#and they keep her nose… lord ive prayed for times like this | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vanserraseris · 4 years ago

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END OF PART IV - This is just some more Lucien and Eris. Eris is pretty ooc, idk, I just imagine that Lucien and Eris got along at some point. I hope you enjoy it :)

yesssss im so here for lucien and eris being brothers <3

Prince of Ashes. Part IV.

masterlist.

Eris had read the same business proposal three times. With a small, useless snarl, he threw the sheets of paper onto his desk and frustratedly rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms. He took a deep breath. His father had been demanding more from him, a strange thing Eris couldn’t understand considering how quickly his father had shoved him out of The Forest House after the War.

Eris had also managed to get into another fight with Cato, which, while a very common occurrence, still managed to leave him in a terrible mood. Blowing at a strand of blood-red hair that had fallen into his face, Eris lifted the proposal once more, hoping that this time the words would make some semblance of sense. When he became High Lord, Eris decided he was going to make his brothers answer all of his correspondence so that he wouldn’t have to.

Eris almost growled when the heavy oak door to his study slowly creaked open, but he opted to ignore whoever thought it would be a good idea to interrupt him. Perhaps they would just leave, Eris hoped, eyes scanning the document in front of him. With a scowl, Eris raised his head to snap at what was most likely a new servant, but when he saw no one at the door, Eris paused. He carefully placed the proposal off to the side, the fireplace on the other side of the small room flaring.

Just when Eris was about to stand, a small face peaked up at him from the opposite end of his desk. Eris frowned, “Lucien?” He asked it in a soft tone, one that he reserved for only three people in his life. Mother, Rufus, Lucien. Eris didn’t know what it was about them that put to sleep the dark thing inside him, but for whatever reason, he felt at peace in their presence.

“I knew you had come,” his youngest brother must have been on the tips of his toes to look over the desk at Eris. He didn’t look too pleased.

The frown did not leave Eris’s face, “I am not to stay long, but I have much to do.”

“You couldn’t be bothered to come say hello?” Lucien lifted his chin, the loose curls of his short hair shifting with the movement. Eris had not realised how upset Lucien was, his little face red in the cheeks with what Eris supposed was anger.

“Our father has given me a task, I can’t be spending the day with you,” too harsh for a child that had yet to reach half a decade, but Eris always had a hard time with softness.

Lucien didn’t back down, with a small shake of his head he spoke, “You could have said hello.”

“Go pester Rufus, Lucien,” Eris mumbled, lifting the paper and taking his eyes away from the sad gaze of his brother. Eris waved his other hand in the door’s direction, “Or go back to the lessons I know you should be in.”

Eris heard Lucien’s frustrated sigh and his small steps as he scrambled out of the room. While Eris knew that Beron paid very little attention to the whereabouts of Lucien, Eris had gotten plenty of beatings for missing a lesson. Noticing that Lucien had not closed the door but feeling much too lazy to do it himself, Eris settled once more into his cushioned chair. Grabbing a pen, Eris began to write out a lengthy response to the proposal.

He almost snorted when he got to the bottom of the page and signed it with his father’s name. As if Beron had such lovely writing, Eris thought rather arrogantly. His father hadn’t learned to do anything other than fight for the crown of the Autumn Court. He’d slaughtered five brothers for it. It was not hard to imagine how ruthless Beron must have been in his youth, but Eris also couldn’t believe how his father had killed his own brothers and slept at night.

Eris had always been thankful for having been firstborn. If being the eldest was good for nothing else, Eris was glad he wouldn’t be the one killing any siblings for a centuries old scrap of metal.

Eris almost fell out of his seat when he heard the loud clang of the plate that landed on the desk, knocking him out of his miserable thoughts. Eris peered over the top of his desk, scowling. Red hair that was the same as his own was all he could see.

“Old Sae says you haven’t eaten,” Lucien made his way to Eris’s side, a small sneer on his face. Eris thought Lucien had never looked more like a Vanserra, like one of them — stubborn and determined, his chin tilted up and his nose lifted in a snobbish sort of way.

“Lucien,” Eris began, but stopped to help his younger brother as he climbed onto the arm of the chair. “Fox, what in the hells are you doing?”

Lucien didn’t bother answering him — something that he did quite often — as he settled onto Eris’s lap, curling his small body up against his oldest brother.

“Lucien,” Eris sighed, “I’m busy.”

“I know,” Lucien said, looking up at Eris, russet eyes pleading, his mouth set in a pout, “I swear it, Eris, I swear that I won’t ask you to read to me or give me riddles or play chess with me, I swear.”

It was true that Lucien was always looking to Eris for attention, but he found it strangely calming to sit around with Lucien and do such ordinary things. Eris had thought about what he would do if he’d been born ordinary — if hadn’t been the Autumn Court’s heir — much more than he’d like to admit.

Eris shook his head, but he was finding it very hard to say no. So much for not getting attached to the little runt, “I’m busy,” he repeated.

Lucien frowned, settling against Eris’s side and facing the desk, “So you be busy, and I’ll stay here and watch.”

Eris felt something spark in his usually hollow chest. He sighed, leaning his chin onto the top of his brother’s head, hoping that Lucien understood how much Eris appreciated him in that moment. Lucien was a creature that gave love so freely, Eris prayed to the Mother that he would always be this way. “Alright,” Eris scooted the chair closer to the desk, “But I have a lot to do.”

Lucien hummed, knowing very well that he’d managed to do something great. Lucien had gotten very good at getting Rufus and their mother to do whatever he wanted, Eris was a bit more of a challenge. Small fingers lifting an apple slice from the plate he’d dropped onto the desk, Lucien handed it to Eris before he took a slice for himself and bit into it. Eris ruffled Lucien’s red locks, biting into his own apple slice with a small smile.

And so that was how Eris would spend the rest of his day. With Lucien sat quietly on his lap as he did the brunt of his father’s paperwork. Lucien had stayed true to his word and hadn’t asked Eris for anything. The sun had set by the time Eris was on the last letter, some marriage request for a young female in the aristocracy. The lord was hoping for a beneficial union between his daughter and one of the Vanserras.

Eris guessed that no harm would come from throwing that particular letter in the fire. It would be just his luck that Beron would choose another potential bride for him, assuming the old bastard had forgotten what a disaster it’d been the last time he had tried to marry Eris off to the first available female. With a knock on the door to his study, Eris wrapped an arm around little Lucien, who’d fallen asleep against his side. The door was thrown open, Priam walking inside with silent steps.

“Father knows Lucien missed his lessons and wants to speak with you,” he sounded calm and unbothered, but the embers flaring in his russett eyes gave away the fact that some emotion was brewing behind that cold façade.

Brilliant, Eris thought, handing the sleeping Lucien to Priam, “Find Rufus,” Eris said, trying to keep his frustration at bay. He often had to remind himself that none of his brothers were at fault for whatever Beron was about to do, but he often got angry at them instead.

Priam didn’t give Eris a response, and as soon as Lucien was settled in Priam’s arms, they winnowed away, hopefully to Rufus. Rufus loved being around children, Eris wasn’t surprised. Rufus had always been the kindest of them, the most understanding and most loving. Eris had kept Rufus far away from their father, and while their mother had mostly ignored little Rufus, he didn’t seem to hold it against her. Eris supposed he should ask Rufus how he did it the next time he had a chance.

Only moments after Priam and Lucien had left, Eris felt the heavy, choking presence of his father’s magic, the smoking scent of it. He could only wait for whatever punishment his father had in store. Eris didn’t bother standing as his father walked into the study, his short brown hair brushed back and away from his face, his crown nowhere to be seen.

The High Lord of the Autumn Court slowly walked to Eris’s desk, his hand absently picked up a book that Eris had lying there. Eris wondered if Beron would throw it at him.

Beron’s beringed fingers flipped through the pages of the book, his eyes scanning the words as he spoke. “I don’t pay those tutors for nothing, boy.”

Eris swallowed, licked his lips, “I wasn't aware they were being paid.” Eris watched as his father huffed a humourless laugh.

“I don’t think I have to tell you that your behaviour has been unacceptable as of late.” Beron elegantly set the heavy book down, his voice calm.

He’d been told countless times by his father to stop spoiling Lucien. Eris found that even without a vow to protect Lucien, he would have done it just to keep the smile on his youngest brother’s face. Mother above, Eris was a real idiot for thinking he could love someone in this court and not have it be a weakness.

Eris set his jaw, opting to act like a fool, “What behaviour?”

The back-handed blow to the face he’d earned for that would surely bruise. Quick as an adder so that he hadn’t seen the hit coming, but Eris knew he wouldn’t have moved out of the way even if he had.

“Don’t play the idiot with me, Eris, I have no patience for it,” Beron growled, his hand snapping up to hold Eris’s face in a tight, uncomfortable grip. Beron leaned over the desk, “I don’t think I need to teach you another lesson?”

Eris shook his head, his father’s grip on his chin still too tight, “No, High Lord,” he ground out. Eris had been beaten bloody less than a fortnight ago for taking Lucien and Rufus to the city for a day trip, but Beron’s lessons had always taught Eris absolutely nothing, and that one had been no different. Not only that, but Eris found he was very good at repeating his long list of stupid mistakes that managed to make his father absolutely livid.

Beron practically threw Eris’s face to the side, “Be careful, boy, I have six other sons to take my place. I have no use for an heir who can hardly obey a simple order.”

The sudden urge for Eris to bark that Beron only had five was overwhelming, but he settled for glaring at his father’s back as he stalked out of the study. Eris would gladly give one of his brother’s the throne, he’d never fucking wanted it anyway.

Eris slumped back in his seat as his father left the room, the control on his own magic slipping so that golden flames flickered in his eyes. Eris wanted to flip the desk in his anger, but he hated making a mess of things, so he took a deep breath instead, cooling the fire in his veins. Eris raised a pale hand, wiping some blood from his split lip with the pad of his thumb. It would heal by morning, Eris thought, and all would be as if it had never happened.

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theasstour · 4 years ago

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𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐏𝐀𝐆𝐄 | 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 𝟏𝟎.𝟒𝐊 𝐍𝐁: 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐞

A/N: IT’S FINALLY HERE 🐚🌊✨ Lightkeeper!Harry is here and I’m BEYOND excited to show you lot this concept I’ve been thinking about quite literally everyday for MONTHS now! I love this story with my entire heart, and I really hope it resonates with some of you and that you fall completely in love with lightkeeper!harry and ST like I have 🥺 Love you! Enjoy! x

Thursday, 11 June

The universe would always balance itself out, Y/N McKay was aware of this. She was aware that if she had faith and believed everything happens for a reason, it would make the tough times of her life easier to mentally handle. If she did good, the universe would work to give it back to her in some other form. However, that didn’t mean that when something dreadful did happen it wouldn’t affect her, and she wouldn’t feel hopeless. Because she did. Very much so.

Most of her life she had lived in a constant state of harmony. She was neither displeased nor satisfied with the life she was leading because it kept her out of trouble; it kept her safe. Her entire life she had lived in peace in Winchester, a fairly prissy town in the middle of Hampshire county in England. Her father owned a business of sorts, Y/N had never gotten the details of it or how he’d gotten where he was, but all she knew was he inherited it from his father and it was expected to be handed down generation after generation in the McKay family. However, Y/N was an only child and neither her mum nor her dad thought she’d be fit to run the business when the time came.

“Nothing personal, darling,” her mother had said when it was brought up during a dinner when Y/N was still in sixth form. “You just don’t have the brains for it.”

“What your mother means to say,” Y/N’s father went on. “You’re so intelligent in your own way, running the business won’t make you happy.”

They always called it that. The business. They never told her what it was about or explained when she asked questions about it. Not that she expected her dad to be a drug lord, but it would’ve been nice to be let in on something. It would’ve been nice to be given the opportunity to feel of enough importance to someone to know special things.

Y/N looked out the window of the train, the Cornish coast stretching out as far as the eye could see, the sun not yet hanging high enough on the sky to make it dreadful to walk outside in her black oversized smock dress. The book in her lap was still open, though she’d read the same page over and over and over again, not being able to concentrate for long enough to remember what happened at the top of the piece of paper. Everything was fuzzy and she had too much to think about; too much to consider.

The last 24 hours had been the worst of her life. Yesterday had turned everything upside down and she hated it. However, thinking the universe would balance itself out and work in her favour, she was also aware that the reason her life needed help to be smoothed out by higher powers in the first place, was because it was in imbalance. Something was off. Something had thrown it off. But she forced herself to stay hopeful, knowing that if she lost that little flicker of hope in what seemed like an endless night, it’d be next to impossible to find her way back to peacefulness.

She glanced down at the book in her lap and was about to start reading again, not liking it when she had to put the book away in the middle of a chapter. She wasn’t given the opportunity as the overhead speakers sounded their soft alarm, and next second, a woman was speaking.

“Next stop is St Ives. Doors will open on the right-hand side.”

The nerves Y/N had felt in the pit of her stomach came back again, this time with more intensity than the last few. Though she realised what she was doing that morning when she boarded her train for Reading, and then again when she stepped on the train for St Erth, and yet again when she sat down on the train towards St Ives, this time it felt worse than all those times before. This was it. She was here.

She had no idea why she chose St Ives out of all places in Cornwall – in the world even –, why here of all places? Even years later, she could never seem to remember the exact moment when she chose that coastal town, or why it had appealed to her at all. Maybe it was the fact that it had a beach, or that it wasn’t particularly populated, or that there was no way anyone she had ever known would be there. The most important part however, and maybe the only reason why she chose St Ives, was because it was far away from Winchester. It was far away from her family, from her ex, and everything she associated with that town and everyone living in it.

She put The Well of Loneliness by Radclyffe Hall away in her purse, slinging her purse over her head to rest across her chest before she reached up and took her old leather bag down from the overhead compartment. This was the only one she would risk bringing as it used to be her father’s back in the day, but he never used it anymore and wouldn’t suspect it being gone. Placing the strap on her shoulder, she walked off to the closest door, apologising when she jabbed someone with her bag on the way out.

Stepping off, Y/N instantly regretted wearing a long-sleeved dress. Though she was under the protection of the roof above the platform, the heat was still almost insufferable. It got her wondering if this was just a normal day in the very South of England or if it was an exceptionally hot one. She prayed for the latter.

She walked out of the station, staying in the cool shade for a few minutes longer as she typed in the address of the inn she was staying at. Not really knowing how public transit worked here yet, she didn’t want to risk taking the wrong bus or asking a tourist for directions to a place they’d never heard of. Instead, she put her EarPods in and went on her merry way. The second she stepped out into the sun, she was once again reminded of why she’d never wear that black dress again that summer.

The Roaming Crab Inn was on The Terrace, the road along the coast of St Ives, holding dozens of hotels and other places to stay during a visit. Y/N didn’t know why she’d chosen this exact inn, or how she’d even happened upon it. It might’ve had something to do with the picture of the old lady grinning from ear to ear on the inn’s website. A picture that was so lovely and so warm that, in the midst of everything Y/N was going through right then, it made her tear up.

She stepped into the inn, placing her sunglasses on the top of her head, and made sure her hair looked alright before walking a bit further inside. Cherry wooden panels lined the floors, walls, and ceiling, a reception desk in the same style attached to the wall to the right. Pictures of all kinds of people hung on the walls. Y/N suspected it might be locals as well as dear guests who had come and gone over the years. No lights were on as the sharp afternoon sun was sufficient in keeping the lobby just bright enough o that electricity wasn’t needed. Fake green vines hung along the ceiling and walls, as well as from different pots on the fireplace to the right that didn’t seem to be in use. Still, two old recliners stood beside it, tempting to sit down and drown in, to escape a turbulent life.

To the left was a staircase leading up to the other landings, and though Y/N hadn’t stepped foot on it yet, she already knew it creaked. This entire house seemed more like a cottage you’d find in the middle of the country, not on the coast of South England. She slowly started making her way over to the reception, and that was when she noticed the back door. Behind the desk was an old, white windowed door, a little smaller in height but a little wider in breadth than normal doors – like the entrance. It was open, leading the way out into a back garden that seemed to be both small and surrounded by the neighbouring houses on all sides. The wooden fence was covered in vines, flowers of all kinds poking out amongst them and on the ground around. The stone paved patio seemed to be old and uneven, there was a set of bistro metal chairs in all the colours of the rainbow along with a white table to match them.

A gang of old ladies sat around the table, chattering amongst themselves and occasionally laughing, all holding a different knitting project each. Y/N hated the thought of disturbing them, but she also just wanted to check in and go up to her room; maybe even go for a walk to take a look around the place she’d be in for the next few weeks.

She reached for the bell, hitting it lightly as to not make it sound urgent and intrusive. A small yelp was heard from the back garden and then the sound of the metal chair scraping against the stone patio. As she heard the footsteps get closer, Y/N glanced around, taking in the interior of the inn undisturbed one more. As someone appeared in the doorway and their eyes met, the old lady who stood there gave Y/N that warm smile of hers she’d seen online the night before.

“Hello, dear!” she chirped, placing her glasses on the bridge of her nose and walking over to the computer on her side of the desk. “How are you?”

“I’m good, thank you. And yourself?”

The old lady smiled, her eyes almost disappearing behind her high cheekbones. Her long white hair was fastened in a bun at the back of her head, the rest of her dressed in a pair of white trousers and a tunic with some bird print on it.

“I’m wonderful. What’s your name then, lovely?”

“Y/N McKay.”

“Ahh,” she said. “You’re the one who booked your stay last night.”

“That’s me, yeah,” Y/N chuckled, brushing some hair behind her ear.

“Till August 10th.”

“Yes.”

“Right then, Y/N,” the lady said, taking a key hanging from the wall beside her and taking her glasses off, smiling the entire time. “Let me show you to your room.”

The two walked up to the second floor, taking a right as they arrived and the inn-keeper unlocked the door. The innkeeper kept the door open for Y/N, letting her walk in first. Though the floor and ceiling were similar to the wooden panels of the lobby, the walls were white. Against the same wall that the door came to rest against stood an old blue dresser, and a fake flower in an elegant vase that seemed to be just one of the many flowers in the room. The double bed stood to the far left wall, white sheets covering it and looking so lush that it took everything in Y/N not to sprint over and throw herself onto it. There was a desk as well as a recliner, and a window on the opposite wall overlooking the ocean that was just about a minute’s walk from here.

“The bathroom is over there,” the innkeeper said, pointing at a door beside the staircase. “You share it with the other guests on the same floor as you, alright?”

“Yeah, that sounds nice,” Y/N admitted, genuinely meaning it as well. She didn’t see the problem with that in the least.

“I’m mostly downstairs or in the next house over, which is mine,” she continued. “So if there’s ever anything you think I could help you with, do pop by.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, my goodness,” she suddenly exclaimed, walking over to Y/N. “I’ve completely forgotten to introduce myself. I’m Bessie.” Bessie smiled at Y/N again, making the latter almost want to cry for the umpteenth time that day. “And I really hope you enjoy your stay here in St Ives.”

With that, the innkeeper left Y/N to herself. Y/N let her bag and purse fall to the floor before she dragged the chair by the desk over to the window. She opened it and just stared out across the beach and sea outside. Seagulls were howling overhead, waves were crashing against shore, and the familiar salty scent of the presence of the ocean lingered in the air constantly. It was like one of those trips she’d taken with her parents every summer, a new place every year, always by the coast. Her favourite might’ve been their vacation in Bali. It was gorgeous beyond comprehension, in a way no other place she’d ever been could come close to. But she was aware she’d never go on another trip with her parents again. Not after everything that happened the night before.

Now she couldn’t rely on them any longer. She was on her own. She had no idea what she was going to do, no idea what lay ahead of her. As she at on the chair looking out over St Ives, the town she’d spend her summer in, she realised she’d never felt more forlorn.

St Ives is a coastal town located in the very south-west of the southernmost county in England, Cornwall. It is known for its surf beaches – most well-known being Porthmeor – and its many art galleries and restaurants. Tate St Ives is a gallery at the seafront and has rotating modern art exhibitions, focusing primarily on British artists. The Barbara Hepworth Museum and Sculpture Garden is located in the modernist artist’s former studio, displaying her bronzes and other works.Y/N, having grown up in a fairly posh family with exquisite and particular taste, knew a thing or two about art.

She always had her purse on her, and in it she’d keep all the essentials for going out and about. Hand sanitiser, Kleenex, band-aids, pads, keys, a portable charger, and the book she was currently reading. The Well of Loneliness lay in her purse as she strolled around, a St Ives guide book in her hand that she’d bought at one of the local stores on what must’ve been their high street.

First and foremost, she wanted to do some sightseeing. She’d be here for a long time, so she might as well get acquainted with the town she’d stay in and learn its ins and outs. There is this part of St Ives called The Island, that isn’t at all an island, but it is just called that. The Island is the imposing headland that juts out into the seat from the spit of land that separates the harbour and Porthmeor beach – the most popular and most central beach in the town. In ancient times it was a promontory fort, but these days it’s probably better known as a location of the tiny chapel of St Nicholas. Walking to The Island, Y/N took in the incredible views of the ocean surrounding her, and the beach – The Townas - beside her that was cramped between The Island and Godrevy Point on the other side.

To her left was what looked to be Hellesveor Cliff, and at the very point of it, on the top of what must’ve been the most haunting cliff Y/N had ever seen, stood a lighthouse. Looking in her guide book, it didn’t say much about the lighthouse except the care of it had been passed down generation after generation by the family currently living there. It was at the very edge of St Ives, farther out than Godrevy Point. It made it so Porthmeor, St Ives, and The Townas were all guarded by these two points, the St Ives Lighthouse watching over its town and the far coast around.

Continuing on her walk, she strolled down the Down-a-long, which is the old, lower part of St Ives built on the narrow ridge of land that separated The Island to the rest of the town. This part of town is the archetypal image of St Ives with its jumble of cobble streets lined with whitewashed, old cottages, some seeming to fall apart and others in better condition. Y/N thought the street names were equally evocative and unique, some of her favourites being Salubrious Place, Teetotal Street, and The Digney. Though it said in her catalogue that fishermen used to live in the Down-a-long before, next to none lived there now as most of it was occupied by galleries, cafes, and little shows that one can shake a stick at. As she strolled through Fore Street, the main shopping street in St Ives, she walked by a vintage shop – Vintage Divine – and jotted it down on her phone.

All her life, Y/N had always loved everything vintage. She liked the thought of owning something that had once been part of someone else’s life, that had made them happy enough they wanted to hand it on and give someone else that same happiness they’d experienced. Though neither her mum, her dad, or her ex-boyfriend liked her obsession with vintage and stuff owned by others before her, their disinterest had never stopped her from going to markets or stores. However, she never bought anything unless she knew she could hide it. Now, she thought, that didn’t have to be a problem.

A few years back when she started to realise her obsession with old stuff, furniture, clothing, and books owned by others before her, she read an article online. The article had suggested that people are attracted to vintage pieces because they offer an escape. Wearing these garments, holding these ornaments, touching furniture from another time is a way to experience a different life. A life that isn’t your own and that was lived before hers or parallel to hers. Shopping vintage then created an exciting search for something special and creative, something a normal shopping trip could never give her. It was weird how much she was looking forward to going through that shop, Y/N realised, but she couldn’t wait to explore and take items home with her. Not that she expected she’d be welcomed home to Winchester anytime soon, but she chose not to think about that too much.

Fore Street was a narrow and cobblestone-clad street with people milling about trying to find a decent place for lunch. Stone cottages lined both sides of the street, either a neutral colour like white, a dull yellow, beige, light blue, or just plain, grey stone. Y/N enjoyed walking among these houses. It was a quiet town, peace seemed to be permanently settled between the cramped streets and tiny houses. Though Winchester wasn’t London with its tall buildings and never-ending bustle, St Ives was even smaller than her hometown, which made it that much more appealing to her. There was a sense of relaxation in the mere atmosphere around her that massaged the tension out of her shoulders and straightened her hunched back.

The door to the Seafood Café she was about to walk by burst open. A couple of people standing around jumped at the commotion, as did Y/N. Dressed in high-waisted loose fitted denim jeans, a white tee shirt tucked into them, a pair of orange worn down Vans, and brown curls in a dishevelled mess, the man who caused the ruckus didn’t seem to notice everyone’s attention being on him. He halted a bit as he came outside before he walked left. Y/N stopped moving, the sudden interruption in her peaceful stroll taking her off guard. The man suddenly started straight for Y/N, his head bent, eyes on the cobblestone before him. He didn’t seem to notice where he was going, not looking up in the direction he was heading. So, when he saw Y/N’s shadow, that’s when he glanced up. Their eyes met just a second before he managed to stop, preventing them from crashing into one another.

“Oh!” he erupted, voice crescendoing. He blinked twice, eyes settling on her for a few seconds before he said a quick, “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, I should’ve moved out of the way,” Y/N assured him, about to step to the side when she noticed his lips moving again. No words came out, though. She stood there for a few seconds, just watching his jaw and lips work, not seeming to find his words.

“Have a good day,” she went on, trying to step out of the way when the man blurted out, “Please, miss.”

She looked at him again, about to narrow her eyes when she saw a troubled expression on his face. His eyes were a little wide and he glanced over his shoulder before meeting her eyes again. The door to Seafood Café opened again, a woman and a younger girl stepping out.

“Please,” he repeated, voice low. “Go along.”

Y/N frowned. “Excuse me?”

“I’ll owe you my entire life if you just play along for a minute or two, yeah?”

She cocked her head some to the side. “I don’t know what you mean, sir. I should-“

“-I don’t usually do this- I mean, I never do, I’ve never done this before – ever -, but-but they think I have a girlfriend and I don’t. Please-“

“-Harry!”

The man – who Y/N could only assume to be Harry - turned around to face a tiny Filipina woman and an even smaller girl beside her, who looked to be no older than ten. The two looked Y/N over, eyes scanning her from head to toe. Y/N felt like she was under a magnifying glass.

But while they took her in, Y/N’s thoughts wandered to the words the man beside her had said only a few seconds earlier. “They think I have a girlfriend and I don’t.” Was he… was he saying what Y/N thought he was saying? She glanced at him, seeing him draw a shaky breath and meet her eyes, waiting for her to make the next move it seemed. Everything that had happened in the last minute confused her. She didn’t know this man, didn’t know what he’d told these two women or why. She was also well aware that by just walking away she wouldn’t need to worry about him any longer; his problems weren’t hers. This seemed messy, confusing, and a little risky.

Usually, she wouldn’t want any part of it. The Y/N she was yesterday wouldn’t have considered this. She would’ve looked at the man apologetically before excusing herself and walking off, leaving him to figure out whatever lie he’d told these two on his own. But Y/N had changed. Or… at least that’s what she wanted to believe… Fine, she wanted to change, and maybe this was a place to start.

Harry sighed, turning around to face the two he had tried to get away from, shoulders sinking as he met their eyes. The defeat was evident in his body language; he was about to give up and just tell them that he didn’t have a girlfriend. That’s what finally did it, seeing how it took absolutely everything out of him to tell them the following. “Jasmine, I’m sorry, I need to tell you-“

“-It’s so nice to finally meet you,” Y/N interrupted him, smiling as she stepped out from behind Harry. Though she had seriously considered helping him, it still surprised her when she actually heard the words coming out of her mouth. Her heart was beating about as fast as it had that morning when she’d left Hampshire.

Harry looked at her, mouth falling open, obviously shocked by her willingness to help him. It took him a few seconds to gather himself, but once he did, he looked back at the two they were trying to convince with a bright smile on his face.

“What did you have to tell me, Harry?” the older woman asked.

“That, uhh…” He looked at Y/N again before glancing at who she could only assume to be Jasmine. “Jessa, this is my girlfriend.”

Jasmine raised her eyebrows, eyes lighting up suddenly. The girl beside her stood there fidgeting with the hem of her top, looking Y/N up and down still.

“Hi,” Y/N said, stepping forward and reaching her hand out for Jasmine. “I’m Y/N.”

“Y/N,” Jasmine said, a smile coming to rest on her round face as they let go of the others’ hand. “Harry, you said her name was unusual.”

“That… I-“ Harry stopped himself.

Y/N’s lips parted, unsure how to react to that.

“That’s why you didn’t want to tell us her name, since it was so unusual. Y/N isn’t unusual.”

Y/N chuckled a little, looking at Harry whose whole face was a shade of red she’d never seen before. He glanced around him, meeting her gaze before quickly looking to the ground, scratching at his neck.

“You thought my name was weird?” She was well aware Harry hadn’t known her name until that point, let alone had any time to form an opinion on it. But regardless, she found it funny how he’d refused to give them his pretend girlfriend’s name by telling them it was an unusual one, as if they’d laugh at it.

“I didn’t-“ Harry sighed. “It wasn’t like I was embarrassed I just…” He trailed off, motioning with his hands, but Y/N had no idea what that meant. She didn’t take it to heart, though, knowing it had nothing to do with her and everything to do with his cover-up story.

“He has such a way with words,” Jasmine said, clicking her tongue at him. “Anyway, I’m Jasmine, but just call me Jessa. Harry’s stepmother.”

“And I’m Grace.” The little one stepped forward, grinning from ear to ear. The small one had the same roundness to her face as the woman beside her, as well as the same flat nose and almond shaped eyes like Jessa’s. “Harry’s kept you a secret.”

“Gracie, I haven’t kept her a secret as much as I’ve kept her away,” Harry said. “You’re gonna scare her.”

“We won’t scare her!” Jessa exclaimed. “It’s your girlfriend, Harry! We will be nice.”

“Somehow doubt that.” Harry turned to Y/N, turning his back to his step mum and what must be his half-sister. “They like to interrogate, especially Jasmine.”

“You villainise us,” Jessa said, walking closer to them and taking Y/N’s hand between hers. It took her off guard and she almost pulled her hand away, the feel of someone’s skin voluntarily touching hers felt weird.

“You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” Harry continued, ignoring Jessa. There was an apology in his eyes that he didn’t voice. Or at least that’s what Y/N thought she saw anyway. “They’ll make it hard to enjoy yourself.”

Jessa reached over and pinched Harry’s exposed forearm. He flinched away from her, glaring as he stepped back a few paces.

“Now you’re being rude.”

“I don’t want you lot to make her uncomfortable with all your questions,” Harry said, a frown etched in his forehead. He hadn’t met Y/N’s eyes directly ever since they almost walked into one another. “Besides, she’s…” Harry’s eyes fell to the guide in Y/N’s hand. “She’s sightseeing.”

Y/N smiled at Jessa and Grace, showing them the small book she was carrying with her. “I’ve just been to the Island. The view from there is fantastic.”

“Harry, the view from the Island is nothing. Have you shown her yet?”

“Jessa, it’s… she’s just…”

Finally, he looked at her, not knowing what to say that would make his stepmother give it a rest. Y/N could understand why she asked so many questions, she was just eager to get to know someone who she thought was Harry’s new partner.

“I arrived this morning,” Y/N answered, smiling at Jasmine. “We haven’t had the time to meet up properly, so in the meantime I’ve just been walking around.”

“Where’s your luggage?”

“At the Inn. The Roaming Crab.”

Jessa’s eyes went wide, looking at Harry disapprovingly again. “She’s not even staying with you? What kind of boyfriend are you?”

“She could stay at our house,” Grace said, eyes on the space that separated Y/N and Harry before she met Y/N’s eyes.

“It’s not that… It’s not like that, I-“ Harry stopped himself, dragging his hand over his face that had been bright red ever since this whole spectacle started. “You’re blowing this out of proportion.”

“Am I?” Jessa crossed her arms.

“Yes… I-“ Harry stuttered and though Y/N hadn’t known this man for very long, she could tell he found it hard to find his words in stressful situations.

“We didn’t want to overwhelm each other. We haven’t stayed together for a long period of time before, this would be the first, so I’m staying at the Inn so we won’t get tired of each other too quickly.” Y/N hoped she sounded confident and truthful; she wouldn’t want to blow this for Harry already. After all, she had no idea how long he’d need this pretend girlfriend lie for.

A frown appeared between Jasmine’s brows and it dawned on Y/N that she must’ve said something wrong just now. Panic rose to her chest, but Harry cleared his throat.

“Except for that trip to Exeter last month, but that was only a single weekend. Now she’s here for…” He narrowed his eyes, as if the answer was at the tip of his tongue but Y/N knew she was the only one with an answer to that.

“August 12th,” she said, Jessa letting go of a small squeal at the sound of it. “Dunno how many weeks that’ll be, but I’m-“

“-That’s fantastic! You need to come to Gracie’s birthday next weekend.”

Harry stuttered a little, Jessa’s enthusiasm making him nervous, Y/N thought. “Nanay-“

“-She’s going to love that, won’t you, Gracie?”

Grace nodded her head, grinning up at Y/N. “You can put pretty stuff on my eyelids.”

Y/N raised her eyebrows some and Jessa laughed. “Eyeshadow.”

“Oh! Well, I don’t have loads of that since I’m no good with make-up, but I do have nice jewellery.” Y/N picked at the one she was wearing just then, a gold necklace she’d gotten for her birthday the year before.

Grace’s smile didn’t fade one bit at that. In fact, it only seemed to get a little bigger at the sight of Y/N’s pretty necklace. The girl didn’t say anything, but she swayed from side to side, looking excitedly up at her brother’s supposed new girlfriend.

“You’re coming then?” Jessa asked, looking so happy she might burst, and it hurt Y/N that she probably wouldn’t.

“Jessa, we have barely had time to catch up, let her breathe,” Harry pleaded and Jessa waved her hands at them.

“Sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overwhelm you, Y/N. It’s just…” Jasmine’s eyes fell on Harry standing beside Y/N, her eyes glistening. “It’s just so nice to know Harry’s not alone anymore.”

“I’ve never been alone, nanay.”

Jessa shook her head, sighing heavily. “Alright, we’ll leave you two lovebirds alone. You’ll probably want some time to yourselves to just walk around. Has she been to the lighthouse, Harry? Take her there.”

Harry sighed, scratching at the back of his neck. “Nay-“

“-Fine, we’ll leave. It was so nice to finally meet you, Y/N.”

“You too, Jessa. And you, Grace.”

Grace gave a wave before Jessa took her hand and the two walked away, probably on their way home or whatever other plans they had. Y/N watched them for a few before turning to Harry. His blush had calmed down a little, but a bead of sweat had appeared at his cupid’s bow. If it was because of nerves or the weather, she did not know, but she was not about to ask him that.

Upon closer inspection and now that they didn’t have Harry’s stepmum and sister watching over them, Y/N could finally study the man she rescued for a total of five minutes. Green eyes that reminded her of the moors she’d spend time running through each summer, a slight stubble along his soft jawline, nose a little too big for his face, and a slight dimple in each cheek even though he wasn’t smiling fully yet. She wondered what they’d look like if he actually grinned.

“Hi,” she said, reaching her hand out. “Y/N.”

Harry chuckled softly, taking her hand, eyes staying on the place they were touching each other. “Harry.”

“I’m glad I could be of some help, Harry.”

A crooked smile reached his lips as his eyes fell to the ground and he stepped away, letting his hand fall to hit his thigh. He glanced up at her. “Thank you for that. They say they’re worried, but they’re really just nosey.”

Y/N grimaced a little, making a breathy laugh escape Harry’s lips. “Is your life more interesting than theirs?”

“Not in the least. I lead the most boring existence in the most boring town in the United Kingdom.”

She chuckled, reaching for her necklace. “Not sure you can claim that title, my life’s pretty up there as well.”

Harry tried to shove his hands into the pockets of his jeans, but the arms of his denim jacket wrapped around his waist were in the way. “Oh?”

“Blimey, I won’t keep you if you’ve got things to do. You look like a busy man.”

Harry stared at the watch on his wrist and bit his bottom lip, looking up at her through his thick set of dark eyelashes. “Yeah, I gotta be on my way actually.”

She gave him a smile, getting one in return.

“Listen, thank you so much for that. I just needed to get them off my back. You don’t actually have to come to Gracie’s birthday party, Jessa just loves when she gets to interrogate people. Her favourite sport is discussing gossip.”

Y/N laughed. “You burn a lot of calories doing that.”

Harry chuckled, scratching at his neck as his eyes fell to her neck and then shoulder. “Anyway, I don’t know how to repay you. If you’re here till August, I guess I’ll see you around.”

For some reason, Harry not really knowing what to say was funny to Y/N. It wasn’t like he owed her anything or the other way around. She’d just helped him out and now they could part ways. Easy as that.

“You don’t have to repay me, I’m glad I could help,” she smiled. “I’ll try and stay out of your way if I see you out and about. You know, to avoid the awkward conversation of telling them we’re not actually together.”

Harry’s lips tipped upward. “Right, thanks.”

“Now, since I’m talking to you,” she said, opening the catalogue again. “Where’s the Tate Gallery?”

Harry turned around, pointing up Fore Street from where they stood. “When you reach Bunkers Hill, you follow that all the way up to Back Road, then you just walk along The Digney and it’ll be on your right-hand side.”

“Thank you so much.”

“No, thank you. I… It was too much-“

“-I’m serious when I say I’m glad I could help, don’t worry about it.” She shot him one last smile before giving him a wave. “Bye, Harry.”

“Bye,” he said, giving her a short nod before she focused her attention back on her surroundings. She needed to catch the street names and get her walk to the Tate on the first try because she could really not be asked to walk back and whip her phone out. After all, Harry just helped her so it was going to be easy to just follow his navigation and get there.

As she strolled along the gallery and the rest of St Ives that day, she couldn’t help but think about that little encounter earlier. She wondered what happened after that, if Jessa and Grace demanded more information from Harry or if he told them how it was all a lie. Putting it all aside, she focused on her trip instead. She’d never meet that family again, but she really hoped everything worked out for them regardless. The last thing she needed was for this summer to be about anything but her and what she really wanted in life. She didn’t need distractions. Her whole life up until now had been a distraction.

Friday, 12 June

Being in south England and not taking advantage of the amazing beaches this part of the country offered, was maybe on the same wrongdoing scale as committing a serious crime. Y/N had gotten dressed that morning and headed straight downstairs to eat breakfast in the tiny dining hall of the Inn. It was positioned in what must’ve originally been the living room in the house, four tables placed in there with two chairs placed by each of them. The dining room had the same layout as the entrance to the Inn; wooden panels all over, flowers and plants everywhere along with pictures and candles to top it off.

When she walked downstairs, Bessie was quick to jump up from where she was sitting in her small back garden, meeting Y/N with a warm beam on her face. When Bessie asked Y/N if she’d like a meat, vegetarian, or vegan full English, Y/N startled herself by replying vegetarian. She hadn’t grown up vegetarian, but in all her life, she’d never had a purely vegetarian meal. So, instead of correcting herself, she let Bessie make her that vegetarian breakfast. The thought of eating something she hadn’t before didn’t make her anxious as she thought it would’ve, but she was rather excited about the whole thing.

Bessie came out with the tray, setting it down before Y/N and asked her if she would mind Bessie’s company. With a quick reply encouraging the old lady to sit down, Bessie ran – or walked as fast as her short legs could take her – outside and returned with her knitting. Y/N had been alone pretty much all day the day before nd she had anticipated being alone all day today as well, so she rather enjoyed Bessie’s company. She had never really envisioned this to be part of her trip to Cornwall – an old lady with her grey hair put neatly in a bun with two knitting needles holding it up, wearing a long bohemian dress and glasses perched on the end of her nose, talking her ear off and Y/N having an immense amount of fun in the process.

The sea and seagulls sounded from inside the Inn, but as Y/N put her bathing suit and summer dress on, on her way down towards the beach, the costal sounds only intensified. The salt in the air clung to her skin and the smell of seaweed got more prominent the closer she got to the ocean. She put her stuff down and brought The Well of Loneliness out again, wanting to finish the book that day because she really wanted to know how it all ended. She wasn’t sure how much time went by as she laid there, completely captivated by the world Radclyffe Hall had created within the book.

It wasn’t that Y/N particularly enjoyed the book. No, it wasn’t that. It was endlessly long and detailed, for absolutely no purpose. The writing wasn’t particularly memorable; one wouldn’t remember it for its evocative and imaginative characteristics, nor for Hall’s ability to tell instead of show. Over the years she’d studied English in college, Y/N knew that a writer should be able to balance those two out; show some, tell some. But that concept was lost on Hall. No, Y/N didn’t like The Well of Loneliness for its writing, not even the plot.

She liked the book because of the plea embedded in it. The plea for LGBT people to be treated as human; that they were normal and not a disease. Why did they have to be other? They didn’t choose this life so why were they to be punished for it by being treated differently? By being illegal? The Well of Loneliness was published around the same time Orlando by Virginia Woolf, who was one of Y/N’s favourite authors ever. Though these two books touched on similar themes of identity, where Orlando shrouded the issue of mysticism, The Well dared to discuss sexual identity openly. Y/N commended Radclyffe Hall for that.

However much Y/N sympathised with Hall and the main character, Stephen, she couldn’t help but laugh at the hypocrisy in the book. While it attempted to strive for acceptance of one minority, it also emanated an underlying attitude of snobbishness and chauvinism towards other minorities at the same time, which made no sense to Y/N. Then again, it was the 1920s, so she guessed she couldn’t really ask for anything else from a rich white person at the time.

Having finally finished the book, Y/N asked someone nearby if they could watch her things while she took a dip. There was a blonde bloke around her age and another bloke with blue hair, sitting not too far off, and when she asked if they could keep an eye on her stuff, they promised they would.

Y/N took her time swimming, trying to remember the last time she’d been on a beach where the public were allowed. It was odd seeing so many around her, but she liked it. She liked the sound of others around her. Silence was good, but in the disturbance of human noise was the reassurance of rescue. The promise that you might be lonely, but you are never alone.

Walking back up to her picnic blanket, Y/N thanked the two men before lying back down, soaking up the sun. She hadn’t been aware she’d already been at the beach for a few hours until she realised her stomach was rumbling. So, packing her stuff together and making sure her hair was somewhat dry, she walked around to see if there were any places she could sit down. The only place on Porthminster Beach was the café with the same name, and by the looks of it, it was completely full. Since Bessie had served Y/N some breakfast, she must have something for lunch as well.

Walking back the 5 minute to the hotel, Bessie jumped up from her place in the back garden, sitting back there with two other ladies and knitting like they’d done the day before.

“Hello, dear, you had a good trip to the beach?”

Y/N couldn’t help but feel completely at ease in this old woman’s company. “Yes, I did. A bit hungry, though, do you have something I could eat, possibly?”

“Of course! What do you fancy?”

“Oh, a toastie’s fine.”

“Vegetarian?”

For some reason, the fact Bessie remembered Y/N’s preference from this morning made her smile. “Yes,” she said without thinking.

“Right, just sit down and I’ll come by with your lunch, my lovely.”

“Thank you so much, Bessie.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Y/N sat down, bringing her phone out as she hadn’t checked it properly in a few hours. She wasn’t sure what she expected, to be fair. There was no one from home who would want to contact her, and if they were to, they would rather look around Winchester than call. In their minds, she couldn’t have run far. Regardless, the mere fact they hadn’t even called her made something inside her sink a little. It felt awful knowing how little she meant to them all along. So little that they wouldn’t even pick up the phone and save her a call or a text.

“Here, my dear,” Bessie said, putting down a tray before Y/N. “I’m gonna pop outside to my little knitting club, if that’s fine by you. Just come on out if you don’t have anything else to do after this, yeah?”

“Thank you so much,” Y/N said and Bessie smiled at her before she disappeared outside again.

Turning her attention to her food, Y/N started thinking about what she could do the rest of the day. She could walk some more around town, she’d seen bigger parts of it yesterday, but there were always corners of a town that needed discovering. Once she was about halfway through her toastie, hasty footsteps sounded from the lobby and a somewhat familiar figure appeared. He stopped a bit on his way towards the reception desk, as if he didn’t want to be a bother to Bessie of some kind by asking for assistance. Bessie appeared a few seconds later, grinning from ear to ear as usual.

“Hello, Harry love.”

“Hi, Bess. I…” he stopped himself, running his hands up and down the sides of his white and grey striped cotton-blend trousers, a navy blue tee shirt tucked into it and a pair of white Vans on his feet. “I just wanted to come check again.”

“For the third time.”

“Yeah, well…” He did a quick shrug. “I just wanted to check.”

“She’s here.” Bessie gestured to Harry’s right and when he looked that way, his eyes immediately found Y/N’s. She didn’t think she’d ever see him again. However, a summer in a small coastal town would make that very hard. She’d try her hardest to stay out of Harry’s way, as well as his family’s, so she wouldn’t make things awkward. She would have escaped to a town a little further south or on the other side of Cornwall, but she was settled in now and she’d already paid for her whole stay.

Though she’d promised to keep away from him to prevent any unpleasant situations, Harry hadn’t made her the same promise. And here he was. For some reason. He seemed both taken off guard to see her sitting there as well as relieved he’d finally caught her. A sigh left him, slumping his tense shoulders a little before he thanked Bessie quickly and walked to Y/N.

“Is it,” he started as he made his way over. “Is it okay if I sit down?”

Y/N nodded her head while swallowing, gesturing with her hand at the chair opposite hers. “Yes, go ahead,” she said when her mouth was free to.

“Cheers.” Harry sat down, slid a little closer to the table and rested his hands between his legs as he leaned back against the back of the chair.

The two fell into silence for a little while, Y/N watching as Harry’s eyes fixed on the small bouquet of flowers in the tiny vase placed in the middle of the round table. Yes, she loved company, but Harry’s had taken her a little by surprise and she was eager to know why he’d come looking for her. She didn’t want to try and draw a conclusion herself without hearing his reasoning first, knowing that whatever she came up with wouldn’t be correct anyway. Instead, she put her toastie back on her plate and focused her attention on Harry, who had yet to say anything. From the way he was biting the inside of his lip, she assumed he was mulling over the right thing to say. It didn’t seem to ever come when finally, he opened his mouth.

“First, I just want to say sorry for yesterday,” he said, meeting her eyes, but quickly looking to her shoulder. “It was proper daft. I was desperate and I panicked, and you were right there.” He let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry for putting you in that position.”

Y/N just gave him a smile. “You don’t have to apologise, I’m glad I could help.”

“And I appreciate you helping me out, I really do, but… here’s the thing…” He cleared his throat. “Jessa and Gracie are right about losing their minds of this.”

Y/N chuckled. “Oh?”

“Yeah, they called and texted all last night and this morning, saying how nice it was to meet you, that I need to bring you to Grace’s birthday next Saturday,” Harry said. “And it makes me wonder if it was even worth it yesterday. I still appreciate what you did, and this is all my fault, but I think…” He trailed off again, scratching at the back of his neck. “Look, I’m doing a naff job of explaining this.”

Sipping her juice, Y/N just smiled at him till she put her glass down. “Take your time.”

He took a deep breath. “Think I might tell them it’s all fake. I don’t have a partner and that’s fine.”

Y/N nodded. “Yeah, being single is fine.”

“Only thing that’s stopping me is the fact that Jasmine will be crushed. Ever since my dad died, she’s been so worried about me living alone in the lighthouse.”

There was so much to unpack in that sentence that Y/N felt herself retract a little, scanning his face for what the appropriate reaction to that would be. Harry must’ve noticed her silence so he glanced at her face, eyes going wide.

“Oh! Don’t feel like you-“

“-I’m sorry about your dad.”

“No, that’s okay, he hasn’t been with us for two years now,” Harry went on. “That was a real mood killer. Bringing up my dead father with someone I barely know.”

Y/N smiled. “Think you fake breaking up with me was a great mood killer before that was even brought up.”

Harry smiled a little at that, those deep dimples just barely gracing his cheeks. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry.” She wiped at her mouth with the napkin, brows slowly coming into a frown. “You said something about a lighthouse… do you live there?”

“In the lighthouse?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, I’m the lighthouse keeper.”

Her frown deepened a little.

“What?”

“I didn’t think those existed anymore.”

“What, lighthouses?” Harry’s smile widened, amusement tracing his pink lips.

“No, lighthouse keepers.”

He shrugged. “Here’s a living, breathing example of one.”

She couldn’t help her laughter. “Fine, I take it back. I don’t really think about lighthouses enough to give their keepers much of a thought either.”

“Too bad.”

Y/N just shook her head some, noticing a slight redness to Harry’s cheeks that hadn’t been there a few seconds earlier. “You were saying about Jessa.”

“She’s worried about me living alone in the lighthouse. Says I’ll be lonely and that she thinks about me sitting up there crying my eyes out or summat.”

“Do you? Cry your eyes out?”

“No, I like having my own space. I like living there alone. She’s just being a protective stepmum, looking out for me and all that. Like, yes, I’m still sad Dad is dead, but it wasn’t like he lived with me in the lighthouse anyway. He lived with Jasmine and Grace.”

Y/N nodded slowly. “She doesn’t want you to be alone ‘cause she thinks you don’t want to be.”

“Exactly,” Harry said, pausing a bit before mumbling something that sounded like, “That’s why I’ve told them for a few months now that I have a girlfriend.”

She narrowed her eyes some.

“To get them off my back, innit? I don’t want them to think I’m miserable, ‘cause I’m not. But when I told them I had a girlfriend, they got so happy, yeah? I just tried to be as vague as possible, didn’t give them a name and they didn’t ask, assuming I wanted to keep her secret. Jessa hasn’t bugged me about this in weeks… Until yesterday.”

Y/N started piecing everything together. “That’s why you stormed out of the restaurant.”

He nodded. “And ran into you.”

Y/N couldn’t keep the smile off her face. “The idea of just telling them I was your fake girlfriend just fell into your head once you saw me?”

Harry chuckled and shifted his gaze away from her, clearly embarrassed. “Yeah. I never do stuff like that. I hate uncertainty, so trusting you yesterday when I didn’t know if you’d play along… well, it took five years of my life.”

She laughed. “If I hadn’t then the whole lie would’ve been obvious to Jessa and Grace.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, I’m glad I could help then,” Y/N said, really meaning it as well.

“Yeah, and thank you so much for doing so. It really helped me out… if you look away from Jasmine texting me five times today alone to organise a dinner with you and all of us.”

They both laughed a little at that and when Y/N glanced at Harry again, he was looking down at his hands in his lap. After a brief pause, he met her eyes again.

“I’m sorry for dragging you into this, and thank you for helping me. I’ll tell them everything now, I don’t want you to have to hide while you’re here for two months.”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

For the next few seconds, they looked at one another in silence. Y/N thought back to the moment she’d seen Harry, how it might’ve taken her a few seconds to catch on, but her main instinct had been to help him. She thought of the gratitude on Harry’s face when she played along, how she hoped he one day would find an actual girlfriend that would have just as big of an impact on Jessa and Grace as it seemed she herself had. She was about to tell Harry this when the sound of footsteps sounded from the lobby again.

A woman Bessie’s age walked in, a bag slung over her shoulder and sunglasses in her short black hair. As she stepped inside, she spotted Harry and Y/N sitting together and her mouth fell open, a grin coming to rest on her wrinkling face.

“Bessie, you didn’t tell me these two were going to be here,” the old woman said, walking into the dining area. Bessie stepped out from behind the wall that hid the reception desk from the dining hall. At that, Y/N’s stomach dropped. Bessie must’ve heard their entire conversation. By the look on Harry’s face, he was going through a similar near-death experience to the one Y/N was currently enduring.

“Hi, Mrs Rose,” Harry said, no one seemed to notice the slight tremor to his voice.

“Harry and his new girlfriend,” Mrs Rose said, looking between them. “You know, you lot are the talk of the town.”

“We are?” Harry asked, the surprise in his voice so evident it made the older women laugh.

“Yes, of course! Jasmine told everyone!” Mrs Rose continued, looking to Bessie who was already nodding her head.

“Not everyone, but she told her friends, and you know how people like to gossip around here, don’t you, Harry?” Bessie gave him a smile and Harry smiled back, though it did not reach his eyes. “Anyway, Florence, this is Y/N. Y/N, Florence.”

“It’s so nice to meet you,” Y/N said, grinning at Florence who stuck her hand out. The two shook hands as Florence beamed back at Y/N. “So, the whole town knows?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case,” Florence said, turning to Bessie who made a noise of agreement. “Jessa can talk about everything and anything for hours, but if her stepson gets a girlfriend? That’s the news of the century and she will not shut up.”

“How lovely,” Y/N said, not really knowing what else was appropriate in this setting as Harry hadn’t opened his mouth once to say anything.

“It’s a little less lonesome up in that lighthouse now, hm?”

“Oh, uhm…” Harry looked at Y/N and then back at Florence, his words having completely escaped him. Y/N was about to come to Harry’s rescue when Bessie took them both by surprise.

“They stayed here tonight,” Bessie explained and Florence looked at her with a furrow between her brows.

“Why on earth would they do that? Harry’s got a perfectly nice place by the lighthouse.”

“Who are we to question the decisions of our youth?” Bessie linked arms with Florence. “Let’s go outside, Flo dear. Leave the lovebirds to be by themselves.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs Rose,” Y/N called after them.

“And you, Y/N!”

The second the two ladies were out of sight, Harry and Y/N shared a wide-eyed look, both of their panic equal it seemed. Y/N took a sip of her juice, somehow thinking it would calm her down. It did not.

“Jasmine told everyone,” Harry said, voice a whisper so no one walking by or sitting in the back garden would hear them. “She told everyone.”

“She can’t have… right?”

“You underestimate Jessa. If she was kidnapped and put in a gag, she’d be able to talk through it and move her jaw and teeth in a way that would obliterate said gag.” Harry ran a hand over his face. “She’s very chatty.”

“You’ve painted a vivid picture.”

Harry sighed, leg bouncing and eyes distant as he seemed to be racking his brain for a solution to the situation they were finding themselves in. “I was gonna tell Jessa it was a lie. I was gonna tell-“

“-You still can.”

“But everyone knows now. It’ll be well embarrassing for us when we have to tell people on the street that ‘oh yeah, that ol’ thing, we only pretended to be a couple so people wouldn’t be all up in Harry’s business,’ I somehow don’t see that going down well.”

“Then there’s only one thing we can do?”

“What’s that?”

“We pretend to be a couple.”

He stared at her, his facial expression very neutral, and though Y/N didn’t know him well enough yet, she did think she could decipher when he was displeased and when he was not. He seemed to be mulling it over, wanting for her to elaborate before he made a final decision.

“Everyone knows, I’m leaving in August, we can just say we broke up when August comes around.”

Harry nodded, thinking for a moment before he asked, “What will people say when they see us separated on the street then? Like, we’re not seen together.”

“People need to spend some time apart; it’s exhausting to be around another person 24/7.”

Harry nodded again, contemplating their predicament. “There’s always a lot of parties around here during summer. You don’t have to tag along, but you might have to if Jessa’s gonna be there.”

“I don’t mind,” Y/N admitted, shrugging her shoulders some. “I don’t have anything to do all summer, anyway. Might as well be in a fake relationship with a bloke I barely know and help him all I can.”

This made a breathy chuckle leave Harry’s lips and he held her gaze some before having it fall to his folded hands. “Well…” he said, suddenly reaching his hand across the table. “I’m Harry Edward Styles.”

Y/N laughed but took Harry’s hand, shaking it lightly. “Pleased to meet you, Harry. I’m Y/N Bernadette Angelica McKay.”

Harry whistled under his breath. “Mouthful.”

“What happens when you’re brought up in a posh family.”

Harry smiled at that and sat back in his chair. “I guess… I-I guess we should talk about how we got together and all that.”

“Yeah, make a story so it sounds more believable.”

“It’ll help if we have the same story, yes.”

She couldn’t help her laughter again, but it was cut short as Harry’s phone in his pocket started ringing. He sighed, taking it out and looking at it before putting it back down.

“Look, I gotta go.”

“Oh.” Y/N, having thought they were going to plan their fake dating history, blinked in confusion when Harry stood from his chair and looked at her apologetically. “We’ll see each other at some point.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, walking off toward the back garden, calling Bessie’s name as he did. They exchanged some words Y/N couldn’t hear and Harry disappeared into the kitchen for a minute before resurfacing again. Standing in the lobby, he looked at Y/N through the doorway leading into the dining area, mouth opening and closing as he tried to come up with something to say.

She just gave him a smile, hoping he understood that she just wanted him to take his time. It took one more sigh and a little staring contest before Harry finally found his words.

“You know where to find me, my house is the very tall, pointy one on the outskirts of town.”

She chuckled, watching as he walked out of the front door and down the street. Y/N found her bag, putting it on her shoulder as she got her lunch tray and sat it in the kitchen as she’d done after her breakfast that morning. On her way upstairs, Y/N turned as she reached the front door that was left open to welcome guests. Stepping into the doorway, she looked out over St Ives.

Seagulls were still screaming overhead, the sound of people down by the beach hung in the air all throughout the day, it smelled of seafood and summer, and just beyond the small town, on a tiny hilltop and on the very tip of a cliff, stood a lighthouse. A white lighthouse that rose high above the whole coast around it, protecting everyone. Locals, foreigners, and sailors. And it was operated and taken care of by the bloke Y/N was going to spend her entire summer in a fake relationship with. It didn’t seem real, and yet, that was exactly what it was. She didn’t have Harry’s number and knew next to nothing about him, but – as he put it – he lived in the very tall, pointy house on the outskirts of town. It was impossible to miss it. She could find her way to him, even in the dark.

The lighthouse keeper, Y/N thought to herself as she took in the lighthouse again through the window of her room once she walked upstairs. I have to pretend to be in love with a lighthouse keeper. And somehow, Y/N realised when looking back on that particular summer, that wasn’t the weirdest thing that would happen to her in St Ives.

NEXT UPDATE: Sunday, 2 August, 9PM GMT!

Huge thanks to my AMAZING beta readers! 🌊 @aileenacoustic 🌊 @bopbopstyles 🌊 @fromyourstrulyh 🌊 @harrys-creature 🌊 @honeydearly 🌊 @juliassgem 🌊 @summerfeelng 🌊 @sunflower--styles 🌊 @withallthelove-a 🌊

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x you #harry styles x reader #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst #harry styles fic #het fic #1dff #PLS DO COME CHAT WHEN YOU'RE DONE READING I LOVE YOU SO MUCH :DDDDDDD

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klaus-is-the-real-number-1 · 4 years ago

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The House of the Rising Sun (Number 5 x reader)

A/N: This is an unfinished fic ive had in my drafts for well over a year,, enjoy? based of s1

Crime rates had never been higher, gangs ravaging the city any opportunity they got dealing class A narcotics and carrying out random acts of violence. No one leaves their houses at night, as soon as the sun sets the streets would empty and complete anomie would take place. One ‘gang’ were set above the rest, they were practically the equivalent of the mafia, all dressed in a smartly pressed uniform and operating throughout the entire city, the Umbrella Academy. Rumour has it they all had ‘powers’ of some sort, making them the most powerful gang, even if they didn’t have their ‘powers’ they would still be in the lead having very high levels of violence between them.

The Umbrella Academy all had nicknames, a mere murmur of the said names would send people running like scared dogs, tails between their legs. The most feared of the Umbrella Academy was The Boy, just as him name suggested he was the one no one knew anything about, yes there was rumours but never any solid facts. The Boy had apparently travelled to the future, has a kill count of hundreds and can appear in a flash of blue from thin air, but these are just mad rumours that drift round town.

Dusk set upon the city but you didn’t notice, too busy finishing bouquets in your shop. You ran a small florists on the outskirts of the town, you never caused any trouble and had never stayed late until today. You glanced out the window and gasped, looking at the pitch black sky, feeling your heart rate increase at the thought of walking four blocks in the gang ridden town. As quickly as you could you close the shop, making sure the doors were locked and the solid metal shutters were firmly shut. You leave by the back door, locking it and closing the shutter yet again, not leaving your small life source of a shop to the vengeance of raging gangs who carry out pointless crimes.

Shadows hid your small frame as you quickly walked home, defenceless, hoping to miss anyone out at the late hours of the night. Unfortunately, luck was not playing on your side, from the shadows you could make out a group of lads making their way threateningly down the street. All you could do is pray that you wouldn’t get spotted in the dark shadows.

“Well what do we have here?” You quickened your pace somehow thinking that you could move away from them but you were wrong. You were surrounded like you were feeding bread to a flock of seagulls, if the seagulls were feral and had rabies it would mirror how afraid you were at that moment.

“Sorry!” Is all you were able to squeak out as you were roughly pulled out from the safeness of the dark into the centre of the group, your bag getting ripped off your back. Your frozen, watching them go through the contents of your bad, dumping out all your papers and pens that you had in your bag until finally finding your purse. “Please don’t it’s all I have.”

As soon as the words left your mouth you were on the ground, a numbing pain shooting through the side of your head, you could see heavy droplets of blood hit the floor as your nose bled from the impact. Another sharp impact landed against your ribs as a sob wracked through your shaking body, unable to comprehend how quickly the events had escalated, all you could do now is wait for the next impact but it never came.

“Hey, assholes!” The voice was crisp and sharp, dripping with confidence and authority. “Pick on someone your own size.”

Coins fell to the floor as the gang dropped your bag and your purse and ran, you couldn’t even look up, the thought of someone more threatening than an entire group sent shivers down your hurt body. You didn’t hear footsteps, all you saw from your peripheral vision a blue light and a dark figure. The rustling sound of papers cut through the silent street and the harsh zip of your bag startled you.

“You need to see someone about that.” You look up and were met with none other than The Boy, the most questioned of the Umbrella Academy, dressed in a smart uniform, domino mask securely covering his identity. His fingertips lightly brushed the side of your head, causing you to flinch away. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He said unconvincingly, emotions hidden by the mask.

He held your now packed bag out to you, you lifted yourself off the floor, wincing as you did so. You cautiously took your bag from The Boys hand, holding it loosely in your hand. Taking a step, you stumble, your side collapsing in on it’s self, The Boy caught you, putting his arm around your waist to steady you.

“Here, let me help you home, where do you live?” In your shattered state you told him, and in a blink of blue you were at your door. You messily fumble with your keys as your shaking hands roughly push your door open, dropping your bag into your small apartment.

“Thank you.” The mask clad boy stood before you, hands in his shorts pockets.

“It’s okay,” You couldn’t see his eyes but you knew they were scanning over your body. “Make sure to get your injuries checked over, they got you pretty hard y/n.” Then he was gone.

You lock your door and double check your windows, securing them before limping over to your bathroom, looking at your beaten form in the mirror. Red marks spread over your face and the side of your body, bruising already starting to form, blood stained your white patterned shirt with a now ruined name tag, the thought of work taking over your thoughts, well not all of your thoughts. The Boy was also on your thoughts, his cold emotionless face, half covered by a domino mask, contrasted with the softness of his words, the caring nature of his touch. He’s a crime lord, a dangerous man, yet he showed kindness to you.

Five was angry, he was angry with himself that he didn’t get there quick enough to stop them hurting y/n. She was the only pure thing left in the city and they went for her, defenceless. Five would’ve killed them on the spot if he didn’t want to hurt y/n any more than she already was. He wasn’t actively going out of his way to find y/n, she was sunshine in a grey and broken world.

“Five,” He hadn’t even finished teleporting into his room before Luther started speaking. “We’re not meant to be out on the streets. What were you doing?” Luther’s big frame towered over Five, attempting to threaten him.

“I was out doing what were meant to be doing, keeping our authority through the streets. Haven’t you heard that they’ve been saying we’re weak.” Five snarled at his brother prompting Luther to sigh then walk out. It wasn’t always like this, they could’ve been heroes but Mr Hargreeves only saw the darkness and the powers within them, he made them the best at being the worst and for some it was the end of the line.

An aching agony wracked through your fragile body as your head pounded like a thousand drummers sounding the beating retreat. You hoped a shower would ease any of the pain, warm water running over all of your bruises, the side of your body looking like a black and blue watercolour along your ribs. Your work clothes were just casual, simple, it was one of the upsides of owning your own business. However, you did have an apron, it had different flowers embroidered on it and a simple name tag. A name tag now covered in blood.

Quiet music softly played in the background of your flower shop, you swept the floor in time to the music, swaying your hips as you did so. Heading back to the storage room, you heard the bell to the shop chime, a welcoming noise.

“Hey, how can I help?” The man seemed startled, looking up at the arrangement of bouquets and flashing a quick smile.

“I’d like some flowers for my mom,” He almost hesitated with his words, a soft peach colour present on his cheeks. “I saw your shop yesterday and couldn’t remember the last time anyone had got her any.”

“Awe, that’s super sweet, have any of the bouquets caught your fancy or does she have a flower preference?” The boy in front of you was about the same age as you, maybe older, he had sharp features but they were even out by the softness of his eyes.

He thought for a moment, searching the deepest parts of his brain. “Lilies, she likes lilies.” You smile at his words before looking round your small, compacted shop for any pre-made bouquets.

“We don’t have any made up right now but if you come back,” You look at the clock, thinking about a convenient time for him to come back. “In about 2 hours I’ll have one made up for you?” You give him a sweet smile as he nods. “Great! If you want you can leave your name and number so I can text you when its done.”

You watch him messily write his details on a post it note. Peeling it off the block, you stick it to your notice board, looking at his name as you did so. Five. “I’ll send you a text once your bouquets done!”

“Ok, thank you,” He hesitated as he strained to read your name tag. “Y/n.”

“No problem, Five.” You see a small smile break out on his face as he left the shop. The rest of your day dragged as a slow drip of customers drifted in and out of the shop. You made a large bouquet of different types of lilies for Five, taking extra care to arrange them in the prettiest way you could, making it extra special for his mom.

You admire your handy work, loving when you get special orders being able to be as creative as you want. You send a text to Five saying that he can drop in any time from now until closing to pick them up, you get an almost instant response sending his thanks.

Shouting echoed down the street, sharp crashing of glass cutting through the air. Smoke drifted like ghosts down the street as screams echoed down the road of people coughing, spluttering grasping for breath. Peering out your shop window you saw them again, the lads from the night before, petrol bombs in hand ready to throw. You had to consider you options, quick, close the shutters quickly and run out the back or just run out and risk that they recognise you.

Quickly, you pulled the shutters down as you hear the unruly lads shouting get louder, you think your safe but then you remember the window upstairs, wide open, vulnerable. Taking two steps at a time but you were halfway to the window and heard a ‘get the flower shop’.

A flame like a rabid hare shot past you, shattering on the ground followed by another, hitting the window dead on surrounding you in flame, no escape in a smoke filling room. Smoke licked the walls as smoke danced in your lungs, making you feel lightheaded, blurring you vision. The floor burnt as you dropped to your knees, trying to take in any remaining oxygen, begging for your eyes not to close.

As Five walked back to the flower shop only to be met with shouting, screaming and sirens, noticing the smoke in the air he quickened his pace, only to break out into a sprint at the sight of the small flower shop in flames. He couldn’t see y/n out in the street in front of the shop, in a blind panic he blipped into the shop, looking round and seeing smoke pouring down the stairs, dread filling his body. In a blink of an eye he was in the burning room, finding y/n unconscious on the floor, he grabbed her body and as quickly as he could in the haze of the smoke.

He flashed to the academy, roughly shaking y/n shoulder. “Y/n,” He checked she was still breathing. “y/n please. Wake up. Mom!” Grace came round the corner, watching her son frantically shake an unconscious body.

“What’s wrong, dear?” Grace’s calming voice did nothing to sooth the panicking boy, she looked at the girls flame licked skin. “Take her to the medical room, Five.” Without another word Five had flashed upstairs, Grace beginning jogging up the stairs wrapping her medical apron around her as she did.

You gasp awake, proceeding to cough up whatever smoke settled in your lungs. You didn’t recognise the room around you, it didn’t look like any normal hospital, or even a hospital at all. Panicking at the foreign surroundings you drag yourself out of the bed, body screaming out at the heat in your arms and palms from the fire, the fire, your shop. Before even having time to comprehend the series of unfortunate events that led you up to this point, a woman walked in, sending heaving 1950/60′s vibe.

“Hello dear, I’m Grace.” Grace had a soft voice but it didn’t sound quite right, it sounded almost robotic, not human.

“I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.” You pushed past her and hope to find a way out of the large eerie house you were in. Panic mode overtook your whole body as you tried to find any way out, footsteps echoing behind you as Grace tried to catch up with you but you saw the front door and ran for it.

“My dear, you can’t go yet!” But you had already ran out the door, it being left wide open behind you, sprinting down the street probably looking like a madman but in that moment it didn’t matter to you, you had to get out.

#The Umbrella Academy #Umbrella Academy #number 5 #number five #five hargreeves x reader #number 5 x reader #number five x reader #number five imagine #number five oneshot #number 5 imagine #five hargreeves imagine #this is so old and unfinished but al post it anyways

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parkers-gal · 4 years ago

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the man with what if’s

boomerang part iv

wc: 1.4k

She was so cold; frigid and frozen as heat left her body. Maybe it was just in her nature to never wear the appropriate clothing in relation to the weather, or maybe she was so accustomed to someone always bringing a jacket for her, that she never thought twice about what she wore. Now, though, she regrets every decision she has ever made.

The walk back to her apartment is already as horrible as it could get, and she still has about eight miles to go. If only she brought a portable charger, or a sweater, or better shoes.

If they were still together, it would’ve been their two-year-anniversary. Maybe that’s why she just left their favorite restaurant. Maybe that’s why she went to visit the very same spot in which they happened to have met for the first time. Maybe that’s why she’s wearing his favorite dress of hers, clad in the best fitting heels that, when worn, still make her shorter than him. Maybe that’s why, after an hour and a half of sitting at a table, alone, in the restaurant, drinking wine as she gazed at the fellow couples and families dining, she started crying.

To anyone else, it would look like the rain just got the worst of her. But attention to detail was all she wished for, all she hoped someone would pay. Pay to notice the puffy, red eyes with lingering dark spots under them. Pay to notice how close she is to giving up, desperation for someone infinitely greater than the hole in her heart.

Love bleeding out, killing her.

All this time, all these weeks gone by and tears fallen, and she still doesn’t love him any less. She hates it, hates how she loves him and needs him, how she craves for the intimacy only he could provide. The warmth and comfort and security he brought, the ease he settled into her bones, and the peace he provided that overtook her body. She wanted it all back. Perhaps Harry was right, that they weren’t better off apart, or perhaps her heart wasn’t ready for a change that wasn’t supposed to happen.

She doesn’t know anything anymore.

She stumbles slightly as she lets the restaurant door close behind her, holding her purse above her head to at least try and remain dry. After a minute of walking like this, she drops her hands to her sides and gives up once again, letting the rain consume her dress, the dark skies the clouds brought filling her orbs and reflecting back to the souls who dared to look her in the eyes.

Her vision blurred, the fine line between happiness and pain lost on the journey to her memories of the best thing that ever happened to her. Maybe this was it.

Another tear fell. She’s so distraught she can’t even differentiate her tears from the raindrops, piercing her skin and freezing the love that once flowed through her veins. She was so distraught that she didn’t notice the car that had pulled up to the curb beside her, following her slowly on her walk back.

The window rolls down, hot waves puffing out and steaming the bitter air of the dim sky.

“Y/N?”

She froze, tears still falling, makeup washed away and smudged in the strangest way, her dress sticking to her body. Turning slowly, she saw. There in the car, her savior and her light and her beacon and her safe haven. The man with the arms that could hold her like she was the most precious being in the world, protecting her. The man with hands that could hold her own, promising and providing. The man with legs that could guide her through all of life’s difficulties and struggles and pain. The man with big, coffee-chocolate doe-eyes, widened to see the world for all its glories and beauties, herself included. The man with a heart so big only fools would let it drop, let it go and watch it shatter the way she did. The man with a burning light, love so strong even the best would be smitten.

“Tommy?”

He hits the brake, window fully rolled down as he leans his elbow on the entirety of it, one hand on the wheel as his entire figure is pointed towards the girl standing beside his car door.

“Come with me?”

She doesn’t reply to him, too starstruck, too preoccupied with her mind, her brain, her biggest enemy: herself. She stands there, rain thundering down harder, and he makes a move to open the car door, but she speaks before he acts.

“Always.”

He sighs out a breath of relief, motioning for her to quickly get into the passenger seat, the door opened for her. She plops into the seat, shivering and teeth chattering as she takes in the newly comforted warmth the car heater provides.

He glances at her, both hands on the wheel but the car still in park. “Take this off,” he motions towards her dress. “Take my jacket instead.”

“I-I,” she’s staring at the road in front of her. “I can’t.”

He stops hustling, bustling, moving. “Why not?” he whispers.

“I don’t know.”

A few silent beats pass before he talks again. “Do you… want to?” he whispers, head down as his eyes look to his lap.

“So much.”

His head shoots up again, and he starts moving. “C'mon, you’ll get sick if you keep wearing this.”

She nods silently, turning so he can unzip her, and he does just that. Smoothly, as if it’s reflex. She maneuvers herself out of the dress and pulls his hoodie over her figure, the cloth reaching just above her knees.

“I brought extra gloves,” he says, reaching into the backseat to hand her a pair of his own, her favorite pair.

“Thank you,” she whispers back, eyes still focused ahead of her.

He changes the car’s transmission, moving the shift knob and driving onward, forward, ahead.

“How did you know where I was?” she inquires quietly after a few silent moments, the car’s engine and the heater humming quietly, rain slick on the wheels of the Audi A8.

Tom is silent for a few moments, making a left turn. “I was in the restaurant with you,” he confesses to her.

“W-what?”

They’re so hushed and mumbled that one would think they’re spies, sharing secret information about a classified case. But they’re not. They’re just ordinary people, sharing secrets so valuable they’re worth more than their lives. The heart is too expensive to replace or repair.

“I was at our spot, too,” he whispers on, voice making a raspy appearance as he gets subtly louder. “The place where we met, I mean. I saw you there and- I don’t know.. I didn’t know you had a reservation too. I came in the back, and you were there when I got there. It’s like I couldn’t not see you.”

She breathes out, sweater paws and gloved hands rubbing her thighs, purse discarded on the floor of the car, beside her shivering toes. She looks down for the first time in twenty minutes, hair slipping and covering her face at the sudden change in position.

“I really miss you,” she whispers.

Tom pulls up to her apartment and stops the car, turning towards her seat, but she’s already stepping out of the vehicle.

“Thanks for coming,” she whispers, closing the door lightly as she walks to the front of her flat, new tears brimming the swimming pools that are her eyes. The rain is pouring exponentially now, coming down on her with no mercy and no sympathy, drenching her hair and soaking the new materials on her body.

She hears another car door close behind her, but she doesn’t turn around. Tom is running to her, across the pavement and calling her name, hand reaching for her. She turns around just in time to see him stop in front of her, huffing out as he looks down into her eyes, one hand intertwining with hers and then another.

“I-I,” he stutters, having not thought the entire plan through. But it doesn’t matter, not to him or her or even the god that never listened to his cries and begs. “I miss you too,” he breaths out, forehead pressing against hers.

She relishes in the feeling of being surrounded by him, skin and flesh bare on her very fingertips, nose intoxicated with his scent. Neither of them make any sign to move apart, and she’s internally grateful, praying to the lords that something happens, that a spark can ignite even in the flooding rain.

“I thought you were moving on from me,” he’s whispering again, so close to her that normal voices aren’t needed to hear one another.

A tear slips out of her closed eyes, and she exhales. “I don’t know anything anymore.”

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imagineclaireandjamie · 5 years ago

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Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.), Part XXVII (A Tale’s End)

I would have walked away from this story (forever) a very long time ago if it weren’t for the constant and unwavering support of @notevenjokingfic and @balfeheughlywed. They have held my hand through this – through my tantrums, through my protestations that I didn’t know what I was doing, and through the times I begrudgingly admitted that I actually like the end of product. This story is dedicated to them and to their friendship. This has been a ride, and writing it has been an endurance contest. My gratitude to everyone who has read this, liked it, reblogged it, favorited it, or sent me a message. This is the end. I hope you enjoy. xx.

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.) Part XXVII: A Tale’s End

Claire’s limbs were leaden, and yet she rose from the bed.

Fraser’s sleepy noises (ones she teased sounded Scottish) were missing, and his long, even breaths had risen from bed with him.

In the absence of his noises, it was quiet, too quiet.

The scent of him (sage and clove) was like a mislaid memory (an empty space where it had been tucked against her nape), and the duvet was cool when she flopped one arm over into the bedding.

She already knew that Jamie was gone.

She rose and slipped into her dressing gown before making her way down the hall. Her feed had carried her down the halls on many nights, her arms clutching their colicky bairn and tracing a path that she had hoped (usually in vain) would soothe her.

She did not bother to flick on a single light switch.

In London, the underbelly of their home was always in motion. The clamor of it all made her mind whir, her eyes rebel in the night to focus on the ceiling, and her fingers clutch to insomnia.

At Balmoral, the quiet was like another layer of skin, and the stillness went to the center of her bones.

Scotland.

It was here that Claire had demanded they spend their one-week honeymoon before setting off on a tour of the Commonwealth’s various holdings.

It had been in Fraser’s cabin that they spent their one-week honeymoon, her body feeling like the crescendo of a symphony under his hands and lips. Idly tracing the conch-shaped curve of his bared hip bone, Claire wondered aloud whether the walls of the cabin would keep their secrets. Turning his new wife gently onto her back (“my Queen” – a breathless, almost-whimper on his lips) and rising over her, Fraser had touched her belly and kissed the space between the clotheslines of her clavicles. Breathlessly, he asked her to commit that when they spoke, it would only be truth.

There was room for secrets, but no lies.

She had agreed, just as breathlessly, and he held her hand as he kissed down her body, glancing up her sternum before closing his mouth over her.

It was here that Claire had demanded they spend their first months as a family of three.

On the same bed from which she had just risen, she had given birth to an heir.

It had been the last thing on her mind.

They had been married for six months.

With Jamie’s hand crushed in hers, and his sister mopping sweat from her forehead (a bond she quietly conceded once reminded her of her own sister), their baby came into the world.

With a final push, an immense feeling of relief flooded her. She felt light, like her body was no longer being twisted in opposite directions by a molten-hot vice, as though the weight of an entire kingdom was not bearing down on her pelvis.

The relief was short lived.

Claire’s arms quaked under the effort of pulling herself fully upright. She breathed for a moment, trying to keep her inhalations even.

The part of her that was relieved was rapidly giving way to a gnawing panic.

Brows furrowing as the umbilical cord was clipped, her eyes darted from Jamie to the doctor who had attended the birth and back again.

“One final push,” the midwife who had been there throughout her labor said, stepping in as the doctor turned away.

“Ye did it,” her husband breathed, only tearing his eyes from his wife’s face to look at the silent bundle in the midwife’s hands.

“No…” Claire breathed, the weight that had been bearing down on her lower half suddenly in her chest, expanding and contracting, wheedling its way into the space between her bones and her organs. “No.”

“A nighean–” Jamie started, but she shook her head.

“Tell me it’s okay. That the baby...”

He said nothing, his hand closing over the cap of her shoulder as he craned his neck.

His breaths were short, dry, shallow.

Her voice was imploring as she snapped, “Jamie. I can’t… if the baby is… tell me that-”

And then the wailing came.

A desperate, fevered, cold yowl that sounded almost inhuman. It would not stop, and she prayed that it never would as long as it meant that their baby (mysterious, puckered, purple, blood-covered) would suck in breath after life-sustaining breath.

“The bairn…” Jamie started, immediately fading away as his voice cut.

“She’s just fine, mam,” Jenny laughed, gently moving a soft cloth over the birth-slicked baby. Claire had nodded, still feeling the nagging tug of uncertainty in her belly until she saw the bundle move from Jenny’s arms to Jamie’s.

She lowered herself back to the pillows stacked behind her back, sighing and thanking God.

Julianna Alexandra Elizabeth Faith, the heir apparent and tiniest member of the royal House of Beauchamp, was perfect – ten fingers, ten toes, button nose, cap of jet-black hair, earlobes with skin as soft as velvet, and the smallest bow of a mouth.

She barely heard the words that followed.

Blood.

The commands.

Back up.

The pleas.

She has to be okay. Ye dinna ken, she’s everything.

Their perfect daughter had torn her spectacularly, and just twenty minutes after giving birth in their bedroom, Claire was transported to the hospital, where she went into surgery for hours and stayed for six nights.

It was behind her now, left in some small hospital retrofit to make way for a postpartum queen. What remained was Balmoral – the place where she could ensconce herself in the history of her lineage as she wrote the history of her own family.

She could live here in Scotland.

As a wife.

As a mother.

As a woman, above all else.

Try as she did, she never felt that way in London.

The easiness of this place. The way that it felt like home, even though her accent was a reminder that it had not always been her home.

On this night, a little over six months after the birth of Julianna, she heard Jamie before she saw him.

His voice was low, a mix of Gaelic and English. All of his words blurred together.

As carefully as possible, she toed the door open another inch and leaned against the doorframe.

“She’s a braw one, yer mam.” He was shirtless, but shrouded in a plaid on the chaise at the center of the sitting room just outside their suite. Flames popped and crackled in the hearth, small bursts of sparks spiraling up and up as the fattest log broke in two. “Ye should’ve seen her, laborin’ wi’ ye. She’s a fearsome thing, ye ken. Ye didna make it easy on her, refusin’ to come out… she was so set on meetin’ ye.”

Claire mopped away the stinging in her eyes with the hem of her robe.

“I didna ken if I could love something as much as I love ye, mo chridhe, but seein’ ye, it’s as if a piece of my own heart, my brain, and my wame lives outside me. I felt it the moment yer mam told me that ye were in her belly. Above all, I kent I must protect ye both, and I will. Until the day I no longer draw breath.”

Claire’s own breath was coming ragged now, listening to him. She had not expected to feel so different in the aftermath of the easy pregnancy and long labor.

To feel as though her emotions were like a balloon on the end of a long string, floating high above her head at all times. As though the slightest breeze could shift them, change her entire existence.

“And someday, when ye’re no’ a bairn, we’ll share wi’ ye how ye surprised us, a leannan.”

Julianna let out the quietest coo that made Claire’s thighs and fingertips tremble. She wanted to take her baby in her arms, to have her close, to take comfort from the fact that her soft limbs were still warm, that her heavy head was held firmly in place by an increasingly-strong neck.

Out of hand, the doctor had dismissed the ebbs and flows of these moods as baby blues. Jamie, in turn, dismissed the doctor with no slight amount of outrage, demanding that someone with “the sense the good lord gave a turnip” help his wife.

That the fog was not imagined. The sense of isolation she felt, even when surrounded by people, was not a matter of someone just being around for her more. The feeling of disconnection from their baby was not a function of being Queen.

Sticking a finger into the doctor’s paunch, Jamie had hissed that the Queen (“my fucking wife”) would not be so dismissed, that if he refused to help, they would find someone who could, who would.

Jamie was a hands-on father, and she was grateful for it. Even with all of the help her status (their shared status) could bring, he made himself present. He rose with her in the night, brought her warm compresses when she shed tears over engorged breasts and cracking nipples. He changed diapers with little more protest than a wrinkled nose at the spectacular streaks of shit that would somehow paint themselves up their daughter’s spine. And he did what he could in the darker days just to be near, even if it meant holding Claire’s hand in the dark and wiping away her seemingly sourceless tears.

But the fog had started to lift, the haze in Claire’s eyes becoming less impenetrable.

Just weeks earlier, she said she was ready to ride again.

And they did.

They picnicked at night, after dark when the baby nurse had assured them she was quite alright.

He plucked roses from the garden to tuck behind her ears.

They stole kisses with her back gently pressed against trees or with his on a picnic blanket, her rounded hips cupped by his hands as she tentatively reintroduced the friction of her body to his.

And one evening a few nights later, when he had looked away for only a minute before turning back, his wife was slipping free of her blouse, her curls wild and her smile wide as she unclasped her bra.

That night, with the sounds of summer as the backdrop and the late-night-Scottish-dusk just descending into dark, they made love in the stables, their bodies joining for the first time in months. He took his time, asked her again and again if she was sure, if she was ready. When she winced, he stopped. She shook her head, then nodded with a sigh as he began to move inside of her with an almost-exquisite tenderness. They were cautious with each other, circumspect, as though either might be broken by a hurried touch or indelicate mouths. Utterly besotted by one another’s bodies and the way intimacy felt familiar, comfortable, and lived in.

At the scene in front of her, just days after their reconnection, Claire swallowed hard, silently begging her eyes to dry out. She had shed enough tears in the last six months to last a lifetime.

“Ye wanted to be in our wedding, so ye nested yerself early in yer mam’s belly, ye fierce wee thing. We’ll show ye the pictures. The day I married yer mam is the happiest day of my life... second only to the day that I met her…” At that, Julianna let out the lowest little whimper of a cry, and Jamie tut-tutted for a moment, then continued, “Her fat arse was leanin’ over the gate in the stable, and I couldna stop smiling.”

“Hey,” Claire breathed in feigned exasperation, stepping fully into the room. “My arse was not that fat, and I quite enjoyed our wedding day. Also, I’ll thank you not to teach the heir to the throne such things.”

“I kent ye were there,” Jamie said as he looked over, humming. “I have a hunter’s senses for yer presence, a nighean.”

Claire pursed her lips, rolling her eyes as she strode the rest of the way across the sitting room. Carefully, she took the bundle from his arms. “I think this wee girl’s nighttime garbling, and our resultant insomnia, are enough to dull even the most astute tracker’s senses.”

Jamie lifted the edge of his plaid, allowing Claire to slip in beneath its warm folds. She centered herself between his legs, leaning against his bare chest as she carefully slipped one bare breast through the neckline of her robe. Jamie’s hand rested loosely on her waist, his fingers flexing for just a moment as Julianna’s lips parted then closed around Claire’s nipple. Claire stiffened for a moment, then relaxed backwards into his chest. Julianna left one soft palm to rest just above Claire’s heart.

Closing her eyes, one hand cupped behind Julianna’s head and one on the baby’s soft bum, Claire whispered, “Tell me about the wedding. What would you tell her?”

“Our wedding?”

Claire opened her eyes and craned her head back just enough that he could see her roll her eyes. “Whose wedding do you think I want to hear about?”

“Jenny’s maybe?” he posited, eyes crinkling at the corners as her shoulders bounced with hardly-contained laughter.

The baby’s mouth slipped free and an impressive stream of milk sprayed her cheeks. Jamie and Claire’s laughter was cut short by the soft, threatened grumble of their bairn. It was a precursor to a cry from the suddenly quite-crabby Julianna. With the baby gently mopped up, and returned to her middle-of-the-night suckling, Jamie began to recount the wedding day. By then, Julianna had one eye half-closed, the other lazily roving around in an utterly useless attempt to focus on something as she fed.

“I didna expect ye to look the way ye did. I kent ye’d be beautiful, of course, but I thought somehow ye’d be someone else’s bride, ye ken? That ye’d be dolled up for a ceremony. A queen prepared for a royal wedding – no’ for our wedding – but there ye were. Ye were as bonnie as I’d ever seen ye… as bonnie as I thought I’d ever see ye. At least until I saw ye like this… wi’ our bairn at yer breast, and Christ, I dinna ken what I did to have such a rare woman love me.”

She felt warmth flood her cheeks, the tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes. Bloody Scot. “You looked pretty handsome yourself in that uniform that I knew you did not want to wear.”

A long hum came from him, the vibration beginning low in his chest and making her own body vibrate.

The wedding was not the ordinary royal nuptials in ways that went even further than the fact that she was carrying the heir to the throne.

The dress she wore was light, modern, and cut just right to conceal their secret. Together, they had carefully wrapped it in tissue and tucked it away at his cabin. So it wouldn’t end up in some stuffy museum with a bland placard, she explained as she rose on tiptoes to push it to the back of a closet.

They married in candlelight, with a bouquet of wildflowers picked from the gardens at Balmoral in her hand.

She wore Jamie’s ring, and for some reason she was not at all surprised when her hand did not tremble as he slid it over her knuckle and let his fingers linger on the band for a moment. Her own voice was low as she slipped a band of gold down his finger, whispering the words back to him that he had said to her.

I give you this ring, James Fraser, as a sign of our marriage and mutual trust, our love and our promise to care for one another over all others.

The papers could scoff all they wanted, muse over what a slap in the face it was to the Commonwealth she headed. To give away power, a piece of her divine right.

Nevertheless, she gave herself to him, just as he gave himself to her. She had done it long before that moment, long before the promise concluded.

This day. All of the days we have remaining.

Julianna grunted, released, and whimpered the start of a gut-wrenching, milky cry before latching on again with only the slightest encouragement. This time, both of her eyes closed and her hand fell to a tiny, balled fist above her brows.

“She has a tooth coming in,” Jamie whispered, his hand slipping up Claire’s arm and coming to rest on her shoulder.

“Trust me,” Claire murmured. “I can feel the bloody thing.”

Claire allowed her eyes to close, her attention somehow equally split between her husband’s even breathing and the gentle suckling at her breast. She felt Jamie tuck her hair behind her ear and kiss her temple.

“Ye’re a braw queen, mo nighean donn, but ye’re more than that. Sae much more.”

She wet her lips and turned her head, slowly shifting the now-sleeping bundle in her arms. “Is this what you thought it would be, Fraser?” There was no tentativeness in her voice – it was as though she already knew the answer, but just wanted to hear him say it. “Your life here... with me?”

Humming, his hand skimmed down her upper arm, cupped her elbow, and then found its way to her fingers. His palm covered her hand, and his fingers brushed the narrow expanse of their baby’s lower back.

“Ye helped me come back to life, Sassenach. All that time after the war, I was dead. I didn’t ken it then, but I loved ye then. Before I met ye.”

Running a finger along Julianna’s cheek and tucking her breast back into her robe, Claire whispered, “I loved you both before I met you. You brought me to life, Fraser. I always will love you.”

Fraser shifted, his stubbled cheek against hers as he wound an arm around his queen’s waist and drew her closer.

“So long as my body lives, and yours—we are one flesh,” he whispered. The magnolias at Balmoral smelled like zested citrus and honey. The scent was in the air along with the smoke from the fire Jamie started. Julianna cooed quietly and nestled her face against Claire’s breast, her lips having gone slack. “And when my body shall cease, my soul will still be yours. Claire—I swear by my hope of heaven, I will not be parted from you.”

Claire closed her eyes, the feeling of his rising and falling chest against her back and that of their baby on her own chest.

This was her beginning.

The End

#;mod Kate #Her Royal Highness Modern AU #jamie x claire #thank you to anyone who has read this xx #fin.

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infinites-chaser · 4 years ago

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2/5/21

NEON

1. Teenage bedroom (late night)

2. Lord

3. Planetarium

4. Basketball court

5. Malevolence

prompts by @nosebleedclub can be found here!

i. it’s cold and dark— the new moon and cloudy skies mean only the artificial glow of streetlights filters in, soft and subdued, through the hazy fabric of his curtains. 1:30, reads the clock. he closes his eyes. opens them when dreams won’t come.

it’s often that teenagers like him are lost, this time of night, it’s often that sleep can’t find him.

ii. he doesn’t believe in god, he never has, not since his father first laid his eyes on him, laid hands on his mother, took away his little brother. when he looks to the whorls of stars glued clumsy and hasty to his bedroom ceiling, when he closes his eyes at night, he does not pray to any lord. he worships her smile.

iii. there’s a galaxy swirling in the depths of her clear gaze, constellations that could be drawn in the scattering of freckles across her cheeks that only darken come summer. she dimples. stars collide, stars reform. it’s astronomy planetariums and textbooks could never hope to teach, astronomy only poets and lovers know.

(he’s pulled into her orbit, the weight of his heart nothing against her gravity. her force. his heartbeat accelerates. but he doesn’t fall, he flies.)

iv. physics class blurs past him. most of his classes do. but when the teacher’s droning voice turns to talk of the stars above, the way the planets move, he listens. it makes sense, somehow, though little else in school does. he thinks of it often. of laws of motion. of forces and attraction.

an object in motion will stay in motion, the teacher says.

she moves him. his heart’s restless. it stays restless, no matter what he does.

he drums his fingers on his desk in time with his racing heart, doesn’t stop even when the bully in the seat in front twists around to glare. he ignores the boy, lets his eyes instead follow her across the classroom.

basketball helps, keeps his motion focused, lets it flow. he dribbles the ball. thinks about the ball’s bounce, its steady spring back up after every fall. thinks about how she says she liked the other team’s dunk, the way the last player had looked when he’d scored.

he jumps. he shoots. he scores. he makes sure it’s when she’s watching, he’s rewarded with her bright congratulations! and her grin, a small cosmic wonder.

it feels like flying. like defying gravity.

(when she faints during p.e. he’s by her side. she gives him a band-aid, after, cheeks flushed, dimples showing.

for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, he thinks, and puts the bandage on with an answering smile.)

v. there’s his father’s anger, vicious swirling storm of violence that leaves him broken breathless beaten, curled into a corner wishing for gentle winds and the summer stars. his father’s anger and the cold winter that follows, eyes that look past him, that look through him, murmur you failure, you, that put icy fingers of frost deep into even the warmest corners of his heart. there’s the bullies who corner him atop the roof, knives in hand, telling him to jump, telling him his destiny was always to fall.

he survives the bullies. weathers his father. but when it’s her standing in front of him, his fist curled in a boy’s shirt, her starbright eyes dim with horror, it dawns on him. there are some falls that were always meant to happen. there are some orbits he can’t escape from (this one’s a hole opened up in the pit of his stomach, dark and wide, his snarl reflected in her eyes an inescapable force that pulls him apart, pulls him under). this is his event horizon.

PASTEL

1. Teenage bedroom (soft morning)

2. Dwarf rabbit

3. Seaside memory

4. Embrace

5. Peach juice

v. she likes the juice normally. it’s sweet and light and refreshing, a nectar of the gods, bottled in it is a hundred laughs and smiles, the taste of summers gone by. today, the drink sits heavy on her tongue, choking, cloying artificial sugar that makes her stomach turn.

what’s wrong, her friend asks. it tastes like missed opportunities, she thinks but does not say, it tastes like what-could-have-been turned sour, then sugared over again, far too sweet, it tastes like regret. it tastes like a bloodstained letter from a desperate boy left unopened, like a desperate boy left standing in an empty parking lot, his heart in his hands a star, waiting to fall.

she says, it’s nothing, smiles, and tries not to wince when she sips at her straw again.

iv. they don’t ever hug in their teenage years. they could barely manage the brush of fingers without the hint of a blush. when they meet again, it’s different. gravity, attraction, all the laws of physics bend his path back to her.

he falls back into her orbit like breathing, an inhale, an exhale, and he’s weightless, he’s flying again.

she saves him. he saves her.

when she’s in his arms, he wonders if she sees stars in his eyes, wonders if she thinks there’s a gentle supernova within his every smile. little does he know, she’s wondering the same things, too.

for every action, he nearly remembers, slow and distant, a memory from light-years away, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

iii. once there was an ocean between him and her, waves of years-old misunderstandings come crashing down through time to separate them. tides rise. tides overflow. there is truth to be had on both sides, she thinks, in the flood of feelings that follows. there is a peace to be found when the tide goes out again, an understanding when they stand beside each other, hand-in-hand, back to the storm-swept past, looking to the starlit seashore of their future.

call it what you will. call it love.

ii. she curls against him, her head on his chest, hair fanned out in ripples of starless sky. they’re universe enough, two celestial things settled into comfortable orbit: some nights she circles him, some nights it’s her. his moon. her jupiter. he’s mapped an infinite number of constellations from her dimples down the small of her back and lower. she’s traced comets and meteors across the scars on his torso, discovered nebulas high on his cheekbones, made them burn bright red under her touch.

still, they turn their eyes skyward, to galaxies beyond. a world within their arms, a world without.he points out the constellations, draws out the shape of their mythological namesakes with one outstretched hand. over here, a legendary hunter, he says. there, a lyre.

here, a goddess, he says, and his eyes are on hers. she blushes. in the flush of her cheeks, he imagines new stars are born. (fusion, fission. love as something stronger than a nuclear reaction.)

tell me about the different types of stars, she says instead of a reply. he nods, pulls her closer, recites facts slow and soft he learned for her years ago: dwarfs, giants, all their different colors. she giggles at dwarf; she always does, asks if she’s a dwarf, a dwarf bunny. he laughs, pokes her nose, says, weren’t you listening, that’s not a kind of star—

his voice gentles to silence. she cranes her neck to look up at the stars in his bright eyes, the planets, the worlds.

maybe we’re binary stars, he says at last. you and i.

i. it’s warm and bright— rays of dawn drift light and dreamy through her open window painting long panes of her rumpled blankets the gold of the morning’s sunshine. he murmurs words, soft, loving, unintelligible, against the crown of her head. she smiles an i love you and a good morning into his chest, presses a kiss to his heart, and snuggles closer. his hand finds hers beneath shared sheets. their fingers tangle. they take their waking slow, their hearts beating as one, a secret language, a morse code of lovers, spelling out the words you are found. you are home.

#val writes #mlqc #but also not #i based this off of characters and i think the fandom can easily guess which but also i'd like to think it stands on its own #was kinda just messing around with this bc i rly liked the prompts aklsjfd but it was rly fun hhhnngh hopefully someone appreciates me #trying to wax poetic #nosebleed club

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namjoonknee · 4 years ago

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It had been mere months since their final confrontation with Chuck, but in that time, everything had seemingly wound down. There was a finality about it, a change in the wind, that they had all felt. In the months since, for example, Castiel had been assigned the role of designated driver more and more, as Dean had given up any pretence of pride, allowing himself to be lolled to sleep sitting in shotgun. When he did take Baby out for a drive, Dean started singing again, wild and obnoxious and carefree. All the tension assuaged away, shoulders dropped, and pace slowed and most importantly, Castiel had seen far more smiles from the man in the past year than he had in the many years prior.

This was something else though. Castiel was acutely aware of the childhood that Dean had experienced, or lack thereof. It was safe to assume, then, that the idea of a birthday celebration let alone acknowledgement, must have been as obviously absent in Dean’s life as his father had been. Which is why, when Jack had brought the idea to him and Sam, they immediately assented. If there were any people who so desperately deserved recognition and honouring, it was the Winchester brothers.

Despite Dean insisting loudly and frequently that he didn’t want his birthday to be a ‘big deal’, his eager reception to any birthday related events violently indicated the contrary. Much of Dean was like this, and it seemed that everyone in his life was well aware of the façade, so it usually worked out fine. it had only a few months for Castiel to understand this about the man after all.

On the morning of the 24th of January Castiel had found Dean arisen early, sitting in the kitchen and smiling at his phone, aftereffects of facetiming Garth and the Fitzgerald IV’s. Jody had popped in later that morning, and whilst she could only stay for an hour, having a sheriff conference to attend, it was obvious that the effort was not lost on Dean. His giddiness was also particularly apparent when he received calls from both Krissy and Claire. None of the ‘old-man’ insults thrown his way weren’t contested at all, as Dean was apparently too wrapped up in his astonishment that they had even remembered his birthday.

His cheerful disposition persisted throughout the day, and Castiel soaked it up. Staring intently at Dean (more so than usual), Castiel tried to commit his smiles to memory, persisting even when Dean had laughingly told him to ‘quit it dude, you’re freaking me out’.

This was something that Castiel hadn’t even thought to pray for, most of that was spent on just making sure the man was breathing, safe and for once not in mortal peril. Seeing Dean beam was a sucker punch to Castiel’s heart. He had been in love with Dean for so long but seeing him this happy was overwhelming. Castiel had no doubt that he had fallen, he couldn’t imagine being able to deal with the extent of his feelings a hundred years ago, let alone a millennium. He really wouldn’t have known what to do with himself. Honestly, Castiel was having a hard time keeping it together, as it were. Being an angel of the lord for longer than the existence of the Earth gave him good practise though. So, if Castiel was completely overcome with adoration, no one was the wiser.

In any case, the birthday festivities had gone wonderfully. Most of the appropriate customs had been observed, at least in Winchester fashion, which meant the substitution of cake with pie and singing with Dean’s threat that ‘if anyone so much as starts singing you won’t get any pie, got it’.

The roast dinner Jody had brought over in the morning, warmed from the oven, was sprawled out on the map room table and passed around amongst the group. Jack had bought Dean a cowboy hat keychain, which he promptly added to Baby’s keys, after pulling a delighted Jack in for a hug and ruffling his hair. Sam got the same treatment, expressing much less appreciation for it, when he slid Kurt Vonnegut’s Palm Sunday across the table towards Dean. Minutes later Dean was barking a laugh and professed his love for Eileen as he swept her up. She had produced a smuggled bottle of Midleton Very Rare, which they wasted no time pouring it out and pairing with Castiel’s cherry pie, the best pie in the country he had found. His week-long pilgrimage had been under the guise of ‘angel crap’. Thankfully, the mission was aided by his recent reacquisition of his grace, but it would have been worth it regardless, Castiel thought, as watching Dean scarf it down. When Dean emerged with whipped cream on the tip of his nose Castiel feel like it might have actually been his birthday instead.

Presently, they had just finished watching Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, the third in the marathon of cowboy movies that Dean had prepared, seemingly oblivious to the pointed albeit good natured eye roll from Sam and the bemused glances shared between Jack, Eileen and himself.

“Alright, I think I’m going to head in” Sam yawned and rose slowly.

Eileen followed suit, signing “Hope you enjoyed your birthday” to Dean who smiled softly at her and signed “thank you” back.

Castiel turned to regard the boy pressed to his side, but the steadily rise and fall of Jack’s chest and a trail of drool on the arm rest answered his question. Castiel reached over to tap Dean’s shoulder and jerked his head towards the sleeping boy. “I’ll take him up to his room” he spoke in a low voice, “when I come back, we can watch Tombstone if you’d like.”

Surely, I can count on him not being tired yet, Castiel thought, his entire plan had depended on it, on them being alone. He had waited weeks for Dean’s birthday to arrive, the timing was finally right, and Castiel had to make his move now.

Dean grinned broadly, “I’ll set it up.”

Castiel gathered Jack up and carried his son in-all-but-blood to his room. After tucking him in, Castiel made a pitstop in his own room. Reaching into his bedside drawer, Castiel retrieved the object that he’d been mulling over for weeks on end. The package was small and neatly wrapped in glossy paper. Castiel turned it over, weighing it in his palms. He had been restless for so long and yet, Castiel suddenly found himself unable to move. This is ridiculous, he thought, I am one of heaven’s fiercest warriors, I’ve averted apocalypses, faced gods and monsters alike and triumphed, I should not be scared of giving my friend a gift for his birthday. Taking a deep breath, Castiel made an attempt at summoning courage.

“Hey Cas, did you change your mind about Tombstone? I mean I know it’s not your favourite, but I’m telling you it’s not just guns and tuberculosis-”

“Dean!” Castiel jumped in alarm and juggled the present in his arms, in attempt to prevent the imminent destruction of his hopes and dreams. Composing himself, he turned to face his friend, who was stood in the open doorway.

“Hey buddy” Dean said slowly, taking in the scene with an amused smirk, “whatcha got there?”

It took a moment for Castiel’s thoughts to catch up with him and he realised, flushing, that there was nothing subtle about the way he had reacted and was continuing to react, his arms having forced themselves behind his back. Yeah, definitely the picture of an innocent man. Castiel scolded himself for his childishness, brought his hands back to his sides and sat himself down on the edge of his bed.

Dean planted himself down next to Castiel and looked at him expectantly. “Here” Castiel said, not trusting himself to speak he thrust the package into Dean’s hands, hoping, no, praying that Dean would understand.

Castiel stared at the package in Dean’s hands and watched as Dean examined it. In his periphery he saw Dean stare back up at him in apparent curiosity. Okay, that’s fine, Castiel thought, this is absolutely fine. Upon realising that Castiel was not prepared to give him either a reaction or explanation, Dean returned his attention to the gift and began unwrapping it. Dean pried it open deftly but carefully ensuring that the packaging was not ripped. After what seemed to Castiel as an eternity, Dean unveiled the gift and Cas raised his face in time to watch the widening of Dean’s eyes and realisation dawning across his own face.

“Cas’ Top 13 Zepp Traxx” Dean read faintly and matched his gaze.

“It’s a sequel,” Castiel started, looking back down at his palms, “of sorts. The mixtape you gave me was so thoughtful, Dean. And so, I just-” he was cut off by a pair of strong arms pulling him in. Castiel let go of the breath he didn’t realise he was holding and folded his arms around Dean, resting his chin on Dean’s shoulder.

“Thanks Cas” Dean whispered.

“Happy Birthday Dean.”

.........................

There’s more to this story x

#destiel #destiel fic #destiel ficlet #spn #supernatural #post season 15 #it's shane #the mixtape

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ironharvests · 4 years ago

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creature of desire, you’ve a fever for the fire.

@bredfaith yajuu snickered, “the first step to any murder is to have fun & be yourself. "

mini-ficlet: in which godhood is a thing with teeth, sainthood was made to block the light, and kimimaro is just a man looking for divinity in the flesh.

“God is terror,” the old man used to say. his pupils blue skies were cloudy with cataracts and jaundice, but he always knew precisely where to bury his knucklebone blade in kimimaro’s flesh, subtle as a camellia, to really hurt. “She is thunder and lightning and boiling seas.” a petal blooming from his ribcage. “She is phantasm, she is black rot and sour things, she is pain and suffering and the ecstasy hidden in their blood-soaked dirt.” a bouquet, furious and glittering with rubies. “She is beautiful and sublime, glory and gore, and you are our offering to her: bone of her bone, made in her image.”

“’I am the bone of her bone,’” kimimaro whispered the clan prayers as the elders folded his spirit into his body and broke them in both in unending strokes. “In bleeding me, I am filled with her pain. In my brokeness, I am beautiful. In shattering me, you bring me closer to the Moon-eyed One.’”

beautifully broken. the child squirms under the lash, but does not whimper. beautiful. oh, how he wants to be something so simple as beautiful.

ii.

on the outskirts of water country, the boy meets a creature with a face like heaven and eyes deeper than any hell.

“God is a dream spun by the desperate,” lord orochimaru had laughed when kimimaro asked if they believe in heaven. their hand was long and smooth and cool to the touch when kimimaro fised his tiny hand around two of their fingers, and he had known in an instant that his hands were made to cling to theirs like a river-worn rock, like a knife handle, like prayer beads.

they were still in water country’s backwater wasteland where war was a cicada in summer, constantly shrieking its background song, and dead bodies were as common to see on the side of the road as toadstools. lord orochimaru thought nothing of making more of the dead. a band of bandits and the caravan they’d been attacking were cut down in a single stroke of blood and steel. kimimaro clung to the back of lord orochimaru’s robes as they led him through the carnage, stepping over the dead and onto the dying.

“Any man dreaming of god deserves to be sent to him, hm?” lord orochimaru pressed their delicate sandal against a dead girl’s cheek, running their eyes over her long black hair, her full cheeks, the maggots creeping from her fever-stretched mouth. “With all the other delusions. If the gods exist, I will kill them.”

kimimaro chewed his bottom lip, wrinkling his nose against the labored droning of horseflies. “I think. . .” lord orochimaru had looked sharply at him then, and it had taken kimimaro a moment to realize he had squeezed their hand hard enough for his wrist bones to break skin brush against their palm. still, he could not look away from their burning eyes — so like gold coins, or scorched suns, or divinity. “. . . I think that is what a god would say.” orochimaru had stared at him for a long unblinking moment before a smile eclipsed across their lips.

“Come along, Kimimaro-kun. Night will not wait for us.”

kimimaro knew in that moment that he was right: here before him stood god sheathed in snake’s skin, and it was his duty to love them in beauty and in horror.

iii.

for nine years, his was the path of the righteous man. where he walked, no doubtful weed could take root. where he lay his head, no dark dreams troubled dared trouble him. he basked unflinching in the violent brilliance of divine radiance, and he learned that a god hungers only for knowledge. the oldest fruit still proved ripest.

for nine years, kimimaro believed he knew the true face of god.

their hair was a river of his black blood. their eyes, midnight suns. their beauty was as elegant as the finest blade, and they knew him by his name. he questioned nothing. it was not the role of the devout to spit in god’s face.

it was only after his near-death that the truth had been revealed to him.

orochimaru was no god. they were terribly mortal, and their destruction was neither wanton nor ecstatic like the elders had foretold; they were cold-blooded and conniving where god was supposed to be hot-blooded and manic. the righteousness in him fermented over night. a false god. his purpose was a lie. his world folded like cards.

he dragged himself into the woods to die.

but of course he couldn’t get that right, either.

iv.

this is the part of his life he remembers little of: the wandering. the world is a smear of water colors. he weeps exactly three times over three years, and the weight of it nearly kills him. he’s dying, slowly. another thing he can’t do right.

and then, at his loneliest, he meets jūgo again; and it’s funny, really, because arguably jūgo is kimimaro’s greatest failure.

of course it is jūgo who saves him. he falls in love with him. of course: it’s the fairytale formula.

except there is a monster living inside jūgo with eyes like violence and a mouth dripping with blood, and when jūgo takes his hand kimimaro swells with pride, but when yajuu surfaces to wear jūgo like sheep’s skin, kimimaro’s skin waxes hot, wanes cold, and every nerve ending roils and sparks like a festival night sky.

kimimaro falls in love with the monster.

of course. of course. of course.

tonight kimimaro wanders through the woods, indifferent to the bite of mountain air. he moves through the trees like a breeze, following the spattering of innards and sweetmeats left in yajuu’s wake. he keeps his distance today, allowing yajuu to have their fun hunting. the cold cramps his right hand, and his knuckles split the skin just for the comfort of a familiar ache. for all the havoc it’s wrought on him, he doesn’t pay much attention to the pains of the body when there is so much to wonder about. he thinks about god and if she can hear him and if so, what does she want? he thinks about the moon and how if he raises his hand at just the right angle he can grasp it, and he thinks about how he does not know if that means anything, but it feels like it should. he thinks about insects and meat and rot and bile and—

a roar reverberates through the trees. kimimaro steps out of the copse and into a clearing, and there is yajuu.

yajuu’s hulking mass crowds a bear’s carcass, large hands that can crush boulders reaching into the sneer torn into the bear’s belly and wrenching out fistfuls of offal, viscera, sweetwet. the bear is still dying: its eyes roll sluggishly in its massive head, the droop of its eyelids matching the outpouring of its blood ( ecstasy; this is what it must look like, yes? ) and as kimimaro approaches he makes eye contact with it and holds its gaze as the lights go out. he lays a hand on its head and runs his hands through its thick brown fur, sinking his fingers into the warmth as he watches yajuu give worship to something much bigger than anything kimimaro has prayed to. yajuu notices him, and leers.

“Y’know, the first step of any murder is to have fun and be yourself,” yajuu snickers. kimimaro can feel the electricity spiking down his spine, can taste his heartbeat in his own throat.

covered in sweat and blood, their laughter wicked and dark as they spread the bear’s remains across the grass — it dredges up forgotten memories of his time imprisoned by his clan. little flashes of dancing and howling and screams around fire pits and human prisoners begging for release, and the crazed smiles on the kaguya’s faces as they nodded sympathetically and promised to release them with the edge of a knife as soon as their god had heard them.

but yajuu — yajuu is different. yajuu worships chaos without knowing they are its greatest disciple. they are not god, but they are something that would brush against her ankles; kimimaro’s sure of it.

and yajuu chooses to follow him. him. he does not follow the thought to its logical conclusion. he can’t.

instead, he touches his throat. brushes the warm skin there and thinks about the hot press of large fingers crushing down around it as he prays. kimimaro loves jūgo, but what he feels for yajuu is something a hundred times darker.

This furious love will choke me, he thinks, and the hopeless excitement of it all echoes through every inch of him. It will break me. And in breaking, I shall be made whole.

“Come, Yajuu, flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone,” he says instead, seafoam green eyes whipping themselves into summer storms as they fix on the ring of blood around yajuu’s mouth burning with cold heat. “Let us play a different game.”

#drabble.#drabble: kimimaro.#HEAVY TRIGGER WARNINGS !#tw animal death /#tw religious delusion /#tw child abuse /#tw cults /#tw cult think /#lmk if this needs more tags #i was really proud of this and i decided to give it a quick polish #headcanon.#headcanon: kimimaro.#bredfaith

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bird-in-a-cage · 5 years ago

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Confession I ~ Confession II ~ Confession III

Confession IV

Steve was good. He had to tell himself that sometimes. He was good. He believed. He believed in God and Jesus, heaven and hell. He believed Moses parted the Red Sea. He believed in the Commandments. He believed the Lord died for us all, so we could be better. Be washed clean.

Steve believed in the Devil. Only his Devil didn’t have black horns or ruby red skin, hoven feet or a pointed tail. His Devil had freckles dusted over his nose. Had dirty blonde hair like a waterfall over rapids and rocks. Had eyes so blue that no artist would ever be able to paint them correctly, do justice to the depth and passion they held. The only thing they held in common was a forked tongue. Steve’s Devil was an expert in its use. Whispering heated lies into his ear, making them sound safe, that the ideas were Steve’s own somehow. Like he wanted everything that tongue could give, could say, could flick and roll and press.

Inside Steve knew it was wrong. Every dance they did was wrong. Every stolen moment, every quiet shuffle, every sideways glance when those eyes burnt bright with desire and malicious intent. Every time he tried so hard to resist. Remind himself that he was good, that he could be saved, that he didn’t need saving to begin with. But every time that tongue would sing words that deeper down Steve wanted to hear. The part of himself he knew was wrong and forbidden and tried to keep locked away. His Devil had the key. Would spring the latch with a click of his fingers and for a small moment Steve would feel free. Freer than a dove. Higher than the clouds. Close, so close, to touching the gates to know what that felt like. To be that close to heaven and still be planted on Earth. So he would dance.

But at nights he would spiral. Thoughts and memories dragging him down until he could feel fire licking the soles of his feet. Nancy was sweet, but she couldn’t save him. He loved her so dearly, but every day was a lie. Another sin he needed to atone for. Another string of beads to count.

Steve would pray kneeling at the foot of his bed, hands clasped so tight together the pain would shoot up his forearms. He would shake with concentration. Lips begging for forgiveness, to be made right. Why was he made wrong? What was God’s plan for him to be made this way? He tried, he really did try, but there was only so much he could do without help. Only so much temptation he could avoid when it was surrounding him everyday and pulling him into sacred places to sin. The Devil would flash behind his eyelids and he would cry. Tears would roll heavy down his cheeks, trying to clean him somehow. But he was so confused. This wasn’t fair. He was good. He did everything he was supposed to do, everything his parents told him to do, everything the priest told him to do, everything Nancy told him to do.

He did everything the Devil told him to do.

In desperate times Steve would take his cross off, hold it tight, force it into his palm until it hurt, until it felt like it was about to break the skin. Maybe that would help to free him of his sins so he could feel good. Jesus bled.

Sometimes prayers just made him feel empty. They should fill him with joy and light, they did in the past. But now they didn’t taste the same. He’d tasted something sweeter, the most forbidden of fruits. Eve was cast out for her crimes, what would happen to him? If he confessed the whole truth. Nancy would go. His parents would be disgraced.

But the Devil would remain. Welcome him with open arms and an easy smile. With soft skin that smelt like a snuffed out candle. He’d be so close he’d be able to count each freckle. See his own reflection in the unholiest of waters. He’d be warm with fire crackling around them.

Was the Devil worth burning for?

#harringrove #billy x steve #steve harrington #billy hargrove #tw: religion #my writings

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amusedyan · 5 years ago

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Mother of Legacies

So this was a collab between @hearteyes-candyskies and me! We worked out the plot together and she was kind enough to give me a list of yandere Greek myths for inspiration. We hashed out a lot of this and she was so helpful in picking out the details.

Special thanks to my good friend @lightautumnsky for taking a look at this for me and giving me her opinion- you’re amazing and I owe you big for this.

One more disclaimer; normally I go out of my way to keep my darlings and reader inserts as neutral as possible. Everyone deserves to be a darling no matter gender or race. However, because a lot of Io’s importance is because of her bloodline, I had to keep her female. I’m very sorry, but that’s how this had to happen.

tw: implied forced pregnancy

Your legs ache as you climb the mountain. Your hooves are uncertain in the stone as you journey upwards, and you huff with exhaustion. The sun beats down on your hide and your tongue lolls- you’d never thought to miss sweat before.

Overhead and forward some distance an eagle screeches, and you shudder instinctively. But there is no lightning crossing the sky, and no boom of thunder, and so you continue on.

You make steady ground and in the distance you see him, and you breathe in peace.

You’re so close.

The Adversary, chained to the mountain; beneath his sunburn he is frighteningly pale, with matted dark hair and haunted eyes. He tracks your progress as you approach. There is a gaping, scabbed wound in his side, bleeding sluggishly.

Everyone knows the story- once an ally with the Lord of the Sky, he’d disobeyed to serve humanity. For his insolence, Zeus had stripped his name and chained him to the mountains, his eagle set upon him to tear out his liver every day.

You are so tired, but you’re made the journey, and you feel you deserve a rest, setting yourself down at his feet and looking up at him patiently.

“You’re no normal cow, are you?” He asks bluntly, peering down at you. He doesn’t seem surprised. You shake your head no- and he nods. “Transformation?” You nod in assent. “Nice to know they haven’t changed.”

You want to ask, but he laughs a little. It’s distinctly unamused. “I can understand you. Don’t worry. Now, the details?”

“I don’t quite know where to begin.” You admit carefully. The Eagle is nearby, and you aren’t sure if it’s just an eagle.

The titan catches where you look and assures you that it’s just an eagle. “A pet, that’s all. Let’s begin this way- what have you come for?”

“Do you have a name?” You ask first. “I need to call you something.” Are you imagining the slight quirk of the titan’s lips.

“L. It’s close enough to what was stolen.”

So you begin.

Your name was Io. Is it still? Who knows, a cow can’t introduce herself.

You were a priestess to Hera, but before that you were a princess, princess of Argos. You’d not wanted to marry, and so your parents had bought you a place in the temple, and you had devoted yourself to worship.

That life spoke to you, and you had friends in your sister priestesses, and went about your duties happily- you cleaned your section of the temple, you helped prepare meals, occasionally you even assisted with the sacrifices to the Goddess herself. You would stand behind the senior priestess as she prayed watch the smoke from the altar drift to the sky and think in this I am happy.

Your life continued this way for months, until winter came, and with it came Gamelion- the month blessed for marriage. Engaged women and mothers of the brides and their grooms flocked to the temple to pray for wealth, happiness and love.

Among the ceremony were the plays- plays dedicated to the marriage of your Gods. The performers reenacted the marriage and courtship of the pantheon, and as always, Mighty Zeus ad Hera were among the most frequent.

The temple kept cuckoos for their own performances, and you loved the birds. Only the most senior priestesses were tasked with their care, but you liked to be around them when you had the time.

It was your duty one morning to prepare the altar- you cleaned it and offered your prayers to Hera. You lit incense and kept your voice pitched low. The fruit offered- the finest of oranges- filled the room with it’s citrussy scent. All the smells made your nose itch.

Your eyes were closed when it happened; all you felt was heat. The light was visible through your eyelids, like you were looking straight at the sun when you’d closed them. There was no noise, no smells, nothing- just the light.

When it was gone, the worshippers in the chamber were gaping at you with awe, and your robes were dusted with gold. The offerings to Hera, you realized with growing horror, were gone- replaced by pomegranates.

--------

“So you were blessed by Zeus.” L interrupts. You nod.

“That’s what the High Priestess said, anyway.”

“How did you feel?”

“Afraid.”

“Oh?”

“Zeus blessed a priestess devoted to Hera in Her own temple while she stood before Hera’s altar.” You elaborate with one more shudder. L hums, and you can see that his fingers twitch.

“And everyone knows what happens to Light’s conquests.” He says quietly, and you frown, as much as you can.

“Light?”

“Continue, Io.”

ii.

One night, soon after, there was a thunderstorm. You lied in your bed, shivering beneath your blankets.

You’d grown up sharing a room with your sisters; the single accommodation afforded to you as a Priestess left you lonely on nights like that. Your youngest sister had been frightened of thunder, and often joined you in your bed to keep from crying out and waking the others.

“It’s only Zeus, little one,” Mother would promise when she caught you both, smiling a little, then leading your sister back to her own bed. “Nothing to fear.”

Lightning arced across the sky with a boom.

Nothing to fear indeed.

You shivered and tucked your blanket under your chin.

Storms had never scared you like this.

But then, you reflected, never had you been in a position where the Lord of Storms had blessed you.

The gold hadn’t come off those robes, and it had taken the temple’s strongest soap to remove it from your skin.

Outside your window, the tree shook with the force of the wind, and the chill crept in.

Sleep was long coming that night, and it didn’t come easy. Dreams were too much to ask, but sleep you finally did, even with the noise of rivaling the falling of the sky happening outside.

In the morning a bowl of acorns lay on your sill innocently, even if they were all but innocent.

----

“That must have been frightening.”

By now night was falling, and the first of the stars were lit.

“Oh very much. I nearly screamed. But then I’d have woken the others and that’s not fair to them.” You explained. With night falling the flies had finally ceased tormenting you, and you can finally relax.

“What was Misa’s opinion?”

It shouldn’t shock you, L knowing Hera’s second name. He’d once walked with them before his betrayal.

“I received no sign or omen in warning.” You can’t help the bitterness.

By now, the wound in L’s side has nearly healed completely.

You hope to be gone before morning, or at least before the torment begins again.

“What was the High Priestess’ opinion of these occurrences?”

iii.

“Have you actually seen Him?” High Priestess Agnete demanded.

“Of course not! Would I still be here if I had?” You demanded before you could stop yourself. The slap was painful, but not unexpected, and you bowed your head in apology.

“So Zeus has just been...sending you gifts?” And you could actually hear the derision in her voice. Or contempt?

“I know how it sounds, ma’am.” You promised.

“Do you? Because it sounds to me that an under priestess, one who’s hardly belonged to the temple longer than perhaps a fortnight,” and that wasn’t fair- you’d been here more than a year and she damn well knew it, “is claiming that the Lord of the Sky is attempting to court you.”

Court you? Was she serious?

Who in their right mind believed Him capable of courting anyone besides His wife?

Zeus seduced. He did not court.

“I understand,” you tried again, trying to keep the nervousness from your hands, “how it sounds, but I swear-”

“Say no more or risk punishment for your lies.”

“And the gold?” You demanded, “even you agreed that that was a sign from Him, didn’t you? And oak-”

“A blessing and nothing more. Zeus’ holy tree is the oak- I don’t believe acorns count toward anything significant, Io. Now, if you don’t mind-”

You had a split moment to wonder if Agnete was being thick on purpose, perhaps playing up her ignorance to stay out of matters larger than her, when a screech rendered the air and made both of you look up.

Agnete scrambled back as a sceptre, long and golden, emblazoned with the mark of Light, embedded itself in the ground at your feet. It was nearly as tall as you, slim and well crafted.

To your left there was the fluttering of wings, and an eagle seated itself on the garden wall, watching you with eyes unblinking.

Agnete had whimpered, and you couldn’t help but feel smug satisfaction at being proven right.

-----

“I take it that things got worse after that?”

The moon cast shadows on L’s face, and your new eyes had poor sight in the dark. You might have missed his face entirely if not for the shine of moonlight from his eyes. You wonder if he can see you clearly with his hair hanging in his face like that.

“Not at first.”

“Were there any more gifts?”

Gifts, and you couldn’t resist a laugh.

“No. None. I’d gotten the message.”

“But you refused him?”

“Yes. I was a priestess. It was out of the question already.” Besides, Zeus had never turned up to try and goad you into it. Or force, as it were. Your stomach growls. Nothing can be done- the mountain is barren, there’s nothing to graze here.

iv.

Your sister Priestesses were dying.

It was late, and you were praying feverishly.

You hadn’t slept in several days, nor eaten.

As they walked about, as they prayed, as they did their chores, they were dropping dead like flies with nothing to forewarn what was happening. The old, the young, the experienced and the newly initiated. Agnete had gone first, and of them, only she had seemed to be in pain.

“Hera, Mother and Wife, Patron of This Holy Temple, to You I Pray,” you whispered, on your knees with your head to the stone floor. You’d been at this for hours. The words were blurring together, and the smoke of the incense was so thick you could hardly see.

“Rise, Mortal,” a soft voice called, “and gaze upon your Patron.”

Misa, Queen and Mother. She was small and golden haired, dressed in elegant blues and greens, with a crown upon her head and a silver scepter in hand.

You looked at her and you saw Power. You were in the presence of a God, and never before had you felt so small.

“Lady Misa.” You whispered. She nodded.

“Many names have I, Mortal. But you know that, don’t you?”

You didn’t answer; this was all relative. You were in danger. You knew you were in danger.

Misa stepped forward and looked you over. Her eyes were cold as the sea- you were nothing to her, a catalyst to her cult’s destruction at the hands of her husband.

“Zeus pursues you, mortal, though I’m sure you’re aware.”

You swallowed.

“Yes, My Lady.”

She began to circle you, silently as a cat. You couldn’t bear to look in her eyes.

“Never before has my husband been so...brazen, as to pursue a priestess belonging to me. In my own temple.” Was that anger or pain that made the slight Goddess flinch. “He strikes down my own worshippers even.” She tsked, “all for you.”

“My Lady,”

“My Husband pursued me once. With great zeal. But I had something he wanted then. Now you’ve caught his eye. It won’t last long, but until then, you cannot stay here.”

Her sceptre clapped upon the ground and you felt something akin to nausea take you over from the inside out. You stared up at her, even as your flesh changed and your bones turned. There was no pain, just horror.

“Leave my Temple, Io. In this form, Zeus will not find you. I suggest you make use of that gift.”

And then Misa was gone.

“Is that the end of it?” Asked L. The sun was beginning to peak over the valley below, but the light had yet to touch the mountains. The titan’s side was healed by now.

“Yes. You’re said to be the wisest besides Athena, and you have the gift of Prophecy. Is there any way to undo what was done to me, L?” The name is strange and foreign on your tongue.

L looks south, towards Mount Olympus.

“I spoke the truth to Men before. I Saw what he would become, and I tried to mitigate the damage. For that betrayal he hunted my brothers and sisters and stripped me of my name, chained me to this mountain and tortures me day after day with his damned bird.” His expression equal parts bitter and sad, but when he looks at you he is angry.

“Go South. Beyond the sea is a Land of Sand and Fire, there, there are magics unlike ours. You will find a way to return to your former body. But be warned, Priestess. Should Zeus find you he will get what he wants. And from your unions a bloodline cursed and blessed shall be born. Blessed with the weakness of their dam and cursed with the madness of their progenitor; a line of heroes and kings and monsters.”

The eagle opens its eyes and with a screech descends upon L’s side with a vengeance.

You do not thank the titan, but you do offer a prayer that he might be freed some day.

vi.

It’s a long journey to the South.

You are so tired you can hardly stand, but the sand beneath your feet is undeniable, and you could weep for joy.

From there it’s a blur of heat and confusion. You cannot speak, and never before has this land seen a cow quite like you. Common enough for Greece, but not here.

You are taken to a palace where you are fed and watered and given shelter.

By morning, the court sorcerer has seen you, declared you to be enchanted, and broken Misa’s hold on you.

It’s quite embarrassing; a beautiful woman, naked in the royal stable. But the sorcerer calls for clothing and soon you’re dressed in fabrics so lovely that they might as well be gossamer on your skin for how soft they are.

You spend that night in a bedroom fit for royalty, and you allow yourself to be pampered for the first time in ages.

The King requests that you join him for the evening meal, and you arrive, presenting yourself as the Princess that you are, since you are no longer a Priestess.

Seated on a strange throne is a young man about your age. He watches you with eyes too red and hair of chestnut, but to look at his face is to see a clever face that you have known.

Light, Lord of Storms, Lord of the Skies.

Zeus, King of the Gods.

“Hello, darling.”

He stands and descends, taking your hands in his when he reaches you.

“You’ve come so far, I’m so proud! You did exactly what I thought you might.” His hand is soft on your cheek, thumb daring to touch your lower lip. In his eyes is greed and lust and pride.

“Did you know, sweet Io, that I overhear what my servants do? Gossip, knowledge, prophecy,” perhaps you might die now. Drop dead like the others.

But Light continues, unashamed, amused, even.

“Io, Mother of Legacies- it has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it, my darling?”

Are the walls closing in?

“And best of all, Hera can’t reach us here.”

His hand cups you middle, imagining the growth there.

“From you springs a dynasty.”

#death note #dn #light yagami #mythology #yandere #yandere death note #yandere dn #yandere light yagami #yandere mythology

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princess-of-france · 5 years ago

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CATHERINE To choose me, lord, comes not within thy rights, Nor in my sphere to protest ‘gainst thy claim. Cold-buffeted by fortune are we both, And forced to toe the fragile line of duty, Or plummet headlong from this royal bourn Unto the roiling ocean of obscurity. If thou dost find me lacking, keep it in. If I do find thee wanting, I’ll digress. No king didst ever have both throne and choice, And never princess both her crown and voice. Thus, choiceless and voiceless, stand we in a room, Sit on a bed, do what we must. ‘Tis all and all and none, and yet ‘tis ours. Then do thy office, King, with noble haste, And make this Catherine thine,—though she be hers. Yet here I sit, and pliantly I’ll lie, Till thou hast made good on a bad treaty.

KING HENRY V A hateful treaty, monstrous indeed, Would shackle such a woman to a man Who, were it not for her blazoned disgust, Might count himself the happiest of men That ever climbed unto a marriage bed.

CATHERINE I smell another jest.

KING HENRY V Thou need’st a better nose.

CATHERINE Why waste thy flattery? I told thee I’d compy, and so I will.

KING HENRY V Ha! Comply? Think’st thou I want compliance? That poisoned medicine infects the region It doth seek to cure? Good God! ‘Comply’! Spare me the gross injustice of that word; More worthless consolation thou couldst not Offer me in twenty lifetimes, Cate. I want not thy compliance; take it back, For it is but a murderous antidote, Which hath dispatched men far less sick than I.

(Catherine, Henry V, Part 2; Act V, scene iv)

ALICE Nay, but hear me, lord—

EXETER My ears are full enough of thy excuses. Extenuate unto some other man, This one is poor in patience, rich in rage.

ALICE Upon my life,—

EXETER What worth is that when England is at stake?

ALICE England is safe, so is thy gracious King.

EXETER Upon what fruitless oath should I believe thee?

ALICE The purest oath of all, soaked up in pride, The oath no woman yet hath ever broke: That of a loving mother.

EXETER Thou hast no child.

ALICE I do, my lord, I do. Catherine’s a child.

EXETER She is a wretched traitor and a spy.

ALICE Speak lower, sir, beseech you! These are words For grimmer times, for pomp and protocol.

EXETER What, dost thou fear we shall be overheard Through yon cacophony of nuptial joy? The wedding banquet rages on; thou hear’st The silver clattering, the wine, the words, The cursèd laughter of my hoodwinked king, And none save you and I can smell the evil Wafting rot-like through all these stones of Troyes.

ALICE Thy King shall know her purpose soon enough. Thou need’st not to displace the merriment.

EXETER And if she doth attempt to claim his life? This very night, the King ascends the chamber Of his new-minted bride, his would-be queen, To consummate that treaty fought for years Between our gnashing kingdoms, which defers His own most lawful claiming of the throne Of France by all the years left in his life Out of respect for thy decrepit King, For such is the true measure of his goodness. Shall I release my monarch to the jaws Of thy pernicious mistress with no word Ringing in his besotted, princely ear Of all the plummy depths of treachery To which she hath beguiled him?

ALICE You do mistake her, sir. She’s not so cruel. Her heart’s desire anchors not on death, But on the life of peace between our nations.

EXETER She hath deceived us all.

ALICE That’s of the past. Now we are come to this, their wedding night, And heaven strike me if I let you speak That which might give your quelling, conquering liege The cause to cause her any undue pain.

EXETER Nay, I will tell him everything.

ALICE Then I will kill you, sir.

EXETER All this for love?

ALICE All this and twice ten-thousand times the more.

EXETER And dost thou think I love my King the less? I am his uncle, yet is he my son; And he is heartsick for thy French princess, He loves her palpably as he resented The French herald which bribed to send him home Upon a coward’s ransom. Madam, tell me, In all thy foolish wisdom, What wouldst thou do, if thou wert in my place?

ALICE Yet tell him with a gentle disposition. Entreat him not to harm that which he dotes on.

EXETER He may not dote for long.

ALICE There is a vasty gulf twixt love and cruelty. If I can keep the bruises from her skin, Blood from her mouth, I shall be satisfied.

EXETER Well, now ‘tis you that are mistaken, madam.

ALICE Pray God I be so. Heaven keep you, sir.

(Henry V, Part 2; Act V, scene iii)

@suits-of-woe @harry-leroy @skeleton-richard @lizbennett2013 @henriadical

#week 7 #gentle herald project #catherine of valois

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she-wolf-of-highgarden · 6 years ago

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Every time Arya mentions songs

“Despite the hour, Harrenhal stirred with fitful life. Vargo Hoat's arrival had thrown off all the routines. Ox carts, oxen, and horses had all vanished from the yard, but the bear cage was still there. It had been hung from the arched span of the bridge that divided the outer and middle wards, suspended on heavy chains, a few feet off the ground. A ring of torches bathed the area in light. Some of the boys from the stables were tossing stones to make the bear roar and grumble. Across the ward, light spilled through the door of the Barracks Hall, accompanied by the clatter of tankards and men calling for more wine. A dozen voices took up a song in a guttural tongue strange to Arya's ears.” - Arya IX, ACoK

“The song came drifting up the river from somewhere beyond the little rise to the east. "Off to Gulltown to see the fair maid, heigh-ho, heigh-ho . . .” - Arya II, ASoS

“I'll make her my love and we'll rest in the shade, heigh-ho, heigh-ho." The song swelled louder with every word.” - Arya II, ASoS

“Lightfoot, she moved to the big old willow that grew beside the bend in the road and went to one knee in the grass and mud, within the veil of trailing branches. You old gods, she prayed as the singer's voice grew louder, you tree gods, hide me, and make him go past. Then a horse whickered, and the song broke off suddenly. He's heard, she knew, but maybe he's alone, or if he's not, maybe they'll be as scared of us as we are of them.” - Arya II, ASoS

“For once he did not argue. They set off as she had wanted, walking their horses slowly down the rutted road a dozen paces behind the three on foot. But before very long, somehow they were riding right on top of them. Tom Sevenstrings walked slowly, and liked to strum his woodharp as he went. "Do you know any songs?" he asked them. "I'd dearly love someone to sing with, that I would. Lem can't carry a tune, and our longbow lad only knows marcher ballads, every one of them a hundred verses long." "We sing real songs in the marches," Anguy said mildly."Singing is stupid," said Arya. "Singing makes noise. We heard you a long way off. We could have killed you. Tom's smile said he did not think so. "There are worse things than dying with a song on your lips.” - Arya II, ASoS

“ Hot Pie shifted his seat. "I know the song about the bear," he said. "Some of it, anyhow.” - Arya II, ASoS

“ Tom and Hot Pie resumed their song on the other side of the brook, with the duck hanging from Lem's belt beneath his yellow cloak. Somehow the singing made the miles seem shorter. It was not very long at all until the inn appeared before them, rising from the riverbank where the Trident made a great bend to the north. Arya squinted at it suspiciously as they neared. It did not look like an outlaws' lair, she had to admit; it looked friendly, even homey, with its whitewashed upper story and slate roof and the smoke curling up lazy from its chimney. Stables and other outbuildings surrounded it, and there was an arbor in back, and apple trees, a small garden. The inn even had its own dock, thrusting out into the river, and . . .” - Arya II, ASoS

“What, with only the boy here? I told you twice, the old woman was up to Lambswold helping that Fern birth her babe. And like as not it was one o' you planted the bastard in the poor girl's belly." He gave Tom a sour look. "You, I'd wager, with that harp o' yours, singing all them sad songs just to get poor Fern out of her smallclothes.""If a song makes a maid want to slip off her clothes and feel the good warm sun kiss her skin, why, is that the singer's fault?" asked Tom. "And 'twas Anguy she fancied, besides. 'Can I touch your bow?' I heard her ask him. 'Ooohh, it feels so smooth and hard. Could I give it a little pull, do you think?” - Arya II, ASoS

“There was laughter all around. Then Tom drew his fingers across the strings of his woodharp and broke into soft song.” - Arya III, ASoS

“You'd know for certain if there was a song," said Tom Sevenstrings. "One good song, and we'd know who Ser Maynard used to be and why he wanted to cross this bridge so bad. Poor old Lychester might be as far famed as the Dragonknight if he'd only had sense enough to keep a singer." - Arya IV, ASoS

“Lem and Gendry played tiles with their hosts that night, while Tom Sevenstrings sang a silly song about Big Belly Ben and the High Septon's goose. Anguy let Arya try his longbow, but no matter how hard she bit her lip she could not draw it. "You need a lighter bow, milady," the freckled bowman said. "If there's seasoned wood at Riverrun, might be I'll make you one." Tom overheard him, and broke off his song. "You're a young fool, Archer. If we go to Riverrun it will only be to collect her ransom, won't be no time for you to sit about making bows. Be thankful if you get out with your hide. Lord Hoster was hanging outlaws before you were shaving. And that son of his . . . a man who hates music can't be trusted, I always say.” - Arya IV, ASoS

“Lem snorted through his broken nose. "Was it you who made a song of it, or some other bloody arse in love with his own voice?" "I only sang it the once," Tom complained. "And who's to say the song was about him? 'Twas a song about a fish.” Arya didn't care what Tom's stupid songs were about. She turned to Harwin. "What did he mean about ransom?” - Arya IV, ASoS

“The wench is dead," the woman hissed. "Only worms may kiss her now." And then to Tom Sevenstrings she said, "I'll have my song or I'll have you gone."So the singer played for her, so soft and sad that Arya only heard snatches of the words, though the tune was half-familiar. Sansa would know it, I bet. Her sister had known all the songs, and she could even play a little, and sing so sweetly. All I could ever do was shout the words.The next morning the little white woman was nowhere to be seen. As they saddled their horses, Arya asked Tom Sevenstrings if the children of the forest still dwelled on High Heart. The singer chuckled. "Saw her, did you?" - Arya IV, ASoS

“The singer laughed. "The sound of me, at least. She always makes me sing the same bloody song, though. Not a bad song, mind you, but I know others just as good." He shook his head. "What matters is, we have the scent now. You'll soon be seeing Thoros and the lightning lord, I'll wager.” - Arya IV, ASoS

“Someone could make a rare fine song of that.” Tom plucked a string on his woodharp.” - Arya IV, ASoS

“Now when did you ever say no to anything, Tom?" the woman hooted. "I'll roast some mutton for your friends, and an old dry rat for you. It's more than you deserve, but if you gargle me a song or three, might be I'll weaken. I always pity the afflicted. Come on, come on. Cass, Lanna, put some kettles on. Jyzene, help me get the clothes off them, we'll need to boil those too." - Arya V, ASoS

“Finally Tom ran out of rain songs and put away his harp. Then there was only the sound of the rain itself beating down on the slate roof of the brewhouse. The dice game ended, and Arya stood on one leg and then the other listening to Merrit complain about his horse throwing a shoe.” - Arya VII, ASoS

“You must be a lackwit, boy," said Lem. "We're outlaws. Lowborn scum, most of us, excepting his lordship. Don't think it'll be like Tom's fool songs neither. You won't be stealing no kisses from a princess, nor riding in no tourneys in stolen armor. You join us, you'll end with your neck in a noose, or your head mounted up above some castle gate.” - Arya VII, ASoS

“Anguy drew an arrow. "We're outlaws. Outlaws steal. It's in the songs, if you ask nice Tom may sing you one. Be thankful we didn't kill you." - Arya VII, ASoS

“My hair comes out in handfuls and no one has kissed me for a thousand years. It is hard to be so old. Well, I will have a song then. A song from Tom o' Sevens, for my news." "You will have your song from Tom," Lord Beric promised. He gave her the wineskin himself.” - Arya VIII, ASoS

“Nay," said the dwarf. "You're not. The black fish holds the rivers now. If it's the mother you want, seek her at the Twins. For there's to be a wedding." She cackled again. "Look in your fires, pink priest, and you will see. Not now, though, not here, you'll see nothing here. This place belongs to the old gods still . . . they linger here as I do, shrunken and feeble but not yet dead. Nor do they love the flames. For the oak recalls the acorn, the acorn dreams the oak, the stump lives in them both. And they remember when the First Men came with fire in their fists." She drank the last of the wine in four long swallows, flung the skin aside, and pointed her stick at Lord Beric. "I'll have my payment now. I'll have the song you promised me And so Lem woke Tom Sevenstrings beneath his furs, and brought him yawning to the fireside with his woodharp in hand. "The same song as before?" he asked."Oh, aye. My Jenny's song. Is there another?"And so he sang, and the dwarf woman closed her eyes and rocked slowly back and forth, murmuring the words and crying. Thoros took Arya firmly by the hand and drew her aside. "Let her savor her song in peace," he said. "It is all she has left.” - Arya VIII, ASoS

“Because I hacked your little friend in two? I've killed a lot more than him, I promise you. You think that makes me some monster. Well, maybe it does, but I saved your sister's life too. The day the mob pulled her off her horse, I cut through them and brought her back to the castle, else she would have gotten what Lollys Stokeworth got. And she sang for me. You didn't know that, did you? Your sister sang me a sweet little song.” - Arya IX, ASoS

“The music from the castles was louder here. The sound of the drums and horns rolled across the camp. The musicians in the nearer castle were playing a different song than the ones in the castle on the far bank, though, so it sounded more like a battle than a song. "They're not very good," Arya observed.” - Arya X, ASoS

“Firepits had been dug outside the feast tents, sheltered beneath rude canopies of woven wood and hides that kept the rain out, so long as it fell straight down. The wind was blowing off the river, though, so the drizzle came in anyway, enough to make the fires hiss and swirl. Serving men were turning joints of meat on spits above the flames. The smells made Arya's mouth water. "Shouldn't we stop?" she asked Sandor Clegane. "There's northmen in the tents." She knew them by their beards, by their faces, by their cloaks of bearskin and sealskin, by their half-heard toasts and the songs they sang; Karstarks and Umbers and men of the mountain clans. "I bet there are Winterfell men too." Her father's men, the Young Wolf's men, the direwolves of Stark.” - Arya X, ASoS

“She had no more time to watch the tents then. With the river overflowing its banks, the dark swirling waters at the end of the drawbridge reached as high as a horse's belly, but the riders splashed through them all the same, spurred on by the music. For once the same song was coming from both castles. I know this song, Arya realized suddenly. Tom o' Sevens had sung it for them, that rainy night the outlaws had sheltered in the brewhouse with the brothers. And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low?” - Arya XI, ASoS

“Come with me." Sandor Clegane reached down a hand. "We have to get away from here, and now." Stranger tossed his head impatiently, his nostrils flaring at the scent of blood. The song was done. There was only one solitary drum, its slow monotonous beats echoing across the river like the pounding of some monstrous heart. The black sky wept, the river grumbled, men cursed and died. Arya had mud in her teeth and her face was wet. Rain. It's only rain. That's all it is. "We're here," she shouted. Her voice sounded thin and scared, a little girl's voice. "Robb's just in the castle, and my mother. The gate's even open." There were no more Freys riding out. I came so far. "We have to go get my mother.” - Arya XI, ASoS

“The Hound no longer watched her as closely as he had. Sometimes he did not seem to care whether she stayed or went, and he no longer bound her up in a cloak at night. One night I'll kill him in his sleep, she told herself, but she never did. One day I'll ride away on Craven, and he won't be able to catch me, she thought, but she never did that either. Where would she go? Winterfell was gone. Her grandfather's brother was at Riverrun, but he didn't know her, no more than she knew him. Maybe Lady Smallwood would take her in at Acorn Hall, but maybe she wouldn't. Besides, Arya wasn't even sure she could find Acorn Hall again. Sometimes she thought she might go back to Sharna's inn, if the floods hadn't washed it away. She could stay with Hot Pie, or maybe Lord Beric would find her there. Anguy would teach her to use a bow, and she could ride with Gendry and be an outlaw, like Wenda the White Fawn in the songs.” -Arya XII, ASoS

“You'd be dead if I had. You ought to thank me. You ought to sing me a pretty little song, the way your sister did.” - Arya XII, ASoS

“I thought your sister was the one with a head full of songs," the Hound growled. "Frey might have kept your mother alive to ransom, that's true. But there's no way in seven hells I'm going to pluck her out of his castle all by my bloody self." - Arya XII, ASoS

“That's stupid, Arya thought. Sansa only knows songs, not spells, and she'd never marry the Imp.” - Arya XIII, ASoS

“Arya took a step backward as the long steel song began. The Tickler came off the bench with a shortsword in one hand and a dagger in the other. Even the chunky brown-haired squire was up, fumbling for his swordhilt. She snatched her wine cup off the table and threw it at his face. Her aim was better than it had been at the Twins. The cup hit him right on his big white pimple and he went down hard on his tail.” - Arya XIII, ASoS

“Don't lie," he growled. "I hate liars. I hate gutless frauds even worse. Go on, do it." When Arya did not move, he said, "I killed your butcher's boy. I cut him near in half, and laughed about it after." He made a queer sound, and it took her a moment to realize he was sobbing. "And the little bird, your pretty sister, I stood there in my white cloak and let them beat her. I took the bloody song, she never gave it. I meant to take her too. I should have. I should have fucked her bloody and ripped her heart out before leaving her for that dwarf." A spasm of pain twisted his face. "Do you mean to make me beg, bitch? Do it! The gift of mercy . . . avenge your little Michael . . .” - Arya XIII, ASoS

“Worshipers came to the House of Black and White every day. Most came alone and sat alone; they lit candles at one altar or another, prayed beside the pool, and sometimes wept. A few drank from the black cup and went to sleep; more did not drink. There were no services, no songs, no paeans of praise to please the god. The temple was never full. From time to time, a worshiper would ask to see a priest, and the kindly man or the waif would take him down into the sanctum, but that did not happen often.” - Arya II, AFfC

“You believe this is the only place for you." It was as if he'd heard her thoughts. "You are wrong in that. You would find softer service in the household of some merchant. Or would you sooner be a courtesan, and have songs sung of your beauty? Speak the word, and we will send you to the Black Pearl or the Daughter of the Dusk. You will sleep on rose petals and wear silken skirts that rustle when you walk, and great lords will beggar themselves for your maiden's blood. Or if it is marriage and children you desire, tell me, and we shall find a husband for you. Some honest apprentice boy, a rich old man, a seafarer, whatever you desire." - Arya II, AFfC

“Cat had made friends along the wharves; porters and mummers, ropemakers and sailmenders, taverners, brewers and bakers and beggars and whores. They bought clams and cockles from her, told her true tales of Braavos and lies about their lives, and laughed at the way she talked when she tried to speak Braavosi. She never let that trouble her. Instead, she showed them all the fig, and told them they were camel cunts, which made them roar with laughter. Gyloro Dothare taught her filthy songs, and his brother Gyleno told her the best places to catch eels. The mummers off the Ship showed her how a hero stands, and taught her speeches from The Song of the Rhoyne, The Conqueror's Two Wives, and The Merchant's Lusty Lady. Quill, the sad-eyed little man who made up all the bawdy farces for the Ship, offered to teach her how a woman kisses, but Tagganaro smacked him with a codfish and put an end to that. Cossomo the Conjurer instructed her in sleight of hand. He could swallow mice and pull them from her ears. "It's magic," he'd say. "It's not," Cat said. "The mouse was up your sleeve the whole time. I could see it moving." - Cat of the Canals, AFfC

“When Cat slipped inside the brothel, though, she found Merry sitting in the common room with her eyes shut, listening to Dareon play his woodharp. Yna was there too, braiding Lanna's fine long golden hair. Another stupid love song. Lanna was always begging the singer to play her stupid love songs. She was the youngest of the whores, only ten-and-four. Merry asked three times as much for her as for any of the other girls, Cat knew.” - Cat of the Canals, AFfC

“Cat was thinking about the fat boy, remembering how she had saved him from Terro and Orbelo, when the Sailor's Wife appeared beside her. "He sings a pretty song," she murmured softly, in the Common Tongue of Westeros. "The gods must have loved him to give him such a voice, and that fair face as well." - Cat of the Canals, AFfC

“Dareon's song was finally ending. As the last notes faded in the air, Lanna gave a sigh and the singer put his harp aside and pulled her up into his lap. He had just started to tickle her when Cat said loudly, "There's oysters, if anyone is wanting some," and Merry's eyes popped open. "Good," the woman said. "Bring them in, child. Yna, fetch some bread and vinegar." - Cat of the Canals, AFfC

“Not for me. Her nights were bathed in moonlight and filled with the songs of her pack, with the taste of red meat torn off the bone, with the warm familiar smells of her grey cousins. Only during the days was she alone and blind.” - the Blind Girl, ADwD

#Arya Stark #quote dump #A Song of Ice and Fire #asoiaf #valyrianscrolls

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