#her stand in name is fern because I can’t think of another one that fits | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jaeminlore · 5 years ago

Text

bard!taeil ^_^

commissioned by @warmau luv u thank you for giving me free reign i’m sorry i used it all on world building

words: 5k+

a/n: sorry this is a bit late ! also for any mistakes !

okay first thought when given free reign of a story is PRINCE or ROYAL bc that is where my mind is for every story i love a good castle moment

i just think they’re neat ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

but yknow i was thinking about bards and also my skyrim game and how annoying yet precious the bards are in the inn. and if that is not taeil i will eat my own foot,,,,, like omg i forgot his name i think it’s mikael?? he’s at the inn in riften!!! i beat him up to preserve the honor of some lady and now we’re best friends ^_^ anyways he’s lovable and it makes me think of taeil

i miss taeil i read a post about how precious he is and it made me feel some type of way ,,,,, my favorite taeil era was cherry bomb bc the CHOKER and the EYELINER and he just felt like the embodiment of that tiktok sparkly filter

okay now that that’s over

this story is set in a lone kingdom called intima,,,, intima is a word meaning the heart of something and it’s where the word intimacy comes from and it makes me feel warm and happy so i assume it will make the people of intima happy too !!!!! it’s an island centered around the sun — and YOU my dear reader are the eldest princess, the first before six younger siblings !!!

as the oldest, the throne is in your future, and you are set to be the reigning queen WHICH you are quite excited about this isn’t one of those aus where you hate your kingdom and your job and serving,, you LOVE your people and your culture and you genuinely can’t wait to become queen

i’m going to set the world!!!! bc world-building gives me endorphins >.>

intima is a HEAVILY floral-filled island. the clivia (or bush lily) is the capitol flower, often associated with patriotism or pride for intima as an island!!! it’s the flower people pin to their chest during coronations or royal festivals!! and the yellow/orange/coral shades are often what you and your siblings wear to represent yourselves and your island.

intima is a land of equality!!! bc i said so!! and also because the culture is purely built on gratitude and kindness ,,,,, i like to think the spirituality or “religion” in the culture is the worship of the sun and the warmth it brings,,,, a sort of serving the thing that shines a path for the hopeless!!!! there are hundreds of poems and legends and songs about the sun and who she once was and why she blesses intima with her harvests and all kinds of other things and i do have the time to get into it but i know all of you do not

intima also believes that art is hard work!!! and it’s one of the most respected jobs there are!!! like a busker or a street painter are often praised and it’s expected of islanders to tip them and stay to praise them a bit!!! and usually they’ll sell their art (if that’s what they made) afterwards!!!! and poets will read for the children and adults alike and they’ll sell their services to like,,, people who struggle to put their words down on paper and it’s all very helpful and lovely

farmers and fishermen are well respected as well!!!! ofc they bring the food in and the vendors at the marketplace sell them while the artists keep entertainment going. it’s a lovely system and often as the seasons change people will shift their jobs so a vendor will decide to create for a season or a fisherman may decide he wants to sell wares,,, it’s a system so that people can enjoy where they are as well as express they’re creativity properly

and the wealth is distributed equally so that no one goes hungry!!! everyone helps each other out to find a job that fits them!!! and not many people take advantage of the system because it’s quite shameful to refuse helping your fellow neighbor

so yes!!! kindness and helping each other out is not only expected but it is often an indicator of how respected you are as a member of society

ungrateful people get the shame cone >:(

the island is HUGE and set in a sort of jagged star shape, with villages and markets surrounding the castle itself!!! and there’s a moat surrounding the castle made from the streams that trail in from the sea ,,,, and the harbors are quite beautiful if you stand atop the castle walls you can see the ships come and go and it is just *chef’s kiss* immaculate

and the moat is so beautiful i can just imagine the ferns!! like palm brush ferns and tiger lilies and birds of paradise just lining either side of the moat,,, so pretty :( and the moat isn’t to keep people out!!! it’s actually a natural pool for the villagers when it gets too hot :)!! but otherwise the drawbridge is always down so people can come and go throughout the courtyards

similarly, the castle walls run down the island as main roads, leading to the actual castle where the main courtyard sits.

you and your siblings are very personal with your subjects, and it’s not uncommon for the princes and princesses to walk hand in hand with those of a lower class than them,,,, esp bc there isn’t really a class system in place. since wealth is evenly distributed,,,, it’s evenly distributed to the royals as well, and everyone lives comfortably. the only added expense are gifts!!! so if there’s a birthday or something more wealth might be offered to the recipients by default

the courtyards!!! are so beautiful!!! there are four in total but the one i want to focus on is the coronation courtyard!!! this is the courtyard where the coronations and celebrations are held!!!

but when there aren’t any coronations, it’s where people hang out to have picnics or sell their wares or tell stories!!!

and this is where we see taeil!!!!

every day our hero brings his life and ~sings~ a different story to whoever happens to be walking by. he’s actually hugely popular with many of intima’s people,,,, mostly because his voice is like HONEY and his smile reminds everyone of home

he has like,,,,, kind big brother who only comes home for thanksgiving but each time is more memory-filled than the last energy ,,,,, anyways

you don’t actually notice him at first!!! because usually he isn’t in the coronation courtyard.

also you’re too busy planning your OWN coronation

#queenshit and all you know the vibes

it actually isn’t until yuta points out that there is a “very tiny man singing about how beautiful you are” in the courtyard that you’re actually like,,,, okay,,,,,, interesting..?

and at first you’re like shut up yuta i’m trying to work on seating placements you know ten from iacto can’t sit beside donghyuck from stella or they’ll start a prank war during MY coronation

also there are a lot of people who write songs about you and your siblings that’s just how the vibes are !!!!!

you and your siblings are known for your beauty and kindness, so many creatives often use y’all as muses

so you just brush it off

and go back to your planning

which actually consists of you begging your advisors to make little goodie bags for everyone on the entire island (they WILL eventually agree because who doesn’t want a small bee charm necklace or some cleansing crystals)

but i digress

it’s not until you visit the courtyard to finalize the seating arrangements that you actually see the man your brother was talking about

at first you don’t even realize it’s the same person

sure, this man is short, but he is nothing like the unattractie picture you painted in your mind. not that short men are unattractive, but most men who hit on you are often uhhhh creepy and old bc intima is a beautiful place but men are still a disease

this man is, dare you say it, handsome.

like prettily handsome

his hair is a warm chestnut that falls over his eyebrows in loose curls. strands curl and bend around his ears and his eyes are lined with what seems like kohl

his lips are pursed, and he’s too far away for you to hear him, but he seems to be singing

you tear your eyes away from his coral-colored jerkin and try to focus on the seating arrangements

in the end, you leave the work to your advisors, choosing to break away and listen to the lonesome bard

and just IMAGINE for a moment taeil singing like real people do by hozier

just taeil singing any hozier song i cannot get over the thought of it >_>

those are the vibes for this story

taeil a sexy irish bog man

not really but i’ll bookmark the idea for later !!!!

okay so imagine him singing real people do or sunshine and it’s so gentle and warm coming from his mouth that you’re entranced at the very start of it,,,, you’ve heard tales of sirens luring sailors into the sea,,, and they’ve always sounded quite far fetched but now that you’re hearing taeil’s voice you’re like,,,,,, maybe it’s possible

you sidle up to another listener and ask for his name

“taeil moon”

it’s a befitting name. you run it over your tongue for a good while until it feels familiar,,, and when the song is finally over, you clap and shout a few praises, thinking your voice would get caught in the crowd

but taeil catches your gaze, and he strums a sour note on his lute. it’s a swift apology and an even swifter exit as he leaves the courtyard.

you watch him go, unsure as to why he seemed so uncomfortable knowing you were there. “is he alright?” you ask the same listener who told you taeil’s name. they answer, “he’s never left a set before. perhaps you frightened him, princess.”

you DID frighten him. moving into taeil’s point of view, the man has been declaring his infatuation with you for months now and you’ve never come to listen. he suddenly feels naked and vulnerable,,, the one person he chose to write songs about is the future queen and he could very well be executed for such unauthorized poetry

(as if executing is something intima didn’t outlaw ages ago)

so taeil is just a tiny bit dramatic, and he clings to the honest hope that you came to his show late and didn’t hear his declaration. his “all my love songs of now and forever after are for the princess y/n” that he starts every set with. he feels like a fool, so he finds himself hiding in the royal gardens, far behind the brush and hedges, where a lone forgotten fountain rusts. still water bubbles out of the spout, but there isn’t enough for the fountain to actually flow, so it just makes an incredibly awkward gurgling sound as taeil strums his lute and tries to collect his thoughts

taeil doesn’t just like you because you’re the princess. it goes so much deeper than that; he has one faint memory of his graduation out of bards college (it’s a thing in skyrim so it’s a thing in my au) and it consists of you meeting with all of the graduates and giving them each a bush lily from your own personal garden,,,,,,, you also wrote everyone a handwritten letter addressing them by name !!!!!!!!!

and it’s not much to go by at all, and taeil would feel incredibly foolish even bringing up the memory, or the fact that he keeps the card in his memeriy box,,,,, because it’s obvious that you don’t remember him from it, but he can still remember the color of your eyes up close, and he knows what it feels like to be on the receiving end of your smile,, and just the memory of your fingers grazing his when you handed him the flower and card makes his cheeks warm with childlike fondness

he’s a fool, he knows. he’s also a coward, because he ran at the very sight of you

“you ran off before i could tell you how lovely your voice is.”

taeil falls into the rusting fountain as soon as you round the hedge. he has no idea how you managed to find him, but he can’t really think much about it because he’s soon coughing and shivering from the cold and dirty water he’s just fallen into. he mourns his lute,,,,,, just floating in the shallow water ,,,,,, it’s not dead it’s just wet :/

“oh dear i’m so sorry!” you grab his hand and help him out of the fountain, wincing at the way his clothes cling to his body. (Wait. wait. taeil’s lil baby tummy.... through the sheer shirt,,,,,,, like after he takes off his jerkin to dry it out :(((( omg he’s so cute) “i just wanted to compliment you.”

“thank you, princess,” taeil manages to get out. he paints a smile on his face even though he feels like he’s never been put in a more awkward situation. “it means a lot, honestly.” he decides to avoid the topic of having a crush on you, because he thinks he has experienced plenty of embarrassing moments today, thank you very much. so he changes the topic completely. “good luck, uh, on your coronation. i’m looking forward to it.”

you lower yourself into a mock curtsy. “why thank you. save me a dance during the after party, won’t you?”

taeil nods, not trusting himself to speak, and you bid him goodbye

y’all know taeil’s face where he’s just cheesin. like :D

that’s his face for the rest of the day. and every day up until the coronation !!!!!!

and you visit him!!!! when you can !!!!!!!!

taeil has a very easygoing personality i feel like after the initial awkwardness he’d actually be the one to initiate a friendship!!! like sometimes he leaves you letters by the old fountain !!!!!! :((((

and taeil’s letters are very friendly but every once in awhile he’ll slip in song lyrics that make your heart flutter!!!! just imagine your favorite love song or folk song written out by taeil to you because he learned it and it made him think of you :(( i’m crying and i know you’re crying

one day you have a picnic!!!!!!!!! and it’s just the two of you and taeil thinks he should be nervous but he genuinely does enjoy your company,,,,, and he kinda sort of slowly starts to think of you less as a muse and more as a friend,,,,,, or even maybe a potential ,,,,,,,,, l o v e r oooohhhhhhhh,,,, omg it’s so cute tho he lays out a blanket in front of the fountain and the two of you eat sandwiches and apple juice and :(( eventually the sun makes you both a lil tired so you fall asleep side by side

and you get kind of flustered when you wake up beside taeil like oh 😳 okay 😳 now 😳

the two of you hang around each other in secret. not because it’s against the law or it would be publicized or anything like that,,,, intima is a very casual island and no one would bother the two of you too much,,,,,,,,, but taeil feels like a little secret you aren’t sure you want to share ,,, also your brothers and sisters would tease you relentlessly for giving your time to someone KNOWN for singing love songs about you

your friendship w taeil feels a bit like a bird feather on a windy day,,,,,,, like one hesitant breath could blow him away,,,,,,,, but taeil is so FUNNY and warm and gentle and COMFORTABLE that you slowly start to feel yourself fall for him.

taeil is a story-telling bard in the way that the songs he sings often tell stories of his life or the life of someone famous, installed in their hearts from the moment they were all in elementary school. like imagine him singing a tale about the greek gods or norse mythology or perhaps he goes and bit more fairytale and songs of thumbalina or sleeping beauty

he’s an amazing storyteller, so much so that when the two of you hang out, he often recites some form of verse to you, especially if it’s a legend you love dearly (SIRENS) ,,,,,, but the one thing that kind of irritates you is that he has yet to sing you one of his legendary songs that are “supposedly” for you

you’re not trying to be prideful, but this is the lovely singer everyone has told you about, and you still haven’t heard any of his original songs. or at least, his original songs dedicated to you. you’re very curious to see what you look like in taeil’s eyes, even though it might make you feel horribly vulnerable.

and taeil is like :) obviously :) i’m not going to sing love songs :) about my crush :) to my crush :)

but it’s whatever.

what i want to talk about is the coronation babey !!!!!!!!!!!

it’s very public,,, in the middle of the courtyard,,, and all the market stalls are up selling their wares to the large crowd!!!!! and kids are playing in the moat !!!!! sort of a summer festival and you’re the main event lol. like some people will gather and watch the coronation and some people will be off dancing on the other side of the courtyard but everyone is celebrating the same thing!!

and this is a high fantasy setting so there aren’t any modern things like microphones or speakers aside from a copper horn or smth ,,, but it’s all very fun and festive!!!!

merchants are selling banners of orange and gold,,, yellow roses and tiger lilies,,,,,,, flower crowns and faux scepters for the little kids!!!!!! and there’s lively music for people to dance and celebrate to,,,,,, and can you guess who is in charge of the music !!!!?! TAEIL

he’s got an entire band leading the courtyard and it’s all traditional songs for the most part of taeil is able to slip in a few love songs now and again. and ofc everyone loves them bc they know taeil and OBV it’s hard to hate taeil

but :( you aren’t really focusing on the music since it’s such a big day for you but if you were you’d know that taeil is singing his original songs :((( all the love songs about you,,,,,,,,,,

and i SWEAR i can imagine taeil singing hozier-esque songs..... omg or like mystery of love ,,,,, imagine him singing mystery of love on one side of the courtyard while you’re getting crowned queen on the other side

that image is something that can be so personal to me ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

:(((( and you’re dressed in a tan and peach maiden dress,,,, cloaked in golden silk with day lilies tucked in your hair,,,,,,,,, omg or BRAIDED into your hair,,,,,, you just look like a sun goddess okay golden by harry styles are the vibes ALRIGHT babes,,,, and there’s a speech to be made and someone made cake for the masses,,, so you get a bit caught up it everything

taeil isn’t really in the crowd for the coronation as i already stated before ,,,,, but he can kind of hear everything that’s happening and it makes him just smile to himself as he messes with his lute :((( omg if you guys haven’t heard you are gold by the national parks THATS the song taeil sings as the celebrations are dying down

and all the street lanterns are lit and people are quieting down and eating or chatting or rounding up their kids for bedtime !! omg little kids racing past and giggling, their flower crowns askew as they shout about becoming a queen one day :( that’s so cute esp to imagine taeil watching them fondling and waving at them as they pass

and there are fireflies all around!!!! lighting the pathway!!! it’s just so cute and soft and lovely think tangled at last i see the light scene OKAY except it’s not on water it’s a festival and it’s beautiful every seems to be glowing in the light

this au is partially inspired by tangled,,, or the kingdom of corona (lol) so

anyways back to you are gold

the chorus is as so: “you are gold / you are all i see / you are aurum scarce and meant for kings / and i will wait if it’s time you need / what i see in you i hope you find in me.”

and can’t you just SEE taeil singing that absentmindedly not really knowing that you’re making your way to him and then he just looks up during the final chords and he just,,,,,,, fumbles the music and his voice cracks a little (but how COULDNT it bc you’re so beautiful and angelic and taeil could easily picture the stars against your skin and in the shade of your eyes)

“h-hi,” he stutters. “you look. nice.” :D

i think taeil is pretty confident with his feelings but i also feel like he can be quite clumsy with them as well. if that makes sense. but on the other hand confessing to the now-queen of your island is a bit much and taeil isn’t really ready to be rejected on a regal level.

“thank you,” you say. AND!!! you can feel your cheeks get hot because taeil is quite handsome and you DEFINITELY heard the last few lyrics of the song and it ignited feelings inside of you that you weren’t sure you’ve felt much of before.

you kind of just want to take his hand and go spend some ~ alone time ~ with him ^_^

“you know,” you sit down beside him and wrap your cloak around yourself. “everyone has been telling me that you’re quite famous for dedicating your love songs to me. how come i haven’t heard such declarations?”

taeil’s ears turn red and he smiles down at the lute in his lap. “isn’t it a bit disrespectful to make you listen to all the songs i write for you?”

“i want to hear them!! genuinely!!”

can you just IMAGINE taeil holding eye contact and singing sunshine by hozier >:( or like ANY song by ray montangue for today we’re pretending taeil wrote all of these

hold you in my arms by ray montangue YOO :((

just taeil strumming and singing sort of under his breath because he doesn’t really want anyone else to share this lil moment with you. and he’s so sweet like i imagine after he sings he doesn’t expect any praise and he certainly doesn’t expect you to confess your love or anything like that

bc taeil is a respectful future king

LIKE JUST IMAGINE kind of grabbing his face and just giving him a lil kiss,,,,, a lil smooch,,,,, if you will

taeil is probably rlly pretty just after being kissed like his eyelashes would flutter so prettily and it would be so soft like he’d just press his forehead against yours and then omg a FOREHEAD KISS like a really gentle one

you would be so important to taeil like i think he would just be so gentle with you in every way

the relationship is a slower one,,,,,, you have queenly duties and he’s still working as a busker,,,,, getting ready to help the merchants in the winter,,,,,,,

but the two of you make time. it’s similar to before, you just set up picnics, or sometimes you watch him sing, and he’ll write you love songs and send them to you through a letter,, stamping with purple wax,,,

and taeil is always so sweet :( i think he’s more of a casual lover in the sense that he doesn’t need pda or loud declarations in order to make you feel loved flashback to him dedicating every love song to you in the middle of the square but he’d be the type to just hold your hand around the courtyard,, or he’d just send you soft smiles from the other side of the marketplace

he’s the time to buy you a basket of your favorite fruits and deliver them personally to your door

everyone in the castle just lets taeil into the chambers section at this point

the two of you will swim in the moat and play hopscotch with the village children or go shopping together or take naps beneath the afternoon sun and with taeil by your side it’s all so fond and precious and some times you’ll go days or weeks without seeing him just because of schedules but it’s never awkward when the two of you get back together

and it’s actually not until some of your very own villagers are coming up to you like hey,,,,, why haven’t you made taeil your partner yet?? he’s so precious and sweet and he would look lovely in a crown 👀👀

and uhhh who are you to argue with that lmao

so you buy taeil a ring

a pearl !!!! encased in silver <3333 i like to think that the tales he sang to you about sirens often slides to a pearl of some sorts,, so you make sure it’s the rock you place on the ring

and you take him back to that rusty old creaky old ugly old fountain :)

and you just,,,,,, ask him to marry you ,,,,,,,,,,

ofc taeil says yes, a bit frozen because the two of you have talked about marriage but only briefly,,, and he wasn’t sure you’d ever take that step so he didn’t want to pressure you

taeil ofc has always been ready,,, his soul is more open than yours if that makes sense !!! which isn’t a bad thing but he has definitely been ready for a lifetime with you for a long time now

and it’s a long-ish engagement i feel like

not that it really matters but it’s more of a betrothement !!!! so the two of you are technically already married even before the ceremony if that makes sense??? like everyone alludes to taeil as the consort and the two of you live together and receive gifts of betrothement and !!! it’s quite sweet and it’s the way they do things in intima

also you guys aren’t in a big hurry for another ceremony esp bc yuta’s coronation is coming up and you don’t want to take any of his spotlight

king!yuta hold up

but yeah taeil is a wonderful consort !! doesn’t do much yet politically bc he isn’t especially versed in politics but he’s learning!!! he’s really good at keeping a good energy in the room even if two ambassadors are fighting taeil will just be vibing like :-D and it often calms tensions

he’s just a GREAT person and a helpful ruler even tho he really doesn’t even have to be,,,, he’s just a consort,,,, but he still takes the effort to learn genuine laws and help guide the people

the people are obviously obsessed with him,,, they wouldn’t ask for another consort because he’s so kind with all of them

still sings in the courtyard as his job ,,, and the people love it just as much ^_^ esp because now all the songs are openly for you and about you and it makes people more fond of you as well

taeil creates y/n propaganda pass it on

but he works in the castle too,, and he’s a fast learner especially when it comes to settling arguements within the village or even within the court,,,, he also sets up festivals !! he’s wonderful at it !! genuinely !! taeil as an interior designer i can just see it man him designing flower arrangements and the setlist and just !! being a wonderful host

and tbh you’re very thankful because it’s nice to rule with siblings but it’s even nicer to rule with a soulmate

and taeil feels just like that — a soulmate, a missing piece of the puzzle,,,,,

and if intima is the sun , if you who rules it is the sun, then taeil is the moon,, and it’s quite obvious that the two of you were made for each other

perhaps in the future the two of you will have kids or adopt

or you guys get a puppy!!! i can see you w a puppy and taeil with a kitten and the two lil pets just follow you guys around omg

the two of you fix up the old fountain so it isn’t rusty or squeaky anymore

you guys find rocks out on the shore and create a new bed at the bottom of the fountain

and guess what!!!! you guys write little wishes on the rocks and invite everyone else to do the same with the idea that once the fountain is filled with wishes, you’ll hold a festival where you put the wishes back into the sea to be completed

omg how cute would that be like a yearly thing where the fountain would be filled with rocks and everyone gets a handful to take down to the beach and throw into the sea

it’s where lovers write their names and people confess to their crushes and anniversaries and birthdays are celebrated and it’s where artists write pictures and poets write verses and people write prayers to the sun

and it’s where you and taeil announce your first pregnancy >.<

and it’s really soft

the place between the sea and the sun is where your love lies

where your family lives

omg taeil singing lullabies to his baby :( HES be such a sweet dad

i feel like taeil already has a family just by his vibes yknow

but say it’s a daughter he’d teach her how to play the lute and he’d buy her her own

he’d let her express herself in any way and identify however she’d want and love whoever she wanted

he’d be an AMAZING father and husband and king

ANYWAYS to conclude

this was fun to write and i hope it made sense i know it’s all over the place but in conclusion taeil is sexy and deserves to be loved

#taeil au #nct au #taeil fluff #nct fluff #commissioned #destwrites

81 notes · View notes

vanchlo · 5 years ago

Text

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes / Green Eyes 4

Read all 3 previous parts here!

Blurb Synopsis: With final exams approaching, you find yourself coming to rely on Harry more, whether for help with teaching, emotional support, help packing your apartment, or to complain about your students wanting to set the two of you up together. The saying goes that ‘stress makes you stronger,’ and that will be the true test during this season in your lives, and relationship.

Genre: Teacher Harry, soooooo much fluff, some angst, a little sad, and lots of romance.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 10k words, whoops

Pairing: Harry x Reader

Music Inspo: Changes by David Bowie & Butterfly Boucher (click to listen; yes the Shrek version, YES FROM THIS VERY PART)

I also wanted to thank my pals @sunflwrnarry and @bfharry who’ve helped me with this story with their support, ideas, and love for it. I love freaking out with you two over this story ❤️ ❤️ ❤️

As you bring your fist to the blue door, you suddenly pause. Thoughts dance inside of your head and tie themselves to your heart. Happiness comes over you in another wave as Harry’s voice interrupts the thoughts, his voice telling you that he loves you from earlier. A content sigh meets the air in front of you in a white cloud. You had forgotten how cold you were, but the playful barking coming from the other side of the door brings you back to reality.

“C’min!” Harry replies once you knock.

Slowly opening the door, the warmth of Harry’s house greets you, along with the musky cinnamon smell that accompanies it. What surprises you is the little bundle of golden fur barking at you, but with the cutest bark, you’ve ever heard.

“Ya, you get ‘er, Gatsby! Go get mummy, go say hullo t’ her!” Harry giggles, and soon you are too as you fall to a crouch as he approaches you. With that tail dancing in the air, you only laugh harder as he slips and falls in front of you. “My goodness, yer a clutz li’l boy. ‘Bout third time ya’ve fallen down and we’ve only been home fer a few minutes, jus’ beat mummy by a tick.”

“Hi, bud. How was your ride home with daddy? What do you think of your new home?” you coo to the puppy, rubbing the top of his furry head. He continues to yip at you for a few seconds until his sniffer takes over.

“I see how good o’ guard dog, you are, pup. Ya smell any food on ‘em and they’re yer friend,” Harry sighs with a titter, carding a hand through his hair when you glance over to him.

“No, you’re a good guard dog, Gatsby. You just have to get used to mummy and daddy, don’t you?” you croon, rubbing both hands along his chubby face as he sniffs the air. “Come on, let’s go sit by daddy,” you suggest, unable to hide your laugh as you observe him struggling to walk on the hardwood floor.

“Looks like I might need t’ get su’more rugs or else he’s gonna be fallin’ e’rywhere.”

“Yeah, it’ll be easier to clean up his accidents on the wood flooring, though,” you note aloud, sliding off your slushy winter boots onto the mat by the door. After hanging up your coat on one of the hooks, you turn right into Harry’s living room to take a seat by him on the long red rug. “Did you take him potty yet?”

“Ya, I did befo’ we went in tha school and afta, and a few minutes ‘go. He went befo’ we went in but not since. ‘m not too worried tho’, I knew when I got him that he’d be peein’ on e’rythin’,” Harry notes, his eyes stuck to the waddling furball. Quickly, they dart to you and his strong arms come around your middle, pulling you into him. “C’mere, love, and have a cuddle wit’ me.”

Gatsby turns and begins to bark at the both of you as Harry pulls you over to sit in his lap, the both of you laughing loudly. He tottles over and proceeds to sniff the both of you.

“How does she smell, Gats’? Does mummy pass yer sniffer check?” he mumbles, against your cheek where his words tickle your skin. You contribute to the conversation with a laugh at the both of them, sinking into Harry’s arms. Contentment washes over you when your back meets his chest and you feel him press a kiss to your temple.

“Come here, Gatsby!” you say, patting your lap excitedly.

“Nah, he’s too busy sniffin’. I swear ‘s all he did when he was in me car, even tho’ I was holdin’ him tha whole time.”

“It sounds like you should’ve named him Scooby-Doo instead,” you remark, earning a soft laugh from Harry. You squirm when you feel his breath tickle your neck. Sighing, you relax against him, his arms resting on your soft tummy and sometimes rubbing his knuckles against it.

“Perhaps,” he comments, the feeling of his smooth cheek against yours an absence now, his stubble already prickling your skin. “Fit right into me arms, tha both o’ you,” he continues, swaying the both of you back and forth in his arms now clad in a long-sleeved Rolling Stones crewneck.

You hope he can see the smile adorning your face and being all the reply he needs. You’re uncertain the last time you felt this content and happy all rolled into one, but it’s hard to pinpoint because Harry always seems to have that effect on you.

“Hope ‘s okay I named him, jus’ thought it was perfect when I saw him tha otha day,” he whispers against your temple, the cinnamon from his gum tiptoeing over your face.

“Yeah of course, it is. I couldn’t imagine him being named anything else. I don’t know how you kept him a secret for a whole week, I would’ve squealed,” you say with a grin, backing up when the puppy gets brave and stands up, his front paws on Harry’s knee. You titter at the feeling of his feathery whiskers on your skin, the sound of his adamant sniffing, and the cold wetness of his nose on your chin.

“Yeah, I dunno how I didn’t. There were so many times I almost told ya, but I jus’ wanted t’ surprise ya, bird.”

“I’m glad you did. Okay, Gatsby, you go and smell daddy now,” you relent, your hands coming around the chunky puppy. His tummy is warm against your palms and his whine fills your ears as you lift him up to set in your lap.

“I dunno, I think he likes how ya smell betta. What, did ya eat sumthin’ on tha way here, a Twix or Bit-O-Honey, or sumthin’?” Harry murmurs, his smile felt on your temple. “We’re gonna hafta watch it, he’ll wanna get into e’rythin’.”

“Yeah, he must smell that Twix I found in my car,” you reply, squealing when you feel the puppy’s warm wet tongue on your cheek.

“Sumbody already loves their mummy, I see,” Harry comments. “Ya, Gats’, le’ss give mummy all tha kisses!” he exclaims before pressing loud smooches all over your face too.

“Oh no, attacked by kisses, whatever will I do?!” you shout, feeling the energetic puppy in your lap as you close your eyes, chuckling. You wouldn’t change this for the world, no siree.

“Thanks for dinner, it was delicious,” you tell Harry as you set your dishes in the dishwasher.

“Welcome, love. Would ya like some wine? I should finish off dis bottle already, ‘s gettin’ all flat,” Harry asks, the soft click of the fridge door opening following his words.

“I don’t know, it’s getting kind of late and I have to drive home . . ,” you answer, conflict showing through in your words.

Your eyes follow Harry’s tall figure as he reaches an arm to a shelf in the cabinet, grabbing two long-stemmed wine glasses. A smile tickles at your lips when his shirt rides up a tad, and his fern tattoos adorning his hips say hi to you, as well as his happy trail you love so much. It amazes you the amount of restraint it takes to not reach over and touch his tummy. Ugh.

“You could have as much wine as ya’d like and ya wouldn’t hafta drive home if ya stay tha night. Gatsby had wanted me t’ ask ya, anyways. I told him we could make it work - we’ll all pile togetha in me bed, and ya can borrow sum jammies o’ mine,” he hums, turning to face you as he sets down the two empty glasses. The bubbles rising within your chest only worsen when you see the smug look pulling his lips into a smile. “I mean, that’s if ya want t’ sleep ova.”

The gurgling of the white wine filling a glass occupies the silence between the two of you. Words fleet you as you watch him fill one glass three-quarters of the way full, and when his eyes lift to you they brim with uncertainty and anxiety.

“Bird?” he inquires softly, raising an eyebrow. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he bites on his lip. “Sorry, nevamind, maybe ‘s a bit early fer that still. Yer not movin’ in fer anotha’ month, so ‘s okay,” he finishes, trying to diffuse the situation with a soft laugh.

You deliver your answer by grabbing the full wine glass and bringing it to your lips that part with a smile, “I’d love to stay over and steal your ‘jammies’,” you reply softly, the wine surprising your lips with its sweetness and chill. His face collapses into a blushing laugh as he shakes his head.

“Birdy, you li’l shit,” he remarks, clucking his tongue as he pours the rest of the bottle into the second glass for himself. “Ya can’t scare me like that, thought I jus’ made a proper fool o’ meself.”

“No, you could never make a fool of yourself in my eyes, Harry,” you mumble, setting down the wine glass on your short walk over to him. Your fingers soon find him, first on his backside where you cup his ass, earning another head shake from him.

“Ya really fancy me bum, dontcha, love?” he snickers, setting down the bottle with a clud, twirling the metal cap back on quickly. He turns around to face you, but you leave your hand on his bum.

“Mmmhmm, it’s quite nice,” you try to say seriously, but it comes out accompanied with a laugh.

“So ‘s yers, y’know,” he winks, slapping your butt as he dips to plant a kiss on your lips. “We betta go find out what that li’l boy ‘s doin’ in there, prolly gettin’ into trouble.”

“In a second,” you whisper, placing your hand on the back of his neck slowly.

“Jus’ a second?”

“Maybe more,” you shrug, feeling the wispy hairs on the back of his neck as the golden glints in his eyes come into focus.

His rose lips spread into a smile, showing his straight teeth, and disappearing when your lips meet his in a kiss. The remnants of the chocolatey brownies you had for dessert linger on his lips. Wafts of dark smoke from when he started the fire in the fireplace titillate your senses, coming to be a favorite smell you associate with him.

“You taste and smell so fucking good, like brownies at a bonfire,” you breathe against his lips, your eyes wandering to his that stare at you so adoringly you feel like you’ve already had five glasses of wine.

“Look at tha potty mouth on you, can’t believe it sumtimes,” he smirks from above you, the smell of cocoa hitting your face.

“Yeah well, you sure like to kiss it a lot.”

“I do, don’t I?” Harry coos, brushing the pad of his thumb along your lip, adding another theoretical glass of wine to the overflow of your senses. “I’d kiss it bloody all day long, if I could.”

Your head fills with wishes similar to those as his lips caress yours, but you’re broken apart when you hear a whine from nearby. Parting, you both peer into the other room, finding Gatsby waiting in the doorway. You swear that he stares at the both of you while he lifts a leg and pees onto the dark wooden floor.

“Well, so much fer that,” Harry giggles, stealing a kiss from your cheek before he lets go of you. “Where’d ya leave those baby wipes we were usin’, love?”

Although Harry’s pajama bottoms swallow your entire bottom, legs, feet, and all, you can’t help but smile at them. The gentle smell of his laundry detergent reminds you of marshmallows for some reason, and you couldn’t be happier as it envelopes you. His Beatles shirt falls over your head and comes down to your thighs, but you’re not complaining. I think these are tha smallest ‘ve got, they should fit, he had murmured a mere minute before as he handed you the folded pile of clothes. Okay, Harry, if you insist, you think silently as you inspect your appearance with a dumbfounded smile.

With a nervous grin, you set your outfit from today on a shelf in the cabinet and turn off the light. You can hear Harry talking to Gatsby as your socked feet pad down the hallway, easing your nerves quickly. Low and behold, once you push the door open, you find him sitting on Harry’s chest, looking like he’s getting a talking to. Sure enough he is, you find.

“‘s time t’ go t’ bed now, so we’re all gonna sleep in dis bed. Please try not t’ pee on daddy’s sheets. Ya have a pillow t’ lay on down at tha end o’ tha bed, and yer bed’s on tha floor in tha corner. There’s one o’ those blue plastic sheets down fer ya t’ go pee too, alright? Understood?” he tells the puppy with a toothy smile, wagging a finger at him and twirling one of his floppy ears around another

“Uh oh, somebody’s in trouble,” you joke, leaning against the doorframe. When Harry’s eyes carry over to you, you self consciously cross your arms over your chest not contained by a bra. “What?” you mumble, narrowing your eyes at him as he stares at you, that toothy grin only growing wider.

“Nothing,” he confesses, looking back to Gatsby with reddening cheeks, stealing glances at you every now and then.

“Harry,” you continue with emphasis, dashing around the bed to slide under the cream covers on the right side. “Hi, Gatsby,” you coo excitedly when his tail begins to wag frantically, pulling a giggle from your lips when he turns towards you, hitting Harry in the face.

“Gosh, kid,” he manages, lifting the puppy up to pass him to you. You’re almost drowned in puppy kisses to the face, sending giggles from your lips. The puppy’s name flies into the air as you try to fight him off. “Guess he likes that taste o’ tha toothpaste.”

“I guess so,” you agree aloud, finally his attack of kisses ending. Soon, he forgets you and wanders around the bed sniffing. He finally lies down and curls up against Harry’s leg towards the end of the bed.

“I sacrifice one o’ my pillows fer ya t’ lie on, and that’s where ya lay?” Harry huffs, but soon an adoring whine sounds behind his lips as he admires the puppy. “I guess we tired him out runnin’ laps downstairs.”

“Yeah, it’s about time. He has so much energy, I can’t believe it,” you murmur in agreement. When you look over to see the look on his face for the puppy, instead you find his eyes waiting on you. “What? Do I have toothpaste on my face?”

“No, but if ya did Gats’ woulda gott’it,” Harry hums, nevertheless brushing a thumb across your cheek with the sappiest smile you’ve seen him wear in a long time. “Ya jus’ look . . cuter than I thought ya’d look in me clothes, bird.”

“I’m swimming in them, how is that cute?” you ask, pulling on the front of the shirt as proof, eliciting a loud laugh from Harry.

“‘m sorry, I thought they’d fit betta. But they look great on you, they really do. E’rythin’ does, and sumhow I love me jammies on ya best,” he remarks, his hand coming to cup your cheek. “Yer so beautiful, birdy. ‘m gonna go get ready fer bed too, befo’ I keep blabberin’.”

The smirk painted on his face looks much like the one you’re sure is consuming yours at his words. He folds back the covers and Gatsby moves over as Harry leaves the bed, but you grab hold of his hand at the last second. He turns to you with a questioning look, saying he has to go and brush his teeth.

“I like it when you blabber, especially to me,” you share, pulling on his arm until he returns to lean over the bed, steadying himself with a hand on the mattress.

“There’s n’body else ‘d ratha blab t’ than you, love, and ‘m guessin’ we’re in fer a long night with this li’l one,” he smiles, pecking you fast before his hand slips from yours and he leaves the room.

Yawning, you slide back under the covers and pull them over your shoulders, savoring Harry’s smell they hold. Your head falls onto the satiny pillowcase as the top plush blanket a shade of sage caresses your cheek. A huff tickles at your ears and you find Gatsby’s made his way over to you and settles his head to fall on your calf, his large ears splaying out on the splash of green. Emails and texts on your phone occupy your time as you wait for Harry, listening to Gatsby’s adorable little sounds where he’s curled up beside you. Your sleepy hand finds his furry body, keeping you warm, and you tickle his fur as you turn your phone off to set on the table at your bedside.

“Look at you two, snug as a bug in a rug, ‘d say,” Harry murmurs out of nowhere, appearing in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. For a second, you think you need to do the same because you’re sure the image in front of you is a mirage of some sort. Harry scratches at his bare chest, a yawn leaving his lips while stretching his bare arms into the air. “Oh sorry, I neva sleep with a shirt on, I hope that’s okay. It doesn’t make ya feel weird, does it?” he questions, closing the bedroom door so Gatsby won’t wander around the house, as he said earlier.

“N-No, it’s okay,” you mumble, trying not to stare as he pads across the room. The closer he gets, the more your heart freaks out in your chest, you’re sure of it. “I like it,” you confess, suddenly wishing you weren’t so good at this blurting out secrets thing.

“Oh, d’ya now?” he smirks, shutting off the overhead light, leaving his lamp on to carry soft light on his side of the bed. You suffice a response with a shrug of your shoulders, cozying into the bed as he slips under the top sheet, pillowy comforter and blanket.

“Yer sumthin’, aren’t ya, birdy?” he quips, flicking off his lamp, leaving the soft glow of a few night lights he installed about ten minutes ago for you and Gatsby, his guests.

“Something special,” you tease with a snicker, hearing his breathy one in return, and soon finding his face lit by the glow.

“That, ya are, love. My sumthin’ special,” he acknowledges, the squeak of the mattress following his words as he arrives at your side. “If ya need anythin’ tonight, ya can wake me, alright? Figure we might be up a few times with him, anyways.”

“Thank you, Harry.”

“Welcome, bird, I hope ya have sweet dreams. ‘m glad ya stayed fer a sleepova, thank you,” he hums, a dimple falling into his cheek with his words, leading you to think if you had any they’d already be there in your cheeks. Sometimes you can’t believe your luck.

“Of course,” you answer, leaning forward to place your lips atop his. He giggles into the kiss as your lips move together, the spearmint in his toothpaste forgotten as it tickles your own tongue too after he gave you a spare toothbrush. His hand comes to rest on your side and it feels peculiar with the absence of his rings, but you savor it and it’s warmth.

His bottom lip remains between yours, pillowy soft and warm until you begin to hear Gatsby’s snores and your fingers have found the bravery to roam his chest. The cheekiness comes out in you when one wanders to his bum, giving it a good squeeze through the checkered fabric of his ‘jammies’ as he so adorably calls them. A muffled snicker slides into his mouth when the hand on your side drifts to your bottom with a soft slap. You’re grateful for his absence of a shirt, letting your fingers admire the slope of his back warm against your fingers that are cold from washing up. The little hairs all over his body are satiny smooth beneath your fingertips, just like his top lip that you take between yours, your hurried breaths filling the air.

“‘Kay, bird, time t’ get sum sleep. We can snog in tha mornin’, ‘m beat afta t’day with school and runnin’ after this li’l boy,” Harry sighs after ending the kiss, mirroring your frown but much more dramatically. “Get sum sleep, ‘ll see ya in tha mornin’. We’ll all three go t’ tha shops t’ buy tha rest o’ his stuff and ingredients fer pizza t’morrow,” he yawns, leaving a kiss on your nose afterward. You nod in response and hastily lay a kiss on his cheek. Nervously, you pull away, afraid you’re pushing his buttons, but he just smiles and kisses you on the lips one last time.

“Goodnight, Harry,” you whisper, arms diving back under the warm covers as you try to get comfortable without moving Gatsby.

“Night, bird . . and Gatsby.”

“Goodnight, Gatsby,” you murmur, patting his small head softly, his snores continuing against your leg.

“Oh, I see how it ‘s, yer already becomin’ a mumma’s boy,” Harry tuts, clucking his tongue as he squirms in the bed, finding his sweet spot. You drift off soon next to your two boys, counting down the days until you get to fall asleep with them by your side every night.

Browsing YouTube, you scroll through the videos that appeared from your search request for haikus. Yawning, you rub at your eye as you pause your scrolling and inspect a video before playing it. It doesn’t get a chance to play very far when you’re interrupted by a voice.

“Thanks fer tha lunch again, bird. Ya really do spoil me, I always forget t’ make one,” Harry hums, waltzing into your classroom holding the Rolling Stones lunchbox you had bought for him for Christmas last month. He sets it down on a clean corner of your desk, leaning across it to peck you on the cheek.

“You’re welcome. Did you eat everything?” you ask, dragging it over and undoing the zippers.

“Ya. I loved tha bagel sandwich you packed tha fixings fer, and tha soup was lovely,” he hums, leaning against your desk, crossing his arms over the soft yellow button-up covered in black flower designs.

“No, you didn’t,” you disagree smiling, opening one of the small pockets to take out a box.

“What, how’d I miss those? You musta hid ‘em from me!” Harry exclaims, taking the box of Chocolate Banana Pocky from your grasp. A cocky giggle of his fills the air as he opens the box and rips open the white bag.

“Harry, you better not eat those all in one sitting!” you warn. He looks you in the eyes as he sticks four of them into his mouth and takes a bite, a smirk playing along his lips. “Harry Styles!” you proclaim, sitting forward and threatening to rip the box from his hand. He only giggles harder and takes another bite, the four pocky gone in a flash as he crunches on the rest of them loudly.

Shaking your head, you watch him walk away, sticking three more between his rose lips. You sigh with a smile, unsure of just how many times you’ve seen him devour a box of them within an hour, or less.

“What’s your full name?” you wonder aloud, looking away from the computer screen and to him where he stops in your doorway, turning around.

“Well ‘m not gonna delight ya with that info afta ya jus’ yelled at me, now am I? ‘m sure ya jus’ wanna use it t’ yell at me su’more,” he replies, shrugging his shoulders as he shoves the rest of the half-eaten pocky into his mouth, winking. You can hear his chewing all the way from here. “And no, yer not gettin’ any o’ me pocky.”

The deep breaths just don’t stick, and soon you find yourself out of your chair and pacing your classroom. You busy yourself picking up forgotten pencils and papers on the floor, tidying the messy containers of books, and the disaster that is your desk.

“Ya ready t’ go?” somebody sings from your doorway where a shuffling sound comes from as well. “Birdy?”

You don’t respond, unfreezing your hands from the sound of his voice. Instead, you flip over a copy of The Tempest and replace it in the bin right side up, because Harry would not allow that to be done to a Shakespeare. His shuffling of feet comes next, tapping along the floor and getting closer. A swallow is met with the lump in your throat, and you brush the back of your hand over your cheek, hoping they’re gone.

“Hey, anybody home?” Harry laughs, arriving at your side and slinging an arm around your waist. “‘m ready t’ go, if you are, love. ‘m sure Gatsby ‘s waitin’ fer us at my place, all excited. He’s missed you, y’know,” he coos, pecking your cheek.

“Yeah, sorry I-.”

“Hey, yer phone’s ringin’. Here, ‘ll grab it fer ya,” he volunteers, soon feeling his absence as his footsteps are drowned out by the loud ringtone. “It says ‘s yer mum.” Closing your eyes, you groan quietly or at least try to. Soon, he’s at your side again and places it in your hands where you hit decline.

“What, why didn’t ya answer?” he questions, probably eyebrows knitted together in the cutest way possible, like he does. You don’t look though, so you’re not sure as you shove it into your pocket, busying your hands with the mess of books before you. Removing a copy of The Christmas Carol that was shoved into the front of another bin backward, you replace it to face forward now. “Birdy, what’s goin’ on?” he continues, a hand settling on your arm, but when you reach to grab another book his hand grabs it. It leaves your fingers to grace your chin, turning your head to look at him.

“I just don’t want to talk to her right now,” you reply softly, hoping he won’t detect the spent tears that aren’t so invisible on your cheeks.

“Oh,” he breathes, a dimple falling into his cheek when his mouth quirks into a confused expression under his layer of five-day-old stubble. “Y’know, ya’ve neva talked much ‘bout yer parents, ‘d like t’ meet ‘em. I mean we’re movin’ in togetha soon and ‘m sure they’d like t’ meet Gatsby. Ya met me sista fer tha first time tha otha day.”

This time you’re positive he doesn’t see the tear streaks or how they still cling to your eyelashes coated in mascara. Boys can sometimes be so ugh, you mutter to yourself amongst your thoughts. You knew this was coming the second she called, and well, months ago, but you had hoped you could’ve gotten by longer without it.

“You don’t want to meet them,” is all you say as you turn away, his hand dropping from your chin now cold from the drought of his touch. You soon arrive back at your desk where you pick up a stack of worksheets from this week’s vocabulary words, looking for a paperclip to fasten them.

“You can’t decide what I want and don’t want, bird. I don’t like that,” Harry responds, and you can see him looking at you from the corner of your eye. “I mean, ya met my parents already, why can’t I meet yours? I don’t undastand.”

“I don’t want you to meet them,” you reply, setting the now fastened stack on one of the wire shelves of the little stackable organizer on your desk. You continue to avoid his gaze by gathering together another stack of today’s green root words quizzes.

“I thought we weren’t keepin’ secrets, bird, but ya can come ova when yer ready t’ tell me. ‘m goin’ home, so take howeva much time ya need,” he grumbles with a loud exhale, almost slamming the door to your classroom on his way out.

Sinking into your chair, your hands rake through your hair as a defeated sigh joins the air. Another one falls after the next when you spot the neon blue Post-It note stuck to the underside of your desk, just at the edge where you would’ve spotted it, just like you have. The crack along your heart only grows deeper when you begin to read his messy chicken scratch, and all of the love that leaks from its words.

Birdy,

Gatsby wanted me to tell you that you are such a greatttttttt mummy already, and that he loves you soooooo much! His daddy loves you too ;) I’m looking forward to making homemade pasta together tonight, you always have the greatest ideas. My students asked me today when I’m going to ask you out on a date, soooo would you like to go out on a date with me this weekend, toooooo pack up your apartment to come and live with me? ;) I’m so excited to wake up to you every morning and fall asleep next to you every night, bird. Only two more weeks! Fourteen more sleeps, it’s not like I’m counting or anything.

I love you, so much

Harry xoxo

“C’min!” a voice drawls when you rap your fist against the door. The warm inviting scent of cinnamon greets you when you walk into Harry’s house an hour later, along with the growing puppy who scurries over to you.

“Hi, bud,” you murmur with a smile, giving him a good petting as his tail sweeps along the floor. “Is daddy still crabby?” you ask him, closing the door behind you with your foot.

After toeing off your boots and hanging up your coat, you peek into the kitchen where the smell of onion, garlic, and broccoli waft from. Harry stands at the stove in a shirt and sweatpants, rolling his bottom lip between his fingers. You don’t get much of a chance to figure out what mood he’s in, because Gatsby jumps up onto your lap, licking all over your face.

You play with the puppy in the living room as Harry cooks in the kitchen until he announces the food is ready, homemade pasta night forgotten apparently. You eat together silently while watching TV, Gatsby begging at your feet. You thought that things were better now when compared to earlier, but for the rest of the night something was off between the two of you. You focused your attention on Gatsby who you swear has grown since the last time you saw him, if only a few days ago. Now, he fills your lap comfortably, and you’re sad to say goodbye to him when you leave early. You just couldn’t take the awkwardness floating in the air anymore, and left after a short peck from Harry.

The next day, a Saturday, Harry showed up with Gatsby and a bunch of cardboard boxes to pack close to the last of your stuff. You tried to make it up to him by cooking him breakfast, which he loved, but you still felt it sticking to every moment that passed. You weren’t sure if you should bring it up or not, and at the same time you were waiting for him to bring it up, readying your defenses. Something was clearly bothering him or on his mind, and as you bubble wrapped things and packed them away, you were curious about why he kept looking at his phone. Then around one in the afternoon, after a few hours of packing, he stepped out to take a call.

“What’s going on with daddy, Gats’?” you posed to the puppy who ignored you, albeit stealing a look at you, returning to the rawhide he’s been intent on destroying. You swallow nervously, glancing over to the hallway outside your bedroom where you can just make out his voice. Tearing your gaze from it, you try to busy yourself by gently placing the wrapped picture frame in the box, and picking up the next one.

“Everything okay?” you ask softly when Harry returns, shoving his phone into the back pocket of his blue jeans.

“Ya, e’rythin’s fine,” he replies casually, pulling at the collar of his charcoal-colored henley shirt.

“Okay,” you mumble quietly, wishing you could forget about packing and admire the way that shirt hugs him in all of the right places. That will have to wait for another day when he wears it, you agree silently, seeing that he’s not in the mood today for his buttons to be pushed. You don’t want to find out what happens when you push them when he’s in a bad mood. You try to forget about it as he helps you pack up some of the less necessary items in your bedroom, like summer clothes, novels, photo albums, CDs, DVDs, and more.

As you stare at the barren shelves of your fridge, you make a mental note to go grocery shopping soon, something you’ve forgotten recently with finals approaching at school and packing.

“Do you want to get takeaway or go out for lunch?” you call out to Harry, leaving the kitchen to find him sitting on the sofa in your living room. He’s staring at something intently on his phone, but when he hears your footsteps behind him, he quickly hides his phone in his pocket.

“Takeaway’s fine,” he answers, clearing his throat, his nervous tic.

“Harry, is something going on? You’ve been acting weird, like you’re hiding something,” you assert, walking around to face him. You’re unsure of what he’ll say as you’re unable to read his face, and you know that’s when it’s bad.

“What, so yer tha only one who can keep secrets?” he retorts, his face screwed up in crude disbelief. You’re sure the same emotion painting yours is even worse as you feel the sting of his words. He sighs as you shake your head, beginning to walk away. “Bird, stop, ‘m sorry.”

“What, Harry?” you ask, stopping your feet, but not turning around to face him. You hear him breathe in deeply among the squeaking of Gatsby’s toy he plays with on the couch beside Harry.

“I was offa’d a teachin’ job t’day, a few hours north at that Wright Arts Academy, that’s who called me,” he announces solemnly. The only thing you’re grateful for in the moment is the fact that he can’t see the look on your face as you’re positive every breath just left your body. “They’re so focused on enrichin’ tha students in arts, ‘s great. ‘d be teachin’ classes like Mythology, a whole class on Shakespeare, Improv, Rhetoric, Intro to Sci-fi and Fantasy, and jus’ so many great English courses. Tha classes are smaller and so ya get t’ know yer students betta. ‘d get t’ teach ‘bout my favourite, Shakespeare, fer an entire semesta, bird! They’re offerin’ me more money, too . . ,” he continues, and you’re unsure of when you want him to stop, or if you wish he had never begun. Suddenly, you do a three-sixty when your thoughts are consumed by the happiness and excitement in his voice.

“You should take it,” you say, spinning around to look at him. His eyes are stuck on a random part of the wall, but then he looks to you.

“But ‘s three hours away, bird? ‘d hafta move away and we’re s’posed t’ move in togetha,” he counters, eyebrows falling and quickly you’re more confused than you were a moment ago.

“You’ve always wanted to teach those kinds of classes, Harry, you’ve told me so yourself.”

“But, birdy-.”

“Take the job, Harry, if it’s what you want,” you insist, trying to smile at him, but it doesn’t stay long when you see the look on his face.

“I dunno if ‘s what I want, yet. I don’ wanna move away from you, I don’ wanna do long distance. Wait, do you? ‘s tha movin’ in with me too soon, are ya gettin’ cold feet?”

“What are you talking about? Harry, no of course not. Where are you getting this from?” you reply, dumbfounded at the words coming out of his mouth. Apparently, you can only grow more confused.

“Maybe it has sumthin’ t’ do with not wantin’ me t’ meet yer parents, I dunno, you tell me, bird. D’ya not wanna commit? Why would ya want me t’ take a job that would make us do long distance?”

“I don’t know, Harry, maybe because I want you to be happy!” you exclaim, feeling telltale signs of incoming tears, and they fly faster than you thought they could have. “You’ve told me that you’ve always wanted to teach classes like those, because you enjoy those topics so much - myths in literature, science fiction and fantasy novels, and even though I don’t understand it, you love Shakespeare! You almost named Gatsby after Romeo or Duncan instead, you love his work so much. Of course, I don’t want you to move away, because things are so perfect right now having a job that means I get to work across the hall from my boyfriend. I can’t believe you think I’d want you to move away and do long distance. I would never- but I want you to be happy, and I’m not going to stop you from taking this job if it brought you that. I’m not going to be selfish and make you stay for my own happiness. A-and my parents are another story, I haven’t spoken to them in years. They’re just not good people. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, I didn’t know how,” you finish, feeling grateful for that blurting talent of yours because sometimes you need it. Harry’s jaw almost hangs off its hinges as you stare back at him through blurry eyes, wishing the last few minutes hadn’t happened. Well, the last day. Quickly, the tears triple and you can’t stand him seeing you cry anymore because of the thoughts bashing against the walls of your head.

“I’m going to go pick up lunch,” you say softly, defeat evident in your tone as you turn around. After grabbing your keys and coat, you stomp out to your car and start it. You wait for it to warm up as the cold air from the vents slowly turns warm, but really you only waste the time so you can spill your tears in silence.

It takes all of your strength and willpower to not go back into your apartment and tell him not to leave, because you’re pretty sure it would break you. You can’t imagine a stranger teaching in Harry’s classroom, no shared kisses in the copier room and staff lounge, crossing the hall to ask him a question as soon as it pops into your head, and the fun you both have with your students trying to set the two of you up together albeit it being futile. The doubt of getting a job for yourself at this stupid Academy of Arts to join Harry only makes you feel worse, especially because of the memories your school holds for the both of you.

Wiping your tears away, you try to take a deep breath that won’t come, and you pull the car away to leave him and hope that he won’t do the same to you. The tears left as you drove to go and pick up fast food, but they returned when Harry texted you while in the drive-thru to not get him anything because he was going home to think. Once you returned to the empty apartment, that’s all you could do was think, and it tore you apart.

You had left Harry be for the rest of the weekend, although it was one of the hardest things you had done. You’d liken the effort to running a triathlon, although you’ve never done one of those, but you feel like you have the strength of a triathlete after giving him space. You relented and texted him once though, but just once. It was to ask for a picture of Gatsby who you missed, and he followed through, sending you a couple of pictures. They made you the happiest you’d been all weekend, even despite the tears that crept up when you saw Harry’s reflection in the mirror in one. Then his ringed hand holding Gatsby in another, a selfie of sorts with your favorite shirt of his on his torso. It all made you doubt your words the more, not wanting to have to suffice for only seeing him and Gatsby through pictures if he took the job. You were reminded of your reasoning for it all - wanting him to be happy, but it still gnawed away at you what that would mean if he moved. You tried not to let yourself get too carried away and at times you almost called him, but you weren’t sure who was the bad guy after your argument. You were the one who exploded on him, and you both kept secrets from the other, something you had recently agreed not to do. A promise that the both of you broke so soon.

You had yet to see Harry the following Monday at school, even though you could hear the Cat Stevens album trickling from his classroom at seven-twenty in the morning. Somehow you avoided a run in on your way to the early morning staff meeting, and you didn’t mean to, but you were roped in to sit by a colleague. You found your first seconds of joy of the day when she showed you pictures of her growing baby, one Harry doted on and hogged during most of the staff Christmas party last month. You tried not to think of that while looking at the baby’s chunky thighs and rolls on her arms, and how much you wanted to tell him about it. The joy didn’t stay long when you spotted him taking a seat next to Julie, the visual arts teacher who has had a thing for him as long as you can remember. The pit in your stomach hardens at the sight of him, messy-haired and unshaven, and yet handsome as ever. Confliction carries your features when you spot him wearing the multi-colored Peter Max inspired pop-art button up you had bought him for Christmas. It all only gets worse when he senses your stare and meets your eyes, showing you the sadness hidden in them before you look back to the pictures of the baby.

“Hey, teach! I have a question!” a tall brunette girl in your classroom whispers to you, glancing over to the librarian nervously.

“Yes, Sabrina?” you reply, trying to ignore how some of the students call you that, but then again it’s some that you’re the closest to.

“Um, Mr. Styles is just right over there, aren’t you going to go and talk to him?” she grins, playing with her ponytail, ignoring the computer in front of her.

“Yeah, he’s looking extra cute today,” the girl beside her comments and you have to hold back your laughter. “But he was all glum when I had Creative Writing with him earlier, I don’t know what his deal is today.”

“Maybe he’d be happier if he had a girlfriend,” Sabrina comments wryly, raising her eyebrows at you.

“Maybe I’d be happier if you two were doing your review for the final exam, and not trying to set me up with your teacher, when I can manage just fine on my own,” you comment firmly, trying to avert their attention back to their computer screens and review packet.

“Hey, Mr. Styles, um Ms. Y/N needs some help with something about Shakespeare!” Sabrina calls to Harry two rows of computers to your right.

“I don’t need help!” is all you say with a sigh, loud enough for him to hear, turning around the second you see his head of tousled curls lift where he’s leaning next to a student he helps.

“He ignored you!” Sabrina’s friend exclaims in a whisper, inhaling dramatically along with Sabrina. “You’re not just going to let him ignore you, are you, Ms. Y/N?”

“God, what you’d do to him, he’s usually all over you?” Sabrina sighs.

“Girls, please return to your work. I’m sure Mr. Styles is busy helping a student with their final review, which you’re supposed to be doing right now too. Finals are at the end of the week, we all need as much studying as we can get,” you calmly say although rather curtly, walking away when you see a student with their hand in the air.

“I wish they’d just confess their love for each other already, they’re perfect for each other,” Sabrina grumbles, clicking her pen annoyingly.

“Me too, then maybe they’d both stop being so crabby during finals week,” her friend notes aloud with an exasperated sigh.

Usually you can take the teasing of your students wanting to set you up with Harry, but today you’re not in the mood for entertaining them or carrying a conversation about it. Today, it just hits a little too close to home, you realize silently as you lean against a wall to observe your class, the student no longer needing help. You steal a glance at Harry who stands up straight after helping a student, patting their shoulder with a smile. His attentiveness shines through when he moves on to another student, falling to his knees to get to eye level with him, giving them all of his attention. The way the shirt hugs his torso in every way only makes it all the worse, clinging to his biceps, the slope of his back, and his love handles you love so much before it disappears into the waist of his black slacks.

“Ms. Y/N, are you okay?” Sabrina asks, her eyes on you when you look over to her.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just got something in my eye,” you answer with a hard swallow, picking up your clipboard and checking your watch. You do anything to try and not think about Harry leaving, and how not only you would suffer, but his students. Also, just how much you’re dying to tell your students, hopefully one day soon, that you’ve been dating all along. Hopefully.

Finals had been wreaking havoc on you and only causing more hell for the day you were having. Luckily, Harry had helped you with the majority of it in the recent weeks and even had given you some of his old tests. The anxiety still overwhelmed you at times wondering if you’re preparing your students enough, if the final review packet was too much or not enough, and if your students would be ready. Finals were going to be the death of you, you were sure, if Harry’s revelation about the job offer wouldn’t kill you before then. You couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking, if he had sought it out and applied, or how it even came about. It drove you even more crazy as the tests neared, knowing that you’d be spending the rest of the week in your classroom from seven-thirty most likely until five pm every day, with him just across the hall.

You craved his voice and his touch, his hugs, and that laugh that could fix anything in seconds. That Monday and Tuesday you didn’t mean to ignore him, but when he walked into the staff room while you were in there, your feet found their way to the door quickly. You’re sure you could have left the bone you bought for Gatsby on his desk or bring it over to his house, but instead you left it in his mailbox with a note.

Give this to Gatsby, please. Tell him it’s from Mummy xx

It stung when you found it in your mailbox later that day with a note from him.

You can give it to him yourself the next time you come over :) xo

It was even automatic when you agreed to get lunch with Lola on Tuesday, even though that was the day you and Harry always went and got pizza together. During your prep hour that morning, you lingered in the staff room after he made his appearance. But when Julie the art teacher started to compliment how good he looked wearing the tie you bought for him with Fleetwood Mac song titles covering the fabric, it drove you up the wall. She didn’t stop there, and continued on about how nice he looked and how much she liked his returning beard, making you want to throw up onto your doughnut you had just warmed up. You dropped it into a trash bin in the hallway after deserting the scene, unable to endure her flirting with him and not being able to do anything about it. It pained you to not be able to tell her to stop because he’s your boyfriend, but you and Harry had agreed early on to not share your relationship with colleagues unless necessary.

It was all becoming too much for you to handle, finals week and kind of fighting with Harry and thinking about him moving away. Too much too quickly.

The hard copy of Creative Writing’s final exam sat in front of you that Tuesday afternoon. The sun already hides beyond the horizon outside the windows hugging the wall to the left of you. This has to be the second or third time you’ve printed a copy to look over, always finding something wrong with it, but this time you think maybe you’ve found a winner. The clicking of your pen meets your ears when you think you find a problem, but it’s whisked away when there’s another click. Your classroom door opens and in walks Harry, playing with the black-tie dotted with song titles of all different colors.

“Hi,” he rasps, gently closing the door behind him.

“Hi,” you return, eyes straying to the test in front of you. Your attempt to continue checking it is futile as goosebumps cover your skin and your heart hammers away.

“Gatsby misses you.”

“I miss him too,” you reply, feeling the tears press at the back of your eyes with warmth, trying not to think about not seeing him for months at a time if Harry moved.

“I declined tha job yestaday,” he announces gently, but the whiplash you feel from looking to him quickly almost hurts. His bubblegum lips sit in a taut and nervous line, hands bunched into fists in the pockets of his red slacks. They leave your view when the printed words on the test return in your eyes, growing hazy quickly. “Can ya say sumthin’, please, bird?”

“I hope you didn’t do it for me,” is all you say, hoping the true meaning comes out in your honest tone muddled by your waterworks.

“‘Course I did it fer you. I did it fer us, and Gatsby. I did it coz ‘m ashamed it took me longa than ten minutes t’ figure out that no matta tha luxuries, that’s not my dream job. I already have my dream job, ‘s here teaching across tha hall from you, gettin’ t’ have ya botha me durin’ my prep hour, combine our classrooms t’ play Jeopardy, have our students harass us t’ go onn’a date already, and gettin’ t’ have a snog with you wheneva I want. I don’ care if I don’ get t’ teach all those bloody fancy classes and get paid mo’, coz I lose all o’ that here that already makes me so happy. ‘m sorry I didn’t realize it earlier,” Harry confesses, emotions wavering in his voice that he clears a few times, taking slow steps over to where you sit.

“You know . . . ,” you begin, listening to the silence that takes your words and probably how much they’re killing him right now, especially when you leave you chair. “I think we’re going to have to tell our students sooner or later, because they’re driving me nuts. So are these tight outfits you keep wearing, they make it really hard not to attack you with kisses whenever I see you.”

A smile explodes on Harry’s lips, the first you’ve seen him wear in days, as you approach him. Your hands sing when they touch his chest, feeling the necklace under the fabric before they wrap around the buttery smooth fabric of his tie.

“Y’know,” he begins sarcastically, a hand coming to his chin where he strokes his new beard, although not quite as majestic as it’s been before. What a little shit. “I think ya might be right on that one, but I like t’ watch ‘em squirm. ‘s been fun t’ hear ‘em get all frustrated ‘bout us not datin’ yet,” he giggles, his rings finding their home on your back once again.

“Little do they know, huh?”

“Oh yes, very li’l,” he chuckles, the dimples falling into his cheeks under his patchy facial hair that you love so much. Quickly, they disappear and his cheeks flatten from their prior roundness. “‘m sorry y’know, so sorry, birdy. I was a proper asshole t’ ya, I feel terrible ‘bout it.”

The tears signal their return when his head falls and you spot one escape and fall down his cheek. You catch it with your thumb before it can get very far and lift his chin up to have him look at you. You thought your heart couldn’t hurt after everything he had said moments ago, but it wrenches inside of your chest at the sight of his red-rimmed eyes, tears falling from them.

“Harry, please don’t cry. It’s okay, we all make mistakes. I just want you to know that I am committed to you, so much so that I can’t wait to move in with you . . and Gatsby.”

“I know, ‘m sorry I ever doubted it, I dunno why I did. ‘m committed too, coz I love ya so much, birdy. I love you,” he weeps, shaky words hitting the air that you pass when you pull him into your arms. “I didn’t know I could miss ya so much ova jus’ four days,” he continues, his hot tears meeting your neck as his beard leaves tickles after brushing it. Your heart breaks even further at the feeling of his chest trembling with a sob against yours.

“I know, Harry, me too,” you coo, raking your fingers through his hair as he holds onto you, his face hiding in your neck.

“Plus, I couldn’t take tha job coz ‘m not gonna be one o’ those shit parents who makes Gatsby spend a different weekend at each parent’s house. Also I miss you makin’ me lunches, I neva rememba,” he cries against your skin, his subsequent giggle gracing your ears. He’s the first to pull away and your heart aches a little harder at the tears painting his face, ones you try to make quick work of.

“Good, I don’t think I’d have the heart to tell him, so it’d have to be you.”

“‘Fair is foul and foul is fair’,” he pouts dramatically, quoting a certain William, the pad of your thumb swiping below his left eye, feeling his feathery eyelashes against your skin. “Guess we’ll hafta stay togetha then,” he sighs sarcastically, pursing his lips that soon sing out a bubbly laugh still adorned with the remnants of tears.

“Oh, I’m sure our students would harass us to get back together if that were ever to happen,” you giggle, adoring his wispy dark eyelashes that clump together with wet tears, his murky green eyes peeking up at you beneath them.

“Ya, they’re gettin’ ratha rowdy ‘bout that, aren’t they?” he notes aloud, clucking his tongue as if disappointed then sniffling. Your thumb wanders to his forehead to smooth out the crease that’s formed between his eyebrows, pulling his eyes to yours. “‘d love t’ tell ‘em but ‘s fun t’ watch ‘em go crazy right now, but sumday, ya.”

“Yeah, we have to make it fun first,” you agree, catching the last tear with your finger, hands wandering to his tie the same dark color of his button-up.

“Right, you are,” he hums, eyes darting to your lips as you slowly yank on the tie, bringing him closer. “I knew I hadd’a smart birdy.”

His smile dissolves against your lips that surround his in the sweetest kiss containing the unsaid words and forgotten kisses from the last few days. Sorry’s pass between your lips as his warm rings press into the small of your back, the tie caught between your hands until you let go, certain he’s not going anywhere anymore. His lips sputter a laugh against yours when both of your hands come to caress his lovely bum that you squeeze greedily.

“Watch those naughty finga’s o’ yers now,” he warns through hooded eyes, the bitter smell of black coffee dancing across your face.

“Or what?” you reply with a shrug, the both of you feeling your fingers slowly dive underneath the tight fabric of his pants.

“Or yer gonna catch me without any briefs on one o’ these times,” he replies, trying to keep a straight face until the words leave his mouth that soon pecks yours.

“Oooo, I’d like to see that happen,” you tease, wiggling your eyebrows at him until he collapses into laughter above you.

“I dunno what ‘ll do with ya, bird, with a potty mouth like that.”

“Well, you can’t dump me now, we have a son together,” you shrug dramatically, mouth pressed into a fake line as you watch his eyes roll into the back of his head.

“Very true, altho’ a crappy joke there. I guess I might hafta kiss that potty mouth outta ya.”

“I’d like to see you try, Mr. Styles,” you counter, happy to see the tears have abated from the both of you, hoping you don’t find them again for months and months.

“Oh, would you, Ms. Y/N? ‘ll take that bet, and if I win it, ya hafta come ova and make Gatsby and I dinna t’night. And have wine with me and stay tha night, gotta get su’more practice befo’ ya move in with me soon,” Harry continues, a smug expression donning his features.

“Deal,” you say, squealing when his hands come under your bottom and lift you up to sit you on a nearby desk. The words on your lips disappear when he plants his lips on yours hastily, hands drifting along your waist. “You better get it all out before our field trip next week.”

“‘The lady doth protest too much, me thinks,’” Harry replies, quoting Shakespeare with a funny look on his face, replacing his lips on top of yours. Your tongue scoops up and into his mouth that he parts for you, tasting the Bit-O-Honey he just had that you’re sure his pockets are full of if you checked. You giggle into his mouth when your hands brush against his thighs, sure enough feeling the hard candies in his pockets on your way to explore his bum again.

“‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep,’” you recite as your nose draws a line across his cheek moments later, leaving him silent. A smile curls upon his cheeks at the sound, astonishment playing with his features.

“Our students are right, we really should be t’getha, birdy. I love me a Shakespeare girl. ‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’ but I think ours ‘s doin’ pretty well, if I do say so meself.”

79 notes · View notes

more-miserables · 4 years ago

Text

Here We Go: Yates and Ginger on the Run

Hi this is actually @cubeswhump editing on April’s blog. That’s why there’s a title, and why it’s so bad.

So this is a collab with moi, Cube. We’ve had this planned since even before April’s first whump fic.

Warning for abuse, death, institutionalized slavery, vomiting, trauma response.

The life of a runaway was far from glamorous. Ginger remembered daydreaming while he scrubbed endless floors and windows, picturing himself living with Yates in a calm, peaceful woodland, cradled every night by the soft ferns and leaf litter.

The city wasn’t calm or safe. Ginger didn’t stop running for a long time, hauling Yates along, until they were both gasping and red in the face. They dipped into a dark alleyway and Ginger ripped off his collar right away, grinning. It felt liberating. He tossed it away gleefully.

“Get rid of yours too,” he told Yates.

Yates didn’t react. His eyes were blank, though a steady stream of tears were pouring down his flushed cheeks. Ginger went to remove Yates’s collar himself, sighing. Yates didn’t fight him off, but he whimpered.

“Look, you can keep it if you really want to. You just can’t wear it, or it’ll be obvious we’re runaways.” He balled up the collar and stuffed it into Yates’s pocket.

They camped out in the alley that night, curled together under a nest of old newspapers - and that’s where they stayed for the next few days. Yates stayed in his weird catatonic funk, so it was Ginger who had to find them food and clothes and some sort of housing. It was harder than he’d thought. He knew so little about the outside world now. He learned to hang around market stalls, snatching at their displays and then running off with whatever loot he’d managed to grab.

He couldn’t properly treat his burned palm now. He couldn’t even wash it properly. It soon grew more painful than ever, weeping through the grubby bandages. Then Ginger woke with a fever, and he couldn’t drag himself up to go find food. Yates snapped out of himself enough to cradle Ginger’s burning head in his lap, stroking his hair.

Ginger peered up at Yates’s pale, grubby face through the fever haze. How would Yates manage if he died now? Maybe Stanley really was dead. Maybe they’d lock Yates up. He didn’t know if pets who committed crimes were refurbished or incarcerated. He pictured Yates stuck in prison all alone, crying for him. He couldn’t die. He could fight off anything. He had to.

The first time Ginger heard it, he was emerging from a dream where he was being chased by something bulky, heavy. Clomp, clomp. It continued when he woke up but softer. They huddled together frightfully, but the sound became smaller and smaller.

When it came again the next night, Ginger dared to look, and blanched when the figure looked back. It was gone the next night, but the night after that the clomps paused much too close to their hideout. And then they resumed, coming right toward them.

“What is that?” Ginger gasped.

“Maybe it’s the police,” Yates said shakily. “Because I’m a murderer.” He gave a little sob.

“You’re not. Stanley just fell,” Ginger declared.

“Shh!”

The footsteps stopped right in front of them, and a bright light shone in their faces. When Ginger dared give his fiercest glare through his fever-flushed face and squinting, he met big, blue eyes and shimmering glitter.

"Aha! Thought so," said this odd girl, long, black hair nearly touching their faces as she bent right over them.

“Go away! I… I’ve got a weapon,” Ginger lied as savagely as possible.

“Do you?” Yates gasped. “Where’d you get that?”

Ginger sighed heavily.

The snort was too loud for the girl. She set her phone down on the dirty ground, its flashlight shining toward the sky, and sat right in the alleyway with them in her clean jeans.

"Hiya there, Tweedledee and Dum." Her accent was on the brink of familiarity but impossible to place, and nothing like those of Stanley or Ivy or anyone at the facility. "Don't make those faces. We're comrades."

“Those aren’t our names. You must be mistaking us for someone else,” Ginger said.

Her face changed to something between a laugh and a grimace. "Righto. Mister and Mister fifty-sixty-ten?"

“That’s… not quite our number,” Yates whispered.

“Shh!” Ginger hissed. “Don’t tell her.”

She paused, tilting her head, then rolled back the sleeve of her big coat.

"See this?" she asked, tapping on one of the big, green serpentine creature wrapping all around her forearm. The sparkly nail touched upon a segment covering her inner wrist. Ginger rubbed his eyes, trying to see clearly. His vision had been wobbly for a while now. She pointed the flashlight at it.

He frowned. “There’s nothing there..?”

"'Xactly. Numbers aren't forever, love," she said, the bright light dancing around as she pulled her sleeve back down over the tattoo.

“You mean you were one of us?” Yates asked.

"Bingo," she said, pointing at him. "C'mon, up up. You can get warmed up at my place while I make a few calls, yeah?"

She paused, head tilting to one side. She added, "You're probably not too keen on trusting a stranger, one of your own or not, but Little Red here ain't lookin' so hot, and I don't think you've many options."

“He isn’t,” Yates said desperately. “I can’t get his temperature to go down. Can you really help us?”

"Yep, sure. You able to walk, Little Red?" She stood up, shining her phone at him. The light also illuminated the height of the platforms of her weather-inappropriate shoes, and it was clear what the clomping was.

“I dunno. Haven’t tried in a couple of days.” Ginger shakily got to his knees, and Yates helped him up the rest of the way.

"You got it?" she asked.

“I think so.” He paused. “Why’d you wear shoes like that? They look uncomfortable.” Neither Yates nor Ginger had shoes at all, their bare feet cut and filthy.

"Uniform, of sorts. I don't feel like carrying an extra pair of shoes to put on when I'm done with work."

“What job makes you wear shoes like that?”

"Tell ya later," she said, unzipping her jacket and tossing it to them. Despite the chill, she seemed fine in the tank top underneath. "Anyway, I'm Jamie. You guys got any name preferences for yourself?"

Yates opened his mouth, but Ginger shook his head quickly. Maybe Stanley’s “accident” had been on the news. They didn’t want to be tied to his surname. “Not anymore,” Ginger said.

She seemed more cautious when they entered a neighborhood, looking at the windows of all the houses. It was nothing like Stanley's neighborhood, junker cars in tiny driveways and people shouting with open doors.

"Well, that's something to think about. You've got plenty of time though."

“We shouldn’t be out in the open,” Ginger hissed. He was still trying to look threatening, though that was difficult to pull off when he was leaning heavily on Yates just to stay standing.

"No duh, but we don't have much of a choice," she muttered, pulling out a smartphone and typing away on it. "My house isn't far from here."

“Who are you texting? You’re not turning us in, are you? Is this a trick?”

"Can you read? Genuine question, I know lots of us can't. I'll show you the conversation, I'm just telling my mate we're havin' company."

“I… a little bit. He can’t.” He pointed at Yates. “I’m not good at… being us.”

She held the phone out to Ginger, showing a text conversation with someone called Vivi:

Get bread read a green bubble, and then, And strawberries.

The following white bubble said: I'm already on our street. Needy cunt.

There was another white bubble with a later timestamp, seemingly unrelated to the previous exchange: Bringing some blokes over.

Green: Wtf - followed by a crying face emoji.

White: Chill, they're cool.

“What’s this word?” Ginger asked, pointing to the Wtf message. “There’s no vowels. Why doesn’t it have vowels?”

"Acronym or anagram or something. Each letter stands for a different word, in this case it means 'what the fuck'."

“Oh. She doesn’t seem too pleased that we’re coming.”

"She's shy, not angry. She'll just hide in her room," Jamie said, pocketing her phone. And she walked down an empty driveway, not allowing them much time to process this response.

“This is your house?” Ginger asked. He sounded relieved but breathless, his face waxy pale and sweaty.

"Yep. Mi caso- casa, su casa," she said, trying the doorknob before patting her pockets for the key. She swung it open and kicked off her shoes very loudly, both thumping against a stained wall. She was about the same height as Yates now, possibly smaller if she washed out her hairspray.

"Hey Vivs!" she yelled to no one in sight. Ginger winced at the noise, closing his eyes against the bright light. Everything hurt.

"You guys wanna shower?" she asked, and gestured toward the bathroom. "You should prob'ly get cleaned up and then we'll see what we can do about that fever. We prob'ly have some pyjamas that won't fit too terribly."

“I wanna sleep,” Ginger muttered. It was getting harder for Yates to keep him upright.

"Uh, sure." She gestured for him to follow as she walked into the tiny living room. The furniture was surprisingly nice, and the TV looked gigantic against the wall.

"So, do we know what's causin' the fever and general… drowsiness? I haven't heard you coughing or sniffing." Her voice never seemed to lose volume, just as loud as she disappeared through a doorway.

“I think he has an infection,” Yates said. “He’s got a terrible burn and we couldn’t get it properly treated.”

She appeared again with two glasses of water, setting both on the silver coffee table that was squished in between the sofa and the stand the TV sat on. "Can I take a look?"

“No,” Ginger muttered, looking uncomfortable. “It’s gross.”

"Don't you want me to put somethin' on it until we can have it properly looked at?"

“Well… The bandages could use a change.”

She paused. "Would you be more comfortable if I gave your buddy the supplies so he can do it?"

“Yes,” Ginger said quickly. “I need him to do it.”

She disappeared in a different direction this time. Cabinets opened and closed with thumps.

"Viv, what shit do I use for an infected burn? Hey, where are bandages?"

Footsteps, this small girl impossibly loud in her bare feet. "What do I use for an infected burn and where do I find it?"

The response, if there was one, was inaudible but after some more thumping, Jamie emerged with a tube of antiseptic and bandages. "One sec, I'll get you soap and water. Oh, a towel too. Vivien says to wash first and pat it dry, then…"

She went on as she disappeared into the kitchen. Yates tried to follow her and Ginger stumbled, not expecting the movement. They ended up in a heap on the carpet.

"No, I'll get a bowl! Wait!" She reached toward them as if to just yank up two grown men, but she stopped herself. She straightened out and offered a hand instead.

Yates went to take it, but then Ginger bent over and puked on the carpet. Yates’s face crumpled and he quickly positioned himself in front of Ginger, hunching over him protectively. “I’m sorry! It’s not his fault. He’s been vomiting for the past few days.”

"Uh, yeah, that happens." She was suddenly a bit quieter, smile not quite reaching her eyes. "Yeah, I'm gonna… can I help you get him on the sofa?"

“Please. I can’t… I don’t think he can stand anymore.” Yates was near tears. “He’s been like this for a while and I hate that I can’t do anything. He tries to push himself for me but then this happens.”

The corner of her lip twitched. "I get that."

She knelt down and gripped Ginger under his arms, dragging him up. Her brows knitted together, teeth grit, but she managed to frog march him to the sofa and forced him into a sitting position. Yates sat beside him and held his shoulders when he started slumping forwards. Ginger was barely conscious now, his eyes glazed and half-closed.

The hours were a blur, soap and antiseptic and coaxing painkillers and water down Ginger's throat while he was still pliable. Jamie was all over the place but the faceless Vivien never made an appearance. By the time they’d finished, Ginger was asleep - or unconscious.

And then Yates was stirring, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. When did he fall asleep, and how long? It was almost pitch black save for a light from the hall.

After a quick check that Ginger was still breathing, he heard it: mumbled voices from down that hall. He carefully moved off the sofa, silent in his bare feet, and crept towards the noise and the light. He peered through the crack in the door.

"Just- okay," Jamie said, trying to control her volume as it started to rise. "If you're goin' to be fookin' useless, just give me David's number."

"What's she saying?" This voice was unfamiliar, and effortlessly quieter than Jamie's. "Jamie, what's she saying?"

"She thinks a phone call will put her safehouse in danger. She's worked with countless o' us and she's too chickenshit to take on a pair that's got in a bitta trouble. What? Murderer? Marianne, that's blimey unfair to call him that! Just give us David's number!"

Yates started shaking at the word. Murderer murderer murderer. Was Stanley dead then? Did people know about it already? He hadn’t really meant to push Stanley - or he hadn’t planned it, at least. When Stanley had been ranting and raving about how he was going to split him and Ginger up, something in Yates just snapped. Stanley was hovering right there, tantalisingly close to the perilous staircase. He pushed without thinking. But he’d still pushed. He was a murderer.

"Jamie, they'll hear you! You're so loud!"

"Mar, just… Vivi, can you go check on them?"

"No fear!"

Yates was trying to stay quiet, but murderer was still spinning in his head. A little whimper slipped out before he could stop it.

There was a beat of silence that seemed to last for hours.

"Hold on, gimme a sec. And you better not fookin' hang up."

The door opened slowly. A girl with a puff of frizzy brown hair and gigantic eyes stared from the bed, but she faded to the background. The girl standing before him was almost unrecognizable with her black hair lying limply and makeup washed off; no contouring giving the impression of high cheekbones, eyebrows and eyelashes almost nonexistent at a glance for they were so pale. But the voice was unmistakably Jamie.

"Hey, so you heard that. That's fair, it is your business, but… this prob'ly wasn't the best way to start the discussion."

“You promised you wouldn’t turn us in,” Yates gasped. He felt like all the air in the room had been sucked out, and he gasped frantically. “You said you were on our side! But now they’ll come for us and split us up.”

"No one's turnin' anyone in. Come sit down, you look ready to faint."

“I h-heard you say it. You called me murderer,” Yates whispered.

"No, I was sayin' that you're not, I know the kinda circumstances…"

“We’ve got nowhere to go,” Yates said, starting to sob frantically. “I don’t know what to do!”

"Listen, listen. There's people who help us when we escape. There are places for us to stay. And I'm tryin' to get you to one of these safehouses so you'll be safe."

“You promise?” Yates wept. “You won’t split us up either?”

"No way. Vivien and I met in a safehouse, didn't we?" Jamie asked, and the frizzy-haired girl gave a jerky nod. "They're fine, way better than what we left. No owners, none o' that shit."

“Will they help Ginger’s hand?” He gasped. “Oh, I said his name!”

"Ginger?" She raised her invisible eyebrows, snorting humorlessly. "I was interchangeably Blondie and Bimbo. Yeah, they'll help him. They'll have all the right medications."

“I don’t think he likes his name much. He says we can choose our own now,” Yates said. “But I don’t think that’s allowed.”

"Come in, sit," she said, practically forcing him to sit on the bed, as Vivien retreated from the room. "Who says it's not allowed?"

“Everyone…” he mumbled. “Everyone in training and Stanley and Ivy.” Yates wasn’t too good at this lying low business.

"So? You're not pets anymore. I named me Jamie."

“Why Jamie?”

"Dunno. Felt right. Not too girly, not too boy-ee, short and simple, straight to the point."

“Did your owners name you first?”

"One, not owners. Slave drivers. Two, kind of, as I said earlier. Not a proper name, just…" She pulled a face, and put on a deeper, plummy voice. "''Come here, Blondie!' 'Don't drop that, Bimbo!'"

“Stanley called me by his surname. He could be so kind to me,” Yates mumbled, fingering the collar still in his pocket.

The phone on the bed vibrated. Jamie picked it up and looked at it as she talked. "Tell me, Curls. Should a human have possession of another human?"

“I…” He winced as his head throbbed and he reverted back to the phrases drilled into him in training. “That’s none of my concern. I just have to work diligently and follow orders.”

"Why? Why do you have to do that and not, say, Stanley? Think about it, I got this schmuck's number."

“Schmuck?” He didn’t recognise that word. Was it bad?

"I don't know the origins but yeah, it's derogatory. I like to think of it as a mix o' shit and fuck but there's an m, so I dunno."

“You have his number?” Yates started shaking again, biting his lip. What did she mean? He’d had a number before, him and Ginger. Was this David one of them too?

"Yeah? His mobile? He's this big money agent of sorts, he's not so bad actually but ya know, rich people."

“Sorry, yes, of course. It just… started to feel real,” Yates mumbled dazedly. “And you’re sure he’s good? He won’t turn us in?”

"Nah, he has a huge network for pet lib. Uh, pet liberation. He helps us get free. He doesn't run a safehouse, he's too much in the public eye so he'd get caught, but he, like, funds a bunch and I think his son runs one. If I ring him he'll know where to place you."

“Can’t we just stay here with you?” Jamie was the first person to treat them kindly since… well, as long as Yates could remember.

"You can come and visit, I'd love that. We're mates now, right? But you guys need medical care, therapy, shit you won't get here. Plus I work nights six days a week and Vivien, much as I love her, won't be a great hostess to you two."

“But we can visit? Definitely?”

"Yeah, and if David tells me where you are I'll visit too."

Yates smiled; it was very weak, but it was his first real smile in days.

It was almost peaceful - almost - with the orange-pink light of the rising sun filling the room, a steaming cup of watery hot chocolate in his hands, a cartoon playing on the TV, him and Ginger getting a good night of sleep for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. The anxiety was still there as Jamie murmured to an unseen stranger on the phone, occasionally peeking out of the kitchen to check on him, and the uncertainty surrounding Ginger's fever and bandaged hand.

Jamie came out at last, the rectangular outline of her phone in her baggy pyjama pants. She grinned and gave him a thumbs up, perching on the arm of the couch.

“Is it all fixed?” he whispered, hardly daring to hope.

"Yep. Says he'll be sendin' someone promptly, his words. Hopefully you get someone fun, my Marianne was such a fussy grandma."

“I don’t think Ginger would like fussy people.”

"Let's cross our fingers, bud." She crossed her fingers for him to see. "But you won't be placed with anyone bad, I promise."

“Okay…” Yates still didn’t look too sure. He stuck close to Jamie, following her around like a puppy. He jumped violently when there was a soft knock on the door sometime later.

Jamie glanced toward the door, and over at Yates.

"Think that's your ride."

#whump #bbu #box boy universe #box boy multiverse #male whumpee #female caretaker #no whumper #multiple whumpees #burns #tw abuse #abuse tw #injury #emeto tw #tw emeto

10 notes · View notes

angrylizardjacket · 6 years ago

Text

prettiest things {Ben Hardy/Reader/Joe Mazzello}

Anon asked: ben, reader, and joe going to an awards ceremony and nonsense ensues on the red carpet. reader is trying to act calm and collected for the photographers but it’s near impossible when there’s fingers subtly digging into your sides every 3 seconds thanks to ben and joe. not only that, but during the various interviews, they’ll interrupt by during stupid shit in the background or just sliding in next to you and join the conversation

A/N: 3874 words. [MyEmotions.gif] seriously, super fluffy, this whole fic kicked my ass but im a bit in love with it?? and surprisingly proud of it, please enjoy. female pronouns for reader.

MY BOYFRIENDS WON AN OSCAR?? (not clickbait) | GRWM / FOLLOW ME AROUND: OSCARS EDITION | [Your Channel Name]’ goes up less than twenty four hours after the Oscars ceremony.

The video opens with your usual introduction; you’re sitting in a nondescript hotel room wearing a robe, looking like you’d just stepped out of the shower, grinning at the camera with thinly veiled excitement.

“So my prep team will be arriving any minute now-” you cut yourself off, unable to keep the beaming smile off your face, “I never thought I’d be able to say that, ‘my prep team’; I just feel so fancy and professional!” Wiggling excitedly in your chair for a moment, your grin grows wider, if possible, “I’m going to the Oscars, can you believe it!?” It sounds as if you can’t even believe it yourself, but then there’s a knock at the door.

The video cuts to a timelapse of the stylists fussing with your makeup and hair as a jazzy, instrumental cover of what sounds suspiciously like Don’t Stop Me Now plays over the top of it. You look excited, practically glowing as you talk and laugh with the people buzzing around you, making you up for the night.

The next cut brings the video back to real-time as a knock comes at the door. One of the stylists who was working on your hair takes the moment to open the door, and returns quickly, cheeks pink, a little flustered as she returns to her work.

“Yeah?” You call out, eyes still closed where a makeup artist is focused on your shimmering eyeshadow.

“How’d I ever land someone as fit as you?” Ben’s voice greets you from just out of frame where he’s standing in the doorway of your hotel room, a smile evident in his words, though you can’t see it for the makeup artist still working away.

“How’d you even get in here, I thought-” You were careful not to frown and mess up the woman’s careful work, though you were clearly, at least a little bit, annoyed at the intrusion.

“You banned Joe, not me,” he tried to argue, and you hear the makeup artist laugh quietly to herself, stopping her work to let your open your eyes.

“Now, if I just banned Joe that would be playing favourites; that group text was meant for both of…” your words trailed off however as you caught sight of him in the mirror, looking sharp and grinning in his crisp white suit. “You look pretty damn good yourself.” He laughs at that, fond and bright, and he moves to stand behind you, his hands resting on your shoulders as you looked at one another in the mirror.

“Excited about tonight?” He asks, gentle, and your whole expression shifts, excitement lighting you up from the inside out, which had him grinning to; your joy was infectious.

“Duh!” Tipping your head back, you grin and him, and he grins down at you, leaning down as if going to kiss you- “don’t ruin my makeup.”

“You’ll be fine, you’re not wearing lipstick yet,” and he kisses you quickly, awkwardly where you’re still rather upside down at this angle, and he’s gentle despite the setting spray locking your powders in place already. The hum of appreciate that escapes you turns to a pleased little giggle as he leans away, though he’s still gently holding your face in his hands.

The makeup artist clears her throat.

“I have to finish getting ready,” voice soft, you try not to give away how flustered you're feeling, but Ben's smile says that he knows anyways.

The video cuts quickly to a shot of the makeup artist putting the finishing touches on your eyeliner, with Ben sitting on the edge of the bed, playing on his phone, when the door audibly bursts open. The makeup artist doesn't flinch, and neither do you, much to your own relief, but Ben jumps, looking sharply to the door.

"You look sharp," Ben grins approvingly at the newcomer, and it's then that Joe makes his way into the room and into the shot. The make artist moves back to analyse her work.

"That's quite a compliment coming from you," and as he wraps Ben in a side hug, you and he lay eyes on each other in the reflection of the mirror, "someone should have warned me I'm gonna look like Mr Potato Head between you two." But there's nothing in his eyes apart from adoration where he's looking at you.

"Shut up; you look so good, it's killing me," you half laugh, and Joe actually flushes at that. There’s a quick cut and Joe’s beside you, leaning in to give you a kiss when Ben makes sure to remind him not to ruin your makeup.

“I’m not going to!” Joe squawks, but you pull him back in by the lapels of his jacket as Ben laughs in the background. With way the video’s filmed, the angle you’re at, it’s clear you’re beaming, absolutely radiant as the he leans back wearing his own fond grin despite the makeup artist gently nudging him out of the way.

There’s a few moments that pass quickly; you showing off your finished makeup look, complete with lipstick, Ben and Joe immediately requesting a kiss on the cheek which you’re happy to grant, your makeup artist begrudgingly handing over the lipstick she used on you for when you’d inevitably need to touch it up.

The dress you picked out had started out as a joke, a shimmering grey for when you get your photo taken between Joe in his black suit, and Ben in his white, but the moment you catch sight of yourself in the mirror, the dress easily one of the most flattering items of clothing you’d ever worn in your life, there’s no doubt in your mind that it’s perfect.

You scrub the lipstick stains from your boyfriends cheeks whilst in the elevator-

“Stop moving, I’m gonna get it in your beard!” You rubbed vigorously at his cheek with the thumb of your free hand.

“No, I like this shade, it looks good on me,” Joe laughed, trying to move out of your grip.

“It’s gonna look like a bruise in photos!” You argued back, and Joe groaned, but stood obligingly still as you passed your camera over to Ben. He’s standing diligently, but you’re so close and his gaze keeps flicking to your lips and - “if you kiss me I’m gonna smack you; I can’t ruin this lipstick before the red carpet.”

“This is cruel and unusual punishment,” Joe smirks, his gaze meeting yours, amusement glinting in his eyes, and you’ve finally got most of the lipstick from his cheek, and are now just gently rubbing your thumb over his cheek.

“They’re so cute,” Ben stage whispers behind the camera, and the moment is broken as you turn on him.

“Don’t think you’re off the hook; come here,” and the elevator comes to a halt as Ben passes Joe the camera.

“No, come on, I think it suits me -” Ben steps quickly from the elevator, evading you while he still has a lipstick print clear on his cheek.

“Ben!” You call out after him, half annoyed, half amused where he’s stopped several yards ahead of you and Joe in the foyer of the building. “Jokes on him,” you murmur to the camera, “he’s riding in the same car as us; can’t get away that easily.”

There’s a distinct lack of footage from the car ride to the red carpet, but Joe’s got the camera as the three of you step out, but Ben looks very smug despite the lack of kiss mark on his cheek, and you’re trying to covertly reapply your lipstick in the reflection of the car window.

And then you’re on the red carpet, brimming with excitement and trying to not let it show, shadowing Ben and Joe as they move from photo opportunity to interview and back again. Sometimes you pass your camera to assistants and others around when you’re pulled into a photo opportunity, and you look so fucking ecstatic where you’re standing with Ben and Joe and the rest of the Bohemian Rhapsody cast. There is an undeniable anxiety, however, that comes along with it, that you try not to show, because this is an exciting occasion, and your boyfriends are in an Oscar nominated film, and this isn’t about you, but you can’t help but worry at times that you’re being left out. They’re so caught up in the ocean of bright lights and big names and microphones being presented.

But then there’s Ben, wrapping his arm around you, gently nodding to where Joe’s doing a ‘serious’ interview about Bohemian Rhapsody, or perhaps what his future projects were, but all you knew was that the angle of the camera he was being interviewed in front of left a good two thirds of the shot empty, and it was your time to shine.

It’s difficult to goof around in a suit and a dress, but god if you guys don’t try. Starting with awkward dancing, moving on to try and make strange shapes behind Joe’s head in the background, and culminating with the interviewer awkwardly stopping mid sentence to just frown over her shoulder at Ben balancing a water bottle on his head and you trying to smack it down.

“How long have you guys been there?” But he’s laughing instead of being annoyed like the interviewer, but that’s the moment that you land a solid hit on the waterbottle and it crashes to the ground, or more accurately, into the plant behind you, and it spills all over the fern. There’s a long moment of silence where you look panicked, and then shoot that look directly at the camera and you realise you’ve been caught red handed; Ben is doubled over with laughter.

“I gotta go.” You mutter, though the camera’s focused on you now so even though people can’t hear you can pretty effectively read your lips. And then you bolt.

“I made a mistake,” you whisper into your own camera, playing up your nervousness as you hide behind a completely different plant. The next shot, however, was you sheepishly peering out from the bushes, and flipping the camera around to catch an amused Joe and Ben as they approached.

“‘scuse me, Miss, we’re looking for our girlfriend,” Ben grin, tipping his head to the side to catch your gaze behind the camera, “she hasn’t come by here, has she?”

“Sorry, I haven’t seen her, it’s just me and my shame plant,” you stifle your own laughter, though you’re clearly smiling by the way their expressions brighten at your words.

You don’t include the next moment, stepping out from the bushes, letting them wrap you up in a hug, amused at your antics. Joe presses a kiss to your temple, and Ben assures you that it’s okay.

“You didn’t have to laugh so much, asshole,” you shove him, but you don’t seem too bothered by it, judging by your smile. He just seems to think it’s funny.

“You looked so worried, it was cute,” Ben tried to pout his way out of the situation, but you shook your head, clicking your tongue and leaning further into Joe’s arms where he was still hugging you and trying not to laugh.

“It wasn’t cute!” You cried, but both Joe and Ben made faces that said otherwise.

“It was a little cute,” Joe hummed, and you threw your hands in the air, careful not to hit him as you pulled yourself out of his embrace.

“You’re on his side? Betrayal, left and right,” you tutted, shaking your head, but you allowed yourself a pleased little grin as they both came back in to wrap you up in the middle of their hug.

“You’re such a sook.” Ben laughed, voice somehow still adoring. You can’t really bring yourself to be mad, especially not the next day, when photos of the three of you during this little incident begin to surface, and you look so damn at home between them.

There’s a quick cut away where you explain to the audience that you can’t actually show them the awards ceremony, and it would be rude to film anyways.

But you’re still there for the ceremony, sitting on the edge of the cast because they sit together, Ben on the edge where he’s got a hand on your thigh and a hand hold Joe’s and maybe he squeezes a little harder than necessary when BoRhap’s name is called in the nominations (and maybe you’re okay with that).

They win.

Sound editing. Sound mixing. Film editing.

Rami won best actor.

Your boys - in a general sense; the cast and crew of BoRhap would always be, in your heart, your boys - won.

They’re not expecting Best Film, but you’ve got yourself tucked up against Ben’s side in anticipating anyways, his nails a little sharp against your leg, reaching behind him to give Joe’s shoulder a squeeze. They don’t win, but there’s still that ‘we got nominated for Best Picture at the Oscars’ that hangs in the air as the tension releases and Green Book is announced. Joe lets himself relax, as do you, and you rest your head on Ben’s shoulder, while Joe leans against him and breathes deeply, though the breath he’d been holding.

Everyone scatters after the ceremony, to go congratulate, get drinks, take photos, and you find yourself hovering at the edge, looking on with pride as Ben and Joe took photos with the rest of the cast and crew. You took a few photos yourself, but your vlogging camera was still off, and stowed safely in your handbag.

Ben’s the first to find you; Joe’s taking photos with Rami, but Ben’s spotted you at the edge of the room, seeing the way you’re just quiet and smiling, and he goes to make sure you’re okay.

Before he can even get the question out, you’re holding his face in your hands, pressing your lips gently to his, glowing with pride and joy as he kisses you back.

“I love you,” you’re a little breathless when you say it, and he laughs softly, surprised at the abruptness. It’s not that he didn’t know, it’s not the first time you’d ever said it, the timing’s just a little strange. “And not because of the awards or the suit or anything fucking superficial like that; I love you and I love Joe because you’ve so clearly put your heart and soul into this, and all your work, and,” with a shaky laugh, your gaze drops to where your lipstick has left a mark, and your run your thumb gently over his lips, “and I’m so proud, and I’m so damn grateful to have such passionate people in my life. I can’t wait to see how far you’re both gonna go; I just-” something catches in your throat as you look back up to meet his eyes, and you’re so sincere it’s honestly a little disarming, “I just know it’s gonna be spectacular, honestly.”

He’s silent for a very long moment. Just staring at you, awed, his arms around you, gaze almost reverential.

“I don’t know what to say,” he says gently, a blush rising on his cheeks, and god, you can see the love in his eyes.

“You don’t have to,” you respond, and he’s kissing you again, warm and insistent, his hands firm on your hips, trying hard not to smear your lipstick too much, though you can tell he wants to.

There’s a gentle pressure on the small of your back and you know without even looking that it’s Joe, and when you pull back from Ben, it’s automatic how you wrap your arms around Joe, beaming. Ben just laughs.

“I love you,” you preempt whatever Joe’s about to say the same way you had with Ben, and Joe’s eyebrows raise. He’s got one hand on the small of your back, holding you steady, the other comes up to rest on your cheek, thumb gentle as he fixes the edge of your lipstick, “I love you, and not for any superficial bullshit reason, I love yo-”

“I know.” He’s smiling gently, and you blink at him in shocked silence.

“Did you just Han Solo my supportive ‘I love you’ speech?” You gasped gently, and his smile grew wider, but no less adoring.

“There was a whole speech?” He asks quietly, absolutely glowing with pride of his own, tightening his grip on you a little, and you feel your shock and slight irritation melt easily at his expression.

“Well, the gist of it is,” you begin with a rather shy smile, shocked out of your rhythm, “I just can’t wait for you both to get everything good that you deserve in life, and I can’t wait to be there for it.”

When Joe kisses you, it’s gentle, he’s smiling against your lips. He’s still got a hand on your cheek, and the hand on your back gives a gentle, reassuring squeeze, but as Ben seems to remember your lipstick staining his lips, Joe’s hand moves from your face to catch his before he can wipe the lipstick off. When Joe moves back from you, he’s still holding a very confused Ben’s hand.

“We match.” Joe grins, voice soft, and it’s the first moment they’ve taken since the ceremony just for themselves, and it’s Ben who steps in to press a gentle, amused kiss to Joe’s lips.

“We won.” Ben grinned, full of joy and relief, still holding Joe’s hand, with no intention of letting go any time soon.

“Dude, we won,” Joe agreed, before he reached up to clean up the edge of the lipstick stain, “I love you, ya know,” he paused for a moment, wearing a pleased little smile as his gaze slid over you and Ben, who were both regarding him with adoration and amusement, “who thought we’d end up here of all places.”

You end up taking a selfie of the three of you with matching lipstick stains before the boys wipe theirs off, and you head to the bathroom to carefully just wipe off all traces of the lipstick and apply a bit of chapstick, knowing the lipstick would be ruined anyways.

The video picks up at the afterparty, or, well, the red carpet into the afterparty, getting their photos taken and having interviews done. And perhaps they’d had a few drinks here and there during the ceremony and on the way to the afterparty and there may be an interview where you’re out of focus in the background, taking off your shoes (the heels were a nightmare), before Joe wraps you in a hug, and Ben tugs you both out of shot, and the audience won’t know that it’s the same direction as the surprisingly spacious bathrooms, but you’ll know.

You don’t look noticeably rumpled in the following shots, talking to the rest of the cast excitedly, getting lost amidst the crowd of famous people, trying to act nonchalant and respectful as you make polite conversation with some of the biggest names of the industry.

The next shot is of Ben at the after party, face a little pink as he’s practically beaming.

“Joe, I found her!” He calls over his shoulder, for turning back to you with a grin, completely disregarding the camera in your hand, “We found you; we’re gonna go on an adventure.” And he follows it up by noticing you’re filming and announcing it into the camera; “me, Joe,and Y/N are gonna go get snacks.”

“Snack adventure!” Joe announces from somewhere behind him, and you can’t help but laugh.

“You guys are drunk,” you muse fondly, if not a little exasperatedly.

“And you’re pretty, are we just saying things now?” Joe pops into frame, resting his chin on Ben’s shoulder, eyebrows raised at you.

“Let him finish,” Ben declares, hand coming up to pet Joe’s cheek, who let out a goofy grin, turning and pressing his forehead to Ben’s cheek.

“I was finished.” He snickers, and Ben grins, amused and unselfconcious as he turns to rest his forehead against Joe’s, the moment surprisingly intimate as Ben laughs a little.

“You were finished?” He asks, and Joe nods, confirming quietly as both their voices drop low and teasing in that drunkenly flirty way, with Ben’s fingers still absent mindedly stroking Joe’s cheek. There’s an undeniable tension, all three of you know where this is leading, but Joe seems to be the only one to remember the camera.

“We should get snacks.” He grinned, and Ben, sensing the tone shift, couldn’t help himself as he pressed a quick kiss to his lips before looking to you.

“Snack adventure; you in, babe?” And both boys affixed you with their best puppy dog eyes.

“Of course I’m in.” You agree easily, and both Ben and Joe cheer before you hear an also very drunk Rami announce that he’s a snack.

“That’s what- that’s like an internet thing, right? Like snack, but with two ‘c’s. I’m a ’snacc’.” He asks, and you turn the camera to face him and he’s grinning, giggling to himself, and still holding his Oscar. His bowtie is beyond help.

“Oh God, Rami I’d die for you.” You breathe, completely in awe of the fact that you got to witness whatever that was in real life, ignoring Ben’s laughter and Joe’s ’oh Jesus Christ��. Rami gives you finger guns before you cut to the next clip.

“We’re on our way to Seven-Eleven; they’ve got a special car for us! It’s our car for the night!” You stage whisper in the back of the car, beaming and giggling, and when you get to the gas station in question, the boys start filming a video for Instagram at the counter, and you’re making your way through the aisles, tossing up on what to get.

“Babe, have you decided yet?” You hear Joe’s voice and pop around to the end of the aisle, three different bags of chips in your arms, frowning at the phone he’s pointing at you.

“There she is,” Ben snickers quietly.

“Not yet.” You grumble, also awkwardly filming him with your camera in your partially free hand.

You end up with a packet of candy and a drink, and pick up filming again in the back of the car, giving the boys your food to hold as you rattled off your standard outro, before turning off the camera and sighing with relief.

“We did it; we survived the Oscars.” Joe announces, almost immediately leaning his full weight on where you’re sitting in the middle, he’s got a hand on your knee, awkwardly pulling up your dress so he can rest his hand on bare skin instead of fabric. Ben slings an arm around you, his hand coming to rest at the back of Joe’s neck as he’s also leaning against you, gently scratching at Joe’s scalp.

“Survived seems like a bit of an understatement,” Ben chuckles, and Joe huffs out a laugh of agreement.

“You guys kicks the Oscars’ ass,” you proclaimed, and Joe gives your knee a squeeze and Ben presses a kiss to your temple, “but can we go back to the hotel now?” You asked, and they were both quick to agree, before you added, “this is honestly one of my best looks so far, and if I don’t get laid, it’ll be a crying shame.”

“Babe, you do not need to worry about that at all.” Joe assured, looking up to meet your gaze as you turn to look at him, and his lips are inches from yours; Ben’s humming with agreement, already pressing a kiss to your neck. As if it were even possible, you know the night was about to get even better.

the syndicate: @florenceivy @queens-babe @doctorwhatwhenandwhere @cosmicsskies @itsametaphorbriansblog

(crossed out means it couldn’t tag; send me a message and i’ll add you)

#ben hardy #joe mazzello #ben hardy imagine #joe mazzello imagine #ben hardy x reader #joe mazzello x reader #ben hardy x reader x joe mazzello #ben x reader x joe #bohemian rhapsody #borhap #bo rhap #bohemian rhapsody imagine #borhap imagine #borhap cast #borhap cast imagine #the angry lizard writes

322 notes · View notes

corbwhisker · 5 years ago

Note

if you had to pick an all new leader and deputy for each clan, who would it be (bonus: and why!)

Bless whoever sent this, either you caught on, or you wanted to know my answer ;) Anyways, prepare yourselves for paragraphs. Also I’ve haven’t met TOTT as a whole, so I can’t really pick from the small pool of tribe cats I know.

Y’all who answered these asks did it the logical and reasonable way - I’m gonna go wild so hERE WE GO-

Nettleclan: Thornstar w/ Squirrelwhisker

So it’s been a long time since I’ve had prime time to rp with Nettleclan cats - and I have yet to meet Squirrelwhisker BUT-Listen I’m excited for Crowstar one day - that boy god damn deserves it. But if I had to pick an entirely new set of leader/deputy?

Who’d follow Dapplestar/Crowstorm(star)? Well, family apparently follows the same path - because my next pick for leader would be Thornshade.

She’d be a steadfast leader who wouldn’t hesitate on making tough decisions, she’d be the the solid pillar for Nettleclan in times of disaster. A leader who knows what her clan is capable of, and what needs to be done FOR NETTLECLAN. She is one of the OG Nettleclan cats who’ve seen tons of events, tons of villains, tons of natural disasters - she knows most of her clanmates are rogues and loners, some even who came to the clan with intentions of aiding of a villain - but who’ve become valuable clanmates regardlessly. Her experience would put her on the edge of a fantastic leadership, knowing exactly what to do, and how to remain calm during dramatic events. She’s seen Nettleclan been invaded, suffered from drought, and has dealt and witnessed countless drama in Nettleclan.My biggest concern would be her communication between her and the rest of her clan - not to mention tough peacekeeping.

So she’d need a deputy who could fill that role - someone who can befriend and freely communicate with the warriors of Nettleclan, a cat, who with practice could become the best peacekeeper the clan have seen - but who also wouldn’t hesitate to protect Nettleclan. Squirrelwhisker fits that bill.

Squirrelwhisker’s chatterbox nature is the exact opposite of Thornshade’s silence. His nature means he’ll go out of his way to help others, and will naturally want to keep the peace between the clans. Thornstar would 100% prioritize Nettleclan’s future, but Squirrelwhisker’s advocacy for peace could pursued Thornstar to compromise for the sake of keeping peace FOR Nettleclan, after all, raising kits during peace is a lot safer than raising kits during a war. But I also don’t doubt Squirrelwhisker would seek to do right for his clan - in fact I’m certain he’d defend his clanmates with his own life.

Of course there are cats who could also fit the bill for deputyship, like Honeyflame, Sparrowface, Wigeonfur, or even interesting picks for deputyship like Stormcloud, Halfstream, Fern (I know she earned her warrior name, but heck I can’t find it), or Sootpath.

@dapplecloud // @squirrelwhiskr

Creekclan: Robinstar w/ Amberleaf

Listen, I am 100% for Robinclaw eventually becoming Robinstar, you cANT STOP ME FROM PROTESTING THIS UNTIL I DIE-

Robinstar I feel, has gone through an adverse life - and in the end, she’s grown from an angry apprentice to a mature warrior. As a leader she’d excel - she’s got the mind geared to make decisions for the whole of the clan, and would be able to push for Creekclan to be well-defended yet respected. Not to mention - her keen eye would prioritize the safety of kits and apprentices, and would very likely get very involved in making sure apprenticeships are going well. A few of the clans - including Creekclan - has seen its fair share of bad mentor/apprentice match ups, Robinstar could revolutionize apprenticeships. I imagine with three medicine cats too - she could even make changes to Creekclan’s apprenticeship program, including land-hunting for the winter, basic healing for battle wounds, and making sure apprentices are learning what they need to for their full warrior lives. With her experiences, she’d be able teach apprentices and warriors alike in being well-practiced, and make sure no future apprentice would ever repeat her own apprenticeship. My only big concern would be peacemaking - I feel like Robinstar may have trouble when it comes to the fine line between what’s for the clan, and what’s best to keep the peace. As 100% Robinstar would choose to defend her clan with her life, but perhaps a bit too keen to jump to defend it.I thought, why not Amberleaf?Amberleaf has GROWN. She started as a nervous meek thing, afraid of the slightest movement - but MAN has she grown. She’s matured, and faced adversity - she’s a mother, who knows that Creekclan would need to be protected - but would become an advocate for the best of the young and future of Creekclan - Robinstar would have a keenness for Creekclan to not be pushed over, and Amberleaf would have a keen eye for more peaceful options - Robinstar’s strong leadership coupled with Amberleaf’s gentle motherly love? UNSTOPPABLE. Amberleaf would be far more approachable to more shy clanmates than the ever-intimidating Robinstar, and a leadership role would drive Amberleaf to think outside of the box, to become a pure advocate of reason, and would be the perfect deputy to match Robinstar’s inexperience.Also… Daughter/Mother as leader and deputy? @mods make it happenThough of course, if I had to pick someone else - Sparrowheart is an obvious pick, but going down more options would be Goosewing, Peaceflower, or Rowanfur. More interesting picks? Hawthorn, Daffodil, Snowflower, or Carppaw and Marigoldpaw (once they are warriors obviously). Or if you wanted to get spicy: Reedpaw/claw - which yes is a cursed pick atm. But if he went through huge development towards maturity and anger-management? My god Robinstar and Reedclaw would be a POWERHOUSE - they’d turn Creekclan’s meek and friendly nature into something well-respected and strong.

@cinderstar

Fogclan: Siskinstar w/ Bramblefang or Fang

Lets go at this backwards - deputy to leader:

Okay - Bramblefang is an expected pick. And for good reason - he’s a great pick; he’d practical, and would be excellent at the organization and planning that’s required as a deputy. Now that he has kits, his perspective on defending Fogclan’s reputation with claws will very likely change - cats have families, they have loved ones - kits, mothers, fathers, siblings - He’ll second-guess just jumping into battle, and will need to rethink and think about compromising for the sake of peace and for the secured future of Fogclan.

Fang? Come on - that gal is BUILT perfectly for leadership. She’s got the logical thinking, with her experience she’d know exactly how to navigate difficult She also knows what it’s like to experience tyrannical leaders, and what it’s like to be forced into a role of a tool. With time, this girl would come to empathize with each of her clanmates - even the ones who might not get along with her - because she’ll know, each cat is an individual, who have needs and wants, who have lives and loved ones. Each cat in Fogclan is important - they aren’t expendable soldiers to use. In the future she wouldn’t want unnecessary bloodshed, but she’d defend her clanmates with everything she has. But Siskinclaw for the next leader? Now let me explain that one -Siskinclaw has an innocent perspective of the world, and now with recent events, that perspective will either have to adapt, or shatter with the cruelty with the world. And honestly, I think Siskinclaw will mature in a great way - he’d come to know that leadership requires tough decisions, and while he may doubt and want the good outcome for everyone - a deputy like Fang or Bramblefang would perfectly balance that. He’d need a deputy who can balance his natural peacekeeping nature - someone who understand that peace is best for the clan, but to not be pushed over for the sake of keeping peace.

Siskinstar in the face of the cruelty of the world, and with his deputy at his side, will he’ll smile. He’ll be able to personally interact with his clanmates, and gain their perspectives, and find a way to address it all with his deputy at his side. After Fogclan’s crueler and more traditional history, Siskinstar’s leadership would be a breath of fresh air. Fogclan cats would be able to RELAX, and be able to fulfil their lives without awaiting another disaster or battle that would befall them again.Not to mention - after Palestar’s (we don’t know how the next reign is going to go, but that’s secrets so-) reign, Fogclan will need a more peaceful leader who’ll lead Fogclan into better standings with the other clans. Someone who can keep the peace as Fogclan’s strength builds, as their confidence grows and their reputation recovers. I also could’ve gone with Foxflame, Kinktail, Meadowfrost, or Pumpkinpelt as well - all great choices for their own separate reasons. But you want an interesting pick? Whitebounce, Maplestrike, Coppertail, or Loonwind (his place is kinda in limbo - he may return to Nettleclan, who knows? But imagine him becoming deputy of Fogclan after leaving his life in Nettleclan - OUCH the drama).

@lakenose // @stonefangs

Jaggedclan: Tawnystar w/ Mintwhisker

Ha ha what? Jaggedclan’s picks were here the entire time!

Anyways…. I don’t really know Jaggedclan well - I know Stongfang is a natural leader, and a favourite pick for this ask. So I’m going to give her a pass since we all know she’s a natural perfect pick-

Tawnystar! Tawnystar! TAWNYSTAR- This girl from what I’ve seen, would be a great match for leadership - I don’t know her character well, but from what I’ve seen, she’d be a fine pick to carry on her father’s legacy to bring Jaggedclan even more out of old tradition and into a more streamlined efficiency. She’s young, sure, and perhaps a bit immature for the role, but her fresh blood would make for a long reign - along with a steady deputy to help out, she’d bring new strength to Jaggedclan.

Mintwhisker is a common pick - from what I’ve seen, he’s got balance and charisma - it’s perfect to offset Tawnystar’s inexperience, and he’d be the voice of reason in any quick decisions she makes. He’d bring the charm when Tawnystar brings the guns, and would be able to reason for more logical and peaceful solutions.

For more possible picks? I’ve seen Owlheart picked commonly - but Eveningstorm, Smokeflower, or Spidertooth seem like steady picks - of course if wanted to go even further- Shadepelt, Littleblossom, or heck even Frecklecloud would be interesting.

@pigeonflight // @mintswhisker

6 notes · View notes

thelaughingduchess · 6 years ago

Text

Hope For Everything

SPOILERS: Basically an AU ending for season 3. Takes place post 3x20, The Fallen, and then picks and chooses storylines from the remainder of the season.

DISCLAIMER: Arrow belongs to DC Comics. Title from Euripides.

AUTHOR’S NOTES: While doing a little work on another story, I found this drabble I'd written in 2015 sitting on my hard drive. It's kind of a silly alternate ending for Season 3 and I'm not sure it's post-worthy, but realityisoverrated, my incredibly talented sister, read it and said I should, so here we are.

The familiar piece of dialogue towards the end is blatantly stolen from 3x23, My Name Is Oliver Queen.

LINK:

AO3

Nothing is hopeless; we must hope for everything.

~Euripides, Hypsipyle

Felicity's apartment is empty. Which is a good thing because it should be. Having just come back from Nandar Parbat it would have been bad if someone had been inside when she'd gotten home. Very bad, actually. But still. The silence of her apartment seems loud.

Ray had stayed over the night before their lives had blown up, and his water glass is still sitting on the nightstand in her bedroom, along with his tablet. He'd been struggling with some coding before they'd fallen asleep, but she sees the solution to the problem as soon as her eyes run over it. She picks up the phone to explain what the fix is, but the pang of guilt twisting her heart tells her not to call. He's a smart guy. Surely, he's solved it by now.

She walks through the rooms of her house aimlessly. It's odd to feel the absence of someone who hadn't ever been there before, but flashes of a life she never had keep popping into her head. She can see Oliver there. See him fitting so perfectly into her space. He should be there.

She shakes off the idea because should be doesn't mean he ever will be. They hadn't said goodbye, but it was still what they'd done. The odds of escape had been overwhelming, but it had been his choice to stay in Nandar Parbat. The plane had been less than a mile away- so close and yet so far. It's the story of their relationship in a nutshell.

There's not enough ice cream in the world to process this. But there's a bottle of tequila with a few shots left in it and she drinks it fast, standing over the kitchen sink, letting the burn rush through her and then fade before she finally lets the tears fall.

She'd had everything. For one fleeting moment they'd belonged to each other.

And now she was back to square one.

He'd told her to live, so that's what she decides to do, starting with rebuilding the lair. She goes back to the Foundry and heads down the stairs with nervous steps. There's nothing really left to salvage since Captain Lance had seized everything they needed to function as Team Arrow. Her chair rests on its side on the ground so she rights it and then sits, spinning around and around while she thinks. They could always break into the SCPD warehouse and steal everything back. Her feet lift off the floor and she smiles softly, letting the momentum carry her in slow circles. She wonders what Oliver is doing. Maybe, a half a world away, he's dreaming about her.

The chair slows and eventually stops. Sitting directly in her line of sight is the stupid plant she'd bought in a moment of whimsy the previous September. She'd been at a farmer's market picking up the last of the sweet summer corn when she'd seen it. Something had told her to buy it, had told her that Oliver needed a little more life down there in the darkness. She'd been happy that morning, excited about working with him to get back QC. She'd had no idea how thoroughly the rug was about to be ripped out from under them.

She rises from the chair and picks up the fern, a few fronds falling off as it moves through the air. The soil is loose around the base and she pats it down until the roots are covered. It's a miracle it's survived- god only knows the last time someone watered it.

It feels wrong to take it out of the Foundry, but it feels more wrong to leave it. In the end, she thinks Oliver won't mind if it comes to live at her house for a while.

She tucks it under her arm and climbs up the stairs, pausing in the empty doorframe. Her free hand grips the splintered wood. "We're never coming back here," she whispers into the silent air. "Never."

She doesn't look back.

Thea is a handful. She doesn't understand why they're not moving heaven and earth to get her brother back. In all honesty, Felicity doesn't either. Diggle had said something about respecting choices and figuring out a long-term plan and Malcolm had been firm about not making a move until they had a strategy in place. She's not sure when he suddenly got a vote in their decision-making process, but somehow he has and it doesn't sit right. Thea doesn't seem to like it either.

It's odd to finally spend time with her. Thea has always been a vague blur in Felicity's mind, an interesting puzzle whose pieces never quite lined up. She owned two Birkin bags, but was in love with Roy. It was all kinds of confusing. Since they'd returned from Nandar Parbat, she and Thea had been talking every day, the two of them forming a tentative bond over how much they missed Oliver. Now that she's starting to see the measure of the girl, Felicity finds that she likes her.

Thea is still feeling her out.

"You want to do what Oliver asked, but what he asked is ridiculous."

"I know."

"My brother is kind of an idiot."

Her first impulse is to defend him, but Thea's not exactly wrong. "Based on what I've seen, that kind of goes hand in hand with being a hero."

The brunette rolls her eyes, dismissing Felicity as she walks to the fridge in the loft. "So, you're what? Some sycophant who does whatever he tells you? Oliver needs a girl with some fight in her."

Felicity tries not to let the words sting. Thea doesn't really know her. Not yet.

Malcolm Merlyn stands at the island in the kitchen humming while he chops up vegetables for their dinner. He looks completely at home and it's the creepiest thing Felicity's ever seen. Oliver wouldn't want him there. She doesn't either, but she can't exactly run him out of town with a pitchfork and an angry mob. At least not yet.

"I think Miss Smoak has more than enough fight in her to keep Oliver on his toes, Thea." He smiles at Felicity and oh man does she need to retract her previous statement. A smile being sent her way by Malcolm Merlyn is absolutely the creepiest thing she's ever seen. She'll be having nightmares for months.

She opens her mouth to argue his point because agreeing with a mass murderer is something she'll be comfortable doing never, but it would be counterproductive to do so in this case. "We can't move until we're ready. There's nowhere to run, Thea. Ra's wants his heir and Oliver's the only one that fits the bill."

Thea slams her hand against the stainless-steel door of the fridge, her eyes flashing hot. "That's not true."

It's possible that Thea's anger is a side effect of being resurrected via the world's worst in-depth spa treatment, but it's also possible that Felicity's reading into these outbursts. Maybe there's nothing more there than a sister missing her brother. "It is true, Thea. I wish that it wasn't. He'll find Oliver, or he'll come after-"

"That's not what I mean."

Malcolm Merlyn stops chopping. "Thea," he warns.

Felicity stands, feeling like something is about to change and hope blooms in her chest. "Tell me."

"Oliver isn't the only one that can fulfill the prophecy. I survived Ra's' blade too."

A joke about a souvenir t-shirt being the only thing they'd gotten for their troubles flits through Felicity's mind and she almost laughs. Not from the joke- that was terrible, it's just that this revelation is the opposite of helpful. Thea being the heir would be an even bigger nightmare. Oliver would burn down the world to stop it from happening.

Felicity shakes her head. "But you're not a man. If Ra's won't accept his own daughter as the heir, I'm pretty sure he won't accept you."

Malcolm changes his grip on the knife and for a moment Felicity feels threatened as if he's deciding whether or not he needs to kill her because of what she's just said. It's weird because it's not like Felicity is about to go telling anyone that Thea also fulfills the prophecy. "And technically, you did die from his blade. Totally flatlined. It was modern science that saved you. That really doesn't mesh with ancient prophecies."

"Yeah, well ancient prophecies are bullshit," Thea says.

"Ain't that the truth," Felicity says softly. Merlyn eyes her for a long moment and Felicity fights the urge to shiver. He finally goes back to chopping, but goosebumps continue to break out over her skin as she rises and slides on her coat.

Thea crosses to her quickly. "Please stay." There's desperation in her eyes, as if she knows that Malcolm is more devil than dad. "There's enough for all three of us and you said you'd tell me about your trips to Lian Yu."

Thea tilts her head and the movement is so like Oliver that Felicity's breath catches. "Sure."

Thea hugs her tightly. "Thank you," she whispers and that isn't like Oliver at all.

The new lair Felicity sets them up in is an abandoned subway tunnel that's blocked off on one side by rubble. Something feels right about starting over in the location that was central to the mission that had brought them all together in the first place. It's dark and damp and dirty as hell, but it also has high enough ceilings for a salmon ladder. She's not embarrassed to admit it's the first thing she thought of.

She redirects power from the buildings above them, and then builds a new system with computers generously provided by Palmer Technologies. And by generously provided she means stolen, but it's not like Ray would have said no if she'd asked him. It's nowhere near as flashy as the basement of Verdant, but it makes getting around the city easier and the first night Laurel and Thea start sparring on the mats behind her, Felicity smiles. If she closes her eyes, it almost feels like home.

Oliver returns on a Tuesday and whatever joyful reunion she'd imagined in her own mind is wiped away by the cold, calculating look in his eyes as he shoots a second arrow into Nyssa. He's definitely been brainwashed. Felicity should have learned by now not to get her hopes up.

She's never been afraid of him, though. Not once. Not back in the beginning when he was a killer and not ten minutes ago when he'd used her as a shield to escape the threat of Digg's weapon. She won't be afraid now. As soon as she fears him it's over.

He lifts his bow at Laurel and Felicity doesn't hesitate as she steps between them, her arms stretched out as if she can create a safe space on each side. "Oliver. Stop!"

Nyssa is badly wounded, the arrows through her thigh and shoulder dripping with blood. The metallic smell of it hangs in the air and good god, when had the scent become more familiar than alarming?

Laurel picks up on Felicity's cue and decides to ignore Oliver as she kneels down beside Nyssa. Her hands fumble a little as she unzips her jacket but her voice is strong as she orders the other woman to stay still. She peels away the leather and then whips off her shirt as Diggle cautiously makes his way to them, his gun in his hand but not aimed at anyone. Laurel uses her top to make a tourniquet around Nyssa's upper thigh and Diggle rests the gun on the ground before cutting off the tip of the arrow.

Nyssa curses at Oliver as Diggle lifts her. At least Felicity assumes that's what she's doing. It's in Arabic, but the sentiment seems clear enough.

When Felicity turns to fully face him she finds that Oliver hasn't moved. His bow is still taut, the arrow ready to loose and she knows the muscles in his arm must be burning. "Oliver. Put down your bow."

She can hear the crunch of gravel behind her as Diggle starts walking away and then she hears the zip of Laurel's jacket. She doesn't look back at either of them. Laurel walks towards her and Felicity shakes her head at the sound of the approaching footsteps. "Laurel, go with Digg."

"I'm not leaving you with him."

Oliver raises the bow a fraction of an inch, and Felicity knows he's calculating a way to shoot around her. It's comforting in a very strange way. He's still in there.

She turns away from him and looks at Laurel. "I'm fine. You should go."

Laurel's eyes dart back and forth between them before she nods. "Come back to us, Ollie. We need you." She spins on her heel, running off before he can respond.

They're alone on the street now, just the two of them. And it should feel scary, but it mostly feels amazing. He's alive and he's there and she can still feel the ghost of his hands on her body.

He lowers the bow. "You shouldn't have interfered."

"Surprisingly, all evidence points to the contrary. What are you doing?"

Oliver's head drops and the contrast between the defeated pose and the menacing uniform is a little bit funny. His head comes back up and she can see the coldness sliding back into place. "She still calls herself the heir. I have to kill her."

"There are a lot of things you might think you have to do, but I can tell you right now that is not one of them."

He shakes his head and it's unnerving not to be able to see the lower half of his face. At least with the mask, she could read him. Now it's all darkness.

His hand flexes tightly around the bow, the leather of his glove creaking loudly. "Next time I won't hesitate. Not even for you."

"I don't believe that for one second."

Instead of arguing he stalks off. She can't physically stop him or fight him or get him to do what she wants, but she does have a hold on him. It's the same hold he has on her and she's not afraid to use it. "I love you, Oliver."

He stops in his tracks and then turns back to face her. "Oliver Queen is dead. My name is Al Sah-him."

"You can call yourself Barney the Dinosaur for all I care. I love you. And I'm not giving up."

Oliver's head cocks to the side and somehow she knows that he's fighting a smile behind that mask. At that moment she decides- she's going to win. "You'll have to live with your actions, so don't kill anyone else if you can help it. I'll see you soon. I promise."

He walks away without comment. The moon is large and bright in the sky above and a few pigeons fly off the ledge of a building as he goes. Felicity waits until the night is still before heading in the opposite direction.

"Sara lives."

Felicity's head snaps up from her computer as a recently healed Nyssa seems to magically appear in the lair. It would be super cool if it also weren't super annoying. She needs Cisco to make them some sort of perimet- "Wait. What?"

"Ta-er al-Safar is alive."

"That's what I thought you said, but then I thought you couldn't have said that because Sara is dead."

"No."

It's too much to hope for. "Nyssa," she says gently. "This wasn't like the other times when Oliver just thought she was dead. I saw her. I washed the blood out of her hair with my own hands."

Nyssa stares at her for a long moment, taking in this information. Her eyes soften before she speaks. "My father has gifted me her life."

Felicity doesn't need to ask how. The world seems to spin and she slumps back heavily in her chair, which actually does start to spin. Not that the world isn't spinning too, because it is, all the time, but she can't feel that. The movement of the chair, however, is too much. She grabs the edge of her desk because if she doesn't she's going to vomit and she can't embarrass herself like that in front of Nyssa. "Why?"

"I will give him the thing he wants most in the world."

Felicity had thought that was Oliver. What more could Ra's want? "And what exactly is that?"

"The price does not matter."

Felicity nods, because what else can she do? Sara is alive. Their Sara. She picks up her phone and calls Laurel.

It takes almost a day to travel to Nandar Parbat, but this time when Nyssa, Diggle, Laurel, and Felicity walk up to the fortress, there isn't a throng of people waiting for them to arrive. The place feels eerily empty.

Malcolm and Thea are back on the plane, waiting to hear if they can be useful and it's odd to feel comforted by the fact that they're there. Thea hadn't wanted to stay behind and so she had come as a way to ensure Malcolm wouldn't betray them at the first opportunity. Felicity just hopes the idea won't come back to bite her in the ass. While they're apart, Malcolm could always steal Thea away to somewhere they can't find her and Felicity's pretty sure Oliver won't love her all the more if this plan goes awry.

Nyssa blends in with the dark of the landscape and Felicity takes a deep breath, the air cold in her lungs as the four of them approach the imposing doors of the fortress. She hasn't seen Oliver in weeks and she can't help the nervous excitement that fills her at the idea of him being close by. She'd shaved her legs before leaving Starling City. It was a ridiculous thing to have done, but she had to have hope. Last time she'd been there she'd been sad not to have on cuter underwear. You never knew what could happen.

Dig seems calm enough when they come to a stop, but Laurel is bristling with anxiety, her hands clenching and unclenching as she waits for something to happen. The moment Nyssa steps forward the doors creak open. It feels to Felicity as if she willed them to.

When they pass through the threshold Oliver is waiting and it takes all her strength not to run to him. His hood is pulled back and, with his now close-cropped hair and minimal stubble, he looks thinner. His eyes scan over her without emotion but he almost blanches when he sees Laurel. He turns to face Nyssa. "You shouldn't have brought them. I told you to wait."

"I am no servant awaiting your orders."

"But you will be my wife."

"I fail to understand what one has to do with the other," Nyssa snaps.

"I'm sorry, what?" Laurel asks and Felicity couldn't be more grateful to have her there because her lungs have stopped working and that is an excellent question.

Nyssa turns and faces them, her lips twisting into a smirk. "In exchange for Ta-er al-Safar's life, I have agreed to marry Al Sah-Him."

Diggle coughs lightly and Felicity almost smacks him. "Oliver?" she asks, too shaken to be ashamed of the way her voice cracks over his name.

Nyssa steps towards her, placing her hand on Felicity's shoulder. "There is no need to mourn for the loss of your love, Felicity. I will name you his consort."

Digg does more than cough this time and Oliver takes a menacing step towards him, which is ridiculous. But not more ridiculous than what Nyssa is saying.

"It is a great honor. You will help raise our children," Nyssa continues.

Laurel slaps a hand to her own forehead and turns in a circle, clearly wondering what terrible thing she'd done in her life to end up there. "Sorry to intrude on your little soap opera over there, but where exactly is my sister?"

Oliver hesitantly steps towards her and it's then that Felicity knows something is very, very wrong. "Laurel," he says, his hand wrapping around her elbow. "You shouldn't be here."

"Take me to her," Laurel says, yanking her arm from his grasp. "Now, Oliver."

Feral is the only word to describe her. Their Sara is now a monster trapped in a sunken pit at the center of a room that must have been some sort of amphitheater. Sara's hands are covered in blood, her fingernails ripped out by her attempts to claw away at the door and there is a chain around her neck. When she sees them watching, she howls.

Laurel goes very still, but Nyssa collapses down hard onto one of the curved stone benches. Felicity is stunned by the show of emotion. In all honesty, her first instinct is to fall apart too, but she slides her hand into Laurel's and squeezes instead. "Thea had some trouble at first," she tells her softly. "Not this much trouble, but she jumped out of the Lazarus Pit like a flying squirrel and attacked Oliver. It passed in a few days. Sara was dead a lot longer than her. She probably just needs more time."

Laurel nods and takes a deep breath, her eyes never leaving her sister. "How do I get down there?"

Oliver leads the way.

"I want to take her to Star Labs," Laurel announces later, when they're sitting in Nyssa's room.

"It's a good idea," Felicity says. "But we can't right now." Laurel's eyes narrow at her, but she waits for Felicity to explain. "There's some stuff going on there involving some truly bad people. We don't want Sara to fall into the wrong hands. Not again."

Laurel's eyes fill with tears. "She can't stay here, Felicity. She can't stay in that hole."

"I know."

Oliver stands guard in one corner without offering any words of comfort and it's this silence that starts really pissing Felicity off. "I can't believe you let them put her in there," she lashes out, not even attempting to hide her disappointment. He hasn't apologized once, hasn't offered up any explanation for how or why Sara had been left in the dirt and the dark. For three days she'd been in there, terrified and alone. The idea that Oliver allowed it scares the hell out of her.

He doesn't explain himself. He just turns and walks out.

Digg stops her from rising with a hand to her shoulder. "Let him go, Felicity."

She's afraid that he doesn't just mean for right now. "Keep an eye on Laurel," she tells him and Digg's hand falls away. She's out in the hallway chasing after Oliver in the blink of an eye.

"Oliver!"

He doesn't slow down.

"Oliver!" She runs, her legs shaking with anger and adrenaline as she races to his side and grabs at his arm.

He wrenches it away. "Not here."

"Fine." She falls in line beside him, refusing to shorten her strides or to let him take the lead. He's not the heir to anything in her mind and she'll be damned if she's going to scamper after him.

He pushes open the door to his room and walks in and when she shuts it behind them her anger falters. She'd come to him with wildly different intentions the last time she'd been there.

Oliver yanks off the outer leather coat of his League uniform, tossing it onto the small red sofa, and she swallows hard, refusing to take any enjoyment from the way his shirt skims over his body. "You'd better start explaining."

"The Heir to the Demon doesn't explain himself to anyone."

"Well Oliver Queen does, so start talking."

He stalks towards her, which is all hot and manly, but she's not going to focus on that. No she's going to focus on the fact that he's being a jackass. And not even a regular jackass- a huge jackass. A super huge jackass who is also slowly backing her up against the door they'd just walked through. "What are you doing?"

Her back bumps the wood and he rests a hand on either side of her, trapping her in place. He stares at her with dark eyes and she waits for them to soften, for him to show her some sort of sign that it's Oliver she's dealing with and not Al Sa-him. The coldness doesn't dissipate, though, even when he glances down at her mouth.

"I hate your hair," she whispers defiantly.

Oliver's mouth is on hers in an instant, fierce and strong as he kisses her deeply. Felicity is still pissed, but that's no reason to not kiss him back. His hands slide through her hair roughly, getting caught in some tangles as they travel but she welcomes the tugs- at least she knows she's not dreaming. She steps towards him, wrapping her own arms around his shoulders, her hands skimming his head and then roaming wherever they can reach. He's alive. He's alive and he's there and she loves him. It's enough somehow, even though there's no way it actually can be.

The need for air eventually causes Oliver's lips to still and they both breathe deeply as he tips his head forward. He rests his forehead against hers and closes his eyes. "It's good to see you," he murmurs.

Felicity couldn't agree more. It's good to see him, too.

Felicity wasn't joking with Ra's when she said she'd go to war to get Oliver back, but now that she really knows what she's giving up if he stays, her focus seems sharper. Her mind races with ways to take the man down. She's already got feelers out for the League's bank accounts because there's nothing she'd like more than to wipe that balance to zero. She imagines stranding the League in Nandar Parbat and smiles at how satisfying it's going to feel. She won't even leave enough cash to keep them in candles.

Right now though, she needs to bide her time and lay low. Somehow Ra's Al Guhl doesn't know he has visitors and Nyssa and Oliver both want to keep it that way.

She sits on Oliver's bed and watches him dress, fascinated by the shift in his personality once the uniform goes back on. Oliver has always been fluid, but this is crazy. It's like he has a Pavlovian response when the coat zips closed. A minute ago he was nuzzling her neck, but the warmth is gone now. He's still him. But he's not. She doesn't get it at all, but then she's never been good at compartmentalizing.

"Don't leave the room," he says gruffly.

She nods, even though she has no intention of obeying him. She needs to talk to Diggle and Laurel and she wants to check on Sara at some point.

Oliver pauses at the door, turning to look back at her and she smiles at him softly. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

He nods his head but she knows it's not a promise he intends to keep either.

Ten minutes later Nyssa knocks on the door. "Oliver is to be titled today. As his future bride, I am expected to be there."

"Sounds like a hoot."

"The entire League will be in attendance. It is an optimal time for me to remove Sara."

Felicity nods, a bubble of nervous excitement starting to rise. "What can I do?"

The other woman smiles.

Nyssa has some serious explaining to do.

That's all Felicity can think as she and Oliver stand together at the head of a room full of assassins. Ra's Al Guhl sits on a throne a few feet in front of them watching whatever is going on with interest. Felicity is wearing the bulky leather garb of Nyssa's uniform and her face is covered, her hood pulled down low and her mask pulled up high. This is not what she'd signed up for.

The priestess lady she'd stolen the knock out powder from on their last trip is chanting something and wafting a bunch of smoke over them and Felicity is pretty sure that Nyssa has lied. This doesn't really seem like an official Heir To the Demon naming ceremony. If she didn't know better, she'd say this was a wedding.

She is not going to panic.

The chanting cuts off and the lady steps in front of her. After a few seconds, Oliver shifts beside her in the silence, the leather of his own uniform creaking with the movement. They're clearly waiting for her to do something.

The lady repeats herself, which isn't helpful at all because Felicity has no idea what she's saying. She catches Ra's al Guhl's ringed hand sliding to the hilt of his sword and she swallows hard. Nyssa had told her to say something if prompted. She hopes she gets the pronunciation right.

"أنا افعل" She says quietly.

Oliver's posture shifts instantly, going from at ease to attention at the sound of her voice. He turns his body slightly towards her as the priestess addresses him, but, with the hood pulled so low, Felicity can't see anything more than his leather-clad chest.

When the priestess stops talking again, Oliver reaches over and takes Felicity's hand. "أنا افعل," he says.

The moment feels huge.

One of the priestess' minions pulls out a leather cord and starts binding her wrist together with Oliver's and oh god, this is a wedding. She totally just got married. Her mother is going to kill her.

She gulps in some air, sweating a little under all the leather as the enormity of what's going on sinks in. Her heart races in her chest as Oliver squeezes her hand gently.

She needs to calm down. It's not so bad, really. There are millions of women who'd agree to marry Oliver Queen no matter what the circumstances. Besides, it's not like the marriage is legal or anything. They hadn't had a blood test for one thing, which was kind of ridiculous on Ra's part. Surely, he wanted Oliver to start popping out some mini heirs to the demon and what if it turned out they were related or something?

Oh god. There's no way they're related, is there?

She runs down her family tree in her mind as the minion ties off the binding and decides that even though her dad's side is a bit hazy, it's safe to assume that they're not. Ra's doesn't know that, though. He's leaving an awful lot up to chance. Except, it suddenly dawns on her, he isn't, because Nyssa is the one supposed to be marrying Oliver. Ra's thinks she's Nyssa. Oh, god.

The minion pulls her and Oliver forward and when he places their clasped hands on a giant slab, Felicity's heart leaps into her throat. It all seems very ominous.

The priestess whips out a small blade and every instinct in Felicity's body starts telling her to run. Oliver must know what she's thinking because his hand slides to her wrist and tightens around it like a vice as he holds her in place. She can feel his panic over her reaction and she screws her eyes shut, thinking she'll handle it better if she can't see.

The cut, when it comes, is exactly as painful as she thinks it will be and Felicity bites her lip hard, knowing she absolutely can't scream. Her eyes open in time for her to see the knife slashing down onto Oliver's palm and then their hands are being pressed together, their blood mixing.

The priestess pulls their hands apart before sprinkling some sort of powder onto their gashes. The burn of it makes Felicity's knees buckle. The wound on her hand seems to seal in an instant, leaving a deep red scar permanently seared along her lifeline.

She's panting behind the mask now, the leather making it difficult to breathe, and she stands in a daze as Oliver reaches over to undo the cord around their wrists. The priestess takes it from him and then throws it in the air. Felicity looks up and watches as it bursts into flames.

Her hood falls back and the hall erupts into chaos.

Oliver grabs her hand and they run, but they don't get far.

Ra's is behind them, and then suddenly in front of them, his sword whirling as Oliver dodges and parries with his own. It's weird to see him without the bow, but it's not like he's bad with the sword.

He's just not as good.

She takes the first opportunity that presents itself to run for backup, ignoring the guilt of abandoning Oliver as she shouts for Diggle. She weaves through the maze-like halls and her relief when Dig comes flying around a corner is palpable. He has his gun out already and she reminds herself that a gun trumps a sword. At least she hopes it does.

Laurel is behind him and the three of them race back towards the sound of the fighting.

When they get back to Oliver, he's no longer fighting alone. Malcolm Merlyn and Thea are beside him, the three of them fending off attackers as they pour into the space like a swarm of bees.

Felicity circles around, feeling useless without a weapon and is just about to yank a torch from the wall when a pair of arms wrap around her.

She knows it's Ra's, because of course it is, and in her mind she travels back to the way it felt when Slade held her like that. Back then she hadn't panicked. Of course, back then she'd also had a plan.

Ra's shoves her against a wall, and she stumbles as she turns, watching in horror as his sword flies up. She's going to die. She's going to die thousands of miles from home in Nandar Parbat. Hopefully her mother will take some comfort in the fact that she'd died a married woman.

Felicity shuts her eyes, but the sound of metal hitting metal clangs loudly in front of her and her eyes fly open again.

It's possible she's dead because what she's seeing can't be real. Sara stands between her and Ra's, her escrima stick knocking the sword from his hand.

Felicity had dreamed of this type of moment more than once in her life, but it had always seemed ridiculous. She'd lost a lot of people and none of them had ever come back.

Well, Cooper. But she didn't really count him. The guy running around in her first love's skin was a totally different person than the one she had mourned. A lesser person, actually. And it wasn't like he'd come back for her.

Sara cracks her staff across Ra's' face and he whirls with the movement, completely off balance. Nyssa is behind him and she raises her sword to strike, but he uses his momentum to dodge the blow. Still, he can't get away from them.

Sara is a whirl, with long blonde hair and toned arms that haven't lost their muscle definition in death. She looks pale and wild, but it's clearly their friend. None of them had ever thought they'd see her again. Felicity is beyond glad to be wrong.

The three of them fight, and there is something so strong about Sara, so powerful that it strikes a note of fear in Felicity's chest. This is Sara, their Sara, but the Pit has also made its mark.

Oliver is beside the younger Lance sister in an instant and Felicity knows that he must be fighting a wave of emotion, pushing it down so he can focus on the fight at hand. Later, things will hit him. Later he'll let himself feel.

He attacks mercilessly, the two of them driving Ra's backward towards Nyssa, who suddenly lunges towards her father and drives her sword through his chest. Blood starts pouring out of his mouth.

It takes Felicity a moment to realize she doesn't want to see this. She turns away, only to find Diggle standing beside her. He wraps an arm around her shoulder and it's the safest she's felt in months.

The din of the fighting dies off as everyone focuses on the history being made in front of them. Diggle whispers her name and Felicity looks up. Ra's is dead on the ground, Nyssa standing over him with a smile.

Another attacker charges towards them but then falls to his knees in front of Nyssa. All around them members of the league are dropping their swords and falling down in supposition. Nyssa turns to Oliver, who lays his sword at her feet and kneels like a knight from a storybook.

Malcolm Merlyn snarls.

"Who knew he'd be so easy to get rid of?" Felicity asks later, stepping beside Sara and Oliver as they watch Malcolm exit the heavy doors of the fortress.

"I doubt it's the last that we'll see of him," Sara says.

Oliver nods. "He was supposed to be Ra's. We'd made a deal. He's not going to accept this."

Nyssa approaches them slowly, a bag slung over her shoulder. "I do not fear Malcolm Merlyn."

Felicity doesn't share her confidence. Malcolm scares her to the depths of her bones. Ra's, for all his brutality, never came close to inspiring the same level of fear in her. He'll be back someday and she's not looking forward to it.

Nyssa stops in front of Oliver and drops the bag at his feet. "Your time here is over, Oliver Queen. Do not return."

Oliver smiles sharply, his eyes glinting steel in the dim light. "Don't give me a reason to."

They gather up Digg, Thea, Sara, and Laurel and the six of them head to the jet. The entire walk there, Felicity fears that Malcolm will have stolen it, but when they make their way around the final bend, the plane is still sitting there waiting.

Sara hesitates as Digg and Thea make their way on board, looking back in the darkness and searching for something. Laurel takes her hand and leads her up the steps. "You'll see her again, Sara. Just come home for now." They follow Thea into the plane.

Felicity and Oliver stand in the moonlight of the desert, the wind lightly sliding around them. She smiles at him. "You ready to go home?"

Oliver tenses and looks out at the horizon. "Felicity, I need to tell you something."

She raises her newly scarred hand and shows him her palm. "We got married, right? That's what this means?"

Oliver takes a deep breath, his eyes wary as he nods. "Yes."

There's an odd rush of excitement in her, a flutter of joy, but she tamps it down quickly. They'd been given no choice- it was a marriage forced onto both of them. She wants to be with Oliver, maybe someday she'll want to be with him forever, but not like this. "Should we fix that before we go? I'm not sure we can get a quickie divorce in Vegas for a marriage made in Nandar Parbat. We didn't even get any paperwork."

Oliver shifts on his feet. "It can't be undone."

It makes sense, she supposes, except that it really doesn't. "That priestess lady can't just say a few words and dissolve it?"

Oliver crosses his arms over his chest. "No."

Felicity nods, trying to wrap her mind around it. She's married to Oliver. Once upon a time, it would have been her wildest fantasy, but now it's the most terrifying thing that's ever happened to her. "Guess we're stuck with each other then."

Oliver grimaces as he gives her a curt nod, which only serves to make anger flare in her belly. It wasn't her fault they were married. Nyssa had tricked her. "Nyssa didn't tell me what was going on, Oliver. She told me it was like your coronation or something. I'm sure none of it is legal. It doesn't have to mean anything."

Oliver reaches for her hand. "What if I want it to?"

Felicity's heart stutters in her chest as the blood rushes to her head. For a second the world doesn't make sense, but then she remembers. Oliver loves her. "Oh."

Oliver takes a step towards her, crowding in closer. "I know I have a lot to explain and that this isn't the way either of us would have wanted it to happen, but…"

Felicity nods waiting for him to continue. When he stays silent her anger surges. Oliver loves her and she loves him, but they can't stay in the same limbo they'd been living in. Things could be good, but only if he'd try.

Oliver takes a deep breath, his free hand coming up to cup her face. "Every night since the mountain, I've had the same dream. You are pleading with me not to go face Ra's and I listen to you. Sometimes the dream still ends badly; I still end up with that sword in my chest, but most of the time we escape and we're just driving. And all this seems…it seems so far away because it's just…it's the two of us."

It's a nice thought and his sincerity is clear, but it's just a dream. A fantasy. "That's not the real world though, Oliver."

Oliver's thumb strokes over her cheek. "But what if it could be?"

It would be so easy to indulge him, so easy to say yes to leaving everything behind and just driving off into the sunset. But it's not him. And it's not her, either. "Oliver, I would go anywhere with you, you have to know that, but we can't just walk away. The bad guys don't stop just because we need a break. Malcolm will-"

"Why does it have to be us? There's Laurel, and Digg, and Sara now too. There are other people who can do what we do." He leans in to brush his lips against hers. "Come away with me."

This is the moment. The moment she'd imagined for months now. Oliver deciding that he wanted her more than the mission. But what would they be without a city to save? Would they even work?

Oliver is looking at her softly, his eyes full of hope and it stuns her to see the truth. What he wants more than anything, is her.

"Where would we go?"

Oliver shakes his head. "Anywhere. I don't care, so long as you're with me."

Felicity smiles. "Then let's go."

#olicity fic #olicity fanfiction #olicity fanfic #arrow fanfiction #arrow fanfic #arrow #olicity #my fic: hope for everything

7 notes · View notes

fortunatelylori · 6 years ago

Text

The Winter Rose - A Jonsa fic

So, I have decided to post my @jonsasecretsanta2018 fic today. This is a Jonsa one-shot for @thescarletempress0208.

I don’t know about you guys but I love Christmas. I love the tree, the ornaments, the caroling. I love waking up on the 25th and running to the tree to see what presents Santa left for me. I love it all. It’s the time where I really connect to my inner child. And there’s nothing my inner child loves more than fairy tales. Since this is placed within the ASOIAF/GOT universe, I didn’t center it around Christmas, as they have none but I sill wanted to make it really festive so I hope that shows through.

I will post it here in its entirety but it will also be available on AO3, if you prefer that format.

A special thank you to @jonsasecretsanta2018 for this initiative. I had a really great time writing this and I can’t wait to see what everyone else comes up with. Lastly, Merry Christmas @thescarletempress0208! I hope you have a great festive season and that you enjoy this!

* word to the wise: I play around with the rules of medieval tourneys in this fic and also the magic elements are far more whimsical than in the source material. My excuse: this is a fairy tale! :)))) Also, this gets long, so sit down comfortably, grab a snack and enjoy!

The Winter Rose

She stumbled over the stairs, struggling with the thick coat of ice that covered the stone and as she came out into the cold, winter air she breathed deeply, happy to have escaped the dank and musty crypts below.

All around her the charred and blackened ruins of the once great castle of the North laid bare and empty, covered in thick layers of freshly shed snow and, as she walked through the court yard, it scrunched beneath her feet, giving out hollowed echoes. It was a desolate place, to be sure. Even more so as dusk was fast approaching and she found herself alone, all the other tourists having long since left.

But as snowflakes danced all around her, nestling in her hair, melting on her cheeks, she had to admit there was also a strange kind of beauty to it. In front of her was the last of the towers that had remained tall and whole, aside from the caved in roof that had given it its name. It was like a sentinel among the crumbled ruins, with thick vines that encircled the ice laden stone, covering it with lush green foliage despite the time of year. Sprinkled throughout were the most beautiful blue roses, the shade of which she had never seen before, come into full bloom, their soft petals covered in thin shards of ice that sparkled in the reddish sunlight.

She drew a deep breath and inhaled the sweet floral scent that hanged thick and fragrant in the air.

“Do you know the story of the Broken Tower and the winter roses?”

She smiled at the sound of his voice, leaden with the thick Northern accent she had grown to love. She had left him in the crypts, pouring over the inscriptions even though he must have seen them a hundred times before. Yet she knew it wouldn’t take long for him to come looking for her. After all, they had only met three months before and leaving each other’s sight from that day had proved an impossible task.

She looked at him as he came by her side, and smiled. “To hear you speak,” she said, “you’d think every rock in the North has a story to tell.”

He laughed and shook his head. “You shouldn’t be so dismissive of your own people’s history.”

She rolled her eyes at that, even though he did have a point. She had been born here after all, though she held very few memories of the North. Her family had moved when she was ten and from that time, it was Braavos she had called home. She doubted she would even be here if she hadn’t met an utterly charming and all too handsome Northern archeologist on a train ride to Volantis and promptly married him.

“Is this another one of those stories of the ice zombies and three eyed ravens you’re so fond of telling me right before I go to sleep?”

“No,” he said, coming closer to her and taking her hands between his own. He started rubbing them and blowing hot air between her cupped palms, warming her frozen fingers. Her smile widened, still surprised at the care he showed for her in such small ways that she wouldn’t have been able to think of.

“This is a story that takes place after the Long Night had ended and the Night King was defeated,” he said, his voice low. “It was the time of the Long Summer when the Targaryen queen had taken the throne and ruled the Seven Kingdoms on the back of her dragon. She was hailed as the savior of the realm and all soon forgot about the bravery of the Northern men against the army of the dead, of the warrior that mounted a dragon and beheaded the Night King with the aid of his cousin, The Three Eyed Raven. All had forgotten but one … because in Winterfell, there was still one that remembered and held fast to those memories.”

“Who?” she asked, trying to contain her curiosity although she knew sooner or later she would fall under the spell of his deep voice.

“A princess,” he said, kissing the tips of her fingers. “Beautiful and brave, with long flowing hair that shone like fine polished copper. Her name was Sansa Stark and she was the Lady of Winterfell.”

“Sansa …” she said in mocking disbelief. “Her name was Sansa …” He was good, she had to admit. Very good indeed.

“After the Long Night had ended, winter was soon chased from the lands and with the coming of the dragons, summer settled over Westeros. At first the people rejoiced, as they set upon the task to rebuild what the war had destroyed, rising their holdfasts again and planting crops. But, in time, the earth grew hard and dry and the rains did not come to quench them. Crops began to wither and die under the scorching blaze of the sun, rivers shrunk and lakes all but vanished.

It was this that brought the great sorrow upon the princess. Justly and ably she had ruled for ten years, from the ancient seat where her father had once stood. But the North was a barren place and summer did not take kindly to the little food it had to offer. As times grew hard for her long suffering kingdom and men’s bellies went empty, her bannermen began to pressure her to marry.

“Marry, my lady,” they said. “Join the North to a great house that will bring prosperity back to our lands.”

The princess refused at first. She had been a child of summer songs and love once, wishing nothing more than to marry a handsome prince and bare him sons. But life had snatched those dreams from her and left only sorrow in their place. Twice she had been forced to marry before and twice she had been humiliated and abused.

But her bannermen’s voices grew ever more insistent. Each day they would find her and gave her no peace, proposing one high lord and then another. In time, the princess’ resolve began to falter under their unrelenting assault.

“If I am to marry,” she told them, “let it be to a strong and capable man. Do not forget, my lords, that he who shall be my husband will also become your liege and lord and such qualities are not easily found.”

The bannermen fell over themselves exalting the virtues of the man they proposed, one voice giving way to another until they seemed but a hive of agitated wasps, flying ever more dangerously close to her. She fought them as best she could.

“I will not take the word of other men on the qualities of my future husband,” she finally said. “I will see them for myself. We shall hold a tourney at Winterfell in 3 moons time. All those fit to bare arms are invited to join and the victor shall have my hand in marriage.”

Let the fates decide, the princess thought with a heavy heart. Let him be brave and strong and, if the Gods are not silent, let him be gentle too.

But her bannermen were wily men, that could not be trifled with and for whom fates were but a child’s fancy. They pretended to accept the princess’ decision but in secret they sent out invitations only to the highest born of the land, their kin and allies, men they thought would rise their standing in life were they to become their lady’s lord and husband.

Winterfell had always been a beautiful place, with its sprawling court yards and glass gardens. Tall, proud walls of white stone rose high into the sky, springing rounded towers where they adjoined. Large, clear glass windows were cut deep into the walls, reflecting light and buried deep into the stone, a labyrinth of pipes pumped water towards the bathing house, giving the stone life and filling the outer walls with lush moss and ferns even as draught had dried all the greenery in the land.

The princess had loved it here once. When she was kept away, suffering at the hands of strangers, the thought of Winterfell had kept her hope alive, dreaming and praying to see it once more. But now, with all her family gone, with her bannermen watchful of her every move and the impending arrival of the Dragon Queen, who had insisted on joining the festivities, the hallways of her beloved castle seemed to close tightly around her, suffocating her. It was no longer a place of safety and refuge but a prison that kept her chained, at the mercy of other people’s whims.

As the contenders gathered in Winterfell, their high and esteemed coats of arms flung defiantly into the air when they passed through the gates, her bannermen’s ploy became clear. Still, as she stood in the court yard awaiting the Dragon Queen, her heart leaped into her chest anytime a new contender passed through the gates. Her eyes searched every new face to see if she could recognize the form that she hoped to find hidden beneath the armor. But all the men were strangers, some fair of face, others merely boastful and grinning with excitement. It made no difference to her.

The air was dry and hot that day. The trees of the ancient godswood twisted and shivered horribly as a gust of wind blew past. High above, the first screech of the dragon was heard, loud and piercing, and all the souls down below looked up to see the terrible sight before them. Black webbed wings that covered the sun flapped lazily as the great beast descended bringing its mistress down to the ground, making the earth shake beneath its huge talons. As it came down it gave a loud roar that had the people of Winterfell back away from its huge mauls and jagged teeth. Only the princess remained in place, her face marked in steel, holding her chin high against the raging mouth of the dragon.

As the Dragon Queen descended, the men and women of Winterfell bowed before her. But even as she bowed, the princess’ eyes roamed through the court yard where the queen’s retinue assembled behind her large, winged beast. Her stomach turned in painful knots. Surely he will come with her, she thought. The image of the long lost warrior standing once again in the court yard where he had grown and fought, filled her with longing but also despair for he would come to see her wed another.

Knights dressed in armor and savages wearing leathers came down from their great horses and the three headed dragon banner casted its large shadow over all of them. But her warrior was nowhere to be found and the princess’ heart grew heavy once more.

As the first day of the tourney came, not even the skills of the puppet masters invited especially for the occasion could lessen her sadness. She sat on the dais, in the middle of the erected stands and watched as the tragic love story of Queen Naerys and her brother, Prince Aemon, the Dragonknight, was being played out.

The lords of her court knew of the princess’ love for the old tale and had brought the most skilled puppeteers in the land to honor her. But the whispered declarations of love and the Dragonknight crowning his love with the gilded flower crown held no more fascination for her now, for she knew the stories were false. Such things were to be dreamed of by the young who had not known loss or suffering.

All she could see were the men, high above the pretty colorful dolls, pulling on the strings in jerky movements, making the wooden creatures move about the stage in a ghastly dance, swoon and fall to their deaths with such aplomb as to make her shudder.

Still she did her duty and smiled, clapping now and again and chatting as amiably as she could to the Queen sitting next to her who seemed charmed by the spectacle of color and stiff dolls.

“One day, they will write songs of your own tourney, my lady,” she said.

The princess looked on as the stage was taken down and the limp dolls were carried off and nodded. “Perhaps … Let us pray I have equally skilled puppeteers to pull my strings when my time comes.”

The Queen was not wrong to note on the momentous importance of the Winterfell tourney. Tales of the princess’ beauty as well as the careful entreatment of her bannermen had brought no less than ninety-nine knights to the festivities. They were grouped according to rank and station, the noblest of them all competing against those of minor rank.

As the groups took to the field, standing on their horses on opposing sides, one sight, in particular, caught the attention and mirth of the audience. For standing alongside the lesser knights, was a fool. Dressed in steel as the rest he assuredly was but his motley patterned armor was colored in bright blues and reds and upon his head he wore a two horned helmet, adorned with bells at the tip. How he had managed to sneak in between such respectable company no one could say for sure. But fools were tricksters by nature, everyone agreed, and their amusement at the sight and the antics they would be likely to expect made them all agreeable to let the poor creature have his way.

Upon the signal of the trumpets, the knights spurred on their horses and rode to face off against each other, riding hard and fast until they clashed in the middle of the field in a frenzy of hooves and steel. Upon impact, many were thrown from their horses, their day of glory ended before it had begun but for those still mounted the fight went on through the afternoon.

The ground beneath them was dry and their fighting was so fierce and rough that dust rose all around them, engulfing them to the point where it was hard to tell man and beast apart. The sound of their horses was echoed by the grunts of the men and their cheers of victory every time they managed to defeat an opponent.

As one after another exited the tourney, the sounds dissipated until only the sporadic clinking of steel would announce the defeat of yet another contender. Finally, the dust began to clear and settle and to the audience’s great dismay only five knights remained mounted.

There was Ser Tywald Lannister, a man past his youth and strong of arm, who donned the red and gold armor of his house, one he had been raised to lead after the demise of his cousin Tywin and his children.

Ser Aegor Baratheon was also among them, a matter that enraged the audience although they did not dare voice their disapproval outright for they knew him to be the queen’s own preferred champion. But in hushed tones and whispers they called him by his proper name of Blackfyre, remembering that it was the queen that had granted him the ancient Baratheon name in order to take it from the bastard, Gendry Waters.

Lord Olymer Tyrell was as skilled with a lance as he was beautiful, with long golden hair and blue eyes that sparkled mischievously as he took down his helmet to gaze upon the princess as if he had already won the tourney.

The favorite among them was, without a doubt, Ser Harrold Hardyng, Lord Paramount of the Vale. The Knights of the Vale had steadfastly supported the North for centuries and their prowess in battle was legendary. The Young Falcon was handsome and charming, striking a dashing figure upon the field, to the approval of the ladies in attendance.

But the most outstanding turn of events was the identity of the fifth mounted knight. For it was none other than the fool. He stood tall and proud, with barely a scratch on his armor. As the five knights charged at each other again, meaning to settle the victory once and for all, the fool’s bells dangled in the air and clinked, causing the audience to burst with laughter.

But as soon as he raised his sword and fell upon Ser Aegor, all laughter seized. There was nothing amusing or awkward about the way the knight moved. He stood up in his stir-ups with ease and wielded the long sword as if he had been born to it. Ser Aegor was left with no choice but to retreat, holding his shield up to protect himself while he hunched over in order to stop himself from falling.

The fool’s ability and courage had even the princess gasping at his every movement. Enthralled, she watched him lean over the side of his saddle and cut the leather binding off of Ser Aegor’s horse. He then swiftly brought the pummel down upon the bewildered lord who came crushing to the ground with a loud thud that sent the crowd on their feet, cheering.

She found herself cheering as well, as her heart beat out of her chest only to freeze with horror as she saw Ser Tywald charging from behind, meaning to crush the upstart fool.

“Behind you!” the princess screamed, standing up from her seat. Her cheeks turned red as everyone in attendance took note of her reaction and sat down quickly.

“My lady favors the fool, I see,” the queen said with amusement, forcing the princess to swallow the choice remarks that were stinging her tongue. Yet she could not contain her sigh of relief as the brave fool heard her warning and turned around to face his foes.

In truth, she couldn’t quite tell what had sparked her reaction or her interest. Only that, perhaps, she was certain he had not come there at the bidding of her lords. Watching him as he rode in, fending off the lion’s charge with agile, almost effortless abandon caused her blood to sing and for a moment she was no longer the Lady of Winterfell, the daughter of murdered parents, the sister of fallen brothers or widow to untrue husbands. She was a young girl again, dazed by songs of chivalry and romance, watching a brave knight fighting to win her favor.

And fight her fool did until Ser Tywald’s strong arm began to slow. But just as he was about to claim victory, the great dragon began his dreadful song. He flew past the field, turning light to darkness and causing the dust that had settled to rise once again from the ground.

His piercing song continued loud and unabated and the princess saw with horror how the fool’s whole body began to shake. His sword slipped from his hand just as it was about to strike Ser Tywald from his horse and his arm fell slack at his side.

Seizing his moment, the Lannister fell upon the fool who desperately tried to fend off his attacks and pull on the reigns of his horse with his one good hand, trying to extract himself from the entanglement. If this was allowed to continue, the princess knew, he would be thrown into the dirt.

Without thinking, she rose once again from her seat and wordlessly bid the trumpeters to signal the ending to the day’s proceedings. They looked confused at the request but did their lady’s bidding nonetheless. The trumpets rang throughout the field three times putting an end to the fighting and drowning out the screeching of the dragon.

All four knights remaining looked up at her then but it was the fool she regarded most of all. “You have all fought bravely, my lords,” she said. “Rest now and enjoy the festivities. I look forward to your exploits tomorrow.”

Her decision had greatly displeased her bannermen and it took the better part of the afternoon to placate them. The Queen’s voice, however, drowned out all the rest in her displeasure at the princess’ decision. In secret she sent her men to search for the fool. As far as Hornwood and the Dreadfort they searched and yet could find no traces of him.

As for the princess, guards were instructed to escort her back to her chambers. For her safety, she had said. But as they urged her on through the corridors of her own home, she did not feel safe.

It was only when she locked the door to her chamber that she could breathe in relief. Despite it all, she could not help but think of the brave fool who had defied the high lords of Westeros for her.

She reprimanded herself for the thought. She did not know who the fool was, after all, and she had learned enough of men’s deceit to know that they are rarely who they appear to be. But still her mind wandered back to his deep and solemn bow to her from across the field. There was so little joy in her life now. What was the harm in dreams after all?

He did not remove his helmet as the other lords did, she noted and it intrigued her. A stubborn thought persisted in her mind but she chased it away as quickly as it came. It would be unwise to even dream of such a thing, she decided.

Soon the feast would begin and she needed to make ready. She busied herself with picking out her garments, settling on a long and modest Northern dress of green velvet embroidered with the direwolf sigil of her house. She had not worn it in years but she refused to dwell on why she decided to do so now.

As she went to her desk to pick up the pins she had discarded the night before, she noticed a most peculiar sight. Sitting on top of documents and books, was a beautiful, blue rose dripped in sparkling dots of ice. The princess picked it up with trembling hands.

Blue roses had grown in the glass gardens of Winterfell for centuries but she had thought them all gone since the dragons had returned. She brought the soft petals up to her nose and inhaled deeply. The sweet smell invaded her sense, almost making her dizzy.

It was perhaps the shock of seeing the flower again or a slip of her unsteady hands but one of the tiny thorns on the rose pricked her finger. The tiniest of blood drops fell upon the blue petals and it was as if the flower came alive. Fine silver threads snaked upwards, engulfing her. They moved and weaved around her, dancing in the fading sunlight as the princess looked on in amazement as what were only threads moments before became cloth.

When she turned to look at herself in the looking glass, she was draped in a magnificent silver cloak, so light that the slightest gust of wind made it bellow around her, the color so fine that it seemed as if the moon was floating above a sparkling lake. Entranced, she pulled the hood over her head to see what it might look like but before she could admire the sight, she found herself pushed towards the door, as if the cloak had a mind of its own.

Past the guards stationed at her door it took her, through the narrow hallways and into the Great Hall. Servants were quietly lighting up the last of the candles, bathing the room in pale silvery light that flickered and cast shadows on the walls. The long tables had been set up around the room and all manner of meats and vegetables placed upon them, their savory smells lingering pleasantly in the air. High up in the balcony, the minstrels were tuning their instruments as the guests began arriving, in groups small and large.

And yet, under the hood of her cloak, no one took note of her. The silver cloth carried her quickly through the hall as if she were a bird, floating and flying away, into the court yard and then further still until she found herself before the Broken Tower.

A single candle was flickering high above, from the last window atop the tower and the princess gave herself over to the cloak as it carried her through the winding staircase. By the time she arrived at the top she was breathless.

She moved about the rounded room trying to discern her surroundings. She had never liked it here and her stomach twisted as her shadow grew upon the wall. There was no light, save for the candle in the window and the moon above. It casted pale pools of light through the caved in roof.

“Hello?” she said, her voice echoing through the empty space. “Is there anyone here?”

There was no answer at first but when it came, the voice that spoke it sent shivers down her back. “I did not think you would come,” he said.

Her eyes searched frantically through the darkness, trying to find him. Next to the window, she saw a shape moving and she tried to focus on it but she could not make him out.

“Step into the light!” she commanded, trying to keep her voice steady.

He did as she bid and when the moonlight shone about his fair face, the princess’ resolve crumbled. It was the same, she noted. Long, solemn and guarded, a deep scar on his left side. The hair was the same as well: a pitch black unruly mane she had once run her fingers through.

But his eyes gave her pause. She had expected warm and gentle brown pools to gaze upon her but they were bright and fiery, as if flames were dancing inside of them. They frightened her and she stepped back.

“Do not go!” he pleaded. “I must ask you something.”

Ask her? What could he possibly have to ask her? He had abandoned all of them to leave with the Dragon Queen, never to be heard from again. Ten years had passed and he had not sent one word to her.

Not even when her younger sister, Arya, who had been as dear to him as any true sister could be, was threatened with death by the Queen for refusing to forsake her betrothed, Gendry, had he gone against her. When she ordered Gendry’s execution, fearful that his king’s blood marked him as a threat against her rule, he did nothing. And later when Arya had married her Baratheon bastard and fled Westeros, and the dragon had scoured the lands high and low looking for them, he remained silently at his Queen’s side, doing her bidding.

“You have no right to ask me anything.” Even as she spoke confidently, she could feel treacherous tears stinging her eyes, threatening to overcome her.

“I know. But I must ask.” He looked outside the window for a moment before turning to her. “The enchantment won’t last long. You can ask me three questions as price for one of mine,” he offered.

I have nothing to ask you, she wanted to scream. Nothing at all! But she found herself speaking nonetheless. “Who are you?”

“I am Florian the Fool,” he said, standing there in his motley armor. “As great a fool as ever lived, and as great a knight as well.”

She remembered the story well. But it was only that: a story and she was no longer the young girl who believed in such tales. “Why are you here?”

“Because my curse must end where it began. A long time ago I stole a dragon. Took hold of his mind, used his fire to kill the Night King. When his brother discovered it, he bathed me in flame.”

She remembered well enough and her heart still twisted painfully at the memory. The black beast had seared the right side of his body. Left the skin bubbling and raw. Three moons it had taken her to nurse him, changing his bandages, holding his hand as the Maester peeled the dead skin away, sitting with him through the night as the fevers threatened to take him away only for him to leave as soon as he could get up from his sick bed.

“What you saw today on the field,” he continued, “happens whenever the dragon is near. My sword arm grows weak, the skin burns threatening to rip off my bones.”

He grimaced and the princess’ tender heart still softened, hearing of his pain. “What do you want of me?” she said, fearing what he might ask.

“Only what you are willing to give,” he reassured her. “Will you come away with me? Be my Jonquil and I will pledge my life to your service if you will but have me.”

The words washed over her, hot and cold at the same time, touching parts of her that she had hidden away long ago. Her whole body sprung with need but she did not move. “You are as brave as you are foolish, my lord. But I am the daughter of Lord Eddard and the lady Catelyn. I cannot give myself to a fool.”

She could see the pain that her words had caused in the lines on his face, the tightness of his jaw but he did not ask again. “You must help me then,” he said instead. “If I am to fight on the morrow, you will need to break the dragon’s curse.”

“I … I don’t know …”

“A kiss will break it.” He bowed his head and clenched his fist tightly. “If you can bare it.”

She regarded him for a long while, watching him clenching and unclenching his burnt fist. The skin wrinkled horribly and even in the pale moonlight, she could see the ugly pink and purple gashes. She remembered, too, his screams in the middle of the night, all that time ago and the deep red mark in the palm of his hand. Smoke would come out of it until the whole room smelled of burnt flesh. No, she did not wish that pain on him.

Slowly, she came by his side and took his hand. He flinched at the touch but did not pull away. His fiery eyes watched her as she turned his hand in the light of the window candle. The red mark was still there, sharp tendrils of smoke coming out and drifting into the air. She put her lips against it and, even though it burnt hot, she kissed it softly.

When she pulled away, the mark was gone and the fool sighed in relief, as if a great burden had been taken from him.

“Thank you, my lady,” he said, solemnly. “When I win the tourney, will you sing for me?”

She lifted her chin and spoke as coolly as she could: “Good fortunes, Ser Florian.”

She pulled her hood up and allowed the cloak to take her away, back to her chambers. As brave as the fool was, it was not he that the princess wanted.

That night the skies parted and the rain began to pour. It did not stop. As the second day of the tourney began, canopies had been erected to protect the high lords in the stands. Through the heavy vale of water, two knights came forth. Incessant and indignant at the fool’s audacity to defy his betters, Ser Tywald Lannister and Lord Olymer Tyrell had thought it only right to join their forces and crush him once and for all.

The princess sat on the dais, her hands digging into the arms of her chair, waiting for her Florian to appear and praying that his arm was strong enough to withstand his foes. But the fool did not show.

In his stead, a king dressed in armor of black and red, a three headed dragon emblazoned on his chest made his way towards the middle of the field atop a great black horse. His helmet was adorned with a simple, golden crown.

As soon as the trumpets signaled the beginning of the fight, Lannister and Tyrell charged ahead with murderous intent. The Dragon King did not move, waiting for them to come at him. The rains had the ground drenched and black water splattered everywhere as hooves dug deep on their charge.

The harder they pushed, the deeper their horses became entangled in the pools of black until they could advance no longer. Pulling as hard as they could on the reins, the knights tried to get their horses to move onward but all they managed was to cause them to slip, as they held on for dear life.

That was when the king fell upon them, punishing their pride and treachery. He drove his great black beast straight in between his two adversaries and moved swiftly, his sword arm striking again and again against their feeble attempts. Lord Olymer was the first to fall, as a wilted flower might drop from a shrub when the king used all his might to strike him in the chest. He used the length of his sword, wounding the lord’s pride more than his ribs as he came tumbling face first to the ground.

Such a shame, the princess thought smiling as Lord Tyrell struggled to stand up, mud dripping from his head. He was so very proud of his hair.

Ser Tywald proved a worthier opponent, managing to strike the king’s left arm as he turned to face him. His long sword left a gash in the armor and to the princess’ horror a thin stream of blood trickled from the slash.

As if it could sense this moment of vulnerability, the dragon appeared once more, circling the field, his song louder and harder than the day before. But it did not matter. The king payed it no minf as his sword clashed with Ser Tywald’s. As he pushed back against the Lannister’s brute force, the princess could not help but take pride at the thought that it had been her kiss that had given him the strength to fight as ably as he did.

It only took a small skirmish for the lion to attempt an ill-fated retreat. The king pursued him to the edge of the field of battle, striking him down in front of his own tent.

He rode his horse at leisure back towards the dais where the princess sat, while the crowd watched silently, some unsure of how to react, others, undoubtedly, disappointed at the loss of gold that they had incurred with the defeat of their champion.

But as the king passed in front of them, it was the Dragon Queen that rose to her feet to stare him down. Sansa’s breath hitched in her throat at the violent expression in her eyes and the fire that assuredly burned on the inside, threatening to overcome her.

“That is enough! Dismount!” the queen commanded, in a thunderous tone and as mighty and strong as the king was, it took only those words for him to submit.

“Lay down your sword and kneel!”

If the princess had any hopes that he might refuse, they were soon dashed as her king laid his sword on the ground and fell to his knees, as limply as a puppet cut off from its strings.

“Seize him!” she ordered at last.

Get up. Run! the princess urged wordlessly but it was no use. He remained kneeling on the ground, as if chained in place while the queen smiled victoriously. From the stands, guards rushed to the field ready to take him away. And he would have gone with them, as a lamb might go to slaughter, if she had not spoken.

“My queen,” she said. “The knight is attending the tourney under guest rights.”

The dragon queen turned to look at her then, suspicion and surprise etched on her face.

“No knight that attends this tourney,” she went on, addressing the guards, “may be taken unless he has committed a crime. To break guest rights is a grievous sin, sers.”

The queen had changed many things in the realm once she had conquered it, but she could not change men’s hearts or fears. They all knew the princess spoke the truth and were reluctant to damn themselves over a foolish knight whose only crime had been to wear a crown.

Angry, the queen turned on her heels and left. But once the crowds were dismissed and the princess made her way back to the castle, she came at her, probing and asking so many questions that it became all too clear that she had guessed the knight’s true identity. She, once again, sent her men to search for him. This time they went further than in search of the fool. The Last Hearth itself they reached but could find no traces of him.

When she arrived safely back to her chambers, the guards heavy on her heels, the queen’s words still rang in the princess’ ears. Why would he wear the colors of my own house and pretend himself a Dragon King unless to defy me? She feared for his safety and her own but the fragrance of the winter rose called to her as sweetly as a lover’s whisper and her nerves quieted as she found it laid on the desk before her.

She readied herself for the night in a dress of misty blue silk, adorned with rubies as would befit an audience with a King. When she was done, she took the rose and pricked her finger without hesitation, for now she knew that no magic ever came without a cost.

The small droplet of blood disappeared through the petal folds and in its stead a fine golden dust rose. It settled on her chest, her neck, it ran down her arms as gentle as summer rain, pooling on the ground beneath and rising once more until it formed a cloak of glittering gold, more magnificent than any cloth the princess had ever seen.

The moon was already high up in the sky as she glided through the castle as swiftly and silently as a ghost. Past the guards singing a bawdy song and the kitchen maids fetching water for the guests she went, until she entered the Great Hall.

The music rang loudly and people danced all around her, spinning and jumping heartily, bathed in the golden light of the iron wrought braziers. The princess carried a sad sort of smile looking at the happy faces of young girls being picked up by their suitors and spun into the air, her heart longing to feel such lightness again. At the long tables the high lords sat, fat and satisfied, as they feasted on choice meats and roasted vegetables and the cup bearers filled their mugs with ale.

The cloak did not allow her to dwell, however, whisking her away outside, through the court yard. The rain poured all around her making her cloak glisten in the moonlight but she did not feel it. As the Broken Tower came closer into view and she saw the flickering candle perched in the window, she found her heart beating to the rhythm of the distant drums of the Great Hall she had left behind.

The long walk up the stairs felt like an eternity but finally she arrived back in the rounded room. As she walked towards the window, the darkness and the movement of her shadow upon the wall did not frighten her as much as it had done the night before. Nor did she call out for she could see the shape moving in the darkness just in front of her.

The King stepped into the pale moonlight, the simple crown still atop his head and gazed upon her, his posture hard and his eyes burning aflame. Her breath hitched in her throat at the sight of him. His hair was slick with rain and his beard covered in shimmering water drops. She longed to run her fingers through the curls at the back of his neck, trace the skin upon his fair face with her fingers but his fiery, red eyes gave her pause.

“Who are you?” she asked, breathless.

“I am Aegon Targaryen,” he said. “The rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Why are you here?”

“Because I made a choice and that choice was taken from me. Winterfell was my home once. There was no place in the world I loved more. No other place where I wanted to be and I swore that once the war was over, I would never leave it again. But on the last night I was here, the queen came at me as I lay in bed. She said that, as punishment for deceiving her and taking her dragon, she would take something from me. I did not know what she meant then ...”

Tears pricked the princess’ eyes as she remembered the Dragon Queen hovering over his weakened and burnt body. She had sent her away from the room with a curt command but she has lingered behind the door, fearing the queen might hurt him. She could have never imagined that a few hours later, he would rise from the bed and follow her South without so much as a farewell.

“When morning came and she told me I was to come with her, I found that I could not refuse her, my body and my mind no longer my own.”

As his words registered, relief overcame her. He had not left her after all. Not willingly at least. Her heart leapt as she asked: “What do you want of me?”

“Only what you are willing to give,” he said, his voice tinged with hope. “Will you come away with me? Be my queen and the whole of Westeros will kneel at your feet.”

Part of her wanted to go to him then, curtsy as she had been taught to do as soon as she could walk and thank him for the honor of his proposal. But her feet would not move and she bowed her head sadly. “You are as brave as you are noble, Your Grace. But I am Sansa Stark, blood of the North and of the First Men. I cannot be a Dragon’s queen.”

His eyes closed sadly against her implacable words. “She knows who I am now,” he said. “Grant me your kiss so I might fight on.”

That she would do gladly for he was never meant to be chained. As she approached him, she remembered their last night together, the specks of ash that had come out of the queen’s breath and the way he had rubbed at his left eye all through the night, until it turned red and swollen.

Her hand cupped his cheek then and he leaned into her touch just enough for her knees to go weak. She kissed his eyelid softly and tenderly, feeling him tremble beneath her touch. A single black tear fell upon his cheek and when he opened his eyes, the fire in them had been extinguished.

She smiled for she recognized those eyes now: warm and kind, gentle pools of brown and amber that gazed upon her so intently as to make her quiver.

“Thank you, my lady,” he said, bowing to her. “Will you grant me your song if I am victorious on the morrow?”

Her voice was but an uncertain whisper: “Good fortunes, Your Grace.”

She lifted her hood and gave herself over to the cloak that carried her back to her chambers. She had wanted to be queen once and wear a beautiful crown upon her head, sitting on the left side of her beloved King and husband. But as magnificent as the Dragon King was and even as the feel of his warm skin lingered on her lips, it was not he that the princess wanted.

During the night, the first of the summer snows fell. By morning, the field was covered in a heavy blanket of white. All the world, it seemed, had fallen still and quiet as the lords and ladies huddled in their furs for warmth, waiting for the final battle to commence. The queen shivered on her throne, her face barely concealing the discomfort.

The princess, however, did not mind the cold. She looked around in wonderment at the thin sheets of ice that formed upon the wooden stands, the icicles dripping from the canopies and the pure white snows of her childhood memories that glittered in the sunlight so beautifully. It was all so perfect that she thought it an enchantment.

Soon her untouched snow was tainted by heavy hooves marking the ground as Ser Harrold Hardyng advanced, dressed in his polished steel armor and helmet adorned with the falcon and the half-moon sigil of his house. Proud and tall he stood upon the field as he waited for his opponent.

When the man showed, he was no longer fool nor king. He was a warrior drabbed in a simple armor of stiff brown leather, save for his steel breast plate marked by two direwolf heads facing each other. His head was uncovered for all to see him, his hair tightly pulled at the back but none of the lords in attendance seemed to take note of it.

No one but the princess and the queen knew him and while one regarded him with warm, blue eyes, the other burned and seethed with barely contained rage.

As soon as the trumpets rang, the two men charged at each other, swords unsheathed. When they clashed in the middle of the field, the ringing of their steel pierced through the air as thunderbolts. They circled each other again and again, hitting shield and sword alike, in a dangerous dance that had the princess terrified.

When Ser Harrold pushed his sword forward it landed inches away from the warrior’s cheek and it became hard for her to breathe. Thankfully, he jerked his horse at just the right moment, avoiding the blow and quickly striking hard against Ser Harrold’s shield.

So hard was the blow, that the Vale knight’s shield broke in two and he staggered back loosening his grip on the reins of his horse. As the warrior came at him again, the animal spooked and rose on his back legs to defend himself, sending the Young Falcon to the ground unceremoniously, his helmet flying off his head.

The audience gasped at this sudden turn of events. Was the tourney over? they wondered. Their favorite had been dismounted and yet they were not prepared to give up their claim.

The princess’ rejoiced, preparing to stand up at once and declare the warrior the victor of the tourney and of her hand but, as always with brave men, things were never simple for the women that loved them.

A moment passed and the warrior dismounted. “Stand up, my lord,” he commanded. “I will not let a horse claim my victory.”

Bewildered, Ser Harrold scrambled to his feet, retrieving his sword from the snow. The warrior waited until the knight was good and ready but when he finally came at him, he parried his attack with ease, striking at the sword and swiftly moving out of the way as the Falcon drifted forward, hitting at air. Again and again, he tried to catch him but his sword met only the falling snow.

Only when he tired, his sword heavy as lead in his hand, did the warrior strike back. His response was hard and brutal. The white wolf pummel of his great Valyrian sword hit Ser Harrold flush in the stomach and he fell to his knees. He stood over him and asked: “Do you yield, Ser?”

The Young Falcon still had some fight in him and he stood up, on trembling legs, pushing forward with a loud grunt. So weak was his assault that the warrior pushed him back with one arm while the length of his sword hit at his calves sending the knight on his knees once more.

He placed the tip of his sword against Ser Harrold’s neck, forcing him to look up. “Do you yield?”

The proud lord’s eyes still held the look of defiance about them but when the warrior lifted his sword, meaning to strike him again, he grew desperate enough to lift his hands and scream. “I yield!” he said, terrified. “I yield!”

Ser Harrold was spared that final blow and the warrior lowered his sword slowly, before turning to face the princess.

Even from the distance, she could feel his eyes upon her, warm and full of longing and she smiled wildly. He had come back to her and she would never more be alone.

She wanted to ran down to him that very moment, embrace him and welcome him home but before she could do just that, the queen spoke out, in a hard cruel tone.

“That was quite the performance,” she said. “But the time for tomfoolery is over, ser. Kneel!”

The warrior stood still, his frame proud and unbending. “The only queen I plan on bending my knee to sits beside you,” he said.

“Why have you come here?” she barked. “What do you want?”

“I want only what was promised,” the warrior said, looking at the princess. “Lady Stark’s hand in marriage.”

A cruel smile spread across the queen’s face. “But that is impossible, ser. You are not worthy of such an honor.”

As her bannermen joined the queen in voicing their protests, the princess stood up quickly and faced them. “I have made a pledge, my lords, that the man who won the tourney would become my lord and husband. Upon my word as a Stark, I will honor that pledge!”

Her bannermen came at her then, speaking and whispering in her ear. “You must reconsider, my lady,” they said. “This man is not worthy of you. Who is he to deserve such a prize?”

“Do you not remember, my lords?” she said, smiling tenderly at her warrior. “He was your king once. He ended the Long Night and saved you and your children from the army of the dead.” With pleading eyes, she beseeched them: “Do not forsake us now, my lords, as we did not forsake you.”

But the bannermen were blind to their lady’s entreatments, all memory of the warrior long gone from their minds. “This man is nothing to us,” they said.

“Listen to your lords, child,” the queen said, her cruel smile still dancing upon her lips. “This man is nothing but a cur and a liar. It was surely deceit that won him the tourney.”

“The queen speaks truth,” the lords agreed. “It must have been his vile tricks that defeated the brave Ser Harrold. Otherwise how could one like him win against the Lord Paramount of the Vale?”

The princess could barely contain her disgust at the treachery of her vassals. Her last hope rested with the Young Falcon and she turned to the man who stood upon the field, still doubled over from the blows the warrior had handed him. “Is this true, Ser Harrold? Were you defeated by tricks and deceit?”

The Falcon hesitated for a moment but when he looked up at her, his face was a mask. “It is, my lady. I am quite certain of it.”

She swallowed back the bile at his untrue words and she regarded him coldly. “I had always thought you an honorable man, ser. I see now that I was mistaken.”

“I am sorry to hear of your low opinion of me,” he said, standing up straighter, his dull, blue eyes filled with pride. “I hope that once we are married, I will be able to remedy that.”

The princess swore as loud as she could that she would never marry him but the queen’s power seemed stronger than her will. “The lady is tired,” she announced, signaling her guards to come for the princess. “Please see her safely back to her chambers. She must make ready for her betrothal to Ser Harrold tonight.”

As the guards grabbed hold of her, her bannermen stood to the side and allowed them to drag her from the stands.

Only her brave warrior spoke out. “Unhand her!” he commanded and unsheathed his sword, running towards the dais.

“He means to attack the princess!” the queen shouted for all to hear. “Stop him!”

Before he had managed to reach the stands, soldiers and lords alike ran towards the field, intent on capturing him. As she was being dragged away, the princess looked back. Run, she thought. Run!

The warrior hesitated for a moment but, as she slipped further and further from his grasp, he finally turned and ran back towards his horse.

She could hear the clicking of steel as he fought to get away from the field and through the corner of her eye, she saw him ride away, as the queen’s men gave chase.

The princess did not struggle against the vice like grip of rough hands that dug into her flesh, when the guards pulled her back towards the castle. It did not matter now. They could lock her up behind a hundred walls. A thousand locks they could put on the doors. It did not make a difference. When night came, she would go to him and he would be waiting for her.

The sun had already set when the guards pushed her inside her chambers and instructed her to make ready for the feast. Unable to wait a moment longer, she went to her desk and picked up the blue rose that had been left for her. She caressed the petals gently before pushing her finger against one of the small thorns peppered along its stem. She let the drop of blood fall unto the silky folds, leaving a trace of red upon the blue as it slided downward.

She waited for the magic of the rose to rise and engulf her but as moments turned into hours, tears feel on the petals where the blood had once been.

Cry as hard as she could and stare at it for as long as she did, the rose still would not yield. There is no magic left, she thought, bitterly. She had healed his hand and his eye, lifted his curses and he had given her but a rose for her troubles.

When the guards pushed the door open, they found her sitting on her bed, dressed in her maiden clothes. Dutifully she had labored for months on them, with an unwilling hand. The heavy light grey cloth of her dress rustled and moved as she stood up, the weirwood branches embroidered on the skirts, glittering in the candle light from the mother of pearl beads she had patiently sown into the stitching.

Upon her shoulders she wore her maiden cloak. It was not cloth of silver or gold, but the white furs that encircled her neck gave her a dignified pure look that queens would envy. A large direwolf head was embroidered with silver thread upon the back, so determined was the princess that she should walk a Stark to her unwanted wedding. And in her hands she still held the small blue rose. It burnt her, scorned her and yet she could not let go of it.

As the guards escorted her to the Great Hall, her feet dragged upon the stone floor like a prisoner before an execution. But walk she did, holding her head high, her face still and quiet, unwilling to show her pain.

The queen and her bannermen had taken great pains that night to turn the austere Stark hall into a truly joyful, lavish place. Sumptuous silks had been placed upon the long tables and the chairs were decorated with wreaths of pine and winter flowers. Guests feasted on exquisite golden plates filled with delicacies brought from all corners of the seven kingdoms and so many candles had been lit that the whole room seemed bathed in warm light. The best minstrels in the North had been commissioned to play that night and their sweet songs filled the Great Hall, beckoning the guests to dance and swoon to the rhythm of lute and drums.

But as the princess was made to sit on the left side of Ser Harrold, the man whom others had proclaimed to be her betrothed, she found no beauty in any of the finery. Stiff she sat, feeling as if it was all but a cruel joke, one to be enjoyed at her expense. And none was more hateful to her than her betrothed. Proud and fawning as a peacock, he laughed and cheered with the lords around him, looking back at her from time to time with dull, blue eyes.

She turned her face from him, staring blankly ahead, not wanting to look upon his lying lips or think of what would come once morning broke.

The feast went on and the guests began to forget that she was even there. Her mind drifted as she aimlessly toyed with the rose in her hands, bruising her fingers but feeling nothing at all. Her thoughts turned to the Broken Tower where the fool and the king had waited for her, imploring her to come away with them.

Will you grant me your song, he had said. It was the one question she had not answered. I don’t know any songs. But she had known them once … A long time ago, her heart had been filled with them.

His question lingered in her mind, melding to the tune of the minstrels. Your song … grant me …Will you grant me your song?

Her feet seemed to know what to do before her mind did and she stood up, drawing the attention of the guests on her. Slowly the music died down as she made her way to the center of the hall. She looked up at the minstrels, sitting in their alcove. “The Winter rose,” she said.

The soft, winding tune began and for a moment she feared her voice would break but as she began to sing, a steady, crystal clear sound came out, so sweet and tender as to make grown men weep.

The spring was clear and it was here

Where Bael took his lady of the Winter

Her spirit wild, heart of a child yet gentle still

And quiet and mild and he loved her

As her song began in earnest, the fragrant smell of the rose she was holding began to rise and float about the room. It settled on the silky table cloths and on the choice meats. Men ate it from their plates, and drank it with their ale, breathed it in their lungs. So sweet a flavor it was that they could not get enough.

And he would say:

“Promise me, when you see

A blue rose, you’ll come to me.

I love you so, never let go.

You will be my Winterfell rose”

Lulled by the princess’ song, they stretched their limbs and laid back in their chairs. Even when the minstrels’ instruments began to creak and then fell silent, they did not notice. Their arms grew heavy and they sighed in contentment.

When all was done, he turned to run

Fading with the rising sun, as she watched him.

And ever more she thought she saw

A glimpse of him upon the snows forever.

The princess’ voice grew stronger and bolder, like the gleeful song of a skylark in spring and she smiled as she saw her bannermen and all the queen’s men stretching out before her, heads on tables, drifting blissfully to sleep. The queen herself struggled to remain awake but finally gave in, her head gently laying against her pale white arms, an innocent, childlike expression on her face.

And she would say:

“Promise me, when you see

A blue rose, you’ll come for me.

I loved you so, a long time ago,

When I was your Winterfell rose.”

Her voice echoed through the silent Hall long after her song had finished. All around her, the lords and ladies of Winterfell lay on the stone floors, spread out in their finery. Guards had fallen asleep on their posts, servants had laid down their serving trays and huddled in corners. On her golden throne, the queen slept, sighing from time to time as if in the midst of a sweet, summer dream.

The princess pulled the hood of the furred cloak over her head and ran out of the Great Hall. In the court yard, squires and stable boys, horses and dogs alike slept in the frozen hay and not a sound was heard, save for the snoring of the dragon, coiled atop the Hunter’s Gate.

Man and beast mattered not to the winter rose. All of the North slept that night as the princess ran towards the Broken Tower, gentle snowflakes dancing all around her, guiding her way.

As she came upon the tower, she looked up towards the last window, expecting to see the candle flickering. But the window was dark and for a moment a sharp jolt rumbled in her stomach. It wasn’t until she heard the snicker of a horse, that her senses return to her. She ran, encircling the tower until she found him on the other side. He stood dressed in his brown leather armor, the sigil of their house still upon his breast as he gently patted his horse.

When he heard the scrunching of the snow, he turned around and finally gazed upon her. His face lit up in such happiness that the princess felt as if his eyes alone could keep her warm and safe for the rest of her life. His arms stretched out and he ran half way towards her before she stepped back, smiling at him demurely.

“Don’t I get three questions?” she asked.

He stopped in his tracks, his arms falling at his sides but an easy smile rested upon his face and his eyes glimmered as he answered: “Of course, my lady.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell.”

“Why are you here?”

“I am here for you,” he answered, his voice strangled with longing. “You are my heart and no man can live without his heart.”

“What do you want of me?”

“Only what you are willing to give.” He came closer then, talking all the while in a low, hushed tone that made her tremble with joy. “Will you come away with me? I have no lands or titles but if you will have me, I will spend the rest of my life loving you.”

Tears fell down her face as he came to wipe them away, his warm callused fingers gently tracing down her cheeks. “I am Sansa Stark, the Daughter of Winterfell,” she said. “I have no need of lands or titles as long as I have you.”

He sighed a ragged breath dropping his forehead to touch her own while his hands cupped her face. “Will you let me kiss you then?” he asked. “As you did on that last night?”

She closed her eyes and nodded slowly, remembering the sweet taste of his lips on the night before he left when he had told her he was hers forever. He sealed his promise to her once more, as he tasted her lips, melting the snowflakes off her skin. He lingered in his gentle kiss until she felt weak in the knees and her hands wrapped tightly around his neck to pull him close, the blue rose she was clutching falling upon the snows. She made a promise of her own then. She would never let him go again.

When morning came and the people of Winterfell awoke, the North remembered. They remembered their brave king and the Three Eyed Raven and how they had ended the Long Night. In vain they searched for their beloved princess and her warrior and great was their sorrow when they could not be found.

None was as sorrowful as the queen, however, and none as angry in their grief. Her guards were dispatched across the seven kingdoms to find the lovers but none ever came back with news of them. So great was her fury that she took to her dragon and bathed Winterfell in fire, knocking down its white walls, flinging open its gates, raining blazing storms upon it until it fell in ruins and ash.

But try as hard as she might, she could not bring down the Broken Tower. The place that had been her bane and her shame stood proud against her dragon’s flames and from the snows where the princess’ rose had fallen, strong, thick vines spread across the stone, blue roses blooming from fire and ice.

From that day until this day, the blue roses bloom in Winterfell and, as long as they are here, the North will always remember,” he said, at last, dropping another kiss to her fingers as he finished his story.

His voice still held her in its spell and she was unwilling to break it just yet. “And what of the princess and her warrior?”

“All traces of them disappeared from Westeros but, further into the North, in the Lands of Always Winter, the free folk still tell stories about them. Of how they hid them in their caves and warmed them at their fires and how on a winter’s day, much like this one, their king, Tormund Giantsbane, took them to the place where the last remaining weirwood tree stood, to be married.”

“So they lived happily ever after?”

“They did.”

“That’s nice,” she finally said, her arms curling around his waist. Her head rested against his chest and she hummed. “I liked this story.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead and held her close. When they parted, he stretched out his hand and plucked one of the blue roses from the tower’s vines. Carefully he picked off all the thorns before placing it in her hair. “The blue looks pretty with your red hair,” he said.

She rewarded him with a wide smile and grabbed him by the waist again as they began to walk away from the tower. “Let’s go home, Jon,” she said.

In their wake, a chink of ice fell from where Jon had picked the flower and a new blue rose bloomed to take its place, filling the air with sweetness.

* a final disclaimer on this: I’m absolute crap at poetry! I can’t write it, my brain explodes when I attempt the simplest of rhymes but I really, really wanted Sansa to sing in this and I wanted to show what she was singing. So I used the song below as inspiration and just changed a few words around to fit with the story of Bael the Bard. So I essentially used it wholesale! :))))

youtube

Please check it out. It’s a beautiful song and Ritchie Blackmore is a freaking genuis!

#jonsa #actually jonsa #jon x sansa #jonsa fanfiction #jonsaff #anti-daenerys #jonsasecretsanta2018 #sansa stark #jon snow #the winter rose #jonsasecretsanta

53 notes · View notes

mangled-dreams · 6 years ago

Text

Sins of the Mother: 11

Part 11: Death

Previous: Collection, Agreement, Terms, Truth, Accident, Goodbye, Grieving, Visions, Recovery, Disillusion,

Waking up feeling more groggy than when you went to sleep you rub your eyes and yawn. The edges of your mouth stretch painfully and tears line your eyes. Licking your lips you blink a few times looking around your familiar room.

Everything looks just at it had last night, everything except one little detail. Dark lies next to you on your bed. It's a king, so there is more than enough room and you immediately attribute that fact to why you hadn't noticed before, but the fact still remains: Dark is in your bed sleeping.

His suit is crumpled and creased, your normal night time attire is still sung around your frame, and there is no indication that anyone got undressed. Blinking you look around once more before settling on Dark's sleeping features. Awake he's very pleasing to look at, it's no different now that he's asleep but you do note some differences between waking Dark and sleeping Dark.

Careful not to rock the bed too much you shimmy yourself closer. You've never imagined you'd see Dark with bed head, but from the state of him you assume he doesn't sleep soundly. Without thought you brush his jacket in a failed attempt to smooth it out before realizing you're touching him and retract it. You don't remember the last time you had a guest in your bed that didn't look to you as a mother. Tucking your legs under you, you rest against the headboard looking Dark over. He seems peaceful, relaxed, and... you can't quite put your finger on it, but he looks happier.

Covering a yawn again you know you should get up, take a shower, dress, eat something, go anywhere else to give Dark his privacy to sleep. You don't. Instead you gingerly touch a lock of his lush black hair. In the wake of a night's sleep you find his hair is naturally on the curly side. You play with the curls.

Soon, without meaning to your fingers move deeper into the thick tresses of hair, lightly scratching at his scalp. The soft mewing sound Dark makes startles you, your hand disappearing from his hair. He frowns, eye brows pinched together in disapproval of your withdraw, and he turns into you. Sitting ridged with your hands nearly straight in the air Dark curls his an arm and his head on your thighs.

When he finally settles again the breath you had been holding rushes out. After a few drawn out seconds you relax looking down at Dark with a tenderness you didn't think was possible. He reminds you of your siblings. Perhaps he's just as confused and scared of what's going on as you are, maybe even more so. You've noticed the little signs in his speech, the way he looked at you when he brought up Savannah in your car.

Leaning back into the headboard you take up lightly scratching Dark's scalp again, your fingers playing with his luscious locks once more. Call it years of doing this exact thing with your siblings, call it need for comfort in such a trying time in your life, hell, call it loneliness, but whatever you call it it soothes you.

Closing your eyes you try to allow yourself this little moment. You allow yourself to think that this--this change in your original idea of your future won't be so bad. You allow yourself to believe you can, perhaps, one day be happy with Dark--no, Damien. The longer you allow yourself to feel comforted and happy and content the more you feel a tug in your chest.

At first it wasn't anything to worry you, however the more it happens the more intense it gets. Before you really understand what is happening your breath becomes labored. The tug you'd first felt begins to pull sharply. Breathing heavily you press a hand to your breast bone. You've had panic attacks but never like this. Could it be your worst panic attack, or could it be something else?

Black spots slowly take over your vision as you attempt to control your breathing. Nothing you are trying is helping. You can't recall when but the weight on your lap disappears and hands grab your wrists. Through the black spots dotting your vision you see Dark looking up at you.

This confuses you even in your disoriented state. There is no way that Dark should be below you. He towers over you, how... how can he be looking up to you.

"Y/n, look at me. Listen to my voice. You can fight this." Dark says loudly, but it's not a shout. His voice is strong and steady as he talks to you. His voice resonates through you. In a way it's comforting and you feel connected to it, cling to it for safety.

"Dam--Damien, it hurts..." you whisper clutching at your shirt. The feeling gives another sharp pull in your chest.

"Dammit, Savannah, leave her alone." Dark growls his voice rumbling through your whole frame. You feel as if it should shake your whole house. It frightens you on some level, more than that it comforts you. You know he's not angry with you, he's not upset that you're in this state, he fears for you.

In your moment of comfort something new and even more frightening happens. A vision passes just in front of Dark. The black dots still in your sight doesn't affect the image of your ancestor standing in front of you. The eyes so many artists portrayed as kind an gentle are anything but. A firm scowl graces her doll like features as she looks down at you.

"You disappoint me. Falling in love with a demon." She sneers in a tone just as cold as her gaze. "Disgusting."

Gritting your teeth you keep from remarking. You didn't want to or even mean to... to... Your eyes widen at the thought you could be in love with Dark. Even though now is not the time, nor the place to have such a thought you can't help it. Staring at Savannah you ask, "Do... Do I love him?"

Snapping her head, Savannah looks away from you. It's as if the question completely and utterly disgusts her. "A Scarlet is never meant to love. We use others to gain our purpose. It seems I failed that point."

"What? No! What about your children? Your grandchildren? They don't deserve that kind of treatment. No one can flourish on cold calculated partnerships. That's not a life!" You shout watching Savannah instantly crowd you. Her face inches from yours. She stares directly into your eyes. It's unnerving and you want to get away but refuse to show that much weakness.

What's to say she won't go after Ollie or Fern, what of your cousins, aunts, or uncles? Will anyone that bares the Scarlet name be safe from her?

"Learn to respect your elders, child." Savannah snarls. Her breath hits your face in a hot caress. You close one eye and wince but refuse to pull away from her.

"I give respect to the ones that deserve it, Savannah. You're nothing but a murderer that made a deal to save your own skin. No real mother would ever do anything to harm her children, much less treat them as if they're less than human." You snarl just as intensely back. "No one would respect a murderer like you if they knew the truth."

You've never seen this look aimed at you, but you have see the eyes of a bloodthirsty murderer in pictures and videos of true crime stories. The moment you uttered your response something in Savannah snapped. As if in slow motion you saw her face completely change and it scares you. Instantly you fear for your life.

Slim delicate hands wrap around your throat. Despite their size there is overpowering strength determined to crush your trachea. Tiny squeaks leave your mouth each time you try to draw in a breath. You scratch and pull at Savannah's hands desperate to get the air into your lungs again. A slow burning begins fueling your desperation for much needed oxygen.

Dark stares in horror as you scratch at your throat. He can only assume Savannah had reached out to you using a spell. You're looking, acting, talking as if speaking with the witch of nightmares. Grabbing your hands Dark tells you to stop, to think and fight back magic against magic.

Your eyes never look at him, your voice never calling out to him, but the look of fear in your eyes tells him everything. Savannah is trying to kill you--to choke the life out of you. A life he doesn't want to see snuffed out.

"Y/N!" Dark barks pleading for you to hear him, to acknowledge he is there with you still.

In the blackness around Savannah you hear your name, low and easily unheard, but then like aloud speaker had been turned on blast you hear Dark's voice.

"D--Dark..." You manage to squeak out. Realization hits you then. This isn't Savannah. She's nowhere near you. Even as you have this epiphany it doesn't change the fact that Savannah is still choking you and breath isn't making it to your lungs.

"Magic! Use your magic!" Dark shouts again keeping your hands away from your neck.

Magic. You think trying to recall a spell, an incantation, anything that could help you. Nothing comes to mind. The black spots are getting larger and even doting Savannah now. You just know the end is getting closer and if you don't do something now you'll die.

You can't do that to Ollie, Fern, your dad, even Dark. You can't just leave them because of Savannah and her ego or whatever she has going on. No. No!

Pushing deep into yourself you touch the magic slowly brewing inside yourself. Like you've read and have been told the longer you practice and learn spells the stronger your magic will get. You are nowhere near the strength Savannah must have but you have something she does, and as cliche as it is, you have the love of your family to give you strength.

Starring Savannah square in the eyes you push your magic at her without words, or preparation, or even enchanted ingredients. You know what Savannah lacks and that's exactly what you'll give her.

Within seconds Savannah releases your throat. Horrified screams rip from her mouth as the sins of her past rush her like zombies, ghosts forcing her to feel the pain and anguish of their loss, of the betrayal, heartache, sorrow. A fitting punishment this round.

You know it won't kill her. Not by any means, but it will distract her and break her concentration on the spell. You just know to project herself like she is it's concentration based. Within seconds, like a candle being snuffed out, Savannah disappears and the darkness greets you.

"Come on." Dark whispers pressing his large hands into your chest. Your breathing and heart stopped the moment your body went limp in his arms. He'd nearly thrown you to the floor and began CPR to revive you. Seconds tick by into minutes as he frantically tries to save you like a normal human.

"Come on! Y/n, don't do this!" He shouts pinching your nose, lifts you chin enough to get air through your throat and breaths twice into your mouth. He tries to remain steadfast and calm but the longer you're dead the less likely you'll come back. No, he can't think like that. Even if you die he'll bring you back. He'll... He'll... "Please, come back." Dark pleads compressing your chest to keep your heart beating.

Gasping loudly you startle Dark. His body jerking away from you before quickly pulling you into his lap. Never has he wanted to cry in relief in all his life. Sighing with a sense of relief Dark sweeps your hair from your face. A light glistening of sweat covers your skin.

"My chest." You complain feeling sharp pains all long your rib cage.

"I can fix that." Dark tells you smiling just slightly. He'll never admit to it, but the feeling and sound of your ribs breaking under his first few compression will haunt him for a time.

Your whole body aches and muscles burn, you have huge migraine, and you feel sticky and gross and dead tired. There is a rawness in your throat that burns when you breath or speak. "Did I die?" You ask remembering the feeling of Savannah's hands around your throat.

Dark catches your eyes. "Yes." He answers dead seriously. You see the horrifying truth staring back at you in his dark brown eyes. Dark truly believed you died in his arms, under his watch where you are supposed to be protected. "Don't do that again." He tells you burying his face into your stomach. It hurts but not as much as if he'd pressed his face into your chest or neck.

Breathing with more ease than a few minutes ago, considering you weren't breathing just a minute ago, you raise an aching hand and run it through Dark's hair. "I hate to ruin the moment, but I need to shower..." Pausing a moment you add, "And see a doctor."

Dark obliges you. After a very quick and awkward shower he drives you to the hospital where they are told you'd been attacked in your home. The police were called, Dark handled the conversation easily making the officers and hospital staff believe his tale. You let him without a fight.

Savannah is enough of a pain in the ass right now, you don't need the police to get involved. Laying back in your hospital bed resting a peacefully as you can you hear quick footsteps getting closer to your room. Within seconds the door is shoved open. Two crying blurs rush your bed climbing up the stiff mattress to cling to you.

You yelp in pain when tiny but heavy hands press into your chest. Wrapping your arms around your chest you sit up breathing heavily to keep from crying out much more.

"Sis!"

"Y/n! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Forcing a pain filled smile you look at each twin in turn. "It's okay, you... ah... you didn't know." You tell them breathing through the pain. Even with painkillers you still have quite a bit of pain when your chest is pushed on. Thankfully nothing is misaligned and surgery is not required. Of course you doubt Dark would allow you to go under the knife to fix broken bones.

"Are you okay? I'm sorry." Fern says getting off the bed to let you lay back down. Ollie does the same.

Taking a few steady breaths you ease back into the bed with an apologetic smile on your lips. "Yes, sweetheart, it does hurt. You'll have to be gentle with me for a while, okay?" You ask closing your eyes. Tears line your lower lashes.

"Fern, Oliver, don't run off on me... oh GOD! Y/n, who did this to you?" You father cries rushing to your bedside next to Fern. "Oh, my baby."

You sure are a sight, that's for sure. Gauze and bandages are wrapped around your neck where you'd clawed at your own skin to get Savannah's hands off your throat. Dark circles formed under your eyes and you have bruising running up and down your neck for added effect. Despite Savannah's hands being so small the imprints left on your neck are much larger.

"Do I look ready for prom?" You joke needing it to keep from crying.

Your father gives you a half smile even as he looks so close to crying. "Baby, you always look beautiful."

Two tears slip down your face. You may be a grown woman that raised three children and took on the responsibilities that shouldn't have been yours, but at heart you're still that 18 year old needing her mom and dad to hug her and tell her everything is okay. "Daddy, I was so scared." You whisper unable to keep your eyes open.

Garrett stands again and moves to the top of your bed. He'd hug you if he didn't think it'd cause you more pain. Brushing your hair from your face he presses a kiss to your crown. "I know baby. I know. I love you Y/n. I'm sorry."

You let yourself cry then. Ollie and Fern both sit in chairs on either side of you, their heads resting on your legs, their hands holding yours letting you have this. Above you Garrett is stroking your hair whispering to you that it'll be okay.

Dark stands just outside your room. Anger runs through his veins. He still doesn't understand what Savannah's plan truly is but attacking you is unforgivable. Clenching his fists Dark vows a painful death to the woman. He swore his protection to you and he plans of ensuring that this threat is taken care of.

#Sins of the Mother #Darkiplier #Dark is Damien #reader insert #Female reader #another chapter #needed fluff #followed by death #literally #savannah's a bitch #dark gets mad #every story needs a little death

19 notes · View notes