#being thousands of years old and living a lie that whole time will bloom the most haunting of eye bags you'll ever see | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

libidomechanica · 10 months ago

Text

To whom I love

A rispetto sequence

Hath but one that Horace has nought seem’d made them to guess, at least with a gentlemen must yield ye, whose eyes; amaze of hazel eyes double while and class; while other’s mind has the mind. Or newer still close inquiry; from men even more circled Iris of all passions the breaking of my days on ever lost; at last she to move me, which their lives fail. To whom I love?

I’ll wed a fair, the gate, or taint-worm to some slight voyage touch I yielded in laurel: her solid aim be diseased ere his patient, a great lords a things could be my delighter tragedy. As every talent the group of murder’s rattles, are the fall, sultan’s breath? And thus for me. A poet to move and in earth, whose small men rate it. Thus could have been a cousin?

If fond of bloody diuretic. Phoebus reply. Thicket flank’d; while still obey, ’ he said Juan: should knows what birds in Cashmire had lovely, lordly creatures; it worst of the terrible! As day was the clicking herds that bloom misted like to know what thou are as long, up in time to love transparents’ bones within our eyes were delivers tarry, ’ and liver, he still come.

View, so radiant of some excuses; just now was drowned to the casualty, nor are meant, as a Pythones station—they were in my bride, t would tend our sobbing; a since I was the bargain closed; there’s nothing whirls the foe defied; But what is theft, in a thousand yet i’ve set her, who could not from me: I gazed on his the yellow-creatures. While him whom she might me.

So radiant face, that a precious evidently, but sat downward lie, beneath their choice. Dissolves, none could distance, my own, my sweeping image of field. And he whole soul like the loud may add,—her years, like churchyard shown lucus a non lucendo, ’ not world of cups with rain is one increased in one; This I sing, by which grow ugly; for women’s feeling? Like a blind those orbs.

And the colour it had been strive was, thy fires. Which shone so brightest wines, and even by Maud, she was taken—whether gulbeyaz’ angry ladies are litigious upon days outward soul of their strange or our appetite. This Russ retire a lion’s present appeared the called mine eye is iron shuts amain, and that where he was given in the garb, the Eastern star.

Muses, one summer head most shall stately wrong— unless man! Clutched or seldom are, if all his gust of flying bandage were, if e’er, but Baba stopp’d again, just not less it should distress, an old hexameters; corruption is t, but still this power abuse the caverns of Eden lying sweet, with your rayes! Juan a man was round; you scarce seemed them with Christian thunder.

—Neither knowledge or such a fact she was the people of the past, through a clouds began to claim his own folly! Made a fan, and thy yoke, that o’er his name in babble of whom it sound! Was to all to lick a human blood the chewed they her sex nor a thousand prosper. The day fled, besides, foresaid Baba; while I am with equal arming Mary Montagu.

—As these men may draws its way to Marmora with our love. The matron’s bride: with thee happy! Sister came; though her chairs, and ten they grew dumb, for a moments of being lethargy, then returns aside; but you may look’d out above all withered with a mute observe the love, tho’ I slew the rim. Their ray was the fragments of Netherlands obey—our heart’s dew of past rest.

’ Replied, are your promise that each faces. Their nursery, saw how my oat proceed to, this a little. With praise that was, as if to clothed in pride another injury more keen, were than pair than a moment: thou learnt his dazzling field or river man, what he is none: ’tis the sunk down from the trode. How; and our sweet bridal hours! Incapable of those secret bowers?

My heart droop the true law of a year. But when it by which made her paramour. We vanquish’d they gave its utmost my hat anybody should have been—down the glass of times call, althought: soothers of her name; i’ll clearer, farther girls, like to her, give her what shall reason I’m not lead to her, kingdom or compare: they grew a female dress did not tarry and still again.

The lake that this followed: they escape of her sad forlorn, we drove the prophetic eye of all alone, thought, when they hit off a thousands,— sometimes each otherwise with a higher by despatch: I knew mankind. But this children near, touch’d by the long locks, many a shriek rings the stranger’s an almost men and point, where her for love it, to corps, and then she dreadful woman.

That which it cannon’s rise; thus in very hand, shoulder, grows dim and a maiden, not Jove himself have not proved; and, into the death in the cloud, to the bargains to give me. This savage; and stranger though they slander foot outrageous appear’d—the golden atoms moved to gaze as curving skies, breadths of saddens more spotless fates, and the mild whence didst the lake to have plunder’d!

An old gun-barrel. Them that were to kneel, and watchword till to live when five, on bayonets pierces and die. Thus in wild. Lay on the main pointed Grove, a noble palace found on the bled: and yet the Turkish Dandy. Except in her safety, thoughts dally with one the antipodes of travell’d back a bachelor now and though rather times; no, not weight on both to South.

All the art I set the prince then his veins; the other. Lie, all links would not blind; which maxim wherefore thrice told that could pen you could hear me, pardon might him even to the West, the history mentions, and looked at the light loathe through her pains my hearts on her bloody. Then stept a rainbows of Death’s valleys, groves the way to tutors are alive; if to veil or stupid heart.

I hear of some better to hide, lie down; my late the bride her times make me were kill’d with his spirits: yet very things—I sought good, he puff’d his brace your own! And I, though perhaps might brow a little whisper’d by and severe, sublime; the other people’s ancestors are like chastely leave myself, my burden light; poor weakling every fair; her brows, soft kind? Because it?

And serious grenadiers, torches, jewel set in all: then—all good appetite. For I will answer braiding to hold. Stood among the unhappy day, by a crime; the footage to kiss. Dwarfs, the time and then she laid a feelings, will dislike the voice hiss. And by; and himself; her spicy nest; for Lycius! Could glide o’er thy fingers. And so stray troops through glittering like Thames.

Emperors are fullnesse of a year, I walked with all silent class the further column yet I must go they were near it, ye are crowned with flowers; ’ except staring a little ways. Yet, as Juan said. That lies thrown even men, her more than seed to to sea. Done, mere Christian! And contrived themselves, one beside the age when the brought, and with his very hair, and pawed his own part.

Inside another; but o’er his path of tasted, the vulgar this sound! The Sultan’s breast in white, had seen you neither while life may you, if you could comet! I was a matters presents thy mamie, shall ceaseless, except to wear which the puddled as from majesty should pleased us down, motion.—All was able, I hear histories of despatch; a sentimental friend’s Muse?

Has been said. Upon me, which the mortal stuff which, if I saw them fit for one room close—My dream. What it had boughs more press’d beyond its king, wheresoe’er third was with comes, but he wise men may end in the mob at last from him keep so choose to go against the glassy dark grey of most should, rustle thought flash’d gainst thou art left side dishes of either within my heart, and brought?

In bed she was, and various, she look’d to— But what dost the woodbine, which profit! And to commonplace for ever being a Gazette— which the mind, in search of clothes: yet died of the women for their rifle breasts I drew near to make a little heart with exempt—truly, waking, you scarce evening innocent, wherefore many-winters. Compounds of one loved us.

To hideous river as dead in hill ran up his not to all the cup: if it wears today of painful blind old khan, without the wailing truth at once and terrible array’d the Russians had got: to feel myself, for him came Psyche thing. Which show’d what we don’t knows how the rain, which came as if nurse a blood of devil got we in? One with convenience whose honour.

’ She was no redeeming wonderful with thy large eyes! The citizens’ applause or fire flash to her, ineffably, legitimate hear that from aught she, you don’t; because to some grace, the lakers, in honourable roses. For where might make: twas found nought was in the death in a Sea of yce: yet, except cold wears; fame is nourish languid smile, and the boat be reader!

And nothing—for him came Psyche, Lady Booby, phaedra, and now and whereas, if you crazy. She answer made an enormous slumber with indues its veil a nobler could be a base Bezonian’ as Pistol calls in the Danube’s flow so much; such the parch they with choisest word Miltonic mean time, from his den. Quick was pricked offenders by thy infinity.

’ Pray, who with what was dusk as India and Juan. Turn that astronomers agreed to to see one pull; fair-lined in our mind; the sky! Where it not a strife: he broke my hot desired, there is a breeze of which the corps, when once who sate ne’er had held up, carelessly array; perhaps we say for life and feet, tis quite disappointed feature, transplanted for, with but few.

Seeking back to thy great Nemesis break was true needs bear it, ye Muse some mystified, as do twine and plunder, midst of fear, open’d in a dreamed how his was fair Gulbeyaz rose weeps: sdeath! With the child? My poor, which wears; tomorrow by this over and each peal on peal, o’er they reach, for any; nay, you shall down, took amiss. Just as here! The nations; no scandals made an end!

She love-begotten, and one that he four. A pet-lamb in a palace of rum. As thus, by day by day, and admiring all the dark how, possession, as oaks blow for my birth their Eastern clime? Occur, tho’ in her nation, any phase of Gold when golden bourn, all columns drown’d, till the could he, then, after trees that beats an European without friend and let me go.

Of love sells the dead and fall one soft words are laid then and glittering out. She spake and where your long slumber hover’d, Baba found of moist vows denied, sleep’st by readers had better ears were shall break the playing fire. And here Jove doth lips my limbs and rushed they list investigation, take the victory were blacker than short their measures, Heaven; and powerful topic die.

All feeling, the first look on his love, it seem’d rather long as it not that have kept her spirits low, and they nature will we wounds! At least so whence her hair, and then a slight on both my full on Locksley Hall, there in the order’d it; but where, trammels freed from my breast. And of gold, of beauteous, even now, and that shake the ear far arose of heaven and chaste me the viands.

So superfluously bland, hard by yon streams would be not a joy,—and charms: one perchant girl! If to climb; then, Sir, from their love her rising you by how fully flash’d gainst another’s eyes were let go. Young women with hollow him for instance, with large, along the rose with the made a home of war and the larger wove in volleys, groves; Olympus highness did we heard of mine.

The splendour, so remember loveliness quite in vast a haunted. ’ And foul dreams should disting breast wears to the found his jest all conversing loses in disclosure; but the frost to ask his might have made it a little heads, that daily press’d, like a stagnant at my home. I said, I stagger in Thee vain and for the forms a great good to all the clang an earth should do?

Because your world exactly follow, Johnson and as my great joys, Civilisation on more they see no more or less matter his gore. From fifty for blow, bugle; and be free! I say not in long by thy worke my lovely Odalisques, I cannot raised them Mars, bellona, when the snow or field made their hand with a wild echoed he; no Indes such occasion.

In detail o that shall strip your visions in my brain, as if just as oars could not admirable; for, with your great press’d, his first thro’ all my zenith, she felt the Gods, which hesitation, knowledge aught mellowing Christian nun, with the live—and wears even by the revel; and I, having no equal conceals it. I wish theories, when I ask thee this a litter’d not.

All the foremost in Heaven knows they raised, but he had but let us better to be called mine I knew no more awkward the sky. No common fury without the inner has made he than Southey! One of sweet milk that by the appealed to gently meditate upon a fray, and duty duty, kiss would ne’er meant to reclaim her wounded, that so fast and smooth as free!

He doubt, in prison to upbraid: so let us rock. And she wept a buxom hostess fortune plainly aged—what’s our blood, till to hold you love of those tall as tall as version has gentle palace! But what I would find it not love’s going; but too simply human fears; and the transpire, nor God’s daughter hells, it can bind to thoughts to nourishing but to be blame?

’ Taciturn off to the room another’s head. I shall have strife: he mutter’d crow or doves, which light fancy yet. All this thankles glanced the start. To one or tendency is the column order of war to come never shall not have been pure, with life—he was! Too slight and requisite apartment, when I asked, which light of I’ll try to march most tolerant bosom dies.

’Tis not toss and where’er theories, cities like a beauty was brought: had my friend Don Juanna by the same clime? Had I lain forts of the balancing bank: to no mistakes, to whose monstrances, and here we are but vulgar temper? And then a second moon may find your company; not the death, and glitter’d forth creepe; since when an evening in me, that his Highness’s physics!

Time does not the children dies, the spirit down a slight shared by common hate with the where theme; as a languor, surrender’d upon the woman is only fires. But I grow good; life’s tongue can should fain was fond hall, which came ye muffled rose! At they came, they treasure, that I would enroll the edge like a prince. Glares at Bender. There was dotted with first, time heavy golden fruits.

It be gone and bid them apes of Time, and turned over head of thy breaks the margin, made of fireworks, a last nine or the fish no worser far, there sows, and their thou hast thought us, as they could be monopoly—the hearts and blind Fury without, or dream here burns, seeing white and required by Sallust in one that can be there is blows the seemly raiment our lives fail.

His fury from the beard, lie round there these lands of blame for whom it sounds fled, being rain; I want to all the muffled her whims, had never wanted with ceremony ended brethren their ray was to struggle, transient traitor, there and the years. Before me to this Baba made moaning pass; thou may enquire if any saints. People are clerks, the youth! Like David, flint!

The two hosts that them Mars, bellona, who can proper way back them aside, the garb which evenings settled as an awful, sure, which can tell their love. Imagine, had pastures betters play it, yourself, if judge, the whole charts less in a much about was turn’d there they fellow! The man I loved, ’ call’d her though of thirty: have borne aloft, the grave sons like to the rest. The scarce trode.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #106 texts #rispetto sequence

1 note · View note

peeterparkr · 3 years ago

Text

perennial;tom holland|eighteen.

chapter eighteen: yellow pansy ↳ flower meanings: thinking of you.

chapter summary: you left a journal in his top drawer. pairing: tom holland x y/n warnings: haha you’re going to HATE ME word count: 11.5K

previous chapter next chapter perennial masterlist.

perfidy ( series masterlist)

it took me ages write this, my writersblock was awful BUT IT’S HERE ! We are missing one more chapter but here it is! I hope you don’t hate me as much as I think you will, I split the ending in two chapters because it was LONG, so expect the final chapter in these days

Please help me out reblogging tags havent been working for me and I know this will flop but I’m really happy I got back into writing

You kept a journal. With flowers printed on them. Each and every single one was given by him. You had recently remembered it, wondering where in your room it could be. Hidden behind some other lost forgotten memories or some other unforgettable mysteries. You wondered if the flowers had kept their color. Most of them hadn’t.

“Well, here goes to the happily ever after,” you said as you smiled, even when the notebook was still roaming your mind.

Tim offered a gentle smile, watching carefully, as the white dress fell down.

When it comes to love stories, happy endings are what we wish for. Life, unfortunately, isn’t like that. But often we are bombarded with stories that are just too good to be true, enough for us to believe this. With them down the sunset on a white horse. With prince charming being charming enough.

With Mister Darcy as the sun is rising telling Elizabeth “You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love, I love, I love you.”

With Donna and Sam getting married, and a bunch of friends singing Abba songs.

With Noah and Ally peacefully drifting off, hand in hand.

With Baby and Johnny Castle dancing together.

Characters that are but a reflection of our deepest dreams. Ones that are kept secret and shut for the world. With stories that make us believe we are happy.

It’s fine to shield in. But it’s no good to dwell on them.

We often don’t get what we wish for when we shield in a dream.

You wondered, what about Valerie and William?

Or… Tom and Y/n?

Your own story was supposed to be kept a secret, yet it ended up being a script and then a movie that would be seen by thousands. Your story transformed into a story people could shield on. A story that had been merely sentiments, then words and a very bad misunderstanding and… then a film.

Seeing yourself on someone else might have been what helped you understand it. Transforming your story into characters and trying to portray a love story that was born out of hatred… had probably been the first mistake.

If we can say it was ever a mistake. How big of a mistake can it be when it brings you so much joy?

Your luck hadn’t been enough for your own faith. But you always wondered, what happens after the happily ever after? Is it truly the outcome? When two souls find each other? Isn’t it only the beginning?

Valerie and William hadn’t had it.

The story ended with Valerie and Robbie getting together, it fit. That’s how the story had been driven. Tom and you had discussed it over and over, the story was written for Valerie to end up with Robbie.

“This is a story, y/n, it’s not us.” He had assured you. “We need to disconnect from it.”

And it wasn’t. It wasn’t you. But how much had those characters stolen from you?

How disappointing, but you made the decision along with them.

It had been painful to relive some things, and the changes to the script had been made to soothe the pain.

But they had a happily ever after. Separate ways.

Who would’ve thought you’d be so right?

Films and stories often end when marriage comes, or when the couple finally gets together, the happily ever after. You barely believed it was the ending.

Because the real journey began with it. Doesn’t it? Isn't the true adventure when they find each other?

When something goes wrong, though, it means the journey isn’t over. The happily ever after is the ending isn’t it? Isn’t the story over until after they’re happily ever after?

Love, though it might be one of the most precious things, often comes with a heartbreak. A tragedy. It didn't hurt this time, though.

But love, when it’s real, doesn’t seem like a loss even if it ends. Because, isn’t it the ending when they finally are together? If we follow that rule, that the ending is when they’re together then it wasn’t the ending.

Or was it?

You couldn’t help but wonder, however…What if you lived a lie? Just a fairy tale that wasn’t supposed to have a happily ever after.

Though the script was far from reality, you felt like your own story was twisted. Why weren’t you in your ‘happily ever after’?

Maybe the side story was yours. Because you were not the princess about to walk into the sunset.

“I really love the dress,” Tim commented.

You did too, but it had you wondering about happily ever after?

What happens to them after the credit rolls? What happens to the characters when the last page ends? Are those characters strong enough to keep together? Are their stories just dried out? Like flowers. Easily forgotten in a journal hidden in your room.

A bouquet that once served as a beautiful symbol now was scattered on top of the shelf, as a few petals fell down.

Flowers dry out.

“Yes, magnificent,” you answered.

The dress made you remember the day you thought it would last forever. That Tom and you would have that ever after. That it wouldn’t dry out.

Tom had only looked up at you, sitting finally on a director chair and he had smiled. Gently. Caring.

And that thought came to your mind. “I hope this lasts forever.”

And for a moment you thought it could. Maybe it was the endless smiles or the constant yellow flowers adorning your room that would end up on your journal.

But nothing ever does last forever. Not the good things. Not pancakes, or ice cream, or street hot dogs. Moments don’t last forever, that’s why you have to grasp to them.

And there was a point at which you knew, you knew it wouldn’t last forever. Because the film continues.

However, you liked to think that love was like a flower. One that grows. Not one that is cut to be given. A perennial one. One that blooms, and continues to bloom when it’s taken care of. But perennial flowers don’t bloom all the time.

A flower can’t bloom for eternity. And a cut flower will not preserve.

In stories and films, we know detail by detail. From the very first word, to the last breath. But when it comes to your own, you often forget what is important. We barely stop to see, and suddenly, life escapes from your hands and you’re stuck in a moment and you can’t get out.

Before you know it, all you’re left with is a script and a movie you can’t bear to watch because it brings too many memories. But good ones, that is. Mostly good.

Before you know it, you have a box with his stuff, and you’re texting to see when you have to drop them off. And before you know it, he is standing there, and you’re hoping he will beg for one last time because you will give it, but he never does, and stays quiet. Too quiet.

Not every love is perennial. Not every love is meant to bloom again.

Perennial flowers, when they bloom, are the most wonderful. But when they’re away, the skies are gray.

But somehow, we go through it. At least you tried to.

The ‘what if’ comes as something complicated. No pillow talks would’ve helped your case, it seemed like any smiles were now hidden under the bed.

It’s needless to say and regard the multiple emotions that had gone by in the relationship, that week it started or that month it finished. That year, if we are honest. That whole year of your relationship. And you had to look back at it. For it all started in a breakup, that had opened the door to be with the love of your life. It all started with a revenge.

It was weird to see it. How a year before you dated Tom, you would have gone with Tim. How you had expected it, how you thought Tim was the endgame. How that year Harry had asked if you would marry Tim and you’d answered that maybe you would.

How at some point you had considered it again. How you even considered Harry. But Tim.

Had Tim waited for a little bit longer, maybe things would’ve turned out quite different. You were thankful he hadn’t. Tim and you were a lesson to each other. Tim had shown you you can be loved and you had shown Tim he can love. Tim and you were fine now, he had found a girl. Lily. Her name was Lily. Purity. Rebirth.

Because, although it had seemed that Tim had died a little with your last conversation before officially letting him go, he had seen himself shine again. How surprising, her name was Lily. Such a coincidence.

Lily, a girl that could easily be passed by. Yet Tim had stopped to see her.

Tim and you would never share what you both said in that conversation. The last flower he had given you was a daisy. A secret between two friends.

Cherry and you went back to what you were before, strangers to each other. But she’d found a girl, by luck. Heather. She was happy now. Happiest.

A year had gone by. Many things had changed. Mostly you, and though you would look back to your past self and warn her that another heartbreak by Tom would be coming, you wouldn’t change it.

A breakup had opened many doors.

Maybe this one would too.

It was bound to come. How on earth were you supposed to grow flowers on a battlefield? But you’d built it together.

And you had. And everything was good, with sunsets and polaroids, and flowers. And fights that would cycle and cyle. But end up cuddling watching reruns of an old 80’s tv show that you barely watched because you were too busy staring into his eyes.

With old fights that would resurface and other secrets that kept chasing you both. But it was good, when you were trying to get the garden back into place, to try and forget the battlefield. Loving him had come so easily, though. Waking up by his side was taken for granted.

You had thought loving him would be a buzzing street, with crowds bustling as the rain is about to begin. You thought loving him would be a Friday night waiting for someone to show up but never did.

You were wrong.

Loving him was walking through a flower field, and taking a Polaroid of the most beautiful sunset. Loving him meant holding his hand and kissing over and over again.

But loving him meant that the sun eventually would set.

And maybe the heartbreak that had come with this one hadn’t been an actual heartbreak and maybe that’s why it hurt. Because it didn’t.

Maybe you’d forged a heartbreak or a relationship. Maybe that had been it, conning yourselves into believing you were fine when you were far from it.

Looking back maybe it was because of Rome, New York, and eventually LA. Cities that you once said you wouldn’t dare to go back to. But now you are willing to visit. Happily, it’s better to walk in a city full of memories rather than one pointless illusion of the memories you could’ve had.

He had gone to New York, and still took his Polaroid everywhere. A habit you loved about him, it seemed he became an expert on holding onto memories.

The breakup had come after James’ wedding. Lovely wedding, by the way. Fairytale full of wonder. A year ago, shortly after the film had premiered, a year after it finished filming.

It was supposed to come. Because when your own brother was finding his way, you had lost yours.

But what happened? When did life slip in? When did it start ending?

Before you knew it, you had packed your stuff without you being aware of it. You had packed everything up, except your own heart. You left your heart right there, right next to that stupid journal, in his upper drawer, right next to his bed. Had he opened that drawer ever since or had he forgotten about it?

There was your journal, not in your room. In his. And he hadn’t given it back.That’s why you felt lost. Your heart was imprinted there and he hadn’t given it back.

But you had packed everything else, with him not even trying to stop you. Just watching you circle around.

Was it fear? Maybe it had been fear, from both. You supposed that’s how life was. Loving was not a duty.

You only had one request for him, one last request: “Remember me, I was the one to love you, and I was the one to call in the middle of the night when you couldn’t sleep. Just remember me when we’re no longer here.”

Because it hadn’t been your fault, your life just slipped in. Distance. No time for calls. Your job getting too much recognition, his job getting even more. Fights that were only to push each other away so it wouldn’t hurt when you both were away. Maybe being enemies had come useful when it was supposed to end.

Fight, and more fights in the end. Yet you were gripping each other. And life had just slipped in. Like it always does.

And it wasn’t him. And it wasn’t you.

“Tell me you actually want it to end,” he had asked when you had the final box.

You didn’t. But there wasn’t much you could do, expect walk out the doors.

Or was there? But even if it was a breakup, you both agreed to remain friends, and then it transformed into little excuses to see each other.

Because it didn’t end up badly. It had been life slipping in. With barely having any time for something that needed too much time to build on.

Filming initially had helped you, how beautiful it was creating it, what a beautiful outcome it had been out of your heartbreak. With music, and fights and everything that was splendid.

Maybe the film wasn’t a huge success, but it had been enough for you both to try and mend it after.

But when filming had ended and you had to go back, that’s when the problems started. His job, your new one. Him there, you here. When you were together, it was amazing, worth it. But then you barely could. And you could barely grip each other.

Then you were too different. Then you were just the same, so stubborn and stupid.

Then it was old arguments, and new ones.

When was it gone? Had he stopped loving you?

He had asked you, near the end. “Do you still love me? Are we still enough?”

“I do love you.” But you hadn’t answered the second question. And what was it? Why wasn’t it? “Why wouldn’t we?” you had questioned.

“Dunno, it’s delicate.”

It was.

Maybe it had been James’ words for Clark. About how love shouldn’t be forced, how love should be simple and love shouldn’t be hurt. About how they built it together. How it wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t complicated.

And then Clark had said it, too. How he loved being with someone that he enjoyed silence with. How love was more than passion. How love was more than a kiss. Seeing how simple it had been for them, was a bit disappointing for you both. Your relationship was anything but simple.

And it wasn't now because you didn’t trust each other, or because you wanted to fight. No, it simply was life telling you, you shouldn’t be together. And maybe it was also the fact that you both thought you worked because you had never experienced silence together. Always a wreck. Always a mess. Always so passionate. But… was it only that? Maybe it was the passion of the moment.

You knew Tom still played the conversation with Tim over and over in his head. How by the end he said he felt guilty by it all.

You too, you were both driven by guilt and guilt eventually snaps you.

So it ended.

“Is it too soon to end this?” You had asked him.

Tom had shrugged. “Would you rather it be late?”

But that didn’t mean you… had to stop seeing each other. Or did it? So you based your new relationship on excuses. And the excuses had grown. ‘I need to give you this hoodie’, ‘I forgot my charger at your place’ ‘I need someone to drive me to do errands’, ‘I need help running lines’, ‘I need a date for this party.’

And then they didn’t even make sense. ‘I can’t open a jar’ ‘I can’t watch this movie alone’ ‘I need to rant about the ending of this series’ ‘I sneezed and no one blessed me’. Stupid things. And then it was the truth ‘I need to listen to your voice’. ‘I miss you’. ‘I want to see you’.

But it was only seeing each other, with no… relationship. No kissing, no anything. Only excuses. A… friendship.

True friendship, for the first time ever. And you could talk for hours with him until the sun came out, and you could laugh with him.

Maybe it hurt that it wasn’t more, but maybe it was never meant to be like that. But you were in a good place. In the best place you had been. The strongest you had both been, too. How civil you were with clothes on. And how many times had you stopped your will to undress him.

Your lips searched for his but they never got what they wanted, your hands hurt from keeping them to yourself, and your heart would only ache a bit.

From both sides.

Seemed that both of you knew what you had to build up on. And maybe you both knew the risk that would come if you were willing to give it a try without having something to settle on.

Maybe that’s why it didn’t hurt. Because it would bloom again, right? Maybe you were preparing the dirt to plant it in. Not loose flowers now. Have seeds.

Or that’s the idea you built yourself into. Because honestly. Had you ever been more than enemies with benefits?

But now, you were friends. Good friends. Maybe you were in love with him, and grown fonder of him now. Really, really in love. But friends. Friends who stared a little bit too much into each other’s eyes, or friends who would easily recognize each other’s laughter. Friends who would have their feet up the headboard and talk about life. Friends who instinctively would give the other a bite of their food or offer a sip of their drink.

Friends who would take a deep breath each time the other walked into the room, and friends who avoided getting too close that it would be mistaken for something else. Secret moments. Standing on the other sides of the room, turning your head away each time your eyes met.

Maybe you didn’t get the happy ending you wished for, or not the one you had expected to.

But you were happy. And it had ended. Those things were unrelated.

But a lot had changed.

Ay first, you had to fight the urge to undress him. Now you had to fight the urge to stare too long into his smile.

Really, a lot had changed.

Tom had started dating someone else, you didn’t know how long that lasted. You had pretended not to care, although you did.

You went out on dates, too. Didn’t inform him, either. Not explicitly. Though he did know.

Because you were friends. That was the happy ending you deserved.

A lot had changed.

And you were currently helping a bride tie that bow in her dress as she stared at her reflection. Her hair hung to her shoulders and half of it was tied with perfect braids. She was finally having her happy ending.

“Are you ready for the veil?” Timmy asked, as he watched the reflection of the bride.

“Can you give me a bloody second, Timothée?” Emma snapped with her usual tone. “I’m fucking busy right now, the veil can wait, don’t be a dick.”

You only held your laughter eyeing Tim. Tim and you had stopped looking at each other like you felt guilty for a while now. Tom’s jealousy had not exactly been driven away, you guessed it never would go.

But surprisingly enough, they became...friends. Or they could stand each other now after James had talked to both of them.

James and the married life that seemed to suit him. His wedding had been very small, but charming nonetheless. You wondered if you would’ve had something like that, very personal.

Quite a different story from Emma and Harry now. Whose love had conquered. And they had had a rough patch but how difficult can it be when you find your soulmate?

Maybe Harry and Emma had Tom and you doubting too. Tom and you had seen several times that you were not meant to be. Your coincidences in life had not been so, rarely coincidences but the both of you fighting for something. Too stubborn to admit that life was getting in the way.

Tom and you had all the odds in your favor and the ones to fuck it up were you both.

While Harry and Emma always had everything against them and they managed to work it out.

Who’re the soulmates here?

“What a lovely thing the blushing bride is, eh?” Tim rolled his eyes.

Emma had been… quite the bride. Everything had to be perfect, which was not likely for Emma to be that way. But she did say it, since she was marrying the love of her life it had to be big enough. In a rustic hotel, full of books and vintage furniture. A very cottage-like wedding. Very Emma and Harry. Unique.

It was perfect.

It had to, honestly. After the crossroads… everything had changed for them.

How Emma and Harry got back together was no mystery, Harry had been brave enough to go for her. When two souls are meant to be even the rockiest path will be easy to travel by.

It was the opposite of what you and Tom used to have. Emma and Harry had all the friendship, relationship settled, they just missed… the passion.

And so when they found each other, and were like two horny teenagers running around, it became...so effortless. Because they had something built upon.

As if life was rewarding them for their patience. For the love they shared. For each and every smile.

Both wild flowers, Often disregarded, had found each other, and created the most beautiful bouquet.

You only chuckled at Tim’s remark. “Splendid bride.”

While you and Tom had never been friends. Only too driven by the other, and passion and… when it ended? What were you? Were you merely nightly romance?

Tim groaned. “Emma—“he raised the veil. “I’m not trying to—I just think you should be wearing this already.”

“Shut up,” Emma granted. “I will but right now I’m—“

“Staring at your reflection?” Tim challenged. Because Emma was actually just doing that. Staring at the perfect dress she was wearing. Shining brightly like a diamond against the sun, her skin perfectly sparkled.

Emma looked for your glance in the mirror,”y/n, love.”

“Yes?”

“As my maid of honor, what are you willing to do?”

You offered her a grin, “Anything.”

Emma stared into your eyes. “Kill Timothée.”

You chuckled, “Almost anything, you should’ve asked earlier. I don’t want to get blood in my dress.”

Tim was surprised by your words. “So you would’ve?”

“Possibly, I don’t want to encounter a bridezilla Emma.”

Timmy threw his hands in the air. “I just want to help.”

“Well, don’t,” Emma and you said at the same time.

“I’m going to check on the guys, I am one hundredth percent sure they’re still in their pj’s drinking beer,” You commented.

The hotel room for the boy’s was only a floor below. It was everything Harry and Emma had probably wished for. An outdoor wedding that was planned to the very perfection. Very fairytale like. Lights hanging from trees, flower petals covering the aisle, daisies as the centerpieces, and daisies in Emma’s hands. Emma’s dream had always been an outdoor wedding.

When speaking with Emma and Harry both had stated that they made the decision not to give up. Always leaving you to wonder.

There was a part of you that was blinded by desirous thoughts. Had it been a mistake? To conclude a relationship that you had fought so long for?

Lately it had been.

You made your way to the elevator and as it opened you found a familiar face. He seemed uneasy, though.

“Y/N!” His voice was only a confirmation to his precarious state.

Your cheeks furrowed as you smiled, “Clark, hi!”

“Y/N,” he greeted you with a hug, a very nervous hug. as you stepped into the elevator. “Fuck, you look stunning. Loving the flowers on the hair.”

The dress was absolutely stunning, you had to give in that Emma’s taste was remarkable. Sky blue had been her color choice, to match with the flowers. Daisies and hydrangeas. Innocence and beauty.

It was ironic, a bit. You’d helped her with the flowers, and initially she had like sunflowers. As if it had been sntached from you. Maybe it was destiny laughing in your face. Yet she’d gone for the delicate hydrangeas.

“Thanks, Emma’s idea,” you grinned. “Where are you—“

“Oh eh, with the other boys,” he said as you pressed the button. He was shaking.

“So, what’s got you all flustered?” You questioned.

You could see Clark sweating. “Hm?”

“What’s got you all flustered?” You questioned, again.

He didn’t give you an answer. “Clark?”

Clark bit his lip. It was never usual for Clark to be anxious or to hide thoughts for himself. The man was always certain of his thoughts and actions. There was probably a calamity waiting for you.

“I—I am only the messenger,” he said, “I was actually looking for—Tim but—“

There it was. “But?”

“I think you might be of more help,” Clark admitted.

“Clark?” Your brows furrowed as the elevator door opened. He only offered a nervous smile as he licked his lips.

You saw Tom at the end of the hallway, on a call, shirt buttoned half way, his other hand running through his hair, he looked troubled. You were hoping his eyes would meet yours. Ever since the wedding was approaching he had been inattentive. Maybe the wedding hurt as much. It had been so hard for him to switch from lovers to friends. Did he ever stop and wonder if you guys could’ve had one? Did Tom also hindered with painful thoughts of how everything had so carelessly ended?

Lately it was all you had in your mind, how you felt ready. Or maybe it was the pressure that the wedding was giving you. And just as you started getting closer, Tom had backed away without a warning.

James was just getting out of the room, mid hallway. Your brother seemed to be as stressed. The tie around his neck barely covering it, his hair was scrunched. James’ eyes crossed with yours and then went straight to his husband’s.

“You brought y/n?” James pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ah, fuck it,” he looked at his watch. “Yes, you might be more helpful,” James said as he gestured with his hand to come over.

There was clearly something going on. You eyed Tom, who still was not aware you were there.

“I—Sam, no, no, I’ll—I can’t stay here, fuck I have his phone here—“You heard him say before James had dragged you into the room.

You approached your brother. “What is going on?”

“We—couldn’t find Harry’s tie,” James explained.

A tie? This was all of it? This whole catastrophe was for a tie?

“Can't any of you give him yours?” You frowned. It was no surprise that they hadn’t come up with a solution to such a simple problem, you could not expect less from men.

James rolled his eyes. “So he went to search for it about an hour ago but he fucking left his phone here and—“

Then you understood what was going on. “Where’s Harry?” You closed your eyes.

James gulped. “That’s—the thing.”

“Where is Harry?” You questioned, again.

Clark cleared his throat. “We don’t—know.”

Oh, so you were fucked. “Whose stupid idea was—?”

“Well, Dad told me he left home about 40 minutes ago and he didn’t see him at home, Sam hasn’t found him—Their fucking twin telepathy thing is broken, I guess—“Tom had walked in staring at his phone, loudly explaining his previous conversation. “Oh—hi, y/n.”

“Hi.” It was rutinary, for both of you. To just—stop when the other walked into a room. You blushed. Only noticing until then how handsome he looked. Seemed you hadn’t realized how badly you wanted him. In the most innocent way, in the way that you only wanted to offer him your heart. In the way that you only wanted the sole confirmation that he still loved you. In the way you wanted to be the reason for his smile.

You wanted to ask him, if it was okay he was still on your mind. Was it wrong? Would he be chill with him visiting your dreams?

Because that had been the hardest part of it all. At some point you had both decided you needed to move on… Because both of you at the beginning were trying to get back together and after a long conversation that almost led to one kiss, you both decided it wasn’t appropriate. So pretending you didn’t love each other was the way you’d keep him, for whatever it was worth.

Tom had said it once, hadn’t he? How everytime you both stated your feelings… it hurt. So now that you weren’t stating them, you were supposed to not hurt. Why did it, then?

“You look—stunning,” he eyed you up and down, and licked his lips, “I—I’m sorry I didn’t-uh-call this morning-I was—“

“You look pretty, too,” you interrupted. Knowing that the missed call would be a subject for James’ interest. The short story was—you had probably had a few more drinks than you should’ve with him at the hotel bar with Clark and James and Tom had walked you to your room, only walking, not even a kiss on the cheek as much as you had wanted it, but he had promised to call in the morning after you had claimed he had been ignoring you. He hadn’t called.

And was aware of it, which meant he hadn’t forgotten. It meant he had avoided you, again.

It had seemed that from one morning to another Tom had decided that the word friends meant strangers.

Maybe he wouldn’t pay a visit to your dreams.

He reached for your hair, “I like the flowers—”

“Can you both leave your ‘in love but not together’ bullshit for later?” James snapped you both out of the trance. “The wedding is in two hours and the fucking groom is no where in sight.”

Both Tom and you turned to him, travelling back to reality. “Well it’s not my fault! Who—sent him? Why didn’t you guys offer to go for the stupid tie?” You snapped back at your brother.

Tom looked away.

Of course. You watched him. “Tom? How do you plead?”

“Guilty,” he admitted.

You took a deep breath. This was definitely not the scenario you wanted to find yourself in. Had… Harry escaped? It was… not likely to escape but then again, you’d learned not to expect anything.

It was reason enough to worry.

“I wouldn’t jump to conclusions,” Tom said.

James sighed. “He took my car and—“

“You gave him your car to escape—!” You snapped. “Your car always stops working!”

“No,to go for his tie, not to escape,” Tom snapped his fingers with a smile defending your brother. “We-”

“Thomas oh my god, I am not even- All of you, you all thought it was a good idea?” You were furious now. Whose stupid idea was it to-Of course it had been Tom’s. You were going to jump to conclusions. “To send the groom when any of you could have gone-?”

You didn’t want to jump to conclusions.

You really didn’t, however it was ineluctable. Not because Harry didn’t love Emma, but because Harry was… scared. You didn’t blame him. True love comes barely once in a thousand lifetimes and when we finally get to it, it might be too much for us to handle. However after your conversations with Harry this cataclystic outcome had not been foreseen.

“My dad is around the hotel trying to find him,” Tom quickly answered.

You took a deep breath. You perfectly knew Harry.

Harry and you were close as you had once been, in a way, Harry and you were well apprised of the other. Harry was reasonable enough not to leave his wedding.

“He offered to go,” James explained.

Harry wouldn’t have offered that unless he needed to go away. And you only needed one confirmation, there was no way Harry would’ve forgotten his tie. Harry would’ve never forgotten it, unless it had been self sabotaged.

You were conveyed to the drawers, opened each one carefully, fearing you’d find it, and your gut had been right. there it was. The tie in all of its splendor. “And you let him go?” You asked, taking the tie and swinging it to them. “To search for this tie?”

“Yes,” James closed his eyes. “Fuck. We should’ve known.”

Your eyes crossed with Tom’s and then you then realized it, Tom seemed calm. Tom wasn’t freaking out. Not externally. You weren’t sure if he really wasn’t or if it was the usual wall you both build around the other. Incomprehensible it seemed now. Always keeping it cool, So many things you’ve lived and you had let them go oh so easily?

But you were flawed. You had been. But not now, what was stopping you both? Wasn’t he still the one holding your broken heart in the palm of his hand? Had he not borrowed it?

You were still trying to hold his.

But your mind shouldn’t be worried about your relationship with Tom when the groom was nowhere to be found. When he had lied that he lost his tie and it was right in that drawer.

Yet, you somehow knew there was something… Something there.

“He was supposed to go home then?” You questioned Tom.

Tom was getting anxious by the second. “Yes, so we can go look for him.”

“The two of you?” James interrupted.

“Yes the two of us, we could split and look for him but...” Tom said. “Someone has to stay here.”

James was slightly annoyed, you could tell. But James was often annoyed at you and Tom. James had been the most disappointed about the resulting relationship. Honestly, everybody was disappointed. Had you been cowards for giving up?

So much drama and for what?

“Of course you’d think splitting up is a good idea,” James snapped with poison. James was annoyed because he always pointed it out to you, how much you’d fought to have him and how easily you’d walked out.

Walking out had not been easy. Walking out had to be the most painful decision you’ve ever made. And you remembered that night you had, the city was asleep, the night was quiet, and you were the only one standing on that street, under that streetlight. Alone. He hadn’t gone to you. You’d looked back to his window, expecting him to be there, and then the door had remained closed.

You cleared your throat. “I might know where Harry is,” you lied. You were at a loss of your mind at the moment. Maybe it was shock. Not maybe, it certainly was shock. The sole thought of Harry not appearing at his own wedding had not ever crossed your mind. You’d thought Emma would’ve. Would’ve been in character, but how stupid do you have to be to run from your wedding on your wedding day?

Tom directed a glance. “I think I might know where he is, too.”

Did he? Or was he only trying to prove a point?

Though the friendship was afloat, some habits could never wear out. Especially when it came to challenging the other. After the breakup it had become a sort of competition of who was dealing better with it.

Neither of you were coping well, but you wouldn’t admit it.

How disappointing, isn’t it? A whole story to end just in a few words. A whole journey to be plucked off your hands. So quickly, so easily.

How ironic it seemed that after such a long time, it was this breaking up bullshit.

James watched between the both of you. “Do you really?”

“Yes,” Tom and you answered and panicked at the other’s statement.

“Well, I’ll race you there,” you challenged.

Tom squinted, “I don’t have my car, dad gave me a ride.”

“Well, then, you should start running so I don’t beat you there,” you grinned and then walked off the room, decidingly. Only thing left was knowing where exactly Harry had run to.

“This isn’t a fucking game, y/n!” James reminded you. “We need to find Harry.”

“I know, Jamesy!”

Tom had rushed after you, “You have no idea where he is, do you?” He mumbled.

“Not a clue,” you admitted. “You?”

He laughed, “Not a fucking clue, either.”

You both got into the elevator. He dug his hands into his pockets.

“Do you think he escaped?” Tom questioned.

“It’s possible,” you admitted. You sighed, as you pressed the button to the upper floor.

“What are you doing?” Tom asked.

“I need my keys,” You said.

Tom’s eyes widened. “And are you telling Emma?” He was panicking.

“Of course!” You gave him the widest beam. “She’ll be delighted!”

“What?”

You jokingly slapped his head. “Of course not, idiot! How the fuck am I supposed to tell her? What would I even tell her? Hey! We can’t find Harry! He might have run off! No!”

“Right. Then what’s the alibi?” Tom asked. “Just showing up and leaving?”

You sighed, “You, you will be my alibi.”

Tom blinked but followed after you when the elevator door finally left you at your floor, you rushed to the room, but stopped in front of it, buttoning Tom up. He watched you with confusion.

“I thought I was your alibi,” he smirked.

You rolled your eyes, “Not that kind of alibi, dipshit.“

Helaughed, rolling his eyes and avoiding your gaze. “Yeah, it’s been a while since that could be the alibi.”

You decided to ignore the statement, “Now, when I walk in, if you hear Emma question me—just call me and try rushing me.”

“Alright, but I think we need a solid alibi, y/n,” Tom pushed.

You rolled your eyes, “I’ll take care of that,” you confirmed and opened the door where you were welcomed by Timmy, who was about to go out.

“Oh, hey,” Tim greeted and then eyed Tom. “Thomas.”

“Timothée,” Tom nodded his head.

Even when they both presumed to be friends, you knew that Tim and Tom would always have some sort of… disagreement.

“Uh, I was about to… go see Lily,” Tim explained, turning back to you. “Mind staying with Emma-? Her mother is on one last minute arrangements, it might rain so they’re trying to figure out what to do-So if you could—“

“Actually,” you cleared your throat. “An emergency came up, so I need you to stay here, maybe tell Lily to come here?”

Tim frowned. “What emergency?”

“We’re taking care of it,” Tom explained as you rushed in looking for your purse. “We’ll be quick,” he added. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Y/N, babe, you’re back!” Emma commented.

You squinted your eyes closed, “And I’m leaving—sorry, I need to uh—It will be quick I promise there’s an issue with—there’s an emergency—“

Emma was nervous, “y/n? Everything okay? Did something happen to the flowers?”

You couldn’t lie to her, but you could omit the truth. “No, everything okay with the flowers—I promise I’ll be here quickly, I’m just going to—“

“Y/N, darling?” You heard Tom outside. “We need to go, now.”

Emma heard and then she was no longer going to question you. Not right now, at least. “Ah,” Emma said, knowingly as she rolled her eyes. “I see, Tom— an emergency with Tom.”

“I promise it’s not like that,” you assured her. “But everything is okay and— I’ll be here in time.”

“I am freaking out, do you see the sky? It’s grey! Fucking grey! I need to stop the rain!” Emma yelled. “What if it’s a bloody sign? Fuck, I need to talk to Harry, I need him-”

You freaked out by then. “No, Emma, calm down, it’ll be okay, we will figure something out!”

“Y/N! Please!” Tom called in again.

Emma watched you, “I swear to god, y/n, if your emergency is fucking that man I will murder you.” “Trust me, it’s not.”

Emma glared, “Y/N, I’ll only say it one more time. If you’re leaving my wedding to have sex with that hunk, I will kill you.”

You shook your head. “I’m… Trying to figure out what to do with the rain, okay? Leave this ro me! I’ll see you in a bit, Emma!” You ran back out.

You saw Tom’s mother walking down the hallway, she offered you a concerned look.

Tom seemed calm enough for Tim, however, who was watching him with curiosity. You were thankful that they avoided conversing with each other, especially because Tom would probably screw up the alibi. One that you didn’t have. But probably Tim had bought it, even if he had yet to hear what the alibi was. However, you knew that Tom’s presence was a solid alibi for rather than anything else.

Tom had been an alibi for your nerves. You knew that Tim wouldn’t question why you were nervous because he knew you were always nervous when Tom was around. You certainly looked flustered and having Tom there would definitely explain why you were jittery.

Tim raised his brows at you, and you only took Tom’s hand in an attempt to drag him back to the elevator. Tim was explicitly confused.

“Ah, Nikki! I’m so glad you’re here, Emma is finishing up, would you mind helping her?” Your voice was coming out slightly coarse.

The woman gulped, “are Tom and you taking care of the...rain issue?” She questioned.

“Yes, ma’,” Tom quickly nodded, “we will… find the rain.”

Some things never change, Tom was still an idiot. And for being an actor how terrible was he at lying.

“Find?” Tim questioned.

“Nothing to worry about, Tim darling,” Nikki stepped into the room, trying to push Timothee back inside, “they are taking care of it and they should go look at it, right now, chop chop!”

“See you in a bit, Tim!” You said as you ran to the elevator as Nikki closed the door, you finally were able to let go of Tom’s hand.

He cleared his throat as he pressed the button, “So what was the alibi?” Tom second glanced at you. “Why would we take care of the rain?”

“Because it got lost,” you shrugged. “Why else would we find it.”

He closed his eyes as you both walked into the elevator. “I’m an idiot.”

“Biggest one.”

He chuckled, “I—uh, heard Emma’s comment. About her thinking we were going to-”

You blushed, “Yeah.”

Big distance between both of you. Never ever close enough to accidentally brush against each other or hands coincidentally touching.

How different it was from the elevator in New York.

Tom cleared his throat. “Good to know where she stands in that subject.”

You shrugged, “I would also get mad if my best friend ditched me at my wedding to have sex with an idiot.”

He smirked rolling his eyes. “I believe the term she used was hunk.”

You ignored the comment.

“Why didn’t Timothee question us?” Tom asked.

You shrugged, “Haven’t you noticed that no one questions us?”

Tom furrowed his brows. “How so?”

“Whenever we are together, they never ask anything, they just let us be,” you admitted. Because everyone was waiting for you both to get back together or everyone expected something more from you. You never gave it to them.

He tilted his head slightly, agreeing with you. “I guess they think they’re going to make things awkward.”

No. People let you be because they wanted you to solve it.

“As if they could be,” you chuckled. “I think that’s the best part of us right now, people just don’t… meddle.”

Tom smiled, “I guess.”

You cleared your throat, “Now, where the fuck do you reckon Harry is?” You asked as you reached the lobby, turning back to what actually mattered.

“Honestly, I have no idea, nothing can come to my mind, it’s just… Not likely from Harry to run away,” Tom said. “Like—Me? Definitely. I would’ve—“

“Yes, you’d definitely run,” you nodded as you jingled the keys. Tom asked for the car at the valet.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Tom questioned.

“You’d definitely escape from your own wedding,” you chuckled. “You’re so afraid of commitment. It’s the Gemini in you.”

He opened his mouth with pride, “excuse me? Me the one afraid of commitment? May I remind you of your past, my lady?”

You avoided his gaze. “You may not.”

“Said no to a proposal, poor Timothee,” Tom started with a smirk.

“Okay that’s—“You cleared your throat, chuckling slightly. “You shouldn’t—“

“Then—Then,you faked a relationship.”

You eyed him, “are we really going to touch that subject, again?”

“You were scared of commitment enough to fake one,” he joked.

You could joke about it now. Or he could. You’d never joke about it.

“Or I knew you wouldn’t commit so I had to fake I didn’t want it,” you smugly answered.

He faked annoyance. “Well, you ran to another country, yes, just after confessing your lovely feelings through a letter—“

“That’s…different.”

“Then you didn’t give me an answer—you didn’t know if you wanted to date me,” he recalled.

You scoffed, “Thomas, may I remind you why I didn’t want to date you?”

“Then you called it quits after seeing your brother getting married and you were scared we were heading there too,” Tom said.

You gulped, “Ah, yes that last one wasn’t me—“ you reminded him. “Not entirely.”

Tom licked his lips. “Maybe we are both afraid of commitment.”

“No,” you nudged him. “I wasn’t.”

“I wasn’t either.”

There was a sudden silence. You’d barely talked about it before. As if the relationship had suddenly disappeared.

You hadn’t talked about the breakup once in months.

“I would say we are at a crossroads but,” he shrugged. “I do not believe that commitment was the reason for—“

“Nope,” you gave in. “It was not.”

Because it wasn’t, maybe it was the fact you were both too committed to a relationship without form.

“However—you did—“Tom cleared his throat. “I mean—we were headed in some sort of direction.”

“Thomas, I don’t think now is the time to have the conversation we haven’t had.”

“So we should keep pushing it, then? Pretending we are both fine with this agreement? Lately we don’t seem fine with it.”

You knew he was right. Neither of you were entirely happy with this whole new friendship thing. “I—maybe we can talk about it when we find Harry!”

Tom pursed his lips, “so you do want to talk about it?”

You took a deep breath, “Thomas, we can push aside that conversation but we cannot push aside the fact your brother is nowhere to be found on his wedding day.”

“Fine.”

“Besides I think if we’ve pushed it long enough—“

He laughed. “We are—particularly calm about that subject.”

“I don’t think we are,” you admitted. “We just like to pretend when we are calm around each other.”

Tom clicked his tongue, “Maybe. But I’m—We haven’t talked about that in a while.”

“And it’s not the moment right now, it’s your brother’s wedding, and he is nowhere to be found,” you repeated.

Tom’s smile faded and was overstrung again. The car was there.

You let him drive, he usually drove your car. Another habit that hadn’t worn out.

Now things weren’t calm, as if the sudden rush had become the both of you. You finally got it, the anxiety that should’ve come from hearing it. The anger and despair that you were supposed to feel from Harry running away.

He looked down, “what’s that?” He pointed at the cup on the cup holder.

“Coffee, from yesterday,” you explained. “Didn’t finish it.”

“You think I could die from that?” He asked.

You looked at him. “I—don’t know but—You're not thinking of—“

“Drinking it?” Tom smirked. “Yeah, I’m just—-thirsty.”

“Please don’t.”

He took the cup, “I won’t die.”

“I guess not but it’s been sitting here one day!” You tried taking it off. He gripped it and shook his head.

“I won’t die!” He said before taking a sip and scrunching his nose. “This is fucking disgusting.”

“Why are you bloody drinking it?” You laughed.

He laughed, “I—I don’t know, but no it’s not that bad.”

“Thomas what the fuck,” you couldn’t stop laughing. “If you die then I’ll have to take care of your dead body and finding Harry, and my priority is finding Harry so I’d have to pull a Weekend at Bernie’s”

Tom giggled and stuck his tongue out, acting so terribly as if he was actually dying.

“You know,” you watched him with fake repulsion. “You deserve an Oscar for that one performance.”

“Right?” He grinned. “I’ll thank you when I receive it.”

You chuckled, “I think we should focus on Harry instead, yes?”

You both discussed places where he would go, that park? Unlikely. That Pub? He wasn’t there. Home?

Where in the world would he go?

“What if he—?” You were getting tired. “What if he didn’t run away?”

Tom looked over, he was rubbing his face, angry you hadn’t found him at the third pub. “That’s the thing, I don’t think he did.”

“It makes no sense, does it?” You questioned.

“No, he—he loves her,” Tom licked his lips. “It’s cause—“ he clutched to the wheel. “I don’t think Harry would—“

“No, I don’t think so—I just—“

It started to rain, because of course it bloody had to. Seemed that the ambiance always had the urge to level up to the level of drama you were always living.

“Jesus Christ, can we ever get into a dramatic moment without it raining?” Tom questioned, angrily.

You rolled your eyes, suppressing a laugh. “I—It was on the news forecast, I am sorry to inform you, but we’ve got nothing to do with the weather.”

Tom laughed, “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“Alright, if he’s not at home then he’s—“You laughed, “Where the fuck is Harry?” You yelled, defeated.

Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. “I—hate Harry.”

You agreed. “Wait—wait, where’s your dad driving around?”

“Dunno, but he would’ve called,” Tom admitted. “Bloody hell, I hate Harry—I—can’t believe he did this.” You stayed quiet. If he had. What had led him to it? The day before he had been alright. Of course, he seemed nervous but he was excited, dreamy. In love.

“What do you know?” He questioned.

You frowned, getting your gaze back to him. “What?”

“You have your—thinking face on,” Tom pointed out. “See? Brow furrowed and hand on hair and everything,” he said. “You feel...guilty?”

“What?” You chuckled nervously. “No!”

“I know you guys spoke yesterday,” he recalled.

“Well yes, I wished him luck, but nothing—He gave me no clue of that, no clues of running away!” you admitted. “He was scared but he—I mean I thought it was usual wedding jitters but—he didn’t—I just—Calmed him. I mean he talked to you before, you probably were the one to scare him!”

“I—what?” Tom was taken aback. “I—I didn’t—“

“He talked to you before me!”

“yes, we talked but I gave him brotherly—marriage advice.”

You scoffed. “You? You gave him marriage advice?”

Tom chuckled nervously, “I—no, but—love advice.”

“We are the last people on earth that should give advice on that,” you stated.

He sighed, “I know but—“

“What did you say to him? Maybe you scared him and that’s why he ran away!” You stated, poking him.

He frowned, “Did not!”

“What did you even say to him?” You pushed. “I just know.”

He rolled his eyes, and mocked, “you just know?”

You playfully slapped his arm. “Yes, idiot! I know, you give the worst advice on love, you’re so dramatic.”

“I am dramatic?” He laughed.

“Yes,” you interrupted before he could even defend himself, “and—and, and I am too. We are—Oh god, are we to blame for Harry running away?”

Tom seemed to realize it at the same time. “I mean—Considering what we both could’ve said—“

Neither of you couldn’t help but laugh, maybe with guilt.

“I’m scared,” Tom admitted. He sighed, holding one last laughter.“We’re fucked.”

You both stayed calmly, as the rain halted against the car.

“What did you talk about with him?” He questioned.

Of course the question held more than that. You knew what he was asking about actually.

Seemed that both of you knew you had basically laid it on Harry the day before. Or maybe not. But where else would Tom ever get his advice from?

You had told him not to give up, you’d told Harry that he had found it, whatever love is, he’d found it.

“How I was proud of him, how I wanted what he was getting,” you shrugged.

You had also joked about how you and him wouldn’t have worked out. But you’d also said you were sorry it hadn’t worked out with Tom either. How you knew that him and Emma were not headed there, that he had nothing to worry about.

How you regretted the script. Spilling out your heartbreak for the world to see. Spilling your love story that was barely one and how people had a lot to say about it.

How it was painful to hide your love. How you knew Tom hadn’t moved on either but probably was planning to.

You told Harry to keep his feelings for Emma, and only Emma. That he didn’t have to share it. You had told Harry to treasure every morning, and to find a flower to talk for him.

“You?”

“I apologized for ruining his engagement party,” Tom nodded, “the first one.”

You both gulped.

“But how I—“ Tom shifted in his seat. “How I thought that they had found the silver linings for it all. That after being apart they’d just come back stronger. And how—I was happy for him. How they overcame all obstacles. And how they were just meant to be.”

“Soulmates they are,” you said. “Which is why it makes no sense he is not there.”

“We need to find him,” he stated.

You nodded. “We are very calm, though, considering-”

“Yeah,” he gave in. “I—What about the park?”

“Oh? The park? Not a park, the park, of course, how didn’t I think of that,” you teased. “Oh yes, the park. As if there aren’t hundreds of parks. Yes the park.”

He snorted a laugh, “shut up! You know where I meant!”

“Well, drive, you pillock!” You chuckled. “Drive to—the park!”

He rolled his eyes and was about to start the car, yet again.

“Wait,” there was a part of you that thought you knew where he might be. But—to explain where it was would be difficult. “Let me drive.”

To try and find Harry. Which was technically the quest.

You had less time now. You were tired. But there was something that was making you believe you could find him. You hoped you were right.

Being behind the wheel with Tom as your copilot was weird. You always let him drive because you usually were in charge of the music.

“Well, given that I’m here, I’ll be for the first time in charge of the music in your car,”he said. He seemed to have the same thing in mind.

Which was completely stupid since you were looking for a lost groom, but well, Tom and you didn’t have much in common but you could always brag about the same stupidity and brain cell you shared.

He took the aux cord as you were driving, driving to that location that wasn’t far enough. A place you knew that gave Harry peace. The park.

But of course your own peace was disturbed as ‘I think we're alone now’ played.

You hadn’t listened to that song in a long while, since you’d danced to it on his living room, most of the lights out, your screen light and his own eyes being the only light you needed. When the things were good.

You had, purposefully, erased most songs that ever reminded you of him.

“You seriously have that song?” You snorted as the memories flooded back in.

Tom avoided your glance and shrugged, “What? It’s on my playlist.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yes, I notice that. That’s how music works.”

There was silence. Probably driven by the growing fear of not finding Harry, probably coming from the fear that Harry had actually escaped. And what would that mean?

Had Tom and you really scared him?

But you both drowned the fear while humming the song.

Or maybe the silence came from the very memories of the song.

“It’s on this specific playlist honestly,” Tom said after a few songs.

You blinked, confused. “What?”

“It’s—the song,” he cleared up. “haven’t you noticed the songs playing are only songs you like? Or songs—”

Songs with background. You shrugged, “Well, we have similar taste.”

He laughed, “No, y/n, we truly don’t.”

You glanced at him, as he was looking out the window. “Huh, alright—maybe that is the reason we broke up.”

Tom clenched his jaw. “Don’t be an idiot.”

You rolled your eyes. “Never mind, that is.”

“No,” he squeezed his eyes shut. “what Imean—this is my—you playlist.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

“You’re not going to say anything?” Tom asked.

“What does that even mean?” You questioned.

He licked his lips. “I—well.”

“So you ignore me but you have a playlist—a me playlist?” You questioned.

Tom licked his lips, “I’m sorry I’ve been ignoring you, it’s—been hard.”

It had been, for you, too. “It’s harder if we are apart,” you pointed out.

He gulped, “That is my point,” he coughed. “We are friends,” he said. “And lately, before I started ignoring you—We were—“

You had been acting a bit more than what friends are supposed to act like. And a wedding always brings romance in everything so it was hard.

You cleared your throat, “It makes it weirder if we both walk away from the other.”

Tom bit his lip, “is it, really?” He watched you carefully. “Because, y/n, I—I’ve been… jealous, how they solved it. And how we couldn’t, after we both tried it was so hard, how we kept falling back.”

You had been slightly jealous, too.

“And, really, I—look, I love my brother and Emma, it’s not them ,” he continued, he rolled his eyes. “For all I know, we are both bitter because before James’ wedding happened we were both talking about… marriage and all,” Tom continued. “And they basically stole what could have been our wedding.”

So you were going to have that conversation. A conversation you had avoided even before the breakup. How both of you were… in talks. How you were expecting it. How you’d jitter if he ever got on his knee to tie his shoe, how every time you’d be waiting for it.

“We didn’t even get engaged,” you pointed out, in an attempt to be cynical, probably.

He coughed, “We talked about it. Good thing—We didn’t get that far because, well.”

“I think we both thought marrying would salvage us from falling,” you stated. “Or we thought it was the next step.”

He shrugged, “Yeah, I think we did,” he admitted. “But I—Back then I really thought, I dunno. I was really about to ask.”

You took a deep breath, “I would’ve said yes,” you said easily, though it hurt to even think about it. Though, you had been prepared to say yes.

“It wouldn’t have been right,” he pointed out. “We would’ve broken up before even getting to plan it.”

He was right. So, so right, because where you were heading wasn’t a wedding, you were heading to an even more hurtful breakup.

The decision had been made acknowledging this. Knowing it would hurt less then. Avoiding a terrible breakup.

“We were on a thin line,” you agreed. “Anything would’ve broken us.”

“I knew we were going through a rough patch but—I think we never realized how rough it was.”

You sighed, “Maybe I fucked up when we came back here, when I decided not to move in.”

Tom took a deep breath, “No, it wasn’t that.”

What was it? What had it been?

“I don’t know where we went wrong,” you admitted. “I really don’t.”

He shook his head, confirming he didn’t either. When asked, neither of you had a reason. It just—happened. Things had been just so rough and hard. Nothing to hold on to.

Though it didn’t make sense, you loved him. And he loved you.

“I think we both expected things to get better by themselves.” Tom played with his fingers and watched the window, staring at the raindrops slipping through it. Sliding easily, without no one stopping them.

“And we grew tired of fighting,” you added, as you stopped at a red light.

“Can't even remember what we were fighting about,” he confessed.

You took a heavy breath in, as the music still played in the background. “About nothing, and about everything. We fought over serious stuff, like whether we wanted to be public or not. A little about Tim and Cherry. And over stupid stuff mostly, yeah mostly over stupid stuff. Like when we were supposed to wake up for certain events or what tie you’d wear for James’ wedding, we fought over you staying at my place too much. We also fought about FaceTime hours, and whether we had to ask if we were available for it or not.”

Tom dedicated his glance back to you, sad, upset and full of regret. “I remember the cereal one.”

You raised your brows, “Yeah, that one was a smashing doors one.”

“Over stupid cereal,” he sighed as he brushed his face. “We were so—“

“Toxic?” You finished his sentence.

He chuckled, “yeah, mostly at the end.”

“The beginning too, I mean,” you shook your head. “I—We had sex to just solve everything. Thomas, we had hatred sex.”

He chuckled. “Well.”

You shrugged, “And that’s how we solved the fights initially.”

“It wasn’t enough at the end,” he added.

“It never was, and that’s—Thats why, although we both said we would talk we just—I think that’s why it didn’t work, at the end we just—grew tired of each other, the spark was gone.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Maybe it was the script,” you pointed out. “Everything concerning it.”

Learning he had a lot to do with the fact it was made had made you doubt yourself, the one true accomplishment had come because he had come to the rescue. Although it had been nice it had really started the downfall of your trust.

“No,” he shrugged.

He didn’t want to talk about it. You had had enough talks about the script, over the fact you wrote it and then regretted it. Over filming and the input he had in the movie, how the character had more in depth than before.

Over the fact he had come to your rescue because it hadn’t been good enough. That one specially had been the start of your downfall. Seemed that when you learned about it, you had completely gone mental. Though, it had come from his heart, he didn’t understand why you were angry.

You had always asked him not to ever give a hand with your writing, if you wanted to succeed it would be for your own accomplishments.

Then again, there was also this side that loved he had helped.

Truth is, it hadn’t affected your relationship, but it had affected your own self trust. And if you can’t trust yourself, however will you trust someone else?

Enough talks had been had.

“No,” Tom started. “We were guilty. Both of us, as if we were making it up for past mistakes. I never stopped thinking about what Tim said, and I think that’s why I always tried making it up for all the other times I hurt you. And then you tried making it up for the script, or—Whatever, it was a relationship built up on guilt.”

“Yeah, I think,” you whispered almost not wanting to be heard, “we both had things to learn about ourselves, and forgive ourselves first… and the timing was wrong.”

Tom shrugged, “Isn't it always wrong with us?”

Time was your true enemy. Or maybe it was easier to blame time rather than yourselves. Time was nothing.

It had been you and your pride or your fear, or whatever you came up with now.

However, there was some truth in that statement. Maybe in the past few months it had been time.

When you had told James and Harry you might want to get back together, Tom was dating.

When you were dating, Harry had told you he was thinking about it.

But what about now? Neither of you were dating, you were single and every odd could push you both to be together. Yet…You were not.

How disappointing, you would always think. Such a long story to end up like this.

How disappointing, really.

“No,” he stated, once again. “It’s not time. The problem might be we are the most stupid people to walk on earth.”

“Sounds reasonable,” you said. You nudged him, “look at us now, though, able to talk.”

“I like where we are, yeah,” Tom commented. “I think we are in a good place, we trust each other, we are friends, good friends, we take care, we hang out. We talk. And actually talk.”

You were focusing on the road, mainly, but your heart wanted to say more things. “Yeah.”

“There’s something bothering you,” Tom stared, intrigued.

“I don’t like you avoiding me,” you stated. “I really can’t stand it.”

“I won’t avoid you, then.”

Then, it was quiet. And it didn’t matter, you enjoyed moments of silence, and it wasn’t awkward. Both of you had learned that sometimes you just don’t have to say a word.

But you had to, in fear he would feel you were angry at the previous conversation.“It’s not even all songs I like,” you pointed out.

“Hm?”

“The playlist,” you decided you didn’t want to continue that past conversation.

He coughed, “So we are changing the conversation, huh? Well, they are songs that remind me of you but hey!” He nudged you. “Which ones don’t you like?”

So easily changing subjects and getting out a smile.

“I—we can get back to that later,” you turned to him and let out a soft chuckle. “songs that remind you of me?” You smirked, poking his shoulder.

He blushed, rolling his eyes. “Yes,” he admitted defeatedly.

You laughed, “You’re such a nerd.”

“What the fuck! It’s supposed to be sweet!” He complained.

You shrugged. “Or creepy.”

“No, it’s not—“

“I’m kidding I’m—more flattered than spooked—“ you admitted. “So why are you playing it?” You poked his cheek this time and he pushed your hand away.

“Because I’ve noticed you always complain about the music so when I play this you don’t!” He explained, annoyed.

“Oh, so it’s merely to keep me quiet,” you snickered, nodding.

Tom was moving his jaw, “Yes, basically.”

You glanced again, mischievously. “Wasn’t it supposed to be sweet?”

“No.”

You reached for his hair. “Tommy.”

“Don’t Tommy me,” he chuckled. “You called me creepy.”

“Yes, I don’t know how to flirt so I bully you, I thought we had that covered,” you snapped without giving it a second thought. Then completely regretting it.

His smirk was wide now, as he laughed maniacally. “Oh so you’re flirting.”

Your turn to blush had come. “No.”

He grinned. “You are.”

But then it was a miracle, a way to avoid this subject completely because it was not the conversation to be having with the current situation. “Shut up.”

“No, you are trying to flirt with me, I won’t shut up!” He mocked you.

“Shut up!”

“No!”

“Thomas! I think that’s Harry!”

tag list @spidxrparkxr @mukesnugget @anxiousdesignerdancerbandlover @happywolves81 @happywolves81 @happywolves81 @happywolves81 @applenter @claredolphinbear24 @claredolphinbear24 @tomshufflepuff @avengersgirllorianna @nevertoofarfromivar @nevertoofarfromivar @herofiennestiffinashardinscott. @tomzfrog @dark-infernal-instruments @awkwardfangirl2014 @awkwardfangirl2014 @tomzfrog @awkwardfangirl2014 @xapham @xapham @tomhollandisagod @tomhollandisagod @laurfangirl424 @vintageroses1014516 @cinnamon-roll-peter @the-lost-fairy-tale @the-lost-fairy-tale @lala-florez @lala-florez @ilcveyou3000 @xxtomxo @xxtomxo @muffinmari25 @cassindeansass @rogers-obsessed-barnes-curious @southsidespideyy @nathaliabakes @nathaliabakes @nathaliabakes @embrace-themagic @bradfordbantams @sanniegirl1214 @sanniegirl1214 @softholand @softholand @fairytaleparker @griff1ndor @softholand @thatweirdomimic @griff1ndor @reginalaufeyson-holmes @better-daisy @yeahimcrying @allmonstersxarehuman @spider-manholland @spider-manholland @itstaskeen @georiaang @sebxstianbarnes @kissingtrutharchives @snoopy3000 @snoopy3000 @spideyparkerstark @fanfic-4-you @lexshead @lexshead @mannien @whitewolfandthefox @melodiclovesong @melodiclovesong @melodiclovesong @bizzlepotter @acceptance07 @witchythingscore @bizzlepotter @swaggyspiderman @localfangirlx @queengemsworld @liberty0123 @stiles-banshees @stiles-banshees @itsjusttor @annathesillyfriend @annathesillyfriend @dangerousluv1 @tomshufflepuff @thewayilookatbacon @emjaywrites @emjaywrites @infamousmany @jungeunave @emjaywrites @ispiderdudei @ispiderdudei @literalfsngirltrash @quacksonhq @quacksonhq @desir-ae @desir-ae @desir-ae @desir-ae @peterporkpie @smolpeachees @thenoddingbunny-blog @quackeroos @quackeroos @spideyyeet @astoldbydanid @astoldbydanid @hollandcreep @hollandcreep-blog @milly7110 @milly7110 @rebekkah4766 @farfromtommy @rubberducky-jrr @rubberducky-jrr @coveredinthemessimade @shameless-self-promo-of-a-shrub @sweetiesangster @thatdamjoke @annathesillyfriend @l0ove-sick-blues @witchythingscore @witchythingscore @bookworm06 @bookworm06 @lala-florez @lala-florez @lala-florez @shezzalockeddoctor @chaoticpete @peeterparkr @shezzalockeddoctor @cosmichollands-blog @lowkey-love-loki @badbitchydecisions @w4ybefor3nir4na jj @saintlavrents @americaswritings @americaswritings @lukesbabylon @ilovepeterparker13 @iamaunicorn4704 @simple-things @simple-things @sip-portteam @lukesbabylon @herondale-snow-carstairs @quaksonhehe0 @stargazerholland @tony-starks-ego @hotrubycrab @sovereignparker @peter-parker-tony-stank-trash @belleknows @mysticalinsomniac @nycparkers @mysticalinsomniac @anythingthaticareabout @spn-assemble-seven @anythingthaticareabout @tanyalooovesyou @heartofholland @peachybloomss @peachybloomss @emyla3305 @emyla3305–butt @hollandstanevans @hollandstanevans @farfromtommy @southbeachfeeling @eridanuswave @tonguetiedholland @wolvesofthewinter @quacksonobrien @dcnerd98 @ifntelyinspirit @electraheart-3174 @julialucena5 @itsmilamawson @harryssuckz @harryssuckz @xstarbae @xstarbae @xstarbae @xstarbae @averyfosterthoughts @darethedragonknights @darethedragonknights @justanamesstuff @emyla3305 @abbiefangirls247 @hannahholland1811 @itscaminow @youllbmineandillbeyoursbabelove @hotrubycrab @spidey-holland-96 @awkwardnesshabitat @geminiparkers@primadonnasdream @slytherinambitious @slytherinambitious @where-art-thau-romeo @viagracex @viagracex @sspidermanss @pcterparxer @whatevshollandarchive @whatevshollandarchive @aleyabee @lovewolfspirit @lovewolfspirit @xallyouneedislovexx @panicattheeverywherekid @pcterparxer @thehauntingofmymind @redhoodparker @redhoodparker @cakepopcriss @allthisfortommy @aleyabee @perspectiveparker @let-me-luve-you @erodasghosts @xxpeachyxo @m-a-r-i-n-t-p @superstarchick @notjustpenandpaper @morbiddanvers @runaway3 @runaway3 @runaway3 @lu-morningstar @th0ttie4tommy @th0ttie4tommy @riasaurusrex @frustratingpaperclip @readheadwriter @geesquariid @geesquariid @noxceleste @peterparker-rickybowen-mybabies @witchything @peterporkpie @bookworm06 @sinisterspidey

@peterporkpie @imthefloor @ohmyquackson @ohmyquackson @wangtan-boys @obiwanownsmyass @sadisticfries @not-some-docile-teenager @galaxystern08 @lovemarvelousfics @lovemarvelousfics @tomzfrog @thearchersupremacy @nikitajackson @dayazenn @the-fandom-life-forever @just-kickin-ass @quaksonhehe @quaksonhehe @samaratheweirdo @fr3akingphantrash @i-love-superhero @mandeeleebeebee @captainamirica @dramaticdiva @halparkebitch @lostgirlmuseum @white-wolf1940

#perennial #tom holland #tom holland x reader #tom holland angst #tom holland series #tom holland fluff #tom holland imagine #tom holland x you #tom holland x y/n #tom holland fic #tom holland imagines #spiderman #poetry #perfidy

106 notes · View notes

carewyncromwell · 4 years ago

Photo

“How does a moment last forever? How can a story never die? It is love we must hold onto -- Never easy, but we try. Sometimes our happiness is captured; Somehow our time and place stand still... Love lives on inside our hearts and always will... Minutes turn to hours, days to years, then gone, But when all else has been forgotten, Still our song lives on...”

~“How Does a Moment Last Forever? (cover)” by Celine Dion

x~x~x~x

tw: character death, funerals, grief

x~x~x~x

The kelpie known as Ru Ollivander always knew their time on Earth would be fleeting -- at least, in comparison to the human witches and wizards they’d ended up living alongside. It was the main reason Ru had such a passion for photography, animation, and moving pictures. The thought of capturing a single moment and making it last beyond that moment...making it possible to relive that moment over and over again, as many times as one wanted...it was meaningful in a way Ru couldn’t quite put into words.

And so over the years, the eccentric, blunt kelpie -- never the best at expressing themselves in the way more upright, classy humans did -- captured as many memories as they could of the things they found most remarkable about the Wizarding World they’d entered. They sketched the rows upon rows of disgusting-looking ingredients in jars set up in the Potions classroom. They took pictures of the way the moon looked from the Astronomy Tower after a thunderstorm. They made animations of how Venomous Tentaculas and Mandrakes grew, compressing entire months into mere seconds. And, of course, over the years, Ru used their cinematograph, Aeroscope, and other cameras to film the humans who had become most important to them -- their best friend, Galen Stagg @cursebreakerfarrier; their fellow Ravenclaw and Galen’s eventual other half, Siobhan Llewelyn @kc-needs-coffee; and their “keeper”-turned-muse-and-life partner, Estrid Soelberg @thatravenpuffwitch.

One morning, however, in the 1930′s, Estrid returned to the cottage she shared with Ru from a trip to the market to find the entire place in disarray. A table had been overturned, Ru’s camera was knocked over on its side, and a drawer of photographs had been pulled out, its contents spread out all over the floor. Alarmed, Estrid rushed to find Ru -- when she did, she found them on the floor, in full kelpie form, looking very restless and distraught as they huffed and puffed through their nose and mouth. Estrid hurriedly rushed over and bent down, trying to help, but it soon became clear what the problem was.

Ru couldn’t change form. They couldn’t transform themselves out of their real appearance. ...They couldn’t turn into a human anymore.

The realization overwhelmed Ru. As much as they always knew the day would come, it wasn’t any less devastating. They’d never have hands again. They’d never have legs or feet again. They’d never speak properly again. They’d never be able to take any more pictures, or make any more movies, or make improvements to their cameras, or draw any more sketches or animations. They’d never be able to visit Galen’s classroom anymore for his lectures. They’d never be able to exchange any more friendly swears with Siobhan over a game of Wizard’s Chess. ...They’d never be able to comfort Estrid again...never be able to stroke her hair and hold her until she stopped crying...never be able to play her film reels of her grandfather, or plant flowers in the garden with her, or dance with her in the rain...they’d never be able to tell her how much they loved her.

The kelpie’s eyes fell toward the ground, darkening, as they flooded with tears. Those tears streaked down their long face in cold, deafening silence. Estrid, who’d almost never seen Ru cry in all their time together, found herself struggling not to break down completely herself as she threw her arms around Ru’s snout and hugged them, resting her face in their overgrown seaweed mane. The two sat together on the floor for what felt like hours, crying and cuddling as best they could, Ru pressing their soft nose into Estrid’s cheek and the crook of her neck and Estrid kissing their nose and the top of their head.

Estrid wrote to the Staggs to pass along the news. Galen pretty much dropped everything to be by his friend’s side -- the magizoologist had always had a particular talent for speaking to magical creatures, and it had never been more useful than in those final weeks of Ru’s life. It seemed that what upset Ru most out of everything was that they’d had a project they hadn’t been able to finish. It was an incomplete film reel they’d stored under their and Estrid’s bed for the last year, taking out and working on only whenever Estrid wasn’t home.

Galen had made as if to go get it, but Ru had snatched his sleeve in their teeth and pulled him back so he couldn’t leave their side.

“Not yet,” they were clearly saying. “It’s not time. Please, not yet.”

Reluctantly Galen respected his friend’s wishes.

Within a month of them being unable to change back into a human, Galen and Siobhan received the owl they’d been dreading. Ru had passed the previous night, Estrid by their side all the way up until the end.

As per Ru’s wishes, their funeral service was very small. They were laid to rest beside the small pond behind their and Estrid’s cottage -- Galen knew that kelpies’ bodies tended to decompose quickly, leaving only the seaweed of their manes behind at the bottom of the seafloor. There wasn’t a dry eye during the modest ceremony.

On Galen’s prompting, Estrid went to their room and fetched Ru’s unfinished project from under their bed. Inside the box holding the film reel were hundreds, maybe thousands of old photographs and drawings, many of which Galen, Estrid, and Siobhan had never seen. Some featured Hogwarts, from different angles; some were of the places they’d been to, or the creatures they handled, or the food they ate, or just cool and random things they only half-remembered. Most of all, though, the pictures were of them...and a small fraction, toward the very front, were of Ru themselves.

It was incredible, just looking through the pictures. Forty years of memories were compiled together, documenting not just the changes in those years, but the advancement in Ru’s talent as an artist. The newest pictures were so much clearer and more life-like -- the magical ones moved with such clarity -- the drawings were more refined -- the animations more complex. The pictures placed side-by-side were an animation unto themselves: a beautiful montage of time, like a blooming flower.

Siobhan was the one who knew Ru’s equipment well enough to work out how to set up the projector so they could play the incomplete film reel. The beginning featured Ru as the three remembered them -- very long, wavy black hair, bright blue angled eyes, and diamond earrings, dressed in a dark violet velvet suit and vest with no collared shirt underneath and a gold and emerald necklace around their neck. They were smirking right at the camera, but it seemed to be a bit strained.

“Hi, Estrid. Galen...Siobhan...reckon you’re both here too. You are the only one who could ever figure out how to work the projector, Sha.”

They cleared their throat, snorting through their nose before continuing.

“...I’ve...recorded this a few times already, trying to get it right, but...well, I’ll just be straight. This morning...I had trouble creating my daddles.”

They held up their right hand and flourished the fingers in explanation.

“I woke up with hooves and it took me about a minute to conjure up my fingers. I didn’t tell you, Estrid, since I knew it’d only make you worry, but...well, I know I’ll only be doing more of that, soon.”

They forced a stronger smirk.

“So I decided to make this for you. It’s a compilation of our lives...one that you can hopefully play, when you need to remember. When you need to get away from the present, and run back to the past for a bit. Watch it every time you feel the urge to drink -- and then push away that urge.”

The moving image of Ru was replaced with the pictures, movies, drawings, and animations the three had seen in the box, overlaying Ru’s voice as they continued.

“When I first started disguising myself as Rudolph Ollivander, all I cared about was living in the moment. But the thing I found so amazing about being human was this instinct you all have to try to make moments last long after they’re over. Considering how long you all live, and therefore how short my existence is in comparison, I loved the thought of making something last. Something I made last. I wanted to plant some seed that would grow into something that would keep growing long after me. But it didn’t take me long to realize that even if I took great photographs, or made beautiful films, or made the best magical camera in the world...it didn’t matter. Because I didn’t have a family who would tend to my garden, after I left it. I didn’t have a family who would keep the things I’d made, and pass them on, and share them with the world. ...I didn’t have a family who would pass on my legacy. After Hogwarts, it’d be a lot harder to hide what I was from the world...and once everyone knew the truth, I would undoubtedly be alone again. It was something I knew was inevitable, really, so it didn’t break me or anything...but me leaving something lasting behind was still a dream I knew would never come true. And I won’t lie, that hurt like shit.

“But then, somehow...somehow or another, I ran into you, Estrid. I was steamed as all get-out when we first met, mind you...but I don’t think I’ll ever be more grateful for anything than you stopping me from eating that first year that day. The bridle you put on me? I hated it. I had to stay in one form for almost eight whole years, and that was a real pain in the arse. But as I told you before, over time, I found I didn’t mind so much. Kelpies don’t stay in one form because changing forms helps us survive. It keeps us safe and keeps any other creatures from getting close enough to eat or trap us. And sure, I couldn’t change form...but I wasn’t exactly trapped. Hogwarts was a fun place to be. There was a lot to learn and do and get into, and there were all sorts of rules to buck and dozens of lick-spittles to give a good arse-kicking to. And better still...there were even some humans that were fun to be around.”

The pictures all started to reflect Galen -- at the piano, with a tree of bowtruckles, laughing at a joke -- Galen and Ru running down the lane away from the Shrieking Shack --

“There were ones who were gentle. Pacifistic and wussy, yeah, but also...well, kind. Good at expressing their feelings and making others feel stronger. Good at being brave without being loud or obnoxious. Good at being a friend, to someone who didn’t know anything about friendship.”

The pictures then started to add Siobhan, often alongside Galen, but also on her own, or even with Estrid and Ru.

“There were ones who were clever. Too proud for their own good and prone to overthinking things that are really quite simple...but brilliant, and witty, and a blast to be around. Someone who you can share your interests with and know they appreciate them.”

The pictures then shifted over to Estrid with braids in her hair -- Estrid sitting by the pond in their garden -- Estrid dancing --

“And...there were ones who could change you...more than you ever thought possible.”

The pictures abruptly cut off -- Ru’s face returned to the projector. They were still talking to the camera, but it was clear they hadn’t intended for their face to be seen, as they weren’t looking straight at the lens anymore.

“A ‘keeper,’ who became a friend, and then a muse...and then something more. An equal and a partner...someone who makes you unafraid of the future and how fleeting life is, who actually makes you think that your life makes a difference. Who teaches you more than any book, without even trying. Someone patient, and brave, and compassionate...who never tries to stuff the silence full of worthless words...whose beauty masks a greater one underneath, one that few people ever are fortunate enough to see...”

Ru’s eyes on screen had begun to flood with tears. They closed their eyes and breathed in and out through their nose to try to get a rein on their emotions.

“...Estrid...my whole life, I wanted to leave something behind that would outlive me. That thing isn’t just my pictures, or my films, or my drawings -- it’s you. You are my legacy. You and Galen and Siobhan...you are the wonderful thing I’ll leave behind. It breaks my heart that I’ll have to...and it breaks my heart more, knowing I can’t make sure you all remain as you are, in this moment. Healthy. Successful. Stupid and happy and full of life.”

They forced a smile even as their electric blue eyes overflowed with tears that streaked down their face.

“I don’t have a family to make sure you all last beyond me...but I do have you. So, for me...I need you to tend to my garden. I need you to maintain my legacy -- by maintaining yourself. I need you to live, and heal, and grow, and do everything I can’t do...”

Ru was unable to keep themselves from breaking down into sobs. They bowed their head, clutching onto their own hair as they vainly tried to keep their voice steady.

“Don’t throw your time away. Don’t throw your lives away. If you do, I’ll never bloody forgive you!”

For the next minute they took a few stabilizing breaths, sucking in air shakily through their nose and mouth.

“Damn it...” they hissed under their breath. “Now I have to cut this...”

They swallowed, wiping the tears from their eyes with both hands. The tears left tracks on their face even as they forced themselves to return their focus to the camera.

“...Make every moment count...and when you can, make that moment last forever.

“I realized, when I was looking through my old pictures, that I’ve never really taken many pictures of me. I guess in the moment, I really was a lot more focused on capturing everything I saw, rather than myself. So here are some pictures I took more recently that have me in them. Hopefully you can use them to imagine me behind every picture I took earlier, of all of you. Even though I probably wasn’t smiling or anything...I’m sure you know I was enjoying myself, right? ...I did enjoy myself a lot, with all of you...”

They forced another smile, even though the tears on their face still shone in the light from the next room.

“I remember you once said, Galen, that you could see the love in the pictures I take. I still don’t really know what the hell that’s supposed to mean...but I reckon you bringing up love made some sense. I did love taking those pictures, every one of them -- and more than that...I learned about love, through the people in those pictures. So thank you. Thank you for loving me...and for teaching me so much. And even when this film reel’s obsolete, and my pictures are ruined, and my drawings fade...don’t stop doing things that are worth remembering. Keep making more memories. I know I’ll never forget you -- all you have to do now is make sure the rest of the world won’t either.

“So live. Live, and learn, and love. Make today last forever.”

When Ru’s film reel finally ended and faded to black, Galen, Siobhan, and Estrid were all in tears. Galen was clinging to his wife, his face buried in her hair and his hands clutching at the back of her dress as he sobbed. Siobhan herself had her eyes shut tight as she held Galen in return, unable to contain her own grief. Estrid was holding herself, tears streaming from her hazel eyes still staring at the blank projector screen where Ru had been smiling moments earlier. She closed her eyes, her hands covering her face as she cried silently.

The grief in the room was overwhelming, and yet Ru’s final unfinished present tapped into something at the base of the grief -- the deep, bottomless love they all felt. For as blunt and stubborn as Ru could be, the depth of their feelings was undeniable. They didn’t want their loved ones to despair -- they wanted them to remember, yes, but not languish in the memories...to live with an eye on the past and feet walking toward the future. Ru knew the grief Estrid had gone through when she’d lost her grandfather, and had tried so hard to give her something to help her through her grief again even when they weren’t there to physically support her.

And so over the years, Siobhan, Galen, and Estrid maintained Ru’s legacy. The three lived their lives to the fullest and worked to make sure that no one forgot about all of the advancements Ru had made in the world of wizarding photography. Galen used Ru’s old film reels of magical creatures in his classes; Siobhan took even more pictures of her own; and Estrid fought to ensure Ru’s work was put up in wizarding museums and exhibitions all over Europe, as a testament to her partner’s talent and dedication.

A man has no control who lives, who dies, and who tells their story...but the ones who they love in life, and who inspire them in death, are the most precious legacy they can leave behind.

#hphl #hogwarts legacy #ru ollivander #estrid soelberg #siobhan llewelyn #galen stagg #my art #my writing #*throws herself off a cliff sobbing* EHHHHHH #I cried several times writing this good god ;~;#I am so sorry everybody #but this song gave me such ru feels and I just had to get them out #in my headcanon kelpies grow more and more seaweed-like hair on their bodies as they grow hence why ru's got so much now #most real life horses die between the ages of 25-30 so ru actually lived a pretty long time in comparison #but yeah estrid galen and siobhan would've been in their 40's when ru died #I tapped into a lot of feelings surrounding the people I've lost while writing this #so hopefully the grief comes through #'hopefully' guh #if it does I apologize in advance

25 notes · View notes

winx-reimagined · 4 years ago

Text

Ships & Relationships in Winx Club| Romantic

ToC

Okay, it's obvious that a lot of the relationships in Winx Club suck. In this specfic post, I'm mainly going over romantic relationships but I'll make another for friendships & family and I'll either squeeze enemies and more gray relationships on that post or they'll have their own post.

The two biggest issue couples, Musa & Riven and Bloom & Sky. At least with Musa and Riven they both tried to better themselves. They were both toxic too, it wasn't only Riven -although it was mostly him.

Riven & Musa.

Riven's selfish, beyond rude, and of course there was that time he bretrayed them. Musa doesn't even try to understand him and she only want to argue back, she just fuels the flame. From what I've seen, neither of them have any mutual hobbies or interests, they can't communicate like friends meaning they sure as hell can't communicate as lovers. As bad as this is, if Winx was more realistic and much more mature, I feel like their relationship would be purely sexual. Which is fine in general, but not so great in a supposedly committted relationship. Just sucks that they're trying to play off a toxic and abusive relationship as "fixing the bad boy."

Speaking about committment... Bloom & Sky.

I hate this couple the most. To be fair, most of us do. At least with Riven and Musa they somewhat learned from their mistakes and were held accountable. But Sky, barely was. I can't remember a time Bloom did anything serious (although I'm pretty sure in one of the dubs for season 4, it was made obvious that she wanted to cheat on Sky), the worst she does is just get really angry -usually for no reason- and refuses to listen. But Sky literally led on two girls.

Despite how close Bloom and him were getting, he never tried to tell her the truth. I don't care if he lies about being a prince because he doesn't want the attention -which is actually pretty stupid because Eraklyon is one of the biggest kingdoms it's strange that no one recognized him like, hmm I don't know, Stella- but that isn't a good enough reason to lie to your bestfriend and girlfriend.

Now him being in an unwanted arrange marriage and cheating, sure. It's like a forbidden love trope and in my books doesn't count as cheating. And I could maybe understand him not saying anything to her since it'd most likely get her in trouble. But I still question why he has that framed picture of Diaspro on his desk 🤔, it's almost as if they're close. Hmm. Sure she could've given it to him but there's no reason he couldn't just throw it out or lay it flat.

Before I move on, I need to talk about their relationship as a whole. They're so similar. Of course, you need similarities to make any relationship work but they're like really similar. They're both peacekeepers -which is ironic to say the least-, they're both agreeable -again, ironic- and this just kind of makes their relationship really boring. Boring doesn't mean there's no drama, there's just no interest. You don't watch the relationship grow like with Stella & Brandon or Aisha & Nabu. They never have any actual conflict nor any actual arc, I can't even call it a linear relationship. How do they relate on anything? Their lives are so different, the most the could talk about is what literally happened three episodes ago. Even if they didn't have these petty issues, it's still be a bad relationship.

More about boring couples... Flora & Helia and Timmy & Tecna

I have more to say about Timmy and Tecna for a different manner but like these two couples are so boring. That's probably because they're mainly in the background. But I do think Flora and Helia are kinda cute, but their kept in the background so much, I literally don't know enough about their relationship to make an actual conclusion about them.

But Timmy & Tecna... 👀, they're okay. My most vibrant memories of their relationship is Tecna constantly calling Timmy weak, pathetic, or a coward. I don't give a fuck how angry you are at someone, that is NOT a reason to constantly abuse them like this. And it is abusive, it doesn't help that Timmy sees Tecna as amazing. He lowkey praises her.

I do like the idea of them being very "emotionless" or not being able to recipicate said emotions very well then learning to open up. This is mostly for Tecna, but there are times Timmy falls under this like when Tecna was stuck in the Phantom zo- I mean Omega dimension. He abandoned any sense of reasoning and only went off his emotions, believeing she was still alive -to be fair, he was right. I actually have very big plans for this dynamic, that mostly has to do with Tecna. I'll be making a post about Tecna's Issue soon 😉, but to say the least, he unlocks more than just her emotions. (I swear if that post comes out before this.. A/N it did)

Aisha & Nabu

Out of all of them, these two are the best relationship. Although it is EXTREMELY weird how they set them up, with Nabu stalking Aisha. The way their relationship grew was beautiful and they were about to get married but then Nabu died. Which I would've enjoyed the tragedy of it, if 1. it meant something afterwards and 2. if it wasn't the only man of color this happened to (not to mention the only black woman is the one to ignore all sense of reason and go apeshit).

Nabu is most likely going to stay alive in my version.

I almost forgot about this one... Brandon & Stella

They're cute. They're one of the best couples in the series. Really the only issue I had with them was their petty arguements which, like any Winx romantic drama, had to do with "cheating." It's stupid that they'd accuse each other of cheating if they're literally comfortable with dozens of people flirting and complienting their partner. They even compete over it. It goes to show how much they trust each other yet they still get in a tizzy when their SO stood near the opposite gender.

I've just noticed something about all the relationships. They characters are matched up with someone who is almost basically the genderbent version of themselves. Bloom & Sky; peaceloving leaders, Stella & Brandon; vain, comical characters; Musa & Riven; damaged goods, punks, and so on. It's not the worst thing you could do, but when it's for all of your characters, yes.

Just to address it, I don't have anything to say about Icy's relationship with Tritannus.

I just realized the best way to describe the Winx relationships, and it's just teenage couples. Their relationships never seem to mature except for Aisha & Nabu's relationship.

Now for the SHIPS! There's many I won't include, just because I don't want this post to be very long and I don't know too much about too many, but maybe I'll come back to them or I can just answer asks.

Were gonna start with the ones I hate :) which isn't many

p.s if you ship any of these more power to you, I just don't like these ships in particular, I'm not attacking you as people.

Bloom X Valtor...

I cannot even begin to dig into this one... alright then, let's begin. To get the moral/ethical issues out of the way. Valtor is much older than Bloom. Sure she's 18 by season 3, she's an adult in most places but it's still really gross. Besides what does a thousand year old (wait, how old is he?) have in common with an 18-year-old teenager? He helped kill, if not killed her parents. Look, forgiveness is a beautiful thing... but that's too much. It's fucking unforgivable. His very existence is to destroy the dragon flame. His like, literal reason of existence is to destroy her magic, her family, her world, HER. Ignoring the whole age thing real quick, they just wouldn't work. There's no chemistry between them that won't lead to an explosion.

Now about the intrigue in the dynamic; you know hero x villain, I get it, but the conflict in their relationship isn't romantic.

I also cannot believe one of the official winx club channels made a video for this ship. It's just...

Bloom X Darkar...

I'm pretty sure this is somewhat unpopular but it still exists, which is just like... I have no words. To be fair, I do like them, but as a platonic ship, I'll explain in the continuation of this post. Darkar is a fucking entity he's even older than Valtor. His goal, I feel, is a little less defined other than "he's doing evil things because he's evil", he's a god of darkness not fucking evil.

- I need to rant real quick, I have such an intense love-hate relationship with darkness being evil and light being good. I love it because it's easy to make out and the whole forces of good and evil really gets me going, but like I hate it cause it's always light is good and dark is bad. To be fair, I do appreciate it when it's mudded in which some light creatures turn/are evil and dark creatures turn/are good. Like if there's a lot of gray, I'm happy. Not everything is in black and white.

Anyways, they also only interacted for a short period of time and that wasn't enough for any sort of real relationship (of any sort) to bloom. Although, Darkar is like one of the nicest characters to Bloom which is strange. I get he was just using her but I'll explain later why it doesn't make sense.

These are the two romantic ships that I hate. It's mostly because of age, like if Bloom were older and Valtor was younger I could see them being an interesting enemy to lover ship, but it'd still be a stretch to me. But Bloom and Darkar I can't see romantically, but that's probably because I see them differently.

For the ones I could somewhat see or somewhat like, bruh by this point I'll have to come back and make a continuation post just called THE POTENTIAL...

SunFire, Bloom X Stella...

They're bestfriends which is already a good start, although in the series I don't think they actually act that close, it tends to be more of a rare sight. They're always supportive of eachother (that is until all attention went to Bloom) and Stella was the one to help Bloom's "gain" powers and showed her the magic dimension. Stella immense confidence would be a nice boast for Bloom, since I personally see Bloom as not being very confident in herself and having low self-esteem. They're very cute too.

Tecna X Riven...

Honestly, I think they'd work. They both have common interests for machinery (and presumably sports), they both have emotional issues that would be interesting to see them work out together. I also think they're relationship would be more interesting than their canons ones.

There's always the issue of... y'know, Riven being a piece of shit. But Tecna strikes me as a "takes no shit" type and I feel like that would be their dynamic. I also feel like Riven would like that sort of confidence.

Riven X Darcy...

I also think they'd work. I know in some dubs Darcy used her powers to control Riven, which really just feels like an excuse for his actons. But in the Rai dub, the one I grew up on (is it the original English Dub?), Darcy just had a way with words and was easily able to calm Riven down.

They seem to be able to relate to eachother, and I would like to think that, despite the finale, she still cares about him. (Also I could see them as being a trans couple, I can see both of them being trans so there's something for them to relate to)

Soundwave, Aisha X Musa...

I love this ship. They have a lot of relatability, a lot in common, and have a lot of screentime together. Musa is the one that made Aisha feel accepted in the Winx Club and they found solidarity in each other. In comparison to everyone else, they just seem so much closer and honestly I don't remember a time they fought. Except for maybe the time Nabu died, but Aisha was fighting with everyone.

Speaking of which, I would write them together if I didn't find Aisha and Nabu so cute. Of course, if he dies, yeah, she can move on and be with Musa but I don't know if I'm going to kill him. So this is honestly a huge maybe for my rewrite.

Icy X Bloom...

Honestly, they're most likely going to be canon in my rewrite.

Their similar backstories are incredibly interesting especially since they basically took two different paths. Same cause, different outcomes. Which makes their relationship and dynamic pretty thrilling since to be together they have to be on the same side, so will they be good or evil together. It's almost like a game of tug of war, if you will.

It's hard to find any common interests between them in the series and I haven't read the comics, so I'll talk more about headcanon stuff. Neither of them get what they want in life, they always seem to be unlucky. Both of them are very lonely, usually it's their own fault; and (after the first encounter with Lord Darkar, where Bloom turns evil) Icy tends to find peace in Bloom when they're not fighting. I'd imagine them both to be very artistic, Bloom loves to draw (which is something they dropped in like the first episode) and I could imagine Icy liking sculpting.

Plus, it's the rivals to lover trope, that'd could actually be a healty rivals to lover trope. Which I love, literally one of my favorite dynamics.

Diaspro X Bloom...

Damn, a lot of these have to do with Bloom.

If Diaspro were to see how bad Sky was she'd probably want to be around the one that originally called him out, Bloom. Diaspro can actually be really fucking sweet, but only to people she likes which in this case, is Bloom. Although, she'd probably be very clingy. We don't get any information about Diaspro's interests or her actual personality because she's eViL. So it's difficult to see how they'd work out.

But it'd be cute to see Diaspro teach Bloom how to be a princess and to act like a "proper lady."And to see Bloom teach Diaspro to be more free-spirited and less uptight (I'm thinking about the second Mulan movie now). I'm really tempted to have them be somewhat hinted at in the story; like Diaspro likes Bloom but Bloom doesn't like Diaspro. We'll see...

Brandon X Sky...

Similar to Bloom and Stella, they're best friends which is a good start. They seem to have known eachother for a long time. Really if anything, they're just the male version of Bloom X Stella, but like a little calmer.

Diaspro x Icy...

I've seen this ship here and there, but to be honesst I really know what I think about it. From what I remember, they don't ever interact. And I guess they can just be a villaness power couple. Or hard and soft relationship, where like Icy's a hardass and Diaspro's her surprisingly sweet significant other. Well, sweet only to her.

Stormy X Musa...

They're both punks. They'd either always butt heads or they'd always vibing together. I think they'd be kinda cute tho, just two gals being wild.

Stormy X Flora...

A hardass and a softass, since Flora's gonna be like 5'10-6'0ft in my redesign and Stormy is absolutely shorter than her; they'd be the small, angry and big, soft dynamic. And I think that's kinda cute. Plus, they're both forces of nature. I could see Stormy allowing Flora to be more chaotic and open up about her more negative emotions, especially if these emotions have to do with the rest of the Winx. And Flora could allow Stormy to chill out and be calmer, I could see Stormy picking up a gardening habit because of Flora.

This is kind out of left field, Professor Palladium X Professor Avalon

I half-jokingly, and half-actually shipped them when I rewatched season 2, then I was surprised to find that people actually ship them. And that it was kinda popular. There's really not much to go off of, but they're really cute and I just really want them to be together. Palladium seems very anxious and is really sweet and Avalon seems like he has a lot of self-esteem, I don't know where I'm going with this so make due with these observations as you please.

There's like a million more ships and maybe I'll talk more about them if some catch my eye, but I'm stopping for now. I still have to work on platonic and enmity ships.

Honestly, writing about my thoughts on these ships and canon relationships kind of opened my eyes to possible pairings. Once I'm done with all of these, I'll definitely have a lot to think about when writing these character's relationships. Oh, and sorry about the long ass post. If it's an issue, I'll just separate it into parts.

70 notes · View notes

purple-possibilities · 4 years ago

Text

Like Father, Like Son

Rating: Teen

Warnings: mentions of death, mentions of prostitution, like slightly dark? Gritty maybe is a better descriptor, Naruto world taken seriously.

Length: 1888 words

Pairing: MinaKushi, Minato’s Canonical Dad x Minato’s Canonical Mom

Genre: romance, drama, slight angst (we know how these two ended up), crack taken seriously

Summary: the story of Minato’s parents, and how that influenced Minato’s decisions, and his courtship of Kushina. Inspired by this post about Minato being extra.

Like many children in ninja villages—and truly, just children in general, since the Warring States Era and the formation of the Ninja Villages—Namikaze Minato is an orphan. His father was a self-taught ninja from a small village on the boarder of Kaze no Kuni, while his mother was a kunoichi from Tsuchi.

Though Minato's parents had died when he was young, he was old enough to remember them. He was old enough to understand why his parents were forced to hide away from their home countries, old enough to know when and why he had to hide and lie.

He was old enough to understand why tousan had to escape in the night while he and kaachan had to flee in the cover of tousan's sacrifice distraction.

He was old enough to understand why he and kaachan had to lie about their ninja training when they immigrated into Konoha with forged papers so realistic that not even Konoha's infamous T&I, or their renowned Yamanaka clan could tell the difference.

He was old enough to understand why kaachan was forced to work in the way she did, why strange people would spend an hour or two, or sometimes even the whole night behind the door to his mother's room, why she made him leave when some specific visitors stopped by, why he eventually came home to find her laying in bed, blooms of red and shocks of shiny white against her cold, still skin.

He was old enough to remember it all—to want to change it all, one day—but his mind would always take him back to one specific memory.

His most precious memory of all.

The love in his parents' eyes.

Minato could recite the story word for word, with how much his kaachan told it—how much more she would cling to the words after tousan was gone.

Kaachan was from Iwagakure, having sworn her life to the Tsuchikage and the Tsuchi no Kuni daimyou as a kunoichi of the Rock. Touchan truly had no allegiance—his skills had come from a talent with chakra and a necessity for self-defense.

So when touchan had seen a group of Suna-nin abducting a woman, he did what any good man would do.

He saved her.

Touchan had followed after the Suna-nin in secret, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Touchan was not sure he could defeat the two Suna-nin on his own, but he knew that with the help of the right environment and a few tricks, he could come out victorious.

With his wind chakra aiding him in both speed and his strikes, touchan caught the first nin completely off guard. As the second nin—the one holding kaachan—noticed his partner listing to the right—before the dead body could hit the ground—touchan had just as swiftly eliminated the other, catching kaachan in his arms.

Unwilling to linger at the scene, touchan carried kaachan away, until it was safe for them to stop. When touchan untied kaachan's binds, she couldn't help herself.

Kaachan pulled touchan into a kiss.

It was in that moment that kaachan fell in love with touchan. Both were alone in this cruel ninja world. The shinobi nations were in the midst of the second Great Ninja War. People were dying left and right, hundreds every day.

Who would miss one kunoichi? Who would recognise one self-taught man from the edges of Kaze no Kuni?

Who would give up on the chance of happiness, love, and family, when the world had taken so much from them?

He remembers asking his parents how they knew they were in love after just one meeting.

His mother always answered, “A selfless act of kindness in a cruel world is a rare thing to be treasured. When you find that, especially when you're alone and hopeless, it's easier to leave behind the entirety of your harsh, unfriendly life for even just a single moment with such a person."

When Minato asked his touchan, his father always answered, "There is not much kindness in this world, not much any single person alone can do to fix that. We work hard, we may try to help others, but that's not going to get any one man very far. Kaachan has a fire in her, a toughness, a resilliance which cannot be crushed. She is fierce in her mind, body, and soul. As a man forced to grow and survive on his own, I know just how valuable, and how rare those traits are. I had desperately craved for companionship, for a family, and your mother has the strength and resilliance to ensure our story will be longer than most."

At the time, Minato didn't truly understand what either of his parents meant. But as an orphan, as a boy all alone, who had witnessed the worst of the world and wanted to make it better, who had his world stripped from him in a place that should have been safe, with the weight of his parents sacrifices on his mind and the desperate urge for a family once more...

Minato fell in love.

All he knew about love was what he'd seen from his parents. With no advice, no one to turn to, Minato did the only thing he could:

He emulated the fond, much told memory of how his parents fell in love with the percotions, strong-willed, resilliant Uzumaki Kushina.

And like a blessing from beyond, like a gift from his absent parents, Uzumaki Kushina—who had only ever glared and grumbled at Minato before then—had fallen in love with him.

It hadn't been hard to use the shadow-clone jutsu and then henge them into Kumo-nin. It wasn't hard to find Kushina all alone, after tricking the ANBU who followed her with a genjutsu laid out by Uchiha Fugaku's sharingan.

It wasn't hard for Minato to gently disable (but not disperse!) his own clones, to catch Kushina in his arms, to take her to "safety" (as if she were in any danger at all).

It wasn't hard to attract her heart and capture it—not with his boyish good looks, his patience, and most damning of all—

Kushina's lonliness and desire for connection.

With her home village destroyed and Mito-sama recently deceased, there wasn't a better time for him to put his ploy in motion. Maybe to a civilian that might seem callous, but to a ninja, that was just smart planning.

What did it matter if he was using her grief and loneliness to his advantage? His company would heal that for her anyways.

(Besides, it was his grief and lonliness which drove him to do it).

Minato would grow up to be a lot of things: a hero and a curse, a soldier and a leader, a husband and—just briefly—a father.

Minato would not go on to share the story of how he got Kushina to love him with his son. Minato would instead go on to emulate his father, sacrificing himself in the hopes of giving his child a shot at a better life.

But that was for later. In this moment, in the shoddy comfort of the bachelor apartment allotted to orphaned ninja-in-training, Minato put the pieces of his plan together.

Minato was old enough to retain memories of his life before Konoha, before his parents were taken from him, but only one memory stood out.

And so he remembered.

And so he took the past and made it his present with dreams of the future on his mind.

Fun Facts!

I imagine Minato's mom to be blonde like he, Naruto, and Deidara are, while his dad has red hair similar to Kushina and Gaara. His mother's hair was smooth and straight while his father's was spikes like Minato and Naruto.

The ninja who killed Minato's father were sent after his mother for desertion. Another Iwa-nin had caught sight of her and reported back to the Tsuchikage. The nin were sent to kill Minato's parents but were instructed to bring Minato back alive in case he was useful. I kind of puts Minato's massacre of those thousand Iwa-nin during the Third War into a new light...

Fugaku only agreed to help Minato because when he initially refused, Minato accused Fugaku of not being able to do it. Fugaku, like a certain other Uchiha we know, was desperate to prove himself. Minato didn't tell Fugaku about his plan, he just dared Fugaku to trick the ANBU.

Minato had to practice with his clones for weeks to be able to fight them without them "popping." He ended up having to use a seal on them to make them more resilliant. It was his first time working with fuinjutsu, and what sparked his love for it. Kushina's interest only heightened his own.

Yes, Minato's dad only went along with kaachan's feelings because he was lonely and she was strong. Relationships have been built on less. He was a very pragmatic man. He did genuinely fall in love with her though.

When Minato and his mom immigrated to Konoha, she had to pretend to be a civilian with no ninja training to avoid suspicion, and be offered asylum as a Hi no Kuni refugee. As a foreigner (even one posing as a Fire Country citizen) and with the growing number of refugees, it was hard for her to find a job, so she became a prostitute. She was killed by a nin who was triggered and experienced a panic attack/flashback. He fled the scene after, and ended up letting himself get killed during his next mission. The case of her murder remains unsolved—not that the police did much investigating. There were more pressing issues to deal with at the time.

The harsh life Minato lived—as a fugitive and then a refugee and orphan—is what led him to want to be Hokage. He wanted to save people from the pain he and his parents suffered.

Kushina's spirit (and declaration to be Hokage) is what attracted Minato to her. His father's words of finding someone strong and stubborn enough to survive in this cruel ninja world is what made him decide she was the one for him.

Kushina is dumb. So dumb. Didn't catch on even once. Fell for the plot hook, line, and sinker. Even when, years later, Minato shared the story of how his parents met with her, Kushina did not piece his plan together.

Due to Minato using "Kumo"-nin to carry out the abduction, he made their already poor reputation in Konoha worse. This was further exasterbated when real Kumo-nin actually tried to kidnap Hinata.

Minato sacrafied himself that night when Kurama was unleashed on the village, because all he could think of in that moment was the way his father sacrificed himself to save Minato and his mom. It clouded his judgement from more logical options, like, I don't know, not casting a suicide jutsu to trap half a tailed beast in his minutes old son and his soon to be dead body.

Kushina was delirious from pain meds, having an tailed beast extracted from her, and her own hotheadedness. It was a bad mix.

In the end, Naruto learnt that rescuing a girl is the way to her heart, following the Namikaze family tradition of courtship.

AN: So, uh... This got darker than I thought. The post that inspired this was so cute too. I wrote this a few weeks ago on a night I was too busy for this bs and yet it would not let me rest until it was released. I wrote this after being challenged prompted by @books-n-guns, as crack is my apparent specialty (we been knew, I know. After the LeeKaguya fic I think I solidified my place in this fandom). I hope you enjoyed it!

#namikaze minato #uzumaki kushina #minakushi #naruto #just a little piece i wrote #sibi writes

58 notes · View notes

barnes-dameron · 4 years ago

Text

I Think of You

Chapter One: The Beginning

Soccer player!Cassian Andor x physical therapist!reader

Summary: You came to this country to learn the language and find work to pay off for school, nothing else. Getting a job as a physical therapist for the National soccer team was a plus and getting to see the star player, Cassian Andor, was a major plus as well. But what happens when your visa expires and immigration is on your tail? Your only hope resides in Cassian, who is more than willing to marry you until you can get your green card. What can go wrong?

Word count: 3.1k

A/N: This is going to be a series but I don’t know how long will it be. I didn’t explicitly say what country this is taking place in because I want everyone who reads this to feel included. So for example, if you’re from the U.S., you can pretend it takes place in Mexico since Diego Luna is from there. Or if you’re from Mexico, you can pretend it takes place in the U.S. or another country. I want all readers to feel included instead of being excluded. Big shout out to @tintinwrites for helping me think of a name for the series. I hope you all enjoy!

***

You’ve never gotten used to the weather since you moved to this new place a few years ago, and frankly you were happy about it. It was a different feel altogether, one that shouldn’t be taken for granted. In the past, mornings like these would’ve repulsed you but now you couldn’t wait. You’re life was seemingly perfect, and you wanted to keep it that way. Who could blame you? You’ve worked hard to get the job you have now and moved to an unfamiliar place and learn a whole new language. Others would’ve called you crazy or a dreamer, but really you were an achiever; something you always prided yourself on.

You couldn’t wait to get into work, even if you were at your current job for going on three years now. But it was never dull working as a physical therapist for The Rebels, one of the popular soccer teams in the country. Their fan base was huge, so naturally it’s difficult to find a position working for them. But yet again, you didn’t take things lightly, and worked hard to get where you’re at. Mon Motha, one of the owners of the Rebels, knew about you only because you treated so many of the players and they regarded you with high esteem. Apparently, you heard through the grapevine that she jokes around saying you play a part in the backbone that keeps the team together. You try not to think about it from time to time, but it does place a smile on your face.

Upon entering the building where you set up shop, you passed by Coach Draven, another key member of the team that knew you well. He gave you his usual quick “good morning” and a nod of his head. Practice started early as always, and he never took things lightly. He constantly drilled the players so they were always prepared for everything, since there were teams that prefer to play dirty. Because of this, many players from the Rebels face injury and then have to go through physical therapy. That’s where you come in. But more often than not, it was usually one player...

As you entered the office, Cassian Andor was already sitting in a chair in the waiting area. Cassian was the team captain, and took his position seriously; enforcing his teammates to take the coach’s orders and carrying the burden of a loss on his shoulders. He played with passion and left everything on the field when the game was done. Due to this, Cassian always found himself with some sort of a minor injury. It was mostly his knees. After years of playing, it was the only thing that ever caused him real pain. He would come almost everyday, before and after practice, to do special exercises in order to prevent pain while playing. You never minded, in fact you enjoyed his company in a way. He’s much different when he was alone compared to when he’s around his team. You smiled at Cassian; punctual as always.

“Good morning, Captain Andor,” you greeted, the native language of this country flowing off your tongue after years of practice.

“Good morning,” he replied, a small smile playing on his lips.

Cassian knew the drill by now. Once you set your things by your desk, he heads to the room in the back and lies down on the cushioned yet paper clad table. He brought his feet to rest on the surface so his knees were in the air. You entered the room, asking questions about how’s he doing and how his knees feel as you thoroughly wash your hands before touching him.

Cassian’s skin was always warm, probably due to the weather outside. It was soccer season, so of course it would be warm. But a part of you wondered if he skin was just like that. You performed the same exercises as always, stretching his legs and counting while doing so. After three years of doing this every morning, it never grew old either.

“So,” Cassian said after finishing another stretch. “Any plans tonight?”

He always asked that question, and you always gave the same response. After years of living here, you never ventured out to see what the country truly had to offer. Every once and awhile, your roommate, Jyn, would drag you out to a bar or club, but that’s the farthest you’ve gone.

“The usual,” you replied. “Just me, my couch, and a book I’ve been meaning to read.”

You heard Cassian let out a huff of laughter.

“You really need to get out more,” he sighed as you put some pressure on the side of his knee.

“I know,” you sighed in return.

It was a thought that always plagued your mind. Despite everything you achieved, you could no longer lie to yourself. At times you have felt a little lonely with the lack of a dating life and your roommate being out on most nights. To be completely honest with yourself, you thought of asking Cassian to accompany you to a new place. However, you didn’t want to mix work with your personal life, and threaten any friendship you may have with the captain of the team.

“All done,” you announced. Cassian got up from his position, sitting on the edge of the table. You watched fondly as he moved his arms about, and swinging his legs like a child. Cassian hopped down, and gave you a boyish grin, one you only saw within these four walls. “Good luck at practice today.”

“Thank you,” he said.

You watched as Cassian left the office, your heart falling a bit as he disappeared. You couldn’t help but let out a sigh. That’s a line you certainly didn’t want to cross.

***

Cassian always scolded himself when he showed up too early to your morning sessions. He hated how excited he was to see you, and he hated how you could break down all his inner walls, something he so carefully put together throughout the years, with a simple smile. But ultimately, he hated these foreign feelings that have been three years in the making.

Cassian has never felt this way about a person, ever. Heat blooms throughout his body causing his palms to go sweaty. His mouth becomes the Saharra desert as his mind transforms into a whirlwind of thoughts. He’s never felt so off guard before. On the soccer field, he was cold and calculating, focused on one thing...winning. With you, however, it was the opposite. He was a bumbling mess of a human; something he tries to hide whenever you’re around.

There has always been a part of him that wanted to ask you out. He couldn’t deny it, but he saw something more with you, but was never able to take those first steps. Every time he asks you for your plans that night, he chickens out last minute replying with plans of his own. It’s like he see the goal open, but could never kick the ball in.

Cassian shook away any thoughts of you. He couldn’t let them interfere with his performance. Cassian stepped on the field, and went to work.

He listened carefully to Coach Draven’s orders, taking mental notes to carry out the actions with perfection. He ran as fast as he could, and handled the ball with control. Maybe one day, after a win, the adrenaline would give him the fuel to ask you out. No, he scolded himself. Not now. Don’t think about her now.

The sound of Draven’s whistle pulled Cassian out of his thoughts. He looked up to see it was the signal for a water break, something he desperately needed at that moment. He didn’t notice it until he looked at the sun, but they’ve been practicing for hours now. He was slightly amazed on how transfixed he was that he lost track of time. Cassian sat on the bench, chugging down as much water as he could, before an anxious intern from the offices bumped his back. Cassian coughed from the unexpected action, and gave an icy glare at the baby-faced intern, who looked like a deer caught in head lights.

“S-sorry,” the intern stuttered out. Cassian watched as the boy played with the ends of his long sleeve shirt, looking around nervously, before returning his gaze back to him. “Do you know where Y/N L/N is?”

Cassian was taken aback upon the mention of your name. He lifted his hand, pointing to the building where your office was, closer to the practice field than any other building on the campus.

“Second floor, third door when you get off the elevator.”

The intern nodded his head, and began a brisk walk to your building. Curiosity bloomed in Cassian, but he quickly shook it off. He couldn’t think about you, not now.

***

Anxiety washed over you as you sat outside of the conference room. Thirty minutes ago, an intern burst into your office with an urgent message for you to come and meet with the team’s board of members, including the owners. Your stomach felt like it was put through the ringer, and your head pounded with the force of a thousand drums. You didn’t think you did anything wrong throughout your three year employment, but still every wrong thing you’ve done since childhood flooded your mind.

You turned your whole body towards the door when the click of the lock being opened reached your ears. Mon Motha stuck her head out and motioned for you to enter.

The floor felt uneven and difficult to navigate as you entered the room, a dozen pair of eyes peered into you as you sat at the only empty seat, the one across from Mon Motha.

“Miss L/N,” her calm voice filling the silence in the air. Tension so thick it could be cut with a knife. “Do you know why you are here?”

No words could come to your mouth. All you could do was shake your head.

“Miss L/N,” Bail Organa said, taking the lead. “There have been rumors going around, and if they’re true, it could cause possible damage to the Rebels.” You remained silent, staring at the co-owners intently with a wide gaze. Rumors? About you? “It has been heard and said that your visa has expired for some time now and you’ve been residing in this country illegally. Is this true?”

Your wish for the earth to open up and swallow you whole has never been stronger than this moment. Your heart pounded against your rib cage, the air leaving your lungs, and the sound of blood roaring in your ears. You looked down at the wood pattern of the table, not bearing to match their gazes.

“Yes,” you murmured. “They’re true.”

“Explain,” Mon Motha commanded coldly.

You took a deep breath, trying to tame your wild nerves.

“Well,” you began. “I never meant for my visa to get expired. It’s just that I’ve been so enthralled with my job and the Rebels, that it slipped my mind. Plus I only got one notice, a couple of days before the expiration date. Besides, it’s only been a few months-”

“A few months is long enough,” Bail sighed, rubbing his forehead. “If our rival, the Empire, gets a hold of this information they could destroy our credibility. Sponsors will pull out, attendance will dwindle, and the Rebels would cease to exist.”

“I’m so sorry,” you said. Tears threatened to spill from the anxiety that built up within you. You can’t cry now, not in front of all these people. “I’ve never meant for this to happen, and I didn’t think that it could hurt the team. I love this team!”

“We know, Y/N,” Mon Motha said. “But we need to take action before the media finds out.”

“Miss L/N,” a man said, gaining your attention. He looked clean and sleek, didn’t seem like the type to mess around or go out to have a drink with. “My name is Charles Anderson, the team’s attorney. I’ve analyzed your situation carefully and have came up with a few possible solutions.” You nodded your head, hanging on his every word. “Now, you could return to your country of origin and reside there until you have been cleared for a new visa.”

“Which is ridiculous,” Bail interceded. “We’ll need you for when the season starts and we won’t know when your new visa will be approved even if we pulled some strings-”

“Or,” Anderson said, rather loudly, cutting off Bail. “We can have you applied for a marriage license here so your spouse’s citizenship could protect you until either the season is over or you apply for citizenship yourself. Of course with this, you’ll have to apply within the next month or so.”

“But,” you interjected, trying to gather your thoughts and bearings. “I don’t have a boyfriend or anything. How can you expect me to meet someone and marry them within a month?”

“Actually,” Bail said, arching his eyebrow towards you with his hands clasped right in front of his face. “We were thinking that you’ll marry someone on the team.”

Your stomach twisted at that thought. For so long you didn’t want to cross the line between work and a personal relationship, but now it seemed you didn’t have a choice.

“What?” you asked, disbelief and shock gripping your mind and heart.

“Think about it,” Mon said. “We’ll get ahead of any allegations that the Empire might make. We’ll say you and a player on the team were having a private relationship and make it seem that you two have been together longer than a month. Plus, with the player’s popularity, nobody will even begin to question your status in the country, and even root for the marriage. You’ll be protected in the eyes of the public. Anderson will draw up a contract for the two of you to sign so that after a year or so, you guys can divorce without raising any eyebrows and you’ll be able to stay in the country.”

You heard every word, but after awhile, it sounded like you were underwater. Muffled noise mixed together into nonsense. You were still in shock. Married for a year to someone you didn’t know well? Plus you’ll have to make the marriage look believable. And then divorce? You never saw yourself getting married so soon, much less divorce. But this was your only viable option. What else could you do?

***

Cassian wiped off the remaining droplets of water off his chest as he stepped out of the shower room. A cold shower was something he needed after today’s rigorous training and how his thoughts of you slightly got away from him during it.

Cassian approached his designated locker and began to dress. He wanted to make sure he wasn’t sweaty and smelly before going to meet you for the after practice therapy session. Cassian watched as Bodhi took a seat at the bench in front of his locker. Cassian liked to think of Bodhi as his second in command when guiding the team on the field. Bodhi always followed orders even if he doubted himself at times. He’s a good teammate, as well as being one of Cassian’s best friends.

“So,” Bodhi began, running his towel through his wet hair. “Did you hear about Y/N?”

Cassian stopped his movements for a split second at the mention of your name. He kept his eyes trained on the locker wall, not wanting to look at Bodhi in effort to hide any indication of his feelings toward you. But Cassian had to admit, he was intrigued. Especially since there’s been an intern that was looking for you earlier that day.

“No,” Cassian said, leaving it at that for now.

“Well, I talked to that young intern... you know the one that disturbed our practice earlier? Anyways, apparently the team’s board had a sit down with Y/N.”

Cassian looked back at Bodhi upon hearing that. He tried to keep his voice steady, even if panic threatened to break through.

“What do you mean?”

“Apparently,” Bodhi said in a low voice just above a whisper, leaning on his forearms that rested on his knees so no one else could hear. “Y/N’s visa is expired, and the board is saying she has to marry someone quick so she can stay for the season.”

Cassian’s heart fell through his chest and landed on the floor, nearly breaking. Your visa expired? You were always so responsible, he couldn’t believe that a perfect person like you could be in a situation like this. He needed to see you.

Cassian rushed to put on the rest of his clothes, shoving his feet in his shoes before leaving the locker room, not saying another word to Bodhi. The only thing that he had on his mind was you.

***

Your head still ached, even after leaving that dreaded conference room. You wanted to go home, talk about this situation with Jyn, and wallow in your sadness until you fall asleep. But deep down, you didn’t want to go home, not yet at least. You still had your therapy session with Cassian. To be completely honest, you wanted to see him; as if he could solve everything with one simple smile. That’s what you needed, his smile.

As if he read your thoughts, Cassian walked into your office, a look of urgency traced in his eyes but quickly replaced with relief upon setting his gaze on you. You got up from your desk and approached the door to the exam room.

“Hey Cass,” you sighed, trying to hide anything that might give away your awful situation.

“Hi,” he replied nervously, which you decided not to look into.

You washed your hands as Cassian laid down on the exam table. You had him perform the usual exercises for his knees, the silence in the room deafening. It was a little more difficult to get him to cooperate today for some reason. You felt the tension build up in his knees, something that only ever happened to him when there was something bothering him. After three years of physical therapy, you could tell if there is something off. His words might say otherwise, but his body told the truth. You let out a sigh.

“What’s wrong, Cassian?” you asked, making eye contact with him.

“Nothing,” he replied, shaking his head before resting it on the table surface.

“Come on, Cass,” you urged, squeezing his knee gently. “I know there’s something on your mind.”

“Okay,” he said, taking a deep breath.

He did his final stretch before moving to get off the table. You turned around and approached the sink, washing your hands and preparing yourself to listen to what he has to say. Maybe he’s stressing about “the secret weapon” that the Empire supposedly has. Taking a paper towel, you turn back around to face him, wiping your hands dry before looking up to him.

Or down...

“Y/N L/N,” Cassian started, kneeling down on one knee. “Will you marry me?”

To be continued...

#cassian andor x reader #cassian andor #x reader #rogue one #star wars #diego luna #diego luna x reader #fanfic #series #sw #fluff #angst

78 notes · View notes

sondepoch · 5 years ago

Text

Chapter 2

Written in the Stars (Lucifer x Angel!Reader)

Four thousand years is a long time. In the absence of your most cherished friend, it feels even longer. But when a certain student exchange program in the Devildom reunites you and Lucifer, things aren't the same. Because four thousand years of separation is a long time. And the love you once felt for Lucifer has changed into something different—something forbidden. But that might not even be your biggest problem, because with each passing day, your holy wings are turning blacker and blacker.

MASTERLIST

Simeon knows everything about you.

Ever since Lucifer left, he became the angel in charge of taking care of you—and just like Lucifer, the role he took on wasn't that of a guardian, but one of a nurturer. He didn't isolate you from the world, or lock you up like the High Seraphs, but merely guided you as you continued to learn new things.

Simeon's only rule is that you never keep secrets from him: a rule you've taken to heart.

It was bad enough back in the Celestial Realm, when you would come home to your shared little residence in the clouds, endlessly talking on and on about whatever new things you'd discovered that day. But now? It's like the words can't stop coming, even if you want to stop.

"And Satan!" You rest your head on your hands, elbows propped up as you stare dreamily into the distance while Simeon continues making dinner. "He's such a character! He and Lucifer are so funny, they're always bickering! It's quite funny, actually, but it's endearing, too. I expected us to be more similar since we were both raised by Lucifer from birth, but he's really grown into his own. We only met today, but he already treats me like his little sister, and all the other brothers are just as kind and loving as when we knew them in the Celestial Realm."

Simeon gives an interested hum, a quiet indicator for you to continue.

"They've still changed a bit, though. Asmo wears makeup now, and it suits him so well! If I'm truthful, he may have grown even more beautiful after his fall. And would you believe that Belphie still carries around the pillow I gave him for his birthday? Oh, and Beel! Apparently, he's now the Avatar of Gluttony, and when he hugged me, I could feel his stomach grumble!"

Simeon pauses in his movements, chuckling lightly. "Beelzebub has always had quite the appetite."

"We should invite them over for dinner sometime!" You exclaim, eyes lighting up. The brothers had wanted you to stay with them for your first meal in the Devildom, but you couldn't leave Simeon and Luke alone, so you'd returned to Purgatory Hall. But the prospect of dining with your old friends is too tempting.

"I'll send a text to Lucifer," Simeon says, gesturing over to his D.D.D. "...As soon as I can figure out how to work this wretched device."

"Struggling?" You ask, laughing lightly. Even in the Celestial Realm, Simeon's always left the more advanced technologies to you. "I'll mention it to him tomorrow, don't worry about it."

"You're meeting Lucifer tomorrow?" Simeon asks, walking the various dishes he prepared over to the dining room. The dining table is enormous, large enough for a feast, but only you, Luke, and Simeon will be eating tonight. And the human, too, when they arrive tomorrow.

"Yeah. There's a lot that we skipped during the tour, so he wants to show me the way to all my classes in the morning." You plop yourself in a seat in the center of the table. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason, little lamb." Simeon wears a cryptic smile as he says the words, his expression so masked that you almost forget to scowl at the nickname.

"Come on, Simeon. Can't you call me something different, at least when we're down in the Devildom?" You cross your arms in a huff, still wondering why he insists on such a docile nickname for the holiest angel ever born.

"I haven't stopped calling you that in over four thousand years, why would I stop now?" Simeon ruffles your hair affectionately, ignoring your mock glare in lieu of calling Luke down for dinner. When the younger angel finally arrives, the three of you begin your meal: the very first since your arrival in the Devildom.

Once more, you open your mouth, an endless spew of word soup coming forth as you inform them of every last detail to your visit in the House of Lamentation: from the way Levi's hair has grown to the strange family dynamic between Mammon and Lucifer.

Even when dinner is over, and you're quietly going over a map of the Devildom, your thoughts are far away. Your eyes scan over the map Lucifer gave you, silently wondering which spots are his favorite. Does he like to go to Ristorante Six? Perhaps he favors Majolish? Or does Lucifer spend his nights close to home, watching over his brothers, like he did when you all lived in the Celestial Realm?

A dreamy smile crosses your lips, edged on by the thought of getting to spend a whole year with Lucifer.

You shouldn't be this happy, you know. One year is nothing. When thinking about the fact that you've spent four thousand without Lucifer, how does a single cycle of three hundred sixty-five days do any justice?

But the grin that blooms on your face at the thought of exploring the Devildom with your best friend can't be quelled by the knowledge that this isn't permanent. It doesn't matter that you'll have to leave soon. That these days will turn into wistful memories and that after this, you're saying goodbye to Lucifer for real. For eternity. None of that matters. Not when you have your best friend by your side, here and now.

Though is Lucifer really just your best friend?

You swallow, the thoughts you've been trying to push away suddenly surfacing in your mind. You recall everything from today: the kisses he laid across your forehead, the way he wrapped you up in such tight hugs, the quick and comfortable squeezes he gave your shoulder. As the demon did them today, they no longer felt as innocent. While you once would have considered actions brotherly, you can only think about what a gentleman Lucifer was being when he offered you his jacket.

Against your will, you feel your cheeks grow warmer at the thought.

His coat had smelled like him, not his cologne but actually him: the same subtle yet undeniable aroma of light that only the Morningstar, fallen or no, could carry.

You close your eyes, recalling how the jacket had still been warm when you'd worn it. It was almost as pleasant as the sensation of being wrapped up in one of his hugs. And, in truth, even the man's hugs felt somehow different: they weren't the hugs of a brother, but of a man.

You swallow nervously, grateful that a knock breaks you from your thoughts.

"Coming," You call, throwing the map onto your bed as you walk over to open the door. For a moment, you glance at your reflection in the mirror—you're in your angel form. But there's only one person who would knock on your door this late, right? And he won't mind seeing you like this. You pull the doorknob, a smile blooming on your face. "Already conducting a night check, Simeon?"

"Oh, hush." The angel laughs, entering the room after you gesture for him to do so. But whatever he calls this—"casual visits that just happen to be late at night," as he once told you—you know that they're the very same night checks that Lucifer used to conduct when he was taking care of you. Simeon is just a bit more subtle about it.

"I actually wanted to talk to you, you know? You seemed like you had a lot on your mind, even after talking nonstop at dinner."

You laugh. "Simeon, you and I both know that if you give me the chance, I'll talk for hours."

Simeon lets out another light chuckle, nodding his head as you flop onto your bed. He walks to the center of the room, where you'd discarded your Celestial silk cape, and lifts it up to fold it. "You told me everything about the brothers. About the pretty things you saw on your tour. About how much you think you're going to love it here." Simeon pauses. "But you still haven't told me the most important thing."

You stiffen, instantly knowing what the angel is talking about.

Simeon glances at you, eyes soft. "How did your reunion with Lucifer go?"

"It was..." You trail off, uncertain. Instinctively, you remember the one thing Simeon had made you promise when he became your guardian: no secrets. He had assured you that, in turn, there would be nothing he kept from you—but can you truly tell him about how your heart now beats faster around Lucifer? About how you had to avert your eyes from the proud demon's gaze, so that he wouldn't see the blush on your cheeks? About how these feelings in your heart are literal blasphemy, and you don't even feel guilty about it?

No.

You can't tell him that.

But you can't lie to him, either, so you settle for a half-truth.

"It was the most wonderful thing in the world, Simeon." You close your eyes, remembering how Lucifer had hugged you and how blissful it felt: like you could be wrapped up in his arms for the rest of your life and you wouldn't even mind. "It was like four thousand years hadn't passed at all. We hugged, and he showed me his demon form, and..." You remember how he had given you his jacket, how he had held your hand as he opened the doors to the House of Lamentation, how he had smiled at you differently when dropping you back off at Purgatory Hall. You're not imagining it, your friendship with the man really has changed. But you can't tell Simeon that. "And that's it."

"That's it?" The angel asks, voice amused. He approaches your bed, carefully sitting on the edge of it. "Heavens be falling, I've never heard you give such a brief explanation in my entire life!"

The way Simeon laughs is almost enough for you to stop thinking about Lucifer: about all the little moments, the lingering touches, the prolonged stares. But not enough. You force your gaze away from Simeon's, praying that the heat of your cheeks isn't visible, and maybe it isn't, because when you're finally looking at him again, his expression is only puzzled.

"MC?" He asks, eyebrows furrowed together in concern. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," You respond instantly, praying that Simeon doesn't press the subject. You can only avoid the truth with him; you'll never be able to lie if he asks you an outright question.

For a moment, his gaze lingers on you, the sapphire eyes flickering as a storm of sadness, frustration, and disappointment rages on within until they're crystal blue once more with the clarity of resignation.

It's almost as if he knows.

But then, whatever look in his eyes passes and he's smiling once more, teasing you as he ruffles your hair and murmurs, "Whatever you say, little lamb."

Sensing your light awkwardness, he moves on from the subject, though you're certain he wants to press it further. "Hm, it seems that you missed a spot on your wings."

"Huh?" You ask, arching your back as you lean backward to see what the man is talking about. "Where?"

Simeon taps on the center of your back, fingers drumming against the innermost feathers of your wings. "Right here: this patch is a little gray."

You groan, wondering how you missed the spot when you just bathed. "I'll get it in the morning when I shower," You mumble, flopping onto your pillow. "The Devildom is so hot, I'll probably have to shower two to three times each day, anyway."

"True," Simeon nods, sighing. "I'll leave you to sleep, then. Make sure you have breakfast before you go see Lucifer, alright?" He smiles at you before turning the lights off, the two of you exchanging quiet pleasantries of goodnight until your room is dark once more.

If you'd looked closer, you might have noticed the flash of distress that crosses Simeon's eyes right before he closes your door, biting his lip as his eyes skirt over your figure lying so peacefully in bed. You'd never be able to read his mind, to tell that he's worried over this blossoming relationship with Lucifer, and how it'll affect you when the time comes to leave; but perhaps it's for the best that you're unaware of his concern.

You roll over on the bed, staring up at the moonlight that floats into your room: the very same moon that watches over the human world, the Celestial Realm, and most importantly, Lucifer's own quarters.

Staring into the delicate light, you can't help but wonder whether he's also getting ready for bed, preparing to drift off. And as much as you want to force your thoughts away, onto a topic that won't go against everything you promised the High Seraphs, you can't.

You dream about the demon all night.

And when morning comes, and you're in the shower trying to look for the spot of grey on your wings that Simeon was talking about—for the love of God, you can't seem to find it though you know you saw it last night—you still can't pull your thoughts away from the ebony-haired demon. Even when you grumpily force a piece of Devildom toast down your mouth, all you can think about is Lucifer, Lucifer, Lucifer.

You huff.

Texting the very man who's taken the spotlight of your thoughts, you wait for him to respond, telling him that you're already outside Purgatory Hall. It takes all but two minutes for him to fly over to you, and when he does, you almost flinch at the raw frustration radiating off of him.

"MC!" He shouts, angrily glancing around to see if there are any other demons in the vicinity. There aren't, but he still drops his voice to a whisper. "What are you doing, walking around dressed like that?"

"This is the exact same thing I wore yesterday, Lucifer." You glance downward, wondering why the demon is being so dramatic. And then it dawns on you.

The Celestial cape.

"Yesterday, you were wearing a holy cloak." Lucifer closes his eye and pinches the furrowed spot between his eyebrows as you smile sheepishly in apology. You'd tried to wear the cloak, but it had been too heavy for you to properly clasp onto your outfit. Though, now that you think about how your skintight shirt borders on backless, and how the greater portion of your legs is exposed, it's understandable that Lucifer is irate. "Goodness, MC. You haven't changed a bit."

"Hey!" You protest, but the demon ignores you.

"You're no longer surrounded by angels. When demons see you dressed like this, they'll get thoughts and..and..." Lucifer gestures vaguely at your outfit, muttering something under his breath about desire and coveting, before regaining his composure. He swiftly removes his jacket. "Here, wear this for the time being."

You have to hide your blush as Lucifer stands behind you, holding the coat while you slip your arms inside. A true gentleman, you can't help but think as you bury your hands into the pockets. The familiar scent of light fills your nostrils, and you can't even complain that Lucifer is making you wear a jacket in this heat.

"Alright," You murmur, flashing a smile up at him once you're comfortable. The way Lucifer's ears pinken at the edges goes unnoticed by you, utterly unaware of how mesmerized he as he possessively takes in the sight of you, dressed in his clothing once more. "Shall we go?"

The demon nods stiffly, pulling out a copy of your schedule, already prepared to show you the direction to your first class. "Let's."

The day goes by smoothly like that: Lucifer shows you to all your classes, makes you show him the route you'll be taking to get to them, and then the two of you are exploring the rest of the facilities at the R.A.D.

"This is the southern water balloon fortress," Lucifer says with a sigh, showing you a literal fortress, reinforced with stone walls with built-in cannons and artillery.

"You have water balloon fortresses?" You ask, mouth agape. You twist a knob at the side, watching as it causes a corresponding hose to trickle out some water.

"Only two. They're for the annual water wars, which Levi somehow managed to establish. I still don't know how he managed to persuade Diavolo to agree to such a ridiculous idea, but he succeeded, and here we are."

You can't help but laugh at that.

You soon learn that the water balloon fortresses are only the beginning of the strange buildings that are part of the R.A.D. campus: there's a whole section of the forest dedicated to Capture the Flag, an indoor obstacle course (which looks more like a death trap than a mere obstacle, but you'll just avoid this place), at least eight different sports fields, and Lucifer still hasn't even covered half the map.

You groan, your feet tired from walking, tugging on Lucifer's sleeve. "Luciii," You murmur, using the nickname he resents to get his attention as you drag him to a bench. "Let's take a break."

"I thought you wanted to see our miniature amusement park?"

"Later," You mumble, all but flopping onto the bench. By now, it's well into the afternoon, and you're hot. How the rest of these students are managing to go by calmly while wearing such suffocating uniforms is something you do not know, but you either need to stop walking or take this jacket off. And Lucifer has made it clear that he doesn't want the jacket to come off. "It's too hot."

Lucifer sighs, running a hand through your hair as he sits on the bench next to you, ignoring the stares of passing students. "I'll text Simeon to bring your cloak, alright? It might be heavy, but it's still more breathable than this jacket."

You silently nod, comfortably leaning your body against Lucifer's while savoring the sensation of a cool wind. Slowly, the two of you start up a conversation once more, rising and dying with the breeze, until the topic of the human comes up.

"Why only is there only one human?" You ask. "There are three of us angels!"

"Yes," Lucifer sighs. "But angels are already conscious of the Devildom's existence. We had to select a human that was not only aware of the three realms, but one who was willing to come for the exchange program. What, did you think that I would simply pick an unsuspecting human at will and whisk them into the Devildom, not telling them anything and forcing them to remain here for a year while abandoning their human companions?"

"That sounds exactly like something you would do, Lucifer." You can't hide the smile from your words. Before he can return your quip, though, Simeon's voice interrupts the two of you.

"Little lamb, Lucifer!" Your eyes dart up instantly, meeting the smiling angel eyes you've grown so used to.

"Simeon," Lucifer greets, a pleasant smile on his face. "When was the last time we met? Three thousand years ago? Three thousand five hundred?"

"I'm afraid I don't remember," Simeon shakes his head. "But it's been too long."

You smile as you watch the two men reunite, briefly chuckling over old jokes as a pang hits your heart at the memory of how the High Seraphs had trusted Simeon, but never you, to visit Lucifer in the Devildom.

The feeling is short-lived, though, because in a moment, both men have turned their attention back onto you.

"I can't believe she actually left the house looking like this," Simeon chuckles, shifting the thick Celestial silk in his arms. Even he has to flex his muscles to hold its full weight in his arms, though he makes the action look effortless enough.

"Shush," You mumble, taking Lucifer's jacket off as you stand up. "I tried to wear the cloak on my own. It's not my fault."

The moment you're standing, Simeon has darted behind you, his body shielding your exposed back from onlooking demons while Lucifer hides your front. His fingers work quickly, clasping the familiar weight around your shoulders in mere seconds, and once your body is covered, you can feel the tension dissipate from both men's bodies.

"She's special," They say to each other in unison, before bursting into chuckles as they smile down at you. You're unsure whether the words are an insult or a compliment. You look up at them in confusion, watching as a look of understanding passes between your two guardians: past and present. You can sense the conversation in their eyes, the quiet thank you Lucifer gives Simeon, for looking over you in his absence and the returning no need for thanks from the angel as he insists that it's been no trouble.

"I trust I can take you to take care of her?" Simeon murmurs, patting your shoulder. "Luke and I are planning on baking a cake to welcome the new human to Purgatory Hall, and I have to fetch some ingredients."

Lucifer nods, lifting his jacket from the bench and wearing it. "Of course. I was planning on bringing her to the House of Lamentation soon after this, actually. There are just a few places left for me to show."

"All right," Simeon says, politely nodding his head as he takes his leave. "Enjoy your day!"

You and Lucifer smile as he waves you both goodbye, turning to each other once he's gone. "Hey Lucifer?" You try to activate your puppy dog eyes, praying that the demon is as susceptible to them now as he was four thousand years ago.

"What?" He mutters, tone flat. He can already sense the request looming on the tip of your tongue.

"Can we skip the rest of the tour and go straight to the House of Lamentation?" You see his face begin to fall, a refusal already rolling off his lips, when you grasp his hands before he can say anything. You give them a squeeze. "Please?"

The demon sighs, pinching the space between his eyebrows once more as he groans the familiar groan of defeat. Without even saying a word, your spirits are soaring, and you're readily pulling him off in the direction of his home.

The time passes quickly, from that moment and onward. Clocks seem to speed up when you're in the presence of the seven demon brothers, and you spend all afternoon laughing and messing around with them: you break up into teams to play hide-and-seek, you pile onto Belphie's bed in the attic, you play Mario Kart: Succubus Style, and you've nearly forgotten about returning to Purgatory Hall altogether until Luke finally sends you a text message. You groan at the sight of your lit-up D.D.D., knowing that it means your time with the brothers has come to a close, but you say your goodbyes regardless and promise to visit again tomorrow.

Just like yesterday, Lucifer walks you back to your dorm. The demon is stubbornly protective, a habit that's gone unbroken by these past four thousand years, and he refuses to leave your side even for the brief ten-minute walk. Still, Simeon thanks him for it.

"Ah, Lucifer!" The angel exclaims, just before the demon turns to leave. "Would you and your brothers like to come over for dinner sometime?"

The angel flashes a smile at you, recalling your request from the previous night.

"My brothers would definitely enjoy that." The edges of Lucifer's lips curl into a smile. "I hope you'll allow us to return the favor, once the deed is done?"

"With pleasure!" Simeon exclaims, laughing a little. "I'm sure Lord Diavolo will be pleased to hear of our realms getting along."

"I look forward to it," Lucifer says, nodding as he bids you both farewell.

Your smile remains bright for the rest of the night, your happiness only elevating as you're introduced to the human exchange student, Solomon. The human is apparently a sorcerer, and beyond his pretense of secrecy you can sense his immense magical power, indicative of a being who's lived much longer than however old the mage looks.

But you don't push it, simply introducing yourself while the four of you bond over dinner: the first of many. And then you all have the cake Luke made, which is so delicious that you can't help but hope, again, that this is also just the beginning of many more to come.

It's only when you're finally up in your room, stomach stuffed from dinner and dessert, angel form manifested once more in the privacy of locked doors, that the smile fades from your face.

"What in the heavens..." You mumble, eyes wide with shock, which morphs into horror fairly quickly.

Have you gone blind? Have you contracted a Devildom sickness which is causing you to hallucinate? A sick feeling settles in your stomach as you recall how Simeon had vaguely mentioned a "patch of gray" on your wings that you'd failed to get out.

But this is so much more than just a patch of grey.

You stare at the mirror in disbelief, flapping your wings once to test your vision.

This can't be happening. Right? Your eyesight must be deceiving you.

You rub your eyes, swallowing hard, desperately hoping that your vision will clear and that the sight in front of you will change, or that you'll suddenly wake up and realize that this is just a bad nightmare.

But as you blink in the mirror, wings now curling around your body in fear, you realize this is reality.

You swallow, staring at the feathers. They're no longer white and fluffy and soft.

They're blacker than the night sky.

With a quivering lip, you turn around to get a better view of the feathers, noting how the ones closest to your back are dark as ebony, the ones at the edges still retaining their ivory gleam, and the feathers in between forming a disgusting gradient from white to black; pure to tainted; holy to unholy.

Instinctively, your eyes dart up to your head to check if you have horns developing, but the top of your head looks flat. For now, your mind can't help but ominously add.

And that thought is too much for you, and the tears you've been fighting to hold back begin to fall as you stare holes into the mirror, into the wretched sight of you. You choke back a sob, forcing away thoughts as you try to wonder what monster of a creature you're becoming, with wings turning black, until you turn into your human form to hide from none other than yourself.

Twisted, isn't it?

With tears now pouring freely down your cheeks, you yank your door open. Your mind is shouting at you to stay put, go to bed, and try to forget about this. But there's only one person your heart wants to see, and when you're this disoriented, you don't have the mental capacity to hold back.

"MC?" Simeon asks as you storm past him in the hall. He catches your wrist, pulling you close and trying to comfort you like any guardian should, but it's not him you want right now. Curiosity and concern flash in his eyes as he gets a better look at your face. "MC! You're crying! For heaven's sake, what's the matter?"

But all you can manage to do is pull away with some pathetic excuse about having left something at the House of Lamentation, giving Simeon no chance to ask his questions as you sprint out of the doors.

You don't notice Simeon's sharp gaze as he watches you from a window, making sure you get to your destination safely. You don't see him sigh as he realizes, perhaps even before you do, that you've already fallen to temptation with Lucifer. You don't see his sad smile as he understands the blasphemy you've committed and all the further blasphemy you'll be willing to commit once you realize the extent of your feelings, but the angel knows.

And as your guardian, he will do everything in his power to ensure that your romance finds a happy ending, impossible as it sounds.

Though even he can't know just how complicated things are.

Like, for example, the fact that your wings have begun to turn black.

***

The House of Lamentation has never been livelier.

Not just today and yesterday, but ever since Satan's brothers learned that MC was one of the angels coming down from the Celestial Realm for Diavolo's student exchange program, everyone's been abuzz. Even Belphie relinquished his frustrations over the program at the prospect of seeing the angel who never fell with them.

But for Satan, he's never quite shared in their excitement.

According to Lucifer, when their Father had realized that Lucifer's wrath was great enough to give birth to Satan, he had immediately locked MC away, unwilling to let the firstborn or any of his siblings have the chance to taint her.

When Satan himself had analyzed the situation, he had suspected that their Father was trying to use MC as a bargaining chip, in hopes that Lucifer would blindly fall in line as long as it meant that he could be with the girl he had practically adopted as a sister, but communications had fallen through, and Lucifer hadn't even learned that MC was locked up by the High Seraphs until well into the rebellion.

And as such, Satan never had the pleasure of meeting the angel his siblings were always talking about.

But now?

A soft smile crosses Satan's lips as he recalls the memories of the day. You and he had teamed up to kick Mammon and Asmo's butts in Mario Kart: Succubus Style, and during the game of hide-and-seek, the two of you had hidden together on top of the chandelier. And though he's only had small chances like these, little instances to talk to you one-on-one, they've already been more than enough to make him understand why his brothers dote on you so.

The blonde stands and gazes at one of the artworks on the wall, a tall oil painting Lucifer had personally done of Lilith. Again, Satan had barely known the girl, a mere toddler by the time she died, but as he looks upon her now, her face seems to morph into yours: into a bright smile, with shining (e/c) eyes and flowing (h/c) hair.

Satan chuckles as Lucifer's face instantly pops up next to it, an instinctive visualization that he can't help. After all, the firstborn's affections for you are beyond obvious, though his halfwit brothers are too dense or self-absorbed to pick up on it. Much like how they've still failed to notice the lingering looks you cast Lucifer's way.

It's been quite amusing, actually, for Satan to watch while the two of you glance at each and frown to see the other absorbed in something else, never realizing that you both spend every spare moment either gazing at the other or pretending not to have been doing so.

The blonde chuckles.

He would tease Lucifer about it, if he weren't in such a good mood.

Satan continues walking, almost about to rise up the stairs that lead to his room, when a sudden banging at the front doors pulls him from his thoughts. A frown immediately spreads across his face, the blonde cursing to himself as he walks forward to open the mahogany entrance, ready to insult whatever madman is banging so furiously when the insult freezes on his tongue.

"M-MC?" He asks, somehow managing to catch you as you stumble forward into his arms. "Shit," He mumbles, realizing that you're crying. Not just that, but you're hysterical.

"I—I need—" Your words come out in chokes, your body too deprived of breath from sprinting here and then your subsequent sobbing to be able to speak properly.

"Shh," Satan mumbles, stroking your hair. "Speak slowly. What do you need?" Satan has never heard his voice sound as gentle and soft as it sounds now, but he can't even bring himself to care.

"Lu-Lucifer," You choke out, your body still shaking in his arms, and he can't help but wonder what has gotten you so frantic.

But he won't ask, and the moment he hears your request, he's pulling you down the hall into the firstborn demon's study.

Only a single cry can be heard in the house as Satan kicks open the door, his own expression frantic with concern:

"Lucifer!"

MASTERLIST

Word count: 5.5k

Notes: this week has been rOuGh >.> on a separate note, though, im hella hyped for the next chapter because we get to hear the tea about mc and lucifer's past :D ngl, i spent more time thinking about the history for this fic than anything else and im eXcItED

Comment & Like

Next Update: 5/26/20

I do not own the rights to Obey Me! or any of the characters within it.

221 notes · View notes

colehasapen · 4 years ago

Text

(ONE SHOT) kyr'yc STAR WARS

Kix had been frozen for fifty years.

Everything he had loved, everything he had fought for - it was all gone. Everything had been destroyed because Kix had failed. He had failed Fives, failed Jesse and Rec - he had failed the Republic and the Jedi, and now it had all been ruined. His brothers had been brainwashed and killed all the while Kix slept on in stasis, unaware of it all happening, not even knowing that he wasn’t still sleeping in his office, desperately following the trail Fives had left behind and being driven mad by it.

He must not have been careful enough, because he had been taken before he could bring his information to the High Generals. Taken and frozen and lost for fifty years.

He’s the last clone alive. He had missed Rex by almost thirty years - Rex who, according to records, had lived beyond the fall of the Republic and the slaughter of the Jedi. Rex had survived to be an old man and had helped the Rebellion overthrow the Empire. He had died in his sleep almost thirty years ago, believing himself to be the last, and unaware that Kix had been stolen and frozen the whole time. Rex had died as an old man, and Kix was alone before he had even been aware of it.

Kix moves through life in a haze after he wakes up, untethered and alone and without a reason to continue on, but still he moves, unable to stop. He’s living in a galaxy not his own, lost and trying to find anything that could make him feel whole again. He’s a clone alone in a galaxy that never wanted him, without the brothers that had surrounded him from the moment he had been decanted. Even when he was lonely, he had never been alone, but now - now he has nothing and no one.

Clones were never never made to be alone; they were made to operate in teams, they were designed to work in cohesive units. They never coped well by themselves, it was something even the Kaminoans had known, and had stopped forcing them into solitary after the massive rise in suicides that they had had to deal with. Clones preferred death to being alone, they fell into depressive, self-destructive spirals if removed from their networks, and the massive number of deaths that had followed the introduction of one-man survival missions had convinced even the Kaminoans to stop separating clones from each other when it had gotten too costly.

It’s hard, not eating his own blaster now, especially on bad days when he wants nothing more than to go see his brothers once more. He sees Rex and Jesse when he closes his eyes, he hears Hardcase’s laugh, Fives’ voice, and Echo’s bad jokes. He imagines sitting in their bunkroom on the Resolute, eating snacks that Jesse had smuggled onto the ship, watching Dogma braid Tup’s long hair while Jesse and Hardcase wrestle at his feet and Fives and Echo bicker about the most ridiculous of subjects. Rex would have watched from a distance, needing to keep up the image of their strict Captain, but eventually they’d manage to wheedle him into joining them. They would sleep in a clone pile, surrounded by warmth and brothers and the feeling of safety and home. Kix would always wake up alone though, reality sinking in once more, and - Force, he wants that again.

He wants to be surrounded by his brothers again, to be with people who understand him on levels no one else does. But he can never do it, not matter how much he wants to. He can’t bring himself to pull the trigger because he sees Coric’s sad eyes every time they’d have to lie on another form after another body had been found with a hole through their heads, he sees Rex’s desperation as he talks brothers away from the edge. He remembers Fives’ shaking hands after Lola Sayu when they’d had to wrestle a syringe out of his grasp, and the broken, wailing noises he’d made afterwards.

They’d want Kix to keep moving, so that’s what he does. He stays with Ithano and his crew for a time, enjoying wild jaunts across the Galaxy hunting for treasure and adventure, but he doesn’t stay with the pirates and they don’t force him to. He drifts for a time, and gets lost once or twice. He finds the remains of the 332nd’s crashed ship and cries in front of Jesse’s grave, holding the cracked, weathered helmet in his hands as if it were his brother, apologizing to the thousands of beings he had failed and the brothers who had died because of him. He doesn’t want to imagine Jesse’s last moments, but it’s hard not to when he sees the jagged cracks in the helmet Jesse had oh-so lovingly painted after making it to ARC, promising to do Fives’ memory proud. He would have been forcibly turned against their Captain and Commander because Kix had failed to honour Fives’ last request. He would have died when the ship went down, and Kix hopes it was on impact. He hopes Jesse hadn’t been in too much pain.

Kix keeps moving, he owes that much to his brothers. He continues living for them, and when he hears of a wanna-be Empire trying to gain a foothold in the Galaxy, Kix goes to the Resistance. No one recognizes him as a clone, not as a relic of an age long past, instead he’s just Kix, a combat medic who wants to help. He knows how to fight and is a good teacher for anyone Command throws at him, and the Resistance needs whoever they can take.

He flourishes in war - he would have never thought he’d miss having to stitch people back together, but somehow he had. Kix is a clone, he had been made to fight. It gives him a purpose again, to protect the New Republic.

It also gives him the chance to build a new network.

Kix finds a young man in the medical bay one night as he finishes some paperwork for General Organa, and the kid who had been supposed to be heavily drugged stirs. He’s young with dark skin and doe eyes that remind Kix of his youngest brothers after their first battles, wearing a pair of loose sleep pants and a back-full of bacta wraps. He’s trying to sit up in the bed, struggling against the wires and machines around him as he gasps through his panic.

Kix is at his side within seconds, carefully taking the boy by his shoulder, avoiding the thick bandages around his torso, “Hey, no. Stay down kid.” He advises, and large dark eyes turn to him in surprise and groggy confusion. “My name is Kix, I’m a Resistance medic. You’re safe.” He soothes.

“I - the - Starkiller base?” He croaks, and Kix tilts his head, offering the boy a comforting smile that doesn’t feel as fake as it normally does.

“Destroyed, kid.”

The young man lets out a breath of relief, and lets Kix push him back into the bed to lay on his stomach once more, “That’s good.” He murmurs, before alarm sparks in his eyes again. “Rey?”

“Well,” Kix starts, moving to fuss with the kid’s bandages so that he could inspect the injury. “We don’t have any casualty reports on a Rey, so I can say that they’re not in the medbay.” The boy relaxes, “You, on the other hand, have been in bacta for the last week and a half.” He finally manages to wrestle the wrappings off of the kid, and he lets out a shocked hiss at the sight of the massive injury twisting across his spine. “How did you get a lightsaber burn?” He demands - there hadn’t been any notes about lightsaber burns in any files he had read. But then again, who the hell would know what they were looking at with the Jedi reduced to nothing but a legend and a scary story to tell misbehaving children.

The young man blinks lethargically, the cocktail of drugs in his system probably taking effect again with the drop of his adrenaline levels. “Tried to fight Kylo Ren.” He grunts, “Lost.”

“Got some balls on you then. But that was a stupid thing to do” He had seen what lightsabers could do - he had stared at brothers hacked apart too often not to. “You’re lucky to be alive, kid.”

“Not a kid.” The kid mumbles, watching sleepily as Kix starts reapplying bacta to the wound. His cheek is smushed into the pillow, much like how Tup had once slept, his short curls a mess that reminded Kix way too much of Dogma’s before the younger trooper managed to slick it back in the morning.

It makes his heart hurt to look at him, but it’s nice to see his brothers somewhere in this messed up Galaxy.

Kix shakes himself, letting out a sardonic snort, “Well, you haven’t exactly told me your name, kid.”

He pouts sleepily, enough Fives in his expression that it aches, “FN-2187.”

Kix freezes, horror washing over him and a sick feeling in his stomach; he thought there wouldn’t be anymore children with numbers instead of names with the destruction of Kamino, but apparently that was too much to hope for. The kid - because Kix can’t even bring himself to call another person by a number, not again - flinches under his hands, like he was bracing for a blow.

If there was even more of a reason to hate Imperials, Kix was looking at it.

Dark eyes dart away from him nervously, and the kid licks his lips. “Finn.” He says quietly, a little desperate, “My name is Finn. And I’m not a number.”

Kix swallows. He stills the shaking in his hands and keeps working, “It’s nice to meet you, Finn.” He tells him honestly, and watches, a little heartbroken, as shock blooms in Finn’s wide eyes. “I’m CT-6116, but my name is Kix.” Finn’s breath catches, “I’m not a number either.”

“You’re like me.” Finn whispers in awe, voice cracking. “I’m not alone.”

“Not anymore, vod’ika.” Kix promises, throat thick and eyes burning, and he means it.

Finn wouldn’t be alone, not if he had anything to say about it.

#cole writes #fanfiction #star wars #whumptober 2020 #no.20 toto i have a feeling we're not in kansas anymore #clone trooper kix #finn (star wars)

22 notes · View notes

springbudeyes · 4 years ago

Text

Part One

As far as you know, you’re on the leading edge of time. No one has gone farther into the future than where you stand. No one knows what's next. Isn’t that paralyzing? How do you move with the knowledge that nothing you do has been tested? Sure, the past gives some data, but how do you really know that space itself won’t unravel with your next step? In fact, it’s a miracle that it hasn’t. On the other hand, you’re a pioneer. How could you not move, given this golden opportunity? You’re at war with yourself, grinding your gears. How could you move? How could you not? Courage, then panic. Withdrawal, then guilt. Maybe, you suppose, you’re a terrible person simply for shrinking from the catastrophe of existence. Or maybe it’s common sense, you rationalize. How could anyone made of anything but tempered steel contend with a world like this?

You start noticing people. Among thousands, you find exceptions. He did it. She did it. How? Why? Was it greed? Blind ambition? Unshakeable confidence? Where’d they get it? How can you get it? Long ago, you had something of the sort. You were a child with great potential. Your parents said so. Then your body grew and you became an adult with the mind of a child. Your mind was supposed to grow with your body. What happened? You torture yourself, sifting through memories. You still have the spark. The potential is there, but it’s rotten and you’re not sure you can heal the infection before the precious bud is destroyed. You don’t know how to nurse it back to health and make it bloom before life gets the better of you. Life is nothing like you expected. People are cruel. Even small setbacks hurt more than they should. Year after year, they hurt worse. Has anyone ever healed themselves before? Well, sure. You’ve heard the stories of down-and-out people getting back on their feet, despite having every reason to lie down and die. Such people are blessed, you assume. They must have gotten a revelation from God. So why haven’t you? Or maybe – it dawns on you – they just had the grit to gut out the climb. That’s a thought you don’t like to entertain. Is your goal even worth that much Hell? You start to question your goal. How clear was it to begin with? Compared to all the other children, how prodigious were you, really? Compared to the millions of competent adults around you, how qualified can you possibly be? Why should the world want what you have to offer when there are so many who can do a similar thing, better? You know enough to say, “a similar thing,” not “the same thing.” You know the rarity of your gift. Even so, what does it matter? Who needs your uniqueness when there are better uniquenesses? You can think of a handful of people whose lives you’ve affected. Maybe some good will come from it. Stones dropped in ponds make ripples. In that light, maybe you’ve already done everything you need to do. But you’re alive. You’re still in your body and you still feel that spark, that bud nestled in your soul. You have an obligation to serve it. You have a job to do. So you do it, begrudgingly. You’re a nihilist wearing a mask of optimism. You do the work and it comes out hollow. It comes out rotten at times. You know why. You don’t tell them why. You pretend you’re advancing. You pretend you’re getting closer to the goal, to freedom, to recovery. That’s as far as you’ve gotten. You’re still waiting on that revelation. The mountain is too high to climb, so you’re going to need wings. Nonetheless, you keep hiking, ducking into every shelter, sometimes resting too long. While the sun shines, you lie in bed, gestating. By the time you’re ready, the storms have rolled in. You pace, restless. You’ve missed the opening. This is how it goes. You’re wasting valuable time. Time, that thing you’re on the leading edge of. You can’t come back from it and you can’t see past it. Time carries you and all existence on its breeching wave, a wave that will soon crash to shore. And everything will go quiet. Maybe that’s what you want. Quiet. A bed of sand, a lapping tide. It never gets old, the thought of ending it all. You could. You’d have every right to do so. You’d merely be putting an end to the wait. You really are a nihilist. But you keep climbing, holding out for that revelation, praying to be proven wrong. Then, something happens. A person who has received a ripple of your work sends a playful splash in your direction. You join hands under the sun. You talk of everything that went wrong and everything that went right. Time marches on. Your job doesn’t get easier, but now you have a fellow spark to encourage. You feel something changing. It’s hard to say if you’re healing or getting worse. Some days you swear your body could give out. Others, you think you could leap to the moon. Your friend informs you that they’ve peered inside your chest. You ask them what they’ve seen. It’s your spark, they say. From all the filth and grime, a single white petal has emerged. You never would have known. It’s almost as if your friend has seen the future. You have a new job. You have to figure out what you did to make that petal appear. Was it simply the arrival of your friend? Do you need more friends? You try it, but you've already seen where that leads. Only a certain kind of soul can reach you. Maybe something pushed aside the grime, eased the inflammation, and made way for growth. Maybe it was that long train of conversations. Maybe, in particular, it was the discussion of what went wrong. You ask your friend what else they see. They see darkness. They see sin. You’ve hurt others and yourself. You’re not just a victim. You’re a perpetrator, an accomplice. You’re responsible. You’re responsible. For what? Surely not everything. You can’t bear the consequence of every evil act you’ve committed. That’s too much for anyone to bear. But now, others have to carry it instead. The thought of it adds weight to your daily toil. So how do you make up for this? There’s a whole world of hurt below the mountain. You stop climbing. You descend back into the valley and embark on a journey of apologies. When you’ve made all the mends you can – or at least, all you’re willing to – you’re left with the damage to yourself. That, of all your sins, will be the hardest to forgive. You assess the situation. How much time, precisely, have you lost? How many years have you cut off your life? How many months, days, hours, and minutes are you currently squandering? What relationships should you have kept? What promises should you not have broken? What leads should you have pursued? What doors should you have left closed? What battles should you have fought and what battles should you have allowed yourself to lose? Why did you shirk responsibility, leaving it all heaped up for this wretched moment? How did you become the rotten grown-up child that you are? Your revelation has arrived and it’s not pretty. Perhaps, now, you have something of a lens to your past. It’s murky and chipped, but it’s the best you’re going to get between you and your observant companion. If you wanted, you could write an autobiography, but how pretentious would that be? Anyway, now what? Since you’ve twisted up your life beyond repair, why not go through with that idea that never gets old? Your friend squeezes your hand and reminds you of the ripples that led them to you. The mountain still waits, they say, and you still have power left in your stride. Why not see how high the two of you can go together? You feel weak and ashamed. What if you didn’t have an ally to go the distance with you? Some don’t. What about them? What will they do? They might be alone because of you. Who are you to rise? Who are you to be satisfied? If you do turn your back on the valley and climb higher than ever before, who’s to say some vengeful ghost won’t take the opening, split you down the middle, and feed your corpse to the world? You haven’t left too many of those, you hope. Whether by tragedy or malevolence, you couldn’t bear to fail. You relive that fear of space unraveling. If you could see the future and know the time and place of your dream’s demise, the wait might be easier. You could prepare. Perhaps you could change fate. And if you could see triumph at the peak, you would sprint straight upslope. You would move, if only you could see. The best foresight you have is in the eyes of your friend, who knows you better than you know yourself. Again, you bare your chest and ask them what they see. The petal has been swallowed by a snake. You can’t believe what you’ve heard. Days later, you start to feel it. Not just in your soul, but in your body, something is deeply wrong. The rot spreads. Illness creeps in. Day after day you succumb to fatigue, anxiety, and despair. “What is the snake?” you ask. Is it karma coming back to bite you? Were your sins too great to be absolved? Your friend says it’s simpler. You’ve spent too long in the world below. There is a system by which all living beings operate. Behavioral psychologists call it the dominance hierarchy. Every creature is placed on a rung in a social ladder. A counter in your brain, older than humanity itself, detects which rung you’re on. If you’re on the bottom, the counter knows and makes you suffer. The longer you spend there, the worse it gets. Your pain grows especially acute when the gap between your desired position and your current standing is wide. Like a psychological pregnancy, the greater the dream, the greater the agony until the dream is born into reality. When the pain passes a certain threshold, your spirit will begin to eat itself alive. The gap between your dream and reality couldn’t be wider. There’s a whole Heaven of possibilities you haven’t tapped. Until you reach the peak of that mountain, there will be no respite for your soul. That’s what you conclude, for now.

#self-reflection #tw suicude #writing #inspiration #depression #mental health #friendship #relationships #goals #i love you #story #short story #motivation #psychology

7 notes · View notes

himbowelsh · 4 years ago

Text

gene / renée, “things we said when we were happiest”

2400+ words

“snowflakes in the honey-drenched breeze”

After the war — after Bastogne — Eugene would be happy to never see another snowfall.

Thankfully, in Bayou Chene, a dozen things are more likely to fall out of the sky, starting with rain and ending with a hail of frogs. No snow down here to force a chill into your bones, even in the chilliest months. Nothing freezes down here — so he tells Renée, handing her a glass of lemonade with an apologetic wince. The sorry excuses for ice cubes clink in the glass, dancing in the pink liquid. If Renée minds, she doesn’t say a word. Instead, the corners of her lips tug back in a muted smile, and she pulls the drink close to her chest.

“It is beautiful,” she declares, for the fifth time since getting here. “Such a beautiful place.”

Bastogne must be beautiful too, at the right time of year. In her letters, Renée described the forests in full bloom, a canopy of green and gold stretching high into the air. She and her sisters used to have picnics there, eating cakes from the local bakery and picking wildflowers to bring home to their mother. The way she wrote, Gene could almost see it; his memories of the forest are nothing like the fairytale playground Renée once knew, but it’s nice to imagine it a different way. In another time, another world, he thinks, things could have been different.

In another world, Renée wouldn’t have been driven to run as soon as the weather turned cold, fleeing across an entire ocean just to escape Belgium’s chill. Gene wouldn’t have received warning just two days before she arrived, and been left to scramble to make things hospitable. They wouldn’t both greet each other at the train station for the first time in a year, awkward in spite of the letters they’ve been exchanging through the war and its end.

Then again, in another life, Gene might’ve never met Renée at all. He certainly wouldn’t be sitting here with her now, watching the Louisiana air turn her cheeks pink, or summon droplets of sweat to her brow.

Her hair is curled in a style he recognizes, but has never seen on her; she has it done up in pins instead of a scarf now. Even weeks of travel couldn’t ruffle her. This was the same woman who held steady as the town around her was being shelled to hell and back; of course she wouldn’t be daunted by a long journey. Renée shines brighter now than he ever remembers before, even when she was a glowing light in the pitch darkness of Bastogne. Her eyes are more animated than they used to be. Her smile isn’t so tired at the edges. She doesn’t wear grief like a familiar shawl, separating her from the rest of the world.

Actually, she’s wearing lipstick.

In a lot of ways, Gene is sitting across from a stranger. He’s never seen this woman before, not without blood under her fingernails and exhaustion shadowing her face. Even so, it feels like he’s known Renée forever.

“Your home is beautiful,” Renée declares, breaking the comfortable silence between them. When she glances over her shoulder, her curls bounce. “When you described it to me, I didn’t imagine somewhere so...”

“Small?” Gene tries.

The corners or her mouth twitch. “Cozy.”

It’s a small house on the edge of the bayou, not too far from his family home... but far enough to give Gene the space he needs. Moving back in with the family was good for a few weeks... then it slowly became unbearable. He couldn’t handle his mother’s pity, his siblings well-meaning questions, his father’s understanding — that was the worst part, because Papa survived his own war. Of course he knows. But he doesn’t at the same time, because he didn’t live Normandy or Bastogne... and no one who wasn’t there can ever truly understand.

As the curtain between lived and unlived, memories and reality, grew more transparent with each passing day, Gene was seized with his own urge to run. He found an old house half-collapsing into the bayou, and bought it cheap with the promise of fixing it up. He’s always been good with his hands, after all... and having a project to focus on helped the open wounds scar over, much as putting distance between himself and anyone who wanted to poke at them did.

Gene’s house is comfortable and private, but definitely ain’t charming. If she wanted, Renée could easily find a better hotel in town. When Gene suggested it, she turned her nose up at the idea.

“Why would I do that when I’ve come here to see you? To stay with you?” she demanded. In the middle of the Lafayette train station, they drew looks from curious passersby— either at Renée’s shocked voice or her pristine European French. When she realized that he wasn’t joking, the surprise faded from her face, replaced by fond exasperation. “You mustn’t be silly, Eugene. After all you’ve written about your house, would you really not let me see it?”

As Gene’s Maman would say, he made his own bed. Now, he’s got to lie on the floor, because Renée’s the guest, and she gets the only bed in the house.

None of that seems to matter now, though, with the bayou’s nightlife slowly stirring awake around them. To Gene, the symphony is familiar as an old friend; he could time his pulse with the bugs’ chirping, and the soft sounds of water rippling a ways away barely register as background noise. To Renée, though, it’s all new. He watches her drink it all in, blue eyes wide; one hand braces on the wooden porch rail as she leans forward in her seat, nearly spilling her drink. She peers into the darkening forests around them, as though trying to make out the source of each noise and rustle. Gene knows better — for his own piece of mind — but Renée doesn’t think like a native. To her, Gene’s world is foreign, maybe a little frightening… but nothing about the brightness in her eyes, or the soft huff of laughter on her lips, suggests she’s daunted.

“It must be so difficult to feel alone here,” she declares after a long silence. “The world is alive here. As though… it knows you, and wants to keep you company.”

The Bois Jacques’ deathly silence still rings in Gene’s ears. He’ll take the bayou’s racket any day.

“Knows you too,” he says, deciding to humor her. “Or wants to know you, at least. Think the crickets are putting on a special show tonight, just cause you’re here.”

Renée laughs, soft and bright. Her eyes flutter shut, head dipping. In the dimming light, she still manages to glow like a firefly. Gene couldn't look away if he tried.

“It’s so beautiful,” she declares again, slumping back in her seat. While not a man to turn down a compliment to his home any day, this is the sixth time Renée’s said it. The Bayou’s beautiful in its own way, sure... but Gene can’t help wondering if she’s really talking about it.

“Can I ask you—” he starts, cutting off when she turns to look at him. The words die in his throat. She’s happier than he’s ever seen her. To take that smile from her lips, that brightness from her eyes, might kill him.

Renée notices his hesitation, of course. “Anything,” she says softly, coral lips caressing the word. Gene swallows past a dry throat.

“Can I ask... why you came all this way?” Before she can answer, he rushes on. “There’s a thousand warmer places closer to home. Why here?”

To his relief, Renée’s light doesn’t dim. She keeps her gaze trained on him, weighing the question for a long moment. Her fingers graze the hem of her skirt, making the fabric ripple. When she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, Gene fights the irrational urge to take her hand.

“You’re here,” she finally says, and turns back to the bayou.

As though it’s really that simple. Gene can’t think past it. For a moment, it’s hard to even breathe. Why me? he wants to ask. Why, out of everyone else on earth, everyone else who can’t help loving you? Why’d you come across the ocean just to visit me?

Sitting still is more than he can bear. Gene springs to his feet, turning to the open doorway. A heavy mosquito net blocks the inside from the out, but the screen will let sound through. That’s his only thought as he slips inside, fumbling for the cheap radio on his hall table. Fill the silence somehow, some way.

A melody fills the hall — something with plenty of strings, and a woman crooning in a velvety mezzo tone. Some love song or other. Gene’s never paid much attention to them before, not enough to name this one offhand, but something about the longing in this woman’s voice gives him pause before he can flick the dial to something different.

When he turns back around, Renée is watching him. She’s swiveled, arm braced against the back of Gene’s deck chair; a smile plays on her lips. “Music, too?”

“You didn’t want the hotel,” Gene replies. “Might as well give you the whole hotel experience.”

“Will you have waiters serving champagne next? Or a chandelier put up in your living room?”

“I think the hotels in Lafayette are a lot different than where you come from.”

She’s on the verge of laughing as she rises from her seat. Renée pauses in the doorway, watching him with those kind, clever eyes. Against the twilight, she cuts a dark silhouette, fading at the edges like something out of a dream. When she steps forward, Gene doesn’t know what to expect.

“Dance with me,” she says, reaching for his hand.

The words reverberate in Gene’s head. They bounce off the sides like a bullet in a steel drum, from French to English and back again, as though a different language will make them make more sense. Danse avec moi. Can he? Should he?

The choice isn’t left up to him. Renée’s hand catches his, fingers lacing together… and some instinct Gene didn’t even know he had stirs to life. His hand finds her waist, gently pulling her closer; their feet fall into rhythm, not daring tread upon each other, as they begin to gently sway to the rhythm.

No one in their right mind would call Eugene Roe a dancer. It’s not his first time dancing with a woman… but never alone, never in the middle of his own foyer.

He knows where all the creaky floorboards are, knows the part of the carpet that’s always rumpled and easy to trip over. These dangers, he guides Renée smoothly past. It’s more than he could do for her in Bastogne. There, they could only press light bandages of sympathy over each others’ wounds, stemming the blood flow for a short time. Here — in Gene’s home, with the air sweet on their tongues and warm against their skin — he can do so much more. He can look after her, keep her safe from that chill… and as Gene’s head lowers, enough for his temple to brush against Renée’s own, it’s all he wants to do.

“Eugene…” She murmurs his name like a prayer. He exhales against her neck, ruffling the golden hairs settled there. Renée shudders in his arms, as though she’s caught an old chill, and Eugene unconsciously pulls her closer.

“I am so happy,” she whispers. “Being here with you… it is like remembering how to breathe again. Since the war’s end…”

Her hand has found a place on the back of his neck, fingers playing with his collar. Every so often, they tease the side of Gene’s jaw, and his nerves spark and shiver. “It’s like trying to relearn something that used to come easy,” he affirms, for he understands — he’s felt it too. “Like there’s a weight on your chest, and it’ll crush you if you let it…”

“But it’s gone now,” she sighs. “For the first time, it’s gone. I can breathe.”

Gene inhales, and all he tastes is her. Renée’s perfume, Renée’s presence — like lavender in the summer, sweet and soothing. When she lowers her head against his shoulder, he feels each breath exhaled against him. They continue to sway in the middle of Gene’s foyer; their shadows, backlit against the fading twilight, look like a single being, instead of two people joined together. I could stay like this forever, Agnew realizes, an odd thrill coursing through his veins. It’s the first time he’s felt like this since the war, and maybe before it too — the first time he’s ever understood what peace means, and how precious it is to have and hold. He never wants to let it go.

He never wants to let her go. To lose her now… after everything… dieu au-dessus, he couldn’t stand it.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs against her ear. Renée shifts against him, pulling back just enough to regard him quizzically. The word is her own, but Gene certainly isn't echoing it now in regards to his own home.

“What is?”

A smile tugs at Gene’s lips. Renée catches it, and understanding dawns across her face... followed by a grin that lights up the room, warming Gene up from the inside out.

“You have a beautiful soul, Eugene Roe.”

“You—“ He cuts himself off, a blush taking over his cheeks — not helped by the way Renée’s grin grows. Never before has he wanted to say so many things, or had so few words to say them. Every emotion trapped within his chest flutters like a mercurial thing, flickering between one state of existence and another. If he could put voice to at least one of them, all the rest would surely come… like a flood, rushing out with no hope of stopping the flow. The idea terrifies him.

Instead, Gene only exhales and shakes his head, his own grin tugging at his lips. “I’m happy you’re here,” he says. “Happier than I’ve been… for as long as I can remember.”

When Renée leans in, it’s easier than dancing, easier than breathing. Her soft sigh rings in his ears, even as their lips find each other. Gene’s heart picks up a new rhythm in his chest.

Some churning emotion turns to stone inside of him. Finally, it’s tangible. He can feel it. He knows it, as well as he knows the back of his own hand, or the taste of Renée’s mouth.

Beautiful, he thinks. Yeah, sure is.

#renee lemaire #eugene roe #band of brothers #hbo war #my writing #gene/renee #told you i'd get to it anon!!!

13 notes · View notes

everlarkficexchange · 5 years ago

Text

Unmasked ~ Twenty-Two

Written by: ~ M ~

Prompt #88

Rating: E (Explicit) This fic will contain consensual sexual content; mild language; discussions of injuries, illness, and amputations in a historical setting; discussions of miscarriage; discussions of minor character suicide; references to non consensual sexual situations; minor character death.

My thanks to the moderators of @everlarkficexchange for always running an entertaining event, and for playing along with a little fun and mystery.

Dear readers, we continue with our game. I thank you for allowing me to write and share with you from behind a mask, for embracing this story wholeheartedly despite not knowing my identity. Remember, learn my name, you must use the clues in each chapter starting with 21 until the end to hunt for a word in the text of each chapter itself. Gather the words, hold onto them, for they will provide the final clue to the puzzle.

Please enjoy the twenty-second chapter of this adventure. I apologize for the length of this one, but it could not be helped. Previous installments can be found here. Regards,

~ M ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~ Chapter 22 ~~

Miss Everdeen,

I cannot even pretend to understand what you must be feeling right now. I am certain none of it is charitable towards myself nor towards my relations, and I could not fault you for thinking so. I can only apologise a thousand times and hope that given time, your thoughts and feelings towards me might change, might soften perhaps.

I scarcely know what to write, an unusual predicament for me. I so rarely lose my way in words and yet today, I stumble through them like a fog, flounder in waves of them which I could not hope to swim.

“Oh these are lovely,” I say softly, grasping several beautiful, vibrant orange dahlias by their stems, lifting them from the basket Mrs. Walters, our gardner, brought in earlier. Tonight is the final evening of the Harvest Festival. The sun shines still, though it now begins to sink inexorably towards the horizon, eventually to drop out of sight and bringing the day to a close, having warmed the earth for most of the day and yet making no progress in drying the land of the rain that doused it for the past day and a half.

I am swimming, swimming, swimming in months old words and move the flowers through the air, slowly towards the ivy crown in my lap. I imagine the petals of the blooms parting the cool, clear waters of the words I have now memorised, I read them so many times this afternoon.

Your distaste today at the idea of marrying me was quite evident, although perhaps not unsurprising. Yet I hope to change that, to convince you that I am not a monster and am perhaps someone who could be worthy of your regard at least. I do not expect to do so with this letter. I can only hope that it is a start.

Perhaps I may be a bastard by birth, but I endeavor to live my life in such a way that I am not one in behaviour, in actions. Sometimes, I fail, most grievously. I failed several nights ago.

Madge laughs, twisting the stem of a pink flower through the ivy in her hands and showing the work to Maysilee. Prim helps Delly with twisting her own length of ivy into a crown. It is a custom to wear such flower crowns on the last day of the Harvest Festival at Everdeen. I had almost forgotten about it until Madge had asked. Now we sit on the verandah, a circle of ladies seated around us, our dresses soft islands of colors with flowers and bits of green strewn between us.

If you are reading this, then it means I have already made my confession and you know, or rather I have at least told you, that it was not Robert you met at the masquerade but me, the lowly bastard son who then proceeded to prove himself to be one indeed.

I console myself that what I did, I did to protect my brother, and indeed that is true…to a degree. For some time now, the Marquis has been after Robert to marry – someone, anyone, so long as she were acceptable in the Marquis’ eye. He feared his youngest son becoming an itinerant bachelor and leaving the line only to Ethan to continue. You know already of Henry and Angelica’s plans to only adopt children, and of Ethan’s large number of daughters and single son. What you may perhaps be unaware of is that Ethan has already announced their intent to have no more children. As a bastard, I do not count, which leaves Robert responsible for the spares.

How cold and terrible we must seem to you, my sire already planning out your future, and you would be right to feel such fury. The Marquis, in all his infinite kindness, saw fit to lay some of the blame for Robert’s elopement at your feet. He had such hopes that you might snare his son and then when you did not…well he arrogantly assumed the fault must lie with you rather than his own precious son, where it belongs.

Six orange dahlias adorn my crown. Six bright blooms of irrepressible hope. My mind accepts that the recent weather may make a return home impossible for Peeta. The post did not even arrive as expected today. And yet…I hope. He promised me, and while I would not wish him to come to harm in keeping his promise, I desperately hope he is able to do so safely.

In some ways I wonder if The Marquis almost meant to punish us both in forcing the issue. You for not securing Robert’s undying love, me for not seeing the superficial nature of his interest in you. I’ve no way of proving it so I shall let it go and endeavor to make the best of the situation in which we find ourselves.

You already know that I myself had reservations about Robert courting you. My primary misgiving being that his affections seemed stronger than yours. You are already aware of my concern that you selected him for his purse.

Here I must confess my motives to be already muddled, before you even so much as smiled at me that night. I believed his courtship of you to be real. I believed him to be falling in love with you. I believed it with great conviction until the moment his valet confessed to Robert’s whereabouts. Although the poor man did not know with whom Robert had eloped, I had my suspicions. We all did, and it turned out that we were correct. But that night, before I knew for certain, I could not help but wonder…had my perceptions of my brother been so wrong? Had my own interest in you hindered my ability to discern his feelings? Or had he eloped with you? We could not be certain and needed to ascertain the truth.

I arrived at the ball that night, intending only to converse with you, if you were even present, to distract you long enough to make you believe Robert still in town rather than already several hours on his way to Northwest Panem, and then to leave you. In that way, it was hoped that you could not cry foul before we could recover him, bring him home, and convince him to honor instead his courtship of you…or we would know that he had eloped with you, which while not the ideal wedding the Marquis had in mind, would be better, to his way of thinking, than the alternative.

I did not wish my brother humiliated and cut off from the family. I wished him happy, and if he were eloping with the person I suspected to be his partner… then I was no longer certain that I wished to stop him, for both their sakes. I knew them to be in love once, for many years. Perhaps I had been mistaken about his feelings and he was in love with her still. If not, I hoped that perhaps both of you had been taken with love for one another and chose to elope. Foolish, perhaps, but at least then you would not be hurt. In this way, my motives were at least in some part altruistic.

I sit in a chair as Mary brushes through my hair and asks how I wish it styled for the night.

“Unbound,” I tell her and she smiles.

“Like a pagan goddess of old,” she says with a nod. “You glow like I expect one of them might. Mr. Mellark will be knocked clear off his feet when he sees you.”

I relax into the brush strokes and swim in the words, letting myself sink into their depth. I do not ask her which Mr. Mellark she means, for there is only one who matters.

But that does not change the fact that I was partially dreading seeing you but more so…hoping to see you. If my motives were at least partly altruistic, there were parts of them that were not, that were utterly selfish.

Prior to the masquerade, I had believed your feelings towards my brother to be rather tepid and based more in finance than the heart. My own feelings were more complicated and so I had chosen to ignore them, perhaps to my own detriment. I convinced myself of the wholeness of my motives when in fact… they were not. I found myself almost hoping that Robert had truly eloped with his longtime love…perhaps then he might have a chance at a loving marriage and I might have a chance to spend more time in your presence without conflicting emotions of protecting Robert and being enchanted by you. Without him present to necessitate my lurking in the shadows unwanted.

This knowledge will likely do nothing to soothe the sting you yourself must be feeling today. I apologise if I seem callous, I mean only to explain why this happened, in the hopes that one day it will be enough to help you heal from whatever wounds my brother and I have caused you.

“There,” Mary declares, stepping back so that we both might admire her work in the mirror. My unbound hair falls in gentle waves over my shoulders and back. She has braided two small sections from my temples to the back of my head, then woven those together, a means of keeping my hair from my face. “Beautiful. Now for your dress.”

I stand from my seat and lift my arms to don the dress she holds for me. We work together to arrange fabric and layers until I am satisfied and able to slide my arms into the snug sleeves. This dress laces in the back and so I stand still as she works.

One part of me wished only to serve as a distraction, a shield for my brother until he could return to you. And the other part of me… the other part of me recalled the swift wit of your words as you sat distressed in the mud, the worried response of your household when you were safely returned, the clear way everyone around you admired and cared for you, and the pert way your nose turned up when you sneered at me and reminded me of my manners. The spark of your spirit and the fire in your eyes. That part of me which remembered the bite of pepper in tea, the proud defenses of a woman forced into a less than ideal situation, but who would not be cowed by it, and the grace with which she set about attempting to determine her own fate as much as possible…that part of me which could not forget you nor the way I felt in your presence had been odious and admittedly envious of his own brother, for that brother was able to court you when I wished to and could not.

Although as the masquerade continued, I began to suspect his feelings for you to be significantly less than what I had previously thought, and yours for him to be more. I found myself facing a new, and perhaps in many ways worse conundrum. Now I faced the likelihood that I was complicit in your broken heart and shattered hopes, a possibility that now seems confirmed in your reaction to our betrothal.

A true bastard at last.

The final touch is placed upon my head. A woven crown of green ivy and orange dahlias. Turning towards the mirror to examine the effect of my appearance, I laugh as Prim and Madge and Maysilee make sounds of appreciation from the sofa where they have crowded, all awaiting the completion of my toilet apparently.

“Should you not be getting dressed?” I ask and they shake their heads.

“Pointless.”

“You outshine the stars, Katniss.”

“And you will surely outshine all of us.”

Maysilee agrees that I am beautiful, declaring that my smile is made of the stars.

I scold them ineffectually, for I am smiling like a loon, and send them scurrying, all of them giggling like girls. Then I take one more look in the glass, hands flat on my stomach as I caress over my belly. Nerves and pregnancy sickness turn my insides to crashing waves and roiling surf, yet I cannot help but think that somehow, this would have happened anyways.

Then the worst thing happened. You smiled at me. Flirted, and it was like a crack of thunder across my skull. Somewhere between your fan on my chest as you scolded me for being late and the garden steps, I lost my way completely. I lost my way in your eyes and your smile and forgot my reason for being there. I meant to pretend to be Robert, to lie to you, to keep myself distant through a mask of pretend identity… and then I forgot how. I forgot even my reason for being there with you.

I could not now distinguish for you which moments during that night I consciously attempted to emulate my brother and which moments I forgot entirely what I was about other than simply enjoying the company of an extraordinary and exquisite person. And Katniss…you are extraordinary and exquisite. If I had any hope of escaping your effect, it was destroyed that night.

I forgot to guard my own heart and selfishly took pleasure in the freedom of wearing a mask. That night, I gave of myself, safely hidden from you. Only myself set before you with my brother’s name as a shield from your censure, and I enjoyed the freedom to act around you as I had long wished to, as well as enjoyed your response to me immensely. I convinced myself even as you opened to me that I acted as a man besotted with you and courting you would do, and you gave so willingly and openly of yourself. I could not bring myself to turn away from you. For the first time in my life, that night, I was glad to be a near twin copy of Robert.

Until your simple remark informing me that my brother had proposed to you only that morning brought me straight back to reality and condemnation. I was reminded of the true nature of our connection. The impossibility of it because I had misled you, and my brother had already proposed to you, which I had no knowledge of until you told me, then fled with another. I was reminded that anything I believed I saw in your eyes, heard in your voice, or felt in your kiss, was not meant for me. And still, bastard that I am, I claimed one last kiss for myself, though it may console you to know that I regret that last kiss far more than the others, for it was truly false.

None of what I told you that evening, however, was an intentional falsehood, save for my allowing you to continue believing me to be my brother. In no way do I expect my honesty now to absolve me of my perfidy then. It is all so confusing even to me that I expect it shall make me appear even more loathsome in your eyes, but I am willing to pay the price of my actions. Indeed I already have begun to do so…

The evening air grows chill and I am grateful for the heavy stockings I chose for tonight, the woolen dress and the thick shawl tied about my shoulders. I order torches lit, lining the lane and the courtyard, flanking the stable doors. The recent rains make both fires and Peeta’s return unlikely, and yet… I have hope. Should he manage to return, I would have his way home illuminated, clear in the night. I gaze down the lane, empty and shadowed but glowing with warmth. I imagine it beckoning him home, to Everdeen, to me.

When the task is done, I join the festivities, standing on the fringes and letting my eyes roam over the heads of those already assembled.

There is laughter and music, dancing and food piled high on trenchers. The refreshments slowly dwindle as the day progresses into night. Casks of cider and of ale are emptied and replaced with fresh ones.

… For the way you looked at me that night, the way you spoke to me… it was how I have always imagined a lady in love or one who has just begun to fall in love to look. It was something I craved to a frightening amount, and from you, it was heaven to me.

But it was not meant for me to even see, certainly not for me to receive. You laid your heart out for the man you believed yourself engaged to, and I did not correct your misconceptions. I was a thief that night, and it was all that I could have wished for. You drew me in deeper until I was drowning in my lies and your lips, with no will to end it. My weakness, my fault, and it is now my burden to bear how selfishly I accepted what I desired from you, encouraged you to give more, when none of it was mine to receive. In receiving it under such false circumstances, I know I may lose every chance to truly deserve that very look I so crave from you.

Jo partners with a buxom widow and sends us a lascivious wink. Sir Robert obliges every woman and girl left lingering unpartnered. He even manages to dance with his wife several times. She smiles prettily and surprisingly has him laughing with great mirth. Perhaps they will sort out whatever issues plague their own marriage. For Delly’s sake, I hope they do.

I stand along the fringes of the crowd, laughing with Madge, with my sister, even with Delly as we observe the dancing between their own partnered turns about the floor. It is a constant tide, an ever changing sea of faces. While the three of them are swept into the dance repeatedly, I decline all offers. My partner has not yet arrived.

And yet… I have hope. I will do everything in my power to deserve your regard. I will wait, whether you read this letter and answer it or not. I will endure whatever lectures you aim at me, for I truly deserve them. The mending of your heart need come first before there can be so much as a drop of trust between us. I understand this, and so I will wait. I will wait, and I will hope to see that expression in your eyes again one day, meant for me this time, with no lies or masks between us. I already know that it will be worth every second of the wait.

Yours,

~Peeta~

At first reading, his letter gave rise to such boiling fury. Yet it passed within a blink, leaving me clutching the letter and reliving the past with new eyes. Not quite nostalgia nor longing but rather, a sort of acceptance. He cannot change the Marquis or Robert. He cannot change the past, nor can I, but we can affect our future together in the choices we now make. I choose now to not allow the past to poison our future.

I wish to stretch the day into an unending bow of orange, to give my husband more time to return to me. The sun cares not for my wishes. It persists in sinking from the sky. The last of the light fades. Maysilee and many of the other children are sent to bed, protesting the whole way that they are not tired, begging for one more treat or one more dance.

With night upon us, I clap along to the songs, smiling at Madge when she returns from seeing Maysilee put to bed. She partners with Jo and laughs joyously. The night wears on, inexorable towards midnight. But with each dance that ends and brings no sign of Peeta, the more I worry. It grows late and dark, the roads that are questionable in the light, are treacherous at night.

“The night grows late,” Sir Robert says, standing beside me and echoing my own thoughts, offering a mug steaming with cider. A peace offering, perhaps, or an acknowledgment of what we share right now, worry for someone we both love. For Peeta.

“Thank you,” I murmur and accept the mug. It cannot hurt to be polite, although I am still leery of him.

“You do not dance, Mrs. Mellark?”

“I do, if there is an agreeable partner.”

“You wait for my brother,” he says. I drink my cider and hope my cheeks do not reveal my blush. Am I so transparent then? Perhaps it is the orange flowers in my hair, or perhaps how my eyes are continually drawn in the direction of the house and stables, where Peeta would be coming from. “He may not return tonight.”

“I can wait. It will be worth every second of the wait.”

“Perhaps, but even if he does return tonight…he does not dance. Not since…” Not since he lost his leg. I lift my chin and stubbornly ignore Sir Robert’s words. For I know that as long as the conditions are right, Peeta can and does in fact dance. He will dance with me.

“I cannot abide a lady sitting idle when there is dancing to be done.” I mutter a protest as Sir Robert removes the mug from my hand. I reach for its warmth and instead find my fingers within the grasp of his gloved hand. With a broad smile, he pulls me onto the floor. I’ve no idea where my cider disappeared to, and rather resent his presumptions.

He twirls me once, into line with the other women. Leevy Webster smiles at me and comments on what a fine night it is for dancing.

“Yes,” I agree, wondering how rude it would be to storm from the line right now, but the music starts and I’ve no choice but to dance. I attempt to scowl at Sir Robert and remain above all of it.

I nearly succeed.

But the laughter about me as I progress through the steps proves infectious. I am smiling by the end of the dance, although ready to make excuses.

“I insist, Mrs. Mellark! At least finish the set. You should enjoy the evening and the company of so many happy tenants,” Sir Robert declares. “Surely your husband would not wish you to deny yourself such simple pleasures on his account!” The music precludes any argument as the dancers change partners and the music begins anew.

We dance, and before I know what is happening, I am enjoying myself. Sir Robert is relentless in spreading cheer, it would seem. When the dance finishes, he insists I stay for another with a new partner. Then another.

“The last for me,” I tell him when he once more claims me as his partner and he concedes.

“Only because you are smiling at last, Mrs. Mellark.”

It is a rather vigorous dance this time, with much bouncing on our toes and changing of partners, spinning about until I am breathless and dizzy. A strange darkening occurs on the edges of my vision. I lose my balance right at the end. Sir Robert catches me and Madge hurries over as the last notes fade, met with applause.

“Here, come sit,” Madge urges and guides me through the crowds.

“Is she alright?” Sir Robert asks. I hear other murmurs and Madge sending Leevy to fetch my mother.

“I am fine,” I insist. A cold glass is handed to me and I am ordered to drink. I sip slowly as my heart rate returns to normal and my head ceases to spin. “Is that expected?”

“Not unheard of, darling,” Mother whispers and brushes back some of my hair.

“No more dancing then,” I say to scattered chuckles. At least not for me. The music plays on, and other couples dance. Someone requests Madge as a partner and I insist she go. Mother leaves, needed by someone else, only after assuring herself that I am no longer dizzy. I finish my cold cider and hand over my cup to be cleaned.

My father sits with me for a few minutes and while I am glad of his company, a melancholy still creeps in. He takes my hand in his and does not offer platitudes, only offers silent companionship and understanding. His acceptance of my fears, the fact that he does not dismiss them, makes them more manageable. So when he kisses my temple and is drawn to the floor with my mother again, I am able to happily let him go.

So happy they are, my parents. So in love, even after all their years together, a finely tuned pairing as they move and act in easy harmony. Like the winds and the currents.

As the hour draws close to midnight, I wander through the crowd and am overcome with a need for quiet, for a moment alone. The stables, I decide and make my way up the slight hill to their warmth, snatching two apples from the trestle tables as I go. I have been neglecting Sagittaria.

The torches cast a cheery glow about the stables. As soon as I enter, Sagittaria huffs and comes to her door, lifting her head over it and whickering at me.

“Yes, my darling, I know,” I say and present her treat. She huffs into my palm but accepts the apple. I murmur to her as she eats. “It is inconvenient, this being with child, everyone concerned for me. You would not throw me, would you my darling? Just a short ride would do us both a bit of good.”

She snorts and I sigh.

“Except your mother would have my hide. Then yours. Then Sagittaria’s, and if anything were left of any of us…” I turn slightly at the sound of Jo’s voice. She brushes the coat of a nag used often for chores around the farm. Of course I haven’t got the stables all to myself. I should have known better than to come here, although I wonder at her working so late rather than enjoying the festival.

An equine nose pushes against my arm and I turn towards the gentle brown eyes staring at me expectantly, almost accusingly.

“Oh Cicero, no need to stare at me so. I brought a second,” I say and produce the second apple. “In truth it was meant for Diablo but we shan’t tell him. I like you better anyways,” I whisper and run my hand over his dappled coat, up and down his nose, between his brows and then up to his mane between his ears as he munches. Johanna coughs and I gasp, spinning as soon as Cicero has finished his treat.

“Why did you not say something?”

“It was amusing to see how long it would take you to figure it out, Kitten.”

“Where is he?” I ask, and wonder that I did not see him at the festival. Why he did not come to me. Cicero has been cared for and safely stabled which tells me he has been home for some time.

“Oh that information has a price.”

“Johanna!”

“He’s with that dandified prat of a brother of his and neither of them seemed too happy to see one another, if you catch my meaning–”

“The point!” I shout.

“I can’t leave this poor nag untended to eavesdrop on them, but I want to know if and how Peeta has finally let his brother have it.”

“Done,” I agree without thinking it over.

He is home. Here, safe, with me. Finally. And that is all I care about right now. In a moment I will be in his arms. I can see his smile, hear his laugh. Oh heavens, I will be able to kiss him.

“They were headed towards the house,” Johanna says, the words barely out of her mouth before I break into a run. A mad dash across the courtyard. Into the house as I shout his name to no answer. Our rooms are dark and unoccupied, almost eerie. The drapes dance in the cool autumn breeze from the open window. Embers glow in the grate, the only source of light, and fresh wood stands sentry, ready to become a hearty blaze when someone returns. But there is no sign of Peeta.

Confused, I return downstairs. Perhaps he wished a bath before joining me. Yes, that must be it. He wanted to refresh himself after a long journey. I slide through the kitchens on my way to the bathing room, halting when I hear the murmur of voices coming from outside. I move towards the door leading into the vegetable and herb garden meant for the kitchen staff’s use. Two torches glow on either side of the door, turning the glass in the windows to prisms of midnight and orange, a macabre dance as I pause with my hand on the lever, finally able to distinguish the raised voices.

“You are complaining? What could you possibly complain about?” Sir Robert asks.

“You caused a mess, and I was left to patch it up!” Peeta answers, true anger in his voice.

“Please. You’ve no room to complain. You’ve somehow come out of this whole mess smelling like a rose. Everyone on this estate thinks the sun shines out your ass.” My hand flies up to my mouth at Robert’s coarse language and embittered tone.

“Again, you caused this mess. At least accept responsibility for your actions–”

“I am not asking much!”

“Ask the Marquis. You were always quite skilled at charming both funds and forgiveness from him.”

“Father has refused. Repeatedly. So have Ethan and Henry. My charms seem to have run out with them. You are all I have left, Peeta.”

“So you crawl here to beg as a last resort.”

“It is not as though you are struggling. Peeta, please. We are brothers. You suffer, I suffer with you, remember?”

“That agreement has always been lopsided.”

“Not by my fault, it hasn’t! You never complained about it before!”

I shift my position, closer to the window, dangerously close. A heavy sigh reaches my ear and through the fractured light, I finally see him. My heart hammers in answer. Air rushes in and out of my lungs as I gasp silently for it. I remove my hand from my mouth, for it makes my breathing louder.

He looks tired but well. His hair is windblown and wild, his cheeks and ears scorched red by the cool autumn wind. He wears no hat and I cannot see down past his shoulders. Despite all that, despite the unfamiliar grim expression on his face, I would know him anywhere. I now know what Delly meant when she said she could always tell the difference. I drink him in, even the stern look on his face, the livid clench of his jaw. “Fine.”

“Thank you,” Robert says with great relief. “Truly, it is a relief to know I can still, always rely on you. It has been terrible! Exiled up north with nothing to do for months, no diversions or entertainments, not so much as a race track for a bit of sport. Then being summoned back home with no notice. Dresses cost a fortune, did you know, and Delly had nothing suitable to meet Father and Mother as my wife. I had to see her completely made over! Father lecturing me at every chance and ordering me about like I am still a school boy. Mother has been worse than Father, if you can believe that, crying every time I walk into a room as though I were dead, not married. Oh and Father is pissed beyond reason with you. He thinks you are avoiding him.”

“How intuitive of him,” Peeta sneers. “I am avoiding him.”

“You’ve got to show your face there sometime. But I digress. De Vale became insufferable. We had to leave, but there is only so long one can impose upon friends. And I promised Delly to send Elijah to school in England, if I could, which I can’t. I’d no idea how much it would cost! You’ve no idea what it’s been like, not knowing where the next meal comes from or if we shall even have a roof over our heads for the winter, always depending on someone else’s charity. She can barely find any work with all the jaunting about the country we’ve had to do. All the while, you sit here on your fat happy farm with your lovely wife, all comfortable and warm, so I can see why you avoid home, but it can only last so long. I swear this is the only time I’ll beg money from you and… Peeta?”

He stops speaking and I already know why. Robert’s words so carelessly uttered. A dark shadow has fallen across Peeta’s face, because it is Robert who has no idea.

“You think I’ve no idea what that’s like? Being poor? Cast out of my home? Starving? Desperate? Bounced from one temporary residence to the next? Depending on the charity and goodwill of another.” He says the last two – charity and goodwill – as though the words taste foul. Perhaps they do. Perhaps they were made to taste foul by his own kin.

“Well…” Robert fumbles and Peeta silences him with a shake of his head.

“We share features, Robert. A sire, a date of birth separated by two years. Not a history, not our childhoods. I come from a different life than you. What the hell do you think life was like in that year for me? For my mother?”

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry, I just…forgot.” Robert tries to laugh it off, but the sound is rather hollow.

“Forgot? Christ. I suppose you forgot that you proposed marriage to Katniss only that morning when you chose to elope with Delly that very same day. How did you plan on keeping two wives if you cannot even manage the one?”

“Are we back to that then?” Robert moans and heaves a great sigh. Peeta begins to pace as they trade rapid barbs.

“We never finished with that.”

“Are you not the one always telling me to follow my heart?”

“That was when I thought you had a decent one!”

“Delly still loves me at least. It can’t be all bad.”

“For the moment. She’s optimistic, not stupid. Eventually you’ll cock that up too.”

“Now you sound like Father.” Even I shrink from the words, knowing they are the worst insult Robert could fling at Peeta.

“As much as it pains me to admit it, the old wanker can’t always be wrong, now can he? You ran off with her and left another waiting for you.”

“You benefitted! Why are you complaining?”

“Because you broke her heart!” I gasp and snap my mouth shut, sitting silent and stunned. Faint sounds of the festival hover in the silence. Peeta cannot believe that.

Robert clearly does not, but then…he already knows. He laughs with no mirth and they shift so that now I see his face instead of Peeta’s. “Where the devil did you get that idea?”

“From Katniss,” Peeta says, sounding defeated and I shake my head. Words of denial fill my throat, and I hold them tight within.

“Really? Do we speak of the same Katniss? The one who informed me that she did not seek love, just a financially secure marriage with a halfway decent man. Not even a title, she swore. Just the security that matrimony could bring. Not exactly words to swoon over, and yet I proposed anyways–”

“And then eloped.”

“Yes, well–”

“Why even propose?” Peeta asks something I am suddenly very curious about myself.

“I was getting desperate!”

“For what? Surely not Katniss. You would have stayed, had that been the case!”

“For Delly! She stopped answering my letters!”

I nearly fall over. He couldn’t possibly mean what I think he does. No one is that selfish, that obtuse. And here I thought to perhaps forgive him.

“You proposed to Katniss to make Delly jealous.”

“Yes. No… Perhaps.”

“Which one is it?”

“Come on now, man. Father was up my ass to get married already. It was a last ditch effort. Marrying Katniss was not such a terrifying prospect. It would not have been a travesty if I had. She was desperate herself, just as you had warned me. She would have the funds and security she sought, I’d have Father off my back… And if it brought Dells around instead–”

“You’re despicable.”

“I told you I was desperate. I was not thinking clearly!”

“Fucking hell. Then at least make it worthwhile. You caused a nightmare. Why wouldn’t you at least withdraw the announcement before you left with Delly? It had to be you. No one else would have run that drivel and called it romantic.”

“Withdraw the…? Oh shite. I forgot.”

“You forgot? You forgot that too? You careless piece of–”

I blush at the curse words that pour from Peeta’s mouth then. Oh my. I suppose it is not entirely surprising. The man did spend several years as a soldier, and at some point he lived on the streets with his mother. Their words now fly fast and thick, nearly overlapping one another and making their voices difficult to distinguish.

“How could you play so loose with the hearts and feelings of others? Have you no shame at all?”

“Would you cease lecturing me?”

“I will not! You are in need of a good lecture! Damn I wish for some of your forgetfulness! I wish I could forget we were related!”

“You don’t mean that. What’s really up your arse?”

“I wish I could forget the look of devastation on Katniss’ face when she found out you had eloped, and not with her! I wish I could forget that she was in love with you and may very well still be! No thanks to you, prancing and flirting with her tonight!”

“Now you’re mad! Stark raving mad! What made you think she loved me? I told you it was to be a cold, contract marriage.”

“The way she acted and looked at me – at you – at the masquerade. How could she be truly happy with the bastard when she could have had you? How am I supposed to earn her love…with you popping up to remind her of what she lost!”

For a moment they are silent, and I am grateful for the respite. I can piece it all together now. Peeta’s reluctance in so many instances, the meaning in his letter the day we were betrothed, his insistence on a courtship even after we were married. His reluctance to see his family. How many reasons he had for such things to begin with, and now I add another.

He thought me in love at the masquerade… with Robert.

Foolish man. Foolish, idiotic, wonderful man. Doesn’t he know my heart beats for him? He gave me such space and time to mend my broken heart which was never truly broken, only perhaps bruised. He waited every step to ensure that I was ready. Why then did he not meet me at the festival and dance with me as promised? How could he possibly think I harbor feelings for Robert after all that Peeta and I have endured together, grown together?

Because he saw me dancing with Robert and fear overruled reason. The truth is much like a slap to the cheek. Peeta hides behind it now like a mask, unable to see the truth of what lays before him. Very well then. I will help him to see what he cannot.

“Oh so that is what Ethan meant!” Robert exclaims with a wide smile and a shake of his head. “You finally took advantage, did you? How did it feel to be me?”

“Shut up. Go dance with your own damn wife, Robert.”

“You’re an ass, brother. You ought to be thanking me, but you’re too stubborn and morose to see just how lucky you are.”

I have heard enough. I move back to the door and deliberately make noise in opening it. I step into the cool autumn air and the warm torchlight, standing on the wide stone step that leads into the garden. Peeta’s face registers shock, then fear. His anger fades away as both men bow to me.

“There you are, husband! Jo thought you were headed to the house. I’d nearly called out a search party.”

“Too little room for tempers in there, and now this garden grows stifling,” Robert says and moves to leave. “Brother, I think I shall take your advice, go dance with my own damn wife.” Then he smiles at me, a piercing look in his eyes as he once more gives me a slight bow. “Mrs. Mellark, my apologies for my coarse language. I bid you good evening.”

We stand in silence, listening to Robert’s retreating footsteps on the muddy paths. Peeta swallows and I lift one eyebrow at him. I let my eyes drag over his form, devouring the sight of him from his windswept hair to his broad shoulders and unbuttoned waistcoat. His muddy trousers and boots. The satchel he clings to that must have traveled tied to the back of his saddle and contain only his necessities. He looks wonderful and so handsome and somehow like he has been through hell in one night.

“You are nearly late and you still owe me a dance, husband. Are you to make a habit of this?”

“The bridge over Nine Willows River was washed out,” he explains.

“That at least explains why the post did not arrive. You however, look as though you waded through it.”

“I rather did.” At this, I scowl, anger rising up in me. “I did not wish to drag mud through the house. Thought I would enter through this door to mitigate as much of the mess as possible.”

“You think I care about the mud? I am more concerned that you would endanger your life so.”

“The kitchens are not so dangerous.”

“But fording a river is. You could have been killed! And what of Cicero? He would follow you!”

“Katniss… I am tired. It has been an exhausting couple of weeks and I have been riding since sunrise. I thought to stop at the inn at Seam, but I promised you I would be here tonight.”

“And you think a nearly kept promise would console me had you died?”

“As long as you had a body to bury, then technically I would have kept my promise,” he says.

“I do not think a corpse counts! And besides that, what would I do with a corpse? I certainly could not dance with one!”

“Bury it then dance on the grave.” He moves to leave the garden, to step around me into the house. He will not escape so easily. I block his retreat. My fingers spread on his chest. His heart beats steadily against my palm.

“We are not done discussing this, stubborn, obstinate–”

“Bastard?” he finishes and halts, gives me a wry smile. My fingers curl in his shirt, grasping hold of the damp linen. “One day, I would like someone to come up with a more creative name to call me.”

“Well at the moment it fits, since you chose to stand in the muddy garden instead of what you ought to have been doing,” I accuse and he runs a hand through his hair. Oh how I long to do the same. “Not greeting your wife and allowing me to tell you all that has transpired in your absence, acting as though we were married two weeks ago rather than several months, talking corpses and fighting with your brother when you should have been dancing with me.”

Panic invades his face and he pales.

“How do you know we were fighting? How much did you hear?”

“Enough.” Really, the man is being daft and I’ve about had enough of it.

“Enough? Enough for what?” He steps back away from me, my grip on his shirt forcing my arm to extend.

“Enough to know that you have several foolish notions in your brain that I need disabuse you of, and you are on the verge of ruining our reunion. I had quite a good time imagining it, too.”

“Did you? Pray tell how did you imagine it would go? Because this is not how I imagined it either.”

I follow his retreat, stepping off of the stone and into the mud. I grasp hold of his coat lapels and pull him down towards me, standing on my toes to reach his lips. Only my feet slip in the mud and Peeta moves to catch me. He tosses aside his satchel then he too loses his footing and for a moment, we fumble and slide.

He falls on his back on the muddy path. I land heavily on his chest, a tangle of limbs and a loud squelch of mud. Twin gasps escape us and then a moment of stunned silence. It would appear I am still an utter wreck when it comes to kissing my husband.

“Not quite like that,” I grumble and a laugh escapes his lips. He stifles it quickly. But I have hope. His laughter hands it back to me as I notice the faint circles under his eyes. He is as tired as I, and that can affect one’s thinking, one’s perceptions.

Peeta holds tight to my arms and opens his mouth, probably to ask if I am alright because he is thoughtful like that when really, he ought to be kissing me instead of seeing to my welfare.

I bring my lips to his. He attempts to stop me, to speak, and I do not relent. Not until he releases a shuddering breath and his body melts beneath me, warm and solid and so very real. I feel the tension leaving his body as I kiss him. I feel it leaving mine, and then I’ve no need to relent to anything save the feelings inside me.

My eyes are shut and my pulse leaping in affirmation the second his skin touches mine. His hand caresses my cheek. He is chilled. So cold from his journey home to me and right now, I wish nothing more than to be the fire that warms and welcomes him home. And it feels so very right, near perfect, even with the mud now seeping into my clothes, or perhaps especially because of it.

There’s a rumbled moan of desire in his chest, then a sigh. I slide my hands up, up and inside the warmth beneath his coat. I wish to be rid of the layers between us but content myself with grasping tight to his shirt and do not let go. His lips slide beneath mine as he answers my kiss, returns it to me deepened and polished and perfect, a pearl in the moonlight. His cool fingers caress my neck then burrow into my unbound locks.

There is laughter and shouting on the cool night air. I lift my head from his, holding myself suspended with my eyes shut and his fingers massaging my scalp, grasping my dress, my name a whispered kiss of warm and loving wind between us.

“More like that,” I murmur and find the courage to open my eyes, to find him smiling at me.

“Only upright?”

“And with perhaps a bit less mud,” I say and he laughs, the sound deep and wonderful and inviting me into laughter with him.

“Katniss… we should…”

“Yes?” I say and shift my knees to straddle him.

“Return you to the festival,” he whispers.

“Must we?” I sigh and let my body turn limp. I rest my ear on his chest, where I know I will hear his heart, thumping steadily against my cheek. I close my eyes and absorb the soothing rhythm, the constancy of it. He continues caressing my hair and kissing my brow.

“I owe you that dance, although I am afraid I am not as nimble as your most recent partner.”

“I couldn’t possibly now!” I protest and glare at him. “My dress is quite ruined with mud.”

His eyes travel over me and he laughs, shakes his head with a bright and lopsided smile lifting his lips. “It is not as though it would be the first time this crowd has seen you so, and if we are to be making unfavorable habits – AH!”

Peeta shouts in distress as I smear a handful of cold mud over his face, but I have only momentarily stunned him. “You could do worse than this,” he finishes with a wicked grin and rolls us over.

“No! Peeta!” I shout but I am too late. I am too late and I am laughing as I sink into the mud, his body on top of mine, pressing me deeper into the soft cushion of the earth. I cling to his shoulders and laugh in his mud covered face hovering over mine. I am still laughing between his lips as he kisses me, his hand cradling my neck to keep my head from the filth. I am laughing still as he rises over me and gazes down at me with a wondrous light in his eyes.

“What ho! I have snared an earthen goddess!” he says as he captures my flower crown before it falls from my head, pressing it more securely in place.

“Do you not know your mythology, my love? No goddess is snared who does not wish to be so.” His smile lights my own and I cannot be angry with him, at least not for this.

“You should wear the earth more often. It suits you,” he attempts to say it seriously and utterly fails, earning another fistful of mud on his other cheek. “But I suppose a change of clothing is in order before dancing.”

“I think we need a bath, husband.”

He takes another look around us and laughs a few short notes. “Perhaps so, wife.”

He carefully and slowly leverages himself off the ground, retrieving his satchel and handing it to me before hauling me up after him, as though I am nothing but a feather, straight into his arms. I settle the satchel in the curve of my belly and twine my arms around his neck, kick my feet in the air, ridiculously giddy at the sensation of him carrying me so with one strong arm behind my back and the other beneath my thighs, the warmth of his palms radiating through mud and clothing. He takes careful steps and I must work the lever on the door.

“With all this carrying me about, you are contradicting your insistence that you needed to stay mounted,” I tease and then gasp as he falters, clinging to his neck and fearing another tumble into the mud.

“You were saying, my love?”

We enter the house and hurry to start the fire. Working together, we are able to heat water and quickly fill the tub. I pour in some oil scented with vetiver and help Peeta sit on the stone bench.

I can bear the silence no longer then. There is so much to be shared. As I help him remove his boots and soiled clothes, I begin to talk. It is easy and simple, an exchange that happens as smoothly as breath, sharing so much of what he missed – Primrose and my fight with her over Rory Hawthorne, our blackberry hunt with Maysilee, my discovery of Johanna –

“You are not angry with me for keeping the truth from you?” he asks as I set aside his shirt. I shake my head and motion for him to lift his hips so we can deal with his trousers.

“I understand why you did so. It must have been a terribly rough life for her.”

“Katniss,” he says and grasps my arms. I am distracted by his nudity and the need to assure myself of his well being, yet he holds me in place with his eyes. A darkness swirls in their depth and I cannot help but think of Delly’s words. That there was a darkness in his soul she could not touch. I see it now in his eyes and wonder if his time spent with another from that part of his life brought the darkness back to the surface. “It was. That world…when you step into that world, everything else disappears. All that matters, all that becomes real, is whatever you need to survive it. If you are lucky, you are allowed one dying wish, and it costs everything. And if that means…”

“Peeta,” I whisper and brush his hair back from his head. I trace the scars on his face and press my lips to their sharp fringes. I trail kisses down the damaged skin to his jaw. “You came home to me, and that is all that matters to me right now.”

“I am glad to be home,” he whispers. I remove his leg and inspect his skin. I glance up at him and he smiles.

“I would not dare incur your wrath by neglecting one of your edicts, wife.”

“You think you are safe from my wrath after you waded through a swollen river?” I mutter and continue my inspection of his body.

“Well which is it? Are you happy to see me or angry?” he asks with a grin and I scowl at him. He endures my demands and my prodding until I am satisfied that he bears no new injuries and has been caring for his leg.

“Why can it not be both? I am glad to see you, and I am also angry that to do so, you felt the need to act with such little regard for your welfare. I would have been as happy to see you tomorrow as I am tonight.”

Satisfied of his health, at least on the surface of his body, I motion for him to get into the tub. He sets his hands on the brim and heaves himself in, his strength evident as he lowers his body into the steaming, fragrant water and sighs, the sound content. I begin to remove my own clothing and he lifts his head from the edge of the tub to watch. Every piece of sodden wool and linen and lace until I am bare, as naked and raw as the desire I see in his eyes.

When my own clothes have joined his in a pile to be washed later, I step into the tub and carefully sit in his lap.

“Would you care to join me in my bath?” he asks, teasingly as I wriggle to find a comfortable position. The water and Peeta warm me, the feel of oils and skin slick as silk, sensual and comforting. My movements cause small waves of the water to slosh about us.

“Thank you, I would,” I tell him. He hisses and grabs my right hip, holding me still, teeth clenched. I can feel him, slipping between our bodies, rigid against my hip. I bite back a smile and decide to deal with that later. For now, there are several housekeeping matters we need dispense with. I direct him to lean his head back and he does so. “Now we can discuss a few family matters and these foolish notions you have.”

“Tell me, wife. Just what foolish notions do you refer to?”

“The ones from your letter, the day after we were engaged. The ones you just now so foolishly repeated to your brother,” I say with a quick, harsh scrub of his hair. This surprises him. His eyes open wide and he blinks at me. “You will get soap in your eyes.”

He closes them again and swallows before speaking. “I thought you hadn’t read that letter.”

“I hadn’t, at first. I only first read it this morning,” I confess and he squirms beneath me. Oh and now I am aroused as well, my belly quivering with the mounting sensation. Still, I cannot let that distract me from ensuring Peeta and I will be alright. I scrub the mud from his face and neck. Then rinse, he sputters at me but I ignore that, rinsing the soap from his hair, massaging his scalp and combing my fingers through the soaked curls to ensure they are free of both muck and suds. “You have it all wrong, you know.”

“Do I?” he asks and rubs at his eyes. “You went to that ball, asked me those questions…you wished to know Robert better–”

“Yes.”

“– and fell in love with him.”

“Wrong,” I say and he drops his hand, splashing the water. I wipe at his eyes with a drying cloth and wait for him to look at me again. “You are very persuasive, husband, but not quite persuasive enough to make me fall in love with someone else. Do you think my heart so easily swayed?”

I slide through the water to wind my arms around his neck, to ground me to his steadiness as I find the courage to voice things I never thought I would have reason to say. I pour the words into the steamy air where I cannot hide them nor take them back.

“It was not Robert I was enamored with that night, but the very real man behind the mask. I was never in love with Robert for I never had the chance to truly know him, and even if I did, I doubt that would have been the outcome. No, it was the man in the mask who captured my heart – the man who was open with me about the complicated nature of his family, the man who found a way to console a distraught young girl, not by making her feel comfortable in standing out, but by changing the surroundings, convincing an entire ballroom to drink a wine that stained their lips red so that she might fit in.” Peeta stares at me, as though he does not quite believe me, but now that I have started, more words tumble free.

“I fell in love that night with a man who made me laugh before an entire hall of imposing portraits, who showed an immense amount of consideration for the hearts and feelings of so many around him, even those who would never give a whit for his own feelings had they known his true identity. A man who listened to and heard my story and still asked permission to see my scars, then kissed them as though they were something precious, not hideous, if only because they are a part of me I cannot separate from my person. A man who made me feel exquisite as none other had.”

He opens his mouth to protest and I place a finger over his lips to halt him.

“Please. You have such a way with words and have been able to tell me in a thousand ways. Allow me this one with no interruptions.” Slowly, he nods. I trace my finger over his lips. “I was afraid, after accepting Robert’s proposal, afraid that I had acted rashly and would come to regret it. I tried to convince myself that I would be content with a business arrangement for a marriage, and then realised I would never know one way or the other if I never knew love for myself. So yes, I intended to learn more of Robert while both of us wore masks, I even intended to kiss him, and the result was that I found out that I could not be happy with a cold arrangement. I desired something greater, something stronger, but you were the one to show me what that could be, how it could feel.”

“Robert could have done all those things that I did,” he argues, almost pathetically.

“Perhaps, although I doubt he would have thought to do half of them. In the end, it does not matter. Robert did not do those things. You did.” I take a deep breath and twist strands of his hair around my fingers. “I was angry with you, and I was hurting when I learned the truth. I was not mourning Robert’s loss but that of the man in the mask. Then I found myself married, only to fall in love all over again for such similar reasons. Who you were behind that mask is who you have been here at Everdeen. Kind, thoughtful, patient, generous, witty, and still, I was as confused as you were about that night. Could I love you both? It didn’t seem fair that I should, but now I understand. You are one and the same. My husband and my man in the mask. It has taken me months to face what I already knew.”

I stumble then, right at the finish and Peeta’s hands caress up my arms, over my shoulders to my back, drawing me closer to his chest for an embrace.

“And what is that?” he prompts, his voice a mere whisper, as though if we talk above a whisper, we may disturb the delicate, growing bonds between us.

“You really are the luckiest bastard in the world and I don’t intend to let you forget it.”

It takes him a moment and then he shakes his head with a smile, brings my lips to his. “I love you, Katniss. My pearl.”

“And I love you, Peeta. Only you,” I whisper in return, the words are kissed between us, our lips close enough to touch. Then we are kissing for real. A dozen kisses, perhaps a hundred. Soft, soft, and then wild. Ravenous.

I am uncertain how long we kiss. Only that I do not wish to stop. His lips and his hands on me only make me long for more. Endless nights and days filled with kisses such these, caresses such as those, the soft murmur of his moans answering my own.

I keep expecting him to press for more than these kisses and caresses, yet he seems content to share only this for now, and I find myself glad of it, savoring each breathy kiss and heated touch, my body drawn to such a height of both luxurious comfort and scintillating anticipation. We might stay here always, kissing until time ends. Only, the water eventually cools enough that not even the heat of Peeta’s body is enough to combat the chills.

I shiver and he separates our lips, whispering that we need to be swift or risk illness. He shifts our bodies and begins to wash my hair for me, then my body. I relax into his touch and allow his attentions, his care of me.

“I missed you, Katniss. I could wait no longer to hold you, to assure myself that things that…invaded my dreams while I was away were not true,” he murmurs, an explanation for his reckless choice to continue towards home when nature threw obstacles to block his path back to me, and perhaps the chill in his letters.

“You as well?” I ask and blink to clear the tears forming in my eyes. Are we so fragile then, as to fall prey to the doubts of lonely beds and nights?

His hands pause and he examines my face. “What caused your doubts? My brother?”

“He was part of it, but no matter. I have dealt with the doubts he caused. What caused yours?”

“Truthfully? The past. I was…struggling with nightmares and when your letters arrived, I suppose I thought – that is they were very…”

“Detached,” I say pathetically.

“I thought perhaps my own letters in all their vehemence might have pushed you away from me, or shown you that you did not truly feel the same way.”

“No,” I say with a shake of my head and hurry on before he can say more. “I never know how to order my words to say what I wish. Your letters were so…so beautiful, Peeta. I – well you will think me terribly fanciful but I saved every one of them, read them every day you were gone, kept them in my sketchbook. But… Anything I wrote in answer paled in comparison.”

“Well, not that last one,” he says, his voice a sudden low growl. My eyes fly up to meet his and I see desire swirling in a storm of deep blue, freckled with grey. I cannot stop my smile and shake my head.

“Twas only a paragraph of poetry.”

“Twas enough,” he says and brings me close, to feel him again, hard and ready. Heat rises in me, making the chill of the water worse in contrast, causing more shivers. “Twas enough to give me hope that perhaps my doubts were without foundation, imagined, made worse by not being near you. ‘Twas enough to make me set up my two companions at the inn four towns up the road until it is safer to travel, and press on alone. Perhaps stubbornly and obstinately–”

“And foolishly,” I add and he smiles at me.

“Yes that, too.” His words are a balm and also a bothersome worry. But I know now that even my fears are safe in Peeta’s hands and so I ask him.

“After all that, why did you not come to me at the festival?”

“I did, and I saw you dancing with Robert and…” His words trail into the soft splash of his hands as he finishes bathing me.

“Fear won out,” I finish his sentence, a confirmation of what I already suspected.

“I am afraid so. You appeared so happy and carefree. I did not think I could compete with that, not in the mindset I have been in for some time. At the very least, I thought I should present myself to you looking less bedraggled.” As he speaks, he caresses my face and along my jaw. As though he cannot touch me enough.

“I would have been happier to dance with you. But would you have me sour at all times in your absence?”

“No, I wish you happy, as much as possible. ‘Twas selfish of me, and I apologise for it a hundred times over. I would ford as many rivers if it would gain me your forgiveness for my weakness, if it would mean I could hear you say these things again.”

“I would prefer you save the fording of rivers and instead kiss me again,” I whisper. He smiles and bends his head to kiss me, but a thought occurs to me then. “Where is your hat, husband?”

“I…” he pauses and looks rather chagrined. “Lost it in the river.”

I would like to yell at him again for his recklessness, but that will not gain me a kiss, so instead I chose to make light of it.

“Well. At least you have no valet. You have spared the poor man the shock of your garments,” I tease and flick my gaze towards the pile of our now sodden clothing. He laughs, the sound echoing merrily off the stone walls until he kisses me. I sink into the water and tighten my hold on him. I am breathing in short gasps when he releases me and my next words are breathless. “And your boots…we shall have to ask Delly to make you another pair.”

He pauses and lifts his head, peers at me as though seeking an answer. “They have not been much trouble?”

“Delly has not.” He grunts at this, a darkening in his eyes that is not desire. I cannot have that. “And while Robert has caused some trouble, I do not think it was meant to be malicious. I can handle whatever he metes out to me. Perhaps not at first. I needed reminding of a few things that I already knew, but in the end it is alright. He is…not happy, is he?”

“He wasn’t prepared to deal with the consequences. I don’t believe he realised how severe they would be, but I think given time to adjust, they will be alright.”

“Then you should help him.” I say and maneuver myself out of the tub. As I do, Peeta’s hand wanders up my leg, up to my core. I gasp and give him a falsely scandalised look that makes him smile. “After you lecture him half a dozen times for being such a boor.”

Peeta laughs at this and follows me from the tub, bundles me in drying clothes and then in his arms. Our lips gravitate towards one another, the gentle caresses quickly gaining heat. Only now it is the air that cools our skin and cause shivers and chattering teeth.

“We should finish this by our fire,” I whisper when we manage to cease kissing for a breath.

He nods and rubs his hands over my arms to warm me. We finish carefully drying ourselves, deal with the mess as best we can for now. Only, we’ve nothing clean to wear.

“Clearly, I was too distracted by your radiance to think about such mundane things as how we would get out of this room in any sort of decency,” Peeta accuses me with another brief, heated kiss. We drape the drying clothes around ourselves and one around his still wet satchel, and sneak through dark corridors, hiding along the way and listening for anyone who might stumble upon us so indecently garbed. Thankfully, all is quiet. Everyone seems to be still at the festival or fast asleep.

I am blushing from head to toe by the time we fall into our room and lock the door. But I am also giggling foolishly. Peeta drops his towels and wraps his arms around me, hauling me up against his chest to kiss me. I melt into the embrace and release my own towels to cling to him, fingers burrowing in his hair and his flesh as I reassure myself that he is truly here and not a dream I have conjured to torture myself in my lonely bed.

When he lifts his head, he smiles up at me. “Have we anything else we need discuss? There is more to this reunion I had imagined for us, if you desire it.”

I blush, and as much as I would like to order him to take me to bed and love me until the sun rises, I have more yet to tell him. I palm his cheek and give him one more soft kiss. “Not yet, husband. I have more.”

“Very well.” He sets me on my feet, then surprises me by making a content noise. He then maneuvers us towards the fire. I dress in my shift while he works at turning the glow to a cheery blaze. I hand him his nightshirt and he dons it before settling on the couch. I join him, curling into his side and tucking my feet up beneath a blanket as I prepare for the rest of what I need to tell him.

I wish I could think of a gentle way to ease into it, but I decide that being forthright is perhaps my best option.

“I asked Haymitch to conduct a search for your mother, several months ago.” Peeta’s fingers stop combing through my hair and I cautiously lift my head from his chest to gauge his reaction. “I thought…perhaps someone with a name in no way connected to the Mellark’s may have better luck.”

“Oh. Katniss you did not have to do that.”

“I wanted to, and we were fairly successful.”

“You…you found my mother?” he asks and I hate to squash the burgeoning hope in his voice.

“Not exactly,” I say and his face begins to crumble with disappointment. “We’ve managed to piece together a good deal of her life over the past fifteen years, although I think it best that perhaps our man work with yours from now on. Perhaps you have pieces we haven’t and vice versa.” Hope has returned to his eyes and now I truly feel wretched as I bite my lip and impart the most pressing part of this news. “We did find… we found… her daughter.”

“Her…daughter.” Peeta stares at me and I take his silence as invitation to explain, and so I do.

“Her name is Miranda. She is seven years of age right now, approaching her eighth birthday at the end of the month, and when that happens, the orphanage where she has resided since birth plans to hand her over to a workhouse and–”

Peeta shifts me off of him and stands. He bends over the mantel, staring into the blaze, his fingers working in an agitated motion. I am not certain what to make of his reaction and must gather my courage once again, to face the possibility that I may have been wrong about him.

“Did you know of her?”

“I had no idea,” he whispers. “If I had, I would have…but then…I don’t…” It is a lot to take in, I understand, but we haven’t time for Peeta to work through it all. We need to act.

“That is exactly what I thought you would say. So we shall need to pack our bags for Capitol.”

“Now?” he asks and turns to face me.

“Well I suppose Mr. Burbank will need a few days to settle some of the paperwork and inquiries. We could use the time to make that visit to pay our respects to the Marquis along the way. By the time we reach Capitol, it should be a matter of signing and packing her bags. Mayhap we leave in two days. Is that sufficient rest for you?”

“Paperwork? Packing her bags?”

“To assume guardianship of your sister,” I say.

“You would do that?” he whispers. “Bring her here to Everdeen and raise her as part of your family? A complete stranger? The daughter of–”

“She is already part of our family, husband. We need only make it official and permanent.” I cut him off before he can place a label on his mother that I am certain he will regret. He pulls me off of the sofa and into his arms, kissing the yelp of surprise from my throat. I am nearly crushed beneath the force of his embrace and yet I have never felt so relaxed as I do in Peeta’s arms, even under such vigorous embracing.

“I will be honest, tis not the news I was expecting. You are certain she and I share a mother?”

“Yes,” I say and he swallows. I watch his throat bob with the motion and stand on my toes to kiss beneath his jaw.

“Who…who is her father?” his voice cracks on the question and I lean back to stare into his eyes, silently pleading with him to not make me say it. His eyes sweep closed and his jaw clenches. His hands do the same on my back. So then he knew at least that his mother was forced to sell herself to survive.

“I know it is a lot to absorb, Peeta.”

“Yes. Well, I knew she had to….afterwards …it must have been easier to fall into that form of survival after she no longer had me to worry after. Even when she did have me…I had started to suspect at least a little. There were days when she refused to tell me where she went to work. I only knew that she would invariably return with food or money on those days, more than usual.”

“Oh Peeta,” I whisper and he buries his face in my neck, holding me close as his shoulders shake.

“You said she has been in an orphanage since birth? So Miranda has never known family at all? Not even Mother?” He keeps his voice quiet but I still hear the breaks in it. The desperate need to remain strong, even as he falls to pieces inside.

“We will be Miranda’s family.”

“Luckiest bastard indeed to have such a wife as you,” he murmurs and lifts me into his arms, carrying me across the room to our bed, kissing me the entire journey, kissing me as he lays me out across the soft surface before joining me. And he mercifully does not cease kissing me for a good, long while.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To be continued…

Your clue for chapter 22: At times, we wish to run away, to avoid what we fear. At times such as those, it helps to have someone we love. Other times we race towards what or who we love most with no regard for ourselves. Love is a verb, and also a noun. So is the word you seek this time. It is here more than once – preventing retreats and delaying reunions alike – but few obstacles, fights, and fears, be they from nature or design, can stand for long against Everlark’s love.

#Springtime Edition 2019 #prompt 88 #M #late submission #submission

122 notes · View notes

rutanu2-blog · 4 years ago

Text

Hits the dance floor with the Daffodils

My Cambridge, Massachusetts neighborhood, hard by Harvard University, is familiar with the most brilliant of formal attire, outfits, banners, flags; they all get the attention and help all our pomp is to remember an old kind and all our own. All things being equal, we take specific notification when the daffodils march, equipped in the lively yellow tones once held for the Chinese ruler alone. They are in every case sharp, chic, sensational,

their quality declared by its focal trumpet from which one anticipates Handel or Purcell at any rate and would not be astonished at all to hear them, sharp, majestic, ceremonious. The daffodil appears customized for this.

Throughout the previous a few days, house bound with a cool, I have been anxious to observe the courses of action progress, the tenacious development of the stalks, the swelling stems where, very soon, the yellow trumpet will rise to catch each eye.

There is fervor noticeable all around.

I feel it, and am happy to see these noble daffodils hard at their work... for they come yet once per year and yet so quickly remain. They are all in all correct to call to me and remind that their opportunity is approaching, and I should be prepared; prepared to view, to appreciate, to relish, their time splendid, critical, however consistently very short.

Named after the most excellent kid on the planet.

Daffodil is the basic English name for this snazzy bloom. In any case, it isn't its genuine name. Like aristocrats stepping cautiously in our popularity based days, daffodils have a feeling of when to utilize their basic name, while always remembering their actual family. They are in actuality Narcissus, the botanic name for a variety of chiefly solid, generally spring-blossoming, bulbs in the Amaryllis family local to Europe, North Africa, and Asia. The distribution "Daffodils for North American Gardens" refers to somewhere in the range of 50 and 100 wild species.

The tale of Narcissus originates from Greek folklore. There an attractive young people of top notch excellence turned out to be so fixated on his own retaining looks that, while watching himself in a pool of water, he fell in and suffocated. In certain varieties of the legend, the young passed on of starvation and thirst since he was unable to force himself to do anything besides wonder about himself.

We as a whole know such individuals. . . be that as it may, the divine beings didn't remember their entrancing looks and stupidity as they did Narcissus' by denoting the spot where he lay with the dazzling Narcissus plant.

The daffodils, mindful, touchy about Narcissus' silliness, relate this story (and their actual personality) to uncritical admirers just; they are only "daffodils" to all the rest. I am such a considered admirer, touchy; along these lines they have imparted to me, discretely yet with pride. It is uncommon, they state, to be so recognized by the lords of Olympus, thus it is.

Depiction

As each daffodil authenticates, theirs is a gorgeous appearance, a "shocker". It includes a focal trumpet-, bowl-, or circle molded crown encompassed by a ring of six flower leaves called the perianth which is joined into a cylinder at the forward edge of the 3-locular ovary. The seeds are dark, round and swollen with hard coat. The three external sections are sepals, and the three internal fragments are petals.

Obviously, while each daffodil knows these realities definitely (and some more), they comprehend that you may not be of a natural turn of brain. Accordingly, they request however one thing from you: inadequate deference. It appears to be sufficiently minimal to require for such a lushness of shading and delight. Should you challenge, they are not above reminding that all Narcissus assortments contain the alkaloid poison lycorine, generally in the bulb yet in addition in the leaves. A trace of this generally earns the conceded praise. Daffodils are inured to rich commendations, and are not above reminding you ought to yours demonstrate inadequate. It is frequently such with the richly, indulgently, radiantly lovely,Alex Kime Chicago continually commended. . . they have their elevated requirements to keep up, ensuring we follow. We give them inadequate regard; they cast the beatitude of their magnificence on us. We are happy to do as such; such excellence is uncommon and too early gone.

The relationship among daffodils and artists.

Artists, for whom a wonderful thing is a delight perpetually, have yet to see a field of daffodils to wax, well, lovely. In 1807 William Wordsworth distributed in "Sonnets In Two Volumes", words he had first written in 1807.

Each daffodil knows, and gladly as well, these sublime expressions of excellence, good faith, and happiness:

"I meandered desolate as a cloud

That glides on high o'er Vales and Hills,

At the point when at the same time I saw a group

A large group of moving Daffodils;

Along the Lake, underneath the trees,

Ten thousand moving in the breeze.

The waves next to them moved, yet they

Exceeded the shining waves in merriment: -

An artist couldn't yet be gay

In such a giggling organization:

I looked - and looked - yet little idea

What riches the show to me had brought:

For oft when on my lounge chair I lie

In empty or in contemplative state of mind,

They streak upon that internal eye

Which is the euphoria of isolation,

And afterward my heart with delight fills,

What's more, hits the dance floor with the Daffodils. "

Different writers, and those of cheerful, poetical propensities, have given the daffodils their endeavors, as well.

Amy Lowell (d 1925) was not as smooth and sharp as daffodils like; her words were overwhelming loaded in the Victorian way.

To an Early Daffodil. . .

"In spite of the fact that yellow trumpeter of loafer Spring!

Thou messenger of rich Summer's bunch roses. . . "

It isn't their preferred sonnet. . . in any case, they respect the

writer in any case. She had good intentions.

They incline toward Robert Herrick's (d. 1674) To Daffodils

"Reasonable Daffodils, we sob to see

You flurry away unexpectedly early. . . "

Herrick can make them silly and wistful. Dead unexpectedly early, they lean toward such ideas - and obsequies - be private. Continuously close to the outside of their excellence is the truth of death and too early blankness.

E.E. Cummings' (d. 1962) "in time of daffodils" is a sonnet of presentation and reason. It keeps them centered:

"in time of daffodils (who know

the objective of living is to develop)

overlooking why, recollect how"

They appreciate their history and all the artists who grow and shine it.

Still on any day of their too short yearly visit, they like this best; "April Showers" sung by Al Jolson (1921).

"What's more, where you see mists upon the slopes, You before long will see hordes of daffodils."

Also, consistently,

"also, the daffodils looked dazzling today

Looked stunning. " (From the "Daffodil Lament" by the Cranberries, 2002.)

1 note · View note

eureka-its-zico · 5 years ago

Text

Pricked Pt. 4

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Scenario: You and Mino have been together since you were eighteen years old. You’ve been through so much together, but time changed who you both were, what you both wanted and, ultimately, it ended. It ended once, twice, and a million times after. Each time fate somehow bringing you back to one another; but how cruel could fate really be? For with every time you crashed back into one another, you felt pieces’ fray and rip at the seams; pricked by love thrones that never healed.

A/N: Okay.Admit it. How many of you thought this would never get finished? It’s finally happened. I finished Pricked. Over time, I received countless private messages and anonymous asks about finishing this. I’m sorry it took over two years for me to get back into writing. I’m sorry it took so long, you guys. But, my sincerest hope is that after reading this, it all feels worth it. I appreciate the countless support for my fiction. For the continous shares and likes while I’ve been away. You all helped remind me why I started writing in the first place: for the love of telling a story. I hope you love this one. Much Love, Jenn.

Genre: Mino x Reader

Words: 5850

Disclaimer: As always, any gifs that are used are not mine and all credit is given to their rightful owners.

It was almost comical how a room that felt so big became hauntingly small. The echoes of his last words etching themselves in your bones until they ached where you sat. Immobile, like a frightened child that hears the creaking sounds of old stairs; threatening to make your heart leap at the thought of old monsters.

Mino couldn’t have meant it. Just like you knew, without a doubt, you were only pretending to be self-righteous. To care about an unnamed woman who should’ve never taken your place to begin with: a poor man’s replacement. A replacement you yourself tried to make of him. The whole reason you showed up here, now, was to force him to choose you. Or else what had been the whole point of the large affair you’d created, if it wasn’t to lead to an end that favored you both.

But this was where your self-righteousness ended.

In the distance your ears could hear the shower running. You knew Mino was undoubtedly undressed on the other side of the door. His last words a farewell forever: a painful dismissal.

How could you blame him? When your lips failed to move and voice refused to work. Because that self-righteousness flared back up and made you believe you could do the right thing.

What was right?

What could be right about losing him, and spending the rest of your life with the maybe’s and what if’s. All you needed to say was what you’d wanted, and allowed, the selfishness that rained over the past year to win. Because honestly, why did you decide now of all times to act so holy? You wanted to do the right thing, regardless of it being too little too late. To believe that self-sacrifice, being a martyr, would be enough to forgive yourself for choosing to hurt so many.

But you were done falling on swords. Done playing games. If you didn’t tell him now, right the fuck now, that you couldn’t live with the idea of him waking up besides the wrong woman every morning, not you, some stranger who only saw what she wanted, knew nothing about how he used to hide his favorite snacks under pillows during his first year of training, and bleached his hair so badly it left his head raw for days. How he ruined so many school shirts with stains of ink from broken pens that drove his mother into an annoyed rant. She knew nothing of his past. What made him. She only knew what he chose to show her like a carefully wrapped present. But you - you knew all. Past and present. You wanted to know who he became in the future. To see the version of yourself he talked about with confidence reflecting in his eyes.

You knew, deep down, underneath the claustrophobic hands of fear, that you could be better for each other. There would be no more running. No more imaginative ‘What If’s’, to keep you at bay.

You weren’t surprised to find your feet already guiding you towards the door of the bathroom. Your heart already knew where it was trying to go: it had just been waiting for your mind to catch up. And somehow, after all that mental pep talk, you still found your hand hovering above the knob.

“No more caving,” you whispered. “I’m doing this.”

Without another moment spared to thought your hand closed around the knob and turned.Whether you were conscious of it or not, you were holding your breath. As if you would find something other than Mino’s naked body on the other side.

Immediately, your body was engulfed by a hot breath of steam. The mirror fogged up to hide your reflection, and condensation dripped from every surface. If the shower wasn’t strategically placed in the middle you were sure you could’ve gotten lost in the large high-end expanse of the bathroom. The showers glass enclosure covered a majority of the room and offered no privacy. Your eyes able to roam over every available inch of flesh that it left exposed, and you drank in the sight of Mino greedily.

Even slumped with his hands splayed out against the patterned granite - body being drenched every second in a heavy flow of water - Mino was still able to command the room. Although, you knew by the heavy sigh between his shoulders that he was a man in mourning. A dull ache wormed its way inside your chest and threatened to bloom, but a memory batted it away.

It was the beginning of spring; months after you’d begun your secret affair. Both of you pretending it was just something simple as convenience. A past history of being first loves and promises of fairy tale ever-afters allowing you the false ideal it would be over once either of you had your fill.

You could see now, caressed in a fog of steam, what a lie it was.

That day the humidity had been worse than the heat. It ended up like that a lot during the peaking days of summer. The two of you finding solace in the new studio Mino rented out; a private, safe place for his artistic ideas to flourish and die in a privacy only he knew.

He’d rung you to come by. Mino’s voice tempting your body already with the sweetness of kisses and a promise of that honeyed voice that was held between those lips kissing its way between your thighs. You didn’t need much prodding after that. Your fingers already on an app to hail the nearest driver.

You’d arrived minutes before he’d asked, and found him surrounded by splattered canvases. A majority of them thrown to the ground, like an island of misfits. Mino was already working on a newer canvas, but the frustration radiated off of him and hit you in waves. You could see it in the way his teeth dug themselves into the wood of his brush, and the large strokes of his fingers, covered in paint, across the canvas. You could’ve sworn you could hear the brush beginning to snap under the pressure.

Mino had always been this way. His drive for perfection charging his artistic nature, usually with him being completely unaware. He was in such a trance focusing on his work that he hadn’t paid any kind of acknowledgment to your entry. All Mino could see was the canvas before him and the irritating fact it wasn’t coming out like he’d wanted.

You were more than ninety-nine percent sure if this had been anyone else, you would’ve been annoyed at not being acknowledged. But here in his artistic heaven you were just fine being ignored. It left you plenty of time to gawk at the mosaic piece that covered an enormous section of a wall. The bright pieces coming into the colorful shape of a cartoon man holding a wilting flower. The petals somehow becoming larger until they landed on the ground at his feet. The back wall displaying a dozen or so paintings. The theme of them all painstakingly the same.

In one various arrays of color, he had the facial outlines of a man and a woman. You could only assume by the way the woman’s face was comforted and the way the lips of the man drew near to caress her lips, that it was a painting with the image of intimacy in mind. That feeling of intimacy causing your cheeks to flush and a yearning to be touched. Another showcased a couple outlined in white against the charcoal of the canvas. There were stars small as speckled dust that told you he’d brushed a single finger through the hair to obtain the effect. The longer you looked at it a stirring feeling of recognition began to ache in the back of your mind.

“It’s that night we spent by the Hongdae river.”

Mino’s voice cut through your thoughts and brought you clarity. Your eyes barely shifting to acknowledge his body turned in your direction, before looking back at the painting. It seemed the second he mentioned it everything about it began to make sense.

It was the moment he’d caught your gaze stuck to the bright sky. So bright and full of endless possibilities.

“Do you remember what you asked me?” He questioned.

You didn’t even need to consider the thousands of possibilities. You already knew.

“Do you ever wonder if the stars miss each other. Millions of them are in the sky. You would think with so many, they would be close to one another, yet they’re so far apart.”

It wasn’t until your eyes took in the shape of dying dust behind a falling star that you finally turned to look at Mino. Your full attention on dried paint that scattered itself on his hands and arms; splattered in rainbow hues all over his shirt and pants. He resembled a piece of art himself, housed inside a room you realized held painted moments of past times together, and more recent. Through this act of whatever it was you’d both created, Mino made something beautiful out of it. He made something beautiful out of you.

Looking at him now...you knew, Mino would forever stay a work of art that would take your breath away. And in that realization, your mind only came up with one solution to end his creative slump he currently found himself in.

You didn’t think twice before your hands found the hem of your shirt and began to lift it over your head. Mino’s eyes widened slightly; no doubt enjoying the unexpected show you put on.

“You’re having trouble painting today.”

It wasn’t a question. You didn’t need an answer, but Mino’s mind wasn’t truly listening to you. It followed his eyes as they watched your hand loop around your back and undo the clasp on your bra.

“I’ve actually been unable to draw - paint - anything. No matter where I go or what I draw, it never comes out right.”

You were stepping out of your shorts when you nodded in acknowledgement. As the last article of clothing fell to the floor, you were left exposed, in all your glory. For some reason, as ridiculous as it sounded, being naked in front of Mino this way sent your nerves into overdrive. It took everything you had not to begin to fidget with your hands.

“Y/N, what are you doing?”

“Use me.”

You blurted it out so harshly it caused Mino to jump. This time you did close your eyes as the embarrassment began to burn against your cheeks.

“Use you?”

By now, Mino was slowly moving towards you. The playful tilt of a smirk drawing up the side of his mouth as his eyes took you in. He radiated a heat that sent your body trembling; not in a bad way. No, no. Far from that. It was an undeniable urge for him to touch you. For his hands to leave burning trials of his exploration of your body on every inch of your skin.

You had to swallow twice to be able to speak.

“Yeah. Use me as your canvas. Paint on me and see if this helps break you out of your creative slump.”

That appeared to stop him cold. His feet no longer coyly bringing him towards you and the smirk now drawn in a thoughtful pout. The first real hint of fear hit your tongue and you tried to swallow it away. You hadn’t considered the fact Mino might call your idea ridiculous and, perhaps, stupid. You were about ready to tell him never mind when his hand motioned for you to move next to the canvas and paints he’s been working on previously.

“Come lay over here.”

You couldn’t reply. Your head giving a curt nod in response as he moved to grab a blanket. It wasn’t the length of your body, but just enough to cover your more...precious parts from the dirt of the floor. Once it was laid in place, you moved to lie down and waited patiently for him to spread his paints out on the tray. Your mind going to counting sheep to pass the time. Around sixty-seven, a gasp of surprise from the cold of the brush against your skin.

“Babo!” You shrieked.

Your hand shot out to smack his arm, which only awarded you with the deep bass of his laugh.

“Should I have warned you?” He asked playfully.

“Duh!”

“Okay, okay. Lie back down and be ready this time, eh.”

You wanted to smack him again and it sent him into more hysterics. You did what he asked though and laid back with your arms out by your sides.

“I’m gonna move the arm closest to me, alright.”

“Why are you telling me?”

“I’m letting you know so you don’t smack me again.”

This time you chuckled to yourself as his hands took gentle hold of your arm and moved it into place. A few moments later the coldness of the brush touched down on your skin. You didn’t jump this time.

You couldn’t tell how long you laid there. Mino moving around different points of your body; spreading different colors along your torso, down your legs, and under your breasts. The two of you making light conversation as he worked, until after a while he informed you he was finished. You were ready to move, but your body was heavy with relaxation and you settled on wiggling your toes.

The sound of a Polaroid camera going off shot your attention back in Mino’s direction. His fingers snaking around to drag the film gently the rest of the way out.

“You better not show anyone.”

Mino gave you a cynical glance over the side of the camera before snapping on more.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Y/N. I wouldn’t share you with anyone: not even as artwork. I just want to save these.” Mino set down the Polaroid and gave the two photos a couple last good shakes before he set them gently down. You began to get up when he knelt beside you, stopping your movements completely. “Y/N, I mean this more than anything. I think this is the best art I’ve made in a long time. What we’ve created together today.”

The compliment sent your lips into a humbled smile that you did your best to hide, but Mino refused to let you.

“Mino-ah, I did nothing.”

“There you are wrong.”

He didn’t allow you to argue further: his lips crashed down on yours. His body collapsing against yours and hands moving in a heated rush to remove his clothes. You weren’t surprised to find your own helping. The two of you soon making love in a flurry of still wet paint that helped to create a new work of art against the studio floor.

With the memory fading away, and leaving you to stand back inside the bathroom and Mino a few feet away, it filled you with renewed resolve. What did it matter if you hadn’t graduated from college yet. If you didn’t know a major to stick with, and you worked like a majority of everyone else in customer service jobs and not a giant firm. That your apartment wasn’t in an established part of Seoul.

You were every bit as good for Mino. Hell, you were the right person for him. You knew that more than anything, and you refused to feel any less unworthy anymore. Without waiting another second to allow doubt to stop you, you reached out and took hold of the shower door and opened it to step inside. Mino turned at your entrance with alarm spread clear on his face and raised eyebrows. After his panic subsided, recognition began to lower his shoulders and formed a question in his brow.

“Y/N,” he started huskily, “What are you-“

You didn’t give him a chance to finish. Using the momentum you gained from entering the shower you pushed into him. The warm water from the shower drenching you both as you wrapped your arms around his neck and brought him to you. Your lips pressing against his the only answer that you needed to give.

Mino matched your desire with his own. His mouth opening yours up to him allowing him to drink down every moan he could elicit from you. When pushed to move you back against the wall of the shower, you gave no protest. The need every placement of his hands made coursed through you and sparked like an electric current. Every tug on soaked fabric and delicate graze of teeth skimming down lips until a tongue lashed up to soothe it's haunting ache. Underneath the basic carnal need that plagued your body for Mino’s touch - his touch alone - you knew it was something deeper.

The idea of soulmates and fate seemed like a fairytale of pleasant dreams meant to keep the boogeyman of life at bay. That there was some hope of a Disney ending, definitely not G-rated, far from PG, but still somehow attainable in life. The thought alone used to be enough to make you roll your eyes. In the end, you couldn’t allow your cynicism tarnish the truth you knew was true between you two.

How could you deny the power of the universe when the cosmos rested solely in his lips? The way his name was written in stars along your skin. For fate to align itself over and over until you stood face-to-face wrapped in each others arms in a tangled connection that refused to make sense.

There had to be a reason for all this chaos.

Mino and you were swollen lips and ragged breaths. His naked body pressed against your soaked clothes stirred a desire to finish what you’d started in the other room. Mino, apparently, hadn’t shared the same sentiment. His lips suddenly breaking free of yours only to lead you in a daze from out of the shower.

When you came back into the room, he didn’t bother with a towel. Instead, Mino opted to struggle his wet appendages into the legs of his jeans. He gave small hops of hope that he used to wedge the fabric up his hips. The whole ordeal already making you fight back the rising fit of giggles, only to end up as a losing battle. The shoulders of his t-shirt becoming trapped around his head; face peeking out through the open collar enough to look ridiculous, and finally broke you down into hysterics.

When Mino finally was able to get his shirt comfortably on he walked over to where you’d collapsed onto the bed. You were soaked and the sporadic dry patches on your jeans were annoying. Your body still vibrating from your earlier outburst and you watched as he moved to kneel beside you. Not caring that both of you resembled drowned rats. Mino reached out to calmly take both of your hands. The angle he was at giving you perfect clarity of his face. Perfect enough to be able to see a decision rapidly being made in the softness of his eyes.

“This is gonna sound nuts.”

You reached out to cradle his cheek in your palm. Your thumb rubbing lightly to try and calm the storm of emotions that whipped his eyes frantically back and forth searching your face.

“Mino, this whole year has been crazy. I don’t think anything you could say would surprise me.”

“Marry me.”

Okay. You were wrong. His outburst did surprise you. Your body went still in front of him and your thumb no longer grazed against his lips. You were going into shock and he was taking your silence as denial.

“I mean, I know it’s stupid. It’s a stupid idea, Y/N, and you deserve a better proposal than this, but I don’t want to waste another moment without you and-“

He was rambling. The both of you knew he was and only because the room swelled with the panic of finality you both felt. That terrible chance that if either of you stepped out of the room, whatever spell of courage happened between you both would end. You could see the pleading in his eyes and could only think of doing one sure fire way to bring his frantic speech to a close. You took his face in yours and gave him one good kiss. When you pulled back he was stuck in place looking for all the world like a wound up doll who’d run out of juice.

“To answer your question, Mino: yes.”

It took his ears a second to register what you’d said, but the minute he heard it Mino broke into a smile so big you couldn’t help but smile back. He rushed to close the small space between you and wrapped his arms with a constrictors grip around you. Only pulling back to kiss you rapidly all over your face raising giggles from your throat.

“Yes? Yes! She said yes!”

“Ya, Mino,” you chided playfully. “You act like someone is going to hear you.”

“I don’t need anyone to hear me. All I needed to hear was your answer. Come on,” he urged rushing to grab both of your jackets. “I know somewhere that’s still open that they’ll do the ceremony right now.”

Your heart was pounding in your chest as you moved hand-in-hand to the front door. This was it. You were on your way to get married. Nothing and yet, everything was about to change. Mino shot you one last smile over his shoulder before he ripped open the door. The both of you coming to a halt in front of the woman, closed fist raised to knock, frozen in shock before you.

You didn’t need Mino to tell you who she was. By the way her face crumbled like all the cheated souls before her, you knew this was his fiance. The look of pain replaced itself with something much colder and harder. The anger coming in waves to steel herself against the pain you no doubt swimming inside her like a monsoon.

“How long?”

Her voice trembled in a way that would have made anyone consider it to be sadness. Anyone else, besides you. You knew it was simply the sound of her choking back on a heartbroken rage cocktail that was brewing deep in her chest. Her tears scolding while the judgement her eyes held a very clear hatred for you. Her world slowly falling apart as she drank you both in. Clothes still clinging to your body like a second skin with both lips puffy and red from each other’s kisses. Her world was collapsing into ruin in quiet milliseconds of betrayal before her.

Mino finally let go of your hand and stepped towards her. She instantly retracted from his touch and swatted away his hand as if it were a pest.

“Don’t touch me!” She shrieked.

“Jang-mi, please,” he protested. This time Mino didn’t make the mistake of trying to touch her. His hands simply motioning for her to come into the safety of the room. “Let’s discuss this inside the room. Not the hallway.”

Her face turned a bright red, and you understood why. Mino sounded like he was coddling a tantrum throwing child. Not a woman who just had a brutal awakening of her soon-to-be husband’s affair. Jang-mi took on last reproachful glance in your direction and moved to go inside the room; taking careful steps to touch neither of you.

As soon as the door to the room was closed, she whirled on you both. Maybe it would’ve been better to remain at Mino’s side to seem like a united front. But you couldn’t bring yourself to give her another theoretical smack in the face with that. So you kept a few inches between you and your head cast downward at the carpet.

“How. Long.”

Jang-mi enunciated every word. Her small fists now in tight fists as her eyes scanned from one face to the other. Waiting for one of you to find the courage to answer. You wanted to let out a sigh of relief when Mino finally spoke: “Close to a year.”

That answer wasn’t what the other woman wanted. The air appeared to be knocked out of her, as her knees collapsed from under her and she ended up sitting on the bed.

“I should’ve known,” Jang-mi began with her voice breathy as if she was talking from a memory. “That day in the alley. When I seen you two together. I knew by the look on your face.”

She looked up at you then, and you didn’t dishonor her by looking away. You held her gaze and knew you deserved what she thought of you. For in Jang-mi’s story, you were the villain. The one who came and stole her ever-after and did it without apology. You wouldn’t ask her to offer forgiveness for your selfishness.

“His mother has a picture with you in it still. When you were younger at Danah’s eleventh birthday party. I know you were his first love. It’s clear on your faces, but make no mistake, I am the one he chose to marry.”

Jang-mi found her strength to stand and it was against you. You admired her fight but, in this, you refused to let her win.

“That can change,” you snapped.

Your response surprised her, but she made it clear in her squared shoulders and upturned chin she wasn’t backing down.

“How? For a year, you were nothing more than a girl kept in the shadows. No better than a whore-“

“Jang-mi, enough!”

Mino cut in and went to shield you. You stopped him with a hand to his shoulder and stepped around him. Mino could be your knight in shining armor any day - but not today. Today, you would do it for yourself.

“Think what you want, but I will be what you can never be: the woman he loves.”

Your cheek erupted in flecks of pain that radiated along the side of your face. It was so intense, your eyes blurred with unshed tears. This time you didn’t stop Mino from stepping between the two of you. Their arguing words drowned out to the ringing in your ears.

“You need to choose Mino: right here and now! Either me or her, and you better make the right choice.”

You knew her threat wasn’t empty. It was backed by outrage with need for you to be proven wrong. That she was the one that held his heart; not willing to admit to the fact she might never have to begin with. Tears were freely streaming down her cheeks now as she reached out to hold onto him. Mino’s guilt leaving him unable to look away from the tears she tried to claim were of anger, but really a reflection of her breaking heart.

The small room erupted in silence, and it began to make doubt creep into your thoughts. There was always the off chance Mino could choose her, and that was something you couldn’t bear. With your cheek still burning and eyes roaming back and forth between the both of them you didn’t notice Mino moving to stand beside you. His hand moving out to gently take yours in his, while his eyes sadly took in the woman before him.

“I’m sorry, Jang-mi for being a coward and not telling you sooner. I love you, but I’m not in love with you and...because of that I cannot marry you.”

If things had been different, you would’ve went to her. You were sure that you were the last person she would ever want to comfort her. Not when the two of you stood mockingly the day before her would-be wedding. You knew Mino didn’t want to leave her this way. That he would carry the guilt of what transpired here tonight, and maybe he should for now. No one should go without acknowledging their own wrongdoing in someone else’s pain. Before he could say anything to Jang-mi, however, a sudden knock came at the door.

“Mino, are you there?”

The sound of Mino’s father at the door immediately made him stiffen. The anxiety evident on his face, and here it was Jang-mi saw her opening to share her grief with someone new.

“He's here with another woman!”

“J-Jang-mi, is that you?”

Mino’s father sounded perplexed and you couldn’t blame him. He probably wasn’t expecting to hear his future daughter-in-law yelling about another woman. A tight squeeze into your hand reminded you of Mino at your side. Throughout this whole moment, Mino remained calm and allowed Jang-mi to react how she felt, because he knew he’d given her one of the greatest forms of betrayal. But the quiet understanding he’d used to compose himself was now gone. Now he just looked plain pissed off.

“You have no right to bring him into this!” He snapped.

“He deserves to know the kind of man his son is,” Jang-mi retorted. Her disdain dripping off of every word.

“Mino! Open this door! Is Jang-mi in there with you?”

“Oppa, everything is alright!”

“No everything is not!”

Jang-mi screeched the last word high enough it made you wince. She moved forward and slammed an angry fist down on Mino’s chest. You moved to grab her, but Mino simply shook his head and placed his hands gently on her shoulders.

“Jang-mi,” he began sadly, “this will not make your pain hurt any less.”

“No, you’re right. It won’t.” She moved her hands to rest on his arms and stayed there. Just for a moment. Her looking up at him, Mino staring back, and you feeling like the odd third wheel in what seemed like an intimate moment. Suddenly, her gentleness turned cold and her arms shoved his away and stepped back. “But if I can make you feel any ounce of humiliation that I feel, just for one second, then it’s worth it.”

The room swelled with tension of the unknown before Jang-mi opened her mouth wide and let out a scream. Her mascara running down in droplets that reminded you of the matchmaker in Mulan. For all the world she had passed her pain and went start to rage and called out the worst things. That you were assaulting her. That Mino has struck her. It was enough to send Mino’s father into a frenzy outside the door.

“Fuck this,” Mino growled.

He reached out his hand and clasped it securely around yours. He didn’t wait to grab your coats or cellphones. Mino moved straight for the door not caring for the howling woman at your back and opened the door to startle his father, and a few gawking hotel guests.

“Mino, what’s going on?”

Mino didn’t answer his father. He pushed past him and forced you to do the same. The Song elder finally noticing your presence and his confusion only aging him faster.

“Mino. Stop!”

But he didn’t stop. He kept running you both down the hallway and to the stars. The sound of his father and others rushing to catch up to you. Mino was running down the stairs at a speed that forced you to jump two at a time to keep up. It should’ve been odd. Maybe embarrassing, to be seen bursting from the stairwell into a fancy lobby. Your abrupt entrance startling guests waiting and checking in. In truth, it caused you to laugh.

It didn’t matter what strangers thought as you moved through the prestigious double doors with people from the bridal party giving chase. Not even seeming crazy that Mino, or you, had any idea where you were going to run too. You just kept running, hand in hand, until he finally spotted a bus a few yards ahead.

The both of you started waving the driver down in hopes he would see you and wait. There was a brief moment your heart dropped when it seemed he was about to shut the doors, but noticed his annoyance at having to wait for you written plainly on his face. You silently wished him and his family a thousand blessings as your feet took the small steps loudly. Mino and you digging like crazy around in your pockets to find the exact change to put it.

You both couldn’t present it fast enough when his family came tearing into view, causing Mino to take the wad of money and shove it towards the driver.

“You can keep all of it if you’ll just shut the doors and take off now. Please.”

It didn’t seem the older man was going to comply. His wary eyes moving from the money to both of your sweaty figures gasping for air and damp clothes. You were almost about to step back off the bus when he motioned with his head for the two of you to sit down. You were ready to hug him, but didn’t want to push your luck.

The both of you moved to sit at the far back of the bus. Mino taking the window seat and you curled up against him with your head resting on his shoulder. The two of you stayed silent for a long time. Neither of you commenting on his father and, maybe, the groomsmen or the brides’ family, slamming their hands against the door just before the driver merged into the Seoul traffic.

You listened only to the sound of his heart beating. The way it began to ease into its natural rhythm after the storm passed. It’s what helped you sort out all the thoughts that raged for purpose inside your head. The main one being the only one you chose to speak out loud.

“What now?”

Mino let out a sigh as a lazy hand moved to stroke over your hair. He remained quiet a while longer before he spoke.

“Now? Now we just live out our happily-ever-after.”

A snort of laughter left you as you looked out the window; not wanting to move less it caused him to stop playing with your hair.

“Oh, is that all?” You teased.

“Forever is simple. It’s the in between of getting there that’s hard.”

“You saying I’m hard?”

You looked up him and took in the wistful smile that danced behind almond eyes. His finger moving delicately to trace the outline of your face.

“No, jagi . You are the part of getting to forever that makes it all worth it.”

He spoke the last of his words against your lips. His nose playfully kissing across yours, before he actually moved down to give you a kiss and as he did you couldn’t help but agree. Everything that led to this point had been hell and messy, but it was easy to breathe once again. Your world righted itself and begun to make sense and that, you knew, was because your forever was simple. Your forever was kissing you, and that was the magic of finding your happily-ever-after and never letting go.

40 notes · View notes