#i left it long enough in my drafts to ruminate in my mind before i decided that i don't wanna write it womp womp SORRY AGAIN NONNIE

[tachimichishrine]

As a fan of the underrated, could I request a short Ranpo × Tachihara write-up? (With obscenity, please) 🥺

hello dear!! unfortunately, I don't write mxm smut bc I am a straight fem (shocking w all the lesbian shit i write, ik) and dont feel comfortable writing abt that, also I quite frankly ship no one with tachihara except myself,,,

DONT GET ME WRONG I FKKIN LOVE RAREPAIRS AND THIS SHIP INCREASINGLY GOT CUTER IN MY MIND ONCE I THOUGHT ABOUT IT??? like I was researching timelines in order to be accurate and it would be rly cute if little ranpo had a detective case where he had to solve the crime that little tachi comitted,,,, but.... but....... but then i did the math............. they have a 7 year age gap........ 👩‍🦯👩‍🦯👩‍🦯

sorry hun i didn't mean to let down the underrated community today but i just dont wanna write for ships rn 😔��

[akechiwrld]

born to die ꨄ haikaveh

art by @/mezudy678 on twt!!

tw | suicide ideation, death, alchoholism.

word count | 1,424 words ★ genre | angst, mentally ill kaveh, mental illness, major character death, au where haitham dies and kaveh is sad basically, kaveh is delusional, like in the traditional sense, depression/depression-like symptoms, me monopolising on lana del rey's lyrical genius<33

a/n | this has been sitting in my drafts for i kid you not over 6 months i think?!?! so yeah i just thought i should post it before the new year! i ruminated over the ending for so long but yknow new year new me so i just posted it. idk why i always make kaveh suffer but here is he suffering again. enjoy!?!?

link to my masterlist/how to request!

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · · 

“I’ll be waiting for you in heaven, my love.” 

The firm grip on Kaveh’s hand loosens as he feels his lover’s strength wane, taking not just his own, but Kaveh’s life force with it too.  

No, no… just a little longer, please. 

“But heaven is a place on Earth with you,” the blonde sniffles, embracing Alhaitham for the last time, “Don’t leave me…I still need you.” 

A chuckle erupts from the man next to him, and at that moment, Kaveh wishes he could loop that sound and listen to it forever, to keep Alhaitham in a world of his own design, where they could live together in the grandest of castles, all designed by Kaveh himself. 

He would construct them the most convenient house. Two study rooms for when they want to keep their distance from each other, a private library for Alhaitham, and a garden filled with all of Lesser Lord Kusanali’s creations, the plants being residents of the home just as much as Alhaitham and Kaveh would be. 

Kaveh sees Alhaitham, chuckling as he does now, smiling at Kaveh, his face aged a little with time, small folds of skin wrinkling around his eyelids as he beams, his happiness radiating, forcing Kaveh to smile along with him. If only time would permit it. Alhaitham is smiling at Kaveh, and he thinks he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life. He wants to sketch this moment to make it permanent. To cherish the final moments he has with his lover. 

“You’ll be fine, Kaveh,” Alhaitham puts a hand under Kaveh’s chin, forcing the older man to meet his deep green eyes, “I love you.” 

By this point, Kaveh’s vision is white, and he barely notices Alhaitham pull him for one last kiss until their lips touch. The kiss is gentle and delicate, too delicate for Kaveh’s liking. The lack of strength only serves as a reminder of his lover’s fading energy. Kaveh pulls away for breath, his golden locks now in disarray across his face, the crimson hairclips that once kept his elegant plait together now in mayhem.

“I love you too.” 

Those are the last words Alhaitham hears before his vision fades, the silhouette of the man he loves the most looming over him, a teardrop the last thing he feels before he slips into the calming embrace of death. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · · 

Thoughts race across Kaveh's mind like a marathon, as if each thought had something of utmost importance to attend to, leaving the blonde highly disoriented. Even more disoriented than he would usually be at times like this, because at the moment, Kaveh has downed enough litres of alcohol to provide the weekly water intake of a family of 6. 

It’s at times like this when he can’t keep his thoughts at bay. Kaveh tries his best. He really does. He tries his best to seem okay. To maintain the façade of normalcy ever since that fateful night. He goes to work, completes his commissions on time, eats all of his meals, and speaks to all of his friends. He meets Cyno and Tighnari every Saturday at Lambad’s tavern for a round of Genius Invokation TCG, his thoughts steering clear of the empty seat to his left. The seat which nobody would dare take after the loss of its original occupant. 

Kaveh really does try. 

But on nights like this, he can’t help but crack. When he comes home to nobody, no annoying, shrill voice to welcome him, nobody to nag him about his health or his rent. These are the moments when he feels truly lonely, the only reliable friend he can turn to being a tall glass of wine. 

He sits alone in their usual spot. Top floor, at the back, so that people are less likely to find them. He knows Alhaitham can’t take people coming up to him after his work hours. Kaveh doesn’t mind. But this is just one out of the long list of habits Kaveh has kept after Alhaitham’s passing. No matter where he may be, heaven or hell, Celestia or Khaenri’ah’s ruins, a part of him will always live on through Kaveh. Always. 

At some point, though, Kaveh stopped being alone. He started hearing him again. The gentle words of his lover wafting through his eardrums. At first, it was subtle. A few comments here and there. 

“That client is a jackass.” 

“Go to sleep, Kaveh.” 

“Come on, love, you’ve got a meeting soon.” 

But then it became ubiquitous. The sweet, honey-like voice of his deceased lover followed Kaveh around wherever he went. At first, Kaveh thought he was going insane. Now, he doesn’t care enough to worry.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough, love?” A gentle voice fills his eardrums in an instant, a deep chuckle resounding with it, “Though I’d love to hold you again, I’d like you to live a long, full life before then. Preferably not dying of alcohol poisoning.” 

Kaveh scoffs and crosses his arms, “I don’t have to listen to you! What are you doing to do anyway?” 

The blonde hears a deep sigh, “I suppose you’re right. I can’t force you to go home, but it would make me very happy if you did.” 

Kaveh, in his drunken stupor, actually considers this. With a clear head, Kaveh never would have considered this a valid argument. Kaveh will do what he wants. But alas, the hurricane engulfing his mind causes a lapse in judgment. 

“Fine,” he says, begrudgingly, “Only if you cuddle with me when we get home.” 

“You’ve got yourself a deal.” 

Kaveh then gets up and stumbles out of the tavern, paying the bill off his own tab this time. He supposes a benefit of Alhaitham’s passing was that his wealth and estate were passed on to Kaveh. Though this by no means makes up for the gaping hole in Kaveh’s heart, he is happy with the convenience his newfound wealth has brought him. 

The walk home passes in a daze, Kaveh blames this for his lack of comprehension, as by the time he's come to his senses, he’s tucked into bed, wrapped in the arms of Alhaitham once more. 

He looks into his lover’s eyes. The orange islands in the sea of green standing out more than ever before. Alhaitham’s arms wrap around him protectively, and he feels the safest he has in months. 

“Haitham,” Kaveh sniffles, “It’s been so hard without you here to guide me… I miss you… so much. Every time I think about you it feels as though somebody is ripping my heart out of my chest and stabbing it repeatedly with a knife.” 

“C-Cant you come back to me?” 

The soft sound of Alhaitham’s honey-sweet voice drips through Kaveh’s ears, “I’m here now, love. I’m here with you now, aren’t I?”

Kaveh groans, “I suppose so.” 

“Let’s go to bed now,” Alhaitham whispers soothingly in Kaveh’s ear, “You have a big day ahead of yourself tomorrow.” 

Kaveh lets the diluted voice of his lover lull him to sleep, his eyes getting heavier until they slide shut, and Kaveh surrenders to the deliria of dreaming for the night. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · 

The sun streaks through the gap in the curtains, its rays hitting Kaveh’s face, illuminating his vermillion eyes as they blink open, the fatigue of sleep dissipating. The first thing he feels when he comes to his senses is the utter lack of warmth in his bed. The very bed itself becomes a black hole, Kaveh stumbling over himself to get as far away from it as possible. The very bed that was once the safe haven of him and his lover, turns into the very thing that seems to trap him. 

H-He was just here.

The soft embrace of death feels more tempting than ever now. It would be easy for Kaveh to sink into it; his thoughts being engulfed by a soft lulling whisper, convincing him to let go of this world and all the pain it has caused. Nonetheless, he gets up. Brings himself to his feet. Walking towards the bathroom, he surveys the empty walls of his once lively house, accepting the soft, lonely numbness that has become a hallmark of his existence. 

[buntycake]

Hey I really liked your writing so I decided to send in a prompt. What do you think the brothers would only reveal about themselves to MC after a long time of dating? Maybe a different side of their personalities or an embarrassing interest? Thank you for the hard work 💕

I’m glad you like my writing! I hope you enjoy this headcanon.

What the Brothers Reveal to You After Dating You for a Long Time

 Pride:

Lucifer never seems to struggle. True, he has his fits of irritation as he tries to run Devildom while bringing Diavolo’s machinations to fruition. Even so, to an outsider he always seems to have a plan Z for everything.

The first time you saw him in a less than orderly state was when he called you to his office during one of his all-nighters. It was three in the morning and he had asked you to bring him a coffee spiked with poison. (This would have been alarming to you if you hadn't lived in Devildom for quite some time.)

Hunched over his desk and surrounded by paperwork, he looked exhausted. He didn’t even take the time to save his coffee like usual. It was gone in one gulp. When you asked what was keeping him up so late, he told you about Lord Diavolo's new idea. It had him ripping hair out he tried to figured out how to implement it.

Though he tried to shoo you away, you sat with him until 6 am, when he finally called it quits. This became a semiregular occurrence. (You talked him out of his all-nighters when you could.) Just your presence is enough to make the process of figuring out the impossible better.

When you're more settled in your relationship, he'll start asking for your advice and help. It's hard to believe that someone as persnickety as Lucifer would allow someone to do a job that he could do better, but he trusts you.

It's not always about work either. The conversations you two have about his relationship with his brothers are when Lucifer seems the most vulnerable. He wants to be close with them, but struggles. You are one of the few people he allows to know that.

 Greed:

Mammon being completely serious is still an uncommon occurrence in your relationship. He has his more reserved moments, sure, but not bouncing off the walls is not the same as having that solemn, focused look in his eyes.

There are really two occasions when this side of him comes out. One, when he's in DEEP trouble with the witches. You'll know that his debt with the witches has become serious when he's pacing the length of his room and muttering a string of numbers and calculations you can't follow.

Two, when he's trying to comfort someone, most often you. (After all, his brothers aren’t the type to admit when they’re feeling down.) There was once you had gotten to ruminating about the past. Those memories had whirl winded into something ugly. All your past regrets and embarrassments built up and weighed down on you until you began to cry.

Luckily or unluckily, Mammon came barging into your room at that time. He was ranting about some new opportunity for making money. In your melancholy daze, it was hard to remember. You must have looked awful because the switch was immediate.

Mammon gathered you in his arms and rubbed your back until you calmed down enough to talk. At first, he seemed agitated since he thought one of the brothers had done something to upset you. However, as you explained what happened he settled down. He was silent as you spoke and his eyes never left your face as if he was trying to gather up your every word and reaction.

Mammon is surprisingly insightful when he wants to be. What he said to you after your rant was thoughtful and wise – completely unlike his typical persona. You knew the typical fun-loving demon had returned when he said, "Anyway, forget about all that stuff. You have the Great Mammon looking out for you now."

 Envy:

Levi is extremely capable. Being an otaku shut-in, it's an aspect of him that isn't immediately apparent and that you've probably only seen glimpses of.

Levi's ability to keep up with all things otaku, while perhaps not impressive to anyone outside of the anime community, is a testament to his persistence. And no matter what normies think, Levi isn't without ambition.

It's actually a little while into your relationship that he brings up an old goal of his: creating an otaku podcast. He was timid as he began to explain his vision to you, but about an hour in it was clear that he knew EXACTLY what he wanted to do. He just needed a little nudge.

After many reassures, some words of affirmation, and a pretty drawn out planning session, he got to work. For the next couple of months, he was busy - completely hyper focused on this goal.

He reached out to some smaller creators in the otaku community to find others interested in making a podcast. The two of you went searching for a place and some equipment to rent out. There were many late nights with just the two of you drafting up some beginning podcast topics.

Levi was a nervous mess before the first recording. You sat in on the first one just to be a calming presence, but in the end, you don’t think he needed it. He had a BLAST.  Everyone seemed to play off each other so well.

When the podcast came out, it was a modest success. Those that liked it were begging for more. He was practically vibrating from excitement and overflowing with new ideas after that.

Levi undoubtedly did most of the leg work, but he'll insist to his last breath that it was all because of your support. To him, he can jump any hurdle with you by his side.

 Wrath:

Satan is disgustingly romantic. For all the rage he can store in his body, honeyed words and sweet sentiments take their place there, too. Blame it on all the romance books he's read over the millenniums.

This aspect of him was probably the clearest during your dates, where he’ll take you to some unknown, but beautiful place. Even as you take in the environmental or astronomical wonders that Devildom offers, his eyes can’t seem to part from your form. It’s as if your existence is even more surreal.

This sentiment bleeds into your daily life the longer you're together. Most notably when you start finding small notes everywhere.

In the morning you found a note on your dresser, scrawled in his neat cursive. It read, “Your smile is as refreshing as the morning dew.” The smile in question appeared on your lips and you could almost see Satan’s amused smile in your mind.

Another note that said, “Your curiosity is something to be admired and feared,” had you giggling in the middle of RAD’s hallways. You got a few odd stares for that.

Surprise, surprise, there were more in your backpack, textbooks, around your room, everywhere. Each contained a small snapshot of his feelings about you.

At the end of the day, you found him tucked away in the library with a book like usual. When you asked him why he hid all those notes, he simply said, "So, that you would have at least one happy moment each day.”

 Lust:

Asmo takes pride in his appearance, but more than that, fashion and beauty are a defensive mechanism. If he looks less than perfect, then there might be merit in what people say about him. They might have good reason to hate or resent him.

When he's at his most beautiful, he can pass those reactions off as people being envious of his perfection. It may seem like a small thing, but it's a privilege to see him before all the primping and preening.

So, when you woke up after one of your rendezvouses and found him still in bed, you were surprised. Usually, he was already up and about, wrapped in one of his silk robes.

He always looked like he woke up fashionably messy. Hair that was perfectly mussed, robe that was draped lazily over his shoulders, and eyes that seemed dewy with sleep, but the smell of bathing oils and perfume always gave away his morning preparations.

Seeing him with bedhead, rubbing at his bleary eyes, and yawning out morning breath was surreal. You thought you were dreaming until he pulled you closer and nuzzled into your chest. His lack of pretense went unmentioned for cuddles and an extra thirty minutes of sleep.

Every time he does this, know that he's choosing to be vulnerable with you. And perhaps more importantly, that he's opening himself up to your criticisms. Ones that he can't/won't deflect and will take to heart.

 Gluttony:

Beel is rarely angry. As the peacemaker of the brothers, he's often the one pacifying the others. It doesn't leave him much room to express his own anger.

More than that, Beel doesn't like to hold grudges. It makes him feel guilty. There's already so much animosity among his brothers already; he doesn’t want to add to it.

You were really worried the first time he came to vent to you. He had entered your room a bit solemnly and gathered you into his arms. Then, he’d asked your permission to disclose something to you.

At first, you thought he was sad. Beel had commonly shared moments where he felt sad or upset, but this quiet simmering anger was new to you.

He started off quietly. It was lucky his mouth was right by your ear or else you'd have never heard what he was muttering. The whole rant started off with him confessing how frustrated he was with Lucifer for still withholding information and not leaning on the brothers for help.

As you nodded and encouraged him to go on, he got more confident. The conversation drifted away from Lucifer, to his qualms with the rest of the brothers. All of them for condescending his intelligence on a daily basis, Mammon for always going through everyone’s things, Asmo for constantly stealing his cake, and so on.

Beel had completely cooled off by the end of his rant and was a tad bit embarrassed. However, as he gets more comfortable venting, he'll let you know about small things that irritated him that day. It becomes like a daily confessional ritual between the two of you.

 Sloth:

Belphie is notably cynical. However, this gets toned down by his aloof, sleepy persona. As adorable and soft as he is, he harbors numerous negative opinions of the world.

He doesn't trust easily and often expects the worst of people - demons, humans, angels, it doesn't matter. To his credit, when he isn’t blinded by his temper, he’s often right in his assessments. However, for Beel's sake, he typically suppresses this response.

With you, he feels he can air out his grievances. The first of these occurrences happened after a post-nap in the attic. The two of you were curled around each other and he began to let his woes slip out into the space between the two of you.

He talked about everything from his brothers to the exchange program to even his reservations about you. The dichotomy of Belphie cuddled into you, surrounded by a mountain of pillows while lamenting the woes of the world was frankly jarring. But when he finished, he seemed to sink deeper into your embrace like a weight had lifted off his shoulders.

As he continues to talk to you about all his less than optimistic views, they become a sort of philosophical debate between the two of you. There’s something satisfying about throwing each other’s ideals around and deconstructing them. More appealing to Belphie is that the two of you can have these conversations without judging each other (too much) or forcing your morals down the other’s throat.

[punkpoemprose]

December 12th- A Convenient Arrangement Part 4

Universe: Canonverse Arranged Marriage AU Rating:T Length: 5336 Words A/N: Brain-rot I tell you. Brain-rot. Yes I’m aware it would be easier to catch up writing or finishing the drabbles and oneshots I have in my drafts but I can literally only think about this AU anymore.  I do have other ideas I really want to tackle though, so maybe I’ll try one of those next. We sure will see won’t we?

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

Anna had not been particularly pleased by the knock on her door before the rising of the sun. That was, of course, until she’d heard it open, and saw a somewhat familiar figure through her one open eye. They’d been married for just a little over a full day and a half, and already seeing him there, hearing his voice, brought her comfort.

“Anna,” he’d said quietly, “We’ll have to leave soon if we want to get back before dark. I think I’d like to show you some places on the way.”

So she’d dragged herself from bed, and now in the closest thing she owned to travel clothes, she sat at his side, watching the sun rise in his wagon. She’d offered to have the horse master prepare the royal carriage, but he’d shrugged at the idea. She could already tell that he was the sort of person who wouldn’t have others do for him, what he could do for himself.

She could appreciate that. She’d spent many years trying to dodge the staff when they’d wanted to bathe her or dress her or clean up her quarters for her. She’d given her poor governess a run for her money in her younger years, and now there was some special satisfaction she found in the tacking of her own horse or the styling of her own hair.

She wore it down today, in a pair of braids to make it almost proper. Being with her husband she supposed she should be allowed to wear it however she liked. She did feel a bit bad for the surge of annoyance she’d felt the day before when she’d watched him brushing his reindeer when she just spent time ruminating on her own insistence at doing things on her own. She was stubborn, and he seemed to be as well in many ways.

The odds of that causing problems were likely high, but she still liked their odds.

“What’s it like to live so far from the city?” she asked, just to break the quiet between them as they made their way along the road, few others traveling along as they did.

She wondered if Kristoff knew that normally she’d be accompanied by guards for any trip like this outside the walls of the castle’s gates. She wondered if he knew that he now should be afforded the same guards, and whether he knew that she’d intentionally had him exit a rear gate so as to not catch attention when they’d left.

The last thing she wanted on her first day left entirely alone with her husband was to have an entourage of guards a few feet behind them at most. She’d thought to leave a note in the servant’s quarters for Kai and Gerda, as well as one under her sister’s office door before they set out, at least so that no one would think she was kidnapped, but she was still uncertain as to whether they’d send a platoon out after her anyway.

“Simple,” he said, “Quiet. When I’m in camp with the other harvesters or in the market selling ice it’s so loud. But at home it’s peaceful. Sometimes someone who knows me well enough to know where my home is will stop by to visit, usually family or another harvester, but otherwise it’s just me and Sven and the forest.”

It sounded nice, she thought. To live out in nature and see untamed plants and animals each day. But the quiet aloneness was something that made her uncomfortable to think about. She’d spent too many years in solitude, quiet, alone. She couldn’t imagine wanting that.

But he was free to go where he liked, and he has family and he has friends.

His self-imposed solitude was different than her enforced one.

It’s better to have a choice.

His hands were on the reins, leading his reindeer off the well-traveled road and toward a smaller wooded path ahead. The city was shrinking behind them, and while she thought that it might be nice to get away for a short time, she also couldn’t help but fear what would come ahead for them. The forest was probably less dangerous than the conversations they might have now that they were well and truly alone, away from the ears and eyes of staff and dignitaries and citizens of her castle and kingdom.

She wished that he’d let a hand fall, so that she could grip it for comfort.

***

She was leaning into his side a bit as Sven climbed the familiar path up and into the mountain. Trees lined the dirt road and in some places, he felt the wagon’s wheels crunch over fallen branches and encroaching shrubs. Had he been alone, and had he had his hatchet he may have spent some time clearing the road. It was used by only a few during the summer months. There were others that lived in his section of the mountain, but they were mostly older and while they helped keep the path, it was a job he took mostly for himself.

Hermits have to stick together.

But he wasn’t a hermit, at least not anymore. She was warm at his side, and he enjoyed the contact. It was not a cold morning, the summer sun rising was already warming their surroundings, but the shade of the branches above was keeping it cool. They hadn’t been speaking for a while, and he wasn’t sure what to say. She’d been doing most of the talking, and he’d answered her when prompted. He’d told her about ice harvesting and the work it required, about his preferences for hands on work over more cerebral tasks despite doing well enough with them to keep himself and his ice business afloat.

She’d told him about growing up in the castle, being trained for duties she’d not been asked to fulfil when the gates had been closed, and how she wasn’t truly certain what was going to happen next. She’d mentioned that they’d be expected to make appearances, and that while they didn’t rule, they’d be prepared to do so in the event that Elsa could not.

“My sister has no interest in providing the kingdom with an heir,” she’d said, “The throne will be mine someday, whether I want it or not. People are going to want me to ensure someone will fill it after as well. Our kingdom is peaceful, the monarchy is well liked, but a power vacuum could be deadly nevertheless.”

It had been the last thing she’d said before the quiet had overtaken them. They’d spoken briefly of heirs and children on their wedding night, mostly to assure her that she’d never have to provide him with any, but he wasn’t sure now if it were something that she might have taken the wrong way. He tried to recall whether he’d qualified the statement with a willingness to someday have children if she wanted them, but he was uncertain.

“Do you want children?”

She was quiet, but she didn’t shift from his side. He took it as a good sign and let his hand drop from the reins, knowing that Sven knew the path ahead and that he could control him well enough with a single hand.

She took it, her fingers lacing through his as they both kept their eyes on the path ahead.

“I never thought about it much,” she said, “Well I thought about it sometimes, but not about whether I would want to or not. Princesses married, they had children, they raised future monarchs, and with Elsa being as she is… well I just always knew it would be my duty. I was very romantic as a child though, I liked to dream of weddings and things. I always thought I’d marry for love like my parents did.”

He squeezed her hand, trying to be as reassuring as possible.

“I’m sorry you didn’t have a choice.”

She looked at him then, he saw it out the corner of his eye and so he turned to her in return. Her eyes were rueful, her smile weak. “I’m sorry you didn’t either. I never asked… was there someone else that you…?”

“No.”

He thought maybe he answered too quick, especially when there was a spark of surprise in her eye. He couldn’t imagine why it would, he surely had to be blundering enough in his attempts at supporting her that she could tell he’d never been in a relationship before. But then again, she’d been alone for so long, and while he didn’t know much about her last relationship, he knew that she was also new to their situation if nothing else. Maybe she wasn’t sure of what being in a relationship was supposed to be like either.

“Sorry, I… no. I’ve never been interested in anyone before you.”

She flushed, her face going bright red. He wasn’t really sure what he’d said that elicited the response until she looked down at her feet and quietly replied.

“So you are interested? In me… that is?”

It was his turn to flush then. He looked away from her, toward the brush along the side of the path, taking note of the plants they passed, staring at trees and stones and anything but her. Because he was interested.

She’s beautiful.

She’s kind.

I’m not worthy of her.

She’s my wife.

“How could I not be Anna?”

***

The light breeze that swept its way across the small clearing buffeted the loose hairs around her face, tickling at her nose. Her sleep addled hands had done their best in braiding, but clearly she’d missed some pieces.

Kristoff’s hand was in hers again, helping her down from the wagon. It was a lucky thing too, her legs feeling like jelly with how long she’d been sitting.

She fell a bit, into his chest, and she didn’t mind at all when his other arm wrapped around her back, stabilizing her, holding her until she righted herself. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the various conversations they’d had on their way, but particularly the one where he’d told her that he was, in fact, interested in her.

It shouldn’t matter really. They were married after all. But the idea that her husband might have an interest in her beyond the title and duty to be wed, meant something. She was interested in him too.

He’s funny, and kind, and…

She had to tune out her own thoughts in order to quiet the commentary on his arms and chest and the attractiveness of his features. She lost the battle though, at least thinking about his strength, when she righted herself again and let her hand run down his chest.

“I hope you won’t be too disappointed,” he said, not dropping her hand as he led her toward one of the two buildings that filled the space. “It’s nothing fancy.”

She knew that she couldn’t possibly be disappointed. All she’d wanted from this trip was to get away from the castle for a bit, to get to know him a little better. She’d already been given that and more. His hand was in hers; he’d said that he was interested in her, and nothing had fallen apart around her yet.

The grass in the field around them was a bit taller than it was in the pasture where she rode her horse, but the ground was mostly level and easy to walk on. He’d already unhitched Sven who was munching on it happily. He wasn’t tied up, but stayed in the bounds of the space without difficulty.

The animal was smart. She could tell that he was either well trained, or had a bond with Kristoff that at least made him appear so. She wondered how old the reindeer was, and how long Kristoff had been his “best friend”.

She thought that maybe sometime the information would come up naturally. Or at least she hoped so. There were some mysteries she wanted him to answer for her naturally, rather than offer in response to her many questions.

The building was small, larger than the other that appeared to be a stable and storage space, but still smaller than even her smallest drawing room. It was built of logs, long, but thin compared to the trunks of the trees around her, and bare of bark. They were stacked high, perhaps ten feet, and appeared to be expertly aligned to create the walls. Into the face a few small windows were inset into the wood, and the roof, made of thick wooden shingles that were well aged with the sun and weather. A few appeared to be split, maybe as a result of the freezing and thawing of the winter’s snow and ice.

She’d seen winters split the flagstones in the garden path at the palace and supposed it might to do the same to shingles. She took note of the simplicity of the structure, just a rectangle of wood with the space broken only by the windows, the single front door, and the stone chimney that had been laid up the end.

Nothing about it was perfect. The logs that made up the walls were tightly laid together, and she had no doubt that it was weather tight, but the logs were cut to different lengths on the end, almost lined up, but not quite. The chimney had a slight lean to it, and the door and windows were not even close to centered on the buildings front. It had been made by eye, she could tell, and it was lovely.

She wanted to ask if he’d made it himself, but she felt as if she might be disappointed to learn if it hadn’t been. She was already imagining him, maybe a year or two younger, without a shirt and hauling the heavy supplies across the clearing himself.

She supposed his family must have helped. That’s what families did, or at least that was true to her memory of what having a full family was like. It was fuzzy around the edges, even with her parents death not having been long ago, because Elsa hadn’t really been part of the family since she was quite small.

When they made it to the front door, he opened it for her and helped her take the step up into the interior which was lit warmly by sunlight through the two windows that had been visible to her on the front of the building as well as another slightly larger one on the back. Small dust motes danced like fireflies in the light, and she realized rather quickly that it was a home of practicality rather than fashion. The main room was, less of a room and more a space. She saw a stove, a small fireplace, a table with a single chair, a chest, and a cot in the space with little else.

“It’s not fancy,” he reiterated, stepping into his home behind her, “Nothing like what you’re used to, but it’s mine.”

She thought for a moment about what it would be like to live there.

She’d want to hang curtains, maybe polish the stove a bit, and add a rug to the center of the floor, and maybe some hooks on the wall to hang jackets in the winter, but otherwise it was someplace she could, at least, imagine staying for a few nights.

She didn’t really think that she needed much. The amenities of the castle had always been nice, but she thought that she might be able to, perhaps, be happy without them. Running water was, however, one thing that she knew she’d miss if she were ever to live anywhere without it.

“It’s perfect,” she said, and she meant it, because it was his, and that’s all it needed to be.

***

He’d left her with express permission to do all the exploring and digging through his home that she liked. He had nothing to hide from her, and he supposed that it might make her happy to see his home and his things. He was getting to know her home, and while he supposed he wouldn’t be spending much time in his cabin anymore, he thought it only right for her to get to know his too. Her zeal after being given permission was something that surprised him, as if she had wanted to know if she could explore but had been too scared to ask.

I don’t want her to ever be afraid to ask something of me.

Still though, with her joy, there had been some visible sadness when he’d told her that he needed to leave for a short while. Normally he would ride Sven the moderate distance to the valley where his family lived, but instead he left the animal in Anna’s care, or perhaps he left Anna in his care. Sven was, for a very long time, the only living being other than his family that he trusted without a second thought. He was starting, even after such a short time, to put Anna in that category as well, and so he knew that he could trust the animal to keep her company or get her back to the city if need be, just as he also felt comfortable with leaving her to keep the creature from running off or getting tangled up in anything he shouldn’t.

She already seemed to like him, he’d noticed the way she’d scratched his head gently before they’d left in the morning, and somehow a small pile of carrots had appeared in the wagon while they were on the road. It may have been bribery on her part, though it was unnecessary. Sven in his own way, had already shown that he liked her too. It was another reason why he thought that being married to Anna might be something he would not only be able to bear, but to enjoy. Sven was an excellent judge of character.

When he reached the valley it appeared empty, void of everything but the occasional mushroom, tuft of grass, and bit of moss growing on the oddly placed stones in the space. He knew better of course, but to the untrained, unknowing eye, who probably couldn’t find the valley in the first place, it would just be another stretch of the mountain to pass through.

“I’m home,” he called.

He could feel the love in the space as a few stones slowly unsettled themselves from the dirt and rolled toward the shaded area of tree line he’d just emerged from. The mossy stones were large but didn’t come up much higher than his knee as he walked back into the shade to where they’d settled.

“I’m sorry to wake you, but I have something I need to tell you.”

The rocks rocked a bit, then popped apart into small humanoid figures. The one he called his mother gave him a sleepy smile as the one he called his father yawned, and the one he called his grandfather looked on expectantly. Grand Pabbie was always the first to have his wits about him when he woke, being the oldest and least effected by the exhausting light of the sun.

“It must be urgent,” the old troll said, already reaching out to grasp Kristoff’s hand in support, his brow scrunched as he tried to determine what was going on.

The two trolls that he called his parents came to shortly after, reaching for him and clasping his larger hand in between their smaller ones.

“I wanted to come and tell you yesterday, or before I even left but… I’m married.”

“Married?”

His father looked skeptical, as if he were about to start checking him for head trauma. Then rubbed his eyes with his unoccupied hand.

“Married like wed? To another human?”

His wife, Kristoff’s mother, bumped the troll with a look of cut-it-out-right-now-or-so-help-me on her face, then turned to give Kristoff a radiant smile.

“It doesn’t matter if she’s human or not… or if he is… or if it is. Our baby is in love! When do we get to meet… uh… your spouse?”

Kristoff flushed and it had nothing to do with the warm afternoon air.

“I’m not in love… or at least I’m not… I think I could be but we’re… We’re just married…” He found it much more difficult to explain than he could have imagined on his walk over, and so he just settled for the most basic information he could manage, “She’s human. Her name is Anna. Actually, well… Princess Anna.”

“Oh God,” his father said, “He’s kidnapped a Princess. I told you that we needed to stop pressuring him into finding someone Bulda. We’re going to have to move the valley, raise the protection crystals, explain kidnapping to the kids...”

The elder troll gave the other two an exhausted look, and then shook his head as he and Kristoff watched the two begin bickering. It was a loving sort of argument, but a boisterous one nevertheless.

“Princess Anna…” Grand Pabbie said thoughtfully, “The daughter of Agnarr and Iduna, yes? Is she the one with ice powers? I’m old and I can’t quite recall which one had which name. Elsa was one and Anna the other as I recall. One should be Queen by now I suppose. I know King Agnarr and his wife have passed.”

Kristoff shot the old troll a confused look. Of course, the trolls knew some of the goings on in the kingdom below and surrounding their valley, but Kristoff wasn’t aware that he knew of the girls beyond anything he’d mentioned. In the time before the last three days, he’d rarely if ever mentioned much about the human world below to his family, assuming that they wouldn’t be interested.

“I’m sorry Pabbie, I don’t understand… Ice powers? You mean those rumors about the Queen…”

Pabbie gave Kristoff an uncharacteristically wry smile.

“You have trolls for family, and you thought people telling you that the Queen of Arendelle had the ability to control ice was too wild a tale to be true?”

He would have laughed at himself were he not so confused.

“They say she froze the land, but I never noticed anything. My cabin wasn’t struck by an ice storm and while I didn’t leave home often when they say the event occurred, I’m sure I would have noticed the drop in temperature, or my clearing being covered in snow.”

“You wouldn’t have noticed a thing unless you left our area of protection and your cabin is well within it,” the old troll answered, “I forget sometimes that while you’re our kin, you’re not of our blood. You couldn’t feel the surge of magic when it occurred, or when it ended. I imagine an act of sacrifice, or perhaps one of true love. I lack the details. But you say you married the Princess then? So not the one with the ice powers, the one with the red hair. A strange thing that is given your history.”

“You don’t mean?”

His mother was the one who asked, done bickering with his father. She released his hand to cross the space to where her father, Grand Pabbie, was nodding sagely.

“I do. I doubt he recalls as we do Bulda, but there’s fate at work here.”

“Fate?”

Kristoff felt, not for the first time amid his adopted family, utterly confused. They often spoke cryptically, jumped to conclusions, or otherwise reacted to things in ways that befuddled him. They were kind, loving creatures, but he knew that in some ways they would never understand each other as completely as they loved each other.

“Kristoff,” his father asked, “How much do you recall of the day you became our son? And your wife… Anna… does she have red hair with a streak of white in it?”

Nothing can ever be simple, can it?

***

When Kristoff returned it was well into the afternoon. Anna had managed to not only fully make her way through the features and belongings of his home, but also of the stable and storage space. She’d taken in the neat rows of his small garden, and picked wildflowers from the clearing around his home, accompanied by the loose reindeer. She’d made them into a crown which sat delicately on the beast’s head, well designed to account for his antlers.

She’d seen little that surprised her amongst his things. Clothes, tools, a ledger of his business expenses and earnings, some miscellaneous personal affects like soap and linens and various things she’d never found interesting until it was his. His little home was neat, and tidy, and while a bit dusty in some places, overwhelmingly clean. She thought perhaps, from the variety of things she found of his, the worn but well cared for tools and the simple but clean stove with few pans, that he took pride in his simple life. It was reinforced by what she knew of him.

The standout in his things had been in the bottom of the chest that held his clothes. Amongst shirts and trousers and vests and winter things, she’d found three small but lovely crystals. One was blue, one was yellow, and one, which she thought for half a moment had glowed at her touch, was pink. She’d run her fingers over their facets, noted their clarity, and had then settled them gently back in with the rest of his things. She had plenty of jewels of her own, but nothing so simple and lovely. She wasn’t certain as to why they sat in the bottom of the chest, and while she thought that she might sometime ask him, she still felt nervous about the fact that she’d snooped at all, even with his permission.

She’d been feeding Sven carrots when he arrived, looking almost harried in a way she was unused to seeing him as he quickly broke through the tree line and walked towards her. She couldn’t help recoiling a bit from him in surprise when he walked up to her and with speed and little tact, lifted one of her braids from her shoulders and studied it.

She dropped the carrot she’d been holding, and the reindeer huffed as his owner held, not tightly, onto her hair and held it up a bit to the sun.

“Where did you get this?”

It took her a moment to understand. So much time away from people who didn’t know her had lead her to sometimes forget that having a shock of white hair mingled with the rest was something that was uncommon. It stood out rather well from her red hair, and while she’d often forgotten about it when styling her own hair, she supposed that they had intentionally hidden it as well as they could for the wedding. She probably shouldn’t have been surprised that it would have taken her hair being styled down for him to take notice of it.

She was just surprised to see him so interested in it while being so agitated. It almost scared her for a moment until she caught sight of a gleam in his eye. There was interest there, and nothing malicious in the least. She thought that she might be able to refuse telling him and that he would drop it, but there was no reason for it.

She wasn’t vain, and he may as well think that she was silly.

Everyone else always has.

“I think I was born with it. I don’t remember it ever not being there. Though once, when I was young, I  dreamt it appeared because I was kissed by a troll.”

Kristoff ran his fingers over it gently then. She saw him look almost adoring as he did so, her eyes glancing between the soft curve of a smile on his lips, and the stroking of his fingers against her braid. He set it carefully, almost reverently, back on her shoulder before he smiled more solidly and reached down to take her hand in his.

She let his fingers lace through his and felt her heart race a bit as he moved even closer to her and  loosened his grip on her hand to rub his thumb in slow circled over her palm.

“Anna.”

His face inches from hers so all she could see were his eyes, his lips. He was suddenly her whole world.  

“Yes?”

Her response was barely louder than a breath. She might not have believed that she said it at all if it weren’t for the way his smile broadened. He made a sound like a soft chuckle, but seemed almost as breathless as her, when he whispered.

“Do you believe in fate?”

I want to.

“I… I don’t understand.”

He gave her an understanding look, and then took a half step away from her, still holding her hand, beckoning her to follow him back towards the forest he’d exited moments before.

“I don’t think I could explain it… But Anna… Would you stay here with me a night if it meant meeting my family? They have something to tell you.”

She knew that she should be worried, that warning bells should be going off in her head. She wondered if her parents were rolling in their graves, screaming stranger danger. She wondered if she had been crazy to trust him and follow him into the middle of nowhere.

He won’t hurt me.

You thought that once before.

Her thoughts were warring again, but her feet were following him.

Trust him.

When you trusted before you almost died.

She could feel the ice in her blood, in her chest, but she could also feel the heat of his hand, the slow circles he was still drawing, almost absent mindedly. She didn’t let the cold overtake her, the memory of someone putting out fires and laughing at her foolishness put aside until there was only this moment, there was only Kristoff.

Trust.

So she did.

“We’ll have to send word to the castle somehow, if we plan to stay longer than dark… I don’t want my sister to be worried about me, but I… I would like to meet your family. Yes.”

His grin was the brightest she’d ever seen alight his face. His brown eyes practically glowed with the afternoon light and the warmth of his expression settled on her like a blanket on a cold day.

Kristoff. My husband.

She followed him to the forest edge, leaving behind the clearing and entering the shaded wilds knowing that he would carry her through.

[vannahfanfics]

Before you read, here’s the previous chapter. New? Start from the beginning!

Daffodils Bloom After Winter

Ao3

Chapter 6: Gratitude

Ayumi’s eyebrows were furrowed as her gaze painstakingly crawled through every word of her manuscript draft for the fifth time. Her hand was holding a cup of coffee to her mouth, but the liquid just lapped uselessly against her upper lip instead of being drawn in because she was hyper-focusing on the printed words. The page was already smothered in red ink, indicating spelling and grammar errors or sections that needed rephrasing for her next draft. Her brown eyes widened when she stumbled across yet another mistake, and she slammed the coffee cup down to scribble on the area with her pen lest she immediately forget her thought process. It was the last sentence of the document, and so once she had finished adding her note, she set the manuscript down on the table with a weary sigh. 

I think that’s enough proofreading for now. I should begin incorporating these edits into the file… Ayumi thought as she reclined back in the café chair and rubbed at her aching eyes. She then lolled her head to look out the window at the bustling streets of Konoha.

Usually, Ayumi worked on her personal research at home or in the public library. However, she had felt that a change of pace would do her good. She elected to work at the café by the schoolhouse. It was the same little joint she had brought Shikadai to when she had walked him home. She actually loved the quaint place; it had phenomenal teas and coffees imported from all over the world, and its pastries were all family recipes. She was on excellent terms with the owner, and they had even thrown in a free coffee cake with her purchase that afternoon. 

She picked up her coffee cup again, actually intending to consume it this time, and noticed that only a small amount of the beige liquid remained. She quickly drained the last dregs of it before shifting in her chair to go order a refill. However, before she could rise, someone set down a steaming hot and full cup of coffee right in front of her. Blushing, she glanced up with a gratuitous remark dancing on her tongue. It died when she saw who it was.

“You’re working awfully hard,” Shikamaru smirked down at her. He gestured to the iron-wrought chair opposite her. “May I?”

“Y-yes!” she stammered, thankfully finding her words again. He strode around the small table to sink down into the chair with a long, tired sigh. “Um… Thank you for the coffee,” she murmured shyly and slid it across the table towards herself. Its warmth bloomed across her palms, not unlike the warmth blossoming in her chest at his kind gesture. He waved a hand dismissively and sipped languorously at his own cup of pure black coffee.

“I saw you from the counter. The owner mentioned that you’d been here since 8 o’clock. I figured you needed a replacement,” he chuckled. Ayumi smiled shyly and sipped daintily at the fresh coffee. The owner knew her order by heart; the robust brew was sweetened to perfection with a combination of sugar and sweet cream, turning the dark liquid a honey-brown color. Its bittersweet taste spread over her tongue, easing her tensions, and her body began to buzz as it absorbed the fresh wave of stimulating caffeine. The minuscule amount of fatigue she had started to feel was swallowed in its invigorating wake. Shikamaru smiled in amusement. “You look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed already.”

“Yes, I don’t drink much caffeine actually, so it works rather quickly,” she explained. Shikamaru’s gaze dropped down to the collection of papers strewn in front of her. He looked as if he were going to inquire, so she enlightened him before he even opened his mouth to ask. “I publish historical research. I’m editing a draft of a manuscript that I’m hoping to submit to an academic journal soon.” 

He whistled in admiration and gestured to the stack of papers, wishing to peruse them; Ayumi nodded in permission, and he scooped them up to begin skimming the document.

“‘The Sociopolitical Impacts of the Second Great Ninja War on the Rural Village of Nichibotsu’?” he said with raised eyebrows as he rattled off the paper’s title. His eyebrows crept higher and higher up his forehead as he rifled through the pages of paragraphs, maps, and diagrams. “Records of personal accounts… Photocopies of death and birth records… Even photographs of the riots… The riots in Nichibotsu resulting from the governing body’s underhanded support of the enemy and human rights violations are actually very scarcely mentioned in history textbooks. Most people don’t know they ever happened. How did you ever find so much information on them?” He asked with a clear tone of awe, which made Ayumi flush and wiggle in her chair self-consciously.

“Well, I took a few personal trips to Nichibotsu to converse with the locals. Many of those documents were stored away in their attics and basements. They were more than happy to share them with me if it meant the plight of their ancestors would get the attention it deserves.” 

He clicked his tongue appreciatively and nodded with another glance down at her scribble-covered manuscript. 

“This is a very impressive account. I hope you’re able to publish it, and it gets the recognition it merits,” Shikamaru smiled as he handed the papers back. Ayumi hid her bashful grin behind her coffee cup. Shikamaru reclined back in his chair, tossing his arm over the top and looking off in the distance. A silence settled between them, a silence that caused Ayumi to fidget uncomfortably. The parent-teacher conference had only been a few days ago, and the tension between father and son was never far from her mind. Looking at Shikamaru, his lidded gaze searching the horizon for something unknown, she once again wondered if there was anything she could do to ease their pain. 

As Shikamaru shifted, a flicker of light caught Ayumi’s attention. She followed the bobbing white light to see the sunlight refracting off the smooth, slim surface of a diamond ring, hanging on a silver chain against Shikamaru’s chest. It was most obviously a wedding band. She stared at it with wide eyes, her breath hitching in her throat; when Shikamaru noticed her intense gaze, he frowned and tucked the ring back underneath his shirt. 

“Don’t stick my nose in where it’s not wanted, right?” she asked hollowly. Shikamaru’s frown deepened at her echo of his unkind words, and he rubbed at the back of his neck. “You don’t have to answer me… but I think it’s important for Shikadai’s sake… that I know what happened to your wife,” she posed slowly. Shikamaru’s dark eyes bored into hers. Doubt and fear swam within the black depths. “I only want to help my student.” And you. 

Shikamaru inhaled sharply, then breathed out through his nose. He hunched over the coffee table while gripping his coffee cup tight, bending the plastic under the force and causing the dark liquid to bulge near the rim. He did not answer her for several minutes, ruminating on the decision to allow Ayumi into his fractured heart or continue to keep her beyond the walls he had built. 

His eyes fixated on the swirls of bubbles floating in his coffee. 

“My wife perished on a mission,” he revealed quietly. His thumbs slowly slid up and down on the smooth paper of the coffee cup. “One year ago.” He drained the cup of the bitter liquid and set it down, lips smoothing into a thin, terse line. Sensing that the troubled man wished to offer no further explanation, Ayumi did not press him for more information. 

“I see. I’m sorry to hear that.” And she was. Death never loomed far from ninja, even in times of supposed peace. Even routine missions could turn deadly. Such was the uncertainty of their profession. Saddening news as it was, Ayumi was still glad for it; finally, she could understand the rift between Shikamaru and his son and why Shikadai was so emotionally volatile. Everyone responded to sudden deaths of loved ones differently— and it was clear that these two had reacted very negatively, one lashing out and the other trying desperately to bottle everything up inside. 

Shikamaru only grunted at her in response. His brows were furrowed deep over his eyes, bringing hard edges to his dark pupils. His hand curled over his mouth with a stiff grip that turned his knuckles white. She wondered if she had pressed him too much in her quest for information; guilt prickled at her gut. As she squirmed uncomfortably, Shikamaru’s eyes slowly flickered up to meet her face. The hint of a smile peeked above the edge of his hand. 

“Don’t look so uneasy. I’m all right,” Shikamaru chortled. The strain in his tone left much to be desired; it was clear he was trying to put up a strong front to keep Ayumi from pestering further. Despite her curiosity, Ayumi knew that the best thing to do would be to allow Shikamaru to reveal his tragic story at his own pace. 

As he dropped his hand, he continued, “I’m actually grateful, you know, to see you taking such an interest in Shikadai’s welfare.” Ayumi perked up, a haze of pink dusting her cheeks. He smiled wryly, seemingly amused by her bashfulness and surprise. “I know I’m not going to win Parent of the Year or anything, but I do care about my son. I recognize that he needs a positive influence in his life, considering I’m anything but.” 

“You sell yourself short,” Ayumi contradicted quietly. “You’re a man who’s suffered an inconceivable loss. Both of you have. Difficulty processing and managing that is to be expected.” She breathed in quietly and then timidly reached out to take Shikamaru’s hand. He did not retreat from her, only stared down at her small hand covering his own through lidded, pained eyes. “I’m not sure what it’s worth… but I think you’re doing the best you can given your situation. Both you and Shikadai have shown tremendous growth just since I’ve known you… I’m sure that with time that you two will be able to come together again.” 

Shikamaru continued to just stare silently at her hand, watching her thumb gently sweep back and forth over the top. A smile crawled onto his lips, and his gaze slowly up to her warm brown eyes. 

“Well, that’s not due to anything on my part.” 

Ayumi’s face flushed at the implication of his words. She fiddled with her manuscript, flipping the corners of the pages as she tried not to seem too satisfied with his unspoken praise. 

“You sell yourself short,” she repeated meekly. Shikamaru snorted amusedly, once again studying her hand. It was clearly a teacher’s, smooth and unblemished— not like Shikamaru’s, which was roughened with years of battle and toil. He studied her hand like it held all the solutions to his problems, which made her flush darker and fidget in her chair. As her hand twitched over his, it seemed he decided that he’d disrupted Ayumi’s work long enough. 

She lamented the loss of his gentle heat as he withdrew his hand from underneath hers. 

“Well, I do believe I’ve taken up enough of your time,” he sighed, languidly rising from the chair. “I’d hate to delay your contribution to academia any further,” he chuckled with a small wink. Ayumi giggled and hugged her edited manuscript to her chest with one hand while reaching for her coffee with the other. When she brought it to her lips, she recoiled, discovering that the liquid had long since gone cold. She smacked her lips distastefully and set it down with a grimace. 

“I’ve definitely taken up enough of your time,” Shikamaru joked and fished out some bills from his pocket. Ayumi sputtered refusals, but he still tucked them underneath her coffee cup with a willful smile. “It’s the least I can do, Ayumi,” he insisted in a soft voice. The gentle rumble of his tone made her heart flutter and the words dissolve on her tongue before she could speak them. 

It took her a few seconds to recollect her swooning brain. 

“Th-there’s nothing to repay,” she stammered and shyly tucked her hair behind her ear. “I am only doing my part as Shikadai’s teacher… and your friend,” she added hopefully. Shikamaru straightened, staring down at her with a complicated expression. He then smiled warmly and reached in to sweep away a stray strand of hair that she’d missed. As his fingertips skimmed over her heating skin and her eyes beheld that absolutely beautiful smile of his, all the breath left her lungs. 

“I’m grateful.” 

His smile vanished as soon as it had come, like the sun eclipsed by the relentless clouds rolling across the sky. Ayumi was left reeling, blinking rapidly as she watched him turn his back to head back to work. As she stumbled out a farewell, he looked over his shoulder, the shadow of that happy smile playing over his lips. 

“I expect a copy of the article when it’s published,” was all he said before he melted into the crowd. Ayumi gazed wide-eyed at the space where he’d been, and the glimpses of that toothy, giddy smile danced like stars in her mind’s eye. She wondered how long it had been since he’d smiled like that and what she had to do to see it again. She wondered if Shikadai smiled like that, too, or if he carried a little bit of his mother in his grin. 

Ayumi picked up the cash and stood up to get herself another cup of coffee. There was work to be done.

Enjoy this story? Here’s the next chapter! Please consider perusing my Table of Contents.

[blackwaxidol]

Drone post i fished from my drafts and finished up. it has no beginning or end i am far too scatterbrained to not indulge in train-of-thought paragraphs this is incredibly long

Drone does not like Europa very much, it took her more than a week to even consider stepping foot on it, she'd been... content to let everyone pass her by in a mad dash to glimpse at the strange signals emanating from the Galilean moon. to call her response to the message "content" is entirely incorrect, although her demeanour may be forever difficult to scry the emotional value of. she has a nervous habit of bringing her interlocked hands to her sternum, it could be mistaken for a pleading gesture were her face conveying adequate expression. her eyes are widened, but most people do not look so closely.

she has enough of Europa in her dreams and hypnagogic hallucinations to last a lifetime, there is nothing she wants to relive. so, she would shuffle through her apartment, picking apart and examining the innards of the Parcel of Stardust that irreparably ceased to function and she would obsessively pore over every last spontaneously-useless gun in her armory until it finally forced anger out of her and she would sit on the floor with her Blast Furnace on her lap and her hands over her face. a sort of computerised sniffling noise emanates from her occasionally. afterwards, she would push the half-dismantled mess under the workbench, and by extension a white sheet, and leave the room with her jaw clenched.

she makes herself comfortable in her proverbial fox den (the Drifter had called it a "nasty love nest", and narrowly avoided a swift punch to the jaw) and stays still under her weighted blanket for a while, ruminating. when Valin returns he is inevitably dragged under the sheets as a sailor's boat may be overtaken by a sea monster. Drone stubbornly refuses to elaborate and may instead lay there quietly contemplating the state of things with two warm arms wrapped around her waist and the imprints of lip gloss on her neck.

a lot crosses her mind, none of it considered anything more than recreational; she likes to consider memories of places she has explored if she is undergoing the process of sleep. hazy movements during a Dread patrol, sifting through vast hallways for the strange calcific masses that plague the titanic flagship like tumours or perhaps barnacles. there is a lifetime of data neatly woven within the very atomic bonds of those crystals and she always enjoyed hearing her beloved chatter about what new (yet terribly old, for Valin knows many things and this is mere rediscovery in the form of a dinosaur fossil) aberrant verse he has unraveled from the mind of the late Navigator. the Dreadnaught was formulaic enough that her brain can easily trick itself into feeling movements wash over the muscles as another jump onto a planeshifting platform is achieved. sink too deeply, and she bolts upright thinking she has just been bisected by a Cleaver only to discover it is mere fantasy puppeteering her mind.

such arguably troubling or morbid hallucinations are her favourite, the biomechanical-gothic architecture and complex arcana of the Hive are fascinating to study. her least favourite mind-constructs are those imposed by Clovis Bray. even so far from Europa, the hungering ascaris of SIVA lives and dies in the Plaguelands and she has never wanted anything to do with the supperating pustule that is the Tyrant's commands threaded through her exoneurons. she had been born, once, and a man of obsession had found a use for the "idiotic white noise" that lingered in spite of her transfiguration into a polymeric machine woman. a clean dose of radiolaria under vivisection to comprehend the inherent problem would be a fascinating study, but an Exomind is far too expensive to pick apart like a child impulsively dismantles their toys... thus, intricate wiring is set in stone and Xiu-1 is christened GEMU DRONE, a name her esoteric father had placed upon her for he loved the arts and humanities. GEMU, a mountain Goddess with knowledge of all the world (trapped or subsumed or graciously settled into the mountain she had been left upon, pick your poison) and DRONE, a terrible construct to deliver cold judgement from on high at the command of a master. unimportant glia segmented, a whisper of ABSALOM KNIFE had been breathed into the empty space. reimagined lethality, word into law spoken at gunpoint. an itch that cannot be scratched.

when she was reborn in the Light, her first thoughts were of fratricide. she does not know what a brother of hers could look like, but the uncontrollable obsession to grind his titanium-alloy bones to dust between her mechanical jaws shaped many of her formative movements. she unearthed and ransacked seraph bunkers as freely as she chose to breathe, but she never found Site 6. her armoury was littered with esoteric weapons of war gifted by minimalist and empty-minded metal skeletons as if she had many birthdays. when the Iron Lords perished, the flames that forged her motives had been wholly and irrevocably extinguished, and the phantom of SIDDHARTHA GOLEM faded from her mind like scar tissue that melts with time.

the days before the Black Fleet's arrival could be summarised as a hazy psychosis. for every omniscient satellite tower a Guardian helped erect, her grasp on reality and self-governed movement seized and stuttered. there is no machine the warmind could not want, no asset too unreachable to bring into his arms and configure in his image. there was a nauseating buzzing along her spine and she had been driven to automutilation to make it stop. her Ghost, who had long since accepted the stubbornness of his charge and the SIVA node he was essentially entombed in, took a page out of Eos's book and let Drone be unreachable in death for a week or two. the rest was helpful, he observed, but Drone spoke of death-dreams about an ancient garden that felt like home. it felt, she told him, like she had met family she did not know she had.

amongst the flowers, her brassy and moss-woven cousins, winnowing in their billions.

[sass-and-suspenders]

His Heart (Part 2)

GIF from plutoandpersephone

Pairing: Rafael Barba x Reader

Words: 1,347

Prompt: Part 2 of the story based on the song Straight Through My Heart for @thefanficfaerie‘s Backstreet Boys Challenge. You can find Part One here

Author’s Note: Shout-out to @madpanda75​​ who listened to me moan about my writer’s block and then somehow resisted the urge to smack me when I started complaining about the stuff I did write. You’re the best

Since leaving Rafael on the courthouse steps, your conversation with him played in your mind on an endless loop. It consumed your thoughts, worming its way into the places normally reserved for 90s boy band lyrics. The night passed frustratingly slow with sleep eluding you, leaving your mind free to ruminate over what had been said and, perhaps more importantly, not said. The various tricks you tried to fall asleep were useless -no amount of imaginary sheep, warm milk, or calming whale sounds could quiet your mind. You eventually resigned yourself to your fate, letting your thoughts wander down a rabbit hole until the first light of dawn shone through your curtains. Instead of insight, the only thing you managed to gain were dark circles under your eyes.

As you made your way to One Hogan Place, you were surprised no one mistook you for a member of the walking dead. Yawning, you unlocked your office door and stared longingly at your couch. With back-to-back court sessions today, you would barely have enough time to eat, let alone take a nap. The silver lining, at least, was that being in court all day provided the perfect excuse to avoid Rafael. The last thing you wanted was to run into him and be forced to awkwardly tiptoe around last night’s conversation.

But if there was one thing you should have known by now it’s that you don’t always get what you want.

Reluctantly detaching your gaze from your couch, you found Rafael in your doorway. Standing there, in a freshly pressed suit with bright eyes and perfectly styled hair, he smiled at you. The small part of you that wondered whether Rafael’s thoughts had also been consumed by yesterday now had an answer: he didn’t look like he had lost any sleep. In fact, you were almost annoyed at how well-rested he looked. Before you could tell him that this wasn’t a good time, you noticed the extra cup of coffee in his hands.

“Good morning,” he greeted cheerfully, stepping into your office and offering you one of the mugs.

You eyed him suspiciously. Rafael was not a morning person and definitely not someone who shared coffee. However, your desperate need for caffeine outweighed any reservations you had about his cheerful demeanour.

“Morning,” you replied warily, accepting the mug.

Just as you were about to take a large swig of coffee, the faint smell of cinnamon wafted up from your cup, momentarily stunning you. You always put a dash of cinnamon in your coffee, but never thought Rafael would have noticed your little habit.

“I didn’t poison it,” Rafael remarked, mistaking your surprise for hesitation.

“It would be too easy to trace back to you if you did and, frankly, I expect a more elaborate plan from you,” you retorted.

“Unless I used a poison the ME wouldn’t think to look for. Nightshade, for instance,” Rafael casually said before taking a drink from his mug.

“I hope you know that because of a seminar and not because you moonlight as an assassin to fund your expensive taste in suits.”

Rafael shrugged, a small smile forming on his lips. “I guess you’ll soon find out.”

You stared at him for a beat longer before taking a sip of coffee. A happy sigh escaped your lips as the hot liquid hit your tongue. Whatever your feelings about Rafael Barba that man knew good coffee.

Rafael’s heart fluttered when he heard your contented sigh. He experienced a similar feeling last night when you admitted you didn’t hate him. Rafael suspected you weren’t telling him the whole truth, but the only thing he could focus on was that you didn’t despise him. Your admission ignited a spark of hope in him. Standing on the steps, long after your retreating figure had disappeared, Rafael began to fan that spark. Accidentally stealing your coffee was fixable. In fact, it had a very simple solution. And so, alone on the steps, Rafael made a silent promise to whatever deity was listening that he would bring you coffee every day if it could fix the damage he had inadvertently caused.

And if this plan gave him an excuse to see you every morning, well, then all the better.

“I feel fine…for now. Thanks for the coffee,” you told him while attempting to stifle a yawn.

“Seems like you needed the extra hit of caffeine today,” Rafael commented as he made himself comfortable on your couch.

“Just stayed up late working,” you replied vaguely, tracing the rim of your mug with your index finger.

You narrowed your eyes at Rafael as he rested his feet on your coffee table.

Rafael’s brow furrowed as he noticed the dark circles under your eyes. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Unlike you, Barba, some people don’t need beauty sleep because they’re already beautiful,” you responded, leaning against the front of your desk.

“Too bad you’re not one of those people,” he smirked. “I thought Manhattan was in the middle of a zombie outbreak.”

“Well, the joke’s on you because if we were in the midst of a zombie epidemic, I’d successfully blend in with the zombies and survive. You, on the other hand, with your colourful tie and socks,” you paused, gesturing to the turquoise tie and matching socks he was wearing. “Would be one of the first to get eaten.”

Rafael tilted his head in mock thoughtfulness. “Hm, well, I am a snack.”

“Ah, that must be why you’re so salty.”

“But you admit that I’m a snack?” Rafael raised an eyebrow.

You rolled your eyes. “You’re an acquired taste, that’s for sure,” you muttered.

It didn’t escape Rafael’s notice that you didn’t deny it, and he felt the spark of hope grow a little stronger.

“Anyway,” you continued, moving behind your desk. “Some of us actually have work to do.”

“You’re right. I do have work to do,” Rafael grinned, getting up from your couch.

You frowned in annoyance, amazed that someone could get under your skin as much as Rafael Barba.

He was almost out the door when you called to him.

“Oh, and Barba? I may be sleep-deprived, but I still noticed the mug you gave me.” You met his eyes for a brief second, gracing him with a small smile, before turning your attention back to a file. The mug in question, Rafael’s old Harvard mug, was already half empty and sitting atop one of the giant stacks of paperwork covering your desk.

Rafael laughed, confirming your suspicion that it wasn’t a coincidence. What you didn’t know, however, was that he had brought the mug from home especially for you in the hope that it would make you smile.  

With your attention focused back on witness testimonies and police reports, Rafael took the opportunity to steal one last glance at you before he left.

The rest of Rafael’s day passed uneventfully; his hours were spent in a monotonous blur of drafting motions, reading testimonies, and dull meetings. Despite the minor frustrations he encountered throughout the day, a smile lingered on his lips.

Arriving back at One Hogan Place after a late meeting with the squad, Rafael was disappointed to discover that your office was dark. No doubt you were at home catching up on some much-needed sleep. As he walked to his office, his thoughts wandered to you in bed and what it would be like to be there with you. He could picture you wrapped in his arms and wearing one of his shirts. Outside the door to his office, Rafael shook his head to cast off the fantasy.

However, his thoughts quickly made their way back to you when he saw his Harvard mug sitting in the middle of his desk. You had washed the mug and placed a bright blue sticky note on it.

Thanks for not poisoning me

Rafael noticed a second note peeking out from underneath the first.

This time at least

He laughed quietly to himself, slipping the two notes into his briefcase, before heading back to his empty apartment.

[shadowphoenixrider]

Continuation to this, as my mind chewed it over a couple of days ago.

Katla stared glumly into the steaming waters of Circhester’s hot springs. It had been a week since her argument with Kabu in Hammerlocke, and it was still weighing on her mind and heart.

She’d managed to push thoughts of the gym leader aside during her training for Gordie’s challenge, but Kabu always returned to her mind in the quiet moments, like now. She’d not left his company pleasantly - she’d not even said goodbye, with how bitter and angry she’d been at his words and assumptions.

The bitterness had boiled down into guilt as she’d considered his words, playing them over and over in her mind. Kabu had only been trying to help, trying not to let her potential slip through her fingers. That he admired and regarded her enough to tell her that was...a lot, honestly. Yet she’d pushed him away, and with little option for recourse. She wanted to apologise to him, but she wasn’t even sure he’d want to see her again - that, she had no other way to contact him. The thought that he might not even watch her upcoming match due to this hurt enough to prick tears in her eyes.

In truth, it was more than just that.

She was so absorbed in her internal dialogue that she didn’t notice the figure that came to stand beside her. It was only when they spoke did she snap back to reality:

“Katla?”

The trainer blinked widely, turning quickly to see Kabu, bundled up in a large black bench coat, with a strange segmented scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. Whilst his expression was a careful neutral, his silver eyes were not - they were anxious, strangely fragile, like glass.

“K...Kabu?” Katla croaked out, her voice thick from lack of use.

“I apologise for disturbing you.” Kabu spoke softly, yet quickly. “I’m aware you probably don’t wish to see me again, but please, at least do me one favour.”

He handed her an envelope, her name written in his scrawly handwriting. “Read this letter.” He paused for a moment, and forced a sad smile across his lips. “Best of luck for your upcoming Challenge, Katla.”

With that, he began to walk away. Katla opened her mouth to call for him to wait, but his name got caught in her throat, and she could only watch him melt into a crowd of people.

She glanced down at the envelope in her hands, turning it over in her hands before she decided there were better places to read it.

---

Sequestered in her much warmer hotel room, Katla broke the weak glue seal and pulled out the letter. It was neatly folded, and though Kabu’s handwriting reminded her of a doctor’s, it was much more legible. And pristine, without a crossing-out to be seen - she wondered how many drafts preceded this one.

Katla,

I do not know if you will read this letter after our disagreement in Hammerlocke, but I write in the hope you will.

I’m sorry for insinuating that the reason why you’d not attained Championship status in the other Leagues was because you were deliberately holding yourself back. It was incredibly thoughtless of me, especially since you had confessed that you had given up your title due to the stresses it had imposed upon you. I have never known these stresses, and though I can extrapolate from the duties Leon undertakes, I can never truly know. Thus to assume I know what you felt is at best foolish, and at worst, offensive. I ask for your forgiveness.

I do not know the challenges of other regional Leagues - any knowledge I had of Hoenn’s League is woefully out of date now - and thus to assume that you lost to them because you sabotaged your own match is not only an an insult to you, but an insult to your opponents too. I ask forgiveness for this transgression too.

Yet my views on your potential are unchanged. I truly believe you could defeat Leon. I am certain that you will make it to the Finals. I can see the spark in your eyes, the fire that burns when you’re in the midst of a battle. I was honoured to experience it first-hand. Your love for your Pokemon binds you together and makes you strong.

Katla, it is difficult for me to articulate my feelings regarding you, but I feel I must try. I was curious about you from the very moment you appeared on the roster. All the gym leaders were - it is rare indeed that Leon endorses anyone, especially two challengers at once. My curiosity deepened over the course of your Gym Challenge, and deepened into admiration after our own battle. Whilst I am thankful that they are all recorded for posterity, I will not forget the experience for a long, long time.

I have found myself caring for you. I want only for you to succeed, and for you to get up from the falls you will no doubt experience. I said my foolish words not out of a place of unkindness. That does not excuse their pain and hurtfulness, but I want to assure you that my deeper feelings are unchanged.

No matter what you may think of me now, and how justified you will be for thinking it, I will continue to support you. It will hurt to know that I have caused this rift between us through my own fault, but that is my burden to bear. I only hope it has not burdened you as well.

I wish you all the best in your future endeavours, and I look forward to seeing your future gym matches. I will leave my number at the bottom of this letter in case you need to contact me for any reason. No matter what has happened between us, I will help you in any way I can.

Kind regards,

Kabu

Katla read his letter several times, making sure she didn’t miss a single word. The guilt curled tighter around her heart - he’d made a good point with his hypothesis. She’d been ruminating on it for a while and wondering whether it was true. She’d only been eleven when the mantle of Champion had fallen heavy on her shoulders, and Katla couldn’t completely dismiss that the bad experience still cast a long shadow. But she was twenty six now; older, and hopefully wiser. Wasn’t it worth trying again? She cast her mind back to the Elite 4 challenges she’d failed at - she’d bailed out straight afterwards, and she wondered if she would have dug her heels in and kept going, if not afraid of the thought of actually succeeding.

Yet Kabu was apologising, thinking it was him who had caused the hurt, when it was her, lashing out in pain and guilt and shame as he exposed the festering wound to daylight. Just as effortlessly as he had done in the Wild Area, asking her when she was going to tell Hop her secret. And she’d prickled much the same way, only this time she’d driven off one of the kindest men she knew. And it hurt more seeing that he still cared for her, still wished the best for her, was still going to watch her matches and put himself at the end of the line in case she needed anything.

A part of her wished he’d just slammed the door in her face - that would have been kinder than this.

Tears burned at her eyes, but she held back her sob. She wanted to find Kabu and make it right, somehow. The numerals stood out starkly on the paper, an imposing invitation that Katla felt too nervous to use. In honesty, she felt so emotionally tied up, she had no idea what to do.

At that moment, her phone buzzed, and she took a look. It was Hop, asking how she was doing, as he was having to get used to the snowy conditions his Pokemon now found themselves in.

Katla: I've been better. Hey Hop, I dunno if this is the right time, but do you have time to talk?

It only took a couple of seconds passed after her message before a video call request came through. Hop's cheeks were reddened against the cold, his bright gold eyes full of concern.

“Katla, mate. What’s up?” He said, brows furrowing when he got sight of her.

Katla sighed, pulling a smile and not hiding the tears blurring her vision.

“A couple of things. You know me and Kabu had a fight in Hammerlocke, yeah?”

“What’s happened?” Hop asked, an edge to his voice that she’d never heard before.

“Nothing, nothing bad. He gave me a letter, a-and I just wondered if I could talk things through with you.”

“Nah, I’m gonna do better than that.” Hop shook his head. “What room are you staying in, 448? I’ll be right there, don’t go anywhere.”

She could barely take in a breath to protest before the call ended, and she sighed. Not what I had in mind, but I’ll take it.

It wasn’t long before he knocked on the door, and would have bounded in if he wasn’t holding two cups with steaming hot liquid.

“I got you a pick-me-up.” Hop grinned. “You might not be freezing, but I think you’d appreciate a cuppa.”

“Shit Hop, you didn’t need to.” Katla took the proffered cup carefully, cradling its heat in her hands. “How much do I owe you for this?”

“You owe me an explanation of what the hell’s going on with you, mate.” Hop replied, taking a chair and sitting on it backwards next to her. “Where’s that letter Kabu gave you?”

Katla took a deep breath, her heart beginning to pound. Here we go.

“It’s here, but I need to give you context for it to all make sense,” she began. “That means I’ve got to tell you some things...some things I probably should have told you earlier.”

And so Katla spilled the beans, revealing her past experiences as a Pokemon trainer, as well as the fact she’d become Hoenn’s Champion for a brief period of time, stepping down when the stress became too much for her. She elaborated on the argument she’d had with Kabu, the whats and whys and how they’d parted company unhappily.

She paused, letting Hop take this all in, and waited nervously for his response, trying to resist the urge to fiddle with the cup of boiling liquid in her hands.

“That...That makes so much more sense now.” Hop said, leaning back. “Why Lee endorsed you, why I just can’t seem to beat you. Why you always get so mad when I say I’m gonna be the next Champion.” He frowned. “Hey, wait a minute. I’ve never seen it mentioned anywhere that you were Hoenn’s Champion.”

“It’s not something I like to advertise.” Katla explained. “Also news of my ‘ascension’ was kinda pushed aside by the legendary Pokemon shit that was going on at the same time. Kyogre awakening and attempting to flood the entire world was a much bigger deal than an eleven year old becoming Champion. Even if I was involved in that too.”

“I dunno, it seems a pretty big deal to me.” He trained his eyes on her. “So you don’t tell anyone about it?”

“No-one. Put it this way, Hop; you and Kabu are the only people outside my family in Galar that know I was once Champion, and I wanna keep it that way.“

“Were you...ever gonna tell me?”

Katla cringed, hanging her head.

“If I could have helped it? No.” She admitted. “You’re a good kid, Hop. I didn’t want to crush your spirit - you want your rival to be on the same level, not to learn that they were a Champion once.” She sighed. “I was going to tell you after you came back that battle you had with Bede in the Wild Area...” She didn’t need to look at the younger trainer to know he was shifting uncomfortably. “But you looked and acted so broken I...I couldn’t.” She shook her head, and a snarl curled her lips. “I could have ripped that sucker a new one, treating you like that. He got his comeuppance in the end, but still...”

Katla risked a glance at Hop, and saw he was still looking at her, his face earnest and listening intently.

“I’m sorry for not telling you sooner, Hop. I’m sorry to have led you on. If you wanna stop being my friend and just walk out of here, then that’s perfectly fine. I wouldn’t blame you in the slightest.”

Hop folded his arms over the back of the chair, resting his chin on them.

“Whilst it’d been nice to know my rival was a Champ in another region, I don’t blame you for keeping it secret. The media would never leave you alone if they found out. Speaking of which,” he stuck out a hand, dropping it on Katla’s shoulder. “I’m not leaving you, mate. You asked me here for help, and I’m not gonna leave until I’ve helped you.”

Katla managed a smile, even as her heart swelled and eyes burned.

“Shit. Thanks, Hop. You’re a good friend, more than I deserve.”

“Aw, don’t say that.” He playfully punched her arm. “We’re buddies. That’s all that matters. Now, gimme that letter.”

He all but snatched it off her, yet he took his time reading it, brows furrowed in concentration.

“Kabu uses a lot of big words, doesn’t he?” Hop commented. “Bet he’s good at essays.”

Katla arched her eyebrow at him, but said nothing, giving the younger trainer time to formulate his opinion.

”Wow...” Hop finally said. “He’s got it bad for you, hasn’t he?”

The older trainer felt her face begin to burn up.

“You...you think so?”

Hop gave her a look that was halfway between disbelieving and annoyed.

“Seriously? You read this and didn’t pick up on the fact he might be into you?”

“Well, I can tell he cares about me, that’s clear enough!” Katla retorted. “But more than that?” She glanced away. “I...I didn’t think it’d be a thing. I mean, he’s a Gym leader, I’m just a Challenger. Not to mention he’s like...fifty odd.”

“Sure.” Hop nodded. “But you like him back, don’t you? I mean, you’ve been crushing on him since we saw him in in Galar Mine Two.”

“I do.” Katla stared pensively at her drink. “He looks so cold and closed off, but he’s not. He’s warm and gentle and kind, and...I feel awful that I hurt him with our fight. And he’s blaming himself for everything, when he’s got nothing to be sorry for!”

Hop glanced back to the letter and then back at her.

“Wait. When you say he’s got nothing to be sorry for, does that mean...” He spoke slowly. “Does that mean you were throwing those matches...?”

“No!” Katla snapped, then cringed, shaking her head. “No, I...I don’t know. Maybe. I didn’t deliberately sabotage myself, but never tried again after I lost; I just walked away and never came back. Maybe I was shying away from it. I dunno.” She sighed. “I can’t be certain I was at my peak in those fights, or that I was doing my all to win, if I’m honest. So, yeah, it was possible the thought of becoming Champion again was scaring me off. Kabu’s been the first person to really challenge me on it, and as you can tell,” she gestured to the letter, “I took it badly. It looks like he’s backpedalling, when he might actually be right about it.”

“Then I think you should tell him that.” Hop said. Katla’s heart forgot its next beat.

“W...What?”

“You should tell Kabu that he doesn’t need to apologise.” Hop said, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. “He sent you this letter as a way to smooth things over with you, right? Well, now you gotta smooth things over with him. And the only way to do that is to talk to him. It shouldn’t be too hard - you got his number!” He thrust the letter at her. “Text him or give him a call, and talk it out. You’ll both feel so much better afterwards.” He smiled brightly at her. “Then you can stop worrying about Kabu, and go back to focusing on beating Gordie!”

She couldn’t help but chuckle.

“You make it sound so simple when you put it that way, Hop.”

“It looks simple to me!” He replied, before he leaned over, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Kat, listen. From what I know about you, and what I’ve seen in that letter, I think you’ll be fine. I think you both feel the same towards each other, actually. If you go talk to him, I bet my badges only good things’ll come from it.”

“Bet your badges, eh?” Katla arched an eyebrow. “Those are some confident words, there.”

“‘Cos I am.” Hop grinned toothily. “Honestly, mate, you’ll be fine. You’ll feel tons better talking it through with him anyway.”

He pulled away, and his face then became serious.

“Kat...you’re gonna give your all in the Semifinals, right?” He asked. “It won’t be right if you’re not at your best. If I win, I want it to be because I was better, not ‘cos you don’t want to face Lee just in case you win.”

“Yes.” Katla made sure he could see the sincerity in her blue eyes. “I’m going to give you the match you deserve, Hop. I’ve never held back in any of my matches against you, and I won’t start to. I promise.”

“Good.” He nodded, looking content.

“You are assuming that I’ll actually get to the Semifinals, though. There’s three Gym Leaders to get through before then, and any of them could halt me in my tracks.” She pointed out.

“That’s what you said about Kabu, and look what happened there.” Hop grinned. “Speaking of which, you should clear the air with him before you go face Gordie, or you’re gonna be too distracted to beat him. And I don’t want my rival falling too far behind!”

“Oh come off it!” She swatted at him. “I’ll...I’ll think about it. About texting him, I mean. I just...”

“Hey,” Hop leaned over again, putting an arm around her this time. “He wouldn’t have given you his number if he didn’t want you to use it. Just...be you. You’ll be fine.”

“I guess.” Katla smiled. “Thanks, Hop. I really mean it - you’ve been...more than I deserve, honestly.”

“Aw come on, we’re friends!” He grinned, a slight blush on his cheeks. “It’s what friends do. I know you’d do the same for me. Right?”

“Yeah, of course.” She nodded. “But I might beat up the person who upset you too.”

Hop barked out a laugh.

“What, really?”

“I’m serious! The only thing that saved Bede from an ass-whooping was witnesses.” Katla grinned. “Still might punch him in the face when I see him again.”

Hop chuckled bashfully, his blush slightly brighter.

“Hehe, thanks Kat.”

“You’re welcome, Hop. Least I can do.”

---

Katla: Hey Kabu, it’s Katla. Do you have some time to talk?

Kabu: Yes. I have as much time as you need.

Katla: I was thinking maybe we could meet up to talk, if you’re still in Circhester?

Kabu: I am. There is cafe on the east side of the city, towards Route Nine, that is known for being discreet. We will be able to meet there in privacy.

Katla: That sounds perfect. What time? I have nothing going on so any time today is good for me.

Kabu: Fortunately I have that luxury too. If I send you the location, we could meet in a couple of minutes. Is this okay?

Katla: Yeah, that’s fine, thanks.

[axiumin]

Absolution | Chapter One

Months ago, the lovely DirectorAnon gifted me with a bunch of incredible moodboards and ever since then, this idea has been floating around in my head. The semester has now ended for both me and my students, and the first thing I did was sit down and write what is currently my slowest burn fic to date. Please enjoy this pure self indulgence. 

When anonymous confessions began appearing around campus, you weren’t quite sure what to expect. But before long, you came to realize the value of such confession. Sometimes, you need to be more honest with yourself and the people around you in order to find absolution.

Pairing: Youngjae x Reader

Genre: Drama, College!AU

Words: 2.2k

Chapters: [1] [2] [3] [4]

“I’ll never find the words to explain how sorry I am.”

You’d heard the buzz of rumors. Seemingly overnight, a rash of stencil-art phrases appeared around campus. They could be found anywhere: on the sidewalk, tucked behind lecture halls, and even on the underside of a pedestrian bridge, in one notable case.

They were supposedly confessions, offered freely by students and broadcasted anonymously as neat chalk letterings. There was no commentary, no advice. Just a simple ‘@Ars’ underneath each confession. A cursory google search of the handle brought up an instagram profile that featured only melancholic black-and-white shots of places around campus and the surrounding city. The bio simply read, “Confess yourself and be heard.” There was nothing personal, nothing that could identify who Ars was.

Naturally, it seemed everyone on campus was immediately taken with this phenomenon, the idea that you could DM some deep, dark part of yourself to an anonymous artist and have your words physically appear somewhere on campus for everyone to see. The only one who would know your secret was Ars, and there was the implicit promise that they would keep your secret.

Honestly, it sounded rather far-fetched to you, and even though you’d heard the chatter about it seemingly everywhere you went these last couple of days, you didn’t fully believe it until you stumbled across a confession on your way home from lecture.

The phrase consisted of neat lettering, bright white chalk standing out against the hazy grey of the campus this time of year, and, true to the rumors, there was no name or commentary attached to the confession. Just the instagram handle that you figured stood in for the artist’s signature.

As you regarded the confession, you conceded that you might see the appeal of this sort of thing after all. It wasn’t a true apology, of course, but you supposed that whoever had written that at least had some sort of release for whatever had been weighing on their conscience. And who knew? Maybe this sort of anonymous confession could be the first step to true honesty and confrontation.

You puzzled over this as you made your back to your tiny apartment, and it continued to hover in the back of your mind until you settled at your battered desk and pulled up your half-finished term paper. You took in a deep breath, forced extraneous thoughts and musings out of your mind, and tried to focus on the work in front of you.

You sat there for a moment, fingers poised over the keys of your laptop, but as you read through the lines you’d already written, nothing new came to mind. After a long moment, you sat back with a sigh, letting your hands fall to your sides.

“Still working on that?”

You half turned to see your roommate leaning against the doorframe, and you sighed again and pinched the bridge of your nose.

“You caught me, Jules.”

Julia pushed off against the doorway and wandered over to perch on the edge of your desk.

“How’s that imposter syndrome working out for you?” she asked, nudging your elbow teasingly.

You glared and let out a quiet huff. “It’s not imposter syndrome if I don’t know how to write, Jules. I honestly don’t know how I got into this program in the first place.”

Julia made a show of tapping her chin in thought. “Could it be— oh, I don’t know— because you’re a good writer when you’re not so damn critical of yourself?”

“No,” you said, aware of how mulish you sounded. She scoffed and opened her mouth to protest, but you cut her off by pushing your laptop closer to her. “Why don’t you see for yourself?”

“Maybe I will,” Julia said primly, pulling your laptop closer so she could read through your attempt at drafting your term paper.

You watched her face carefully as she read through it, picking up on every twitch of her lips and furrow of her brow. When she finally finished reading, she looked up at you, a small frown tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Your rhetoric is as great as ever,” she said slowly, and you didn’t miss the ‘but’ in the offing.

You slumped back in your seat and ran a hand through your hair. “Just give it to me straight, Jules.”

“It’s just—” Julia gestured vaguely at the laptop. “There’s no feeling here. There’s no you. It doesn’t matter how pretty your words are. If you don’t feel what you write, it’s just going to end up being hollow and bland.”

You laid a hand over your eyes and groaned. “I know,” you moaned. “I just feel like every time I try to write more honestly, it just comes across as vapid and shallow or something. It just somehow doesn’t seem professional enough to submit for this program, but I don’t know how to get that professionalism while still getting honesty and substance in there.”

“Hey,” Julia said gently, leaning forward to clasp a hand on your shoulder. “It’s your writing that got you into this program in the first place— your writing and your honesty. You just need to get into the right mindset so you can start writing like yourself again.”

The fingers over your eyes parted so you could peek at Julia. “Any suggestions?”

She shrugged, a wry smile pulling at her lips. “Well, you could always try that confession thing, right?” Before you could protest, she pushed on. “I mean, it gives you practice with being more honest with yourself, doesn’t it? It could be just what you need.”

“I don’t know,” you said slowly. “There’s a lot of unknowns with that whole Ars thing. To be entirely honest, I’m not even convinced that they’re not just making up confessions to get attention or whatever. And even if it was legitimate, it still involves me hitting up some rando on instagram so I can spill my heart out to them and hope that they don’t use it against me in the future.”

Julia seemed to think over your words for a moment before just shrugging again. “I don’t think it’s that deep,” she said. “But you know what? Even if they don’t use post your confession around campus, it gives you practice with even admitting things to yourself or to others. And if they do use your confession, it’s not like you’re confessing to murder— probably— so I’m sure it wouldn’t be that big of a deal even if they did know about a little bit of your insecurity. It’s kind of a win-win either way, don’t you think?”

Well, Julia sure seemed convinced, but you still weren’t quite sure. You hummed in thought, and Julia rolled her eyes and pushed herself off your desk.

“I’m going to leave you to your ruminations,” she said, giving you a jaunty pat on the shoulder. “But I want you to really consider what I said, okay?”

“Sure, Jules,” you said, offering her a small smile.

With that, she left you to the silence of your room and the jumble of your thoughts. You considered the confession you saw earlier, and you once again conceded that there was something about anonymous confession that seemed to provide release. So, with a sigh, you dug your phone out of your pocket and opened up instagram.

It took you moments to find Ars’ profile, and your thumb hovered over the ‘message’ button for only a moment before you pressed it, not allowing yourself time to think twice as you typed out your confession and sent it.

For a moment, you sat and soaked in the enormity of what you just did. It didn’t seem that big, just sending a DM to someone who was likely just an art student on campus, but you still felt strange knowing that you just shared a part of yourself that you hardly liked to acknowledge, yourself.

You let out a shaky breath and went back to typing, wondering when and if Ars would see fit to publish your confession.

You got your answer two days later, on your way to start your shift at the campus library. The letters had already lost some of their definition from the fine mist of rain that had started up during your commute, but you could still see it clear as day laid out on the concrete of the sidewalk: “Sometimes, I feel like an imposter walking around in my own skin.”

Your breath stuttered to a halt, your heart fluttering in the hollow of your throat. Until then, a large part of you had suspected that your confession would never see the light of day. But now, as you saw those words laid out in front of you, you suddenly felt transparent, like everyone who walked past would see them and look right through to the core of you, the small and shivering thing it was. Yet no one so much as spared a second glance for you as they headed to their respective class or job or meeting, and you felt the fear leave you in a slow, shaky breath. The release took something with it, some of the tension you’d been holding in your shoulders, and you thought, Oh.

Seeing your words staring back at you and knowing that someone out there knew how you felt, knew that this is what insecurity lived inside of you, was more comforting than you would have imagined. Yeah, you thought you could see the appeal in this sort of thing, and you were suddenly strangely grateful for Ars.

After another lingering glance, you gathered yourself and stepped carefully over the letters, feeling yourself settle into your skin more comfortably than you had in far too long.

You made it to the library right on time for your shift, clocking in to find your coworkers already huddling behind the information desk, whispering fervently. As you got closer, you finally caught their words and had to blink back surprise.

“Have you seen Jared Hsieh? He’s going for a PhD in Philosophy and Aesthetics, and he has this sort of intensity to him,” said Erika, looking just a little bit too dreamy as she said this. “He seems like the kind of guy to collect confessions, don’t you think?”

Beside her, Jiseob snorted. “Nah, I overheard him talking about how cool of an idea this project is. So unless he’s the sort of self-congratulatory douchebag to gas up his own ideas like that, it’s probably not him.”

Erika’s enthusiasm visibly dimmed. “Well, who do you think it is, then?”

Jiseob shrugged. “Maybe some religious studies major? I mean the Catholic undertones here are kind of off the charts, aren’t they? Just the whole idea of confession. It’s not like there’s specific instructions, but why else would you confess if not to seek some kind of absolution? This ‘Ars’ is definitely giving off some sort of priestly vibes.”

“Jiseob,” said Akram in mock seriousness, “are you trying to suggest this person just likes to be called daddy? ‘Forgive me daddy, for I’ve been bad.’” There was a collective groan.

“You’re not allowed to be part of this conversation anymore,” said Youngjae, looking particularly uncomfortable. You could empathize.

“I feel like I came in at the worst possible moment,” you quipped drily. Erika shot you a particularly anguished look.

“No kidding,” she said. “We were having a perfectly normal and valid conversation about who this Ars person could be before someone” at this, she shot Akram a dirty glare; he looked entirely unrepentant, “had to go and bring up some questionable kinks.”

“I’m always down to kinkshame if you need me to,” you said, forcing your expression to remain solemn.

Erika seemed to consider this. “Maybe next time,” she said. “I, for one, want to keep talking about Ars until we exhaust all interest in this subject.”

Jiseob nodded. “Hard agree. And now that you’re here, we have a new perspective. So, what do you think about all this?” he asked. All of your friends turned to look at you, and you shrugged.

“I think it’s a pretty cool idea, not going to lie,” you said, trying to keep your voice neutral. No one but Julia knew about your confession, and you weren’t about to go around telling everyone about it. “Forums like this help people put words to feelings that maybe they wouldn’t share normally. And even if you’re not into that sort of thing, at least the posts are pretty instagramable,” you said, earning snorts of laughter from your friends.

You noticed Youngjae looking particularly deep in thought, and you nudged his arm with yours. “What about you? What do you think?”

“I guess I have to agree. Sometimes, just being able to share something about yourself like that helps you come to terms with things. It help you feel more comfortable in your skin, you know?” His eyes flashed to yours for a second before he looked down again, and for a fleeting second, you almost felt like he could see through you.

Oh, but you knew what he meant. And as your friends considered to share the breadth of confessions they’d found over the last few days (“I saw one that talking about how they can’t stop thinking about their T.A.’s shapely legs,” said Jiseob, his nose wrinkling. “Hey, that’s valid,” Akram protested), you couldn’t help but think about what Jiseob had said earlier about absolution.

You thought he was onto something there.

[jancisstuff]

Ulysses and the Navigator

Jancis finds Ulysses by Llymlaen’s stone in Limsa, and the two share some concerns. Ulysses for his purpose in life, and how can a sword fix all the sorrow he sees around him. Jancis for coping with her love being busy elsewhere.

November 17 2018

Ulysses Derosiers stands tall, although the vacant expression across his face indicates that his mind was seemingly elsewhere.  The Elezen was a strange sight in Limsa Lominsa, likely seeming better suited for an environment like the Shroud.  And yet, here he was. Jancis Milburga walked without much thought to it, a path followed thousands of times for her, a myriad of thoughts on her face until she saw someone unseen here before. She almost greeted, but thought better in the place, talking the long way around to get a better look. Ulysses Derosiers appeared to have been prodded from his daydreaming by something moving at the edge of his vision.  He turns his head in some mute greeting, although that one became more warm when he realized who was occupying his vision.  "Lady Jancis." He states, the edge of his lips tilting upwards just so.  "Come to pay your respects?" Jancis Milburga brightens immediately at her name, "Spinner's Light, it is no mistake. Good eve, Lord Ulysses." A half trot to speed up, she gets closer, bowing once in proximity. "Your shoulders are hard to mistake. I have. To sit and think, find some direction. Have I interrupt your own?" Ulysses Derosiers brushes away any such worries with a negligent sort of gesture, "Only some mild ruminations." He states, "I find that the Gods are fair company such, as they are simply keen to listen." He states, "I should hope that my shoulders are immistakeable for their broadness." He gives a teasing sort of toss to his leonine mane. Jancis Milburga blinks up at him, laughing in good humor. "And the way you hold them." She regards him quickly, "Dare say it suits you well. Or draft with your ascot." She set down her pack which was puffy. "I enjoy listening. Many Spoken lose sight of what a gift it is, a honor that someone would confide and talk to them." She looks up at the altar, "Is all well? The other night?" Ulysses Derosiers affirms Jancis' words with an elaborate dip of his brow, "The thrill of the fight still lays excited in my heart but... no.  That is not where my thoughts lie this evening." He replies, pausing to glance out at the city and the shifting waves beneath with the shrine at the fore.  "Do you ever think that the Gods have a plan for you, Jancis?" Jancis Milburga purses her lips thoughtfully, "No, not a specific plan. But They support and provide opportunities. They have faith in me as I Them." Her eyes close in a heavy blink, "I feel Thaliak opened mine eyes and mine mind, but not directly." Ulysses Derosiers tilts his distant gaze until it falls lightly upon Jancis, listening intently.  "I see." He states, simply.  "When I left my home in Dravania, I did it because... I saw a hurt in the Eorzea.  Suffering so common it didn't even draw the eye."  He shifts from heel to heel, "I was naive, but I thought I'd be able to change it." He laughs, somewhat bitterly.  "I was naive.  I was unaware just how much needed to be changed." Jancis Milburga: "You said naive twice. That it is a bad quality to have. It gave you the means to see what others accept and suffer through. Are you not changing it now? Do not have to accept that hurt, only not burn yourself out as you see the end to it. Spoken have been working towards it for more generations than we know. To make an ilm in that. Still moves a mountain. Still swells the ocean." Jancis Milburga tilts her head, more meaning in the words than for him alone, "Not a tool to be used for only change." Ulysses Derosiers brushes the tip of a finger lightly against his beard, scritch-scratching into the coarse bristles.  "Naivety is on my mind." He admits.  "I do feel as though I have helped people.  Have lessened their hurt..." He pauses, "I just feel as though I'm not doing enough.  I am privileged enough to be whole of body and mind, and yet I'm not sure where to apply myself."  He breathes a great sigh, "I was hoping that eventually the Gods would reveal some... great truth to me.  A task, a quest." Ulysses Derosiers: "Thus far, they've been quite tight-lipped on the matter." (Jancis Milburga) Behold. A sign! (Ulysses Derosiers) Lmao Jancis Milburga listens and watches, taking in the fidgets and stance, expressions with words. "Lessened their hurt." She repeats quietly, "What hurts? Will you tell me more of the pain you see?" Ulysses Derosiers: "It's all around us.  Hunger, pain, suffering.  It can be easy to ignore, but I... I cannot any longer.  Or rather, I refuse to.  I see beggars and refugees, their chance at life taken before they were even able to take it." Jancis Milburga looks down at the sword Ulysses carries, “Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.” "Then you wish to protect them? Feed? Heal? Provide? The ocean is so vast it is hard to look at the whole thing, but if we look at one point, see through the waves to what lies beneath, can focus." Ulysses Derosiers gives his head another bow in an affirming nod.  "I only want to do what I can.  It is an unfortunate thing that my hands are more suited to a blade than anything else."  He pauses, "Ah... I am sorry.  I did not mean to engage you in such a... depressing topic." He rests back on his heels.  "Truly, these matters are better left to the turbulence within my own mind." Jancis Milburga: "No. No engage me!" Jancis Milburga turns swift and shakes her head, gripping for Ulysses' sleeve. "Topic will drown in your mind like that." Jancis Milburga: "You are frustrated in your skill with a sword. Mayhaps that is your quest. To learn something new." Ulysses Derosiers does not seem to mind the gripping, or rather... he does not pull away.  "I am pleased, at least, for a friend that is willing to listen to my struggle."  He states, "Would that I could feed a city with my sword, I might be more satisfied with it." Jancis Milburga: "It would not taste very good." Ulysses Derosiers: "No, I cannot imagine that it would.  Perhaps I should melt it down into a frying pan." Jancis Milburga loosens her grip, focusing on her hand a moment before letting him go, laughing softly. "I have a spade made from what was once a dagger ready to kill me if I turned. Dare say it is not the best spade, but important nonetheless. I have faith you could wield both. You were looking for work before. In the Shroud." Her look at the threads before finding points of red in the scabbard he wore. "Rubies?" Jancis Milburga: "Both pan and sword, I meant. Forgive me." Ulysses Derosiers shifts his weight just slightly to peer down at the scabbard of his blade.  "I think they're probably just coloured glass.  I hope, anyway.  I think such decoration would be better suited for somebody that wears it well, don't you?" He pauses, "I helped somebody once, in the Shroud.  A man twisted into a monster." His shoulders slump, "I was hoping to reunite with them, but they have moved on." Jancis Milburga looks more at ease at the answer of glass, failing to answer the suited question verbally, a brief smile. It fades away into a more empathetic look as his shoulder droop. "A man you knew? Where is he now?" Ulysses Derosiers gives a vague sort of shrug.  "I don't know.  Alive, I hope.  Somewhere.  Perhaps the Shroud was merely shielding me from an uncomfortable truth when I did not find him." He huffs, straightening and allowing himself to grow firm again.  "What brought you out to this spot?  Are you a regular visitor?" Jancis Milburga furrows her brow, now the one looking lower. "I am, after mine patrols usually, but this sun I came here purposefully to think. What to do when Killian and Hestia return. I must needs deal with a man and with him many others. It is a great deal to think through." She then offers, "We could search for this man if his fate worries you. Do not want to leave a man a monster. The trees might know if no one else does." Ulysses Derosiers affords Jancis a winning smile for her suggestion, "You are a busy woman, madame.  I don't know that I would feel well about taking you away to search the woods for a monster of a man."  He pauses, "Your offer is appreciated, though." Jancis Milburga furrows her brow with confusion, looking guilty to see such a smile with a rejection.  A moment later she gives a soft accepting nod. Jancis Milburga: "You can change your mind. This sun or the next or the next or more." Ulysses Derosiers gives a soft 'Tsk' at the knitting of Jancis' brows.  "Oh, don't worry.  You'll get wrinkles on your forehead."  He admonishes, in an attempt at a light-hearted tone.  He draws in nearer to the shrine for a moment, "You know, I hear there's something about this water..." He dips his palm into it!  And splashes her! Jancis Milburga touches her forehead at the comment. "Is there? I had no-" She looks right up into the flying water. "Ah!" Ulysses Derosiers gives a sharp note of laughter, all smoke and fire breathing forth.  "Don't you feel it" Ulysses Derosiers: *?") Jancis Milburga touches the water on her face, looking up at him before laughing. Ulysses Derosiers parts his lips in a fiercesome grin, "There we go.  That's a far more fitting expression." Jancis Milburga still smiles, eyes squinted in humor as she doesn't try to dry off. "That truly is magical water. I did not realize you had a hand with that and earth." Ulysses Derosiers could not help but laugh again, "Gods, I only wish." He produces some waggly fingers.  "Smelling dirt and splashing water do not make a magician, though." Jancis Milburga copies him,waving her fingers midair. "Are you sure?" She smiles, water growing on her hands. Ulysses Derosiers chortles, "That's different." He proclaims.  "I only moved water, you're in commune with it." Jancis Milburga flicks her fingers at him, water almost hitting, drop clear on the stones by his feet, "That is how it starts. You give yourself too much doubt." Humming in good humor, well distracted, she gathers up her oddly puffy bag. Ulysses Derosiers seems humored, leaning back on his heels to keep from getting wet.  "Doubt breeds patience." He states in a practiced manner, as though it had been drilled into him a hundred times.  "On your way?" Jancis Milburga: "I will stay if you ask me. Where did you learn that quote?" Ulysses Derosiers waggles his brows, "One does not simply leave a life of comfort and take up the sword without instruction.  My Teacher..." He gives a sort of so-so gesture, "He was a troubled man, and that was one of the parables that he instructed me in.  What begins as doubt, eventually simply becomes waiting.  Doubting an opening in an enemy's guard, becomes waiting for the true moment.  So much opportunity is ruined by impatience." Jancis Milburga smiles, looking away to nothing, envisioning the explaination. "That is an interesting way to look at more than a duel. Do not let it be from the doubt of inaction. Sometimes must needs open yourself to an enemy to find a friend." She opens her arms wide, defenseless, with confidence. Ulysses Derosiers hesitates momentarily when Jancis opens her arms wide.  He looked as though he was deliberating whether or not she wanted him to give her a squeeze.  "There are no enemies.  Simply... obstacles that might be diverted.  No man raises a blade in opposition simply because he can.  There is always a reason." Jancis Milburga smiles at that and nods, lowering her arms again. She doesn't seem disappointed or expecting from the gesture. "I always found allowing the man who raised his blade to strike is a good way to find out that reason." Ulysses Derosiers snorts, "As the man who's regularly on the recieving end of such attention, I find that I have better luck with talking them down *before* the swinging.  My shield thanks me, gouges aside." Jancis Milburga frowns thoughtfully, "I do not have a shield. They are very heavy." Ulysses Derosiers: "It helps when you have friends with shields, though.  People who are willing to protect you.  Knowing you, I would not be surprised if you've gathered a few." Jancis Milburga: "Some! As I them. They are busy. They have important work of their own." Jancis Milburga glances northward a moment before looking back and taking a slow breath, looking fondly sad. Ulysses Derosiers: "Do you miss them?" Jancis Milburga sinks for a minute, her initial reaction a clear yes at the pained expression, lips coming together to look up at Ulysses with a silent apology. "I do. All the more reason to come here." She blinked hard and slow a moment, "Must needs be still and find new direction." Ulysses Derosiers steps down from the raised portion, "I'm sure that they miss you as well." He assures her, with an apologetic sort of smile.  "Where have they gone?  Do you know?" He inquires in a tender tone. Jancis Milburga has a very rare glimpse of doubt in her eyes. Another slow calming breath, clearly practiced, typical of most conjurers. "Back to their homeland to rebuild it. With his brothers." Ulysses Derosiers could not help but be curious, with a statement like that.  "Their homeland?" He pauses and hums, "Doma, then?  Or Isghard?  I can't think of anywhere in need of... rebuilding more than those two, at the present." Jancis Milburga turns her eyes over, sighing, "Ishgard. There is a lot to do beyond buildings and farming there." Ulysses Derosiers: "You could go and be with them, you know.  I'm sure that Ishgard would be appreciative to have a skilled conjurer on hand." Jancis Milburga stares and regards Ulysses quietly for a minute, the failure and sorrow clear on a face that couldn't mask an emotion. Throat tightening she once again breathes to relax. "I have done what I can." Ulysses Derosiers seems genuinely surprised by the sudden shift.  The woman had seemed to bear such an unfettered positivity, it sent a guilty twist in his chest to see his words bring such a change.  He holds out his arms in reflex, "I'm sorry.  I did not mean to touch upon such a tender matter.  My curiosity took the better of me." Jancis Milburga let her eyes follow his arms, the apologetic palms up. She shook her head, hand going up to ease his reflective defense. "It means a great deal your thoughts come so openly and bright like the Warden. I am more sorry that I. I. I have no better answer to give." (Jancis Milburga) Daww there's another one! Ulysses Derosiers sets his jaw slightly, his pale gaze alighting upon Jancis in a new sort of light.  "You are hurting." He states, with a firmness.  "A hurting that I do not know how to mend.  I could..." His mind grasps, "I could bring the people you miss back to you?  Or... I could try." (Ulysses Derosiers) This is a busy spot! Jancis Milburga curls her hands, her eyes starting to grow sore as his words hit yet another cord with how tight they closed. "No." She states, reaching out as if she could also stop an action to those words. "No. Forgive me, no." She breathes another minute before her voice goes higher. "Your words sound so familiar. They are where they want to be and are happy. That matters more. I have to move away from this pain. Not chase it." Those words clearly took effort to say. Ulysses Derosiers seems enfirmed by Jancis' words.  Entrenched and strategizing.  This was a furling of the brow that could not be mended with some splashing.  "It is... not in my nature, nor my training to simply move away from somebody's pain."  He lowers his gaze for a moment.  "It is a complicated hurt, though.  It is one that requires support, rather than solution." Jancis Milburga: "Complicated. Menphina's Cold Touch." Ulysses Derosiers: "I am only an outsider looking in." Jancis Milburga brings her hands back in, sinking to her knees. "You are too kind to look." Ulysses Derosiers: "You are my friend.  Is that not what friends do?" Jancis Milburga looks up, giving Ulysses a warm grateful look through the dolor. "Yes, verily." Tilting her head, she shared, "He is complicated, I always called him complicated." Ulysses Derosiers gives a roll of his shoulders in response, "Are we all not complicated in our own ways?" He inquires with a wryness transcribed upon his features.  "This person... he is your man, yes?" He inquires, with a lofted brow. Jancis Milburga dips her head, sucking in a deep breath and pushing herself back up to her feet, lifting her head up to the sky as she does so. "Even if we try not to be complicated. He is. My bond." Ulysses Derosiers: "If things were simply easy, we would not appreciate them.  It takes a struggle for such things to grow.  Distance is... a common struggle, or so I have found.  It is all that you can do to know that he is there, and when his work is complete... he will be here." Jancis Milburga: "Were I outside the door now in the Pillars, it would be distance. He is happy. I can know that, too. I do not mind the hurt. Would be. Be wrong and loveless if I did not hurt. It will ease with time into fond memories and more well wishes. I wish him happiness." Jancis Milburga manages to smile. Ulysses Derosiers does not look convinced by the smile.  The opposite, in fact.  "Do you feel alone, Jancis?" He inquires.  While the tone was concerned, it was also... something else. Jancis Milburga considered the question thoughtfully, clearing the recent upheaval of emotion to produce a thorough answer. "I see and talk to people each sun. My life is filled with friends, distant ones there as well. And I have Torene." There's a light bow to her head, "I miss that closeness. It was wonderful. May my memories of it never fade, I would keep the ache to not forget." Ulysses Derosiers curls a flaxen brow in response to her response.  "You did not answer my question, Jancis." He states, his lips pursing in some mild concern. Jancis Milburga looks confused, "I do not understand. How not I am not alone." Ulysses Derosiers pauses, shifting on his heels.  "It is one thing to be alone, and another to *feel* alone." He states.  "Forgive me if I seemed more prying into your personal matters than I should." He adds, after a pause.  "It is a relief to know, at least, that you have others that are close to you." Jancis Milburga: "Is that not what friends are for. Yes, I feel alone Ulysses." Ulysses Derosiers rests back on his heels, exhaling softly.  "Ah... I..." He begins, and flounders.  "I had intended to produce a solution for you, laden upon a clever tongue." He shifts his posture slightly, "I'm sorry, Jancis.  It must be difficult." Jancis Milburga keeps a steady gaze, soaking up the delicate apology with a grateful look, "Do your tongue too little credit." Lifting her arms up she lightly hugs them, "Important things usually are difficult? I accept this. I would choose it again. I feel included still to know this pain." Jancis Milburga: "And if your eyes come to hold it, too, I wish it be brief." Ulysses Derosiers meets that gaze without faltering, "I must agree in that... the important things are never easy." He notes, gently.  "And yet, I empathize with the pain that you feel."  He rolls a shoulder, "You never know.  Perhaps... things may change?" Ulysses Derosiers: "He may yet return." Jancis Milburga looks more eased by the tone. "I would not lie. They may change again." Her eyes close, hands semi embracing her own arms, "Keeper only knows." Jancis Milburga: "Or why he returns." Ulysses Derosiers affixes his gaze upon her.  That paleness locked with her own as he crosses that single step closer into a space labeled personal.  Unless Jancis happened to pull away, she'd find the Elezen's palm resting heavily upon her shoulder.  "Only the Gods know your path, but it is up to you to cut the trail." Jancis Milburga didn't move, unpreturbed by his closeness. "You will help me with it?" Ulysses Derosiers smiles, genuinely.  "I will help you.  And not because it is my duty.  Because I care." Jancis Milburga smiles softly up at him, "Thank you. Pray keep this night in your memory for me. I will lose the true count of suns and moons." Ulysses Derosiers gives a low, smoky laugh in response as he lifts that ponderous hand from Jancis' person.  "I will do my best.  It is not entirely wise to trust the memory of one that is struck in the head for a living, though." Jancis Milburga reached out and put her arms around Ulysses in a grateful somewhat exhausted hug, leaning into the solid form a moment. "I trust you will know if it has been long enough." She doesn't linger, arms loosening and herself keeping her own feet. Jancis Milburga: "I must return to the Beds before the last airship goes, or I will be running back to the Twelveswood through the night." Ulysses Derosiers knows his own strength enough not to sweep poor Jancis up and squeeze her until she pops.  So, he merely brushes his palm down her back in some affection.  "Be off with you, then, before you are too late." Jancis Milburga: "Be safe here, yes? Do you need a room? I could ask the Maelstrom. They let me sleep in rooms." Jancis Milburga picks up her absurdly puffy bag. Ulysses Derosiers: "Oh, never fear.  As in all things, I will survive.  I'm certain there is an open room at the Wench." Jancis Milburga smiles, nodding and moving back with a half-sideways walk, looking back multiple times. "Goodnight, Ulysses."

[ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes]

Tearing Down Sandcastles Part 7

Summary: Sofia feels stuck in life and has for the better part of two decades. Now she’s nearing her 30th birthday and her luck begins to change when a handsome actor accidentally destroys her niece’s sandcastle. 

Chapter Summary: The cracks in Sofia’s laid-back facade are starting to show but Sebastian insists he still cares about her. 

Warnings: Sexual suggestions, anxiety

          I wasn’t used to waking up in an unfamiliar environment. It took me a while to get adjusted to the hotel room in St. Martin. Now I was waking up in someone’s apartment. My mind went into overdrive and I jolted upright. My eyes scanned the room for any indication of where I was. But I had been so caught in the moment with Sebastian that I hadn’t really noticed his room.

           Fearing the absolute worst (I’d been kidnapped by a serial killer) I jumped out of bed. That’s when I realized I was naked. The night before started to slowly return to me and I began to relax. I was in Sebastian’s apartment.

           I sat down on the edge of his bed and noticed the bathroom door was closed but a light was coming from underneath it. I rested a hand over my chest and tried to slow down my heart rate.

           There was a cold draft coming in through the open window. I stood up and walked over to close it. My eyes lingered at the sun that was just starting to creep up on the New York skyline. I yawned slightly and felt the early morning heaviness that I usually felt when I woke up for work. I rubbed my eyes and heard the bathroom door open.

           Soft footsteps approached from behind and warm arms enveloped me. It was a welcoming contrast to the cold room.

           “Did I wake you up?” His rough morning voice was unbearable and I felt my knees weaken. Why was it that everything he did made me melt?

           “No, I usually wake up this early for work.”

           “It’s Saturday, you can sleep in. I’m just heading to the gym, but I’ll be back.” His fingers splayed over my hips and his thumb rubbed circles over my skin.

           “If I go back to bed I won’t get up the rest of the day,” I told him.

           “That’s not the worst thing.” He chuckled and brushed my hair back. He bent his head slightly to kiss behind my ear. “C’mon, you can give yourself a break every so often.”

           “I take breaks, I was just on vacation.” I reminded him.

           “Doesn’t mean you have to work yourself to death.”

           “This is New York, most people have to work themselves to death.” I rested my hands over his and glanced down. My work skirt from the night before was crumpled up near my feet. Sebastian must’ve thrown it the night before. I was surprised to realize I was still naked. If I ever had the time to go out and had a long enough relationship to sleep with the guy, I was extremely self-conscious about my body. But with Sebastian I barely noticed. I hadn’t the slightest clue why.

           But once I remembered, I cleared my throat and looked for something to cover up with.

           I noticed his shirt to our left and withdrew from his arms to grab it.

           “Damn…” He grumbled.

           “What?” I asked as I did up a few buttons in the middle.

           “I mean, you look good in my shirt but I think I’d rather have you walking around my apartment with nothing on.”

           I rolled my eyes. “Do you always have your mind in the gutter?”

           “I can be sweet too.” He smirked and held out a hand to me.

           It was too tempting to pass up. I took his hand and let him pull me back into his arms.

           “Like, I’ll grab you breakfast and coffee on my way back from the gym. You can sleep in a few extra hours and by the time you wake up again I’ll be back. You can even have breakfast in bed, I really don’t care.”

           I raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you trying to butter me up for something else? Like maybe round two of last night?”

           He laughed and shook his head. “Trust me it’s a miracle I’m getting to the gym. You wore me out last night, I’m not as young as I used to be.”

           “So you’re just naturally sweet?” I rested my hands on his chest and admired his arms again. Last night had been fun, getting to reacquaint with his Greek God body. I had thought I had exaggerated a few parts in my memory when I returned to New York but realized I hadn’t.

           “I’d call it overbearing…I can be an asshole sometimes.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his other hand resting on the small of my back.

           “I find that hard to believe.”

           “Difficult?” He tilted his head to the side.

           “You seem pretty easy going to me.”

           “Pain in the ass?”

           “Maybe, but in a good way.”

           He laughed and let me go. “I don’t think that’s possible but I appreciate it.” He walked back into the bathroom but left the door open.

           “What about me? I can be…skittish.” I tended to dance around the phrase ‘anxious’ when I was talking to newer people.

           “Skittish?” He tried styling his hair back a bit; he was growing it longer again but it was at an awkward length. He couldn’t pull it back in a ponytail yet so he decided on a baseball cap to keep it out of his face.

           I sat on the edge of the bed and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt so they didn’t fall over my hands. “Maybe overly…afraid of stupid things? I ruminate on stuff way too much, especially you.” I admitted.

           He turned off the bathroom light and walked back into the bedroom. With the light off it was much darker in the room. The sun was still too weak to brighten up anything. But I could still see him well enough to make out the expressions on his face.

           “You don’t have to worry about me too much.” He assured me and stroked my hair back behind my shoulders. “My feelings for you are genuine and I know it’s a new relationship but you can trust that.”

           “What if there’s more to me than you expected?” I asked quietly.

           “You keep saying that but I haven’t seen much to be afraid of. If there’s something that you need to tell me then you can.” He reminded me. “I mean I think we’ve gotten to the point where we’ve gotten a good sense of each other, to be honest. And you don’t always get to know someone right away. I think it takes like a year or two to truly know someone.”

           “You want to waste two years of your life finding out I’m bad for you?” I whispered. It was such a flip in my thoughts. The night before I had felt confident and so loved by him. Now, in the cold light of morning, I came back to my senses. I wasn’t looking through lust-covered glasses, I could see what really could happen.

           “Sofia, getting to know you wouldn’t be a waste. I don’t know how else to tell you I really like being around you. I mean if you need me to say it in different languages, I can learn. I know it in Romanian, te iubsec.”

           I bit my lip. “How do I know you’re not saying something else?” I challenged.

           He shrugged. “I guess you don’t.

           “Hm.” I sighed and took his hands. “We can talk more about it. I just want to warn you ahead of time. You shouldn’t be investing so much time into me only to be disappointed.”

           “I bet you I won’t be.” He kissed my forehead. “Go back to sleep, I’ll be back before you know it.”

           I relented and got back under the warm comforter. His scent completely enveloped me and it was almost as good as being held in his arms.

           “Coffee?” He threw on a sweatshirt.

           “Something caramel. I’ll eat anything sugary.”

           “That’s why you’re so sweet.” He grinned and went to pull the shade to keep the sun from disturbing me. “I’ll be back, te iubesc.” He repeated the foreign phrase

           He left and I reached for my phone. I looked up a translator and tried to translate the phrase ‘I care about you’ in Romanian. I frowned when it came up with something long and unlike what he said. I tried a few different variations of the phrase but nothing came up. It was nearly impossible to try to spell out what he said so I couldn’t reverse translate it. There wasn’t anything else I could think of so I set my phone down and headed back to sleep. Maybe in time, he’d tell me what it really meant.  

Tag list: @tacohead13

Masterpost

[demytasse]

[FanFic: Shizaya] In Lieu of the Planned

Summary: Shinra asks Izaya to help him with his marriage proposal to Celty, but it winds up helping Izaya out more. Pairing: Shizaya, Shincelty AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12722313 Chapters: 1 / 2 (Can be read as a oneshot; adding a short follow up chapter later.)

They sat at an empty dining room table mid-afternoon. Nothing was prepared to set the mood, no details were tended to, and no one of importance was invited to witness. Their surroundings lacked any form of intimacy, but then again the situation didn’t necessarily call for it to be, at least not this time.

An over-practiced performance was repeated with choppy movements of an amateur actor reading from cue cards, his sterile white coat tail billowed out behind him while it caught the draft from an exaggerated bow. Softened eyes peeked above the frame of oversized glasses while he gazed up from a respectful tip of his head. The man was brimming with hope for the answer he desired; after all, the proposal was long overdue. He grabbed the other’s hand from the one that sat before him and delicately lifted it to rest in his palm, hesitating before laying a kiss on its surface. Air was sharply let into his lungs to prepare himself to speak.

"I have loved you ever since I set my eyes on you. Will you do me the honor of marrying me?"

Clicks of fingernails swiftly tapped across a glass surface and spoke in place of a verbal response. The message was short and took only a few seconds before a cellphone screen was revealed with a deliberate shove in the man's face to read.

/No./

Shinra's expression fell flat, "Come on Izaya! Take this seriously!"

Mildly perturbed, the doctor removed himself from the floor and collapsed into a dining room chair that had been left angled outward. His hips slumped dramatically forward an inch away from the edge of the seat. He exhaled his held breath. The informant sat comfortably across from his nerve ridden friend, an easy smile reflected determination to pester him. He idly spun his cellphone between his thumb and forefinger.

"It's difficult for me to put on a convincing act of your headless girlfriend, Shinra."

The aforementioned peeled off the chair’s support to meet Izaya with a rebuttal. "Oh come on. In all the years you have been observing and psychoanalyzing humans, you can't muster up some kind of believable response?"

"Hmm, that's the problem, she's not human. She is unreadable and impossible to predict." His arms extended to either side of his body in a natural shrug.

"As if you don't have any experience with monsters. Going by your normal definition, don't you and Shizuo fall into that category?" Shinra innocently jabbed at Izaya's weakness with a smile.

"That's different. I'm closer to a god than anything, and of course Shizu-chan is a monster," he disconnected his gaze, a wrinkle to his eye accentuated his smile, "but he deviated from being human, as opposed to Celty who strove to act more human. One I can respect over the other, at least in this specific case."

Shinra adjusted his glasses to sit higher on the bridge of his nose. "Oh ok, that makes sense now, thank you for clarifying."

"You are aware that your mocking doesn't have any effect on me, right?"

He hummed, "I'm sure it does on occasion."

The dark haired brunet switched his crossed legs as an indication of back-tracking the conversation. He cleared his throat. “Back on point: you can't just repeat the same declaration of love you've been burdening her with since middle school and proceed directly into asking for her hand in marriage. That's underwhelming, even for you."

"Hm, you think she would turn that down then?" His eyebrows sunk with disappointment.

An illuminated phone screen tilted back up in presentation, "I mean she already did."

Shinra dismissively brushed his hand, "In that case, Casanova, what would you suggest I do?"

"You're actually willing to listen to me instead of us cycling through your multiple failures?"

Shinra nodded with enthusiasm.

Izaya stood, resting his hand on the back of his chair he stretched out his muscles in teasing preparation of his performance. "I suppose it would be easy to assume the role of an obnoxious doctor. I would like to think I understand his character well enough given the time I've had to deal with his selfish shenanigans."

"Of course, of course. And in that case, I'll take on my beautiful angel's persona, waiting to be wooed by the love of her multiple lifetimes.” He clasped his hands together while he batted his eyes. “Oh Shinra~ whisk me away to paradise with your declaration of love!"

"...don't make this more unpleasant than it already is. I don’t think I can wash my hand enough to forget the feeling of your lips on it, thank you." Izaya's eyes turned deadpan in immediate regret. He shook his hand in emphasis.  

"Also I’d like to point out how I roleplayed your 'angel' better than you with only one word, where as you had a sentence and already messed it up. Stop talking." He drew a finger across his throat to represent her missing head.

The doctor let his words go mute while attentive doe eyes met Izaya's.

It was off-putting having to pseudo propose to his long-term friend while speaking in a fluid, Shinra-esque, soliloquy. He already committed himself to the task, though, and he didn't wish to disappoint himself by backing down to a challenge.

Izaya knew his natural suggestion would revolve around snarky jokes and bad advice. As amusing the thought of sabotaging the other was, Izaya moved onto a better strategy. He caught a glance at Shinra as he passed time by swaying to either side of his chair impatiently. His mind seemed too lost on the multiple outcomes of his proposal to notice Izaya's uneasy hesitation, which was just as well. The informant only saw Celty as his courier, so writing her a love ballad, let alone seeing Shinra’s replacement reactions to it, made this task unnecessarily complicated. Perhaps it was more fitting to remove the awkward interactions by turning away, closing his eyes, or maybe picturing someone else entirely. The latter seemed most optimal to help stir his creativity.

Imagination helped cater the scene to be more in line with Izaya's interests. Chocolate locks turned golden blond and excited fidgets were canceled out by a lackadaisical recline, a cigarette rested between lazy digits. His sleeves were rolled to the crook of his elbows while an undone bow tie hung around his neck resembling his after work habit of dressing down. A faint scent of tobacco was summoned from his memory that Izaya could swear he could almost breathe in. The vision he created calmed his disjointed thoughts and brought him to a coherent mindset.

There was a loving turn of his lips at the thought of performing for his partner rather than the alternative. Inspired by the illusion of his love accidentally had Izaya dip into the well of his own planned poetry instead of creating a clumsy idea for his friend’s use.

"We were introduced at an influential time of our teenage years. I was instantaneously entranced by your deviance from normalcy that contrasted your beauty against a sea of grey. My immediate attraction killed my ability to see my life with anyone else and your preemptive rejection to my interest failed to sway me. My unconscious made a decision despite my knowledge to sequester myself from intimacy with others to allow for a doubtful potential of us."

A padded shuffle tamped a circle upon previously plush carpet in front of the table he had deserted. Izaya blocked out his vision with closed lids. The imagined living room centered on his ex-bartender whose careless smirk accompanied a drag of smoke from his cigarette. The harsh overhead lighting was softened by a golden gaze that beckoned him to continue.

"I fought the notion of ‘love at first sight’ to stave off the obvious gravity between us. It became foolish to deny that the unique waltz we danced around our feelings was drawing us closer together instead of further apart. Our presentation of love was unconventional, but it spoke of a deeper connection than just simple infatuation."

Concentration drew the blond's attention away from the burning orange stub that now reached his fingers. The sharp alert to his senses had him shake his hand and curse under his breath. Izaya chuckled, remembering the endearing consequence his partner often met when he paid attention to him.

"Our relationship gradually turned away from our repetitious tirade. I began to understand why I created a farce of equilateral love instead of affection for one; I had already given my heart to my enemy and I needed to protect myself from harsh rejection. Even though I resisted at first I realized that you enriched my life in more ways than just a rival that gave me a challenge, but you riled passion in my soul and piqued my heart's interest. You became the peace to my chaos."

His partner's expression was stuck with a generic pleasant smile plastered to his face. Izaya was unsure of the reaction he would receive at this point, but he needed to proceed forward rather than ruminate over frivolous details of a figment's body language. The conflict was hastily settled by the formation of tears that created thin streams down reddened cheeks, despite how cliché it was.

"You're the human anomaly I stumbled upon and the monster I never asked for, but I found the only stalemate I could accept eternally being unresolved.”

"Chase me to the altar, will you, Shizuo?"

Izaya’s fluid pace stopped in front of Shinra; his vision came back to reality and put him in view of the wistful smile his friend gave him from his propped head in hand.

Dark brows furrowed. He assumed Shinra would supply him with a snarky comment about how he didn't know him to be that romantic, or at least gush over how it would work perfectly for his bride to be. His arms crossed in wait of Shinra’s assessment.

"It's amazing how similar both of our obsessions became. I guess we rubbed off on each other."

Shinra's epiphany seemed out of place for Izaya's offered assistance. But when a lanky figure adorned in a two toned uniform stumbled into his peripheral he realized he had slipped the wrong context and name into his monologue. He grimaced; he accidentally proposed to Shinra in place of Shizuo.

Shizuo’s typical bartender's apparel was dressed up with a flustered red accent for the occasion, his shoulders caving in while he uncomfortably stood in front of Izaya. Behind them, Celty slunk out from a wall’s cover; her dark smoke billowed out in dense bashful clouds. It appeared that the serendipitous arrival of the monster duo placed them in the perfect situation for eavesdropping. Shizuo had been shoved into the room at the end against his volition, looking appropriately out of sorts.

The couple tried their best to look at one another without an awkward undertone, which failed each time they adverted bashful eyes from the other.

"Yes." Shizuo looked down to the floor for a fifth time while he rubbed the back of his head.

"’Yes’ to what now?" Izaya raised a brow.

Shizuo responded silently with a raised left hand and pointed to an empty ring finger.

"You can't just spy on my and Shinra's conversation, barge into the room, and answer a question I never asked of you, Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo jolted his attention back to Izaya with a perturbed frown wrinkling his forehead. Off to the sidelines, Shinra mimed a chuckle with a raised hand to his mouth in a learned behavior from the panicked woman whom he wrapped an arm around.

The room filled with loud reverb. "Are you saying all of that was a lie then, Izaya?"

"I didn't say that. I was just here to offer up advice for Shinra and his proposal. Oops," he shrugged at Shinra with a tongue protruding a smile and was met with an exasperated sigh and an accentuated puff of smoke.

Izaya addressed Shizuo again. "Perhaps that was all it was, Shizu-chan."

Shizuo's annoyance turned less hostile, "Oh really?"

"Mmhm."

"You don't want to marry me."

"I also didn't say that."

"Prove it then."

Izaya sighed halfheartedly, "what exactly am I proving?"

"Prove to me that you want to spend the rest of your life with me."

Shizuo rummaged through his upper vest pocket to unearth a petite velvet bag that he emptied into his hand. He eased into a crouch on a single knee, a ring held up high in offer. He was focused, but his hand trembled with unprepared fear.

"I, uh, have had this idea for months now and carried the ring with me looking for the right moment. I guess I should have just planned it."

A flush rose to Izaya's cheeks as his left hand was taken into Shizuo's. He knew what was coming, but his nerves caused his heart to beat heavy as he failed to wait calmly. His unconscious happiness pulled at his lips, but he tried to coolly battle it causing his mouth to hold back a cheesy smile. Just moments earlier he was calm while reciting a proposal and now he was a blubbering mess unable to control his emotions.

"Izaya, you are obnoxious, difficult as hell, and you piss me off more than anyone ever could. But without you I would lose my purpose..." he coughed uncomfortably, "um...you know what the question is."

Izaya's answer should have been on the tip of his tongue, but he was overwhelmed by the notion that they had simultaneously been on the same page without talking to each other about it. He desperately tried to prepare an overly verbose response worthy of his standards and reputation, but only one word seemed fitting.

"Yes."

Shizuo beamed while glancing up to meet his partner's eyes before he focused on slipping the ring on his finger with shaky precision.

"I know it's not much, but I saved up to buy it back in February or something."

"...you started saving for an engagement ring the month we got together."

"Yeah?"

"You're unbelievable. And here I thought I had the idea first. I guess I will have to one up you with your ring--"

Izaya was silenced with a merger of their lips. Light glinted off bright platinum as Izaya guided his palms to rest on Shizuo's dampened cheeks. Tears were wiped away with his thumbs.

Shinra, and a reluctant Celty, offered applause that was indeterminately sardonic.

"Alright, now that you have successfully spoiled my proposal AND stole the spotlight, I'm kicking you out, Izaya."

Roused from their kiss, Izaya turned his head in response with a sly pout; he kept his connection with Shizuo, if not drew him in more. "You want the happy couple to leave before we get to celebrate?"

"Of course not! Shizuo can stay. It’s only you that needs to leave." An extended finger pointed towards the exit as he tilted his head adorned with a smile Izaya could only read as annoyed.

"Ha. I suppose we'll /both/ be taking our leave then." Izaya's arm hooked around Shizuo who struggled to shake off his elated haze from a moment earlier.

"Hmm, that's a shame. I was going to ask my lovely fiancé to cook a fabulous engagement dinner for us." He jubilantly clasped Celty's hand in his.

The dullahan’s shoulders jolted in surprise. She swiftly took up her cellphone, almost dropping it in a flurry of emotions. A desperate dance of fingers tapped across the screen typed a message that only Shinra could see. He responded so quickly that it was debatable if Shinra already knew her message through some form of telepathy he had developed for her.

"Ah!! I was so wrapped up in my disappointment that I almost missed my opportunity to ask!" Shinra whined.

When the doctor proceeded to take a knee, Izaya rolled his eyes and began a trek to the front door with Shizuo in tow who was struggling to watch.

"I have loved you ever since I set my eyes on you. Celty, will you do the honor of marrying me?"

Izaya snorted, "he added her name at least. Shizu-chan, get the door for me on the way out." A dry tone flavored his request.

Shizuo silently nodded as he witnessed his two friends exchange an embrace making him ignorant of Izaya's intent for him to unhinge the door in haste. The informant's played up annoyance was sated by slight splintering of wood in the aftermath.

"Welcome to the joy of being unfairly kicked out by Shinra. Think of the transferred abuse as an early wedding gift for my fiancé." Izaya chuckled to himself. Shizuo leaned in to rest his forehead on his partner's and absorbed the comfort of his arms engulfing him. The newly engaged couple stood in the hallway unaware of anything outside on each other’s presence as their thoughts drifted away from the uncertainty of their future and were replaced with calming reassurance. It was years of pent up exhaustion that had finally unraveled into peace of mind.

"His loss. My gain."

Izaya purred with content, "I'm glad you spied in on my fake proposal today."

"I'm glad you accepted mine."

Izaya sighed at the thought of planning a wedding. "Now we just have to say 'I do'."

"I do."

Izaya shoved Shizuo, "not now, you idiot."

"Fine. How about ‘I will’ then?" he huffed.

Izaya flushed and had to look away, "you're too matter of fact, you lovesick fool. I already know you will."

"And do you?"

"What is this, the actual ceremony? And do you, Izaya, take Shizuo to be your lawfully wedded husband?" He laughed.

"...well? What's your answer, Izaya?"

"I do…"

Shizuo’s broadened his smile more than it should be capable.

"...not need to answer that until we have an ordained minister. I'm guessing the suspense of my answer will kill you, but you need to work on your patience anyway."

Shizuo’s expression flipped to an annoyed frown. “Izaya...you have worked against my patience enough over the years. Humor me for once."

"Perhaps that's only the perception of an impatient person."

Izaya’s cocky retort hung in the air while Shizuo bounced an idea around in his head. Sudden action of the blond took the other off guard as he was whisked off his feet and slung over a shoulder. They ascended down the hallway with brisk pace.

"Hey, hey. You couldn't possibly be taking us to the courthouse just so you can get an answer now?" His pointer finger jabbed at Shizuo’s head multiple times.

"I do not know what you're talking about, flea!"

A sigh that could be read as humored or exasperated left his lips, "well, I suppose 'fiancé' never rolled off the tongue for me. Alas, our picture perfect wedding will never be."

"This… You and me, is perfect enough." The confidently sweet whisper was meant just for them despite it not being necessary in their deserted surroundings.

Izaya didn’t expect an emotional day. He thought he knew what would come of his visit, but was not prepared to deal with this, so he was thankful that he faced away from Shizuo's view of his honest tears that rolled down to meet his easy smile. Shizuo rubbed at his leg in comfort when he heard a few muffled sniffs and a silent hiccup. This was perfect enough for him too.

[historiesofabody]

two unsent messages, july 2020

1.

I should stress that this is not an email you should rush reading, as it requires careful room for consideration. It touches frequently on violence and assault. I've spent a month drafting and redrafting this, trying to get what I'm saying exactly right, so I hope you can give it your time.

*

I hope you understand that I am glad that we are strangers. That our lives are, in every practical sense, disconnected. When you were asking me about my creative work, about my family on May 14th last year, I felt almost physically unable to answer.

I realise, however, with a deep sadness, that I've written to you 6 seperate times over the last three years. It seems far too many times, considering we are strangers, and you've so rarely replied.

I've never questioned why I feel this need to contact you though, regardless of how exhausting or humiliating it's become.

To me it's obvious that our interaction was very much an injury. It's always made sense to me that it requires healing, that it is not unfair of me to ask you to contribute to that process.

But I've gauged from your difficulty responding that you don't quite feel the same.

When you haven't answered, I have had to try answering for myself.

I don't think you could imagine how much time I have spent reflecting and considering your past behaviour - I have no other choice.

How these messages I write to you arise from months of rumination, research, processing; how much I've read and written over the last few years; how much therapy I've struggled through and struggled to pay for, how much I've alienated friends and loved ones with cyclical theories and endless anxieties, how much time, how many people, how many work opportunities I've genuinely lost because of the demands that healing entirely alone has placed on me.

When I emailed you impulsively a few days after we met last year, so angrily and so honestly, all I wanted was for you to feel pain, feel something like I did. It had only just hit me that you had spent that whole two hours somehow still avoiding the reality of what you had done.

(Because you called it 'what I did to you' when you meant sexual assault, abuse, manipulation. The only time you named a specific act of violence was me scratching you. You made no attempts to relieve me of the shame your violence left me with.)

You should know that any time I've called you an abuser, a rapist, it's not even because I think you're oblivious, that you need to be informed of these facts. I do think you know it, otherwise you wouldn't have looked so scared of me.

But I sent that furious email in May 2019 because I knew it would shut that connection down, end our conversation and put a distance between us that felt temporarily safe.

Because meeting you again was like having a wound re-opened. To look at you and see how little my pain had really touched you after everything I had gone through was uniquely devastating.

Of course, by November, I had cycled back around to needing input from you, regardless of the contradictions this threw up. I can imagine it was confusing. I am not entirely surprised that you did not respond,

Our interaction makes so much more sense to me when I remember that we were always deeply incompatible and monumentally useless at communicating. I don't think I've ever trusted you to be honest with me, to be brave or insightful – perhaps this has been an impediment to meaningful change.

I have expected the worst of you for so long now I don't have any other way of approaching you. At the same time, I'm compelled to keep hoping you'll surprise me. Some of this is a result of our traumatic bonding, some of it is I think a specifically personal radical hopefulness that no amount of disappointment can extinguish.

*

For some people who have experienced abuse, silence is healing. For me, as I have told you time and time again, your testimony, your honesty, your vulnerability has always felt so important to me, so needed and it is something you have consistently held back on or directly avoided.

I remember even as far back as 2012, trying to speak to you on the phone about what had happened between us.  

I need you to understand that the grace I have continuously offered you over and over and over again for almost a decade - to hold a space for your insight, for your perspective - has only ever been met with your refusal, denial, minimisation or silence.

When I contacted_ in 2017, I was almost ready for her to tell me she already knew. Whatever withholding from your future wife that you were once in a violent relationship is called – 'moving on', concealing, misrepresenting, lying – to me, it's the only proof that our relationship left you with far more of a 'legacy' than you have ever wanted to admit.

My own revisitation of our relationship has never been a choice. Have I ever explained that carefully enough? Does that make sense to you?

Back then, you were the one who stressed I needed to 'live in the moment', that all that mattered was what happened when we were physically together.

It's a painful turn of events then, that now our violence still lives in my body. I remember being hit, I remember being held down, I remember how you could make me flinch, I remember hurting you, I remember wanting to hurt you.

This email, and every time I have ever begged for your insight for the last decade, is a direct consequence of that violence – our violence - and yet I have been left entirely alone with it.

*

I know you're not exactly the same person who treated me so viciously when we were teenagers, which is not to say I believe you are entirely transformed, simply that time and life and a loving relationship has changed you as such things also changed me.

The one thing I did not prepare for before we met was that, regardless of the past decade, I would only be able to feel the way I had so often felt around you. Conflicted, distressed, on edge, angry.

It's clear I remain angry at you, even now.

This anger is why I don't think that we should meet in real life again. The way that my body and mind responds to your presence suggests that no meeting could feel like closure, and perhaps you feel the same.

.....

[Attempt 2.]

Every time I write to you, it brings me such feelings of discomfort, such huge, familiar shame. In my head, you are living blissfully untouched by our past violence, and when I re-appear, I bring it with me.  

If we lived in a world where we were taught different approaches to addressing violent relationships, to value justice and healing, I don't think I would feel such shame. I don't think you would have found it so difficult to respond to me, either. I think you might've even helped me out with this in 2012 when I first asked to speak on the phone with you, rather than us dragging this out over a decade.

This will be the seventh time I've written to you in three years? I've tried so many tactics, but I've never been able to be vulnerable enough to state what I need from you. I've always hoped you would offer it, because that's what would've felt right, restorative even.

I don't think you understand how much I've needed your testimony. And I don't mean the story you tell yourself in your head, what you told _, what you told me all those times in a state of denial and shame.

The only reason I am so certain that you remember, you do know what happened between us is because I know, and I remember. Does that make sense? Because we were both there, and it happened to each of us. Because we often talked about how we could never talk about it to anyone other than each other.

However, any messages between us or spoken conversation we've ever had, from 2011 to May 14th last year, I have watched you lie to me, and to yourself. Lying doesn't have to be conscious, of course; minimising, denying, blanking out memories, all point to an inability to tolerate painful reality rather than because you enjoy my confusion and distress.

I assume you've done this because I did it too, for a long time. And I know that asking you to revisit experiences that cause you pain, that cause you shame, that make you want to literally run away as you ultimately did when we met last year, is difficult, is so much to ask.

If I've learnt anything over the last ten years, it's that I can't change how I feel about you. I will always be injured, disappointed, angry. I will keep grieving what was lost. What I feel like I can change however is this sense that I am always fighting with you for the truth. That I feel like a liar. That I feel alone with what happened between us when that's not really the case.

I'm asking you to write in your own words whatever it is you have thought and felt about what happened between us, specifically during that time, perhaps in the years since, perhaps about September 2017 and other times I have contacted you, if that feels important.

If you agree to do this, I do understand it might take weeks, months.

On May 14th you said to me you felt like you were playing a game where the rules kept changing. You felt like you couldn't say anything right.

I agree now that I was trying to control everything; it's a protective mechanism, you've done the same in your own way.

But I am now in a position where I don't have the same controlling idea of what I specifically need you to say or how I want you to say it.

What I need is proof of your emotional engagement, your meaningful reflection, your work. I don't want you to write what you think I want to hear, but rather for you to offer the perspective and insight my experience of you has been so lacking since 2010.

If you do agree to do this, I do have two conditions that I need you to accept, if this is going to help us.

I need you to be completely honest, to the best of your ability, even if it pains you to do so. You can say whatever you need to about how you felt/feel about me or what I've done, if that means you are being honest.

And I need you not to minimise or deny what happened. I need you to ruminate deeply on the violence – which means you need to put in the work of remembering, naming and reflecting on it.

I need you to write about hitting me, about manipulative, controlling behaviours, about us fighting. I need you to write the words sexual assault and show that you have reflected on your actions. You don't need to censor your words, because the uncensored reality is already a part of my life.

I understand memory is complicated, especially painful memories. I have been reminded on multiple occasions by friends and family of interactions between you and I that I've previously completely forgotten. Perhaps you will need to look back on messages, diaries, if they still exist.

I can be as patient as is necessary, because this is important. Like I said, I understand that this could take a very long time to produce, and perhaps it should.

I think the key here is that this testimony allows me insight into your feelings from a safe, mindful distance. It will be something to rely on and trust in. Something detailed and thoughtful that lets me rest. Something that allows me to believe you. Something that you have put time, effort and reflection into that I can respect you for.

Something that leaves you vulnerable too, not so that I can hurt you, but so that we are finally on an equal footing.

I hope that you have it in you to understand why I still might need that.

*

If you were to write such a document for me, I couldn't promise you that you would be giving me closure. I couldn't promise you it will make you feel better or redeemed or less ashamed. I couldn't promise you I would never contact you again, although I hope it would.

I can only tell you that it is what I have needed and that, until you didn't reply to that email I wrote in a state of such reckless distress that I was essentially directly giving you an opportunity to isolate and hurt me, I have never trusted you enough to ask.

I can tell you that if you were to tell the truth, the contents of that document would frighten me more than anything, because I have been trying to live in denial too, I have tried to forgive us, I have tried to delete memories and repress feelings, and I've failed, because denying reality is such a fractured and therefore impossible way to live.

*

I understand you might need time to think this over or to discuss/share this message with trusted people.

If you conclude that you can't help me with this, I just need you to tell me as directly as you can because then I can begin to process and accept it.

If you are able and want to do it, even if only at some point in the future, then please let me know too.

The potential for a world where neither of us harm or are harmed in the way we once did to each other is sometimes the only thing that keeps me going, and it's this hope that has led me to writing to you again.

Thank you for reading.

Sincerely,

D.

[ships-and-saints]

“I can’t stay away.” [Part 1] [Nesta x Cassian]

a/n: IT’S FINALLY HERE i hope you all like it!!! this is my first nessian fic, and it’s mainly from Cassian’s POV. let me know if you can’t wait for the next parts! and i’d LOVE to hear your thoughts, seriously they give me life and inspiration! also THANK YOU SO MUCH to Bianca aka @catastrophicallyinlovewithbooks for reading the early draft of this for me and offering awesome advice and constructive criticism, this piece would not be what it is right now without her!!!

NOTE: MAJOR ACOWAR SPOILERS!! MAJOR ACOWAR SPOILERS!! I also recommend reading Wings and Embers if you enjoy Nessian fics, the Target-exclusive chapter in ACOMAF! FST: Moth’s Wings (stripped down) by Passion Pit Word Count: 2280

Parts: [ teaser ] [ part 1 ] [ part 2 ] [ part 3 ] [ part 4 ] [ part 5 ] Read it on: [ fanfiction.net ] [ archive of our own ]

"Dear friend as you know,  Your flowers are withering,  Your mother's gone missing,  Your leaves have drifted away.

But the clouds are clearing up And I've come reveling Burning incandescently Like a bastard on the burning sea"

- Moth's Wings (stripped down) by Passion Pit

Cassian

It had been a week and a half since Hybern's War ended, and Cassian wondered if perhaps he should write Nesta a letter.

What would he even say? Dear Nesta… I'm sorry about your father, but maybe training with me will help? Oh, and by the way, thanks for throwing your body over mine when the gods-damned King of Hybern tried to kill us both…?

Yeah, right. Cassian shook his head in irritation, his dark hair falling across his face. He frowned into the heavy, crystal tumbler he held, half-full of whiskey. What was it about words that made them so hard to grasp when he needed them the most?

During the first few days after the war ended, Cassian had gone to visit the Illyrian families of fallen warriors to mourn and pay his respects.

But afterwards, he returned to Velaris where he watched Nesta dutifully attend meals and push food around on her plate, barely speaking to anyone save for Feyre and Elain. Nesta just sat there with a cool, blank expression on her face, sitting and watching everyone.

Breakfast this morning was no different. Even though Elain had arranged freshly cut lilies and chrysanthemums in a slim, patterned vase, Cassian felt like he was watching the flowers wither in front of him.

Since the war ended, Nesta had holed herself up in her room nearly every day. Occasionally, she would have Feyre or Azriel fly her up to the House of Wind so she could sit in her favorite armchair at the library to read, preferring to be alone and undisturbed.

Cassian had been relying on Rhysand and Azriel as well, as his wings were out of commission after the war. But after a few days of rest and applying healing salve, his wings had healed enough for him to fly up to the House of Wind.

He hesitantly circled above, unsure of whether to go in and talk to Nesta or not. Imagined conversations started and trailed off in his mind as he warred internally.

During the few times he had mustered the courage to confront her, his usual verbal prods and cheeky remarks barely provoked a reaction from her, nothing like the barbed responses she usually volleyed back.

So he stayed away for a few more days, trying to give her space even though it deeply concerned him that she seemed to be slowly wasting away before his eyes.

Even her sisters looked worried, often swapping anxious glances. He once overheard them murmuring about whether Nesta might snap, whether the death of their father was just too much for her after all she had been through.

Elain was also mourning their father's death, but the Spring Court fox, Lucien Vanserra, had stuck around to comfort her. He had met Mr. Archeron while on his mission to find the firebird queen, and however brief their time together was, hearing Lucien speak about her father seemed to bring Elain some comfort.

And Azriel often visited Elain while she was tending her gardens, which improved her mood significantly. Lucien seemed resigned to their budding friendship.

Feyre had the Morrigan and her mate Rhysand for support, but even so… The three sisters were now orphaned, since their mother passed away long ago…

Standing on the balcony at the House of Wind, Cassian stared at the glowing lights of the city and ruminated on how much the situation had changed in just a few weeks. How before the culmination of the war, Elain had been the one who was in shock, who needed her soul soothed. How Azriel had been the one to hear and see what she needed, and Azriel had even given her Truth-teller, which saved both his and Nesta's damn necks…

Thinking about the Shadowsinger, Cassian had no choice but to begrudgingly acknowledge his brother Azriel seemed to have a knack with the Archeron women. Probably had to do with the fact that the dark-haired Illyrian was not only tall and handsome, but also mysterious with his shadows and all.

Cassian snorted and flexed his left fingers. I'm going to pummel him into the dirt next time we spar.

He wondered whether Azriel might have better luck talking to Nesta, but the thought sent both a jolt of jealousy and annoyance through his mind.

No. She's mine, he growled to himself, instinctively, the mating bond ringing in his head. Mine to take care of…

But then he shook his head violently, as if trying to fling the thoughts from his mind. No, not yet… Not yet. Maybe not ever, with how things are going. She doesn't even want to see me, let alone talk to me…

He wished that Nesta responded to his customary humor, how he dealt with serious situations. Idly, Cassian wondered how mad she'd be if he just left her a note that said, "Dear Nes, Can I touch your butt? Love, Cass," but he shook his head and tried to wipe the smirk off his face before someone asked him what he was laughing about. Perhaps one day, she would be more open and less… guarded around him.

"Why do you have that smarmy smirk on your face?" Mor breezed onto the balcony wearing one of her typical Night Court dresses, a long, pale yellow dress with geometric cutouts that put her golden-brown skin on display.

Cassian hid his irritation; Mor had a penchant for catching him off-guard. Instead, he replaced the remnants of his smirk with a lazy grin as he beheld her swishing towards him.

So different from the classic gowns Nesta usually wears, Cassian mused… Glancing down at his glass of whiskey, he took another swig for still thinking of Nesta.

Mor surveyed him as she awaited his answer, taking in his dark leathers and the swords strapped to his back. Typical Illyrian attire.

"Nothing," he replied smoothly, "Just glad to be alive, that's all."

Mor arched her perfect eyebrows, her red lips pursed reproachfully. "Me too. You were really cutting it close this time, you know, Cassian?" She put her hands on her hips and glared at him, although he could see in her eyes that she was relieved he was safe. And whole.

He nodded and turned to face the shining city, placing his scarred hands on the white balustrade. Mor's heels clicked as she stepped next to him, her wine glass clinking against the plaster as she stared up into the night sky.

They stood outside the House of Winds, enjoying the cool breeze and the smattering of stars glimmering overhead in the cloudless sky.

The silence was companionable at first, but gradually, Cassian felt a tension creep up, a slight unease emanating from Mor. She was staring down into the depths of her wine glass, as if she could simply divine the answers she sought if she squinted at the dregs of red wine hard enough.

Finally, she spoke, hesitantly. "Cassian… go to her," she said softly, "She needs you. And… you need her."

He didn't have to ask to know she was talking about Nesta.

Cassian gripped the crystal tumbler tighter, swirling the last few mouthfuls of whiskey that skimmed the bottom of the glass. "She… needs space. And time." He didn't know how many times he had repeated the words to himself. He downed the rest of the alcohol in his glass.

Mor snorted delicately, but the tone in her voice was… honest, resigned. "Listen to yourself. Just look at me, look how much time I've had. Years. Centuries. And it's never gotten me anywhere." She spoke candidly, and her demeanor was casual… but still, Cassian had known her long enough to see through the pretense, to see that she was anticipating his response.

He stilled and really looked at Mor then, his hazel eyes meeting her brown ones. An emotion he couldn't quite place stirred beneath the cool mask on her face.

Cassian's eyes narrowed slightly. Just as he suspected, something was different about her… Not bad, just different.

She broke the gaze first, turning to face the city and the skyline again. Blowing stray blonde strands from her face, the swirling emotion finally revealed itself; she looked chagrined. "Feyre and I… we exchanged… words during the battle… I was furious that she went off to chase the Suriel on her own, that she nudged me towards the battlefield, and as High Lady, she didn't trust me enough to tell me her plans…" She took a deep breath and let it out noisily.

Mor turned to face him, her face illuminated by the moonlight, her brown eyes bright and defiant. Swirling with strength and… conviction. And some fear, beneath it all.

"Cassian… I prefer women." She blew out a breath, her golden cheeks slightly flushing with color. "I haven't… admitted it or embraced it, even though I know how I feel won't change. But… my family, Hewn City…"

Mor's eyes squeezed shut as her face twisted and her body tensed. "What Rhys did… He let them into Velaris. Our home. My home…" She paused. "My sanctuary."

Her eyes finally opened and found his, and they were full of a deep, ancient sadness. Cassian didn't know what to say, so he just watched her, her chest heaving…

"We'll find a way through it. Together. We won't let them touch you." Cassian turned to face her.

Mor's eyes were full of agony, but then they shuttered. "They don't deserve this place," she said softly, miserably.

Cassian moved to put a head on her shoulder. "I know," he said. "They don't. But remember what Amren said before… she may have given up the essence of her past being, but she's still High Fae, and I have no doubt she'll still be able to keep the order and peace in this city." Mor nodded, although tears still threatened to escape from the corners of her eyes.

They both looked out at the city again. Cassian blew out a breath. "And who knows, maybe this place will change them."

Mor shot him an incredulous look. "Is that supposed to be a good thing?"

Cassian answered with a feral grin. "Well, the alternative is death. If they can't behave, we'll just spike their heads to the front gate and make an example of them."

Mor cracked a small smile at that, although her bottom lip wobbled.

"So... you prefer women, then? Is that why you spent all that time at Rita's?" Cassian probed.

"Yeah, Rita's… and after all that's happened, that's why… all this time, with Az…" Her eyes shuttered as if she were in pain, as if she couldn't bring herself to think about how she had hurt Azriel throughout the years, the centuries.

Cassian just stared at her, unblinking for a moment, before cocking his head, weighing his response.

She was right; it didn't matter to him which gender Mor preferred. All he wanted was for… for Mor to be happy. And Az too, although he'd always been slightly jealous of his friend's fixation with the Morrigan.

And… Cassian had suspected that something was different with Mor, although he had always shoved the thoughts from his mind, thinking that the right to do was to let the Morrigan sort out her own truths. Like the rest of the Inner Circle had, for centuries.

But after so many years of coming between her and Azriel, he knew something wasn't quite right, that they weren't meant to be tied together because the mating bond should have snapped into place within five centuries…

"Cassian," Mor's voice was low and commanding, snapping Cassian from his thoughts, "Go to her. Don't talk to her like you talk to me. Don't treat her like you treat me, because she's not like us. She's not one of us."

Cassian just stared and stared at her then, while thoughts and images of Nesta flooded through his mind, unspoken conversations starting and ending as he agonized over what to say.

But he finally nodded, and unfurled his wings. His eyes met hers, and Mor looked… sorrowful, but contemplative. More… at peace with herself than Cassian had seen before.

"You know it doesn't matter to me, who you love, who you prefer… As long as you're happy. Have you told Rhys?" he asked softly. Mor's brown eyes trailed the edges of his repaired wings.

She nodded, looking somewhat guiltily. "Yeah, I told him before you… But that's because he and Feyre are mated." She made a long-suffering face and Cassian laughed. "She said she wouldn't tell him, but that stupid bat would've somehow found out anyway, and I wanted him to hear it from me."

"We'll protect you from your family, no matter what. But, you need to tell Az," he told her firmly. "Yourself."

Mor lifted her chin but looked unhappy. "I know. Will it… change things? Between us all?"

Cassian scanned her eyes and shrugged. One side of his mouth quirked up. "I mean, it won't change what's happened already… but maybe it will bring you both peace. Truth sets us free, and all that, remember?"

Smiling crookedly, he flicked her nose with his finger and then launched himself into the clear, night sky before Mor could do anything more than cry out in retaliation. He smirked to himself, catching an updraft with his widespread wings, steering himself towards Rhys and Feyre's townhouse.

Towards Nesta.

Ever since the War, the bond had felt more real to him, more tangible, and he unconsciously brushed it…

Nesta, Nesta, Nesta… even the winds and skies knew her; they carried her name and whispered it in his ear as he soared in her direction, following the tug from his heart.

[mirrorworld12]

Him

The closed curtains are glowing in the sun shining behind them, tincturing the room with a dull tone of orange. The rotating fan is fanning my lazy feels. I turned around to look at him and he is still in deep sleep. This is why I love Sunday mornings. I can watch him sleep. I am left alone in my world to admire him. I can hear his soft breaths serenading me. I start with his sharp jaw line that makes me go weak on my knees.

After caressing his bearded cheeks, I trace the contours of his gaping mouth and then plant a kiss on his nose. I see his half closed eyes and the eyeballs moving rapidly under them. Is he dreaming about me? I gently stroke his uneven eyebrows and then slowly tap the eyes shut. I love doing that. I see his long, slender and perfectly sculpted fingers resting on his pillow. Is this why he can make such beautiful ribbons on his A’s or the puffy bows on his B’s or those winding curves on his G’s in his letters? I see his ruffled hair and my fingers climb up to the black fields on his head. As I move through them I marvel over how ravishing its insides must be for all the beautiful words he writes to me can’t be a work of something mediocre. I wish of delving into the intricacies and intimacies of his thoughts that transform into words he pens but it’s a pity that I see the vestiges of his brilliant mind only through his words. Now when I think of it, it were his words I fell in love with first and perhaps, it were his words that made me fall for him.

Like a magician smoothly conjuring up a pigeon out of thin air, he spun a world with twiddle of his words so effortlessly. Once I entered it, I knew I wanted to be there for all the times to come. I wanted to be a part of his creation. I wanted to be his muse for rest of my life. But it was becoming the love of his life which was much more magical. He was my windfall.

Crossing all the miles between us, his handwritten letters would arrive at my doorstep every now and then; and my heart would fly to him jumping over all those numerous milestones after reading each letter.

In my moments of self-loathing and despair, his words would lull my heart into sleep. I never knew I could look so beautiful, but the words he adorned me with made me fall in love with myself. Like the greens of mountain complimenting the purple blooms all over it in spring, like a quenched thirst in a summer rain, like an impromptu dance in a monsoon evening, like a road decked with fallen leaves in varying shades of chrome in an autumn morning and like the warmth of a bonfire in a wintery night, I found the solace and joy, I searched for, in his words. Often, when I am all by myself, I catch myself smiling unconsciously for all his words lodged in my subconscious.

Though the courtship years are gone, I still find glimpses of his writings; the sweet nothings on a sticky note on the fridge when I return from a hectic day at work, or a text after midnight when he is busy working in another room or a draft in my laptop blinking at me after a fight between us.

He breaks away in between kisses to say me how much he loves me. He pulls me into a back hug and whispers in my ears what I mean to him. On the night of our anniversaries, we nestle up on the bed and he reads out a letter for me. In those times, I get confused about what should I concentrate on, the beautiful words he wrote for me or his dulcet voice crooning those words and sending jitters in my ears.

Sometimes I feel so lacking and inadequate in front of him. I can’t stop wondering if I am showing him my love in every possible way like he does. With the pages of calendar turning so fast, ruminations about our lost moments of love are rife in my head. Am I making enough memories with him? Am I laughing a little harder with him? Do I love him a little more with each passing day?

I hope our lifetime lasts much longer so that I can fill his heart with infinities of my love for I am already soused with his love. May be I should write him a letter today. But before that, I pull up his arms up and snuggle myself to him. Let me sleep some more time in this paradise.

~Tapaswini Dash #Fanpost ( via heartbeats) 💕( cr:- The storyteller )

( again here it is , these posts leave my speechless )

[theycallmebuddy-blog]

11-11-05 - Veterans Day

I’m back, everyone! I apologize for such a long hiatus, but what had to be done had to be done. I had myself a wonderful holiday, and I can’t wait to experience the other ones for the (proverbial) first time.

Speaking of, today’s a special holiday called Veterans Day, and although Veterans Day in the UK is in June, the man I’d like to honor is an American citizen.

Of course, I’m speaking about the one and only Sergeant! 

A brave soldier enlisted during a draft, he soon found his purpose in the arts of war. Patriotism and honor are a drug of the highest degree, and Sergeant likes his highs.

However, he doesn’t celebrate today for himself as I do for him. These past few years, Sergeant has made a realization that changed forever how he thought about his time in the service, and why he eventually left.

I think he said it best himself when he told me on last year’s Veterans Day, “We fight and fight, but for what? It’s one thing if we were defending something we cared so dear about. It’s another thing altogether to fight an enemy minding their own damn business. I guess, in the heady days of the draft, everything felt different. But now...now, looking back, it was nothing but trouble.”

For the years I spent on the base with him, Sergeant would stay in his quarters this day. He’d carry in an entire crate of surplus supplied whiskey (there was never a surplus of that whiskey, mind you, so I imagine he’d saved it) and watch old war movies. And if you listened hard enough, you could faintly hear his sobs.

I know firsthand that war changes people. Sergeant is not the same strapping, excited kid that he was during his time serving. While I haven’t heard from him particularly what made him snap out of his daze, I do have a hypothesis.

Sometimes, when he’s drunk, he talks about his war friend Jordan. In fact, he’s talked about him so much that I think I know more about Jordan than I do about Sergeant. He really did like him a lot. 

He’d reminisce and ruminate on the adventures they had together, all the while playing story charades with us, drunk off his ass. But last year, I managed to strike up a small conversation with him when he left his quarters to get some food (where I got that earlier bit), still drunk, but willing to give me enough information through his slurred speech.

(Bolded = Sergeant, Regular = Me)

“Me an’ a buddy o’ mine -- ye know Jordan, right..?”

“I do,”

“Well, when we was younger, you know, in the days of the draft, we were best pals. I mean, best pals. We’d do everything together -- eat, train, shoot, run, sleep, repeat. They called us Jekyll and Hyde, they did, they did,”

“Uh huh,”

“But there came that day where Jekyll went away, and of course, one can’t live without the other,”

“Went away?”

“Got shot during a siege. Y’know that siege I talked about? The one where I shot ‘bout twenty o’ them fuckers before they had gone? Yeah, without him I wouldn’t o’ been able to do it. He gave me a distraction to get the firepower ready. I...I really tried to save him, I yelled at my fellow soldiers to get him outta there and patch him up...but...but...”

“Oh...Sergeant, I’m so sorry...”

“I don’t think I’ve ever screamed louder, no ma’am. But all’s fair in love and war, and good ol’ Jordy is in a better place now, shootin’ them fuckers in the clouds...”

He stopped a moment, letting a lone tear roll down his tired cheek, sniffling. He walked through me as if we hadn’t just had a conversation, quickly raided the pantry, and ran back into his room, not to be seen again until the next morning. 

War does change people. They lose friends, they lose loved ones, and they lose sight of what made them love it in the first place. As I write this, I sit thinking about poor Sergeant. I know, somewhere, wherever he’s at now, is curled up in a ball drinking himself to death because deep down inside he knows the thing that gave him such passion and such motive will be his downfall.

Now, I’m not anti-war. I think any of you who have been reading this knows I’m faaaaaaar from it. When it comes time to defend, I am all for defending our country, being brave...you know, the works. All I have to say is, love the people who have served or are serving around you. You simply have no idea the pain and struggle these brave bastards have gone through and continue to go through. 

Love your veterans, people...and god bless America.