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jenojaemssss · 4 years ago

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happier

synopsis: in which mark was happier with you.

pairing: mark x reader (i attempted to write the mc as gender neutral, so lmk if there are any tips on how to be more considerate! i wanna be able to write as inclusively as possible heh)

genre/category: angst, exes!au

word count: 2.4k

a/n: i have an assignment due in like 20 minutes (so i did not get a chance to proofread!!) but i got distracted thinking about mark while listening to my 2017 simp playlist :D so here's a mini-fic (that was supposed to be a drabble) based on this song!

I saw you walk inside a bar.

When Mark looked up from the almost-empty bottle sitting in front of him, he didn’t expect to be greeted by the sight of you. But what caught him even more off guard was that you were entering the bar hand in hand with someone new.

You, not yet noticing your past lover's hunched figure, walk towards a set of empty bar stools, another man's arms wrapped around your waist like possessive belt. Mark began to stare then. He stared at what used to be his reason. What used to be the one who'd wake him up in the morning, who used to be his reason for coming home when the days were too long, yet somehow eventually bled into nights. He continued to stare at what had been his true source of happiness.

In his eyes, you still were. You were his only radiating source of light that made him feel warm. You were his comfort, like a warm blanket during a rainy day, or an iced tea when the weather was too hot to do anything else but lounge around the house with all fans on full blast.

He said something to make you laugh.

Mark noticed how the one that accompanied you looked at you with a small spark in his eyes as you cover your mouth in attempts to shield your erupting laughter. That was a cute habit of yours when you laughed, and he used to stare at you the same way; he was staring at you almost identically as he's sat across the bar at that moment. The only difference now was that Mark stopped being the reason for your bright smiles and warm laughter.

I noticed how both your smiles were twice as wide as ours.

The first encounter between the two of you would forever be engraved in the mind of Mark Lee.

He was walking around a lake during a camping trip with a few of his friends, mindlessly swinging his arms around to cool off. Mid swing, though, he made contact with something he later found out was your face. He apologized so many times that you had almost busted a lung laughing at the poor boy's terrified features.

Soon, Mark joined you, laughing in harmony because apparently being smacked in the face by someone was the funniest thing to the both of you. Mark proceeded to awkwardly ask for your contact information, hoping to make up for the mishap, and you complied because the man was so darn cute.

One meet-up (he never specified it as a date) turned into two, which turned into three, and soon, you were seeing each other everyday in a small cafe hidden within the corners of your shared campus.

The two of you attended the same university, but due to being in different departments, there was never really a chance to come across one another while running to your next classes, but this cafe was the one spot you two had in common.

The cafe meetings soon turned into cafe dates (he clarified this time that they were in fact, dates), and soon enough, you were both head over heels in love, moving in together as you approached your final years of college.

Mark and your's relationship wasn't perfect, but it was always so much fun. Mark was always able to make you laugh because of how awkward he was, and one time you to left him behind on a trip to the grocery store because he was so embarrassing, making stupid puns at the poor worker just trying to stock the shelves of the cereal aisle. That day, you bought a watermelon the size of both your heads combined to make up for leaving him behind.

Mark bitterly smiled at his recollection. That was one of the last times he and you were able to smile together.

You looked happier.

The last time Mark saw you, it was on a sunny, Saturday afternoon. You were on your way back from a trip to your local convenience store, bags of chips, a tub of ice cream, and boxes of candy spilling out of the watermelon themed reusable bag he had left behind after moving out. You were still wearing his hoodie, then. He left that behind for you too.

It made him smile, knowing that you kept it.

Ain't nobody hurt you like I hurt you.

You felt as though you couldn't breathe. When you entered Mark and your shared apartment, you sensed that something was wrong; that something was missing from your normally warm environment. Mark and you have been arguing more frequently recently, and the night before, it was the worst it had been in years.

Mark had been going out later into the night, sleeping on couches of friend's houses more than in his own bed. Your shared bed. You more often than not woke up to nothing, the radiating warmth missing from your side.

You'd had enough of it, and confronted the man when he walked into the apartment at 2 am. Words spewed from either side, along the lines of "I'm sick of this" and "What is there to be sick of?" Mark ended up sleeping on the couch that night while you cried yourself to sleep, clutching Mark's pillow and attempting to hold onto what used to be the warm, delightful love of your life.

The next day when you woke up, he was gone. He texted you saying he had to leave early for work and that you should go ahead and start your day without him, and you did. You began planning ways to talk things out, to fix things with Mark over a nice dinner.

You set your plan to action and made your way to the local market. When you returned home and stepped foot into the kitchen, though, your eyes landed on a small note placed right in the center of the dining table. Written on that note in Mark's sloppy handwriting were the words, "I'm sorry, but I need to clear my head."

You dropped the note and ran into your bedroom, only to see that Mark had taken almost half of his belongings from the cramped space, along with one of the suitcases the two of you placed behind the closet when you first moved in. He was gone.

But ain't nobody love you like I do.

He'd been gone for about 10 days when you receive a call from Donghyuck. The brown-haired boy informed you that Mark has been sleeping on his couch for over a week and would be stopping by within the next few days to take up all of his friend's belongings he'd left behind.

You hummed, almost numbly, and before hanging up, you mustered up the courage to ask Donghyuck if Mark was currently there with him. He hummed in response, and you mumbled a good before dropping the line completely, falling to your knees and sobbing until you no longer had tears to let fall.

You were broken, and it was all because of Mark, yet a piece of you continuously hoped and prayed that he was safe. That he was living in a proper home with a place to sleep, and that he wasn't too cold because he often got cold very easily.

Mark, on the other end of the line, was silently holding in his cries as his best friend hung up the phone, disconnecting him from his one true love. Mark never intended to hurt you the way that he did, but in his mind, because he loved you so much, too much, he had to let you go.

He was noticing how much he was holding you back, from job opportunities to your social life, he believed he was the reason. He was the reason you declined the job offer in the neighboring city because that meant you'd have to either move out or drag Mark with you, and you chose on neither and stayed. He was the reason you never left the house on weekends because only then was he ever home. He was the reason you had bags under your eyes, he soon realized.

You'd been staying up night after night, waiting for him to come home. You'd been crying because he would come home with bags darker than yours. You'd been losing sleep because you spent too much of your time worrying about him.

He was holding you back by loving you.

So he decided to let you go.

Promise that I will not take it personal, baby.

A few months have passed and Mark's finally settled down in a new place in the town you had rejected the job offer from all those months ago. A part of him wished that moving away would offer you closure, knowing that Donghyuck explained his side of the story to you. Mark wanted so badly to be the one who spoke to you that day, but he was afraid of the confrontation. He was scared he'd break and hold you into his arms and promise to never let you go, bringing himself and you back into the endless loop.

So he left. He moved away and had Donghyuck clean up the mess he'd made. Mark owes him one.

The other part of him, though, hoped that you contacted the agency that offered you the job all those months ago. The selfish part of him prayed that the agency granted your request and offered you the job you passed up on in this new city. He hoped that you and him could start over in a different setting, and maybe a few years from now, run into each other again. You'd be in better places in your lives and the two of you could start over.

He knew he was hoping for too much, but oh a man can dream.

If you're moving on with someone new.

Mark was brought back to the present when he hears a loud shattering of glass. He averted his eyes towards the source of the ruckus and landed his eyes on you. He noticed how your eyes grew into large saucers when he displayed similar shocked features.

Shit.

He quickly and clumsily packed up his belongings as he waved down one of the waiters, asking for the tab. Noticing Mark's shaken composure accompanied by the glares being sent in his direction from the other side of the bar, the waiter sympathetically printed out the bill as fast as he could and didn't let out a peep when Mark underpaid about 10 bucks.

Mark rushed out of the bar, only to be caught by the sound of your voice calling out to him.

"Don't you dare run away." The voice was cold.

"Not again, Mark." It was almost shaking.

You caught up to the man. He turned around, slowly, wishing that this was all just a messed up dream, and the alcohol was only playing tricks with his mind.

Indeed, though, this was his reality. Mark remained silent, only staring at his feet as you approached him.

"Look at me," your voice was softer now, but he noticed the stern edge laced within your words. You were never one to raise your voice, not even when Mark would spew incredulous things at you during an argument. You were always calm.

Mark shifted his gaze from the ground towards your face and noticed you looked wiser. He noticed how your soft features were now more sharp. He noticed how you wore your hair differently. He noticed how you'd ditched your casual jeans and a shirt for something more business-casual. He noticed how your aura had changed into something more serious. He noticed every little change about you.

He also noticed how, beneath all the physical changes, you were still you. You still had the same stars in your eyes. You still had his favorite scent. You still had the same quip in your lip when you spoke. You still had the same smile.

You were smiling at him.

Mark finally managed to meet your eyes, and as you opened your mouth to speak, he cut you off before you could get a sound out.

"You look happier."

Your smile dropped a bit at his observation. He was right, you were happier than you were after the breakup. But you were happier when you were with him. Using other men to distract yourself from Mark worked for a while, but it was never the same.

It's been over a year, and you still missed him. You missed everything about Mark; his smile, his laugh, his posture when he was furiously typing away at his keyboard because he had an essay due in 10 minutes. You missed the way he'd sing to you at night when you woke up from a nightmare, and the way he'd pet down your hair when the two of you wake up in each other's arms after a nap.

And although you missed him, a part of you was still angry at him. Angry that he left without an explanation, and had Donghyuck be the bearer of bad news that he wanted you to be happier. That he wanted you to have a life not revolving around him and his actions.

A part of you hated how he was so selfish, and how he never looked to you for his decision. Yet the other, wiser, part of you was thankful. Thankful that he cared about you enough to let you go, cared about you enough to put your priorities above his own feelings for once. Most importantly, you were thankful that he was your first heartbreak.

Before he was the boy who broke your heart, he was a friend.

You tilt your head a bit sideways, plastered another smile and nodded in response.

"It's a process."

He smiled back, toothy grin warming your heart. "I'm glad you're doing okay."

Maybe it was the universe finally hearing Mark's wishes of starting over, or maybe it was just a mere coincidence that you ran into each other that day. But nonetheless, the encounter made him realize one thing.

"I was happier with you."

#mark lee #nct mark #nct 127 #nct dream #mark lee angst #mark angst #mark fic #mark scenarios #mark lee scenarios #nct dream fic #nct dream angst #nct 127 angst #mark lee fic #literally i'm just simping rn

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alj4890 · 3 years ago

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Prompt Request

(Liam x Riley) with the prompt: "I can't believe you still have this." as requested by @neotericthemis. In celebration of 500 followers.

Rated G for nothing but fluff.

@gkittylove99 @krsnlove @kingliam2019 @texaskitten30 @yourmajesty09 @mom2000aggie @ofpixelsandscribbles @twinkleallnight @lodberg @amandablink @neotericthemis @mm2305 @sfb123 @iufilms

Masterlist

Memento

"Riley?" Liam called out. "Where did you put that trade agreement Amalas sent over?"

He continued to search through her desk drawers.

"Isn't it on your desk?" She called out from the nursery.

"Not that I saw." He responded, pulling open a bottom drawer of hers.

He went through the many files and papers she had placed in there, pausing at some of the more surprising.

He first came across a set of old blueprints for Valtoria adding both a larger kitchen for Hana to bake in and what appeared to be a disco for Maxwell.

Grinning, he then found a folder of ultrasounds of Eleanor and their soon to be born son. He marveled at his two miracles before finding something that surprised him.

Lifting the well worn brochure out, he sat down as memories overcame him.

************

Seven years ago, Paris...

Liam got to his feet when Riley walked into his opera box. He took her hands in his while studying her pinched face.

"You talked to Regina?" He asked.

"Yes." She took a shuddering breath. "Liam, she wasn't the one to have Bastien set up the photos."

Liam felt his heart sink. He had doubted his stepmother had done such a thing. He selfishly hoped she had to make certain Madeleine was picked to be his bride, yet he knew how honorable and kind Regina truly was. That left only one person who Bastien would have taken orders from.

It hurt to even think of it.

Riley stepped closer to him. "Liam, your father must be the one who made certain you couldn't choose me."

So many emotions went through the young king's mind. Betrayal of the worst sort. Heartache that someone who claimed to love him would deny his one chance at happiness. Bitterness that he shared a bloodline with the very one who destroyed his dreams in one night. And finally, anger that his father had caused such harm to the woman he loved.

"Why would he do this?" Liam muttered.

"Maybe he thought I was a threat to you." Riley tugged him down beside her.

"You? A threat?" He shook his head. "You have been my strength, my love. You were the one to encourage me throughout that entire nightmare of a social season." He lifted one of her hands to his lips. "I can't believe he didn't see that."

"What do we do now?" She asked.

"We confront him." He decided. "As soon as we can."

"Is he here?" Her eyes scanned the dim theater boxes.

"No, he had a dinner to attend." Liam laced her fingers with his. "We'll talk to him tomorrow night."

Riley slumped somewhat at knowing their wait had to continue.

She noticed how depressed Liam was becoming. Her heart ached at the sight while her mind whirled with ways to cheer him up.

"Is Madeleine not joining you tonight?"

He shook his head. "She decided to stay behind and work on our plans for the next leg of the engagement tour."

"So you're alone this evening?" Riley leaned forward with a smile.

He noticed and couldn't help but return it. "I had hoped to enjoy tonight's opera with your company."

"I suppose I could stay here." She teased. "After all these are incredible seats."

He chuckled, feeling his heart grow lighter with having her near.

"Whatever I have is yours, my love."

She noticed the desperation had yet to leave his crystal clear blue eyes.

"Liam, let's not let this scandal investigation ruin our evening." She squeezed his hand. "It's our last night in Paris, and I for one can't think of a better way to spend it than with you."

Liam leaned over. He captured her lips in a long, tender kiss. "I want nothing more than to spend tonight with you, Riley."

She pressed another kiss to his cheek then settled back comfortably in her seat. As the lights dimmed, Liam leaned over to whisper.

"Is there anything I can get you?"

"I wouldn't mind a playbill." She motioned toward the stage. "What opera are we about to see?"

He handed her his.

"The Magic Flute." Her eyebrow lifted.

"Have you seen it before?" Liam asked.

"No. I used to get into The Met years ago whenever I wanted. A friend of mine worked backstage and was always giving away free tickets." She set the program beside her. "But I missed seeing this one."

"I think you'll enjoy it."

"Please tell me it isn't one of the tragic romance ones." She pleaded.

"It isn't." Liam took her hand in his. "It is the story of a prince who must overcome all obstacles to rescue and be with the woman he loves."

Riley squeezed his fingers. "Sounds familiar."

His smile dimmed as he thought of what was ahead of them.

"I promise you," he stated in a serious, heartfelt tone, "we will be together and have our happily ever after." He refocused on the stage. "We must."

Riley scooted closer to him and rested her head on his shoulder. Tears filled her eyes when he wrapped his arm around her. She felt him press a kiss to the top of her head, causing the stray tears to fall down her cheeks.

"Then what will happen?" She whispered. "Once we fix this scandal and we're able to be together?"

His arm tightened around her. "We'll be married."

She could practically hear his smile forming as he continued to talk about their future.

"The entire world will see how lucky I and Cordonia are to have you as queen." He rested his head against hers. "Then we'll start a family."

"We will?" She swiped at her tears. "What will we have?"

"I would love to have a little girl who is just like you." He replied. "One I could spoil and dote upon."

"I'd like to have a miniature you too." Riley nestled more against his shoulder. "A little boy with your heart and blue eyes."

"We'll have all of that and more." He vowed. "We only have a few more hurdles ahead of us, just like Tamino and Pamina in The Magic Flute."

The couple fell into silence as they watched the opera and compared it to their own story.

**************

Present day, the palace...

"Did you find it?" Riley poked her head into the study.

"Hmm?" Liam looked up at her. "No."

She came in and began to search the papers on his desk. Pressing a hand to her back, she held the trade documents up.

"Right under your nose." She teased.

His eyes drifted over her contented face then down to her very pregnant belly before dropping once more to the crinkled program.

"I can't believe you still have this."

"Still have what?" Riley came around to her desk to see what he held.

He slipped his arm around her when she paused.

"I wanted a memento of the night you predicted our future." She admitted.

She looked up at him and smiled into the kiss he gave her.

"That night helped me see the scandal to the end." She explained. "Once I imagined the future you described, I knew I would fight every battle we came across just to have it."

Eleanor's sweet voice drifted in from the nursery. They could hear her talking for her toys as she played tea party.

"I should have known you would have your way with having a daughter first." Riley teased.

Liam rested his other hand on her belly, feeling the movements of the next person to steal his heart.

"From the moment I met you," he smiled softly at his wife, "I've done nothing but dream what I once thought impossible." He tenderly kissed we. "Then you showed me that together we can bring these dreams to life." He rested his forehead against hers. "How will I ever be able to thank you for that rare gift?"

She looped her arms around his neck and sighed happily. "Just love me and keep imagining our fairytale life." She gazed into his eyes. "Everything you promised me that night has come to pass...and I love you so much for it."

#choices the royal romance #liam x riley #trr #choices trr #choices trh #prompt request #play choices fanfic #choices fan fiction

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thisisnotourlasthunt · 4 years ago

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Andrew Showing The Foxes His Love Through Actions.

All through “All for the game” we can see how Andrew shows his love through actions. I believe that Andrew does care for his teammates and I know I; m not the only one, so I wrote this. (Also, I will just forget about the choking scene because N*ra did their relationship so badly, like- ugh, that’s for another time)

Tw: Curse words, references to the foxes pasts, punches, vomit, Riko, mentions of scars, mentions of nightmares, mentions of panic attacks, mentions of past self-harm, probably many spelling and grammar mistakes.

Allison.

It happened during a game, the foxes were winning and the other team were getting exasperated because they could not get past the backliners and if they could, Andrew would not let them score.

During the last minutes of the game, a player from the other team made Allison trip on purpose and “accidentally” kicked her.

Everyone else were too far away from them.

Except Andrew.

When the referee called the fault, Andrew was already there, punching the guy resulting in him taking a step back and falling to the ground.

As the referee gave him a yellow card, Andrew extended his arm to help Allison up.

And if he asked Renee how bad the injury was, no one had to know.

Matt.

When Matt was visiting his mom during summer vacations, they decided to go shopping, there he found the most adorable hoodies. It was orange on the outside and the inside had a really soft and warm fabric, which was white and had orange paw prints. But the best part was that the hoodie had fox ears.

Matt obviously bought nine of them.

“Disgusting.” Andrew had said, which Matt had obviously expected, so he thought nothing of it.

Everyone wore them, Aaron had given his to Katelyn, except Andrew.

But when winter came, Matt saw Andrew get out of his dorm room with the hoodie on, pulling it tighter against himself when a cold air blast came.

“Not a word.” Andrew deadpanned, pointing at Matt, when he noticed him, before leaving the tower.

Matt smiled the whole day.

Dan.

During one of their dinner bankets, the foxes were placed into pairs and told to socialize with the other teams. The pairs were meticulously design so that ‘the monsters’ (minus Nicky) interacted. This meant every ‘monster’ was placed with an upperclassmen. Andrew got Dan.

So when they Dan were talking to some players from Penn State, the Ravens decided to join.

They began talking sh¡t about Dan’s time as a stripper.

Andrew didn’t say or do a thing, knowing Dan was capable on fighting her own fights, she is the first female captain on Exy, but he does stand to the side, throwing a death glare to them.

But when one of them decide it’s a good idea to slap her in the butt when she is distracted....Andrew intervienes.

He grabs the Raven’s wrist, twisting it before pushing him into a table.

Dan is surprised, to say the least, but she knows that the Raven will get a worst fate if she leaves Andrew like that.

Calmly, she tells him she is okay and that the Raven didn’t touch her and that he can look and see for himself.

The latter does the trick, Andrew turns his murderous glare at Dan so she turns in place extending her arms showing him that the Raven did nothing to her.

Andrew calms after a while and stands up, glancing at the Raven one more time.

The rest of the night Andrew does not leave Dan’s side until they head back home. Dan attaches herself to that memory forever.

Renee.

Renee and Andrew sparred at least once a week, more whenever Andrew was having a bad day.

Such as that moment, Aaron’s trial was just around the corner and Andrew was not having it.

He went to Bee’s twice but it still wasn’t enough, so him and Renee spared.

But today was a specially not good day, Aaron’s lawyer had said that he’d have to speak about what happened that day.

Renee knew that Andrew was far more on his head than n the present so she wasn’t mad when Andrew threw her down to the mat and her hip bumped onto the floor.

For the first time since they spared that day, Renee saw Andrew actually see her.

His eyes were wide, probably surprised of what happened so she reassured him that she was okay and that it didn't hurt much and that she’d had much worse before.

But he didn’t listen to her and got off the mat.

Renee stood up and went for her water bottle, thinking that Andrew had gone to let out some steam alone.

But then he came back with an ice package in hand and gave it to her.

Renee thank him, placed it on her hip and sat near him while he starred to the distance in moral support.

Nicky.

Nicky wasn’t one to get sick often, but when it happened, he really got sick.

So when one day he wakes up with a headache and all of his bones ache, he knows he’s in trouble.

Not wanting anyone to be worried about him, Nicky tries to stand up, just for a blast of nausea hits him and he has to run to the bathroom before he pukes on their bedroom.

When he is done throwing his guts out, he brushes his teeth and walks out to the kitchen for a glass of water. But when he gets there, a water bottle is out with a bottle of Pepto-bismol beside it.

In the middle of his confusion, Andrew and Aaron appear with a thermometer, a blanket and pills.

“Go lay down,” Andrew says with an uncharacteristically softness in his tone.

Nicky complies and walks towards the couch, Andrew protectively trailing behind him with his phone and a blanket.

“I don’t have any class today, Aaron has two in an hour but then he’ll be back. Tea?” Nicky is perplexed at this attention given by his cousins so he is only able to nod and think who were these people and what did they do with his cousins.

The rest of the day, the twins (mostly Andrew) take his temperature, give him his meds, cook for him and help him out whenever he needs it.

Nicky sleeps with a smile that day.

The next day, he feels much better, but because the sickness messed with his feelings, he has an urge to hug his cousins.

He asks for permission and surprisingly, Andrew says yes.

Nicky keeps the hug fast and makes sure he doesn’t make Andrew feel trapped.

He still cries at the memory.

Aaron.

Out of all the foxes, Aaron is the one with the most difficult things to study. He is in fact studying pre-med.

So during the finals week, he is the most stressed.

There is this one class in which Aaron has been having the most trouble with and if he doesn’t pass the test, he’ll have to repeat the class. So to say that he was stressed was an understatement.

He begins studying for that class a week and a half before the exam is and the day before the exam, he skips gym, morning practice and afternoon practice.

He studies for the exam the whole day and had to be reminded to take breaks for the bathroom and meals constantly.

He is also forced by Andrew to sleep when he woke up at 3 am and Aaron was still awake, studying.

Aaron keeps thinking of the material as he tries to sleep, and isn’t able to until 4 am, he dreams on the material the whole night.

When he opens his eyes, he sees that the sun is much higher than usual, worried, he checks the time on his phone just for his fears to be true, his alarm didn’t sound and he slept through the whole exam.

He doesn’t even care to change and runs to the building. The door to his classroom is closed and the professor is not there.

“Can’t stop thinking about the exam? Me neither.” He hears one of his classmates say behind him.

“I didn’t even do it.” He says through his teeth.

“What do you mean? I saw you there.”

Aaron is confused so he asks more classmates if they saw him, and all of them said that yes, they saw him there.

Hurriedly he got to the tower and confronted Andrew if it was his doing and if he did the exam for him like they did in high school.

“I did.” was Andrew’s only response before walking out.

Aaron got a B⁺ a grade much better than if he had done it by himself.

Kevin.

After Riko died, his and Andrew’s deal could be done, but they had grown close, they had passed so much time together since Kevin escaped Evermore.

Neither of them would say it out loud, but they were each other’s best friend.

So when Kevin learned that his things would be thrown away from the Nest, he went into a spiral.

But when Andrew asked and Kevin couldn’t say why, Andrew made it his mission to know.

Neil had a few assumptions, but when he had been at the Nest, he had been too focused on his injuries that he wasn’t a good resource.

So Andrew contacted someone he never thought he would be speaking to. Jean.

Jean told Andrew of Kevin’s old bedroom and the things Kevin had to hide away from Riko because if he found them, Kevin would be punished. Yet he didn’t know what these secret things were.

Thankfully, Jean knew where the hiding spot was.

The next day, Andrew took the Maserati in the early morning without a word (Neil knew but he had to act as if he didn’t), and made his way to Evermore.

Once there, he had to sneak inside, but given that the Nest was desolated for classes it was easy.

When Andrew got to where Jean had told him where the hiding spot was, he found a small shoe box.

Opening it, he found three things and Andrew immediately understood Kevin’s spiraling.

When he got back to the tower, he directly went to his dorm. Inside were Neil, Nicky and Kevin watching a game.

Andrew signaled Neil and the latter made Nicky follow him out.

“Where were you? You missed morning practice,” Kevin said as soon as they were alone.

Without a word, Andrew took the shoebox out of his bag and carefully gave it to Kevin, who took a shaky breath at the sight of it.

As soon as it was in Kevin’s hands, he opened it and carefully took the three things which were the last things he had from his mother.

A woman’s ring, a record player and a photograph.

Tears immediately sprang from Kevin’s eyes and Andrew decided he would give Kevin his space.

“Thank you,” Kevin said as he opened the door, Andrew just nodded feeling a weird warmness in his chest.

Neil.

Andrew shows Neil his love in so many ways, helping him out during panic attacks, reminding him that he’s safe, holding his hand, kissing him, sharing a cigarette in the roof, stroking his hair when they cuddle and so much more.

But the most important thing Andrew does for Neil is letting the latter see his vulnerability and trust him with it.

It starts with simple things, Andrew letting Neil sleep with him in the same bed, cuddle together, sit on Andrew’s lap (and vice versa), etc.

But it slowly begins to increase, let Neil stay whenever he gets a nightmare and/or a panic attack, let Neil take care of him when he gets sick, let Neil cuddle on top of Andrew, let himself seek comfort in Neil, Andrew letting Neil take his armbands off, see and touch them.

It takes a long time, but Neil doesn’t mind, those little things are more than enough for him and he doesn’t expect more from Andrew, but welcomes this little things and holds onto them with all of him.

Bonus:

Wymack.

Wymack is always threatening his foxes with running marathons and says that their personal stuff is over his pay rate, but oh doesn’t he care for them.

He works hard for them so they can have good things and safe and comfortable area for them, that’s why he had the walls on the showers made.

He loves the foxes, and they love them too.

One morning, he had to organize some piles of paperwork, but he had a stressing week and the night before he hadn’t been able to sleep good, so after a while of organizing paperwork, he decides he deserves a break.

The foxes are supposed to be in class so he doesn’t expect them until the afternoon. He goes to the lounge and lays down on the couch to “rest his eyes”.

He falls asleep almost instantly.

Andrew had forgotten something on the court after their morning practice so he decided to go now, he had finished his classes and knew that Wymack had to organize some paperwork, he was surprised to see the old man asleep.

Andrew could remember his initial fear of the man when he saw him the first time, he was tall, broad and serious, but he didn’t let it show. He had been waiting for the man to do something to him, but instead the man had respected his boundaries and didn’t ask when Andrew broke into his home in the late night and made himself a pot of hot cocoa (which had been bought for this reason).

So quietly, Andrew went to Wymack’s office and organized his paperwork, marking those who were missing one or two things with a post it and leaving right after he was done, not expecting the man to know it was him.

When Wymack woke up and walked back to his office he was surprised to see that his paperwork was organized. He mentally questioned who it was but when he read the post its he immediately knew it was Andrew, he knew all of his children’s handwritings, and made sure he bought Andrew’s favorite chocolate ice cream.

Abby.

Abby was the first one, apart from Bee, to see his scars.

The first time she had tried to say something but she had seen something in his face because he didn’t and let him place the armbands back on.

After that she looked away when he took them off and just glanced at them for a second to make sure there were no track marks before turning around again so he could put the armbands back on.

(She knew there would not be track marks, so she just looked at them so there would be no new ones, he cared for her foxes.)

And during the physical exam, she made sure not to touch him more than necessary.

Abby checks on Bee asking if he’s okay, she never expects an in depth answer, just a confirmation and she feels relief when Bee tells her that he is getting better.

On one of his sessions with Bee, she suggests Andrew that he should tell someone about his scars, preferably someone who has already seen them.

Andrew knows what Bee is trying and Bee knows that Andrew knows and Andrew knows Bee knows that Andrew knows.

In the end, he does tell Abby. He keeps it vague and watches her reaction, waiting for a small expression change, but thankfully Abby just listens, and shows no pity, knowing that Andrew would hate it and does not comment.

When he’s done, she just nods and thanks him for telling her and when Andrew leaves, Abby lets the tears she had retained out.

She keeps the truth guarded with her life, glad Andrew trust her enough to say this.

Bee.

It is not a secret that Andrew sees Bee like his mother figure, out of all the woman in his life she was the only one that he didn’t feel the need to be unlike himself, she loved him just the way he was.

It was scary at first, his mind supplied that it would be just like Cass, he just had to wait for the other shoe to come down.

It never did.

So he found himself driving to her office when he needed to understand something or he was just not in a good mental place.

He would also call her when he didn’t have the energy to move.

She was on one of his sides during Aarons trial, helping him keep his cool when he felt like he needed to punch something.

When it had been his turn to say his testimony, he had looked at her and Neil, remembering that they would be with him and that they would show no pity to him.

So the day before Mother’s day, when him and Neil were shopping for clothes, and he saw a coffee mug in the shape of a bee hive that read “To the Bee-st mom” he had to buy it.

The next day he arrives to her office and leaves the cup before leaving without a word.

It fills Bee’s heart when she reads it but knows best than to comment of it on their next session.

But if she uses it everyday and it becomes her favorite mug, no one has to know.

Look at me posting three days in a row, I’m proud of myself ngl. Anyways, have this, hope you like it, I tried my best and this is honestly the longest “headcanon” I’ve ever written.

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decadentenemyturtle · 3 years ago

Text

Broken heart t'was made of wood

Part 3 - Not here

Words: 2505

The full serie

Bilbo sat next his dining table, cold tea and apple pie forgotten a little further from him, which really was rare of him. Right in front of the hobbit was a small, wooden box. It had played a very beautiful melody, very similar to a lullaby. And for a moment Bilbo had marveled for dwarven engineering and craft. But then he had learned from Thorin, that it was made by (Y/n), as a gift for the dwarven king...

... along side with wooden statues of his family.

Bilbo had, of course, been rather angry when he also learned that Thorin had ordered them to be destroyed. Weeks, maybe even months worth of work, destroyed in few hours by his right hand man and best friend, along side with two best jewelers and crafstmen of Erebor.

"Well, what can one expect from dwarves, who only see beauty in diamond's, gems and stone" Bilbo had sneered, seemingly angry for the king, and for the bald warrior standing a little further from the table. Thorin had stared down to his hands, looking rather quilty, whilst Dwalin didn't look anywhere near the hobbit after that comment, whatever being offended and angry for him about the so called insult or because of the quilt he felt for helping to destroy the statues. Or both.

Bilbo sighed and lifted his eyes from the box to Thorin, who was spacing out, staring the half empty teacup in front of him, but not really seeing it.

"She had a reason to leave, and I do not blame her" Bilbo starts, waking Thorin from his thoughts. His pearsing blue eyes turn to Bilbo, still showing the quilt and sadness in him. Bilbo knew he was sorry for what he had done, and he understood perfectly well that Thorin wanted to apologie and make amends. But there was only one problem. "It just that... I have heard that Gandalf did visit Buckland some few weeks ago, he just never came to visit me. And I also believe that he was alone, like he always is when he comes to our lands, since there were no rumours of young woman travelling with him. And do believe me, if woman - at any age - had travelled with that blasted wizard, word would have travelled trough our lands faster than a wind"

Dwalin sneered and glanced to a dwarrowdam next to him, who in turn galred a hole to the warrior, whilst Thorin was frowning and staring somewhere behind Bilbo. Bilbo looked at them with pity. He felt bad that he had nothing else to offer, and that the married couple seemed to have their own guarrel, seemingly about (Y/n), and he wasn't helping it at all. If anything, Bilbo felt like he was making it only worse, since he had no information about the young woman.

And still Bilbo wondered, how did other's mistake, his loyalty to his king and to his duty, to his job cause such a hatred between them? No, not hatred, they still did love each other.

Bilbo lowered his eyes to the small musicbox. Both of these dwarves loved their king and (Y/n), but where Dwalin was loyal to Thorin and his best friend, Olka was loyal to (Y/n). They might not be best of friend's, not quite yet, but Bilbo could see that in near future Olka would be (Y/n)'s right hand man, or rather woman.

And then he knew that it was that loyalty what was causing all the disagreemend and problems between them. And Bilbo was sure that they would eventually sort it out. Maybe it would even help them, if they had good new from (Y/n). And just then Bilbo had a rather good thought, if one was to ask from him.

"Did you look for her from Rivendell?" Bilbo asked, lifting his eyes from the musicbox to Thorin. Bilbo knew it might be futile to ask it, but, well... You never knew when was talking about dwarves and elves. And the way how Thorin sat a little straighter, more kingly like, how he tried to extend the time before he answered, gave Bilbo the answer he needed. And he gave Thorin a small, tierd yet knowing smile.

"We came straight here. I had no business in Rivendell" Thorin replied, looking Bilbo with emotionless face. The same face he used in council room and pretty much in every situation and conversation he didn't want to be part of and which he wanted to end as quickly as possible, if Bilbo had to guess.

"Expect trying to find yer one" Olka grumbled, glaring the king. And Bilbo smiled a little, trying to hide his grin with his hand maybe a tad too late, for he had been meaning to say the same thing. Thorin and Dwalin looked openly annoyed by the fact that (Y/n) might actually be in Rivendell and not in the Shire, in good hands with their bulglar.

With a small sigh, Bilbo rose and went to collect now cold tea and food from the table, taking it back to the kitchen. All the while he did so, he cursed his adventurous side of the family tree. Those Took's never knew how to live peaceful and normal life, like any respectful hobbit would.

When he returned back to the dining room, Dwalin and Thorin were grumbling something quietly a little further in the room, while Olka was staring out of the window with a little frown. When Bilbo stopped next to her, the dwarrowdam turned to look at him.

"She might be anywhere" she whispered. Bilbo only nodded, turning to look at the two dwarrow a little further away from them.

"There's a change she is in Rivendell. Lord Elrond offered her a place and home from his halls back when we were staying in Rivenell" Bilbo confronts the dam. Dwalin and Thorin stops their quiet talk and turn to look at Bilbo and Olka, and for a while they are all quiet.

"And if she's not in Rivendell?" Thorin finally asks. Dwalin's intence stare almost seemed to drill through Bilbo. Back at the time before the quest he's stare had been intimidating, but now Bilbo could easily brush it off. The dwarves could easily intimitate others if they so wished, unless you knew them well. And were enough stubborn and hot head to not to get worked up and threatened by them. And now that Bilbo could feel himself being unaffected by Dwalin's glare.

"Then she does not wish to be found" Bilbo said, smiling a little sympathetic. "Because in the end, it is her choise what she does with her life, not yours. And you made it pretty clear that you did not have any interest for her" Thorin lowered his head, and swallowed. He knew Bilbo was right, of course he was. Thorin's quest to find his One was almost as trivial as trying to find his father all those years ago, and he had died before they could meet eachother again.

"And since you are going to meet the elves, I believe you are going to need someone who has good relations with them and who can talk to them without offending them" Bilbo said with an ease, moving from the dining room to lobby and from there to his room, muttering to himself. The dwarves look at each other with confusion. Then, Dwalin turned to look at the direction Bilbo had walked, still utterly confused.

"But the wizard is Mahal knows where!" he half shouted so that the halfling could hear him. And as soon as the words had left his lips, Olka sighed, half facepalming and half messaging her temple, while Thorin turned to look at he's best friend. Then Dwalin turned to look at the two and he made silent "oh" sound as he understood what the halfling had meant.

After 15 minutes Bilbo came back to the room after leaving an ragback to the lobby, wearin a travel fit clothes on him. He walked straight to the kitchen, not paying any attention to the dwarves, and after 10 minutes or so, he came back with a small bag full of something and another bag hanging over his arm, empty. Again, Bilbo passed over the dwarves, not looking at them or paying any attention to them, as if he had already forgotten that they were still there. Dwalin and Thorin exchanged looks, while Olka was staring after the halfling with keen interest and a little smile over her lips.

After 10 more minutes or so, Bilbo appreared back in the lobby, now looking at the dwarves, smiling little to himself. He had big bag full of something with him, which he lowered to the floor next to his travelling bag.

"I have a newly wed relatives that I'd like to watch over Bag End while I'm gone, so if you don't mind a little delay, I'll go and fetch them" the hobbit said. Thorin and Dwalin only nodded, a little puzzeled by their little friend's eagerness for travelling. Compared to last time, this was a huge change. But, then again, this time they were only travelling as far as Rivendell and there was no dragon looming at the end of their travel. Olka, instead, was nodding with approval.

"Of course, master Baggins! We can't leave your home without someone watching over it. And not to forget your garden!" she said, still nodding. And Bilbo smiled. She was the first dwarf he liked from the moment they had met. And there were quite many dwarves he had met!

Draco and Primula Baggins were more than happy to watch over Bilbo's home, and they even promised to throw a small party to few of their friends to epty Bilbo's pantry - for they had claimed that since it was just the two of them at the moment, they simply couldn't eat all their own food and Bilbo's food before atleas half of it would spoil.

Happy for the situation, Bilbo started his new adventure with the dwarves. They had to get him a pony, since the dwarves only had three with them and they all rather travelled alone on a pony, even Bilbo. And this time the ponies hair didn't bother him, he had remembered to take - not one but three! - handkerchief with him! Bilbo still missed Minty sometimes, but his new pony, Rosabell, was as sweet as the late pony. And as beautiful with her dark brown mane and chocolate and white fur. So, Bilbo was more than happy to own her, and he was sure that he would go riding more often when he would return back home from Rivendell.

Their traveles went on well without any incidents until they stopped at familiar, destroyed farm house. Bilbo let out a long sigh after seeing the house and regocnising it. Thorin threw a quick look to the hobbit, before orderin Dwalin and Olka to look some firewood. The two left rather quickly with muttered "Aye", while Thorin and Bilbo stayed behind to mend the ponies. When the two dwarves were far enough, Thorin turned to look at Bilbo with a small, reassuring smile.

"This area is safe now. Myself, Dwalin and Olka camed here on our way to your home, and we made sure that there are no more trolls in the area" Thorin reassured Bilbo with a small smile. Bilbo sighed, relieved to know that. He still remembered too vividly their encounter with the three trolls.

"That's good to hear. But still, if you don't mind, I'd rather still be on quard than take it easy" Bilbo said, still being a little tense. He already feard how many nightmare's he would have. Or, how little sleep he would have. Thorin squeezed his shoulder and gave a symphatetic smile to the hobbit.

"No need to be sorry, Bilbo. It's good to be on your guard at all the times, even when one tells you there should not be any danger" Thorin said and then he left Bilbo alone with his thoughts as he went close to the old farmhouse. Bilbo stayed a while with he's pony, still feeling uneasy. After Dwalin and Olka came back with the firewood, Bilbo sighed and gave a quick kiss on top of Rosabell's snout. Then he joined sitting with the small company. And soon after Dwalin had gotten the fire going, Bilbo started to prepare their dinner. Yet again. Dwalin and Thorin weren't that good of a cook's and Olka rather enjoyed the hobbit's food. Even the green one. Sometimes the dam offeren to help the hobbit, sometiems she rather sat close to the hobbit to tell him stories.

That night Bilbo had nightmares of the jorney to reclaim Erebor, and more specific, of the evening they had encountered the trolls. (Y/n)'s scream echoed in he's ears as one of the trolls had grapped her and the terror was still fresh in his mind as Olka woke Bilbo. After reassuring the dam that he was fine, Bilbo lay there on his bedroll, unable to sleep for the rest of the night.

Why was here, again?

Bilbo was leaning to a white fence, staring to one of the beautifulest scenery's he had ever seen. And yet, he still couldn't see it. He's mind was apsent, blank. He could only, still, hear Thorin's heartbroken cry. The elves would escort him home the next day, while the dwarves would... go back home, back to Erebor, if Bilbo had to guess. Then Bilbo lifted his eyes, finally somewhat focusing to the scenery.

Not here.

The second Elrond's face dropped, turned serious, Bilbo knew the truth. How the elf lord lost all the emotion's from he's face.

She was not here.

How convenient that Gandalf was here. From all of the places. And how nice of him to deliver the news to the group. Not. Yet again, the wizard being there seemed to be more of an joke than usefull thing.

She was not here.

It was a miracle that lord Elrond and Gandalf were still alive, given the circumstances.

She's with her family now. Lord Elrond and king Thranduil, of all the elves in the all the Middle Earth, had found a way to send her back to her world. She was where she wanted to be, where she belonged. And why ever Gandalf hadn't dropped by Bilbo's home when he had been visiting in Buckland and informed the hobbit about the new was still a mystery to the hobbit.

Bilbo's eyes finally found a lonely person standing in a far balcony. Alone, broken, and a small wooden box on his hands, playing a lullyby his mother had hummed to him when he had been a pebble. A roque tar dropped to Bilbo's cheeck as he heard Thorin's wistfull voice, how he remembered his longing look.

"One day, I wish to play this to our pebble. Mine and (Y/n)’s"

Not here.

#Thorin Oakenshield #thorin x reader #bilbo baggins #dwalin #the hobbit #the hobbit fanfiction #fanfiction

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oh-styles · 4 years ago

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A Little Bit of History: I

Alas, the moment roughly five of you have been waiting for. It’s here - half of it - but it’s here. The paternity test chapter! Is Harry the father? Who is her ex-boyfriend? Read more to find out!

26 September 2014 Manchester, UK

The truth can hurt.

It can burn and sting, seer your skin like a hot blade, so it’s little to no surprise when some – much like the protagonist of this story – will do indisputably everything in his power to avoid it; the impending, splintering and crushing truth.

It all began in the fall of 2014, nearly two years before.

We open this story in Manchester, more specifically, Arndale Market. The day was overcast, but she expected nothing less; soon enough the trees will be bare, the ground will be coated in sheets of white, and her favorite time of year will have finally arrived. She prefers the warmer seasons, yes, but once finally the weather drops, she knows its soon her son will be home for Christmas.

It was Robin who first spotted you, standing with your back to the door of Hotel Chocolat. You were stifling through your bag – you knew your phone was in there somewhere – and with a quick glance over your shoulder, Anne stopped in her tracks. She cannot recount the last time she saw you. Your hair had grown, and she swears up and down that you have gotten taller, though, looking back on it now, it could have just been your heels.

Anne is hesitant at first, watching as you laugh with one of the shop assistants, and she turns to Robin with a raise of her brow, as if to say, “Do we dare say hello?”

You were her sons first love – and as far as she was aware, her sons only love – and it was the sixteen months of loving you that made it just as hard for Anne when she learned the news that the love that had been built higher and higher, had finally reached its limit, and came tumbling down.

You weren’t to blame. Quite frankly, you stuck by his side through every immediate corner he turned, from the first audition to the first single. He no longer was yours, but someone who you now shared with the rest of the world. There are some things that you aren’t prepared to take on at such an early age, but you held onto that rope until your palms were bloody. You did everything in your power to keep ahold of that boy, but he was running rampant through his newfound fame, and you were clinging on for dear life.

It was a ticking timebomb, and Anne felt it. She watched the phone calls become few and far between, and even had to listen as you shrugged your way through conversations about how you couldn’t quite recall the last time the two of you spoke.

“A week, maybe?” Give or take a few days.

It was a Sunday morning when it happened, and even Anne felt a piece of her heart chip away. Her son sobbed through tears on the other end of the line, retelling how he wish he could have been better, wishing he could go back and start everything over from the beginning so he wouldn’t have to lose you this way.

And if Anne were being honest, she suspected if anyone were to bite the bullet, it would have been you.

But, if you love someone, you set them free.

She’s certain, even to this day, he holds tightly to the time spent with you. You were the girl who loved him before, and even more so after, and maybe that’s why no relationship now has lasted longer than a few months. She has yet to see the spark in her son’s eye return.

And now, three years later, here you were.

Anne promised herself she would go in, say hello, and wish you well. She knew you moved from Holmes Chapel a couple years ago – rumor has it you found yourself a hunky boyfriend and shared his London flat with him – so she was unsure when she would ever cross paths with you again.

You see, the world is a small place, and its moments like these that remind one of such. The 1975 would be playing back-to-back shows for the next two nights, and you were lucky to score tickets through your friend who worked at the arena. The show wouldn’t start for another few hours, so you decided you could fill your downtime with a little shopping trip, and because most great minds think alike, this is how Anne stumbled upon you whilst you did your chocolate shopping.

Inside the shop, she makes an immediate left, and standing there contemplating the bundles of cookie chocolate, there you were. Your lips were pursed together as you tapped a finger along the boxes, skipping over the boozy chocolates with a defeated sigh, and it was in that moment – after you moved your purse from one shoulder to the other – that Anne saw it; the small, but still perfectly round bump that almost looked out of place on you.

She didn’t mean to stare; hasn’t she already taught this to her two grown children? But truth be told, she was truly caught off guard. Ever since the breakup, and after you fled Holmes Chapel, you slipped away from the public eye, and haven’t been seen since. Any time a rumor that comes around is simply that, and one to take with a grain of salt. And Anne believes that if she had heard that you were with child, she probably would have just shaken her heard to that nonsense.

When she says your name, the same nickname she called you all those years before, she could sense your stature straighten, and your box of chocolates falls limply at your side. The last time she ever said it was in your last shared phone call the day before you vanished from the small town.

She doesn’t know when she’ll ever see you again, and as far as she’s aware, this could be the very last time, and she doesn’t let it slip by her how tightly you clung to her as she leant forward for a hug. You never even said goodbye all those years ago; the only thing you can recount is packing your bags in the middle of the night, and running as fast as you could—aloft, gone with the wind. You ended up being one of the biggest One Direction mysteries: What Ever Happened to Harry’s Childhood Girlfriend?

There were many conspiracy theories, for example: you joined porn. There was never any proof, but some fans claimed to have seen you in an advertisement or two. Some even claimed you shaved your head and joined a cult, and another that you simply died.

It’s been three years now, and fans seem to have let up on your bizarre disappearance, but every now and then does a new “lead” come around, and you question how far they had to go to dig it out of their ass.

“He still talks about you sometimes,” Anne inquired, holding your hands in hers. You couldn’t shake the desire to run at the mention of him, because even now, months after your last encounter, do you wish you could have ended things differently. “I’ll let him know you’re well.”

The last time you saw him was a mere five months ago, a secret rendezvous you are sure his mother has no knowledge of.

“Well, sweetheart, I better get going… Robin is out there probably wondering where I’ve gone to. It was great to see you, love.” She leans over and reels you back in for a final hug, and it’s then you realize that she never mentioned a word about your pronounced bump. “I’ll send Robin your love.”

By the next day, the news of your pregnancy will have made its way all the way to Charlotte, North Carolina where One Direction were set to perform for their Where We Are tour. Anne doesn’t ever mean to prattle, but this wouldn’t be considered gossip, would it? Not when she’s seen with her own eyes that you were with child. She only mentioned it to Gemma in passing, but only after having commented on seeing you before the concert in Manchester.

“She looks well… She’s pregnant, did you know?” And it was that little remark that sent Gemma typing away on her phone to her little brother, who was currently in Hair & Makeup at his show. “You won’t believe what mum told me…”

The last time he saw you was on the 8th of April, and even then, he hadn’t much prepared for such a confrontation. You claimed to have gotten his number from a friend the two of you shared from your childhood, and after he told you he was in London between gigs, you were quick to ask if you could come over. You were never exactly sure why you were so eager to see him, but there was one thing you knew for sure, and that was that you were lonely.

You didn’t realize how much a boy could change in only the few years, but upon stepping in his doorway, you were greeted with someone who could no longer be described as a boy, but man. His hair was longer, pulled up out of his eyes with a bandana, and he was adorned with a couple rings, and a necklace. When he greeted you, he reached out his hand before hesitantly stepping backward and inviting you in for a hug.

The last time you touched him was years before, and you believe it was him leaving once more for another excursion with the band. You probably didn’t realize that would be the last time for a long time, and you probably didn’t think the same for the moment right now. Maybe a part of you believed this would be a new start for the two of you, but has the person in front of you changed in the years since your last meeting? Has he learned to stop letting his world revolve around no one else but him?

He invited you inside and guided you to his sitting room. “Made y’some tea,” he lifted a finger up and scurried off to presumably the kitchen. You could hear mugs lightly hitting together, and it wasn’t a minute before he was back with you, setting your glass on the table in front of you. “Glad y’came… Gives me a reason to pull out the nice glasses.”

You note the fine china and give him a weak smile. “It is nice.”

“Yeah… Someone gave it to me. Can’t remember who.”

Weak small talk. You wish he had given you something stronger instead.

An hour passes, and the two of you talk about his tour, your job, and you can sense him sheepishly shy away from the topic of Holmes Chapel, your childhood, and your sudden burst into the night. He doesn’t ask you how you’ve spent your years away, if you’re seeing anyone, but the idea still makes his palms sweaty and stomach uneasy.

It was another hour before his lips touched yours, and you quickly found yourself melting in the hands of your former lover. He tasted the same, and you couldn’t deny entry as his tongue prodded out your lips, begging for just a little more. That was all it was with him, just wanting a little more than what was given. His touch lingered down your sides and back up under your sweater, and his lips trailed across your jaw and down your neck, leaving no inch of you left untouched.

None of this was your intention, not when you made the phone call, and not when you showed up in the middle of the night. You just needed someone familiar, someone—anyone. It wasn’t your intention to drop your hands into his lap and undo the button of his pants, nor was it to reach inside and pull him out, rubbing him like all the times you had done before.

Like all the times you hid under the covers at his mother’s house, your bodies wrapped together between the sheets, showing each other a love you were only just discovering. It was clear to you now, that maybe that love hadn’t drifted so far away as you thought it had.

You hopped off his lap, undoing the button of your own pants before hastily discarding them on the floor. Like all the times before. His body felt the same; a bit broader, and a litter of tattoos scattered carelessly across his arm and torso. Stories and memories stabbed into his flesh, ones you were never a part of, and ones you might never know the origin. There will be more, you know this, and you know that’ll be a part of him you never touch.

He fit in you like all the times before; it wasn’t much like a memory but more of a nightmare, for you knew this would only become something as such. You would leave in the morning with the print of his hand still red on your ass, and every time you closed your eyes you would be able to feel his cock so deep in you, you would be walking funny until the evening. The stain he leaves on you would haunt you until you found someone else to love, and even then, you weren’t so sure.

Coming here was a mistake.

But he was like a drug; you could never stay away for too long.

Henry James Collins was a few months shy of twenty-one when you met him at a pub in Brixton. He played Rugby, had a Pink Floyd tattoo, and was a student at the University of Law. He bought you a pint, called you Sweetheart, and come the late hours of the night, kissed your cheek on your doorstep with the promise to call you in the morning.

It was the summer of 2013, and you were in love.

The fleeting months carried casually on by, and most evenings you spent on the floor of his flat with an open book, his flannels draped over you like a comforting blanket, and an empty spot beside you that questioned his whereabouts.

If it wasn’t one pub, it was another, and if it wasn’t him coming home passed due completely shit-faced, it was him not coming home at all. And it was you drenched in a panic until he finally stumbled in through the front door sometime that next morning.

He called you sweetheart, and kissed your cheek, and promised with putrid breath he would be better. He’d later fuck you, which was a seal to his promise that would always come undone by the weekend.

173 days, and as suddenly as he appeared, you packed your bags in the middle of the night and ran. A week later, you found yourself on your ex-lover’s doorstep, and by the next morning you would be parading a shameful walk to the bus stop, only realizing halfway home that you left your knickers somewhere in his living room. He never reached out to you after that night. You were only to him what he was to you.

A month later you found out you were pregnant. Eight weeks, and the size of a kidney bean.

You would find yourself multiple times a day staring at your reflection in the mirror; scrutinizing over every insignificant inch of your body, forcing yourself to see any sign of change. The longer you looked, the more distorted you appeared, and each time you placed your hand over your stomach and cursed.

It was your fault; you put yourself in this situation, but you’d be damned if you didn’t let yourself feel a little remorse for the child who would grow up without a father.

You reached out to Henry twice. One, through a voice message where you pleaded to meet up for lunch, but it only began to become clear to you that he might still be bitter of your surprise exit the month before. The second time, you texted him the words you could still barely say to yourself out loud, and he was quick to reply, “Probably best if you stop calling.”

A thought crossed your mind – brief, but poignant – to swallow your pride and swear the words you clutched in your fist like a hand grenade. It would be a little white lie, a fib, but it would be the best, if not only, shot you had of giving your little Lovebug the chance of a complete family. But after a moments thought, you were doubtful Harry would even buy it; didn’t you have a boyfriend before him? How do you know the baby isn’t his?

And who’s to say Harry even wants to take on that responsibility right now? The impending downfall was tumbling, tumbling down, and you had never felt more alone.

But from miles away in his dressing room, sat a lone lad, that unbeknownst to you was writing in his journal what would be a song that the entire world would know the words to, all relating to the feeling of wanting another person’s love, even if you weren’t the only one.

Just a little bit of your love is all I want.

#step dad series #harry styles imagine #harry fic #sorry i rushed the ending #harry styles #paternity test chapter #harry styles fiction

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zenonaa · 3 years ago

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'The smart thing would have been for Touko to retire to her room. Anyone could wear the mask of a handsome man, even a monster. Instead, she found herself following him, spurred on by her own curiosity, not only about what he offered to tell her but why he wanted to tell her something potentially so important. As she walked, she felt extra conscious of the holster of scissors hugging her thigh. Throughout her life, she had met many monsters that wore fake faces, but with Byakuya, she felt sure he didn’t wield a mask hiding his true self.

It was a gut instinct. No. Not gut. Her heart told her this.'

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Fukawa Touko/Togami Byakuya Characters: Fukawa Touko, Togami Byakuya Additional Tags: Togafuka Week, talent swap Summary: Talent Swap AU! Togami and Fukawa bump into each other and discuss what motive Monobear would need to provide to push them to murder. Also there may or may not be smooching.

Comments: A (late) Day 5 for TogaFuka Week - Swap! Takes place in the universe from this fic I wrote in 2016. When I was a more optimistic Livi, I wanted to write a multichapter fic for this talent swap.

💗 Please like, share and comment if you enjoyed it! 💗

***

Ten students remained.

As Touko Fukawa sat at her desk, twirling a pen between her fingers, she passed over their corpses. She stepped over Yasuhiro and Kiyotaka. Skipped around Hifumi and Chihiro. Hopped across Sakura and Celes. Of course, she wasn’t really maneuvering around them. Her dorm obtained no bodies. In reality, they were tucked away wherever Monobear dragged them to once it had finished with them. What had been described was figurative, as could be found in a passage from a literary novel.

Not that Touko was a published author. The title of Super High School Level Writer belonged to her classmate, Byakuya Togami. Touko Fukawa was the Super High School Level Heir, not that her title was anything to scoff at. Already she had earned billions of yen, and she had survived more attempts on her life than anyone else here. Except perhaps Sakura, the Super High School Level Soldier. But she was dead so she didn’t count.

Other than Sakura, Kyouko was also likely to have fought off death, and Touko wondered whether the Fighter had participated in any deadly battles. Whether she had inflicted such pain onto others. Whether she had ever murdered an opponent before arriving at this school.

Touko had. Killed people.

Not in the way her alter had, puncturing the veins and lungs of corrupt businessmen, of perverts, of half-siblings, always with scissors, always with a signature written in the victim’s blood nearby. No, Touko didn’t need to do that. With victims working for other corporations, she struck them bankrupt. In her conglomerate, she confiscated jobs, leaving victims to drown in their desperation as they tried to stay afloat. She exposed fraud, blackmail attempts, human trafficking, and with nowhere for her victims’ darkness to hide, they withered in the light.

Memories dug into her skin like termites. Tasting bile, she looked up from her desk. The walls of her room lurched toward Touko before reeling back into place. If she stayed here any longer, the room would close its jaws and crush her to pieces. She stood up, her chair shunting backward with a grunt, and marched to the door.

Ahead of her lay a silent corridor. Most of the others were probably sleeping by this time. Touko stayed on guard as she wrapped her arms around herself and started plodding along with no particular destination in mind. The cafeteria would be shut, so she couldn’t acquire a cup of tea to try to soothe her jittering nerves from there. While she had glimpsed a box of teabags in the storage room a few days ago while searching for some towels, she still had no way to heat them up.

Then she remembered she had also spotted some chocolate in there, and chocolate was supposed to be able to help calm a person down. That was better than nothing.

Touko quickened her pace, moving with more purpose now. Maybe she was being reckless. Six of them had been slain and another motive dangled over their heads. Someone would surely attempt murder for what Monobear had on offer. Not her, but someone else would. All Touko had to do was ensure she wasn’t the victim.

By the time she entered the storage room, she hadn’t seen Monobear nor any other students. The idea of returning to her room, where the only sounds would be her own thoughts, made her stomach roll, so she decided to eat her chocolate in the library. Reading about another’s life ought to distract her from her own. Grabbing two bars, she left, and she soon arrived at the library. She managed a few paces forward before she heard rustling, turning her blood to ice, freezing her, rendering her immobile.

Moments later, Byakuya Togami emerged from behind a bookcase. His presence in the library wasn’t shocking in and of itself. He was the Super High School Level Writer and an avid reader. Touko just hadn’t expected him to be here so late. Though she had seen him here during the evenings, she usually stayed in her room after the nighttime announcement so never saw him in here after that. She would have thought he would have kept to his room at this hour, especially when one took into account the latest motive to murder.

“Which one are you?” he asked her. When she entered, she hadn’t made much noise - at least, she thought she hadn’t, but Byakuya seemed to have homed in on her as soon as she came in. “The abhorrent admirer, or the creepy loner girl?”

“I’m Touko Fukawa,” she replied.

“The latter then.”

She stayed where she was, and he stayed where he was.

“Have you come to murder me?” he asked. “Or is this just a regular stalker with a crush behaviour?”

Touko squeaked and shook her head. Her cheeks burned. “I... I came here to read, that’s all.”

“You’re rather jittery. Does my presence unsettle you? Do you believe that I intend to murder you?”

A gasp cracked in her throat. He sighed and pushed up his glasses.

“Compose yourself. I will not harm you right now. I intend to be the last man standing. The survivor who confronts and defeats the monster at the end.” Byakuya’s brow furrowed, his face darkening. “I refuse to yield to the pressure that Monobear tries to inflict on us.”

“... is that it?” Touko asked, her voice a pinprick. “You don’t plan on murdering anyone because two students will be allowed to leave? It ruins your envisioned ending?”

That was the motive. For the next murder, if the perpentrator was not voted out in their victim’s trial, they were allowed to choose another student to graduate with them.

“Not quite. I couldn’t care less if another escaped with me.” The bitter twist of his lips morphed into a smirk. “It’s simply too early for this to end. The plot has barely reached the halfway point.”

Even with such a wicked expression, he was still handsome. Touko’s heart raced watching him. By now, the chocolate bars in her hands had crumbled from the pressure of her fists. Not that it mattered, because her insides were writhing too much for her to keep any food down. She shifted her weight between feet.

“You don’t have to believe me,” he told her. He cocked his head to one side, his gaze as sharp as a knife. “I do wonder about you, though.”

“Even if I wanted to kill anyone, I couldn’t,” she said. “Everyone knows about my alter, so I would be the first person to be heavily scrutinised and suspected.”

His stare embedded deeper.

“Still. I must be on my guard. Your alter may wish to seek revenge on me for revealing her identity,” said Byakuya.

Touko hunched her shoulders. She should have hated Byakuya for announcing her secret in the last trial, even if the alternative was being framed by Hifumi and dying. After all, when a person shoved another out of a window on the top floor of a blazing building, the fall still left bruises.

And yet the sight of him still filled her chest with butterflies.

“My alter wants to survive as much as any of us,” said Touko.

“None of the motives so far seem to have impelled either of us to murder,” remarked Byakuya. “Not money... not the paranoia of another owning one of our secrets... not being forced to sleep in the same room, in the same clothes, and abide by the same rigid routine everyday.”

He trailed off. She didn’t offer a word to the silence, waiting to see what he was getting at, if anything.

“Tell me, what would drive you to murder?” he asked her.

“I told you - ”

“ - that you’re always going to be a suspect because of Genocider Syo,” he interrupted with a flap of his hand. “You already said. But is there nothing that Monobear can do to force your hand?”

Touko edged back a step, eyeing him. She found it hard to tell if the fluttering inside of her was still attraction, or fear. “What are you? The m-mastermind?”

He smirked. “That would be a twist, but no. Curiosity.”

“There is nothing that Monobear could offer me,” she said firmly, even if her legs were trembling. To counteract that, she clenched her legs together and further mutilated the chocolate bars in her tightening fists. “What about you? What would push you to murder?”

The glimmer in his eyes disappeared as he glanced away. “This isn’t the best location to discuss this. Monobear may be listening in.” He returned his gaze to her. “How about we continue this conversation elsewhere? The locker room by the baths will provide sufficient privacy.”

She was still processing his offer when he strode toward her. She stiffened. Didn’t breathe. He paused next to her.

“You may stay here, or hurry back to your room if you desire,” he said. “Should you wish to indulge me in more conversation, however, you know where I will be. I shall be there for the next hour, with an answer to your question.”

Touko stood motionlessly as she listened to Byakuya’s receding footsteps. The smart thing would have been for Touko to retire to her room. Anyone could wear the mask of a handsome man, even a monster. Instead, she found herself following him, spurred on by her own curiosity, not only about what he offered to tell her but why he wanted to tell her something potentially so important. As she walked, she felt extra conscious of the holster of scissors hugging her thigh. Throughout her life, she had met many monsters that wore fake faces, but with Byakuya, she felt sure he didn’t wield a mask hiding his true self.

It was a gut instinct. No. Not gut. Her heart told her this.

They arrived at the locker room together, slipping past the noren curtain.

“So what about you?” asked Touko once both were well inside. She had thrown away the chocolates on the way there and could now fidget her hands together. “What could convince you to deviate from your plot outline?”

He was already standing near Touko, but he took a step toward her, approaching like the swell of an oncoming wave.

“Perhaps,” he said, dragging up his glasses, then hers, “a love interest.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Byakuya dipped his head, drawing closer and closer. Touko could have pushed him away. Kicked him between the legs. But she didn’t. She didn’t want to. As their lips pressed together, and his hands rested against her upper arms, her heels creaked away from the ground and her hands latched onto his waist.

Byakuya withdrew first. Touko wobbled for a moment, feeling light-headed. Even though he had initiated the kiss, she still expected him to grimace and swipe the back of his hand across his mouth. He scraped his teeth lightly against his lips, wetting them. Tasting. Then he made eye contact again.

“Hm? Are you suffering from post-kiss catatonia?” he asked. She stirred, the fog in her head not yet fully cleared.

“I’m s-surprised.”

“That is what is known as a test kiss.”

Touko squinted. “Test kiss?”

“It’s a trope that means... I am testing to see if you would partner with me in murdering one of our classmates.”

Her head jerked back. “W-What?”

He held out his hand toward her.

“Would you commit murder with me, Touko Fukawa?” he asked like a marriage proposal. Touko’s eyes flickered.

“I...”

She didn’t finish her sentence. His fingers curled into his hand before retreating, coming to rest on his hip.

“It doesn’t matter. As I told you, I have no intention of murdering yet. This was really a test to see if you could be recruited for murder. Though as you have said, due to your alter, you are by default a prime suspect.”

A test. There was always some kind of catch. Touko nodded, gazing down at her feet. She should have hated him.

“That’s all,” he said. “You are dismissed.”

The room hummed.

“Goodbye, Fukawa,” he said. “Go to your room now.”

Touko turned away and trudged out. With her back to him, she didn’t see him bring his hand to his lips, not to wipe his mouth, but as if he could still feel the kiss lingering.

She should have hated him.

And yet... she was smiling as bright as a butterfly.

#togafuka #touko fukawa #byakuya togami #danganronpa #toko fukawa #fanfiction #one shot #togafukaweek

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iliveiloveiwrite · 4 years ago

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Rivals

A/N: @obsessedwithrandomthings requested some Neville angst in the form of enemies to lovers from me so here is what I hope is Neville angst! Honestly, it’s more rivals with a lot of unresolved sexual tension but I still hope you like! She also made this wonderful banner! I also don’t know if you can tell but I am really inspired by greek mythology and witchcraft lore in general (I'm a historian, what can I say?) and this fic is full of it so if that’s not your thing, then I apologise! Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy!

Summary: Rival professors

Pairing: Neville Longbottom x Fem!Reader

Warnings: swearing, gets a lil bit steamy

Word count: 4.7k

There wasn’t a man on the earth that could infuriate you more than Neville Longbottom.

And you had known Draco Malfoy for over a decade.

There was a history between the two of you; a natural hatred that came with the Slytherin/Gryffindor rivalry, but there was always something more. A deeper attraction that ran between the two of you despite how hard you rejected it.

He felt it too; and he fought it with every breath.

You thought you would get some reprieve upon your appointment as the Divination professor at Hogwarts, but as you entered the staff room your first week there, Neville Longbottom was stood speaking to Headmistress McGonagall.

“You have got to be shitting me?” You cry.

“Professor (Y/L/N)!” McGonagall admonishes.

“I’m sorry Headmistress, but seriously? Longbottom?”

“I’m not thrilled about the prospect of working with you either.” Neville drawls.

McGonagall looks between the two of you, a small frown pulling down the corners of her mouth, “I do hope you’ll get along in front of students.”

You glare at the tall brunette, “There’ll be no issue with that on my part, Headmistress.”

Neville returns your glare with just as much acid, “The one thing we’ll agree on then.”

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

It’s the little things he does that bother you; such as smirking at you from across the Great Hall or taking the last of the milk in the staff room. Neville knows exactly how to get a rise out of you, and he does an excellent job of it.

The rivalry that had seemingly ended upon the end of your education, promptly started back up again.

Constant competition broke out between Neville and yourself: who got the higher grades? Who had the highest pass rate? Who got the most laughs out their students?

It never ended. He would goad you, and you’d goad him right back. Practical jokes would be played on each other often. You were both frequent customers at the Weasley twin’s joke shop where materials were hoarded, and plans were formed.

McGonagall watched the two of you bicker in the staffroom; a regular occurrence. She watched the both of you argue from across the room with a fond look on her face. The rivalry would always be present between the two of you; and she was surprised – to say you were a gifted seer, you had not foreseen the palpable tension between Neville and yourself.

She watches the back and forth between the two of you; head moving as if watching a muggle tennis match. Insults and jibes are thrown between you both and yet, despite the bitterness of the words, there was no major malice in your voices.

McGonagall sips at her tea, rolling her eyes at the two of you. She supposes that it would only be a matter of time now.

----------

The week before term starts you get a letter of rejection in your notice box. Your application for the money for new textbooks had been denied. You scrunch the paper in your hands; feeling the all too familiar emotion of frustration running through your veins. Your argument for the textbooks was sound; it would be easier for the school to purchase the materials for the students than to rely on the students to use their own money.

You knock on the heavy, wooden door of McGonagall’s office; entering upon hearing her grant permission. “Headmistress, why has my application for new textbooks been rejected?”

“We’ve had to siphon funds for the Herbology trip.”

You see red, but keep a lid on your temper in front of your boss, “Pardon?”

“Divination is an elective subject; Herbology is compulsory through all seven years.” McGonagall reasons.

“So because of that, my students have to use textbooks that are falling apart?”

“We can add the material onto the reading list if that makes anything better?”

You sit back in your chair, “Term starts in a week. Students will have bought their books already. The very reason I applied for the textbooks was so that students didn’t have to buy them.”

McGonagall holds her hands up, “I’m sorry, Professor.”

You sigh through your nose, standing to leave, “Thank you for your time, Headmistress.”

Anger rises within you; all directed at the maddening Herbology professor. You understood that Herbology was a compulsory subject, and that it was very useful in determining a student’s future career as a Healer or a Potioneer. But Divination was becoming increasingly popular among the muggleborn students who grew up knowing the tales of tarot reading, palmistry and clairvoyance. And after the war, so many students sat in the class hoping for a relief in their grief – to find an answer to the well-asked question, do they find peace?

You confront Neville in the staff room, “The reason I cannot get new textbooks for my Sixth Years is because you’ve used the money for a trip to London to meet Herbert Beery?”

“He taught Herbology here before Professor Sprout, it is a worthwhile trip!”

You pause the rant sitting at the tip of your tongue; letting his words settle. “Repeat those very words for me, Longbottom.”

Neville frowns, “What?”

“Repeat. Those. Words.” You enunciate; each syllable pronounced.

“Herbert Beery taught Herbology here before Sprout. It’s a worthwhile experience for students interested in taking the subject further.”

The cushion in your hands hits Neville in the face. He looks at you astonished as you shout, “You’re taking students to meet an ex-professor?”

“What aren’t you understanding about this?” Neville questions as another cushion hits his face, “Stop doing that!” he yells.

“Why didn’t you bring him here?! He knows the school; it’s known territory! And it would have saved enough money so I could get my textbooks!” You throw more cushions at him; enjoying the way he has to dodge them. “You didn’t think this through at all, Longbottom.”

“Calm down, (Y/N). Your students can always buy the textbooks.”

“Not this close to term starting!” You throw yourself down onto the couch with a groan, “You’re an arsehole.”

Neville glares, “This trip is a once in a lifetime experience for my students. Herbert Beery is officially retiring from the field after this lecture.”

“And yet you couldn’t invite him to Hogwarts?”

“No.”

You stand, shoving his shoulder as you pass him to leave. “I can’t even begin to tell you how pissed I am. I can’t even look at you right now.”

Leaving him there, surrounded by couch cushions, you take a breather in the courtyard. Inhaling the fresh air, you start to see things more clearly. It seems that a friendship would never exist between the two of you; the rivalry stemming from Hogwarts running so deep that it could never be breached by kind words and actions.

A plan forms in your head for the perfect revenge, and it would mean a visit to Diagon Alley.

---------

If there was one thing that your education at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry had taught you, it was if you were going to prank someone, you had to make it a good one. George and Fred Weasley are more than happy to help you enchant the chalk; neither asking too many questions – they see the mischievous glint in your eye and know not to interrogate too much.

Neville walks into his classroom to find his students already sat in their seats. He lets them continue socialising as he sets up his materials for the day; this lesson focusing on the theory behind Herbology rather than hands-on practice. He grabs his chalk from the bottom of the board, proceeding to write the date and title before turning to his class, pulling their attention away from their friends and on to him.

It takes him two minutes to notice to amused expressions and the stifling of laughter.

It takes him five minutes to figure out why.

On the chalkboard behind is a caricature of his face on the body of a baby Mandrake. He’s crying big, fat tears that make their way down the length of the board before turning to dust at the bottom.

Neville can feel his face heat from the anger building within him and coursing through his veins, setting them alight. He knows exactly who’s behind this, and it isn’t any of his students.

--------

Your class settle into their assigned seats; the crystal balls already placed in the centres of their tables. Once upon a time, students would groan at the sight of them, but now they regard them with interest.

You grin at your students, knowing what lesson they had last, “How was Herbology?”

Thomas Wadsworth in Ravenclaw begins to laugh, “I knew you would have something to do with it, Professor.”

“Was it obvious?”

He shakes his head, “Not really, but everyone knows of your rivalry.”

“How did he react?”

Shea Bard in Gryffindor raises her hand, “He went very red and muttered some curses before teaching us something else.”

You rub your hands together, “What else? Was it funny?”

“Very,” Shea nods, “But we didn’t dare laugh, no-one was in the mood to get a detention no matter how funny it was.”

You clap your hands together, pleased with the outcome. You’d have to send a thank you card to the Weasley twins for their genius minds.

“Why do you have this rivalry with Professor Longbottom?” A voice from the back asks.

Other students turn their eyes from their crystal balls to you; more interested in this topic of conversation rather than predicting their neighbour’s future.

You shrug, “We’ve never liked each other. He’s a Gryffindor and I’m a Slytherin.”

Thomas scoffs, “That can’t be it, surely? Give us something more, Professor.”

“What more is there? We went to school together and we never got on.”

Shea smiles, “With all respect Professor, you have to be aware of the tension between the two of you.”

“Tension?” You question, eyebrows furrowing.

Thomas raises his hand, counting the syllables off with his fingers, “Sex-u-al ten-shun.”

You stare wide-eyed at your class. Shea frowns, “Oh man, you weren’t aware of it were you?”

You clear your throat, “I have to know, how did my personal life become the topic for this class?”

“Since you won’t make a move on Professor Longbottom.”

“Thomas!” You chide.

He frowns, “I’m only saying what everyone else was thinking. It’s so obvious you fancy each other, it’s sickening.”

“Professor Longbottom and I have never gotten along. The most you’re going to see out of us is rivalry and cold stares.”

Thomas rolls his eyes, “Okay, Professor. If you get together before Christmas, Frances owes me Butterbeer for a month.”

“I’ll be sure to keep your bet in mind, Thomas, thank you.” You drawl with an unimpressed look, “Let’s get back to our crystal balls shall we?”

And just like that, the conversation over your personal life and your relationship with Neville Longbottom was over.

--------

The sound of your classroom door slamming shut has you jumping in your spot. You press a hand to your chest; trying to slow your racing heart as you take in the angry figure of Neville Longbottom.

“I know it was you.” He states, enunciating every word as if they were its own sentence. “I know it was you that planted the enchanted chalk in my classroom.”

You place a hand on your heart, grinning, “I am hurt that you would accuse me of such a thing, Longbottom.”

He stalks towards you, pressing you into your desk. He’s so close that you can smell the dirt from the greenhouse; it’s become the scent you associate with him.

“I spoke to the Weasley twins.”

Your grin shifts into a sly smirk, “The jig is up, you’ve caught me red-handed.”

The atmosphere between the two of become charged. The electricity in the air becoming magnetic; stirring something deep within your gut. Your eyes run over his face; taking in the widened pupils and the deepened breathing. He’s feeling it too; feeling it just as intense as you.

You resist the urge to drag him in for a kiss. You resist the urge to taste him; to memorise every inch of him with your fingers and mouth.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” You ask, voice breathless. He pushes himself away from you, stepping away quickly as your words land.

Neville storms out of your classroom; running both hands through his hair with a frustrated groan. You watch him leave, trying to slow the racing of your heart to no avail. He had no idea the reaction he could pull from you, but you were also unaware of the reaction, you could evoke from him.

You push your hair back from your forehead as you analyse your feelings for the Herbology professor; wondering when they had started to lean more towards to love than hatred.

You need to consult someone or something whether it be your cards or your tea leaves; everything feels so gnarled and scrambled, it felt impossible to make heads or tails of it all.

----------

Neville begins to enact his revenge a week later.

It starts with sitting next to you at the weekly briefings; sitting close enough to you where you can feel the warmth exuding from his body – sitting close enough to you where his thigh presses against yours. Through the briefing, he’d lean into you, whispering into your ear, asking for your thoughts. You clench the hand that’s resting on your thigh, and you feel rather than hear Neville’s amused snort at your action. He pulls away when McGonagall calls the end of the briefing and you’re left feeling suddenly cold at the lack of his touch.

He then moves onto catching your eye at every meal time. Upon which he smirks, running a hand over his jaw, not missing the way your eyes track the movement of his fingers. You turn away with a frown, drawing Professor Flitwick into a conversation about the latest journal on charms.

He decides to interrupt one of your lessons on the second day of his revenge. He enters your classroom using the ruse of searching for a student. Your mouth dries as you run your eyes up and down his body. His work overalls are tied at the waist; his muscles gloriously defined by a tight white t-shirt spattered with dirt from the plants, and the tattoos he got in memorial for the second wizarding war stand out against his lightly tanned skin.

In the years you had known Neville, you had watched him transform from a bumbling teenager into what could only be described as a Greek God.

The expression that falls across his face as you take in the sight of him makes it very clear to you that he knows exactly what he’s doing.

You refuse to let him see how he’s getting to you. You shift your attention back to your class; not missing the way Thomas Cresswell points at Frances Bainbridge across the room, calling for the outcome of their bet. You roll your eyes at Thomas and Frances as you let the student Neville came for leave the classroom.

-----------

“What are you doing?” You hiss at him on the third day of his revenge.

He smirks, “Absolutely nothing.”

“If this is your revenge for my prank, it’s messed up, Longbottom.”

Neville’s eyes widen; his face the picture of perfect innocence, “What makes you think that?”

He walks away before you can answer, leaving you questioning the last week of your life.

You finish your week confused and frustrated. The feelings that had always been present for Neville were riled up; you were thinking of him more often, remembering how his thigh felt pressed against yours and the attention he paid you from across the Great Hall at every meal time.

Your heart races every time you think of him, and your stomach erupts in butterflies. You spend your free periods thinking of how he would feel pressed against you, and how his stubble would feel under your lips. More often than not, you would find yourself with your head in your hands, cursing the day you ever let the Herbology professor into your life.

----------

It was the very last thing you wanted to do, but it was something you needed to do. A headache had been brewing now for three days, ever since Neville cooled off with his revenge for your chalkboard prank. The headache was making you sharper with your students that you intended to be.

This wasn’t a usual headache though; it had stemmed from your witches-eye - becoming a seer’s headache very quickly. The only way this could be relieved was to fall into it; opening your eye and being shown what you needed to see.

You find Neville in one of the many greenhouses dedicated to Herbology. He stands over the freshly potted Mandrakes, sprinkling fertiliser on them. You lean against the door to the greenhouse, rubbing the centre of your forehead. “Longbottom, I wouldn’t usually ask this of you, but I need access to the restricted greenhouse.”

Neville frowns, “Why would you need to go there?”

“There’s a plant I need. Would you please take me?”

“It’s nothing dangerous is it?”

You shake your head, refusing to speak as it would give away your lie.

Neville takes a set of keys from his pocket, searching for a minute for the lesser-used key. You follow him as he leads you to the restricted greenhouse. Such as with the library, the greenhouses had an area controlled against student use for it grew plants that were not only dangerous, but deadly. Mandrakes were one thing - the plants grown here had helped dark wizards gain fame, fortune, power, and all at a cost.

Neville waits at the door as you walk through the greenhouse, looking for the pale yellow flower covered in veins. You find it in little to no time at all, picking a few flowers from the plant. A petal would be fine for now; Henbane could be deadly if used in large quantities. Taking more than what you needed was your way of assuring that you wouldn’t need to bother Neville again.

You make your way back to Neville, smiling smally at the questioning expression on his face. “Did you get everything you need?” he asks.

You nod, patting the little bag in which you had stored the Henbane flowers, “I got it. Thank you, Neville.”

The walk back to the staff room is in silence. You make to walk back to your tower, ready to start the drying process for the Henbane flower, but a hand grips your wrist. You turn to find Neville holding you in place, “You’re being careful, aren’t you (Y/N)? There’s a reason that greenhouse is restricted.”

You pull your wrist from his grip, “I’ll be fine, Neville. Thanks for your concern.”

You walk away before he can say anything else.

--------

Nothing felt clear; everything felt frazzled and vague. It was as if the very threads of your life had become a tangled, snarled mess. Your realisation of your feelings for Neville had left you in a lurch; you’ve caught him watching you multiples times now – all with a puzzled expression on his face, as if reliving the restricted greenhouse and the revenge from your prank on him.

Your hands run over the top of scrying bowl. The bowl had been handed down to you by your grandmother who had been a powerful seer; it depicts the Triple Goddess in her three forms – maiden, mother, crone.

Incense fills your office; the scent of the Black Henbane given to you by Neville. Henbane had been demonised for centuries; scholars noting that it was used in ointments and could help with conjuring of spirits.

You inhale its smell; your witches-eye opening, more sensitive in the right environment. So few witches possessed the gifts of a seer, it was rare for you to use your talent – usually letting the prophecies and such come to you naturally.

But this was needed. You needed answers for why your tea leaves were conflicting and why your tarot readings were not making sense.

An ethereal voice calls out in greeting, signalling that you had reached the other side, “You called me, daughter.”

“The path is foggy, and I’ve lost my way. I thought I was certain but now I’m not.”

“There is no way forward that does not have him in it.”

“What do you mean?”

“The one who gave you the Henbane to call me forth. He is with you through it all.”

Neville? Neville.

“He doesn’t love me. He doesn’t even like me.”

“Do not be too sure, daughter.”

Your eyebrows pull together, a puzzled expression taking over your face. You knew your feelings for the professor had changed; had felt the long dormant passion flare again but there was nothing to be done about it.

The pull of the spirits is intoxicating; you can feel their hands on your shoulders and arms, caressing your face, pulling you closer and closer – begging you to help them find peace, to answer their questions, to help pay the ferryman but you cannot.

A male voice shouting your name has you refusing the screams of the spirits.

The voice shouts again; it’s closer now, corporeal hands shake your shoulders in an attempt to pull you out of your trance, but there’s no luck.

The goddess bids you farewell before everything falls black.

----------

Your vision comes back to you slowly; black spots still dancing across your view of the vaulted ceiling of the hospital wing. You groan at the pounding in your head, bringing a hand up to rub at your forehead.

“(Y/N)?” A male voice asks; a familiar voice.

The feeling of a cool cloth being pressed to your forehead has you sighing in relief, “That feels nice.”

Neville’s face comes into view; his eyes run over your face, checking for what – you don’t know. “You’ve been in contact with higher powers – that’s why you asked for Black Henbane, isn’t it?”

You take the cool cloth from him, “I needed to see something.”

“You put yourself at risk doing this.” Neville bluntly states.

You groan, “I know.”

“Was it worth it?” He asks, narrowing his eyes, “Did you get your answers?”

You nod, averting your eyes – focusing on the vaulted ceiling rather than the man sitting next to you. Shame washes over you from the tone of his voice – reproach mixed with something akin to worry. You smile a little, “Neville Longbottom,” you tease, “Were you worried about me?”

“What was so important that you needed to contact higher powers? You know how addicting they can be!” He chides; ignoring your question completely.

You purse your lips, refusing to answer.

Neville leans forward in his chair, bracing his elbows on his knees, “What was so important?”

“I don’t want to tell you.”

“I was the one who found you, did you know that? I found you bent over your scrying bowl, talking to spirits and the higher powers. It was me who pulled you out before they could take something more permanent.”

“And I’m grateful for that, Neville.”

“But you won’t tell me why you had to consult them?”

You push yourself into a sitting position slowly; pausing only to stave off the wave of dizziness and nausea. Neville stands, his hands outstretched to help but you wave him away, telling him you’re okay. He doesn’t look like his believes you, but he steps back, nonetheless.

“I needed some answers about my future, about my feelings. It’s all so blurred, even my tea leaves don’t make sense!”

“So you decided to use your scrying bowl? (Y/N), you had trouble with this when we were students.”

“I’m surprised you remember.”

“Of course I remember, why wouldn’t I?”

“We weren’t exactly the best of friends.”

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t notice you.”

“You noticed me?”

“I always notice you, that’s how I found you. You asking for Black Henbane had me consulting my own textbooks and when I read it was used to help see the future more clearly, I followed you.”

You both lapse into a heavy, charged silence. Neville throws his hands in the air before setting them on his hips as he paces the two steps in front of your bed. You want to groan in frustration; want to scream and shout but it would do no good.

“What are we doing, Neville?” You finally ask, voice tired and head foggy.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean us. The pranks, the teasing, the unresolved tension.”

Neville sits back down, crossing his arms, “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

You pull the cloth from your forehead, glaring at the brunette, “Oh that’s a load of bullshit and you know it.”

He glares in return but doesn’t say a word.

“We have been dancing around this for years, Neville. I’m sick of having to pretend I hate you.”

“You don’t hate me?”

You shake your head, “You piss me the fuck off, but I don’t hate you.”

“I don’t hate you either.” He whispers.

“So what do we do?”

“Honestly, I’d like to take you out to dinner,” Neville states, confidence running through his body.

“Dinner?”

“What’s wrong with dinner?”

You bite your lip, running your eyes over him. He’s standing again, as if unable to sit still through this conversation. His eyes are bright with happiness and another emotion you can’t quite put your finger on; he’s entirely delectable. Merlin, in for a penny, as the muggles say, “How about we skip dinner and go to back to my rooms?”

Neville leans in close; his breath fanning over your face. He smells like recently mown grass, freshly fallen rain, and a hint of lime. It’s intoxicating. His eyes search yours for permission; you granting it as you tilt your face up to meet his, you close your eyes at his proximity, taking it all in. He lightly brushes his lips against yours, with a feather-light pressure that has you chasing him for more. He pulls away with a light chuckle at the look of frustration on your face.

“After dinner,” he promises.

The note of promise in his voice has your breath quickening and your toes curling. In the time that you had known this man, you had hated him but now, all you did was crave him.

His touch, his look, his attention. The goddess had promised you that there was no version of your future without him in it, and now...

And now, you were more than ready for that future.

“I’ll hold you to that.” You murmur, breathless from the thoughts running through your head.

---------

A month later:

Neville finds you in your classroom writing the information for your first lesson of the day on the board in chalk. He leans against the door as he closes it. Neville watches you; his eyes running over every curve and dip in your body, thinking of how less than twelve hours ago he was worshipping it with his mouth and hands. He bites down a groan at the memory; your gasps and moans echoing in his ear – he can still feel the dull ache of the scratches on his back, from your fingernails reaching for purchase.

He struts over to you; enjoying the surprised yelp that leaves your mouth as his arms wrap around your stomach, but he loves the way you soon relax into him, your hands coming to rest on top of his. Neville presses a kiss to the crook between your neck and ear, smirking against your skin as he hears your breath hitch.

Neville leans close, his mouth to your ear, “I’m going to have to teach you a lesson.”

You hum happily, arching into the touch of his hands as they trail lower, starting to undo the fastenings to your skirt.

You knew he would come; you’d played another prank on him, but this time you knew what the outcome would be.

You turn your face, pressing your lips to his cheek before trailing them across his jawbone, enjoying the look of your lipstick staining his skin. “What did you have in mind?” you whisper, breathless from the excitement coursing through your veins.

He smirks as he bends you face down over your desk.

*************

General (HP) taglist: @chaotic-fae-queen @obsessedwithrandomthings @harrypotter289 @dreamer821 @kalimagik @heloisedaphnebrightmore @nebulablakemurphy @the-hufflefluffwriter @figlia--della--luna @bforbroadway @idont-knowrn @summer-writes

#neville longbottom x reader #neville longbottom #neville longbottom fanfic #neville longbottom x you #neville longbottom x y/n #enemies to lovers #enemies to lovers au #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fanfic #neville longbottom fanfiction #neville longbottom one shot #neville longbottom imagines #harry potter imagines #hp fanfiction #hp fanfic

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baoshan-sanren · 4 years ago

Text

Chapter 37

of the wwx emperor au I’m thinking of calling Fuck the Canon: Happy Endings For Everyone

There is no tea.

Not only is there no tea, but the Emperor’s small private study, located just beyond his personal chambers, is distinctly lacking in any accommodations necessary to serve or consume tea.

Ordinarily, WangJi would find himself irritated, even by such a harmless deception. After five days spent in the Immortal Mountain, however, he finds that he has become more patient. Perhaps not with others, but certainly with the Emperor, whose careless attitude and playful nature seem to conceal a much more complex character, one that WangJi has grown to respect.

The Lan Sect does not listen to gossip, but their new lodgings in the Jade Sword Palace make gossip impossible to avoid. Wei WuXian had lingered by WangJi’s side long past midnight, sunrise only hours away by the time they had finally parted. Yet, great many things seem to have happened since then, each one significant enough to shake the Immortal Mountain to its roots.

Before noontime tea, the Young Master of the Jin Sect had seen his betrothal annulled, the Jiang Sect had fallen out of favor, Sect Leader Nie had been given a title, and the Council seems to hover on the verge of being dissolved.

WangJi cannot begin to guess what all of these events mean, separate or together, but he knows that Wei WuXian could not have possibly had a sufficient amount of sleep. He also knows that the world of court schemes and maneuverings, as distasteful as he finds it to be, is an inevitable reality of Wei WuXian’s existence. A part of him is even slightly curious, tentatively attempting to forge a connection between these seemingly unconnected events. Another part of him feels pity, that Wei WuXian cannot begin his day without some sort of upheaval.

Even now, standing by the desk, wrapped in the heavy, intricate layers of the Imperial dragon robes, the Emperor is all exhaustion and tension. Less than a dozen hours have passed since they had seen each other last; WangJi had spent those hours in the peace and silence of the Imperial guest chambers. Wei WuXian looks as if he had spent them on the battleground, fighting for his life.

Still, when he sees WangJi, his face tranforms.

“Lan Zhan.”

WangJi nods in response. He is not sure when he had become fond of the way Wei WuXian says his name, but he can no longer deny the inevitable elation following on its heels. Each time, his name comes with an accompanying smile, and each time, that smile is for him alone.

“I hope you were not expecting tea,” Wei WuXian says ruefully.

WangJi does not dignify that with a response. One must adjust their expectations when faced with an Emperor who runs barefoot over the rooftops, and becomes unreasonably excited over rabbits.

“Uh, right,” Wei WuXian says, “there is something I need you to see.”

The bookcase behind the desk is filled to bursting. Perhaps, if it were only used to hold books, there would be plenty of space, and little to no chaos. But Wei WuXian seems to have filled the shelves with anything that could fit, and many things that could not, creating a precarious mess of objects that could topple at the smallest disturbance. There are numerous jade figurines of all sizes, small pots, boxes and ink stones, a few odd shapes that resemble children’s toys, books and scrolls crammed in between the objects, all with no sense or order.

It is a surprise when Wei WuXian manages to pull out three books and a flat box hiding behind them, without knocking anything to the ground. WangJi realizes that he has shifted to stand on his toes, fully expecting to have to provide assistance, or perhaps even protection from any wayward object that may come flying off the shelf to cause potential injury. No such thing occurs, however, and he places his heels back down, feeling silly for his overabundance of caution.

The flat box looks plain and light. Inside, it holds a single piece of paper, although it is immediately obvious that the paper is an Imperial Order, the Emperor’s stamp bright and bold, and difficult to miss.

WangJi does not expect Wei WuXian to simply offer the paper for perusal, without ceremony, and without any hint as to what the Order holds.

He is even more confused once he realizes that the paper is actually a declaration of succession. In the event of Wei WuXian’s death, the throne is to pass to--

He blinks. The Imperial Order is not long, for there is not much to the actual succession except naming the heir. Still, WangJi reads it again, just to be certain that he has not read the name in error.

He has not.

Well.

While he is reading, Wei WuXian is fidgeting. The dragon robes are not designed for such impatient movement, and WangJi resists the urge to grab him by the shoulders, and tell him to stop plucking at the golden thread on his sleeves. The robe probably costs more than thirty villages are capable of producing in a year.

He offers the paper back.

“I do not understand.”

“Which part?” Wei WuXian says slowly, and WangJi blinks at him.

Is there more than one part to the succession? No, he has read it twice.

“I do not understand why I need to know this,” WangJi clarifies.

“Oh,” Wei WuXian says, smiling again, but it is a nervous smile, as jittery as his hands, “This-- it is important. The-- line of succession. The person I intend to marry should know that the heir has already been chosen.”

WangJi narrows his eyes. He feels as if he had missed a part of their conversation.

His mind inevitably turns to the rumors that had flown rampant in the palace that same morning; the new title granted to the Nie Sect Leader, the dissolution of the Young Master Jin’s betrothal, and the possible dissolution of the Council.

Does-- Wei WuXian mean to marry Jin ZiXuan? It is a preposterous idea. Absolutely ridiculous.

But even so, WangJi suddenly finds that Jin ZiXuan cannot be allowed to live. WangJi will challenge him to a fight, then remove each and every one of his limbs, starting with his head. This should not be difficult to accomplish.

“You are angry,” Wei WuXian says, “I should have-- perhaps I should not have begun with the line of succession. I am not good at--“ he waves his hand, as if the motion is somehow supposed to make his words less incoherent.

He looks agitated and unhappy, and WangJi wants to help, but he is not sure how.

“You want to marry,” he says, trying to establish some logical narrative.

“Yes,” Wei WuXian says, “I want to marry. And before you disagree, I am aware that five days is an extremely limited amount of time to truly get to know another person. I have already gotten a lecture about this from A-Sang. And I have already gotten a lecture from your uncle, who can be extremely rude while remaining polite, a skill I admire, but do not want to confront again. Not if I can help it. And I-- I know life in the Immortal Mountain is probably not what you had in mind if-- if you had marriage in mind. Before today. But I think-- if you are willing to give it a chance, I could make you happy. I would like to try. To make you happy.”

There is a lag in WangJi’s understanding, as each sentence needs to be rearranged in his own mind, just so he can comprehend its meaning. Still, even with the lag, it takes him an abominably long time to fully grasp what Wei WuXian is saying.

Once he does, he finds himself shocked into stillness.

“Are you--“ Wei WuXian looks as if he means to move closer, than stops himself at the last moment, “You look-- more angry now. Than before. I understand that this is not an ideal proposal, what with the-- lack of gifts and ceremony and everything else, but--“

He sighs, apparently forgetting that his hair is neatly arranged, because his fingers make a mess of it in moments.

“An offer of marriage should not make you angry, Lan Zhan. I thought we-- does the idea of it bother you that much?”

WangJi needs to speak. Wei WuXian is capable of drawing thousands of incorrect conclusions before WangJi can formulate a single sentence, and WangJi needs to prevent this from happening, as soon as possible. But what is he supposed to say?

Clarify. This is always a good strategy, especially with Wei WuXian.

“Are you asking me to marry you?” WangJi says carefully, fully expecting Wei WuXian to laugh and deny it.

He believes that he had made his peace with the fact that the Emperor really likes him, whatever that means, when coming from a Divine Ruler. But marriage is-- something else entirely.

Even saying it out loud sounds ridiculous.

“Yes!” Wei WuXian exclaims, “Yes, I am asking you to marry me.”

“Why?” WangJi blurts out, incredulous.

“Why?” Wei WuXian repeats, the dumfounded expression on his face a perfect reflection of WangJi’s own feelings, “wh-- what do you mean, why? Because I fell in love with you. Why else would I marry someone?”

“You--“ WangJi’s throat is completely dry, and seems to have shrank into nothingness.

It is difficult to breathe, let alone form words.

This is utterly ridiculous. The most ridiculous thing WangJi has even heard, seen, or experienced, in his entire life.

And yet, he wants to hear it again. He wants Wei WuXian to say it again. The rush he had felt at those words cannot be described. It is obliterating.

Wei WuXian inches closer, his posture careful, “I still cannot tell when you are just angry, or so furious that you might try and kill me, so-- do not try and kill me? I should have probably led with the declaration of love, huh? I can try again. Lan Zhan, I am in love with you. I would really like it if you would marry me, and become the Emperor Consort. Your uncle has already given permission, and the Council is about to do so as well, or Empire will no longer have a Council. The throne already has an heir, so the succession is nothing to worry about. And since I cannot imagine sharing my life with anyone else, I can swear to take no other spouse, as long as we are both alive in the world. Is that better? Did--“

WangJi does not plan to move.

He does not plan anything. The chaos of thoughts and emotions rushing through his mind can hardly be called thinking, let alone planning. Therefore, he is astonished to find himself acting so brashly. But Wei WuXian does not waste a single moment with something so banal as surprise.

His arms immediately wrap around WangJi’s shoulders, as if they belong there. There is a faint, lingering taste of pears and honey on his lips. His mouth is soft, his breaths hot and fast, his heartbeat a forceful thunder against WangJi’s chest. The exquisite texture of the Imperial dragon robe under his hands has nothing on the actual shape of Wei WuXian’s waist. WangJi can feel the ridges of his spine through the material, enticing but also fragile, and raked with barely perceptible tremors.

Wei WuXian smiles against his mouth, then laughs, his lips pressing a quick kiss to the tip of WangJi’s nose.

“Is that a yes?” he says, “Please tell me that means yes.”

WangJi is not yet capable of forming words. An extremely advantageous hindrance, because he cannot simply accept an offer of marriage, regardless of his feelings.

The bright smile on Wei WuXian’s face begins to fade, and WangJi feels panic, that he cannot explain himself quickly and succinctly, the way the situation demands.

“Lan Zhan?”

“I cannot accept,” WangJi says.

Wei WuXian blinks at him, then shifts slightly, as if to pull away. WangJi refuses to release him, his arms wrapping more securely around the silk-clad waist, fingers clutching handfuls of delicate material.

Perhaps he does so with more strength and urgency than necessary, because Wei WuXian stumbles, catching himself against WangJi’s chest.

“I want to accept,” he clarifies, “but I cannot. I must speak to uncle first.”

“Oh,” Wei WuXian says, “That-- but he-- I have already spoken to your uncle.”

“You have spoken to many people,” WangJi points out, “Everyone whose opinion you care to hear. Other than myself.”

Wei WuXian huffs, his restless fingers now plucking at the thread of WangJi’s robes instead of his own. WangJi would grab his hands to prevent it, but this would mean releasing his hold, and he does not think he is capable of doing so, at least not yet.

“I should be allowed to do the same,” WangJi says, “You must give me time.”

Wei WuXian’s fingers have now found their way to the collar of WangJi’s robes, and the brush of them against the skin of his neck is extremely distracting. The logical part of his brain insists that this is an inappropriate way to have a serious conversation. A marriage, especially one that would make him the Emperor Consort to the Divine Ruler of the Shan Empire is perhaps the most serious conversation that can possibly be conceived.

But Wei WuXian’s hair smells like pears, sweet and heavy, and he keeps biting his already reddened lip. The other part of WangJi’s brain, the one that does not care for logic or propriety, insists that he should stop speaking and kiss him again, regardless of the seriousness of the conversation.

Lan Zhan, I am in love with you.

His arms tighten of their own volition, and Wei WuXian huffs out a laugh. It is a small laugh however, and there is and nervous edge to it, carrying over into his voice.

“How much time? Because-- what if-- what if you think about it, and then-- decide that you do not want to marry me?”

“Then, I suppose you will have to marry Nie HuaiSang,” WangJi deadpans.

Wei WuXian splutters for a few moments, the expression on his face rapidly shifting from shock to displeasure to pure exasperation. Considering how many times Wei WuXian has managed to exasperate him in turn, WangJi does not feel bad.

“Do not joke,” Wei WuXian says, “I am serious. Your uncle had given permission, but he does not like me, and he will tell you all the reasons why marrying me is a terrible--“

“Wei Ying,” WangJi says, effectively cutting off the flow of words, “I want to marry you. I will not change my mind. But you must give me time.”

He is utterly unprepared for Wei WuXian’s bright smile, the warm glow of delight that washes over his face, the tiny crinkles in the corners of his eyes. He is even less prepared to be kissed again, but he is more than willing, Wei WuXian’s mouth eagerly searching for his own.

They should have spent the past five days kissing. Any moment that WangJi had not been kissing Wei WuXian now feels an unacceptable waste of time, one he has every intention to remedy. Although Wei WuXian seems as invested in this plan as he is, he cannot seem to help smiling into the kiss, his lips often darting to press to WangJi’s cheek, his chin, the side of his nose. It is sweet and silly, his restless excitement, and WangJi is now certain that Wei WuXian had been right.

He will be more than capable of making WangJi happy.

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nooneelsecomesclose17 · 4 years ago

Text

Go to the ends of the earth for you - Part 2

Really struggled with this chapter and it was meant to include a Paddy confrontation but it wouldn't fit, so that's still to come!

(AO3 link)

It had to happen, he’d known there would be no escaping them once he was back in the village and he’d barely set a foot outside the door of the B&B on the way to see the solicitor about Seb, before going to visit Robert, when his Mum is there.

“Mum, I don’t have time right now.” He opens the car door only for her to slam it shut.

“Make time. What on earth are you playing at Aaron? You disappear with barely a word, we don’t hear from you for a year and then you’re back and you don’t tell us.”

“Why would I?”

“I’m your mother!”

“Right. Of course. I guess I missed your text at Christmas did I? Or all the calls you made, given you had my number.” She doesn’t answer, barely even looks sorry and he opens the door again. “Like I said, I don’t have time. I’ve a meeting about getting my son back.”

“What? Why?”

“What do you mean why?” He’s half in the car and the voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Robert tells him to leave it but he can’t. “He’s mine and Robert’s son, he deserves to be with us.”

“Bothered now is he? Now he doesn’t have to share him.”

“You’re hardly someone to lecture on leaving a child Mum.”

“You can’t speak to me like that!”

“I can, and I just did. Now, I’m late.” He spots his Gran at the door to the B&B and she smiles at him, and it gives him the courage to go, to not get sucked into the same old arguments again. “Bye Mum.”

———-

“So you just left her standing there?” Robert chuckles when he’s finished telling his story. “I wish I could’ve seen it.”

“I bet you do. You’re a nightmare. No doubt I’ll get an earful next time I see her or Paddy.”

“Why don’t you find somewhere outside the village? There’s no need to stay there and put up with them.”

“I’m nearer Seb this way. Besides who’s going to keep you in gossip if I’m not there. I can handle ‘em. Anyway, how are you?”

“I’m fine. Stop worrying. Ethan’s good you know, really good. He’s been over everything again this morning.”

“I…is it wrong to say I’m afraid to hope?” That was what was at the root of everything, his fear that all of this would've been for nothing and he’d lose him anyway. Robert reaches over and places his hand over Aaron’s, holding tight when Aaron instinctively moves away.

“I don’t care, Aaron. I don’t care who knows.”

“But…” It wasn’t safe, it meant a target on your back, he knew that. He gulps, Robert was willing to do that, to out himself in here, for him.

“I hid for so long, I don’t…I know it might mean trouble, but I don’t want to have to sit across from you and not even be able to hold hands. I can’t. You’re my husband.”

“I know that. I don’t need you to hold my hand to know it. I just want you to be safe.” He was so proud of him, but at the same time, fear and memories were making him urge to pull his hand away to protect him.

“You keep telling me not to worry about you, well I’m telling you not to worry about me. You said you’re afraid to hope, and so am I, but once upon a time I was afraid to hope I could ever be with you, have a family with you.” He nods, he’s not convinced, daren’t let himself be, but he’s not going to take away whatever’s improved Robert’s mood. “Anyway, tell me about Seb.”

“He’s amazing. He introduced me to all his toys, and told me how he’d shared some with Harry because he was all grown up now and didn’t need them.”

“I can’t believe all that time, Rebecca was gone and we didn’t know. I don’t understand why no one called us. Cain knew where we were.”

“I asked him that. He reckoned he knew we’d come rushing home, and he figured you being banged up for life wouldn’t do Seb any good. I told him that wasn’t his decision to make, but you know Cain. But we’re back now, he’s not without us any more.”

“Well you at least.”

“Only for a while. Then the three of us are going to be happy ever after. I saw the solicitor this morning. She reckons it’s just a formality for him coming home to us, some box ticking and that, as long as we’ve got a decent place for him to live.”

“Which we don’t.”

“That’s tomorrow’s job, finding somewhere half decent for us until you come home and we decide where we’re going to live.”

“You know, you could always buy Liv out of the house.”

“No.”

“Aaron…”

“I mean it. For one thing I don’t want to go back there, not now, and second as angry as I am with her still, I wouldn’t turf her out. Besides, we don’t even know if we’re staying so why make trouble?” He’d thought about it, it’d be easier than finding somewhere else, but at the end of the day he really didn’t want to go back there, not now.

“You were really serious, you’d move out of the village, even if you didn’t have to?”

“I don’t care where we live Robert. It looks pretty clear Mum and I aren’t going to make amends, and anyone else can always visit. I’m seeing an estate agent tomorrow to find somewhere to rent until you get out, so we can show social services that Seb will be cared for, and when you come home then we can do whatever we want.” He frowns as the bell rang signalling their time was up. “I’m not doing anything I don’t want to do so stop thinking the way you are.”

“I hate how well you know me sometimes.” They get to their feet and he hesitates, for all Robert’s words he might not want to hug goodbye, but Robert pulls him close, holding him tight before smiling at him. “Kiss Seb for me.”

“I will. I’ll see you soon.” He’d visit every day if he could but both Vic and Diane had said they wanted to visit so he’d stood aside for a couple of days. Robert goes giving him a nod, and he waits until he’s gone through the door before he turns and leaves.

———-

He doesn’t go back to the village right away, instead he parks up in a lay-by, their lay-by. His head is filled with everything he needs to do, to get everything just so for Seb, find a new house, get Cain to take him back at the garage for as long as it took. The scrapyard sale had gone through about four months into their time in France and they’d been glad of the money, still were, but it meant he had no job to go back to and he felt he needed one to make a good impression.

Then he had to be there for Robert. It felt strange to be the one taking chance, getting stuff done. It had always been Robert, the house, the wedding, he’d always taken the lead and he’d let him. He’d liked it, after so many years of being either on his own or constantly let down by his family, it was a nice feeling to have someone there to take the burden. Now he had to step up and be that person for Robert.

First things first, the job is probably the easiest thing to sort out and he texts Cain, grimacing when the reply says to meet him in the pub. That’s the last place he wants to go, but this is for Seb so he’ll do it. Cain’s buying though he decides as he puts the car in gear, heading back towards the village.

He can’t see his Mum behind the bar when he steps into the pub and he finds Cain at the table in the corner.

“Why did we have to meet in here?”

“I was in the middle of my pint. You can’t avoid her forever.”

“I’m not, she already collared me this morning. I’m not in the mood for anything she or Paddy have to say Cain and you know why.”

“Well you can’t avoid them forever if you’re staying.”

“I don’t know if we are yet.” It’s the first time he’s said it out loud to anyone but Robert but the longer he’s here the more he knows it’s not home anymore. “When Robert gets out we’ll decide where we’re going to live.”

“You’d leave, even if you don’t have to.”

“Doesn’t feel much like we’re wanted anymore. I don’t want a lecture or any kind of interference either. I just wanted to ask if I could get a few shifts at the garage…need to show social services we can provide for Seb.”

“You know I can always find work for ya. You should try and talk to your Mum though. I’m not sayin’ stay, but she’s your Mum.”

“And how’s that working for you and Gran?” He can’t help smiling a little at the scowl he gets from his uncle over the top of his pint. “If she drops the attitude then maybe I’ll talk to her, but we both know that won’t happen. Anyway, that’s all I came in for. When do you want me to start?”

“Oh, you mean you actually want to work? I was just going to make all the right noises for the social worker.”

“Nah, it’s going to be all above board. Besides, I need something to do until Robert gets out.”

“Day after tomorrow.” Cain nods. “Don’t be late.”

———-

“So, you’re taking the house?”

“Yeah, six month lease.” He lies down on the bed as he answers, the busy day getting to him all of a sudden, Robert’s voice letting him relax for the first time in hours.

“That’s optimistic.”

“I can extend it if I need to. Might want to high tail it out of town by then.” He says it to get the expected laugh from Robert and he’s pleased when he does.

“You know, we used to live there, just before I left, Me, Dad, Andy and Vic.”

“Yeah? I can call you if I need to find the stopcock then can I?”

“Ha ha.”

“Anyway, any news on a court date yet?”

“Oh, yeah, the tenth.”

“Not long then. You ok?”

“Yeah. At least we’ll know then, right?” He can hear the wobble in his voice, wants to hold him more than anything. “It’s fine, Aaron. Talk to me about Seb. Still going with the zoo for his birthday?”

“Yeah. It’s too cold for the beach and he loves animals. Then maybe tea at Vic’s. I just…can’t wait until he’s home with me properly. I miss the little monster.”

“Me too.” He lets Robert’s voice lull him nearly to sleep before they have to hang up.

———-

“I’ve packed his bag, there’s extra juice in the pockets and a change of clothes and…” He puts a hand over Vic’s as she’s rifling through the bag.

“Vic, this isn’t my first time. We’re going to be fine, right mate?”

“Yeah!”

“We’ll be back by four for tea.” He feels bad, knows she’s missing Robert too and maybe he should have stayed home, spent the day with her too but he needs to get out of the village and spending the day with Seb sounds like heaven now. “I just need to be doing something, so I’m not worrying about tomorrow all day.”

“I know. Well, you have a good day.”

Seb’s chattering keeps him occupied on the drive, it’s a nice change to the silence of his thoughts. He’s had the court date on his mind ever since Robert told him, all manner of scenarios running through his head, mostly bad as if he’s afraid to even contemplate a good outcome.

Seb loves the zoo, and Aaron takes a ton of pictures that he can take in for Robert at the next visit. He’s worn out on the drive home and Aaron has to carry him from the car.

“Aaron, I just wanted to see how you are after today.” He turns to see Ethan looking at him, concerned.

“Fine. Me and Seb have had a great day at the zoo, haven’t we mate.”

“Oh. Well that explains why I didn’t see you in court.”

“What? That’s tomorrow.”

“No, it was this morning. I assumed Robert would tell you. I did think it was odd not seeing you.”

“He told me…never mind. So…what happened?” He has to bite down on the anger rising inside him, that Robert would lie after everything, all they’d been through. “How long?”

“Two years. He’ll likely only serve half of that and then be on licence for the rest. I can take you through it all if you like, but given everything this was a good outcome.” It didn’t feel like that, it felt an age, and reliant on Robert keeping away from trouble, and the goodwill of someone who didn’t know them. “I just got off the phone, he’s staying at Hotten, although the main prison now obviously.”

“Ok, thanks.” He can’t seem to get his thoughts in order. “Sorry, I…”

“It’s ok. Why don’t I call in tomorrow and we’ll talk. I expect Robert will have called you by then.”

“Hope he’s ready to be yelled at.” Ethan laughs. “Thank you, again. I should…get him inside. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He’s on autopilot as he grabs Seb’s bag from the boot, locking the car and knocking on Vic’s door. “Your Daddy is an idiot mate. You’ll come to learn that soon enough. Always thinks he knows best he does. But we love him anyway don’t we?”

#robron fic

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softomi · 4 years ago

Text

inevitably

prompt: Honestly for a while I was okay with seeing you, but for some reason it pained me to see you. It pained me to feel like I missed you.

pairing: akaashi x reader

genre: angst

When Akaashi was left alone, he felt indifferent. He continued his daily routine; coffee in the morning, cab ride to work, home late as usual, heating up dinner in the microwave. Nothing was that significantly different, he tried to reason. The lone toothbrush, the single towel, the sudden emptiness of the bed, he reasoned it wasn’t significant.

Even when his friends came knocking on his door on the first weekend in a while, it was nothing significant.

“How you holding up?”

It was like they were trying to beat around the bush, he wished they could get straight to the point.

“I’m fine.” Akaashi spoke, “It’s just a break up.”

The men in the room stared at him. Bokuto tried to laugh it off, patting the male on the back, “Right. Nothing we all haven’t gone through before.”

“You went through it the worst.” Someone interjects.

Akaashi doesn’t pay mind to the way Bokuto’s face falls at the statement, banter is thrown around the room, but Akaashi can’t focus, repeating in his mind that it truly wasn’t a big deal. We all go through it. He stated in his mind.

It was fine for a while. He was fine for a while. There was no reason for him not to be fine, in fact, how could he not be fine when there were no traces of you. Perhaps a lingering hair or two, but he noticed how you did a perfect job of erasing your existence that you were ever physically living with him. It helped with the moving on process, to feel like you were never there at all.

But yet, at two weeks after, he somehow found himself on your social media page. You, who was addicted to posting all the fine things in life, had not posted in days. It was shameful, as if he were expecting you to mention him in some way. It was so shameful, so he decided to mute your posts.

“Akaashi.” Bokuto was watching his friend pick at his food, “Are you sad?” Bokuto had no filter, “I feel like if I were in your situation, I would be sad; or at least frustrated! Don’t you want to cry or something? Maybe get mad!” Bokuto’s fist accidentally pounds on the table, “Akaashi.”

Akaashi felt it would be out of character if he did that. There was no reason to cry because you had given him sufficient reason to leave him, he had no reason to get mad because all your reasons were valid. Everything you had said that day was so valid, that he couldn’t argue.

“Bokuto.” Akaashi pushes around the food on his plate, “I’m okay, there was nothing I could do to stop her.”

Bokuto noticed the way Akaashi slumped, he knew the signs of his friend, Bokuto switched the topic to his next volleyball game. Akaashi wasn’t listening, he was too concentrated on how he accidentally ordered your favorite dish; he couldn’t tell the waitress or Bokuto that he made a mistake.

Two months passed slowly but he was still as fine as ever. To prove it, he unmuted your social media. He noticed how you had gone back to your everyday posts. But he was good, pleasant in fact that you were getting back to normalcy; you were back to how you were without him.

“Would you like to get some coffee with me?” The girl in front of him, he had never noticed her before.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” Akaashi was trying hard to recall her.

Her smile falters, “You helped me with an article last week.”

Now he remembers her, she wore the same earrings as you, it was one he had picked out randomly when you asked for his opinion on earrings. Truly the most mundane activity you had him do with you, but it was worth the smile on your face when you wore it every day for a month.

“Sorry.” Akaashi says to the girl, “I’m meeting someone.”

He was lying. Akaashi was granted a leave early from work, feigning an important event, he let out a large sigh when he exited the building. He loathed the thought of going home and he was craving something sweet. He took a cab to a bustling neighborhood. He doesn’t know the exact location, he just knows the cues.

The stationary shop that sells Hello Kitty stickers, you bought a set just to stick one on his briefcase. The ramen restaurant, it was one of those single seat restaurants with the option to eat with someone if you chose to let down the divider; you really wanted to try it with him. The bookstore, you two browsed individually, but you had the hardest time trying to drag him out after three hours.

He reached the café.

It was quiet, but who besides him would go to a café midday on a Wednesday. It was still the same, of course it was, you had only left him three months ago. The only thing that changed was your relationship status with him. He’s still okay though. It doesn’t bother him.

This café had the best fruit cake. Out of habit, he ordered two.

“One, to go.” He had to backtrack.

He remembers how the tea paired nicely with the fruit cake. The tea provided a nice bitterness to the sweet cake.

“Keiji?”

When he looked up, he saw you. The way you clutched your bag nervously, a smile on your lips as one of your hands waved to him. Did you look as beautiful as you did when you stood next to him?

He invited you to sit with him, it was a kind gesture he thinks, contrary to how he must have been when dating you.

“Wow.” Your hands clap together, “What a coincidence that we ran into each other here.”

Coincidence. He remembers you used to be a lover of fate but seeing him was only a coincidence.

“You grew out your hair?” Akaashi points out.

You grip the ends of your hair, a small laugh, “Actually I got extensions.” Your fingers run through your hair, “Just wanted to know what long hair felt like.”

Akaashi always stated he liked shorter hair on you, but the way your hair now falls long; he absolutely loves it, “It looks good on you.”

Your eyes light up, “Really? I was scared it wouldn’t suit me.”

It’s perfect on you.

“How are you?” He knew it was a stupid question. He planned many questions he would ask you if he ever saw you again but the simple how are you had never been option.

Your hand flipped your hair behind your shoulder, a grin on your lips, “It’s been good.”

He suddenly hated your answer. Weren’t you supposed to be sad? Was dating him perhaps so bad that you got over it so quickly? His fingers tightened against his cup, feigning a smile on his own expression to state he, too, was fine. How could he not, seeing you was absolutely okay; he, too, felt no linger attachment.

Akaashi wasn’t even realizing that he was holding his breath until you left; and when he breathed out; air shaky, throat suddenly terribly dry, Akaashi felt every emotion he’s ever wanted to feel in the last three months. His heart cried, his blood pressure rose, his head clouded. He stood angrily, the chair falling back.

He abandoned the to-go box of cake as he left the café; footsteps following in the direction you went. He was finally going to do it, he was going to confront you because he was not okay. What you said about him did not make sense. Nothing was valid. How could anything be valid when you left his life like it didn’t matter.

He sharply turns the corner, his footsteps froze as he saw you; tucked with your knees to your chest, bending on the lonely sidewalk. Your hair caressed your face as you began to sob. Akaashi’s steps backtracked, peering over the corner to watch over your sad figure.

The cell in your hand rang, you stood to your feet, brushing off the streak of tears to answer, “Kou!” Your voice surpressed the urge to cry, “Right now? I’m not doing anything.”

Akaashi watches your figure walk away.

“Me?” Your eyes are staring to the sky, “I’m totally fine. After all, we all go through it.”

Akaashi turned on his heels, hands dug into his pockets as he also looked up into the sky. It was perhaps the worst feeling in the world, trying to feel okay when he missed you.

#haikyuu x reader #akaashi x reader #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu #akaashi #akaashi keiji #akaashi scenarios

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vanmccannonlyfans · 3 years ago

Text

Cocoon

part i.

But in hell, there was relief in the utter helplessness. Here, your actions had both consequences for yourself, and others. You weren’t sure which was worse.

“How do you have so many of these?!”

Alicia had 10s of boxes of tests in her suitcase, as if they were hotel shampoo bottles or restaurant breath mints. The pink floral branding stuck out against the sea of black leather and denim that comprised her wardrobe.

“Get em in bulk on amazon, cheaper that way and saves me a trip to the store.” As if bulk buying pregnancy tests was as casual as ordering toothpaste or tampons.

You moved to the bathroom to take the test, stepping over used towels strewn across the floor. You were glad you were doing this in a place so impersonal, however uncomfortable. Whatever the outcome, good or bad, you would be able to leave without any memories tainting the space, never to return and have to relive the feeling. If this was your bathroom at home, you’d be reminded every time you had to go.

Alicia camped in front of the mirror, smacking her lips together after every layer of strawberry gloss, the wand alternating between tracing her plump lips and pumping the tube for more product. Leaning against the fake granite hotel counter, she fussed with her raven black bangs and adjusted her top.

“Is it ready yet?” She asked, without averting her eyes from their own contact, her lips now more reflective than the mirror.

“I can’t look..” The room was twisting more than your stomach as you picked up the test, double vision making it impossible to count the number of lines.

Was there just one? Two? How dark does the second one have to be?

“Does this look positive to you?”

Alicia cocked her head at the test, brow furrowed.

“The second line is faint...but it’s there.”

“Fuck,” You exhaled as you fell against the wall, exasperated.

“Didn’t you always want to be parents?”

“Well yes, but...not so soon. We don’t even have a place to live...”

Life on the road was hollow and lonely, even with your best friends. Playing shows every night to strangers who saw you as enigmas, then returning to cold hotel rooms to sleep until the having to get back on the bus or plane for the next event, repeat ad infinitum until you had crossed off a laundry list of places you had stepped foot in but not actually experienced. It all seemed so fun and exciting until you realized that you didn’t know anyone anywhere and were too tired to do things even on days off, and ended up just sleeping the day away and ordering in pizza. It wasn’t a viable situation for raising a child, and hardly sustainable for an otherwise healthy adult.

You laid on the scratchy quilted comforter, each tick of the clock intensifying your anxiety, like a bomb about to detonate. Every second brought you closer to confronting a situation that felt neither fully real nor fantasy. Like your whole world depended on what he would think.

The beep of the key card brought you back down to earth from the peaks of your existential dread. You couldn’t wait to be held, comforted, told it was going to be alright, even if neither of you had any idea what to do. His touch was a balm to your aching soul, one that no antidepressant could rival.

Van entered without a word.

“Baby?” You called to him, as if he couldn’t see you.

He remained silent, dropping his guitar case on the ground. After what felt like eons, he looked up toward the window behind you, as if you were invisible.

“I think you should go.” His eyes were sallow, skin dehydrated from all the smokes and shitty fast food and beers every night.

“What?” The single word came out like a croak, your voice evading you. First you couldn’t be seen, now you could hardly be heard, as if you were dissolving from material reality. As if only his acknowledgement made you real. “Van--”

“No,” He cut you off, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, the other on his hip, swiveling him towards the wall. His adams apple rose and fell without a word, bobbing like a buoy on a choppy sea.

“I don’t want to fight about this. I just want you to leave.” He looked down, running a hand through his hair before tucking it under his armpit as if he were chilled.

You were in disbelief. The same man who had invited you to accompany him across the world was discarding you as easily as you had tossed the test that said you were carrying his child into the bin.

“But Van--”

“JUST GO!” He belted, shaking the room with his volume. You had never heard him yell like that, hardly had ever seen him genuinely angry.

You struggled to catch your breath, hot tears erupting from your eyes.

“--I’m pregnant.”

There was a loud crack as Van’s phone hit the wall, leaving a mark.

“STOP LYING!” He thundered, grabbing your shoulders.

He was finally looking into your eyes. His were red and glassy and you could smell the last cigarette on his skin, so much so that you found yourself on the floor throwing up, then running to your suitcase like a wounded animal, then in the brass elevator, then out the lobby and into the street. You weren’t sure where you were going or how you would get there, just that you wanted to be gone.

When your legs finally collapsed from exhaustion, you found yourself out of breath in front of a bodega, simultaneously sweating and shivering from the physical and emotional trauma. You went in to buy a bottle of water and drank it in greedy gulps while scrolling on your phone to take your mind off of your predicament. At the top of your inbox was a flight confirmation, forwarded from the band’s manager. It was a plane ticket back home.

The sterile, unfriendly design of airports had always thrilled you. They were an exciting gateway to a new place in the wide world you hadn’t explored much of. You had never even been on a plane before Van had toured outside of the UK. The complete lack of rules and disregard for conventional social norms enchanted you; how strange a place to have bars open at 6am next to designer shops and restaurants more expensive than you had ever eaten in. Van would order bailey’s in your coffee while he had a morning beer, before sneaking tipsy kisses in cheap seats at 42,000 feet.

Now the airport felt like a portal to hell, sucking you back to the place you had escaped from.

You hadn’t told anyone you were coming home, or that you had broken up, or...anything. You hadn’t spoken a word to anyone besides the cab driver who asked which terminal to drop you off at. You weren’t sure who you would tell first, what you would say. If you opened your mouth, nothing would come out. Except maybe some incoherent stuttering and word salad, which fit how you felt inside--both numb and acerbic, cold to the touch but teeming with a pain so primal and acrid it could kill a horse. The water in your stomach felt like it was curdling, and you hoped you could make it through the flight without throwing up.

The cab dropped you off on the corner of your parent’s property where the guest house loomed, hardly visible through the gloaming. You fumbled with the key, hoping it hadn’t been changed since the last time. The door rattled open to dusty furniture and soupy air; musty and untouched as if it had been abandoned. You and Van used to sneak in here in for quickies and hold clandestine parties, lighting candles instead of turning on lights to not tip off your parents that you were present. The stain from when someone dropped a bottle of whiskey still marred the floorboards, and you wondered if anyone had been in here since you left.

You had hardly surveilled the place before the door snapped open behind you.

“Fuck, you scared me!” It was your brother, shaking the dew from his trainers. “Why are you back? I thought you would be gone until next year, at least.” You sucked in the thick air, scanning the room for alibis. Stretching the last few moments before you had the acknowledge that you now walked the earth all by yourself.

“Oh, you know. Just felt homesick.”

Your brother respected your lie, letting it dissipate in the stale air like the smoke from a snuffed wick.

“I never liked him, anyway”

Your parents were happy, albeit a bit startled, to see you. They had converted your room to an office and all of your old things from high school, like notes from Van and old chemistry notebooks, were collecting dust in the attic. It was good to have the guest house to yourself, to be miserable in peace without the lingering tension of having to acknowledge the reason for your return, or to have anyone ask why you were throwing up so much and sleeping for 14 hours at a time.

Your dreams were so deep and lifelike that you had trouble discerning reality from fiction in your own memory; your nightmares even worse. Once you dreamt that Van had come into the guest house bedroom with a cup of tea asking how you’d slept, how his baby was doing. When your eyes had burst open, you were cold and alone. Anguish gripped your stomach, forcing it’s contents up your throat then down onto the floor.

Other times the dreams were of him fucking you. Most nights it was just replays of your breakup, repeating every time you fell back asleep after being jerked awake from the sheer horror of that moment, worse than any organic monster ridden nightmare you had ever had. Each iteration more fresh than the last, as if someone was rewinding it over and over again on a cassette tape, starting at a high pitched blur then ending only when you could feel his hot breath ghost across your face.

Some days you woke up so paralyzed by your grief you wondered if you were in hell. Each moment was unbearably painful and eternal, the mere act of breathing felt sisyphean. But in hell, there was relief in the utter helplessness. Here, your actions had both consequences for yourself, and others. You weren’t sure which was worse.

The clinic was on the outskirts of town, far enough away you weren’t likely to run into anyone unless they were there for the same reason. The ultrasound tech didn’t make eye contact a single time, snapping her gum as she dispensed the chilly ultrasound gel in a single deft shake.

Your chest tightened when you heard the heartbeat for the first time, eyes prickling with tears. The rhythmic thump, thump, thump ticking through the monitor flooded your heart with a profound sense of relief.

Finally, something that was yours.

Tour stretched on, every night sold out. Press junkets, radio shows, interviews, and photoshoots were plastered all over social media, news papers, television, even the bus station adverts and shop bathroom posters. You quickly learned not to check your phone outside of calls and avoided the media. It was easy when you hardly had the energy to lift your head in the first place. Isolation was easier than breathing, and a lot less painful.

You had learned the hard way when you had tried reading the paper each day. You could leaf through mindlessly, until page 6 which always featured a half page spread of Van and a nameless girl, all uniquely the same. They always took similar form, as if made in a factory by formula: tight jeans and low cut blouses, cakefaced and bottle blonde; each one skinner, prettier, and younger than the last. Some looked like they had school the next day. You stopped reading the paper.

When you told your family you were pregnant, your mother cried--whether out of shock or happiness, you weren’t sure. Your brother punched a hole in the wall, then went outside to smoke. Your father just sighed--a long, deep sigh that validated his disappointment in your circumstances and choices. His reaction was the most heartbreaking.

Unlike your mother’s reaction, you knew unequivocally that his was one of disappointment. You were supposed to go to uni, maybe Oxbridge or a fancy American school or even elsewhere in Europe where you could learn a new language and lounge on picnic blankets in the sun with a bottle of wine and fancy cheese while mulling over your Literature seminar readings. You were supposed to be interesting and clever and successful and far away from here. Instead you were back where you had started, some wash up’s discards, nothing to show for it except a new dependent on your taxes.

Your brother followed you back to the guest house, determined to argue as ever. He was a man of few words until he was upset, and then every word cut like broken glass.

“Are you sure you want to keep it? It isn’t too late for you to finish up and go to uni.”

You had almost forgotten that you basically dropped out to follow Van on tour.

You had told your family that it would just be a couple stops, then you never came home. Until now.

One day your mother phoned in a rage after receiving a letter from the school that you had been expelled on the grounds of truancy. You remembered you told her you were turning in your work remotely—an obvious, bold faced lie.

Your relationship with Van had changed you from a studious rule follower to a fool, lucky in love, dropping out of high school to accompany someone else building their dream. Loving Van was like climbing a tree, higher and higher with no thought of how you would get down. But now you were flat on your ass, with another between your legs.

Your personality change had sparked concern in your friends in family, allegeding that you were “not that type of girl” to abandon everything for a man.

“I’m not really sure what type of girl I am,” was your only response.

After all,how could you know who you were meant to be when you were so young? Being with Van, being Van’s, was fun and exciting in a way you had never experienced. You’d never really dated, and didn’t have a lot of friends outside your brother’s friends, which was how you met Van. He was always nearby, goofing around and causing trouble.

Your earliest memories of Van were of riding bikes through town, collapsing in the cool grass when your legs turned to jelly and you could hardly peddle anymore. Van would blow dandelion seeds in your face while you giggled and rolled away from him. All of the hours spent under the gushing lemony sunshine ended in grass stained knees and freckled cheeks that lingered long after the popsicle drippings had been washed from your fingers.

That was the beginning--the familiarity; the quintessential bedrock of love that matures as you do, which each outgrown shoe and lost tooth. The type of childlike innocence entwined with companionship that warms your stomach just to think of, having had such a pure memory to call your own; an endless syrupy summer’s day that no one can take away from you.

As you grew and changed from girls and boys to women and men, your love morphed right along with it. There were many long stretches of time you hadn’t seen him at all, either from busyness with school or a row with your brother. But whenever you saw him again, that warmth returned right back to you, starting in your stomach and burning up to your sternum, bright and effervescent.

Your relationship mutated from platonic to romantic one night at a house party. Alcohol was still a novelty to you and two bottles of beer was your limit. You and Van were sitting together on a couch, the dim room filled with your other friends, illuminated only by fairy lights and the occasional flicker of a lighter. Van was telling ridiculous stories all while gesticulating wildly, each one making you laugh harder than the last. The combination of the alcohol and throwing your head back with laughter so many times had made you feel like you were on a rollercoaster, vertiginous and bubbly.

As if you hadn’t had enough, you got up to get another drink and fell back down onto the couch--except you missed your original spot by several inches and landed squarely on Van’s lap. You laughed out loud at your clumsiness. If you were sober you would have been so embarrassed! But your lowered inhibitions helped you see the humor in the situation. The room was aglow and the world was still big; the energy of youth electrifying the room.

Van instinctively placed a hand on the small of your back to steady you, and quickly jerked it up towards your shoulders as to not make you feel uncomfortable. A twinge of excitement seared in your stomach. You had never really touched before, and this felt nice in the most unexpected of ways--as if you had found something you didn’t know you were looking for.

You studied Van’s face, having never been so close to it. The perfect slope of his nose, the confetti of reddish freckles across high cheekbones, the pink pillowy lips that outfitted his wide mouth.

He must have been staring at your lips, too, because they clashed together as if drawn by magnet. There was no saying who kissed who as your heads met, puckering together needily. You wrapped your hand arms around him, leaning into his warm body so that your heads were resting on the couch, lips married together. His mouth tasted sweet like fairy floss, the room spinning like a carousel. You weren’t sure how long you made out for, but it felt like you were alone in the room full of people, coiled in the sweetest embrace that made time stand still. When you finally came up for air Van was grinning like he knew something you didn’t, gingerly tucking your hair behind your ear.

“I hope your brother didn’t see that,” he joked, making you blush.

You didn’t remember much of how the rest of the night went or how you ended up in your own bed the next morning, but the mere thought of having kissed Van so publicly both thrilled and mortified you. Surely people would talk--or were they all too drunk to notice? Did this mean he fancied you, or was it alcohol fueled happenstance?

At school the next week you heard his voice echoing in the halls, and turned to see him hanging on another girl while fraternizing with a group students the same year as Van and your brother. He tickled and teased her before hugging her from behind, then kissing her cheek with fervor. White hot shame flared inside you, ruddying your cheeks. You hurried home in a daze, scolding yourself for being so naive. He was a flirt and you were a fucking idiot for allowing yourself to be involved with someone like that--your brother’s friend, no less.

But the next weekend the same booze soaked gathering reoccurred, this time with more warm bodies packed into a smaller room. You sipped from a can while exchanging small talk with a girl from your chemistry class, wondering if you should leave or have another drink. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Van had arrived with the same girl from earlier, making a scene as he greeted his friends.

You decided to have another drink.

Cracking open a fresh can, you turned away hoping Van wouldn’t notice you. You smiled and nodded while your classmate blathered on, not registering a single word she said, unable to concentrate on anything other the imaginary tension in your head. The slick condensation beading on the aluminum can was your only anchor to reality as your body flushed from the discomfiture as much as the humidity. Though you hated to admit it, you wanted to be the girl next to him. Instead you slurped more beer, hoping to reach a level of inebriation where someone else started looking better.

Eventually the heat of the room became too suffocating to bear, and you excused yourself for a smoke. The noise of the party was barely a low thrum from the cement patio, despite being eight feet away. You sat on the very edge of the pavement, stretching your legs out into the dewy grass. The damp chill grounded you, your heart rate descending as you exhaled into the ether. The stars scrambled against the inky sky, floating in and out of focus as your nerves melted away with each crisp breeze. You were more drunk than you thought, but it felt nice out here where you weren’t being choked by calefaction and confronted with Van with the other girl.

The first drag of your cigarette was interrupted by a body shuffling next to yours, thumping down beside you on the cement.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing out here by yourself?” It was Van.

You scanned over the back of your shoulder to see if the girl was around you. She was not.

“I’m alright,” you sighed, tapping the ash from your cigarette onto the curb.

Van wrapped his arms around his crossed legs, shaking his hair out. From under his fringe, his eyes searching your face for clues to decode your expression.

You exhaled the smoke so at least there would be something between you to shield you from his intent gaze. The chirp of crickets in the distance filled the silence. Snuffing the butt out on the cement, you got up to leave without a word. Van grabbed your hand, stopping you in your tracks.

His expression nearly broke you, wide eyes begging for an explanation, confused as it was hurt. Letting out a deep sigh, you weighed your options: stay with him and exchange meaningless platitudes or leave. Leaving seemed like the better choice.

“I’m going home.”

Van sprang up. “You shouldn’t go alone this time of night after drinking. I’ll walk you home.”

Secretly, you loved the initiative he was taking. He wasn’t asking, he was announcing. This type of attention and caretaking were foreign to you, even as the kid sister and tagalong. No one ever fussed over you. Even though Van was known for being sweet to everyone, you were pleased as punch he was fussing over you.

Dark was the night as you trudged home, guided only by the flaxen incandescence of streetlamps and drunken intuition. For a long time neither of you spoke, reveling in the quietude of the sleepy town in the dead of night.

Van broke the silence. “So how’ve you been?”

“Same as it ever was,” you sighed, still uncomfortable with the hidden motive of his small talk. “Is your girlfriend gonna be upset that you’re walking me home?” Van laughed to himself, even though it wasn’t a joke. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

Only partially did those words alleviate the tension that had been badgering you all night. The alcohol poisoning your bloodstream was making you bold.

“So you just kiss all your friends like that,” You kicked a bottle down the road. Van’s head jerked up, turning towards you.

“Let me kiss you not as a friend then.” You stopped dead in your tracks. Of course he could be bolder than you. For the second time that night, you looked into his eyes and saw he was serious. You could feel yourself freezing in place like a deer in the headlights, but your bodies were being pulled together as if magnetized. Van grabbed your face as your lips married; exchanging greedy, hungry kisses. His arm migrated around your lower back, pulling you into him, subsuming your bodies as one. You kissed as if you couldn’t breath without the other’s air, desperate and smacking.

Even when your lips finally parted, your figures remained cocooned together. Your noses brushed at the tip, studying each other’s faces. Never had you seen Van so still and ruminative before. He brushed his thumb across your cheek before imparting a final kiss.

“How’s that for not friends?”

Soon Van was coming to your house to see you more than your brother and their friends. He would meet you in the hallway to exchange forbidden kisses, risking demerits and suspensions. Now instead of lurking on the outskirts at parties you were right next to him, the center of attention, with his arm wrapped around you.

You could tell your brother wasn’t comfortable with your arrangement, but he never said anything discouraging. You had never smiled so much in your life, and people sometimes didn’t recognize you next to him. You drank more and wore less. School began to feel like a prison, entrapping you 8 hours a day when you’d rather spend time with your sweetheart. Even in subjects you loved, you couldn’t focus. You tried to study while the band practiced, but you’d always get distracted by how cute Van was and his never ending questions about their creative direction. You started helping manage their shows, calling venues and arranging transport and making sure every piece was in its place.

Soon you were helping out so much that you were hardly home and rarely saw your other friends. As the band became more successful, you would occasionally skip school to accompany them to far off gigs and events, reveling both in the rebelliousness of playing hooky and the sheer delight of watching your favorite person achieve their dreams.

One of your favorite teachers had warned you against following Van, confronting you during office hours when you had dropped in to ask about an assignment. There was genuine concern in his expression, as if you were his own child that was making a stupid mistake.

“I shouldn’t be saying any of this, but you really should rethink your decision to leave. You could go to a great school and study whatever you wanted. You’re brilliant and clever and could charm the most stoic of souls. There are plenty of people in the world like Ryan, who will want to harness your energy to use for themselves. Don’t let them.”

You had thought he was just jealous, or perhaps had a tiny crush on you. You smiled at your past naivety. He was right. Your brother agreed.

“He picked you because you were hardworking and clever and too sweet to realize he was taking advantage of you! You were the best girl at that school and he fucking knew it. None of the girls like Alice or Nia would have lasted longer than a second with him! They would have crumbled from not being the center of attention, nor do they have a brain cell to show for it. He wanted someone to support him and do all of the hard work while he took credit for all of the glory. I mean, he didn’t even arrange you as a manager or assistant like Larry so you could get paid by the touring company!”

You hated when your brother was right, because it was a gut punch every time. He was a man of few words, but those choice words stung. You had organized much of the band’s earlier endeavors, like communication with agents and venues and examining contracts for faulty clauses and loopholes. The band was hardworking and talented, but still too hungry for success to make good judgements on their offerings. Without you, they surely would have fallen prey to a lecherous label under a contract that would have destroyed them.

“I know it wasn’t malicious, because he can’t pull his head out of his ass to think about anyone else. He surely knows you could achieve more without him, the thought just never occurred to him because it’s his world and the rest of us just live in it. And now you’re having his child in the town he abandoned while he’s living out his rockstar fantasies. Did he ever even call you to make sure you made it home, and the plane didn’t fucking explode with his unborn child on it? Does he even fucking know your pregnant? Does he even care?”

You turned away so that your brother wouldn’t see the hot tears in springing from your eyes.

“You can go now,” you mewed, hoping he would take the hint.

“If he sets foot in this town again, I’m going to fucking kill him.”

It was a promise.

#this is a wip but i wanted to post it bc it is both cringe AND fail #catfish and the bottlemen #catb #catb fic #catfish and the bottlemen fic #vanfic #van mccann #van mccann fic #van mccann fanfiction

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muertawrites · 4 years ago

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Two Halves - Chapter Eighteen (Zuko x Reader)

Chapter 17

Word Count: 2,200

Author’s Note: Shit’s hitting the fan y’all - not just in Two Halves but in everything else as well. I’m formatting this and ignoring all the impending doom swirling around me by drowning it out with Disney move soundtracks.

You wake before Zuko the next morning, which isn't hard considering you barely slept. Toph arrives under the cover of early dawn, the sky just becoming gray as her ship lands on the palace grounds; you meet her without your husband, as you never got the chance to tell him she was coming the night previous.

“You didn't have to rush out here,” you tell her, clutching her hands in an anxious vice. “It's not safe.”

“When have I ever cared if anything was safe?” she scoffs. “Sparky clearly needs help protecting you.”

The words are delivered with sarcastic wit, but her fingers shake in your palm.

You decide you won't tell her about Qiang’s threat - you don't want to give him reason to hurt anyone else. Instead, you tell her that the palace is under constant, heavy surveillance, and that you're still unsure who exactly is conducting the strange occurrences that have plagued you or what their motives are. Not exactly a lie, but enough that you feel she won't be put in any more danger.

“Do you think you can even trust your guards?” Toph wonders, her arm clenched tightly to your elbow.

“Suki vetted every one of them herself,” you tell her. “But… we still don't know.”

As you walk with her through the palace, nothing feels secure - the servants that pass you all seem suspicious, the guards and metal benders that flank you all looking like strangers through the gaze of your fear. Anyone could be working under Qiang; the thought of being so unsafe in your own home, even with the people you trust most beside you, makes you ill to the point you feel dizzy.

“Zuko should be up,” you blurt. “Why don't you spar with him before breakfast? I’ll meet you.”

Toph’s brow furrows with unease, her grip on your bicep becoming tighter.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

You nod, but don't bother to put on a brave face.

“I just feel a little tired,” you reply. “I didn't sleep very well last night.”

Again, not a lie.

Toph considers this for a moment, no doubt gauging your pulse, then concedes, letting you go with a firm, nervous squeeze.

“Okay,” she says. “We’ll stay close.”

When you see that she goes without incident, you sweep through the corridor, hastily making your way back to your own, personal bedroom, and locking the door behind you. For a moment, you stand staring at the threshold, considering pushing your vanity or wardrobe in front of it to barricade yourself in.

Your vanity. Your wardrobe.

It sinks in that you haven't been alone in this room since you returned from Ember Island; you moved your belongings into Zuko’s room, opting to sleep next to him and making plans to convert the room back into a sunroom. You pace the floor slowly, inspecting the bed and its thin, billowing canopy, the windows and their gorgeous views beyond lightly veiled curtains; had you stayed in this room, they'd have been switched out for heavier ones in anticipation of winter, but they remain, letting in cool air that chills the dormant space. Dust has gathered on the deep, glossy wood of your vanity, your fingers leaving streaks in their wake as they run along its edge. You pull the single drawer open as if by instinct, something catching in your chest as its only remaining contents slide out from the shadows.

A single pai sho tile - the lotus.

On its side, so minuscule you can barely make it out, is a series of addresses; you discovered the markings one night while nervously toying with the gift from Iroh, finding various locations around the world listed on the piece after inspecting it under a magnifying glass. You told no one of this, not even Zuko, knowing deep down that it was something Iroh meant only for you. Your fingers trace over the address in the Imperial City - a pub by the name of Ichigo’s.

Without a second thought, you dash to the trunk at the foot of your bed and pull a cloak from its depths - the one you and Zuko used to navigate the city unnoticed during your wedding celebrations. You strip out of your ceremonial robes, folding them neatly in the space where the cloak was and replacing them with your traveling clothes. You thank the spirits for the cold weather as you pull the cloak tightly around yourself, making sure it obscures your face before leaving the room once more.

In the corner of your bedroom, there's a hatch; it's hidden under a false floorboard, beneath a thick rug, and leads to tunnels that wind in a labyrinth below the palace. Zuko explained that they've been there for hundreds of years, known to very few select people within the palace walls as an escape for the royal family should the need ever arise.

“It's how we hid when Aang invaded the Fire Nation,” he told you. “It's where I confronted my father and left.”

You raise the hatch from its disguise, slipping into the hole it forms in the floor with a single candle, the lotus tile, and the knife with which Qiang intends for you to kill your husband. In a matter of seconds, the board and rug fall back into place, and you slip from the palace in the dark, the entire world above unknown to your disappearance.

The streets of the Imperial City are unfamiliar to you, but you make an effort to walk with sure steps. Your face is well hidden under your cloak, shadowed by the gray gloom of a silver sky, but it isn't as if anyone is curious enough to slow and peer beneath it; the air is brisk, and people rush past you in a haste to get where they need to go, back into warmth.

Ichigo’s is on the fringes of the city, resting on a small hill beside the docks amongst a cluster of other businesses; together, they form a small alley and marketplace, its shops and stalls either shuttered or lit with hanging burners to fight off the winter cold. As you approach the bar, climbing over a set of wood steps that creak and shift under your weight, rain begins to fall.

The inside of the bar proves much more welcoming than its surly exterior. In one corner, a fireplace burns with a wide, open hearth, a set of thick logs crackling cheerfully within. The paneled walls are decorated in an array of tapestries and promotional posters for other local businesses, and the tables that span the room are cozy and intimate, seated with cushions and placed atop tatami mats that buffer the rough wood floors. The bar itself is also quite quaint; only a few feet long and hosting about four seats, its shelves of liquor bordered by a twinkling string of lanterns and a small, handwritten message board announcing the day’s kitchen specials. What catches your eye, however, is the cluster of pai sho tables against one wall, the one farthest occupied by an elderly man in a white robe; you approach him tentatively, taking the seat opposite him and bowing respectfully under the guise of your hood.

“Are you interested in a game?” the man asks. His voice is kindly, his mouth spreading into a grandfatherly smile as he speaks. “I don’t often find strangers willing to play against me.”

“A game would be nice,” you reply, unsure what exactly you’re doing but knowing this man must be the reason Iroh sent you here. “Do you mind if I play with my own lotus tile?”

“Not at all,” the man accommodates. “I too have my own set of tiles.”

You reach into the pocket of your cloak, placing your lotus amongst the tiles set up on the game board; the man observes you carefully, leaning in to get a better look at the piece you’ve brought with you.

“Do you mind if I see that for a moment?” he asks. “The craftsmanship is exquisite.”

You nod, allowing him to take the piece. He turns it over in his fingers, running the pad of his thumb over the intricately carved design and holding it up to his face, inspecting it with great discretion. A nervous flicker tickles your stomach as he traces over the sides of the tile, no doubt finding the inscriptions on its surface.

“You’ve been sent by a friend of mine,” the man finally states.

“I believe so,” you respond. “I’m in need of some help.”

“Then you’re in the right place,” the man says with a grin. He stands, handing the lotus tile back to you and ushering you to follow him. “Come with me. There’s another friend I’d like you to meet.”

Wary, you follow him to the side of the bar, where he lifts a heavy curtain and slips into a back room. You clutch the knife in your pocket tightly, discreetly, hoping you haven’t just made a grave mistake and gotten yourself in more danger. He takes you through the bar’s storage room, moving aside a tower of boxes to reveal a small door, held in place by a simple, secure latch; he snaps it open, leading you through a low archway that descends into the building's basement.

On the other side of the short passage, you find a tiny, yet nicely decorated sitting room - curtains hang from the ceiling creating a tentlike atmosphere, parted in places to reveal maps of the four nations hung on the walls. The center of the room is occupied by a large desk upon which many books and scrolls are scattered, and the air is heavy with the smoke of incense. Under the single lantern that lights the space, you spot the familiar face and humble stature of an older woman.

“Advisor Yong,” you gasp.

She stands in shock, pacing quickly over to you as you lower the hood of your cloak to reveal your face. She takes your hands in her own, clutching them tightly.

“My lady,” Yong breathes with as much awe as you addressed her with. “How did you come all this way? Are you alone?”

“Iroh gave her his tile,” the man who brought you explains. “I assume he sent her for her safety.”

“There are tunnels under the palace,” you add. “I told the staff I was feeling ill and snuck out. Nobody knows I'm here.”

Yong guides you to the table, sitting you down beside her and telling the man to fetch you a cup of tea. The time-wisened lines in her skin seem deeper than usual, creased by a frown that distorts her whole face.

“They'll be discovering that you're gone soon,” she says, “so we must make this quick. Has Iroh told you about his membership with the Order before?”

You shake your head, furrowing your brow in confusion.

“The Order of the White Lotus,” Yong elaborates, “is an ancient society that operates beyond political bounds. We come together to share ancient philosophy and knowledge, but since the war… we act as a sort of lifeline organization as well. Emergency aid for those who need it.”

“Iroh gave me that lotus tile when he was here for the wedding,” you tell her. “He must have known something I didn't because we’re in much more danger than we thought - Qiang threatened me. He wants me to kill Zuko.”

“Qiang…” Yong mutters. “He can't be the one behind this. He doesn't have the manipulative tact to convince so many groups to act according to his will.”

“He made it seem as if they were huge,” you continue. “He told me they had informants all over the palace.”

“He's a good liar,” Yong dismisses, though her expression remains concerned. “Intimidating, too; that's why he was the one to threaten you. But he isn't the leader. What did he tell you? When he gave you the order?”

“He said they'd kill my family. I don't want to lose anyone, but Katara and Aang…”

Yong nods.

“Aang is too important,” she finishes for you. “His death would devastate the world and put countless lives in danger. I promise, we won't let any harm come to them or anyone else.”

She stands once more, offering a hand with which she raises you up. She continues to clutch it, gripping you as if letting go means surrendering you to the enemy.

“I’ll call a meeting of our members within the city,” she states. “We have a few members staffed at the palace who we’ll ensure are at your guard. I’ll alert internal security and have them investigate Qiang immediately.”

The man returns, and Yong instructs him to leave the tea and accompany you back to the palace - as far as he can without compromising the security of the tunnels.

“Advisor Yong,” you say as you're ushered again through the passage and out the back of the pub, “we only have a week. Is that… do we have enough time?”

Yong’s eyes sweep your face, her pupils flitting back and forth as she tries to find the right words to say.

“I won't lie to you,” she finally answers. “I don't know. All I can promise you is that we’ll do our best. We reconquered Ba Sing Se with much lesser numbers than we have now - here's hoping those odds are still in our favor.”

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fascination-street-writing · 4 years ago

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In the Gathering Gloom | Leone Abbacchio x Reader

You think you might want him to hold you, but you refrain from crossing that line. It is a game that lovers play – and he is not yours. To love him, for what he has done and more, is sacrilege.

A continuation of Stealing Past the Windows

Content Warnings: P-TSD

You never cared for bruttiboni very much, but you do not mind the ones that Leone purchases from the bakery down the street at La Torta e il Coniglio. In truth, you are thankful for anything he brings home, for you remember what it was like to nearly starve so clearly that it might have been an old habit of survival. It has made you appreciative of the dry almond biscuits. Besides, they are far better dunked in hot coffee.

Leone takes the seat across from you at the breakfast nook. Laid out in front of him is nothing more than a ceramic mug of sweetened tea. You have learned, in your time living together, that he seldom eats in the morning – something to do with luncheons with his coworkers and not wanting to spoil his appetite. You finish your meal but before you can rise to carry your emptied plate to the sink, he has already taken it from your grasp and placed it within the basin.

Water hails from the spigot. “Thank you,” you tell him. He nods.

You fasten the apron to your torso. You have taken up a job at a local café, though not out of a monetary incentive; Leone provides for you plenty. Anything you request, he brings to you on a hypothetical silver platter – so you have stopped asking. But you understand his sense of obligation. You suppose that, in his situation, you would do anything for the child of the man you might as well have killed with your own hands. Bruttiboni will not bring back your parents; though, you appreciate the gesture.

Truthfully, you work because you need the distraction. There are only so many books to read in a day until something miniscule reminds you of the circumstances you escaped in the not quite so distant past. Perhaps it is the turning of a page in a romance novel – the scratching of parchment to parchment – that reminds you of pattering mice in the rafters. Or, the air coolant system that sounds like the rusted box fan of your former abode; to call it that – an abode – is an underserved gratuity. On several occasions, you have had to remind yourself that the gunshots on the streets below are truly nothing more than the thumping of life and movement in the apartments around you.

Regardless of it all, the verbal silence is the worse, because it is akin to the loneliness you once felt. It is unbearable when Leone is away. And so, you press espresso shots for underpaid businessmen and lattes for mothers who rush to work after dropping their children off at school – just as your own madre had used to do every morning. Occasionally, the businessmen congregate together and stay for at least an hour; they are always cordial enough, and never leave too much of a mess to clean. The mothers, on the other hand, are gone the moment their overpriced beverage meets their grasp. You are glad that you are neither a businessman nor a mother. But you wish you still had yours.

Leone sets the cleaned plate atop the drying rack. Water splashes on the plates that have already dried. Somebody ought to put them away, you think. Although, it is convenient to leave them there for next use. What good is it to stack a plate in the cabinet when you are going to pull it back out for dinner?

You sling your purse over your shoulder. “I’ll see you later,” you say to Leone. Taking a quick breath, you leave the sanctity of the apartment, not quite ready to face the new day. You suppose you should be beholden to the predictable, albeit boring, cycle that has become your new life.

After all, you have found exactly what you wanted.

“Didn’t I?” you ask to no one in particular but yourself.

You did.

You settle onto the couch and twirl the fork through the mound of pasta. The tender trofie, complimented by the simple addition of pesto and cream, is the embodiment of comfort; content, you sigh and prop your sore legs upon the ottoman. It is a simple dish, to be sure – and Leone has perfected it. It has become a favorite of yours. He prepares it once a week now.

Seated beside you, he eats. The low hum of the television resonates throughout the room. It is nothing more than meager accompaniment to the words leaving your mouth. Between bites of your meal, you mutter unrepeatable expletives regarding incompetent coworkers and rude patrons. Regardless of the grievances that leave your tongue, you are relatively – though not quite entirely – happy.

Leone reaches for his wine glass, bending his wrist to swirl the nectar. Threads of red velvet flush the edges, only ever for a fleeting moment. He raises the Castello Silenzioso to his mouth. It will be his only glass tonight. It is plenty, for he drinks your soliloquy as if your words are a sweet wine poured from a from a bottle of blush – insobriety without consequence.

He enjoys listening to you complain about work far more than he should.

Once in your hand, the fork now rests against the plate, still. You catch Leone’s gaze, unexpecting to see the look of adoration that sweeps across his ombre eyes; perplexingly so, it fills you with a pang analogous to guilt. It is true that he is indebted to you. But that does not mean you cannot feel like an extortionist.

“I’m sorry,” you sigh. “I shouldn’t rant about work, especially considering that I don’t even need to be there. Mio Dio, I just feel like . . .”

A burden.

“You’re not a burden,” he interjects, as if he can peer through your clouded mind and devour the thoughts pulsing within. “If you ever say that again, I –” He cuts himself off, takes a second to breathe, and continues: “It’s not good to keep things bottled up inside. You know that.”

He is right; but the bottle has saved you once before. “You say that, but you don’t ever talk to me about your work, which is obviously something stressing you out. Perhaps, you should practice what you preach: pratica ciò che predichi, Leone.”

“No, because telling you would be a burden.”

You have no doubt that it assuredly is. And yet, your final threads of distrust for this man cling to the uncertainty of his identity. Leone gave you a home after he destroyed your first, and a family of two to replace that which he stole away. With each passing day – each morning spent in cool silence and evenings shaped by dinners of trofie – your once-steady flame of hatred for him extinguishes ever so slightly.

But forgiveness lies in the lavender fields still beyond your reach.

“Don’t I at least have a right to know what you do for a living?” you inquire, practically teetering on the edge of the soda. “Or how you came up with the money to pay off the debt?”

“No.”

You pout and desist. Perhaps he is right – perhaps it is better that you continue to dwell in the perpetual state of innocent ignorance of which you have lived in for so long now. Better that than to be the judge of something you cannot understand. Conceding is never easy, yet you do it anyways.

“Forget I asked.” You trail off, pausing before seeking an exit to the conversation. “It’s my night to do dishes; I should get started.”

Maybe tonight, you will put them away.

“Wait,” Leone says with a heavy sigh, catching you in mid-stance. “Just wait.”

You sit down. He supposes it would not hurt to tell you about his day – barring the incriminating details, of course. The smile upon your face when he begins to speak is confirmation that he has made the right choice.

Because you look at him as if his stories are as interesting as yours.

“That’ll be ₤11,500.”

“Grazie. Keep the change.”

The handle of the grinder is stuck again. The stray coffee bean catches betwixt the blade and the stainless-steel cup. You jerk the handle back and forth in an attempt to jostle the wedged apparatus free. It cracks under the tension of your grip, so much indeed that it might break at your touch. You would rather not be the one to break the stubborn coffee grinder, and it certainly would not be pleasant to have to pay for a new one. You decide that it might be best to leave it for the next person to find.

Pausini is scheduled to work after you. Though you would never say it to her face, you find her to be terribly boring and a klutz. Better her be the one to break it than you. Besides, your boss would not be surprised if she were in fact the one to do it.

“Hey, signorina.” The cramped space of the café smells of stale cigars and a peculiar cologne with the inclusion of the latest customer. It is a familiar blend that makes your palms clammy and your knees shake. “Seems like you have your work cut out for you, eh?”

You look to the man before the counter. Although a fresh, healing scar adorns the corner of his lip to the highest crook of his eyebrow – the stitching is so crude that it looks as if his torn skin had been zipped back together – his is a face you recognize in nightmares: the man, your former procurer, who murdered your mother and forced you to work the corner.

With plenty of grit, fixing a jammed coffee grinder is easy. But confronting your past is as arduous as Atlas holding the globe with his own two hands. Regardless, you are not paid enough to do either.

The coffee grinder falls from your slackened grasp and shatters on the floor. You do not have the chance to meet the fearful look in his eyes, for you have already fled by the time he can process your face. He remembers you from nightmares as well. He remembers the man with sleek bobbed hair who split his cheek in half with the mere swipe of his finger, too. And the dirty ex-cop who nearly pulverized his kneecap with the heel of his shoe in the process, as if his bones were no more than fiberglass.

He leaves the café without bothering to place an order and finds himself glancing over his shoulder more often than not. Meanwhile, you push past street patrons and venders alike, ignoring the angry shouts thrown your way. Your cellphone vibrates in your pocket as your shift supervisor attempts to call you, to coax you back into work. But you cannot go back there right now. You will not. Instead, you squeeze your palms and bite your lip to ward off the ever-growing panic in your chest.

Never before has Leone’s apartment door looked so enticing – so welcoming – to you; not even on the night he first brought you home. You throw yourself inside and slide against the wall of the foyer, hand raised to your mouth to stifle your own sobbing. In the living room, Leone stands. You had not realized that he would be home. You are torn between running into his arms for comfort or running away. He makes the decision for you, catching you as your knees buckle and nearly cast you aside.

He holds you flush, your head to his chest and his hand through your hair. For a moment, you are back in the alleyway with your skirt bunched around your ankles and a chill to your spine. Broken bits of green glass lie on the cobblestone and catch the fleeting glimmers of moonbeams. You stop and listen to the beating of your own obstinate heart. It tells you that you do not want his help – you simply do not. You need it.

“Hey,” he coos as you quake in his embrace, like a newborn fawn. A fawn with wings perhaps, for you feel your lungs inflate, as if you have been cast into the sky. To anywhere other than Napoli. You suppose the world will stop for a moment if only you just close your eyes. And so, you do. Though your teeth gnaw at your bottom lip, and your chest might split in two, you keep your eyes shut, to salvage that which has mended and threatens to unravel if you should let go.

The trouble of it all, you know, is that you had never really healed. You simply had not given enough thought to it. You are young – trapped in what are supposed to be the grandest years of your life. But life is not forgiving, and you despise her all the same.

You feel only loss. And it is suffocating.

“Sei al sicuro, [Y/N].”

Leone does not ask why you have barged home hours before the end of your shift. But it does not matter.

“You’re safe.”

You do not believe him – you cannot even speak. You clutch him tighter and realize that he has been drinking. The scent of wine shrouds him like a perfume. Now you are dizzy and leaning on him is not enough: second-hand intoxication. He carries you to bed instead, for despite your shuttering of breaths and your gasps for air, you have asked him to do so. In the fortitude of a rumpled comforter and sheets, you lie awake, clutching the pillows that smell like his shampoo – honeysuckle, leather, and cedar. Admittedly, Leone has not slept in the comforts of his own bed in months, ever since he took you in. The couch is good for him, because you deserve the bed more, he thinks.

“You’re safe.”

But the pillows still smell like him, of course.

“I saw him, Leone.”

His hand brushes your back, hesitant, before it rests along your spine.

“I’m sorry.”

You meet his sunset eyes. He looks different without his makeup – he looks as tired as he truly is. And so do you.

“Please, just say you’ll protect me,” you bed, hushed. “Even if it isn’t true. Just give me something.”

Something to cling to, because the buoy is out of reach.

“Always.”

A wave knocks you adrift.

“Don’t leave me.”

You are pulled asunder.

“Never.”

You must be drowning.

He had not meant to fall asleep next to you. In your infectious exhaustion, you had succumbed, and he felt the temptation to do the same, soon enough. Though he promised himself that he would leave once you calmed down, he could not follow through. Your dampened cheeks had felt slick and sticky beneath his palms as he wiped them away. He lingered, admiring the way your lashes kissed the soft skin of your cheekbones, before he lied down. On his back, he memorized the pinprick holes of the ceiling, lost in thoughts of you.

He also promised that he would not fall in love with you – Leone never was one for keeping good to his word, was he? Feelings are harmless; if he does not act on them, he is content with longing. Alas, he settles in and away.

Hours later, you wake to the sound of gentle breaths next to you. Leone sleeps, caving after months without sleeping in a bed. Despite the additional blanket draped over both your bodies, you still shiver. You notice, too, that he has kept his distance. You think you might want him to hold you, but you refrain from crossing that line. It is a game that lovers play – and he is not yours. To love him, for what he has done and more, is sacrilege.

The daytime blues have blended into the nighttime rift of Napoli. The dark sky outside confirms that you have slept well into the evening, as if the analog lock on the bedside table was not telling. You glance over to Leone, who sleeps as if to forget the obligation of your existence. He looks younger this way, though you suppose that he is only a man of twenty, after all. He ought to look his age.

Your stomach churns into knots as you begin to recollect the events of this afternoon. Your phone has several missed calls from your boss, and a text from Pausini informing you that you have been fired for your transgressions. No questions, no inquiries: just fired. You wonder what did it. Fleeing before the end of your shift, or the broken coffee grinder – perhaps the culmination of both. Realizing that you are still wearing your apron, you untether it and throw it into the darkness of the room. If you never find it again, you will be better for it. Never mind the emblems of your mistakes. They will only make you grieve.

It is an undeserving punishment, and one that will tar your resume forever. It feels as if your dreams have slipped past your fingers yet again. Groaning, you bury your face in your hands, unaware of Leone’s stirring behind you. You wish to escape to the place where no one you have ever known will come – to start anew, wherever that may be anymore. Alone, with no husband, no baby in a bassinet, and no lavender fields.

You crave solitude to wallow in your shame. Leone sits up, casting the blanket aside. “I lost my job,” you mutter through your palms. “They fired me. I lost my fucking job.”

“You don’t need it,” he tells you. You suppose it is his way of reassuring you, though it does you little good. “The job, or the trouble it’s caused.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Sit in the living room all day eating bonbons, reading books, and watching television, like a princess in a castle?”

“Would it really be that bad?”

“For me, yes,” you affirm.

He sighs. “Alright,” Leone begins, “then we’ll start job searching tomorrow. In the meantime, it would do you good to take some time off.”

You shake your head. “I don’t want to take any time off. I can’t, Leone. You don’t understand. I need a job.”

“What do you want me to do about it right now?” You have no answer. “Conjure up one out of thin air?”

Until you do: “What about at that restaurant you always go to? Il Libeccio, or whatever. Do you think they’re hiring?”

He stiffens beside you. A cold look sweeps his face. You know that you have said something wrong.

“No,” he tells you with little room for debate. “And even if they were, I wouldn’t let you.”

But it is not your folly. To Leone, the rationality behind his refusal is simple: he wants nothing more than to keep you away from Passione. Even from his closest comrades. And even from Il Libeccio. Perhaps, it is that he fears what you will think of him should you discover his occupation – or his self-professed fall from grace, to go from being a poliziotto alongside your father, to a soldato of the most powerful gang in Italia. Indifference, anger, trepidation; he cannot fathom, and he does not wish to. He tells himself that, by keeping you away, he is keeping you safe.

But you do not understand that. And yet, how could you? In your ignorance, you scoff, irked by his insistence. “Why not? Are you afraid that your friends might see the consequences of you’ve done to my family and hate you for it? Maybe they should, if that’s what you’re so worried about.”

You have wounded him, though still he will not tell you the truth. You regret the words before they leave your mouth. His face morphs into a scowl, for your accusation has struck him, as if a knife has been placed to his belly. Your heart grows heavy with regret even as he exits the room, long overdue, with nothing else to say. The door slams so hard that it rattles on the hinges, and it makes you flinch. You are certain that your neighbors have heard it, for in the distance, a woman shouts, and a dog begins to bark; you feel like a proper idiot and a child, sitting there in the remnants of your work uniform. You wish the bed could swallow you whole. You wish to be anywhere but here.

Leone was wrong – you understand that now. A new wave of tears spills from your eyes, and you hastily wipe them away with the corner of your polo shirt. You know that you are a burden to him, indeed. You wonder what kind of apartment you will be able to afford with the money you have saved up. Perhaps it is time for you to fly the nest that you and Leone have both built together.

Perhaps it is time for a new start.

| 3492 Words |

Tagging: @honeytea8 @gloomygoregirl @idontlikerisottounlessitsnero

#leone abbacchio x reader #abbacchio x reader #leone abbacchio #jjba x reader #vento aureo

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autumnslance · 4 years ago

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((Shadowbringers 5.3-5.4. I wanted to have this done by the 15th of January but didn’t quite manage it because these two idiots are wordy as heck, and I initially started in the wrong place and POV. I wrote roughly 8000 words total and only ended up using half of them. There are letters and pining and admitting things happening here.

Below the cut as usual for those who prefer Tumblr to Ao3, but the formatting may work better on that site.))

Aeryn stepped through the mirror and into the familiar space of the Ocular, taking a moment to reorient herself after the rush of journeying between worlds. Once the vertigo had passed she left the Tower, the Crystarium guards greeting her as she crossed the Exedra. It took some questioning before she was finally pointed to where Ryne was currently; training with Captain Lyna just outside the city gates.

She simply watched for a time as Lyna tried to keep her distance while Ryne tried to close in. Aeryn did not announce herself, simply noting how Ryne’s bladework had improved, at least one new trick learned since the last time Aeryn had watched her fight.

“That is enough for now,” Lyna said as they reached a breakpoint in their dance. “And the Warrior of Darkness has waited long enough,” she continued with a wry smile in Aeryn’s direction.

Ryne started, then turned with a grin, hurrying over to give Aeryn a hug. “It’s good to see you! Oh sorry, I’m all sweaty…”

Aeryn laughed, brushing damp strands of hair from Ryne’s reddened face. It was still winter in Eorzea, but in Norvrandt spring was on the horizon and the morning was warm. “Not to worry. Hope you don’t mind the interruption.”

Lyna waved them off. “Go on; we can catch up later.”

Aeryn nodded, knowing the captain wanted word of her grandfather, and G’raha had given Aeryn a small package to deliver, but that would wait until Lyna was off duty and had readied herself. There was an order to such things with the stoic woman.

Instead, Aeryn turned back to Ryne and smiled. Had she gotten taller? “I have a question, if you’ll indulge me.”

“Of course!” Ryne answered as they walked across the bridge into the city. “What is it you need?”

“I have a note from Thancred; he and Urianger are currently on a mission, but he left me instructions for tod--well. The day it is back on the Source.”

“I see. What are the instructions?”

“I’m to ask you about the black willow box he kept in his room here.”

Ryne paused, a little sharp breath escaping. “Ryne?” Aeryn asked.

“Sorry! It’s just I was under strict instruction never to open the box, though I have the key now, of course; I still didn’t dare. It’s where he kept,” she hesitated.

“Kept what?”

“I’ll show you; it’s a good thing--I think--that he wants you to see. Come on!” Ryne dashed toward her apartment as if she hadn’t just completed a long practice session with the captain of the guard. Aeryn picked up her own pace to follow along after.

It did not take long for them to reach the apartment Ryne used to share with Thancred. As the girl opened the door, Aeryn realized it was the first time she had returned to these rooms since the Scions’ departure from the First. It was much as she remembered, though lacking Thancred’s continued presence. Evidence of Gaia’s frequent visits were visible instead, from lipstick-stained coffee mugs at the sink to dark ribbons left on an end table to a book that did not seem to be to Ryne’s taste on a sofa cushion.

Ryne paused in front of the door that had led to Thancred’s small room. “I haven’t been in here since,” she trailed off, shaking her head. “Gaia and Taynor sorted most of it, actually, so only a few personal things remain. I should probably move to a smaller suite to let someone else use the space…”

“Maybe you need a roommate,” Aeryn suggested. “Perhaps Gaia could stay with you.”

Ryne reddened. “We’ve considered it, but I’m just…” She gave a helpless little laugh as she shrugged, looking up at Aeryn apologetically. “I’m just not quite ready, I think. It’s silly, but there’s a part of me that keeps hoping they’ll find a way--a safe way--to return. Even just for a little while.”

Aeryn squeezed Ryne’s shoulder. “It’s not silly,” she said quietly. “And I keep hoping that, too. Fairly certain Y’shtola has it at the top of her projects list.”

Ryne laughed, truly this time. “She would!” She looked at the door again. “The box should be on the shelf above the writing desk,” she offered Aeryn a small key. “I’ll let you see for yourself.”

Aeryn nodded, taking the little key and entering the room.

It was familiar, yet unfamiliar. Always small, it had kept from being cramped mainly by virtue of Thancred’s own minimalist tendencies with his added reluctance of accumulating things on the First that he would have to leave behind in the end. Even so, the room felt barren, many necessities and items missing, given away to be used by others in need among the Crystarium’s residents; naught went to waste while still usable.

The bed was neatly made; her eyes lingered for a moment, recalling a handful of pleasant times curled up together in it. They had often met in her own chambers for privacy, especially when feeling the need for more than simple closeness. There was a bench under the shuttered window; he used to clean his gunblade there, storing materials and parts in a chest beneath the bench. Nothing remained but the seat.

The writing desk was really a tall square table, a stool for the chair, in a corner of the room. Two simple shelves hung on the wall above it, some of Thancred’s personal effects that remained neatly placed upon them. The black willow box was a simple but lovely piece of old Nabaath make. It was familiar only in that it was a part of the room, always upon the shelf above the desk, a background decoration.

She had to stretch a little to pull the small box down. She unlocked it, pondering what it could contain for one last moment before opening the lid to find out.

Neatly folded pages, Thancred’s familiar handwriting covering them, five different bundles marked by Vrandtic dates in Eorzean lettering. The earliest one was dated five--no, six years ago now, in the midst of Thancred’s first year in this world, just after the Vrandtic new year. The second bundle was dated a year later. Then the third, then a fourth. The final bundle broke the date pattern, written...She shivered. The dates would have been the time after they assaulted Mt Gulg and before seeking Emet-Selch and the Exarch in the Tempest, when she had lain in a Light-induced fever for days in between.

All of the letters, long and detailed, were addressed to her.

Aeryn carried the box to the window and opened the shutters, letting in the natural light of day. She sat at the bench, picked up the first letter, and began to read, brows already rising at the first line.

My Dear Aeryn,

It’s been roughly half a year, to me, since I arrived in this world. We search for a means to send me back, but given the dangers, it’s difficult to say if we shall ever be successful. I hold onto hope, given we have made the impossible happen more than once—particularly when you are involved.

I know so much less time is passing for you, even as time is difficult to track beneath the eternal Light, but the people still mark the hours and days as best they can--perhaps better than we do in the Source, reliant as we are upon the sun and stars. So as the calendar year turns to a new page, I find myself confronted by reminders of you at every turn, my own mind noting the dates, as if counting down to your nameday in truth.

Violas grown in the Hortorium call to mind your favored hair decoration and your scents carried with it. The heather meadows and clear mountain springs of Il Mheg make me think of the taste of your magic. Treasure hunters in Mord Souq unearth duelist rapiers reminiscent of your combat style. The grey waters of a lake, shifting in color and tone under the burning sky, remind me of your eyes and ever-shifting moods.

I think of our new situation, how fragile it all still seems, our duties as Scions, the distance between Ala Mhigo and Doma keeping us apart more often than I liked. Especially after already having denied my own interests for far longer than I care to admit.

I fear now, not knowing when I may return to your side--in whatever capacity--that I am forgetting important things, and I very much do not want to. So indulge me as I list your various qualities that I admire, to remind myself why I allowed myself to maintain my impossible infatuation for so long, even as you became one of my dearest friends...

Aeryn eyes widened as she turned to the next page, then quickly checked the several pages following; Thancred had indulged his bardic habits, writing in verse and engaging in wordplay. Even the most innocent descriptions and memories of moments together, professional and extremely personal, were laden with puns and innuendo--not entirely unexpected from him.

She was mostly through the verses, trying to parse every dedicated line, when a knock at the door startled her.

“Aeryn?” Gaia called. “Everything all right?”

She cleared her throat. “Fine; I’ve quite a bit of reading to do, though; I may need some water.”

The door opened, Gaia appearing with a tray already in hand. “Ryne thought you might--are you all right? You’re redder than I have ever seen, and that’s saying something.”

Aeryn pressed a hand to her warm cheeks. “I’m fine. Just...wasn’t expecting some of what I found so far.”

“Is that good or bad?” The girl asked, setting the tray on the nearby side table in easy reach. There was a small tea service and also ice water, bless them.

“It’s...Better than good,” Aeryn replied. “I may be awhile, though.”

Gaia shrugged in her nonchalant, pretending-not-to-care way. “Doesn't matter to me, but I was going to drag Ryne out for a while, just so you know. You’ll be fine here by yourself--won’t you?” A little genuine care came through in the last two words, despite her attempts to seem otherwise.

Aeryn nodded.

“All right. Enjoy your reading, and we’ll see you later.” Gaia gave a little wave before leaving, quietly closing the door behind her.

Aeryn cleared her throat again, sipping the cup of minty green tea--bless those girls again--and set the first letter aside for now. She would get back to that later; alone in her own room, where she could bury her face in a pillow and shriek like a schoolgirl when overwhelmed by his words, godsdamn him. For now, the second bundle had her curious.

My Dearest Aeryn,

I almost let the date slip by, I am ashamed to say. So much has happened in recent weeks...

She read through two pages of his recounting Minfilia’s story and the reincarnations that had followed, offering a small hope to Norvrandt; of Urianger and Y’shtola’s arrival, his anger at the spell’s failure and yet relief at seeing Urianger again; and their shift in focus upon learning of the Eighth Umbral Calamity.

...Urianger’s vision of the Calamity, of our deaths, is a sobering thought. The idea of you fallen especially freezes my blood. I cannot bear the thought.

So I redoubled my efforts to rescue the girl bearing Minfilia’s name and appearance. She sleeps now on a cot in this Mord town as I write. She can’t be more than twelve or thirteen summers; a frail little thing with no skills aside from reading books thicker than she is, and asking innumerable questions. They taught her nothing, simply locked her in a windowless cell under the waterline. For at least ten years, that is all the child’s known. If the fate Urianger saw for us makes my blood freeze, her situation makes it boil again. Should I chance to meet Eulmore’s General--the man responsible for her “care”--I will let him know exactly what I think.

Tomorrow Minfilia and I shall attempt to reach Nabaath Areng, the site of the Flood’s halting; the girl says she must go there, as if pulled. I have a hope I dare not voice yet. The Blessing of Light does work in such interesting ways.

But that is on the morrow; tonight, though a day late, I wished to write to you as I did last year. With the date in mind you have also been in my thoughts--when I’ve had a moment to think, at least--and I find myself recalling more and more often the little things. Simple things. Things I fear I may forget, having been here for years now, years without the way you tilt your head when you have a question. It initially annoyed me actually, you were so quiet but now, gods I would give much to be in your silence again, to see that quizzical look. Anything to see the little furrow between your brows when you’re thinking. When you prop your chin on your hands as you stare out a window, tea forgotten in your hand. How you unconsciously wriggle and make faces as you read, reacting to the pages, lips silently moving as you devour each word...

“Oh I do not,” Aeryn muttered--realizing in the same moment that she was doing that now. She sipped her tea and kept reading, noting how he wrote, as much as what; the moments where he had scratched out words, or underlined others. The splots where the pen had sat on the page a moment longer than normal as he thought of what he wanted to admit to. The way the letters slanted in places where he was eager. There was no poetry this time, fewer puns and word play. He had written when tired and possibly injured, given the shakiness of some lettering.

There were places where he couldn’t remember clearly--what perfume had she worn on the day of a particular memory? Was she wearing her red coat, or a blue dress in another? He wasn’t certain.

The letter wrapped up several pages later.

...I must get some sleep, given the long trek across the Amber Hills awaiting. I don’t know what will happen when we arrive, but whatever it is, I’ll keep the girl safe. Taking care of her is the only thing I can do, lacking the skills of the Exarch and our colleagues. Particularly now that we have abandoned the idea of going home--yet. I still don’t know how I feel about that, having struggled to find a way back for so long now, but there must be a home to return to. To save ourselves, we must save this realm. Forgive me; as much as I yearn to see you again, I wish for you to live far more. Despite everything, I still remain

Yours, Thancred.

Aeryn drew in a sharp breath; the previous letter’s signature had been much simpler, after all the floweriness of the verses. This simpler, newsy, reminiscent letter had such a different feel to it, so much changing for him in that year. Her eyes kept drifting to that closing.

It took a few moments before she was able to refold that bundle and open the next.

His next year in the First; this one another detailed description of events he survived, and quite a lot about Ryne, still only known as Minfilia at the time.

...I actually began this letter yesterday, as we rested in a small inn at the edge of the Greatwood. I thought of seeking out Y’shtola, but am unfamiliar with those dark and twisting paths, and was low on ammunition. Minfilia was exhausted, unable to fight or imbue cartridges, and I won’t risk her more than our constant travels already do.

It was she who reminded me that I had been writing, before she made me take my rest as well. I’ve never told her about these letters, but she’s a bright girl and I have told her of you. Sometimes it’s simply because she is curious about you, and the hope that you’ll come here and save yourself, as well as the rest of us. Many times though I don’t mean to say anything, but the stories simply come, like a slumbering spring awoken by new rains, bubbling up and overflowing the riverbanks.

It’s something about her, I suppose, that makes me remember, and so I must speak before the memories fade back into the dustier corridors of my mind. Perhaps an effect of her unique Blessing? Or perhaps simply her childish curiosity drawing it out of me.

There’s a selfish part of me that wants you to meet her. It would mean that you’re here, for one, but also I think you two would get along. She’s a good girl--with her moments of petulance and stubbornness, as many youths are wont, but she’s come such a long way already, has learned so quickly.

I fear influencing her. The choice she must make is so important, and it must be hers. You would be a much better role model; you inspire others to do what’s best simply by your presence. I’ve felt the lack of you more keenly this last year than ever before...

Aeryn read through, noting he wrote it more like a conversation she had yet to answer. Memories of their adventures and companionship were woven through the words more naturally as he spoke to her. She smiled as he spent a good chunk of the letter not even realizing how he had gushed about Ryne and all she had learned and how she had grown in that first year they spent together, as if he were trying to ensure Aeryn would love the child as much as he so obviously did--even if the foolish man hadn’t been able to tell the girl so until it had almost been too late.

But then, that was Thancred; locking his thoughts and feelings behind stoicism, snark, and literally in a box on a shelf.

She traced her nail along the letters of his name--again signed “Yours”--before tucking that bundle away and picking up the fourth.

By this time the twins were somewhere in Norvrandt, though Thancred had no opportunity to see them as Eulmore’s hunters were ever close. He wrote to Aeryn of his frustration with how many Scions had come to the First but she was still so far away and still in so much danger, alongside the rest of the Source and this shard itself. If she couldn’t come to Norvrandt to break the Light’s hold over the realm then the girl would have to make her choice sooner rather than later--and perhaps face the same fate as all of her predecessors.

He admitted that he feared both of those outcomes. He seemed to have begun to cross out that line, but had stopped himself.

...A nasty part of me believes you will never receive these nameday letters. That these are simply my way of remembering yet another important woman in my life I will never see again. I try not to dwell on such thoughts, try to keep busy, but you know me. Perhaps better than anyone since our Minfilia. How I wish I could speak with you again; patrolling through Mor Dhona, lunch at Rowena’s cafe, stargazing on the roofs of Ala Mhigo, reading in the Waking Sands’ dusty library. Simply holding you until we fall asleep, those few, rare moments we had. You always made me say more than I ever meant to; you’ve a way of drawing me out despite myself—and failing that, of simply being there as a brilliant, warm presence.

There are places here I want to show you, things I want to share. Yet I fear your coming, what it will mean. What changes I’ve experienced. What we had was...comfortable, and felt right, after so long, and yet it was still so new and fragile. I used to be confident in my ability to be delicate, but these last few years with this girl have made me feel boorish and clumsy. And I know I have changed, not just because of her, but everything in this hard world. Will you recognize me when we meet? Will you still want me, when you were already so uncertain before?

I suppose I shan’t know until you’re here, or we find a way home. Given the Exarch’s record, the former seems more likely. And it still worries me, much as I know it’s the better course to preserve all we hold dear...

Aeryn stared out the window for a long moment; she had known of his doubts, his fears; when she had arrived and finally found him again, it had been difficult. Yet despite everything, they had gotten past it.

She eyed the final bundle, slimmer than the rest, those dates seeming so heavy though she had no conscious recollection of them, given her state at the time. Having finished the tea, she poured a glass of water and began to read.

Aeryn,

Ryne assures us you will still be Aeryn when you wake; her wards hold for now. I pray long enough to find a cure for what those bastards did to you. What we did to you, unknowing. Will you be pleased to know I have not struck Urianger for his part? I was too tired and injured as we returned, and occupied with carrying you besides. Now I simply am too weary in heart and mind to conjure that initial anger, and he has had time to explain how the Exarch coerced him into his confidence.

I am still not happy about it.

For five years I waited to see you again, thought about you through many days and most nights--such as they are, here. It’s funny what one can become accustomed to in time. Finally seeing you again was a jolt to every one of my senses as the missing you had long since become more real to me, much as I longed for your presence.

And as I feared, you hesitated. I don’t blame you; I know this place changed me. What we had back home was still so new, despite the prior years we had known each other. So I tried to be content to merely be in your company once more. We had rebuilt our friendship once, we could do it again. I had been a fool to think I deserved more.

Then you sought me out in Rak’tika. Do I need to tell you how you intoxicated me that day? I hope I was a comfort, both in words and in the release you needed. The distance still felt too great, but this much, at least, I could give. I thought it would be enough, to simply be what you needed in the moment.

I know now that I was once again fooling myself.

These last few months traveling and fighting and just being together have been a strange mix of stress and relief; our mission had been dangerous and difficult in so many ways, and yet working together, it was hard not to get caught up in the optimism, in the feeling that things would turn out, that we would find a way.

And you were here; your quizzical headtilts, your faces when you read, the white flowers in your hair. Your silences, your laughter, your strength in combat and your helping with every common chore in the vicinity. I thought I could simply be happy to bask in your steady light.

But now, seeing it tear you apart, it is not enough; it never was, and never will be. I can live with it, should that be your wish. My wish, however, is to continue what we had once begun. To hold you close not only occasionally but always.

Aeryn felt a hard lump in her throat; there was a decent space between the lines, the ink thick where he had hesitated, the initial letters shaky. Still he had written them:

I am in love with you, Aeryn.

It’s taken me time to collect myself after rereading what I just wrote and fighting the urge to burn the whole page. A part of me fears that you will scoff, though the greater part of me knows--hopes--better of you.

And the gods know you deserve better than me, but if you’ll have me, I certainly won’t complain.

I know after everything with Ryne I ought to say it to you aloud. That it may already be too late to do so. I pray that isn’t the case. I pray I find the courage and the words both to say what you deserve to hear. Even should you never reciprocate; if that should be the case, you shall never hear another whisper from me on the matter.

But I hold out a small hope, that you will, that you do. That we will have the chance to discuss the matter further. That you survive.

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. I only know I’ll be at your side until the end; there’s nowhere else I can be.

Ryne is calling; hold on just a little while longer, darling.

Yours always, Thancred.

She covered her face with her hands, emotions and memories flooding over her. There were words before finally confronting Emet-Selch in his memory of Amaurot. More than words on returning to the Crystarium, bodies twined together in relief and comfort.

Then she had returned to the Source to report their success. She came back to the First as quickly as she could, though; not only was there still much work to do, but he was here, and things were...not exactly different, but not quite the same, either.

As she reread the last page, she noticed a swiftly written addendum on the back. She turned it over.

I carried these letters all the way to the Tempest, thinking if I failed to say anything I might at least give them to you--they are yours, after all. But of course no time seemed right, and with a screwing of my courage (and pointed prodding from Urianger), at the last I was able to say what I wished. Miraculously, you said it too.

And now here we are, you peacefully asleep while the night sky wheels overhead and I still hear the celebrations outside despite the ungodly hour. I’ll rejoin you in a moment, but I needed some time to attempt to process the last few days. What happened in the Tempest. The fact you’re alive, and healthy, and claim to love me in return.

I’m not entirely certain why, but I won’t complain, either.

Rereading these letters, I’m not sure I’m quite ready to hand them over yet. They’ll return to their box for now, and perhaps in a few days I’ll be ready to show you.

Aeryn laughed lightly; of course he had hesitated to share them. The letters showed all his vulnerabilities behind the serious, confident facade he had developed. And with everything in the Empty, and then Elidibus, it was no wonder the letters had fallen to the wayside.

Until her actual nameday on the Source had come around, his note delivered with her breakfast by Tataru per Thancred’s instructions while he was on his latest reconnaissance. It wasn’t as if he could have brought the letters with him, after all--nor given them to her in front of the rest of the Scions in the Ocular, nevermind how public their relationship was now.

She rubbed her face--she had cried more than a few times while reading--and replaced the letters in the box. She locked it, and pocketed the key.

The girls were still out so it was no trouble to take the tea service to the sink and clean it, along with the other dishes, giving her time and activity to settle. She finished by washing her own face, removing some evidence of her emotion.

Since the first year she had joined the Scions, they had given each other gifts; she had discovered his nameday from Minfilia, gifting him the orchestrion roll of a song she knew he liked from a favorite minstrel. Her own first nameday as a Scion had been missed due to Lahabrea and Baelsar’s schemes, but Thancred was certain to make up for it. Sometimes they were late, or even early, but they always managed a little something, even as friends.

Aeryn took the box with her as she left Ryne’s apartment. She still had a few people to see while here on the First--starting with Lyna and the messages from G’raha--but then she would retire to her own suite in the Pendants and do a bit of rereading.

And maybe a bit more once she returned home, too; after all, if she timed it right, it would still be her nameday, and the best time to reread her present.

#Final Fantasy XIV #Lyn Writing #Shadowbringers #Thancred Waters #Thancred x WoL #Shippy Nonsense #Aeryn Striker #Pining

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