cheeks. His brown eyes are wide and full of terror.

“Ma? Where are you?” he calls out, voice horse from crying.

Jaskier is stuck where he stands, too shocked to react. Somewhere next to him, Roach snorts nervously at the volume of the child’s cry.

Geralt once told him how he ended up in Vesemir’s care, when both of them had too much to drink on the eve of Belleteyn many years ago. They only meant to celebrate a hunt well done and Jaskier’s successful performance at the festival, but the drinks kept coming on the courtesy of the pub owner. Before Jaskier knew it, the Witcher was too gone and started to get melancholic in his inebriation.

For once in their lives, Jaskier was the one with some sanity left and promptly put Geralt back to their shared bed.

With the sound of people singing and dancing around bonfires in the distance, Geralt curled into himself, looking uncharacteristically small, and told Jaskier the last time he saw his mother.

“I stood there for so long, by the road. But she was gone,” Geralt slurred the words. “I kept waiting for her…”

Those words, combined with too much ale, broke Jaskier into a million pieces.

“It was so long ago. I don’t even remember what she looks like, the color of her eyes. Or my eyes, before…What was the color of my eyes?”

Jaskier had no answer.

That night, he listened as Geralt drifted off, thinking the witcher would forget about the confession come morning. Or was it Geralt who thought Jaskier never remembered? No matter what reason, Geralt never talked about it again and Jaskier respected that.

And here Geralt is, no more than seven, on what is probably the worst day of his life – having just been abandoned by his mother by the side of the road. He looks confused and cried-out, still clinging to the bucket so hard that his tiny knuckles are turning white.

His eyes are brown.

That’s all Jaskier can think.

The boy’s tears keep falling, and whatever heartbreak Jaskier felt on the night of Belleteyn, it’s not a match for now.

“Hey, it’s all right,” Jaskier shushes as gently as possible. He lowers himself in front of the boy, keeping the movement slow just to not upset him further. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Where is my ma?” young Geralt sniffles, and Jaskier doesn’t know how to answer that. The layers he’s wearing clearly cannot hold out the cold in the dead of winter. The boy is shivering.

“I’m sorry I don’t know where she is. But, here, put this on.” Jaskier shrugs off his coat and wraps it around the boy’s small frame, half of it pooling on the ground. He tries to coax the bucket out of the boy’s hands but he grips tighter.

“Where is she? Where did you take me?” the boy demands in panic.

“I promise I haven’t taken you anywhere, okay? Ger –” Jaskier catches himself. He’s a complete stranger to the child. He shouldn’t know him. “It’s too cold out here. We can go inside and wait for her there. Is that all right?”

The boy shakes his head. “Ma’s coming back to find me. I need to stay.”

“Okay, okay.” Jaskier tries not to panic, but he feels so helpless. He doesn’t even know where to put his hands so he tightens the coat around the boy’s shoulders. “How about this, I’ll find some help for us. Maybe someone from that castle can help. I don’t even know what would happen if they see you like this but…what other option do we have, eh?”

Before he can even get up, Jaskier finds the boy dropping the bucket and clinging to the sleeve of his doublet, the water spilling everywhere.

“No, don’t leave,” the boy says weakly, “Please.”

The boy’s chubby cheeks are streaked with tears, turning red in the mountain air. Jaskier wipes the wetness away with the pad of his thumb, his other arm still in the boy’s grip.

“All right. I won’t leave then, I promise.” Jaskier does his best to smile reassuringly. The ache in his chest makes it difficult but against all odds, it works. The young boy calms down just a little.

“I’ll stay with you, all right? But for now… do you want to make some new friends?”

Jaskier introduces the child to Roach, and he gets less afraid as soon as he sees the horse and reaches out to pet her. With their ridiculous height difference, it looks almost comical. The mare, ever the sweetheart, lowers her head as if she senses something familiar in the boy. She nuzzles his little hand and his eyes light up.

No matter how young, it seems Geralt will always enjoy Roach’s company above anyone else’s. Jaskier watches in wonder at the exchange before him. The boy’s distress dissipates gradually as the mare licks him and showers him in affection.

“Can I keep her?” the child giggles as Roach chews on his hair.

Jaskier smiles, “Sadly no, but maybe you’ll see her again. Who knows.”

All his life, Jaskier has known Geralt as the powerful witcher, his friend and protector. But right here, he’s just another ordinary child who loves giant animals. Only his future holds something no child should ever have to endure.

Jaskier wishes life wouldn’t have to burden this gentle boy, harden him into the warrior that he is now. This moment could last forever for all he cares, so this young boy wouldn’t need to go back to face the path ahead.

He doesn’t know how long they have here, undisturbed by the four witchers inside the keep, or the magic pulling them apart.

“Can I tell you something?” Jaskier says as the child runs his fingers through Roach’s mane. He turns around to look at the bard curiously with his beautiful brown eyes. “Do you know you’re a very good boy? And when you grow up, you’ll become a very good person.”

“Ma says I should do good.”

“She’s right.”

“And doing good is hard… sometimes.”

Jaskier swallows the lump in his throat. “That too. Life is difficult, unfair even. But you are strong, stronger than you’ll ever believe. Remember this, and you’ll find a way.”

“I’m strong?” the boy looks at Jaskier expectantly. His tiny frame is drowned in Jaskier’s coat.

“The strongest.” the bard nods.

“Like a knight?”

“Better than a knight.”

The smile that lights up the boy’s rosy cheeks is the most wonderful thing Jaskier has ever seen, better than the northern lights on these mountains. But their moment seems to have come to an end.

The swoosh of magic Jaskier knows by heart brushes by his ear, and Roach suddenly brays anxiously in her stall.

“I feel weird.” The panic returns to the boy’s voice.

“It’s okay. It means we have to say goodbye.”

“Are you leaving?”

“Never.”

“But why do we have to say goodbye?” his tiny voice gets tight and scared once more. Jaskier shushes him gently.

“Because we’ll see each other again.”

“And horsie too?”

“Her too.” Jaskier nods solemnly.

The boy waves nervously at Jaskier, and then the mare. His big brown eyes bore into Jaskier’s with hope and trust, a trust that will be returned decades from now, for him at least.

“Goodbye.”

Once again, Jaskier is left alone. Snow falls silently in the courtyard like it has been for days.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. Jaskier goes through dinner without a word, no matter how the four witchers try to engage with him.

Eskel is his usual self, nice and respectful, not prodding after noticing Jaskier in a weird mood. It’s something Lambert physically cannot do, because he constantly asks Jaskier what is wrong, trying to get a response out of him.

“You smell miserable, buttercup, like you are about to pass out.”

Jaskier imagines the tight smile he offers is not the most convincing, since everyone only gets more concerned. Ciri puts her hand on his arm as a silent question, and when she can’t get an answer she starts brooding just like Geralt.

Jaskier would laugh at their likeness if not for his mind racing so fast.

Geralt must have noticed the moment he came back from the stables. He has not let Jaskier out of his sight since, his worry silent but not pushing. After dinner, Jaskier can still feel the weighted gaze on his back, following him all the way back to the bedroom.

He leads Geralt into his room at the end of the hallway and shuts the door. With a soft click of the door, Jaskier turns to throw himself at the witcher with a force that would have knocked over any other man, but Geralt only catches his momentum, solid and steady. He buries his nose into Geralt’s shoulder and lets the familiar smell of pine and soap fill his senses.

“What’s wrong, Jaskier?” Geralt’s voice rumbles out of his chest, deep and patient. “You know, Lambert was right. You smell so…sad.”

“I made you a promise.” Jaskier’s voice is muffled by Geralt’s shoulder.

“What?”

“I made you a promise. Years ago for me, and years from now for you. To always have faith in you, even when you make mistakes.” Jaskier extracts his limbs and looks into the confusion in the flowing amber. He presses their lips together, sweet and lingering, like they have all the time in the world. The kiss tastes like the lost years between them, all the laughter and heartaches, the lust and yearning, and the dust and smoke from war. He pulls away.

The last time he kissed Geralt, it was by the side of a road, full of rage and hurt. This time, it’s hope that rises like a winter sun, cozy but not sweltering.

“This is me keeping that promise.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt swallows, composing himself, “You know I won’t hold it against you. It’s not fair for you to be pressured into this just for something I haven’t asked of you yet. I meant it when I said you can take all the time you need, because I did fuck up, and I’m so –”

“Don’t apologize again,” Jaskier interrupts, “I know how sorry you feel, how you’ll still feel even years from now. Just – don’t.”

He presses his forehead to Geralt’s and they breathe in tandem. Maybe he’s still affected by the memory of Geralt as a child, scared and alone, unaware of the hurt he’s about to receive. The trials, growing up away from home, training to become a weapon, the glares people cast at him. Jaskier shudders to think, desperately needing to shield his witcher from the world, but he was powerless in the stable this afternoon. He is not powerless now.

“How about a promise you did hear from me?” he asks.

Geralt frowns in confusion, waiting for him to explain, so Jaskier cups Geralt’s jaw to study him again, his thumb resting exactly where he wiped tears off of the boy hours ago.

“They were brown.”

The confusion in the amber eyes only grows.

“Your eyes, before the trials. They used to be brown.”

Geralt still looks at him incredulously. When it comes out like that, Jaskier probably sounds crazy.

“Your mother left you by the side of the road. She told you to get water, and when you got back she was gone,” he swallows, “You waited, holding a bucket of water. You waited until you went somewhere else. Somewhere cold, there’s a horse and snow and –”

“Oh.”

Realization dawns on Geralt like a lightning strike. He stares at Jaskier in disbelief.

“All these years –” he whispers, “How is it possible? I thought it was a dream. Vesemir told me it was a dream, that I was in so much shock that I conjured it up in my mind. A horse in the snow, chestnut brown, and…”

“And me,” Jaskier almost chokes out, “It wasn’t a dream.”

Geralt looks pained. All this talk about that day must be dredging up terrible memories and Jaskier never wants to hurt him on top of that.

“Do you remember what I said before you went back?”

To which Geralt chuckles tightly.

“That whole day was a bit hazy in my memory, Jask. Vesemir was right in that I was in shock. And I’ve tried so hard to forget about that day, to bury it so I don’t have to think about it.” he holds on to Jaskier, studying him in a new light. “I just remember that you made me feel so warm, Jask. You were the only good thing on the worst day of my life.”

The ache in Jaskier’s chest lessens somehow at those words. For whatever reason destiny decided to weave their fates together, he’s grateful for it just for that moment’s solace alone.

“You knew you were leaving.”

“I did. Now that I know, it was the first time I ever got pulled through time. To you.”

“I did promise we would see each other again.” Jaskier smiles.

Geralt pauses for a moment. Gradually, the golden yellow lights up like the most beautiful constellation in the night sky.

“You promised to never leave me.”

This time when their lips come together, it’s quiet and natural, like a piece of puzzle falling into place. Jaskier backs Geralt towards the bed, and they almost fall over onto the mattress, breaking the contact.

Geralt chases him with heated fervor, to which Jaskier gladly returns with a soft moan. He’s missed his witcher after all. Any space separating them at this moment needs to be closed like it personally offends him.

Tomorrow morning, Jaskier will wake Geralt with fingers through his hair and lips pressed to his forehead. Tomorrow Jaskier will tell him how much he loves him, over and over again. It won’t be the first time Jaskier has uttered the words, but it will be the first affirmation Geralt receives. Tomorrow Geralt will crinkle his eyes and return the words sleepily while dragging Jaskier back under the covers.

Tomorrow they’ll start a new chapter, together.

For now, they fall into each other under the night sky of the Blue Mountains, in a small room with a roaring fire burning in the hearth, tucked away from war and heartbreak.

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #time travel #jaskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher fic #geraskier fic #geralt apologizes

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omg-imagine · 4 years

Text

⊱ Forget Me Not (11/15) ⊰

Pairing: Keanu Reeves x Reader

Summary: After you wake up from a coma and realize that your memories from the last five years have been erased, Keanu works to bring back what you have lost.

Words: 8.3k

Warnings: Angst, language, mentions of sex, alcohol and cheating

A/N: Aaand here it is! This chapter is quite long and heavy, and honestly I’m super nervous about it. As a friendly reminder, this is a work of fiction. Everything written here is simply for the d r a m a :)

Hope you all enjoy!

Part 10

The scene had been all too familiar—your eyes searching for the truth, his expressing sincere regret. Outside, the rain fell as the world around Keanu crumbled, your love for him slowly ripping apart at its delicate seams.

“Please,” you intoned, holding back your tears. “Don’t lie to me, Ke.”

He could do nothing else but revisit the pain you had forgotten, a pain that still burns in his chest. Like a knife cut deep into his heart, the wound continued to bleed, and he wondered when it would stop, if it would ever stop.

Desperately, he wanted it to stop.

Keanu breathed in deeply, then exhaled heavily. Silently, he counted in his head—one, two, three.

And with one last, sorrowful look at you, his lips finally part, beginning the tale...

—four months before the accident;

January was bitterly cold; the air frigid and sharp. It nipped at your fragile skin and froze your bare fingers as you stood out on the balcony, letting the wintery dry breeze blow around you. The weather made you dearly miss the beauty of summer, where everyone and everything seemed much more alive.

It was past midnight in Milan. The city was quiet and peaceful, its cobbled roads were empty, glimmering beneath the streetlights’ pale yellow glow. The view from your hotel was beautiful, and for just a few fleeting moments, you admired the breathtaking sight of it all.

But no matter how much you tried, you couldn’t bring yourself to fully savor it. As you gazed out on the skyline, the ache inside was ever-present, nearly unshakable. You had noticed it during these last several weeks and thought nothing of it at first. Yet, as the days passed by, the feeling only grew stronger, and slowly, you began to understand the reason why.

Sauntering back inside where you were immediately greeted by the comforting warmth of your hotel room, you lowered yourself carefully on the quilted leather couch with your phone already in hand. For a second, your thumb hovered above Keanu’s number displayed on the screen. Hesitating, you then glanced at the clock on the wall and assumed that it’s a reasonable hour where he was to call.

The phone rang and rang. It rang almost endlessly until finally, it halted. A split-second of empty silence filled your ears before a monotonous voice told you to leave a message at the end of the tone. Sighing deeply, a frown creased your face when you realized the call only led to Keanu’s voicemail once again, the third occurrence this week alone.

He doesn’t want to speak with you. He’s avoiding you. He doesn’t care.

He doesn’t love you any—

A half-glass of red wine sat still on top of the mahogany coffee table just within reach. Fingers curling on the glass stem, you downed the rest of the drink in one quick go, hoping that it would calm the thoughts swirling in your head.

But, the alcohol didn’t help quell the storm. Rather, it allowed it to rage on.

In an attempt to soothe, you reasoned that Keanu was merely too busy to answer his phone. It was a bad habit of his—shutting out the rest of the world as he drowns himself in his work. You knew how committed he was when it came to acting, how he wanted to focus most of his time and energy to the role he was bringing to life.

Yet, there was something different about this time. Never in the five years you’ve dated has Keanu gone a day without calling or texting while he was away working. Even if he was bone-tired from a long day of shooting, he would send you a message to ask how your day went. The conversation would be short, but at least you knew he was still thinking of you.

You wondered where it all went wrong. After Christmas, things seemed to go downhill. Work for the two of you was stressful, the atmosphere at home becoming tense. It started out as simple bickering, which later turned into angry arguments. You easily set the other off, picking fights over issues that seemed so trivial now.

Why did it all go wrong?

The question has lingered in the back of your mind for weeks. This wasn’t the first time you two encountered a rough patch in your relationship, but you have never felt so distant from Keanu. It was as if there was always between you and him. No matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t get through him anymore.

You didn’t want to think of it, but you wondered if this was the end. You wondered if the relationship had simply run its course. The love between you and Keanu was close to emptying out, leaving a bitter frustration that had you at each other’s throats. Perhaps you were both tricked into believing that this was something that would last forever, and the past couple of weeks was the universe’s cruel attempt in telling you so.

Or maybe it was your respective careers. Keanu had several projects lined up, and yours was steadily growing. There were many, many days when you barely saw a glimpse of each other at home. You spent more time with your colleagues than together, and the sad truth was, being apart felt better. Any time you were alone in a room with Keanu, it would always end in a shouting match, with you shedding countless tears after.

It hurt. Every waking day, it continued to hurt, and all you could do was swallow the pain, hoping that the dark gray cloud looming over would eventually pass. You couldn’t take it anymore; the stinging remarks, the venomous voices, and the sleepless nights. It was exhausting, yet despite it all, you realized that you still loved Keanu, and you desperately wanted for the relationship to work out.

At that very moment, as you walk back to the tall glass windows overlooking the city, you decided to confront Keanu the next time he’s home. For nearly a month, neither one of you has brought up the fact of how bad things have gotten. You were scared to do it because it meant facing the reality of the situation. What if it was really the end for the two of you? What if it wasn’t meant to be?

The answers frightened you, but as you gazed out at the scenery for a silent moment more, your heart convinced you not to give up so soon. It tried assuring you that this was merely normal, something that happens to even the strongest of couples. You and Keanu had simply lost each other, but you were hopeful that one day, you would find your way back together.

One day.

Your phone remained quiet in your hand, and you couldn’t stop the single tear rolling down your cheek when you caught sight of your lock screen. The smiling photo of you and Keanu displayed was a gentle reminder of fonder times, ones you would forever cherish. You would do anything if it meant having more of those moments with him.

Moments when you were deeply in love and felt the happiest.

The wind blew crisp, cold air that seeped through the slight crack between the balcony doors. You felt it gently sweeping along your skin, causing you to shiver.

Winter was beautiful, so serene, but you yearned for summer to return.

Surely, it will get better when it’s warm again.

—three months before the accident;

A thick, weighted silence hung over the air as Keanu stepped foot inside the house, and it was nearly suffocating. He couldn’t recall the last time he came home expecting you to greet him by the door, either with a smile, a kiss, or both. Those days were a distant memory, faintly glowing in a dark abyss, drifting further and further away from his reach.

He lingered briefly in the middle of the empty foyer, not knowing whether he should head straight upstairs where you would be. It was a long day at the Arch office, and the last thing Keanu wanted was to resume the quarrel that had erupted earlier. He didn’t have the energy to defend himself from something you and he have been fighting about for far too long.

Turning down the hall, Keanu headed to the kitchen, his footsteps heavy as the ache settling in his chest. At this point, he was at a loss. Things between you and him were only getting worse, and he didn’t know what to do. When you had brought up the fact that the two of you were spiraling down, he listened and was willing to fix the problem.

That was until you mentioned his job.

Keanu loved you, of course, but his career was also important to him. Lately, he’s been swamped dealing with his current projects. His hands were full, but instead of you being the support he needed, you had been quite upset with the amount of time he’s working. It ticked Keanu off immensely when you requested that he cut-back on his job. You knew it was almost impossible for him to do so, yet you were adamant about it.

And after Keanu refused, it drove the wedge even farther between the two of you.

He didn’t understand how you and he came to be this way. You were hurting, and he was hurting, too. But it was difficult to compromise when he didn’t want to slow down or take a break, especially not while Keanu had a lot going on. This was part of his life, and he had explained that to you from the very beginning. Five years have passed, and only now did you realize that maybe you couldn’t handle it.

Keanu forgoes turning on the kitchen lights and padded into the slight darkness, making his way to the refrigerator for a glass of water. The phone in his pocket vibrates, but before he could take it out to check who had messaged him, the lights above him switched on, and he quickly glanced behind him to see you standing by the entryway.

“You said you’d be home at seven,” you muttered lowly, arms coming to cross over your front. “It’s ten.”

“I had a lot of things to wrap up before I go back to shooting,” Keanu replied, knowing full-well it was a lie. He had finished at eight o’clock, opting to stay at the office for two more hours because he needed peace, just for a little while longer.

“I can’t believe it. You’ve only been here a week, and you’re leaving again.” The sound of your voice cracking gnawed at his chest, the growing guilt doing just the same. “We live together, and I barely see you.”

The tense silence that fell was unbearable but unfamiliar. Keanu’s gaze shifted downwards, avoiding your tearful eyes, afraid of what would happen if he meets them.

You swallowed thickly, your words laced heavily with despair as you ask, “What happened to us?”

He remained quiet, unsure of where to begin.

“I-I know we’ve been arguing over ridiculous things, mostly. But when I try to fix us, it’s like you don’t even want to meet me halfway,” you explained tautly. “Does our relationship still matter to you?”

Again, quiet.

“Do I still matter to you?”

It was barely above a whisper, but the question rang loud in Keanu’s ears. His features softened as he tilted his head up just the slightest bit, his attention settling on you, the woman he supposedly loves yet pushes away. “Of course, you matter. You mean everything to me.”

With a small shake of your head, you sighed. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes,” came his swift response.

“Then, why do you avoid me? Why do you choose your work before us? Before me?”

Keanu chuckled mirthlessly, running a hand down his face and blowing out a sharp huff. “I’m not choosing my job over you. I thought we went over this already?”

“Really? Because from what I can remember, the last time we spent time together without bickering was when we visited my parents during the holidays. You were gone soon after that for your movie, and whenever you flew back here for a couple of days, you were off doing other things.”

“Well, what was I supposed to do? Just ignore all of my responsibilities? And how’s it different from what you do? You were barely at home, too. Now that you’re not busy having drinks with your boss, you suddenly have time for me.”

Keanu had more than certainly struck a nerve there at the end, but by the time he realized what he’d said, it was too late to take it back. He watched as your eyes flashed with anger, shooting him a fiery glare that had him regretting the spiteful words he had thrown at you.

“What the hell are you talking about?” The bitterness dripping from your tone was enough for Keanu to make him step back, distancing himself away from you.

As if you and he weren’t far apart already.

Your question was met with absolute silence, and it only infuriated you even more. “Ke, what are you trying to say? Do you think something’s going on between Nick and me?”

Keanu didn’t answer immediately. It was another thought deep in the back of his mind, which fueled many earlier fights. He’s never been the jealous type, but he’s seen the way Nicholas has looked at you, as well as how he acted whenever you were around. Keanu has never mentioned it because he knew you weren’t capable of doing such a thing, and yet he said it, knowing that it would hurt you.

Because it’s what you two do best as of late—hurt and hurt each other.

“And what if there was, huh? Would it matter anyway? With the way you’re acting, as if you don’t want us to get better, I bet it doesn’t,” you added sharply, the tears you tried so hard to contain now falling. “Can you say something? Anything?”

Shoulders slumping, Keanu looked at you and saw the pain in your weary eyes. It’s beginning to dawn on him that he was the problem. It wasn’t the stress or exhaustion. It wasn’t that he no longer loved you. You were correct, he hasn’t been around for a while, and when he was home, he was more concerned with everything else but you.

“I’m sorry I’m never here,” he whispered, his sorrowful gaze dropping. The realization was overwhelming—he was pushing you away to protect himself from what was bound to happen.

No matter how much he loved you and how happy you were with him, Keanu knew you would grow tired as others have in the past. Despite the years you’ve spent together, the memories shared, and the house you’ve made a home, he believed that one day, this fairytale of a life would cease. No one has stayed with him for that long, and with the amount of heartbreak he’s experienced, it was only a matter of time until you decide to leave.

Leave. God, he didn’t want you to leave. The thought of it made his stomach turn, but after all the arguments you both have had, it wouldn’t be a surprise if one night, you decided to pack up your bags and walk out the door.

“This isn’t the life you signed up for,” Keanu mumbled low under his breath. “I love you, but this job—it’s who I am.”

“No, it’s not.” You slowly approached him, standing close enough for him to hear you exhale deeply. “It’s what you do. Look, take some time off after this movie, and I’ll do the same. We can go on a trip, maybe back to Italy like on my birthday. We’ll forget about work and enjoy ourselves. Just you and me, baby.”

You touched your hand to his cheek, rubbing his scruff with the gentle pad of your thumb. For a moment, he closed his eyes, relishing the tenderness he hasn’t felt in months. He could do what you’ve suggested, back out of a big upcoming project and spend time repairing the cracks in your relationship. Eyes fluttering open, Keanu was met with your soft gaze focusing on him, your finger moving to brush a stray strand of his hair to the side.

But then, he saw it. Staring deeply into your eyes, he could see himself hurting you again. Basing it on past history, this wouldn’t be the last time, and Keanu was sure of it. Things would be good until it isn’t, and the two of you would find yourselves back in this situation. It would be a vicious cycle, one which he couldn’t go through with, especially with you.

“What’s wrong?” You could sense a change in him. The hope that was there one second ago had now disappeared, replaced with something else indescribable.

Disappointment? Despair? Defeat?

“I-I can’t,” Keanu stuttered, ashamed. Your hand dropped from his face, your jaw clenching as you staggered backwards.

“Tell me straight,” you demanded, still holding his gaze. “Do you want to break up?”

Keanu opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Not even a slight utterance of a word. Inwardly, he’s conflicted. Why was it so difficult for him to say no? That’s what he wanted, was it? He loved you, didn’t he?

But you don’t hurt someone you love.

“I-I don’t know.”

You paused for a beat, wiping the tears from your eyes with the back of your hand. It was quiet again, and it was driving Keanu mad.

“Y/N,” he murmured your name as softly as he could, but he didn’t know what else to say.

“No,” you choked out before slowly turning around, suppressing your sobs.

Keanu made a choice not to follow you out of the room. He listened to your footsteps tapping away, getting softer as you head up the stairs, closing the bedroom door shut once you were inside.

“Fuck,” he angrily uttered, slamming his fist into the granite kitchen island counter.

As Keanu idly stood there mulling over what had just happened, he was reminded of the text that came in earlier. Quickly, he took his cell out of his pocket and read the message.

Drinks tonight at Barry’s. Are you in?

Without hesitation, he typed out a response and hit send. Drinking with her always helped, and after tonight, Keanu needed a glass or two. Possibly even three, just enough to get his mind off of everything.

Grabbing his keys hanging by the front door, Keanu briefly looked up at the second-floor landing. He wondered if he should go up there and apologize. You were broken by his answer, and knowing that he was the reason behind your tears pained him in his heart.

But before he could move, Keanu already had his hand on the doorknob, twisting it to let himself out. He didn’t want to face what could happen. Not tonight.

So he left, because avoiding the problem instead of facing it seemed like the better option, as always.

For now, you needed to cool off.

It could wait till morning.

—two months before the accident;

“Sweetheart?”

The sound of your mother’s voice caused you to snap out of the daze you were in, and you quickly fixed yourself in front of your vanity mirror. Your eyes were slightly puffy and red from crying, but you didn’t have time to mask it. Still, you mustered up your best, convincing smile as the door to your room carefully swung open.

“Hey, mom,” you greeted as she entered, a frown immediately forming on her lips. “What’s up?”

She sighed sadly before taking a seat on the edge of your bed, hands clasped as her eyes wandered around the room. “I remember when you were a teenager, you would lock yourself in your bedroom for the entire day whenever a boy broke your heart. You thought it’s the end of the world for you, and I’d sit there by your bedside, telling you that it’s not.”

Watching your mom pat the empty space beside her, you followed her wordless request for you to sit on the mattress. “I still don’t understand how you were able to handle all that teenage angst back then,” you quipped lightly. “Every breakup, you were there listening to me through my ugly, overdramatic cries.”

The two of you shared a small laugh, and for the briefest of moments, you forgot the pain.

“I’m glad you were able to fly out here for my birthday,” your mother began, her hand reaching for yours to give it a squeeze. “I thought Keanu was coming?”

You bit your lip at the mention of Keanu, the tears in your eyes already starting to form. You held them back, however. You didn’t want to sour the day.

“He couldn’t make it,” you shrugged, not wanting to explain any further, but the sadness emanating from your voice immediately gave her the impression that there was more to the story. She gave you a look—the one telling you to open up, like how you’ve done in the past with her.

“It’s okay, baby,” she assured softly. “What happened?”

And just like that, you let your walls down. After the night you asked if he wanted to breakup, things had been stagnant. Keanu went out of town again to resume filming two days later, never bringing up the topic before leaving. You haven’t seen him in a month, and to be honest, you didn’t bother contacting him.

“I don’t know what to do, mom,” you wept, and her arms wrapped around you, one hand stroking your hair as you cried into her side. “I still love him. I love him so much that the reason why I haven’t ended things is that I keep imagining that somehow, it’ll get better.”

“Oh, darling. I know it hurts, but if it’s getting too much for you, perhaps the best thing to do is to let go.”

Shaking your head, you managed to calm your unsteady breaths before sitting up. “I thought he was the one. After Eric, Ke was there to pick up the broken pieces. He was the one who made me believe in love again and made me feel worthy of being loved. But now, it’s like he’s not the same man I fell in love with years ago.”

“People change,” your mother stated as she tucked a loose lock of hair behind your ear. “To tell you the truth, I’m shocked to hear this. I’ve always thought Keanu was a good guy, the right guy for you. But this is life, Y/N. It’s all about learning and living, and accepting things the way they are, no matter how painful it is.”

You absorbed your words for a minute, only then asking, “If people change, do you think he’ll change back?”

“I can’t answer that question, but what I can tell you is that you’re stronger than you think. The decision will come to you eventually, and even though you’re scared of what could happen, you’ll know in your heart if it’s the right one.”

“I want to think that he’ll change,” you said, sighing. “But maybe we’re just not meant to be.”

Blinking away the tears, you feel like more weight has just been added to your shoulders. You didn’t want to give up on Keanu, yet how much longer of this can you endure?

“Come,” your mother suddenly spoke, changing the subject for now. “The food is ready, and your father is excited to dig into that cake you baked last night.”

“Did you remind him that it’s your birthday and not his?” You chuckled as you stood up.

She smiled fondly, and you found yourself smiling genuinely with her.

“Of course, I did, but you know how he is when it comes to sweets.”

Your mom exited your bedroom, and for a moment, you let the quiet relax you. Fixing your disheveled appearance, you were about to walk out of the door when you stopped, the phone on your nightstand catching your attention. Suddenly, you felt the need to call Keanu, just this once, despite knowing he wouldn’t pick up.

You didn’t give in. Instead, you turned off the lights and headed to the dining room.

You were done hurting for the evening.

But what about for the rest of your life?

—one week before the accident;

Keanu was never a big drinker, yet here he was, downing his fifth shot of whisky that night. He disliked parties; he didn’t care much for the crowds. But now that production has ended, the cast and crew held a big after-party to celebrate, renting out an entire bar with drinks to go around until the last person leaves.

Almost everyone was drunk and on the dance floor by the third hour, leaving Keanu to sulk in peace. He’s back in LA for the meantime but came home to a cold, empty house. You were in San Francisco for work, and he didn’t find out until he read the hastily written note stuck on the console table by the front door.

It was like this now—no words exchanged, no proper conversations, not even a simple “hello” in passing. You were just two lonely and longing souls living under the same roof, waiting for the inevitable end. Keanu was unsure of who would make the first move; both of you seem afraid to quit when you’re hanging onto the very last shredding thread of hope.

This past month, you and Keanu were the newest talk of the town. One of Hollywood’s favorite couples on the verge of splitting to “focus on their respective careers.” Usually, he didn’t pay any attention to the tabloids. They never got the story right. But as the number of reports began to increase, it even left close friends and family asking if it were true. Keanu hasn’t said a word, and as far as he knew, neither have you.

The alcohol washing down his throat didn’t sting anymore, and he wondered if it’s because he’s drank too much in one sitting or he’s that numb inside. It could have been both, Keanu mused, ordering another glass that the poor bartender had no choice but to serve. The room around him started to spin, but at least temporarily, he stopped thinking of you.

Teetering on the edge of oblivion, Keanu nearly missed the calling of his name amid the blaring music. A petite hand came to rest on his shoulder, a light squeeze following it afterwards. He glanced up and was met with a pair of kind, cerulean blue eyes.

Her eyes.

“Want some company?” She queried, and Keanu nodded, gesturing for her to take the stool next to his. “You’re awfully quiet tonight. Not liking the party?”

“Honestly, I’d rather be home,” he simply replied.

Home. Their house wasn’t a home. Not anymore.

��Is it Y/N?”

Keanu exhaled a long breath, drumming his fingers on the counter. She knew most of what went on when he told her while working together in the past few months.

At first, it was a slip of the tongue; he normally didn’t discuss his private life with others. But when it became too overwhelming for him to internalize everything, he had vented to her late one night over a bottle of wine. After that, they had grown close. She had been a good friend throughout the ordeal, the listening ear he needed.

“That obvious, huh?” He snorted, amused. Bleary-eyed, he turned to her, and she shot him a sympathetic smile. “Why are you here? Why not enjoy the party?”

“Well, every time we go out drinking, you always talk about her.” Nonchalantly, she sipped on her martini, batting her eyelashes at him. “And to answer your question, you said you needed company, so here I am.”

Her hand made its way to Keanu’s bicep, and the touch alone sent a kind of warmth that he hasn’t felt in a while. A nervous chuckle escaped his throat, but her hand doesn’t move away. Slowly, she leaned in closer, her scarlet stained lips hovering by his ear. Her voice was low, seductive and Keanu was too drunk to understand what was happening.

“You want to forget about her, right?”

Confusion marred his face, yet he gave her a silent nod. He’s not sober enough to think clearly, but the one surety he has was that tonight, at least for tonight, he didn’t want to feel pain. The alcohol solely wasn’t enough to distract him from it. Perhaps he needed something else.

Something more.

All Keanu wanted to do was forget. His conscious screamed that it’s wrong and that he shouldn’t. But as she kept staring at him with those hungry eyes, her wandering hand shifting to graze up his thigh, he could feel the electricity coursing through his veins.

And suddenly, she was all he could think of.

It’s a mistake. But what’s one more mistake going to do?

She led him down an empty hall, far away from the others. No one noticed them disappear into the back area, making it easier for Keanu to go through with this. Not too long after, they stumbled into the bathroom, lips crashing together in a bruising kiss. He had her pressed up against the door as he locked it, her fingers burying themselves into his hair as their tongues dueled.

Desire ruled over any rational thought as Keanu’s mouth trailed wet, hot kisses down her neck. Her small, nimble fingers reached down to unbuckle his pants, the clinking of metal lost in the soft moans they were letting out.

It felt good; he was feeling good. It was working, and to him, that’s what mattered.

“Keanu, please…”

Keanu stopped abruptly when his name came from her lips. It didn’t sound right to him and hearing it finally knocked back some sense into him. She’s standing in front of him, but all he could see were your eyes and the look of betrayal in them.

“What’s wrong?”

She’s not Y/N.

Pushing himself off of her, he ran his hand over his face, realizing what he had done. “I shouldn’t have.”

She inched closer to him, still panting. “I thought you wanted this, Keanu? I can help make you forget about her. I mean, isn’t that what you wanted me to do these last few months? You’re a good guy, and you deserve to feel good…”

Keanu stepped away, shaking his head. “No, this was a mistake. I-I wasn’t thinking straight. Please, don’t say a word about this to anyone.”

He didn’t even let her respond. He’s too frazzled thinking that he resorted to being the same man who had hurt you years before. Keanu had promised, he swore on his life, that he would never be like your ex. That he would treat you with the love you deserved, and you deserved only the best.

A wave of nausea hit him, and he had to get out of the confining room fast. Shuffling around her, he unlocked the door before taking a second to fix his pants. It turned out to be another mistake made that night because without warning, the entrance to the bathroom swung open, and he froze in fear.

“What the fuck, Keanu?”

Molly stood on the other side, stunned. Keanu recalled that she was friends with the director, who had mentioned in passing how she was invited to the party, too. It was funny how big the entertainment industry was, but at times, it was still such a small world.

Noting his disheveled appearance, it was clear to her what had transpired, and she could not be any more furious. The other woman, Heidi, quickly adjusted her top before hurrying past Keanu, muttering an apology as she made her hasty exit. The door closed behind Molly with a thud, and that’s when he began his plea.

“Please don’t tell Y/N,” Keanu spoke as Molly looked at him in disgust.

“Why? Are you planning to keep this a secret from her?” She was controlling the volume of her voice the best she could. Molly sincerely cared about you, and there was no doubt that she would allow this to slide.

“It’s complicated, Molly. Y/N and I aren’t doing so good and—”

Molly scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief. “And instead of working it out, you decide to fuck the PA behind her back.”

“It’s not like that. Nothing happened between us,” Keanu tried to explain, but he knew he was wasting his time.

It was still infidelity, the worst sin he could ever commit to her.

Sighing in defeat, Keanu lowered his head in shame. He could only imagine how you would react if you found out. It would break you, rip your heart in half, and for that, it was unforgivable.

He was unforgivable.

“Don’t tell her,” he repeated. “She needs to hear it from me.”

Molly approached him, and he captured the disappointment in her eyes. “I had a feeling that something wrong was going on between you two. I could see it in her face. She hasn’t been herself in a long time, and she’s never mentioned why.”

“I screwed up,” he admitted. “I knew I was going to hurt Y/N. It’s happened in the past, and I began pushing her away, thinking that she would leave eventually.”

“But you don’t want her to leave.”

Keanu lifted his tearful gaze. “I love her.”

“And she loves you,” Molly imparted following a pause, then she began walking towards the door. Before she could leave, she turned her head back to say one last thing. “Do the right thing, Keanu. If you love her that much, you owe it to her to tell the truth.”

Once alone, Keanu let out a breath, shuffling his feet to the bathroom sink where he glared at the reflection in the mirror. He was enraged, not at Molly, nor Heidi, and it wasn’t because he got caught either. The simmering anger was directed at his own self, but it didn’t matter if he took the blame.

He knew then he had already lost you.

—the night of the accident;

Rain.

It usually never rained in Los Angeles, not this much, at least.

Yet, it was beautiful, calming. The skies were shrouded by a sullen shade of grey that darkened as the hour passed to the next. The pitter-patter against the window lulled you into relaxation as you focused on the trickling drops chasing each other down the glass.

For as long as you could remember, you’ve always loved the rain. Even amidst this torrential storm, you managed to find a semblance of serenity in the chaos. Peace was there all the time. You just had to look real hard for it.

Inside, the house was quiet. It has been for days, ever since you came back from a work trip. No arguments, no yelling, nothing. You wondered if this was the turning point you’ve been waiting for. It was the reason why you stayed. In your heart, you still had hope that the pain would stop, and the healing would commence.

Maybe this was it.

This was the part when everything fell back into place.

Hearing the door leading out to the garage open, you set your coffee mug on the table as Keanu walked into the living area, wiping the grease stains off his hands with a small towel. You crossed the room to meet him halfway, and when he noticed you standing in front of him, only then did he look at you.

“How’s the new bike?” You asked, softly smiling at him.

You haven’t smiled at him like that in a while.

Keanu licked his dry lips before replying. “I-It’s good. It rides pretty great, too.”

“It’s been a while since we went on a ride together,” you pointed out, not to make him feel guilty but instead, remind him of the better times.

Times when you and Keanu were blissfully unaware of the hurt ahead.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, his chestnut orbs slightly obscured by the locks falling over his face when he bows his head. “Listen, I gotta take care of—”

“Ke,” you interjected him mid-sentence, ignoring the poor excuse he has made up on the spot to leave the room. “I don’t know what happened between us, but I really want to fix this. I have this hope that you don’t want to give up on us because if you didn’t, you would have left me a long time ago.”

A thunderous roar pierced the still air, but it wasn’t as loud as the pounding of your heart in your ears. Letting out a shaky breath, you inched closer as Keanu brought his gaze up, meeting yours. You remembered how much his eyes made you feel safe.

They still do; they still were home to you.

But as you stare into them, you could see the sadness masking their warmth. Keanu flinched when the palm of your hand caressed the side of his cheek, though he soon found himself leaning into your touch. The sensation almost seemed foreign to you both, and you would give anything in the world to change that—to have it all go back to the way it once was.

“I love you, Keanu,” you spoke softly, glossy eyes connected with his. “Please, just tell me what to do to make this better. I promise I won’t get mad at you for being away. I get it, it’s your job, and I should have understood. I’m sorry—I’m sorry for everything.”

You didn’t bother keeping the tears from falling. You didn’t care that you looked like a desperate mess in front of Keanu, but this was you laying your heart out bare. It hurt too much fighting, and you thought it would hurt even more if you left when you couldn’t even begin to imagine doing so.

In a last attempt to convince him, you pressed your lips to him, the first time in a long while. The roof continued to be pelted by the heavy rain as you kissed him, only realizing just a few seconds later that he wasn’t responding. You pulled back, seeing the flooding of sorrow in Keanu’s features. It was alarming, and you had no idea what was going in his mind.

“I-I have to tell you something,” Keanu murmured after a pause. His hand came up to rest behind the back of yours that was cupping his face.

“Whatever it is, it’s okay,” you reassured him, and then you saw it—guilt, shame, and regret. They all flashed in his wistful eyes, and immediately, panic settled in. You dreaded hearing what he had to say.

What else could Keanu have done?

You took a step back when a horrifying thought suddenly makes itself known. A part of you didn’t dare to consider it, but what if?

What if Keanu had done the last thing you expected him to, especially while knowing how it broke you the last time?

“You don’t have to lie to me, Ke,” you trembled out as your chest tightened, making it harder to breathe. You needed to know. No matter how much it would hurt, you had to know. “I-Is there someone else?”

“No.” Keanu’s short reply came quickly, but you could easily tell that he was lying; you knew him that well. The silence erupting proved to him that you had caught him at a lie, and he sighed. “It was just a kiss. I was drunk, hurt, and upset because of what’s been going on. But it was nothing, okay? None of it mattered, and it was a stupid mistake.”

You don’t respond. What was there to say?

This had to be a nightmare. You had to be in a deep sleep, experiencing a god-awful nightmare that you were willing yourself to wake up from.

But you didn’t.

This was reality. Your reality.

And it was tragic.

“I swear to you, I stopped before anything else could happen.” Keanu continued to explain himself, but you couldn’t focus on his words; none of them were making sense to you, not that you cared in the first place.

You dragged your feet away from him, though you were worried that you would collapse as you moved. You needed to get out and be someplace else because the more you stayed there, the more you felt your soul wilting away.

Why couldn’t you have just let go?

“Y/N…”

“Don’t,” you warned, the stinging tears clouding your vision, a betrayal of your grief. “I-I don’t want to hear it.”

Ignoring what you said, Keanu reached out to put his hand on your shoulder, but you pushed it away. “No, don’t touch me.”

“Baby, just listen to me.”

“Don’t call me that,” you spat out bitterly, your chest heaving with rage. “I’m a fool for thinking that things would be okay when you’re out there sleeping with someone else.”

Keanu shook his head as another roll of thunder crashed in the background. “It was only a kiss, Y/N. That’s it.”

“Fuck, a kiss is still something.”

You sharply turned on your heel and stalked towards the foyer, only stopping when you saw the photo displayed by the bottom of the staircase. It was from the night the two of you first kissed, when you and Keanu were deeply, truly in love.

Removing the frame from its hook, the couple on the image was barely recognizable as their smiles mocked at you, reminding you of the happiness and the love you once had.

If only they knew...

Devastated, you hurled the picture onto the floor. The glass cracked but didn’t shatter, and before you could do the same to the next photo, Keanu was towering over you, his hands holding you firmly by your wrist. You struggled in his grip as you kicked and yelled at him to let you go.

It was too much. Everything was too much. Inside, you feel an aching hollowness, the love that used to be there has now become pain.

Unbearable and excruciating pain.

“Calm down, Y/N, please,” Keanu begged, yet it was no use. “Stop acting like a child, and just listen.”

You managed to break free from his hold, backing away as far as you could until you reached the door. “A child? I’m acting like a child? You’re the one who messed up, and you’re acting as if you’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I didn’t sleep—”

“Yeah, you didn’t,” you cut him off, noticing the growing frustration appearing on his face. “What are you going to say? That you’re sorry? Because that’s not enough, Ke.”

“Well, what do you want me to say?” Keanu scoffed. “I want to talk about this, but you’re being difficult by not giving me a chance.”

“So, now I’m difficult?”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Then what? Tell me what you meant by that.” You waited for a few beats for Keanu to answer, but before he could answer, you decided you had enough. “Never mind, just leave me alone.”

“See, this is exactly what I’m talking about. How can we work this out if you won’t even hear what I have to say?”

“No, Keanu. I’m done listening. I’ve given you plenty of opportunities to speak up and tell me what’s wrong, but you never did. I wanted to fix this— us— so fucking badly, and… ”

You ceased as your voice broke, and Keanu standing there only affected you even more. You trusted him, you thought that he could never hurt you, you loved—

You don’t know anymore.

“I can’t be here right now,” you muttered, reaching for your car keys simultaneously. You’re not sure of where to go, just that you need to be far away.

Far away from him.

“Fine,” Keanu breathed out as you threw on your shoes. “Leave.”

The coldness in his tone was one you’d never heard before. It was not like Keanu to do this, but how would you know? Your mother’s words echoed in your head as you opened the front door, the loud howl of wind greeting you outside.

People change.

And it was your mistake for thinking that Keanu would change back.

“Do you even love me anymore?” You blurted out the question before you could cross the threshold, glancing back at Keanu with tired eyes.

You waited for what seemed like the longest time, his silence serving enough as confirmation.

It was over.

Wordlessly, you hurried to your car parked in the driveway, not caring that the torrent of rain had drenched you within seconds. Starting the engine, you didn’t expect him to run out of the house in a final attempt to make you stay. All hope was lost, and at this point, you’ve now accepted it.

As you drove further away from the house, the past began to haunt you. From it, you had thought good things didn’t last forever until you met Keanu. Then, you were led to believe that he was the exception.

But you had been wrong.

So damn wrong.

And as you fault yourself for your mistakes, you didn’t notice how much you were speeding until the tires skidded against the wet pavement. Your car spun as you struggled to regain control, but it was too late.

One loud crash and everything went black.

—now;

By the time Keanu had finished explaining, you had distanced yourself away from him. Your tear-stained gaze was unwavering, as if you’re processing every detail, every word. He carefully gauged your reaction, waiting for an explosive outburst or a string of curses.

“Y/N. Baby?” The wooden floor creaked under his weight when he stepped forward, the sound of it snapping you out from a trance-like state. “Can you say something? Please?”

“I can’t… I don’t know.”

You were overwhelmed, and Keanu couldn’t do much nor say anything to be of comfort. His lie had been revealed, and once more, he was breaking your heart all over again. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t you dare say another word,” you choked, forcing Keanu to halt his movements. “You didn’t plan on telling me, did you? You were going to act like it never happened.”

“I was going to tell you, but I was waiting for the right time.”

The excuse was painfully pathetic, and Keanu was already losing the uphill battle. He’s gone through this before, and he could tell that the newly found love you had with him was swiftly vanishing. The resentment was building in front of him, replacing the light that used to be in you. He’s unsure whether he would get to see it again.

“I just wanted things to go back to the way they used to be—when we were happy,” Keanu added, mirroring the hope you had before he took it away.

“No,” you denied sternly. “You tried to paint our lives as perfect when it’s far from it. You saw my amnesia as a way to start over.”

“I know it’s fucked up, but the one thing I’m not lying about is how much I love you, Y/N. Please understand that.”

“Then, why was it so hard for you to say that before? It could have saved us a lot of trouble,” you replied as you marched out of the room, only for Keanu to trail closely behind.

“It was a mistake, but these recent months made me realize that I can’t bear even the thought of losing you. We were so happy together and—”

“But, I’m not the Y/N who was there during those times, Keanu. I wouldn’t know. You’re a stranger to me, and I can’t believe I trusted you so easily just because you showed me pictures of a happy couple.”

Keanu didn’t know what else to say. Every scenario he came up with would end the same way, but it wasn’t too surprising. You and he were broken beyond repair, all thanks to his selfish decisions. If only he had told you the truth from the start. Maybe somehow, it would have fared better for the two of you.

“I-I have to go,” you stammered, and before you could open the front door, Keanu bolted next to you, pressing his hand on the frame to prevent you from walking out. “I can’t do this right now. Please, I just need to get—.”

“No, I’m letting you out there,” he stated worryingly. “I don’t want anything bad happening to you again.”

You wiped a lone tear as you exhaled. “Something bad has already happened, and it’s you, Ke.”

Silence.

You didn’t say more. Instead, you brushed past Keanu and dashed up the stairs, slamming the bedroom door shut behind you. The force rattled the house, and once he realized he was finally alone, the tears Keanu tried his mightiest to keep at bay started to fall. He stood there for what felt like an eternity as he figured out what was next for you both.

But Keanu already knew, however. He just didn’t want to admit it.

The storm outside passed, but the atmosphere inside was far from calm. Exhausted, Keanu was about to head to the guest room upstairs when his gaze settled on the very same picture you had tried to break that night. You had just got around to buying a new frame to replace the old one, and you were excited to have it back on the wall.

Since the accident, you and Keanu had made new happy memories similar to the one photographed. But after all that has been said, tonight would be the only memory you would forever remember him by.

Part 12

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