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yaku-soba · 3 years ago

Text

everything i could never say to you (i wrote into a song)

༶•┈┈ semi eita x gn!reader | light angst, eventual fluff

༶•┈┈ general m.list

warnings/tags: childhood best friends to lovers, this bad boy can fit so much pining in it, in this fic semi plays the guitar and the piano and also sings, i looped sorry for writing all the songs about you by clara mae while writing this and it shows

word count: 2k

a/n: a repost from my old account!! re-reading this made me realize how much my writing has changed :””) i hope yall enjoy this!!

summary: All of his songs are about you. Eita doesn’t know how to write anything else.

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

Eita’s had many favourite singers. He doesn’t remember them all, because there are too many, but there’s an interview he’d watched once, back in his first year of middle school that sticks with him.

Find a muse, he remembers the singer saying - he doesn’t remember their name anymore, but he knows these words by heart - find a muse, and write them into your music.

(It’ll be the most painful thing you’ve ever sung, but it will be the most beautiful.

He hadn’t understood what the singer had meant, then.)

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

“Semi-semi!” You shout gleefully as you throw open the doors to the gym. Catching Tendou’s eye, you shoot him finger-guns, smiling even as your best friend storms towards you, the volleyball in his hand flying against the side of Tendou's head.

“Out,” he says gruffly, catching you by the back of your collar, and you wave a jaunty salute at the rest of Shiratorizawa’s volleyball team as Eita hauls you out of the gym.

“That was mean,” you pout, turning when he finally lets go of you, “and after I came all the way here to pass you your math homework.” You drawl the word all, and delight in the tick in Eita’s brow.

Your best friend sighs, massaging his temple in a way that has no business looking that all-suffering, “I never should have let you meet Tendou.”

Laughing, you hand him the worksheet he’d left under his table. “We would have met anyway,” you point out, “seeing as he had a puppy crush on me back in first year.”

Eita stiffens, and the hand taking his worksheet from you crumbles into itself.

“You’re crumpling the worksheet,” you say, “what, are you jealous?” You wink, your tone just shy of flirtation.

(You wish you were brave enough to just ask.)

He laughs, voice cracking, and the sound grates more than it should.

“Of course not,” he says, free hand smoothing out the wrinkles until it’s like they were never there, “I just wouldn’t wish you on anyone.”

“Right,” you agree easily, “says Semi-I’ve-been-single-my-entire-high-school-career-Eita.”

Your best friend scowls at that. “There’s still a few months,” he argues, and you brush off the rest of his statement by pushing him back into the gym.

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, grinning, “I bet you’re a real heartbreaker, Eita.”

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

The first song Eita writes that’s worth mentioning is about you.

It’s full of steady strums and simple notes, and when his lips form the lyrics, he sees in his mind's eye the way the sun catches in your lashes in the way they do on gentle spring afternoons. He’s long since memorized the way it drips across your cheeks, honeyed gold like the belly of the guitar that he’d promised himself he’d save up for.

(It’ll be the most painful thing you’ve ever sung, but it will be the most beautiful. Eita hadn't understood it at twelve. At eighteen, he thinks he does.

He understands it now, as a third-year usurped by his junior. Every game he doesn’t spend as the starting setter stings like road burn, but still the court beckons like a mirage in a desert and he cannot let go.

Eita learns to tell himself that this is okay. He’s fine with being a pinch server if it means he gets to stand on the court. At least he still gets to hear the squeak his shoes make against the wood when he takes off like a bird in flight.

So - of course Eita understands, he’s your best friend, after all. And he knows that’s all he’ll ever be.)

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

Once, when you were children freshly enrolled in middle school, Eita had asked you to be his muse.

You still remember how nervous he had been, how his hands - long even at their age, beautiful like a pianist or a setter’s - shook. You remember the blush across his cheeks, cherry blossom petals you had wanted to keep.

You wonder if he still remembers, if he still writes his songs with you as his muse.

You wonder if they're love songs.

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

Sometimes, you think that he might like you back.

It’s a thought that you can’t help thinking whenever you catch him staring at you a breath too long, when he makes eye contact with you the moment right before he serves (intense), whenever his fingers linger on your arm (butterfly kiss-light).

Sometimes, he looks at you the way he strums his guitar - gently, all adoration and other soft things. He’ll look at you with the corners of his eyes crinkled (just slightly, like origami), and his lips stretched into a small smile - and your heart will leap, it’ll tumble gracelessly, and you’ll think, what if.

But you are, at heart, a coward. You love Eita more than you have ever loved someone else, and it terrifies you - you don’t know what you’ll do if you lose your best friend.

You don't want to find out. You'll learn to satisfy yourself with just his friendship, because you know, without a doubt, that losing it will kill you.

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

All his songs are about you.

It’s not even that Eita’s trying. He writes a lyric and realizes it’s a metaphor for your eyes; he hums a verse and finds that it’s the exact pentatonic scale of your laugh.

You’ve wormed your way into every page of his music and into every turn of phrase, and Eita cannot stop hearing you in every song. It’s keeping him from writing anything else.

It's only terrifying because he doesn't know if he wants to write anything else. He tries not to think too much about it, but sometimes - only sometimes - he thinks that by writing you into every note and every lyric, he can make you his. Even if it's only for the length of a song.

(He wonders what you’d say if you heard them.

He wonders if you’d hear the arching crescendo, the way it builds and builds and builds before overflowing, crashing like a wave against the shore - and know that it’s about that night you’d crawled through his bedroom window just because he’d called you, upset. He wonders if you’d pick out the light, sure-footed rhythm that he hides in all of his music and know that it’s a desperate imitation of the thousands of times you’d skipped ahead of him on the walk home.

Eita wonders and wonders and wonders, and knows that the only dreams that hurt him are those that he wants, more than anything else.)

He doesn’t let you listen to the songs he composes, anymore.

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

It comes to a head two weeks before graduation.

You’re late to lunch with your friend, rushing down the halls with your bag slipping down your shoulder, when you hear it.

There’s someone playing the piano in Shiratorizawa’s perpetually-empty music room, and it’s the rawest thing you’ve heard since the first song of Eita’s that he’d let you listen to.

(It had been simple, no fancy chord progressions, no key change or two-part melody.

When he’d sung it to you, all you could see was the graceful line of his neck, traced by the sunlight through the window of his bedroom, and the tenderness of his fingers on the strings.)

You pause, peering through the tiny window in the door.

It’s Eita. Your next exhale is shaky.

He’s playing a song you don’t know on the piano, and after a few bars you realize it must be one of his own. It’s played too adoringly to be anything else.

It feels like cheating, crouching like a thief outside of the music room, hunched so he can't see you through the window in the door. Eita hasn't played his songs for you in ages, and while you're happy that you finally can hear them, listening to them this way feels too much like a betrayal.

You've just resolved yourself to knock on the door when he starts playing the first song he ever sung to you.

It's a little different - there are triplets now, and they stumble into each other the way you remember tripping into Semi the night you'd skinned your knee and cried, back when you were nothing but children. The phrasing is different, too; there are more arcs now, and every slur feels heady, feels giddy like the brush of his hands against yours on the evenings you walk home with him after he’s finished volleyball practice.

It's different, more complicated. But it's still unmistakably Eita, and every press of piano keys tugs at your heartstrings like calloused fingers on a guitar.

(You think it sounds like heartbreak, slow in the making. It sounds like a decade's worth of nights spent staring at the lit room in the house next to yours, trying to make out his silhouette through the drawn curtains.)

"You should play that for Y/n," someone says suddenly, and you startle before you realize that it came from inside the music room. The voice speaks again, and you recognize it as Tendou's. "It's not as hopeless as you think it is, take the Guess Monster's word for it!"

There's a pause, and you strain your ears to hear Eita's reply.

"This isn't a game, Tendou," is all your best friend says. He sounds defeated, but you can't even focus on that, not when this sounds so much like what you want that it's too good to be true. "And there's no way Y/n thinks of me that way. Even if I-"

You lean closer, pressing your ear to the door more firmly-

-And lose your balance. There's a moment of too-loud silence as Eita cuts himself off abruptly when you tumble into the room, and the three of you look at each other in shock.

Tendou is the first to move. "Well," he says cheerfully, blissfully ignoring the pleading looks you send his way as he stands, "guess I’ll leave you two to it!"

He grins as he walks past you and through the doorway. You’ve never despised him more than you do in that moment.

You turn your gaze back to Eita, mind racing even as you know that it's blatantly obvious that you'd been eavesdropping. You’re still half-sprawled on the ground.

Eita clears his throat. "Um," he starts eloquently. You're struck with the reminder of what he’d been about to say.

Even if you what? You think desperately. What were you going to say?

"Eita," you say, testing his name on your tongue like you haven't already spoken it enough times to fill the seas, "what were you going to say?"

He looks panicked, fingers twitching like bird wings against where they’re resting on the piano keys.

"Please," you add. You have to know.

You watch as he pinches the bridge of his nose and takes in a deep breath the way he does right before a service ace.

"I like you," he says finally, "and I'm sorry."

You’ve never been the musician, not with Eita around, but with his confession, your heart sings.

"I’m sorry," you breathe, and the air aches beautifully as it enters your lungs, and it feels like coming home. Eita’s face falls, something knowing and terrible - like heartbreak - setting in. "Because I like you too," you finish.

There’s a sparrow chirping on the windowsill of Shiratorizawa's music room.

"Oh," your best friend says, except he can be more now, can't he? "Oh," he repeats, and you smile, opening your arms in welcome as he makes an aborted motion to stand.

He fits into your arms like notes on an empty score.

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

On a lazy spring afternoon, Eita plays to you all the songs he’s ever written.

He tells you they’re about you.

You tell him you know, you ask him if that’s why he used to keep from playing them to you.

He peppers you with kisses.

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

as always, likes and reblogs are appreciated!! do let me know what you thought in asks / the tags!! </3

#semi eita x reader #semi eita #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!!#kyouka writes #haikyuucreations

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undoundue · 3 years ago

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i don’t know anything except how stories go

the music isn't as good as i thought it would be

i'm not sure if i've taken enough drugs or too much

when i take too much, i get grandiose: big ideas. little follow-through.

when i take not enough, i also get grandiose, but i know it,

and i sound like a graveyard glass harmonica when

the wind passes through. when i take the right amount, i do not ask

whether i've taken enough drugs or too much.

instead i hallucinate that i'm a cicada, an elegant disgusting jewel

smithed by mommy nature to reproduce a tinny song,

and i'm grateful to my parents

and the 17 years i spent gestating

and this morbid cherry tree

because nobody buckles their tymbals like i. also, cicadas lack

the relevant receptors altogether,

so the dosing question doesn't apply.

(beat) say,

have you noticed that zoomers are really into columbo?

(you nod)

i've seen him on twitter twice lately, asking "just one more

question—which would you prefer as an afternoon snack?"

and there's a poll, cheez-its

or little debbie snack cakes.

the appeal, i think, is to a generational forgetfulness, to

a generation most in need of alarm clocks and aricept,

to the desire to see forgetfulness as a superpower, as an

equivalent to innocence, to be so impervious to

reality's demands. but haven't we been here

before? didn't milennials all die for the sin of inventing "retro

gaming"? and by the way,

did you hear the one about the guy who gave himself three-hundred

and ninety-one concussions, each time suffering retrograde amnesia

which knocked out his memory of his last pokemon red playthrough?

ah. ah yes. it is not a tale the jedi would tell you.

when i take too much, i get despondent. when i take not enough, i

get grandiose. but the line breaks are for the poet's benefit anyway.

besides, there are kids smoking brick weed in lebanon, we should be

thankful for what we have.

and hex maniac is pretty cute. her pupils spiral

counterclockwise,

going from out to in; in some of the fan art they go the other way but

you can tell those guys don't "get it"; the allure of a counterclockwise

spin on how you are perceived, to have your silhouette distorted

and your details properly misunderstood, to lose at games you've

never heard of it, to eat with chopsticks incorrectly,

to trip and fall and look at the sidewalk and say "thank you.

yes. i had grown complacent in my patterns, my

nucleus accumbens

was running on fumes; and i certainly wasn't expecting that!" and

mean it. i did this once. i was in a state of rare tranquility after

masturbating for sixteen consecutive hours (essentially a

performance enhancing drug for meditation—which is why,

in the tibetan olympics, strict no-fap is required for a week

before competition—and they take semen samples to be sure!)

so (you nod), when the buddha saw me

so grateful for life's misfortunes, he made a "look

at this fucking guy" gesture to ganesh and then said "look at this

fucking guy" as if the gesture wasn't enough. naturally,

i was offended, and besides i recalled the old koan "If you meet the

Buddha on the road, kill him," which i had read in a collection

of koans for children titled "If you meet the Buddha..." which

my Mom had purchased for me in the novelty gift section

of an urban outfitters in santa barbara ("Mom, why are you shopping

at urban outftters?" "son, yr mama just tryin' ta stay cool. say, you

heard of this MF DOOM cat?" "ugh! Mom!") and which had

such thought-provoking aphorisms as:

"If you meet the Buddha in an airport, buy him a cheeseburger."

"If you meet the Buddha at a dive bar, play him some new wave—the

Buddha is big into that shit." the idea being, you're prepared for any

circumstance, which is what buddhism is all about. so i did a

bunch of fast attacks; the buddha blocked; i said "shouldn't

it be all the same to you if i kill you?" the buddha said "it would,

except i want to get home and watch columbo, and i don't

want to wait to respawn." i said, "jesus. just—jesus." then the buddha

kicked me through a brick wall. everyone in the WeWork

screamed and fled, leaving their kombucha behind, and

for some reason the sprinklers went off. then, after the initial

impact, a lone brick fell (because of torque—force times the length of

the lever, remember) and hit me comically on the head, causing a

concussion. i said "guh."

yup, (you nod sympathetically),

i was feeling mighty grim. then it occurred to me: why don't i

play pokémon red? unfortunately, on my cellphone i only had

the romhack version, you know, where all the pokémon are allegories

for depression. so you got your depressionmander, depressioneleon,

depressionizard, and for pokémon where that doesn't work

they use it as a suffix, e.g. bulbadepression, ivydepression,

venudepression. also you can't leave the starting room and

your character moves really slowly. the indie gaming press

loves it. one of the features that reviewers single out is

that, instead of a lone Stand By Me reference, the TV in your room

goes line by line through Aguirre, the Wrath of God, except the

murders are replaced with pokémon battles and at the end

aguirre tries to command a horde of mankeys ("depressionkeys"),

which is a metaphor. dark stuff. it makes me think back on my youth:

lying on my child-king sized bed, masturbating to polyhedral

stellations, suffering from severe geometric dysmorphia as i

compared myself to the grandeur of those idealized forms—god, i

used to hate myself for those wasted hours. i mean, i still do, but i

used to, too. only after years of therapy have i developed a mantra

that eases the pain:

"i am mostly a cylinder.

i am mostly a cylinder." presto. you can get off to anything, even

loomis.

(you nod, hesitantly.) on saturday night,

i throw open the window and scream at the children: "you'll get old

too! an abstractome of brittle opinions even as your bumbling

homunculus drops the data you once used to back them up!"

the children reply "not necessarily, given the rate of advances in

biotech. also, no one cares, grandpa." they play soccer. my

mad pilgrim hair blows in the wind. i scream: "suffer! suffer! i am

omniscience!" they say: "oh yeah? how many fingers am i

holding up?" "four! five! four!" "it was five, you old fart." "the thumb

doesn't count as a finger! you should have a specified!" "OK, new

game: what sort of person am i?" "you are—you are—!" and so

i peer into their souls and know the answer, but i can't

find the words. the words do not come. i have forgotten them.

silently i draw away from the window. the children smirk, but only for

a moment. for they know i am right.

ah, to reveal the soul's heist, to be seen through by the omniscient

and powerless, what a delight! who among us would not cheerfully

kill the buddha when he's comin' through the rye? who among us

has not been blessed by the kind words of a stranger? and yet, we

shouldn't incentivize people to be strangers. society would collapse.

besides, we are no longer strangers to ourselves, you and i.

(you nod.) we will have much to discuss about that.

#thanks for reading #let me know if i gotta put a *keep reading* in these posts

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cherry-gemz · 4 years ago

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Summary: This is a continuation of the movie Before We Go and my interpretation and imagination of an A/U. Brooke is you (Y/N) and Nick is still Nick :)

Prompt: "Just admit that I'm right." for @the-ce-horniest-book-club Drunk Drabbles for Nick Vaughan.

Pairings: Nick Vaughan x Y/N

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: <2k...is this a drabble still? Oopsies XD

A/N: I watched this movie for the first time just last week. It's now one of my top 3 Cevans movies! While I'm all for a romantic, serendipitous, spontaneous trope...much like Before Sunrise *no spoilers*, the ending was great, but I wanted a different spin. No pressure...yah, right! Either way, hope you enjoy xx.

Tags: @thesecretlifeofdaydreamss @tonystankschild @a-little-counter-esperanto

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

You sniff and rub the end of your coat sleeve with your nose. Had to be the chill in the air, you thought. Not the fact that you just spent the most amazing and life changing night with a man you just met hours before and it was ending.

You stare out the train’s window; the gentle hum of the cart gliding across the steel tracks echoed in your thoughts. You shook your head in thinking that you made a mistake. I should have stayed...I should have told him how I felt…

“Nick. It's you again. Listen. I want to give you one more piece of advice. You're gonna be playing one night... Grand Central... thinking of every reason in the world to not go see the girl that broke your heart. Then, you're gonna meet somebody. And now, at first, she's gonna seem… icy. You're gonna know right away she's trouble. She's gonna take all your money. You're probably gonna get punched in the face. But stay with her; you're gonna need her a lot more than she needs you. And at the end of the night, you're gonna want to say some things, but don't. Don't ruin it. It's nothing she doesn't already know. Just give her a kiss. Wish her good luck. And thank her. Thank her for showing you that you can love more than one person in this life.”

He was unbelievably charming. You said so yourself. His raw talent with the trumpet was beautiful and different from what you were used to. The suburbia of the Boston bubble was what you were forced to live in now. You were from London, you were cultured and refined. Sure things with Michael were exciting at first, but the ho hum of the daily diatribe of routine became loathsome. Dépaysement. But you still never wavered in your marriage. Unlike Michael who had crossed that sacred line and lost your trust. It wasn't even fully the physical aspect that he went to another woman. It was the intimacy of telling her his deepest desires and then some that hurt the most. That he would want to share that with anyone else but you. But tonight. Tonight was what made you see clearly.

"It's possible, isn't it? It's possible that you could meet somebody who's perfect for you even though you're committed to somebody else," you asked as you bit your lip.

"No, no, see, I think if you're committed to somebody, you don't allow yourself to find perfection in someone else."

You found yourself blushing and cupping your cheek in thoughts of Nick. He was right. The whole night was a cluster mess of you trying to get home before Michael so you'd be able to throw away that wretched note. That he'd come to his senses and forget Linny. That he'd realized he was a fool and you'd start over. Just like old times.

However, slowly that feeling of reconciliation faded away little by little as each hour in the city passed. You couldn't pinpoint it exactly, but somehow the scrappy trumpet player Nick Vaughan etched his way into your icy heart and left an impression and stayed.

His fluffy, dark hair - so soft and inviting for you to rake your fingers through it was enough to drive you mad. His scruffy beard, which tickled when you kissed. You already loved ghosting your palms over it softly and imagined being able to do it whenever you wished. He said earlier into the night you weren't his type; you scoffed, but we're annoyed that it bothered you. You were a classic model of what guys were into, looks wise. Sure, your attitude was what rubbed some people the wrong way, but Americans really were too sensitive.

He however...he was the full package. Every toothy grin, wink, and full hearty laugh. He was addicting. He was a dead ringer for a heartthrob, but you also couldn't hate the guy for it. He was the friend you'd call to bail you out of jail at 4am and the boyfriend that you could see settling down with. It was nauseating really.

And then his lips. His soft lips...you can’t believe you kissed him in the hotel room. And then again at the train station. But you would have kicked yourself for not doing so in the first place. The way your fingers interlaced themselves on his terry cloth robe, how desperately you wanted to press your body against his. All you wanted was for him to feel that burning need within the apex between your thighs and extinguish it all night. But it was more than that, he was what you were missing. But you were kidding yourself. You weren’t running to Michael, you were running away from Nick.

But why? Because of the unknown? Because he actually knew who you were deep down inside? How could a man you barely knew, change you? Change what you thought was true, what you thought was love?

You dove your hand into your wool jacket’s pockets to push any thoughts of self-doubt, when you realize there was a piece of cardstock. You were puzzled to find it and immediately smiled in recognizing the hotel survey card. You bit your lip as you read down the survey questions one by one and notice Nick’s handwriting at the bottom, ‘turn over’ with an arrow.

Curious you turn over the hotel card and he’s written the word ‘yes’. Yes? You furrow your brow and contemplate further what he would be saying yes to. You think about the night - the time at the bar, helping him with Hannah, when you went to the psychic reading. Yes? What in the world - and then you turn the card back over and realize that on the second to last question it asked “Will you be likely to return?”

None of the boxes are checked, but he’d written ‘yes’ on the back. Yes. Yes he’ll return? Where? To the hotel? But when? You look up and rush to think about stopping the train dead in its tracks to return back to Grand Station. You breathe out heavily and come to terms that this isn’t a movie. He’s not chasing you down the tracks, jumping on the train to find you. Or is he? You wouldn’t put it past him. The whole night was filled with serendipitous concourses, this would be icing on the cake. You dart your head around to see if he’s in the cable car. It’s like in every rom com movie ending, the man of your dreams will be right there. He’s somehow charmed his way into boarding the train and found you waiting like a princess in her high tower. The train car is dark and bleak, only a few passengers are riding it as it’s the first route to Boston on a Sunday. You peer over to see if he’s in the next cart, but alas he is not. You slump in your seat and rub your thumb methodically over his words.

"Have you ever had a feeling that somebody was going to play a major part in your life?” you ask.

“Yeah."

“Do you know the most interesting thing about hotel art? It's what's on the back.”

It’s then you realize you have to return to New York. This story wasn’t about you and Michael anymore. No, it was about the man who selflessly helped you while you were in need, not only at your dire hour, but metaphorically as well. This was meant to be. You were meant to miss your train, break your phone, and meet the handsome man named Nick Vaughn. You knew he’d still be in the city because of his audition for the day with Duke at least, if you could just get to him somehow...

Your knees bounced as you sat on a cushioned chair in the hotel lobby. You had planned to wait there all day, but then realized the $13 train ticket was your only way of providing you security back home. So you went home. Confronted Michael. Cursed, cried, and then relief rushed over you as he had read your letter and how you knew about the affair. How you wanted to throw fists on his chest and tell him how much you hated him. But once you saw him, you found it didn't matter to you anymore. Someone else was worth fighting for. Your marriage was over. The hatred and spite you once had for your husband had dissipated. Your world didn't end like you thought it would. This wasn't your only chance at love. You were choosing to be happy, whether it was with Nick or not. This was the first time you were going to jump without having a net.

And Nick was wrong. Michael didn't want to work things out, he was coming to tell you that he loved you, but that and he'd be returning to Atlanta for good. The house, car, everything was yours: Nick said so himself, you gotta be okay with not being okay. So you walked away. You made the choice just like the psychic said and took it in stride, you faced the music.

However now you found yourself back in New York. Not the once stranded woman at a crossroads less than 24 hours before, but the woman that made a choice. You were worried that Nick would see it as you running away again. Running away because Michael didn't choose you. But in reality you didn't choose each other.

Still without an ID, you took your car and better against the four hour drive to the city and hoped a cop wouldn't pull you over. You thought of the night in the hotel. The laughs, the closeness you two encountered. The playful and cheeky way he could make you feel seen. You were starting to get nervous, what if he doesn't show up? What if I missed my chance?

"I'm an idiot," you murmur to yourself. "I can't believe I'm here."

You stand up and realize there Nick was there in your path. He looked a little worn, obviously from staying up all night. But he had changed and showered from the looks of it, and his signature trumpet case held in his hand.

"Well look who it is. The biggest loser in New York."

You laughed and blushed at the sight of him. He slung his trumpet case over his broad shoulder and walked over to close the gap.

“Just admit that I’m right.”

"Admit what?" You ask as you find yourself touching his jacket sleeve.

"Admit that you couldn't get enough of me." You hitched a breath from his words.

"You can say that."

"I can't believe you came back," he responded. His blue eyes gazed into yours as he brushed away a tendril of hair from your face.

"I read your answer to the survey...on the back."

"The stay did exceed my expectations and I did say I would return," he smiles.

"And here you are."

"Here I am…" he pulls away slightly as he's reminded that you're married.

"I jumped," you replied.

He's taken back by your statement and furrows his brow.

"What? With what?"

"I told Michael it was over."

"Wow. I'm so...sorry, Y/N."

"Don't be. You said so yourself, at some point it was time to face the music."

He nodded, absorbing the information.

"Say what's in your head."

He shook his head and grinned,"I'm just glad you came back is all."

"Yeah? How'd you know?"

"I didn't. Just sure as hell hoped you would."

He intertwines your fingers with his and holds tight. Like a missing puzzle piece found, your hand fits perfectly with his.

"Whaddya say we get out of here?"

"What do you have in mind?"

"I may know a place," he smiles devilishly and gives your knuckles a kiss.

You grab his dress shirt collar and turn him towards you. He runs his hands through your hair and places his lips upon yours, kissing you deeply. It's a kiss so passionate, so perfect - that after you part, neither open your eyes for a few moments afterwards and he embraces you tightly.

"Good, because I'm not going anywhere."

#drunk drabbles #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans x female reader #nick vaughan #before we go #before we go spoilers #nick vaughn x reader #romance

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canniballistix · 4 years ago

Note

Parallels/metaphor/whatever of john winchester and god both as absentee fathers in hbo spn?

"I can't," Dean hissed.

His hand was shaking. Why was his hand shaking? This was something he'd done a thousand times. He'd lost track of the number of girls he'd kissed.

And yet… his hand shook. His hand shook as it cradled the one which cupped against his cheek, and it only served to make this whole thing all the more intimate.

The boy sighed, and Dean could feel the weight of his breath. "I thought you liked me."

"I do!" Dean said, even as the hand slipped out from under his. "I do, I do, swear to God I do."

"I-it's okay," the boy said. His hand dropped back onto his knee. "Look, I-- I get it, man. You're a guy's guy, and I'm… I dunno."

"Hey." Dean but his hand on the boy's shoulder and gripped it firmly. Though this steadied his hand, he could suddenly feel the way the boy was quaking. "It's nothin' to do with you, okay? You're… I mean, you're…"

The boy's piercing eyes were fixed on Dean's face as he struggled to find the right words. The longer they alluded Dean, the deeper the boy's heart sank.

At last, Dean sighed. "You're fuckin' gorgeous, okay?" he said at last. "Look at you. Jesus."

The hint of a smile tugged at the boy's lips.

"And you got good taste in music, and you're smart," Dean continued. His list ended there, however.

The boy cleared his throat. "But…?"

Dean closed his eyes. The way a business man closes his eyes just before he fired a good, hardworking family man. "But…" he managed to say, fingers wandering across the hem of the boy's shirt, "as much as I want to… I can't."

The boy sat there a moment longer.

It was a strange sort of quiet here, under the bleachers.

It should have been just as loud as the rest of the football field. Yet, somehow, the sounds of the crickets were so much softer. The wind seemed to miss them entirely. Here, on an autumn night, these two boys may as well have been in their own world.

The boy brushed away Dean's hand. Like it was a mosquito. Like it was nothing. "Fine. I get it," he said, getting to his feet. "Really creative way to get out of kissing me. Dramatic. Shakespearean, even."

Dean pounded the ground with one fist, then leapt up after the boy. "God, Jesse, wait--"

Jesse. That's it. His name was Jesse.

"I'm done."

"Please, if you just let me explain, I--"

"You're not explaining!" Jesse whirled to face Dean. "You're not saying anything!"

Dean took a deep breath in, and he was surprised to find that his lungs seemed to be quivering, as well.

Jesse stared at Dean. His fists were clenched at his sides. The floodlights over the football field cast an otherworldly light over his dark and messy hair, like light from heaven itself.

It did not reach Dean where he stood, still under the bleachers, his hand just barely reaching out into its warmth.

"Well?" Jesse prompted.

"My dad," Dean blurted out.

Jesse raised an eyebrow. "You dad?"

Dean shook his head. "If he found out-- if he knew--"

"How could he?" Jesse asked.

Dean blinked. His heart was hammering against his ribcage.

"He's not watching, Dean," Jesse said, a hand raised to the sky.

Dean thought about that. He looked to the sky, as well, inexplicably feeling as if John Winchester might be peering down at him from the top of the bleachers.

And yet, despite that strange terror that John was watching, that he would somehow know, this was the first time Dean realized that his father wasn't there. And not just on the bleachers, but anywhere-- anywhere at all in Dean's life where it might have mattered.

Wherever a father should have been--loving or kind or cruel or spiteful--there was merely a hole. A blank space where John may have fit, and yet never did.

The fear was melting away.

Because there was nothing there.

Only stars.

Dean stumbled out into the light. He grabbed Jesse by the front of his hoodie, and kissed him like his life depended on it.

~~~~~

"I can't," Castiel said.

Dean rolled his eyes. "You can't what? You can't taste?"

The angel returned a shrug. This was something new he'd picked up from Dean, though he didn't seem to have it down just yet-- Castiel only shrugged his shoulders when he didn't feel like answering, not because he didn't know the answer.

"You're not even gonna try?" Dean asked, pushing the plate of french fries a little closer. "C'mon, how bad could it be?"

"I told you, I can't," Castiel replied, pushing the plate back towards Dean.

"Now that's just stupid," Dean said. "You can't eat at all? For real? Your vessel can eat, can't he?"

"Of course he can," Castiel said, all but rolling his eyes. "I cannot."

Dean gave into temptation and growled lightly, pulling the plate towards himself and chomping down on another french fry.

The diner was quiet. When he was traveling with Castiel, Dean preferred to dine at night-- in fact, he preferred to work on as much of a night schedule as possible. Castiel was, to put it lightly, a fucking weirdo, and corralling him into acting even remotely human was a full-time job.

But anything goes at three in the morning in a twenty-four-hour truck stop.

All that could be heard was the clattering of dishes in the kitchen-- far fewer than those filling the sink twelve hours previously. Occasionally, something would come flying down the highway. Funny how much faster they seemed to rush by when there was so much stillness in-between.

Dean sipped his coffee.

Castiel sat very still, his hands folded delicately on table in front of him. He was staring out at that highway, and yet his eyes seemed hardly focused at all.

Dean leaned forward, trying in vain to see what it was that had Castiel so captured. As he did, he saw the man's reflection ripple along the surface of the glass, light against the darkness of the night.

In passing, Castiel's reflection looked just as one might expect. He was, after all, a dirty little man in a trenchcoat, and that was reflected quite plainly. The closer you looked, however--the longer and deeper you stared into the forms, into his eyes--the more you would see.

Some people saw God or Jesus or whatever. Some people would catch a rare glimpse of the true angel, its power lessened to that of a sharp headache by the reflection. Most people, though, saw people.

No one in particular. Just shadows of people half-remembered, ghosts of the past.

As Dean looked at Castiel's reflection, he saw something familiar in the sharpness of his eyes. In the dark mess of his hair. In the tautness of his lower lids as he gazed out into nothingness.

A boy. His name nearly forgotten--James or Jonathan or something--but his face as crisp and clear as ever.

His first kiss.

Not his first-first kiss. Not really. But his first kiss that had felt the way they say it should.

"Whaddya mean?" Dean asked.

Castiel turned to look at Dean. He didn't ask for clarification-- not out loud, at least.

Dean set his jaw. "What do you mean you can't?" he said. "You can't… like, physically?"

Castiel frowned. "No. I'm quite capable of eating."

He paused.

A pause so long he may have, in fact, finished talking.

Dean cleared his throat. "But…?"

"But," Castiel said, almost stalling, "it is frowned upon."

Dean scoffed. "Frowned upon?"

"Yes," Castiel continued. "The garrison is very strict about how… involved we should be in human culture. Eating, listening to music, dancing--"

"You're not allowed to dance?!" Dean smacked his forehead, biting back a laugh. "Goddamn. Remind me to show you Footloose sometime. You'd get a kick outta that one."

"Mm."

Castiel did not seem near as enchanted by this as Dean. It occurred to Dean that, if listening to music was forbidden, watching movies was likely on the shit list, too.

Dean cleared his throat again. "I mean. That sounds…" But he couldn't think of the words, exactly. "Wh-who told you not to do that junk?"

Castiel cocked his head. "God, of course."

"Right. God." Dean nodded slowly. "Sounds like a stand-up guy."

"I wouldn't know," Castiel said. "I've never met him."

Dean squinted. "You've never met God." Not a question, exactly, though he intended it to be. "Isn't he, like… your dad?"

Castiel sighed. "I suppose you could say that."

"But you've never met him?"

"I've never met him."

"But you're living your life by his rules?"

"Of course," Castiel said. "He… if he found out-- if he knew that I was--"

"How could he?"

Castiel blinked.

"Cas." Dean pushed the plate of french fries back across the table. "God's not watching."

Castiel thought about that. For some reason, he turned to look out the window once more, gazing balefully at a streetlight in the parking lot. As if God himself would appear under it.

And yet, despite that strange terror that God was looking down at him, that he would somehow know, this was the first time that Cas truly realized that his father wasn't there. Not just under the streetlight, but anywhere-- anywhere at all on Earth that may have mattered.

Wherever God should have been--loving or kind or cruel or spiteful--there was merely a hole. A blank space which may have been holy, and yet never was.

The fear was melting away.

Because there was nothing there.

Perhaps Cas himself was the holiest thing on Earth.

Cas reached out and lifted a french fry from the thick ceramic plate. He made eating diner food look like a celebration of the Eucharist.

#im genuinely diseased #hbospn #hbo spn #dean winchester #castiel #destiel #deancas #fic #spn fic #spn fanfic

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fantasticstoryteller · 3 years ago

Text

New Amsterdam Chapter 95

[What were you thinking Dumbass?]

{You know we almost never think.}

[You can’t just go touching Spidey while we’re dating Peter!]

“Guys!” Wade hissed. “Can we focus? It didn’t happen.” He made his way towards the opening of the alley so that he could be ready to distract. Mercifully, the voices were silent for a moment, allowing Wade to count down towards when he needed to be the distraction.

“This is a bad place for this.”

Wade turned and saw two people in disturbingly familiar suits in the middle of the alley.

[How have they not seen us yet?]

{Plot convenience!}

Wade silently ambled over to the two of them as they scowled at the brickwork. “The buildings would cut of dispersal,” one of the suits said.

“That would be okay,” the second reassured. “After all, this is only supposed to be a test to see if the product works as advertised.”

“God.” The first agent rubbed his face. “What happens if we raise objections?”

“In New Amsterdam? Well, people have been complaining the river level’s low…”

The two wandered off and Wade stared after them, eyes narrowed. That didn’t sound good. What could they be planning?

[Speaking of plans, Spiderman is probably waiting on us and wondering why we haven’t made an entrance yet.]

Wade, distracted, pivoted back towards the bank and grinned. “Let’s put on a show,” he said brightly.

[No.]

{Yes!}

“Oh, yeah,” agreed Wade, grinning madly.

[No!]

“You can’t stop an avalanche,” Wade burbled as he danced out in front of the bank, between the officers and the bank.

[NO!]

“As it races down the hill!” continued Wade as he spun towards the doors. “You can try to stop the seasons girl,” he caroled as he kicked them in, “but you know you never will!” Bullets riddled his body. Strangely, they were only coming from one direction.

[You deserve this.]

{Don’t be grumpy! It’s a great song! And you can try to stop my dancing feet!}

“But I just cannot stand still!” warbled Wade as he began to twirl.

One of the criminals poked both hands—empty--into the air before slowly following them with his head. “If we surrender,” he said, “will you stop singing?”

“Well, that’s rude,” commented a familiar voice as a strand of webbing came out of nowhere and hauled the criminal to the ceiling. “What have you got against Hairspray?” Spidey demanded before webbing up the other criminals.

“It’s all about the importance of being yourself!” Wade added as he knocked out another criminal. He peered into the bank. They were alone. The hostages were gone. Spidey had saved them all.

“What the fuck happened to you?” demanded the first criminal as he stared at Wade.

That was when Wade realized that the bullets had destroyed the majority of his suit. His skin was exposed to the open air, to the gazes of the people around him. Everybody could see how horribly mutilated the skin was.

“Deadpool,” called Spiderman. A hand touched Wade’s shoulder. Wade’s half bare shoulder. “What do you need?” the hero demanded.

“Cover,” whimpered Wade as he tried to curl on himself.

Spiderman nodded and suddenly Wade was in a slowly hardening cocoon of some kind.

{...so are we about to be eaten?}

[What?]

{Well, spiders cocoon their prey in webbing, right? And right now we’re cocooned in webbing. So, are we about to be eaten?}

[This is the problem with singing musicals. You just encourage this nonsense to spout.]

A light scratching alerted Wade to the fact that there was still a world outside the cocoon. “Are you all right?” called Spidey, voice muffled.

“Not—not really,” Wade admitted. It had taken months of partnering with the wall crawler before he’d been comfortable admitting when he wasn’t all right. Most people didn’t ask.

{Bet Peter would ask.}

[Really? You’re going to go there? After asking if Spiderman was going to eat us?]

“Could—could you take me to apartment?” Wade asked.

“Sure thing.” The cocoon rocked as Wade imagined it was lifted and he heard air whistling quickly by. The cocoon was well made; he couldn't feel the air rushing by. He heard the squeak as his window was forced open before the cocoon was very carefully put inside the apartment.

{Think this is how Daredevil feels?}

[For the love of the last shreds of our sanity SHUT UP!]

“Need me to rip a hole for you?” Spidey asked anxiously. “I’m not sure how long before this web dissolves; it’s a new formula.”

“I’m good Spidey,” Wade said firmly. “You go, uh, go finish patrol?”

A few gentle taps sounded on the top of the cocoon. “See you later, ‘Pool,” Spidey said with affection.

{Aw. Spidey cares.}

[If this is like our last interaction with Spiderman, then right about now we should be hearing—]

{You think Peter will be coming over?!}

[I think if he does we should tell him to go away again.]

{But—we like Peter. And he likes us. Why would we do that?}

[Because our skin is exposed and our skin is a toxic waste dump that will make every single human who sees it flinch and gag at the sight of it.]

There was a moment of silence in Wade’s head before Yellow spoke up in a soft, almost silent voice.

{Peter didn’t.}

That was true. Peter didn’t flinch away at the sight of Wade’s skin. He’d even touched it! Had initiated a kiss!

“I see a man who’s gone through Hell and gotten back up and still has the humanity to care about other people.”

That’s what Peter had said.

Peter—didn’t hate him. Wasn’t repulsed by the skin. Didn’t avoid him.

“Wade?”

Peter was in his apartment.

[It’s in the middle of a work day. Shouldn't he be doing something important?]

“Hey, Petey-Pie!” Wade chirped from the cocoon. He poked a finger at the soft, surprisingly strong webbing.

“Hold on!” Peter called. “I’ll get something to cut you out.”

[He’ll see our skin.]

{He’s already seen our skin!}

Wade heard violent hacking at the outside of the the cocoon. “Baby, please tell me that’s not my best hunting knife you’re mangling on this web.”

A pause. “Um—what’s the hunting knife look like?”

Wade sighed. It was. “Just grab one of my swords and pierce. They’ll cut through anything.”

[Not vibranium.]

“Almost anything,” Wade amended. Shortly after that statement a sword was thrust in—but not deep enough to hit Wade.

[Almost like he knows where we are in this thing.]

“I heard you singing earlier,” Peter said.

[When?]

Good question. Wade repeated it.

“At the bank.”

Wade’s heart seized at the thought that Peter, his Peter, had been one of the hostages. No—he was a photographer. Surely he’d only been there to take pictures. “Were you—in the bank?” asked Wade carefully.

The sword swept up making a cut. It looked like Peter was trying to cut a small hole in the cocoon. “Yeah,” the younger man admitted.

Peter had been in the bank. Peter had been in danger. And, like an idiot, he hadn’t checked, hadn’t looked, hadn’t seen.

{He could have been killed.}

Once again oblivious to Wade’s inner turmoil, Peter continued to speak. “I didn’t hear much of it, but I liked it. What’s the name of it?”

“You Can’t Stop the Beat,” Wade said weakly. “It’s from a musical.” The sword finished its circle. “From Hairspray,” he added lamely as the the circle is lifted away and a beam of pure light enters the cocoon.

{There’s a metaphor in there somewhere…}

[Hello lampshade.]

Peter’s face blocked the light. “Wade?” he asked. “I’m going to cut down to try and get you out.”

“Ah, um, uh—yeah. Before you do that—would you please get me a mask? I have spares in my dresser.”

A hand reached in and gently caressed Wade’s slightly exposed cheek. “If you want,” agreed Peter before pulling away.

Wade leaned forward, resting his head on his knees. He wanted to tell Peter how grateful he was that the other didn’t insist on Wade baring his skin. He knew Peter liked seeing it, yes. But—Peter was understanding enough to understand that Wade couldn't give up his mask—not just yet. He wasn’t quite ready for Peter to see his face.

“Wade? Why do you have fifty-seven masks in your drawer?”

#Spider-Man #Deadpool #Spideypool

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sneezefiction · 4 years ago

Text

dance with me

Bokuto x Reader - Scenario

event request: “Can you do prompt 2. Dance with me for Bokuto?? Congrats btw!”

a/n: i’m always down to write anything for Bokuto, bb. enjoy some fluffy, slow-dancing moments with your fiancé, Bo, for me please, love!!

warnings: mentions of marriage & engagements

wc: 1350

---

“Y/n, can you set that down for a minute?” Bokuto’s grin peeks over the top of your paperback book as he pushes it down with his hands.

“But Bo, I’m at the best part!” You whine, pulling it towards your chest, away from his grasp.

He’s leaning over you now, a signature pout adorning his expression. You try not to look up, but you can’t help it.

No.

Not those eyes.

His puppy-dog expression tugs at your heartstrings in the worst way. His eyebrows are knitted together with such sorrow, imploring you to give him your undivided attention.

“For me? Please.” He’s begging. Again, a puppy-dog.

“I just want to be with you…” His head is tilted, eyes pleading.

You sigh helplessly. So needy.

But you give him a soft smile, gently marking the chapter and setting aside your beloved book for the boy you love even more.

His eyes light up immediately, Bokuto’s smile is beaming at full-force once again. Just as it should be.

“Fine-”

As soon as he gets verbal confirmation, he’s grabbing you firmly by the underneath of your thighs and lifting you up off the couch causing you to gasp. Your balance is thrown completely off. He laughs as you frantically tuck your legs behind his back and throw your arms around his neck to keep yourself from falling backward.

With that, you give him a frustrated frown, but the moment his eyes crinkle with mischief, you know you’re in trouble. He squeezes your thighs, tickling you, which forces you to abandon your forced frown and sends you into a bout of bubbling laughter.

A peachy blush forms across his grinning face at the sound of your voice, even though he’s the one who’s supposed to be getting you flustered. Bokuto buries his face into the crook of your neck, drawing your body even closer to his. You tighten your hold around his neck, loving the way his soft, grey hair brushes against your face.

Bokuto is always trying to find new ways to incite that divine sound.

It’s like music to his ears…

Music...

“AH MUSIC.” He blurts out, jolting his head back to face you, a flash of excitement glimmering in his golden-yellow eyes.

His sudden movement shouldn’t have startled you since he’s almost never calm for more than a few seconds, but you still haven’t fully adapted to his chaotic tendencies.

“Babe, what?” You question, cocking an eyebrow at his goofy expression.

“Ahhh, just come with me!” He expresses impatiently.

“Bo, you’re literally carrying me.” You state, but not without a laugh.

So he sets you down gently, allowing your feet to meet the floor before immediately dashing to the next room over, leaving you confused and wondering what your boisterous sweetheart was getting you into this time.

But in all truth, you’ve never loved someone more.

Before Bokuto, you’d always fallen for short-term lovers. “Bad boys,” as Bokuto now cheesily refers to them as.

It was easy to fall for their mysterious, eye-catching personalities and attractive faces.

They promised you pretty things. Long, steamy nights in dim-lit hotel rooms. Flirty, messy kisses in darkened theaters. Yes, your past boyfriend’s showered you in dirty, devoted promises about what they would do to you.

But it was never about what they would do for you.

You would always end up wishing for more. For something beautiful to happen in the slower, cloudier moments of life. For someone to last longer than the sunny, sensual seconds…

Yet they never stuck around to share the little things. You were always racing against time. Any ounce of conflict or trouble would crumble the already shaky foundation of your relationship.

It was never like that with Bokuto.

It didn’t bother him if you were sick, blowing your nose for 4 days straight or leaning over a toilet seat. He was there. Never leaving you alone except to get groceries or medicine. Holding your hair back and buying you boxes of tissues and cough drops. He would gladly catch a cold for you.

It didn’t matter that you were trapped inside your apartment on your 2 year anniversary, sheets of pouring rain coasting across the window panes, the weather laughing at your attempts to go out. Bokuto was impossible to faze in moments like these. He lit candles across the kitchen counter-tops when the power gave out and wrapped his arms around your shoulders as you concocted a dessert of some sort. You two consumed ungodly amounts of cookie dough that night and shared in celebratory chocolate kisses.

It didn’t change when you were grief-stricken. When you’d locked yourself behind a closet door, sobbing and mourning your most recent loss. He would sit on the opposite side of the door. Waiting for you. Crying with you. That small space under the door? Bokuto used it to feel around for your fingers, linking them together with his digits when he found them. That day, and many times after, he coaxed you out of real and metaphorical closets with loving, gentle words.

It’s why you chose to set that precious book down today.

It’s why you let him hold you whenever he’s feeling needy or lonely, a knowing smile etched onto your face.

It’s why you decided to put on that gold-laced engagement ring. Why you accepted his teary-eyed marriage proposal months ago.

Because for so long, you couldn’t see yourself with anyone for more than a couple months at most. It always seemed to end no matter how much effort you put into your side of the relationship.

Yet Bo gave you every reason to believe that he would stick around, making you feel like you always had a place by his side. That you were always wanted. Worthy of a lifelong commitment.

And whether you liked it or not, he would’ve bugged you until you agreed to marry him, so it’s probably a good thing you accepted the first time around.

You’re snapped out of your thoughts because just as soon as he had raced out of the room, he’s back with a newfound energy, hands full with a massive Bluetooth speaker and a fully-charged phone.

The moment it’s set up, he’s choosing a song. His eyes dash through all of his beloved playlists labeled with strangely specific names. You peer over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the one he’s scrolling through.

The playlist is titled “Dance With Me.”

You burst into another soft fit of giggles over the lovey-dovey name, causing him to turn his head, much like a curious owl.

He had the makings to be a charmer. And a cheeseball.

Both, for sure.

“Y/nnnn, don’t make fun of me! I need to practice for the wedding, don’t I?” He wiggles his eyebrows at you like a schoolboy with a crush.

A smile silently adorns your features.

With the click of a song, your ears are blessed with the melodic flow of R&B, thick with bluesy guitars and lyrical loveliness. A true slow jam, perfect for rocking on heels and leaning into broad shoulders.

You roll your eyes, throwing your arms around his neck for the 2nd time today.

“We’ve still got 8 months til we’re married, baby.” You remind him, your heart jumping at your own words.

8 short months.

8 months until forever.

Forever with your favorite person.

And it doesn’t scare you. No, the flutters in your stomach are reassuring and brimming with excitement.

You couldn’t wait.

So you rest your forehead against his, staring deeply into his contemplative orbs.

As you two sway to the beat, you can tell he’s thinking. Pondering that sentence. Cultivating a response. You can feel it in the way his thumbs stroke the sides of your hips in deliberation.

He’s searching your gaze and his own mind. Drawing a conclusion.

You just wait. Swaying to the beat, drinking in his almond, vanilla scent, patiently watching his thought process unfold before you.

“I just wish it were sooner.” He whispers, eyes locked on yours.

Oh.

Oh Bokuto.

You release your hold around his neck, slowly drawing your face away from his and moving your hands toward his features. The slow dancing pauses, his feet subconsciously planting themselves on the floor in curious anticipation of what’s to come.

Your knuckles stroke his cheekbones, causing him to flush slightly. Fingers brush against his jawline, your eyes now concentrated on his lips.

How dare he speak such beautiful things with that mouth. Always so smooth when you least expect it.

You lean in, giving him a soft peck, lingering on his lips for just for a moment. Enough to tease him. Because it’s so unfair of him to say things like that...

When he knows full well that you would marry him right here, on the spot.

Under the broken chandelier in your dingy apartment’s living room, you would dedicate your whole life to him, vows and all, while twirling to a playlist called “Dance With Me.”

---

tags: @cherryonigiri, @yams046, @kaidasen, @miss-rin

(comment or send an ask to be added to my general tag list)

#haikyuu #bokuto x reader #bokuto kotaro #bokuto #bokuto fluff #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu imagines #hq #hq scenarios #hq imagines #bokuto fanfiction #haikyuu headcanons #hq headcanons #600 follower event #sneezefiction

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fullsuuns · 4 years ago

Text

a fateful day in new york | l.jn

PAIRING: jeno x reader

GENRE: fluff

WORD COUNT: 1.4k

SYNOPSIS: jeno is the cute botanist that saves you from the rain.

SONG REC♫: pink lemonade - the wombats

he’s beautiful.

no — he’s radiant.

if not for the fact that he was a worker at the floral shop off the corner of main street — les fleurs du soleil — then definitely so when he catches you outside in the rainstorm in front of said shop and offers you shelter.

the rain is heavy; it’s a stream of endless pitter patters against the cracked pavement. you’re drenched; your hair is damp and your tan coat drips droplets of water. it’s cold in new york; the january air that had bitten at your skin had your cheeks growing red over time.

without an umbrella and waiting for the city bus in one of the busiest and most traffic-heavy corners in all of manhattan while it’s raining sure does have its perks despite the heavy burdens.

it comes in the form of a young man: soft black hair and kind, worried eyes when he asks you if you would like to come inside the flower shop. teeth-chattering, you nod, walking towards him with your arms around your shivering frame. he doesn’t seem to mind when water trails behind you, dripping onto the marble tiles as you step inside.

instead, he just opens the door wider for you.

the place sensitizes your smell almost instantly; the heaps of flowers serve to give a natural floral aroma around the place. pretty bouquets are on display everywhere, and there are potted plants hanging from the ceiling as decoration. there’s also music playing softly through the speakers; an indie song you’re unfamiliar with, but it’s pretty. you turn to the boy behind you. he’s taller, much taller than you expected him to be.

he gives you a smile. his eyes fold to create delicate crescents, and you swear you have to stop your own breath from hitching. he’s wearing an apron over a black dress shirt; a charming choice for his broad shoulders. you look down to see a pair of doc marten boots on his feet when you hear heavier-than-normal strides as he walks towards you.

“would you like a warm drink?” he asks, offering his hands out to take your coat. it takes you a minute to realize his gesture. you shrug it off for him, and he sets it on the rack near the front entrance to dry off. you notice that he, too, smells of soft floral scent.

“what do you have?” now coatless, you sit down on the stool he provides for you next to the check-out counter. the song selection changes and your ears perk when you hear the familiar tune of pink lemonade. you hum, “i love this song.”

“i can make you some tea, or coffee, or can just get you some water if you’d like,” he suggests, pulling out a small plastic box with what you think are floral tea samples. “and really? i didn’t think many people knew of the wombats - they’re one of my favorite bands, actually.”

“mine too.” you say shyly, smiling at him despite your slightly shivering form. “and i’ll take jasmine,” you spare a moment to look for the name tag on his apron. “jeno. wow, unique name. don’t think i’ve ever met a jeno before.”

he laughs at your words — a warm, deep laugh from within his chest that makes your heart stammer momentarily. picking up a teabag, he sets the box of samples aside. “it’s actually not that common in korea, either. i’ve never met someone with the same name as me when i’ve visited.”

you hum an understanding. he pulls out a mug and a tea kettle from under the counter — previously heated up water, you assume. steam climbs out of the surface as he pours water into the mug, the heat almost grounding as it contrasts against the cold wetness of outside. the stream of water is a calming sound under the soft indie music, and there’s a tranquil smile on jeno’s lips as he speaks, “hope you don’t think this is weird, i made tea myself before you came in.”

shaking your head, you say, “no, no. i get it.”

there’s a calming presence that comes from him. his hands are structured, strong despite his soft features. you can see this when he opens a packet and places the teabag into the mug and pushes it towards you. “it’s still hot, so be careful.”

you thank him, bringing the mug up to blow into it. the smell of jasmine hits your nose; the scent of it is ever so familiar. jeno brings his own mug to his lips, tilting his head back and exposing his bobbing adam’s apple as he takes the last gulp of what’s left in his cup.

a metaphorical lightbulb goes off in your head.

“how do you like new york?” you ask, hoping your question can keep your conversation with the beautiful stranger — well, jeno now — going.

he licks his lips, and you hope he doesn’t notice the way your eyes drift down to catch his tongue prodding at his bottom lip before he answers you.

“well, it’s big - for one thing. the people here are nice, though they always seem to be in a rush,” you nod at his words, knowing exactly what he means. “i like being able to live out my dream here - and i like the part time job i have as well.”

“dream?” you inquire. the song that’s playing ends, switching to one you’ve never heard all while you take a sip from your mug. the jasmine tea hits the back of your throat - it’s warm, and comforting, and heats you up almost instantly. “you seem to have good taste in music, by the way.”

“oh, it’s nothing much, just my spotify playlist,” he chuckles, the light airy laugh almost music to your ears. “and yeah, dream. uh - i major in film and minor in photography at nyu.”

your eyes widen. “wow, nyu? i’m a student there too.”

he laughs again; you’re sure the vibrant sound never gets old. his voice muses when he asks, “really?”

nodding and unsure of what to say next, you both settle for a comfortable silence for a few minutes as you bask in the warmth of your jasmine tea. when you do meet jeno’s eyes, they’re expressive — a kind doe look that contrasts his aura greatly for sure; they also serve to make you shyly look away each time.

by now, you’ve realized that the rain against the reflective glass has stopped. turning your head to peer out the window, you’re surprised to see sunlight hitting the pavement, a telltale of how quickly new york’s weather could change.

still looking out the window, you ask, “hey, jeno, what time is it?”

you turn back in time to see jeno pulling out his phone from the pocket of his apron.

“3:42. have somewhere to be?”

at this, you know you have approximately three or so minutes to make it out to the bus stop at the corner of main street — if you don’t want to miss your ride home, that is.

you nod, albeit a little disheartened since you know you have to part ways with the cute botanist. still, ever charming jeno smiles at you and nods an understanding.

your eyes dart everywhere for something to write with (you want to laugh at the sheer irony that you find one of those pens with a flower attached to the top of it next to the cash register). digging into your pocket, you pull out one of the crinkled stray receipts you had. your handwriting is rushed with the little time you’re given: a mess of scribbles as you write down your name and phone number.

“it’s been a while since i’ve written down my phone number on a piece of paper like this for someone,” you say, a hearty giggle escaping you, “but call me sometime and we can, i don’t know, grab coffee? when it’s not raining, of course.”

you slide the paper over to him, stepping off the stool to rush over to the coat rack. your coat is drier now, both coldness and warmth hitting your figure at once when you put it on and pull your hair out.

“sure,” jeno agrees, looking down at the receipt once. he smiles, “. . .y/n - cute name.”

hearing him say it almost makes nervous butterflies flutter in your stomach, but you push those down in favor of giving him one last smile as you walk towards the exit.

you can hear the jingle of the door intermix with the music still playing inside as you push it open. you wave your hand towards the dazzling raven, voice calling out behind you just before you can step outside and run towards the bus stop, “great! it’s a date!”

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muertawrites · 4 years ago

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Aphrodite Kallipygos (Zuko x Plus Size Reader) [Modern AU]

Summary: Zuko takes up an art class as part of his therapy and ends up falling in love with a woman who’s a work of art in her own right.

Word Count: 3,500

Disclaimer: There’s a scene in this fic where a couple of thin girls engage in some rude behavior and are criticized in a few none-too-kind words. I want to make it very clear that this scene does not reflect my views of thin people or body positivity - these characters are meant to be a metaphor for greater culture and its strict, unrealistic views of what women should look like.

Author’s Note: I hate rom coms but after writing this fic it dawned on me that I would be excellent at writing them. Also, this one goes out to all my art hoes out there. I geek out pretty hard about art history in this one.

Speaking of which, I reference real-world cultures within the structure of the Avatar universe in this one as well. Something I like to do when I zone out is think about which actual countries would belong to which bending nations; my heritage is primarily from the British Isles, and what with liths like Stonehenge and the hella castles hanging around out there, I think we’d be earth benders - same with cultures like the ancient Egyptians and the Pueblos. I also love the idea of Pacific Islanders who can bend both water and lava, and Incan air benders, and I really wish the idea of global cultures as benders were explored more in the Avatar universe.

Have I mentioned that I’m a massive fucking nerd?

~ Muerta

Zuko never considered himself much of a creative. When he thought about it, he realized that that part of his life had never really been explored; his father always pushed him to focus solely on his bending and combat skills, never allowing even the consideration of other practices or hobbies. As much as Zuko was passionate about the martial arts he'd mastered, he also came to learn that he never had a choice in being passionate about anything else.

“I think you should take an art class,” his therapist suggested. “It would be a good outlet for you, and one that isn't directly influenced by your family.”

“I don't think I've ever drawn anything, though,” Zuko admitted. “I wouldn't be any good.”

“It's not about being good,” his therapist explained, “it's about exploring things that weren't available to you in your youth, freedom of expression. Consider it - there's a shop in this neighborhood that offers classes.”

She handed him a business card adorned with an array of different art styles, from delicate watercolors to bright, bold cartoons; it read, “classes for everything” in a cheerful, clearface font.

Zuko shrugged and pocketed the card. A week later, he was enrolled in a basic studio art course.

He arrived for his first class embarrassingly early, passing under the bell of the shop’s front door twenty minutes before it was scheduled to begin.

The building that housed the shop looked to be older than the rest of the neighborhood around it; the storefront was tiny, with crowded shelves lining each wall and tables and racks wound throughout the center of the space, creating a maze that led to the checkout counter. The room’s ceilings were high, supported by beams in a dark stained wood that matched the floor below. Paper mache sculptures and handmade lanterns hung from the rafters, and the simple, antique plaster walls were decorated with paintings and sketches, likely given by the shop’s clientele. From somewhere in the back, a radio sang folk music, accompanied by the hum of an electric fan.

Zuko wandered through the labyrinthine merchandise displays until he reached the register, where he was met with the single most beautiful sight he may have ever laid eyes on.

You stood behind the counter, leaned over a textbook with a pencil in hand, tapping it back and forth over the pages; you bit your lip in concentration, a few strands of your hair falling loose from the messy knot atop your head and over your cheeks, though you were too focused on your reading to care. An apron bearing the shop’s logo was tied around your waist, emphasizing your body's dramatic curves.

To Zuko, you were gorgeous. He couldn't place what exactly about you allured him; all he knew was that his pulse had quickened to a near dangerous pace.

You looked up at him when you noticed you were no longer alone, flashing him a kind, somewhat distracted smile. He nodded curtly, too nervous to do anything but stare.

“Can I help you?” you greeted him politely.

He cleared his throat, his voice coming out a pitch higher than normal as he spoke.

“I'm here for the art class,” he told you.

You smirked a little, peering down to check the time on your phone.

“It's a little early,” you said. “I was just about to start setting up. You could help me if you want? So you're not so bored while you wait?”

“Yeah,” Zuko mumbled, “yeah, sure.”

You grinned, waving him behind the counter and through a door to the back room. To his surprise, what he expected to be a minuscule stockroom turned out to be a space larger than the actual shop, lined on one wall with massive warehouse windows that poured late afternoon sunlight into the room. Metal shelves and boxes lay haphazardly about, mixed in with a scattering of easels, pottery spinners, canvases, and other art supplies. You directed your guest to a stack of chairs in the corner, instructing him to line them in a half circle in an empty portion of the room while you placed the easels.

“So, do you have a name?” you asked, attempting to make conversation that could drown out the repetitive radio drone.

“Zuko,” he introduced himself.

You stopped what you were doing, fixing him with an awed, slightly amused gape.

“Firelord Zuko?” you wondered.

He blushed, nodding.

“Oh spirits, I'm sorry I didn't bow!” you exclaimed, dropping into a low curtsy. The gesture was mixed with equal parts mirth and genuine respect; Zuko was unsure how to respond, his heart flickering as he watched you.

“I heard you were living somewhere in the city,” you continued after making your own introduction, setting an easel in front of each chair he positioned. “Not into the whole royalty thing?”

Zuko shrugged. He focused on his work, too nervous to look you in the eye.

“Just weird going back there,” he told you. “I don't really want taxpayer money going to making sure I live above my means.”

You leaned against the last chair he set down, smiling warmly at him.

“That's very respectable,” you responded. “Thank you. Y’know, as someone who pays taxes.”

Zuko chuckled softly as you handed him a bin of art supplies, instructing him to set one of each item at every station. He did as he was told, stealing glances at you whenever he was sure you weren’t looking.

“So, uh… do you own this place?” he asked, fumbling over his words.

“Oh, no, this is my professor’s shop,” you replied. “I just work here part time.”

“You’re a student?”

You shook your head.

“Nope. Graduated last year. I work days at the history museum downtown. I also give art history classes here, and help out with the ones Professor Cong teaches.”

“Oh.”

Zuko paused, unsure of what else to say.

“... They teach a different type of history just for art?” he asked after a moment.

You laughed, covering your mouth to muffle the sound and apologizing, giving him a little nod as you collected yourself.

“Yes. Some people even get whole degrees in it,” you giggled. “Not that it’s a useful field to learn anything about.”

Zuko shrugged, trying to shake off the embarrassment of sounding stupid in front of such a cute girl; little did he know, you found the question beyond endearing.

“It sounds important,” he contested. “I’ve been meeting historians from all over the world to correct all the propaganda from the past hundred years. It never occurred to me that I would need different historians for art.”

You smiled at him, meeting him where he stood and handing him one of the sketch pads from your bin. His cheeks pinkened, his eyes darting away from yours as he took it and mumbled a “thank you”.

“I like you, Firelord Zuko,” you decided aloud. “My classes are on Wednesdays. You can come if you want - free of charge.”

Zuko nodded, swallowing heavily as he met your gaze once again.

“Thank you,” he replied. “I appreciate it.”

You laughed a little bit, taking his now empty bin and returning both to their place on a nearby shelf. The shop’s bell rang from beyond the threshold and you went back to the front counter, telling Zuko to take a spot wherever he liked. He sat in the front row; wherever he thought he could be closest to you.

For the next five weeks, Zuko attended not only his studio art class, but your art history class, showing up early to each lesson so he could spend time alone with you. Despite the fact that you invited him to sit in, he paid the fee for the second course, not wanting you to go without the extra pay for your work - he found a doodle of a turtle duck on his seat the next time he showed up, the fuzzy little penciled duckling telling him he was a terrible listener, but thanking him anyway (with a heart scribbled in beside the words).

With your guidance, Zuko learned that there was much more to art than just vibrant colors and pretty decoration. Everything in art, it turned out, had significance, each piece and work holding insight into the people and cultures who created it; you spoke passionately about the art of the Egyptians, who used specific shapes and colors in their imagery to tell stories beyond the written word, about the mysteries of prehistoric structures that revealed how early humanity was much more sophisticated and interconnected than considered at a glance, about the symbols that translated and influenced across centuries to shape how each nation, each culture, portrayed themselves into the modern world. He found himself hanging on every word, falling even more deeply enamored with you with each moment he spent with you.

It didn’t take you long - what with the easy, pleasant conversations you shared before classes - to discover that Zuko lived relatively close to you, only two stops away on the local metro. Knowing this, you often saw each other on the days you weren't at the shop, meeting at the station between each of your respective neighborhoods and having coffee or dinner in one of its many cafes, talking about anything and everything and managing to pass several hours together in what seemed like the blink of an eye. You loved being with Zuko, finding the more you did it, the less you wanted your rendezvous to end; you thought about him all the time, getting all kinds of giddy whenever he crossed your mind.

On one of your extracurricular excursions, you and Zuko wandered around the local high street, marveling at the different streetside vendors and dreamily window shopping behind the glass of the upscale boutiques, doing little more than enjoying each other’s company. It was a hot day, and along your way, Zuko stopped at a coffee stand to get you each something cold to drink.

A pretty young woman in line in front of you eyed you up and down, her gaze flicking from between you and Zuko with disgust. She jabbed her slim, graceful elbow into her equally as flawless friend’s side, whispering something in the other woman’s ear as they both glared at you, sniggering cruelly behind flat stomachs and angular, willowy frames.

You sneered at them, making a point of hooking your arm within Zuko’s and pressing your much wider hip against his, the poison of the encounter sinking into your skin and infecting your thoughts. Zuko noticed your change in demeanor immediately, steering you away from the scene as soon as your drinks were served.

“You okay?” he asked, still holding tight to your arm.

“Fine,” you quipped, biting back tears. “Just a couple of pretty bitches proving how fucking hideous they are on the inside.”

“Wait, seriously?”

Zuko halted, pulling you to the side of the street and out of the way of traffic. He lay a hand on your shoulder, the firm, able grasp of his palm somehow making you feel even worse.

“Someone would really make fun of you?” he wondered, outraged and incredulous. “Why?”

You shook your head, smiling defeatedly as your lower lip quivered.

“People have made fun of me since I was a kid, Zu,” you told him, speaking as if he should’ve just assumed it. “I’m fat. You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

“So?” Zuko replied. You were so shocked, you physically leaned away from him, raising your eyebrows. “Yeah, you’re fat. That doesn’t mean you’re not pretty. I… I think you’re really pretty. Gorgeous, even. You’re beautiful.”

You blinked at him, taken aback. He gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze, his eyes never once leaving yours.

“... Did I break you?” he tried after a moment, sounding concerned that it was a genuine possibility.

You laughed, shaking your head in feverish disbelief, attempting to clear the confusion that fogged your battered brain.

“No, I just… Nobody’s ever called me pretty and fat before.”

Zuko shrugged.

“Both are true,” he told you. “I like your body. You look like one of those Greek sculptures. Of the goddesses.”

You stared at him, searching his eyes for any sign of dishonesty or patronization; all you found looking back at you was the clumsily genuine man you were quickly falling in love with.

“... Have I ever told you about Aphrodite Kallipygos?” you asked.

Zuko shook his head, as confused as you had been a few seconds ago.

“She’s a statue of Venus,” you explained. “She’s got her dress raised up over her backside, and when they found her originally, she didn’t have her head; the guy who restored her sculpted it so that she was looking back at herself, admiring her body. There’s even a whole folktale about a pair of brothers who fell in love with two women because they had, like, beautifully fat asses and the town built a temple dedicated to Venus and her butt. The name literally translates to ‘Aphrodite of the Beautiful Buttocks’.”

Zuko chuckled, raising the hand at your shoulder to cup your cheek.

“See?” he said. “Men have worshiped thick, juicy butts since the dawn of time!”

You laughed, your cheeks turning bright red as you buried your face in your hands, leaning forward to rest your forehead on his chest and further hide yourself.

“Zuko, oh my god,” you breathed. “Promise me you’ll never say that out loud in a public setting ever again, please. You’re the fucking Firelord for Tui’s sake.”

Zuko chuckled, wrapping an arm around your waist and hugging you tightly.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, still grinning. “Made you feel better, though.”

You pulled away from him, affectionately punching him in the shoulder. He laughed, gasping at you in mock reproach before pressing a finger into your side, shocking you with a burst of static electricity; you cackled as you jumped away, sticking your tongue out at him.

Zuko felt a rush of lightheadedness as he watched you, savoring the sound of your laugh and the radiance of your smile. It was then he realized he was in love with you.

The next studio art class focused on model drawing - more specifically, a nude model. Zuko, having been raised in what was arguably the most reserved family in the world, was nervous about the idea of having to sit in front of a stranger for an hour, not only staring at their naked body, but immortalizing it in graphite on a page.

He was mortified when he arrived at the class and found you sitting in the corner, wrapped in nothing but a silk dressing gown.

As you climbed the platform you were meant to model on, your limbs rattled. You began to question your sanity, wondering what you thought you were doing offering to pose for the class, what kind of statement you thought it would make. You faced enough judgement from others about your weight with your clothes on - what the hell did you think they would do when you stood before them completely naked, every bump and crevice on full display for them to gawk at and criticize?

You glanced to the side at Professor Cong, seeking some sort of assurance or comfort from him; he, being the seasoned professional in his mid-sixties that he was, sat reclined in a chair in his Hawaiian shirt and flip flops, scrolling totally undisturbed through Pinterest on his phone. Honestly, you expected no less - his obtuse reactions in the face of the awkward and uncomfortable were basically a superpower.

Taking a deep breath, you untied the knot holding your dressing gown together and let it fall, slipping gracefully from your shoulders and to the floor. You assumed a comfortable, classic pose, purposely facing yourself away from the man whose eyes you could feel searing into your back.

Zuko’s breath hitched as he watched you undress. Though he only saw the full of your body for a moment, he was captivated. The swell of your breasts and curve of your stomach sent him into a dizzy spell, his mouth going dry and his skin heating with a noticeable flush. The rolls of your back, the ripples and divots along your thighs and rump, the stripes etched into your skin like the veins through a granite block, he drank in every part of you, moulding every detail with a focused hand as he sketched. He made note every scar and beauty mark. Once or twice, his mind drifted towards the salacious, imagining how your body would feel beneath his, soft and supple, releasing exalted breaths and enraptured moans, your nails dragging down his back as he drove you closer and closer to infinity…

He inhaled sharply, snapping himself back to his work. You were Venus, Minerva, Diana - a goddess among men. He would gladly spend the rest of his life worshiping you.

The moment the class ended, you gathered your dressing gown and made a beeline for the employee bathroom, getting back into your clothes as quickly as you could physically manage. The experience of nude modeling wasn’t nearly as harrowing as you expected it to be; you actually found it kind of freeing, being able to show yourself to a room full of other people and come out of it unscathed, in fact feeling quite beautiful - what had you nervous was the fact that you’d have to face Zuko immediately after the fact, seeing as you took the train home together after classes. His was the only opinion you cared about, and you wanted nothing more than to convince yourself that he hadn’t judged you as harshly as the self-hatred brainwashed into you made you believe.

When you emerged from the bathroom, Professor Cong stood in front of one of the empty easels in the back, smirking at the drawing the student had left there.

“Your boyfriend left you his piece,” he teased.

You blushed, glaring at him as you approached and snatched the sketch from his hands.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you tried in vain to defend yourself.

Professor Cong just chuckled.

“I’ll believe that when I see evidence to the contrary,” he replied.

You looked down at the paper in your hand and felt the breath drain from your lungs, your heart and stomach soaring into your throat.

Zuko had drawn you in the image of Venus, your body draped in gossamer fabric and your head turned over your shoulder, eyes cast downward and lips slightly parted in a blissful, ethereal expression. In the corner of the page, he’d written “Aphrodite Kallipygos” in his sweeping handsome script, beneath which was his signature and the date. You’d never once seen yourself look so beautiful, let alone in the eyes of someone you loved so fiercely.

You swallowed hard, rolling the drawing and securing it with a hair tie from your bag before exiting the shop through the back, knowing Zuko would be in the alley waiting for you.

“Hey,” he greeted you when you appeared through the storeroom door. “Are you okay? You looked really ner-”

You interrupted him by throwing your arms around his neck, slamming your lips into his in a desirous kiss. It took him less than a second to recover himself from the shock of the action and curl his arms around your waist, pressing his body against yours and lifting you every so slightly off the ground, kissing you just as hard as you kissed him. When you parted, you were breathless, your cheeks fiery red and your lips swollen the color of vermilion. Zuko smiled at you, one side of his mouth curling up slightly higher than the other.

“So you liked it?” he asked.

You laughed, nodding.

“Zuko, I loved it,” you gasped. “I love you. I think I loved you as soon as I met you but that sort of thing is really cliche and stupid to admit.”

Zuko chuckled, raising his hand to your cheek and kissing you again, his lips soft and tender this time around. You sighed happily into his mouth, closing your eyes and losing yourself in the feeling of his body sharing the same space as yours.

“I think I loved you the moment I met you, too,” Zuko confessed, his nose grazing against yours as he pulled away. “But you’re right. That sort of thing is really stupid and cliche.”

You giggled, tugging gently on the collar of his jacket.

“Come on,” you prompted him. “Let’s go back to my apartment. You’ve already seen me naked; we need to make it even.”

Zuko laughed, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and leading you out of the alley, his side pressed firmly against yours.

“Fair,” he agreed. “But if you want me to pose for any art, you’ll have to sign some paperwork. I’m still Firelord, you know.”

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crusherthedoctor · 4 years ago

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When taking Lutrudis as a concept into account, it could be argued that the decision to have her live in a big, fairytale-like castle would be an unwise idea, maybe even counterintuitive, since a place so extravagant might undermine her intended loneliness and yearning for a more fulfilling life, adventure, and all that jazz before Sonic and company entered the picture. The last thing I’d want with Trudy would be to remind people of Chris “woe is me” Thorndyke and his rich kid mansion lifestyle. Not to mention that since some of the townspeople in Lime Shores can act rather ignorant (and in some cases, antagonistic) towards her, a lavish castle might also undermine the underdog nature of that particular setup.

Despite these concerns however, I felt confident with my plan, and I figured that as long as I knew what I was doing, readers would understand what I had in mind. I’ve explained in the past that a castle would better accommodate someone with her EDS, so right off the bat, you already have a practical justification for it. It also helps that whereas the accursed Thorndyke had his parents, friends, grandad, butler, etc etc etc etc... Trudy genuinely had no one to turn to before the heroes arrived for their intended vacation. So with that said, let’s examine this particular building for a bit, complete with pics for comparison’s sake, as well as a certain cavern full of Ethereal goodness that happens to be nearby...

Creating the Residence: Trudy’s Castle

Let’s get the obvious out of the way: The outside environment is not too subtly inspired by Autumn Plains from Spyro 2, better known to non-Spyro fans as my blog background.

A serene yet lonely autumnal forest backdrop, with a big stone castle smack dab in the center. It’s not one-to-one the same of course - instead of a pool, the front area boasts a lovely garden full of different flowers, and there’s also a lake nearby - but the mood is more or less what you see here.

However, this partly serves to contrast with what’s behind closed doors. As acknowledged in Beyond the Stars proper, the interior of the castle instead goes for a different and grander, yet equally inviting atmosphere when you take that first step inside. Instead of stone, you see marble and wood, and instead of grey and green, you have reds, creams, maroons, and golds (with a few complimentary blues and purples thanks to the flags hovering above).

As the lady herself mentions, Trudy discovered that the interior was in a state of disarray when she obtained it, and she was of the belief that a castle as beautiful and rich in history as this one deserved better than to be forgotten and wither away in the coming generations. The least she felt she could do was give it a modern, yet respectful redecoration, and give the old building a second, loving life in the process.

Yes, that means every spot of detail inside this castle was done single-handedly. Entirely on her lonesome. It took ages to complete, especially when taking her EDS into account, but she was determined to give the place its due, and lo and behold, the effort more than paid off. (You know, such levels of determination bring a blue hedgehog to mind...)

And that’s just the intended vision for the main hallway! We haven’t touched the other rooms yet! (Since a castle would have quite a lot of rooms, it goes without saying that for the sake of keeping this post from going even longer, we won’t be covering literally every single room... just the most important and/or most noteworthy ones. :o)

The bathroom can be described as a mix between the two examples below, combining the semi-medieval build of the former with the sky blue palette and general relaxing style of the latter.

Though that said, while the bath remains there for any guests to use, Trudy personally uses a shower since it’s more convenient for someone with her condition.

The kitchen (or as Sonic likes to call it, “the palace of chili dog magic”) mostly comes in cool browns and blacks, and its intended appearance is probably one of the more obvious combinations of old-timey and modern. It also has a slightly country aesthetic compared to the other rooms, because ha ha, horses, geddit.

The greenhouse at the back brings back the heavy amounts of green (well duh, the clue’s in the name, isn’t it?), while also providing contrast with the whiteness of the structure and architecture. Complete with giant arched windows, because of course.

And the segue point between the greenhouse and the rest of the castle looks something along these lines, at least with the way the building itself connects.

Even the chambers underneath the castle manage to look classy and clean. And just as well, since it’s where Tails parks the Tornado for the remainder of his time in Viridonia, once he FINALLY remembers to get it off the Lime Shore beach...

You know another benefit of such a spacious area? You get to turn it into a makeshift workshop for all your gadget needs, Tornado-related or otherwise. I’m sure that won’t come in handy at some point...

The guest bedroom is one of the most curious rooms of the lot, because even though it’s as nice and tidy as you’d expect, it’s also rather... muted compared to everywhere else. Perhaps Trudy felt no need to modify it further in any specific way, since no one had ever bothered to stop by anyway... until you-know-who and the gang.

And we can’t forget to mention our fair equine’s OWN bedroom now, can we? Her bedroom opts for darker colours, yet no less therapeutic, which includes the canopy bed that she rests in. You can actually see the general idea with the bedroom (and the outside of the castle for that matter) for yourself, in the Dame of the Daisy mini-comic, courtesy of my awesome friend @benignmilitancy.

Likewise, although this shot is currently incomplete (don’t worry, Benign is fine with me using it :P), meaning some details haven’t been added yet, you can also get a basic idea of how the balcony is supposed to look here, along with the complimentary view of Viridonia’s oceans.

So what kind of music would befit Trudy’s castle, you may ask? Well, taking every detail into account, we would need something that goes for that perfect mix of adventure, wonder, warmth... and a faint hint of sadness lurking beneath. Something that gets all four across, but not in a generic, run-of-the-mill orchestra sort of way. Something a little more ambient and down-to-earth, with a more unique and specific kind of intimacy. Something like...

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This would apply for when you’re inside, mind you. Outside the castle, the surrounding forest would have a theme of its own, though it would share that similar combination of melancholic friendliness. So for the outside, we would go with something more like...

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Overall, the idea behind Trudy’s castle - aside from being her residence and looking enviously pretty - is to add to Trudy’s own character. It’s said that one’s home can say a lot about a person, and I made sure that every room shared a consistent narrative when reading between the lines. They may differ in shape, and they may even differ in colour, but the story is kept consistent at all times. We know that our girl is elegant, we know that our girl has slightly antiquated tastes... and we know that until the arrival of Sonic and Co, our girl was extremely lonely, and isolated by her peers, to the point of staving off said loneliness and isolation by making the place as lavishly detailed as it is in the first place. And just as the stony exterior hides the more fanciful interior, so too is there more to Trudy herself than at first glance.

Besides, not counting Eggman’s endless list of tributes to himself, we don’t often see the characters’ homes in the games, do we? We’ve seen Angel Island for Knuckles, the Space Colony A.R.K. for Shadow, that shack belonging to the Chaotix in Heroes, a few pads of varying consistency depending on the game (Tails’ workship in SA1 VS his house in Battle)... but not much more than that. And what better contrast to Sonic being something of a nomad, than by Trudy living a place like this?

But we’re not done just yet. Last but not least, we can’t forget that mysterious cave hiding down below, where countless amounts of Ethereal Crystals can be found undisturbed... You can bet that such a place would be suitably attention grabbing.

Since the crystals themselves come in practically every shade of the rainbow and then some, the resulting combination - specifically their reflecting shine - ends up painting the cavern walls with just as much colour.

It may feel a tad surreal and almost alien, to the point of being a little intimidating for some, arguably. But you know in your heart of hearts that as long as Eggman isn’t in the equation, there is no need to be fearful. After all, Trudy knows it better than anyone else, and although the crystals and their properties may hail from unknown, possibly uncomfortable origins, the horse herself continues to use them for wholly benevolent purposes.

Such a cavern would deserve a theme of its own, no? We’ll need something that drives home the point that the power within has no inherent morality, and can only be as good or as evil as the person using them. So although Trudy’s own intentions are firmly on the side of good, we’ll also need an added touch of minor eeriness lingering in the background, to represent the overarching threat and subsequent implications of Eggman dipping his own hands into the metaphorical Ethereal well, on top of its already unexplained otherworldliness...

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So yes, it’s quite a pleasant castle that Trudy has, eh?

But this isn’t the only castle that can be found in Viridonia...

Well, it used to be the only one of its kind on the island... until a certain doctor stopped by, decided to beat the horse at her own game, and create his own, darker counterpart in response... But we’ll get to that when we get to that, ho ho ho.

#Creating Viridonia #Sonic the Hedgehog #Fanfiction

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psalloacappella · 4 years ago

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Sirens - Ch 6

Pairing: SasuSaku Read it: FFN | Ao3 | ↓ Additional Details: Modern AU; ongoing; this chapter, Sakura speaks with strangers over the radio about love, biology, and family curses. Implications of stalking.

“‘Chaste and temperate people — not of their own will — fall in love, badly.’ You probably know that one, as well-read as you are.”

An impeccable internal clock wrests her from sleep — the day promises to be long and lonely.

She takes a moment or three to sink and snuggle deeply into the plush mattress, pressing warm sheets to her nose and inhaling; the heady scents of affection, musk, and skin. Lately, when she steals out of his bed in the early hours, untangling from his lean muscled limbs, a sliver pricks her heart with the split and sting of a papercut. Unfamiliar. It’s not like her to do this.

The facsimile of a time before, now with something she’s afraid to admit might be —

You can’t love him, though. You don’t know him, and he doesn’t know you.

Everything’s cold as she sits on the edge of the bed, willing herself to depart as she has so many times before.

She startles, head whips ‘round; the pads of his fingers trail down her spine in a way that always makes her feel seen. As if he’s reading sordid and fanciful tales found only in the vertebrae, an archaic divergence of Braille, groping around in the hurricane for the doctrine that defines her.

A blind man trying to see.

“You make it so difficult to start the day,” she says. Laughs a little. “It’s always hard to leave you.”

Purses her lips after this admission, feeling stupid for letting it out. Turning back to him, everything aches, the pains borne not of muscles and bones but something in the sinew and the soul. His sleepy groan. The way his handsome head settles into his hand, propped up by the elbow. Messy dark hair, eyes sharp in the soft dawn light. Well-built planes of chest pried apart by her nails in theory though less in skin, as she continues to search for the gems that were fashioned and pressed to create him.

She’s used to so easily taking one’s essence and getting the measure, weighing it in her hands. Then she flees, leaving them undone and keeping herself intact. And though he reveals so many things in his gentleness that she’s realizing are unusual for him, there’s plenty left to be devoured.

Still, she can’t tell him what she really sees: The shadows and edges of someone familiar, who told her too much. What man wants to hear they remind a woman of another? She would sound crazy if she tried to explain, even if the sensation of knowing, the creeping of a fated collision, claws at her throat.

She thinks of Ino’s knowing looks, pleading her to dig deeper. To confront and process the truth.

In a voice razed with sleep, throaty from the music she forced from him before, its richness drips like drowning. “There’s no reason you have to leave, Sakura.”

Blushing. She’s fucking blushing. It makes her turn away quickly from the bed as if it, and her, are on fire.

“Things to do, people to see. You understand the mundane demands on your days, I’m sure.”

“Hmm, used to. That’s not the case anymore.”

“Well,” she says, plucking clothes from her growing pile in the corner of his room, “I at least need to check on the apartment I still pay for. Make sure it hasn’t burned down. Then errands, a bit of this, a bit of that.”

He grunts at her cheery ambiguity, but doesn’t press. Fully dressed, she turns around and smiles in an attempt to stretch joy over the bones of her face. It’s futile but passable, and still it’s not his place to ask.

“Are you returning this time?”

His question forces a moment’s pause. Snatching up the shopping bag containing her new dress, she turns to march out of his room with all the dignity she can muster —

until she touches her fingers to her lips and sends a kiss his way before ducking out.

As every morning, he folds his arms behind his head, letting the warmth of her ebb and dissipate from the sheets, his room, his heart. He swallows, grimacing at the sensitive scraping sensation in his throat, the aftermath of overuse and his vulnerable stupidity. The worst part, of course, is the merciless mocking he’s been receiving from his well-meaning friend. And also his situation from the other night, which Naruto so kindly refers to as freaking out.

Lying in thought as the sun climbs in its daily arc. Then, he sits up and runs hands through his hair, craving a shower and coffee and her skin. Pulling himself out of bed, he finds himself in front of the pile of her clothes that’s taken on a life of its own, fabric in mayhem. Taking a shirt off the top of it, he shakes it out and checks its scent, then crosses to his closet and after contemplation, moves some of his own clothes to one end of it to create a new space.

As always, everything echoes in an apt metaphor.

Swipes her transit pass and breezes through the turnstile without a hiccup. It’s appreciated when the train arrives timely and with room, and she settles into a seat against the window for the first leg of her city journey.

She’s lived in a variety of places, and grew up in a town with too few people who all knew too much. Going to her apartment means a trip with two transfers, and she muses on the different ways people knit their lives into being, how what’s good for one may not be for another. As the subway stations transition to elevated stops running flush and parallel with the downtown streets, her mind wanders to the upcoming event and the revelations Ino’s arrival has sifted from her unconscious.

Lost in thought as she leaves the train car, taking a set of stairs so familiar that the rhythm of her feet on them always echoes the same. To the next line, heading west.

It seems that one’s world can be small even as large and sweeping as populations themselves are. From her long-standing friendship she’s gleaned and the knowledge absorbed to survive, still there are unspoken stories and understandings so lost on her.

(I’m certain he’s an Uchiha.

Right, I think he said that to me the night we met. I don’t see what’s relevant about it, Ino. It’s probably a common name.

It is, but only because there are so many of them. The family is like a web — they have hands in everything.)

Sakura’s deduced some hierarchy of family names, an inborn knowledge children within them grow up acutely aware of, and in the case of those positioned on the collar, the outer ring, they know always, socially, where they stand. As a girl from a tiny place on the wrong side of the tracks

as was flung at her, like a slap, from a man brimming with arrogance and a sour gaze

none of it meant much until she tested into her new school, clawing her way out of a dusty and insular community, emerging into a world with brand new rules. More than that, the lifting of the curtain on society and the people who command its orchestrations. Lucky to be a girl of sharp mind and quick processing because the demands for those who seek greatness are great in themselves.

But in the end she failed, flew too close to the sun, or perhaps delved too deeply into the dark.

Still wonders if her failures and tragedies were all her own doing, or the machinations of a hateful man, one who held the world. Would she ever know?

The disembodied train voice announces her stop, and she blinks herself out of a daze, leaping for the door.

Walking in her neighborhood is a fraught and tense affair; if it remains at the level of catcalls and sneers she considers it of no consequence. Rarely has it escalated, and good thing, as these are known and stained city blocks that officers no matter what they pantomime hesitate to tread.

The familiar man lingers on the corner, always with his eyes on a daily terror Sakura’s not able to see.

She removes her shoes in the entryway, hoping it's early enough to avoid speaking with her roommates in name only. Not quite friends by her own admission and fault, with her tendency to avoid putting down roots.

Creeping through the kitchen, she jumps and curses as the light flicks on.

“Where have you been?”

The woman and her shock of red hair seem to swallow everything else in the drab kitchen. With her arms folded and glasses slipping to the edge of her nose, clad in her usual bizarre attire, she has the air of an aggressive and nosy professor combined with the ragged, prickly edge of a moonlighting drummer in a now-defunct band.

“I told you, Karin,” Sakura sighs, crossing to the fridge and peering inside, “I work at weird times, and sometimes travel. Everything’s paid, right? I told you not to worry about me.”

“I’m not worried,” Karin responds, affronted. “I’m nosy. Big difference.”

“With roommates like this, who needs enemies?” With his lopsided, mildly toothy grin, a man with white hair strolls in, with another one of intimidating height and soft footfalls coming in closely behind. “As long as the lights are on, I don’t give a shit where she goes.”

Sakura winces as Karin’s hand connects with his face, the sharp crackle of air and skin on skin bursting in the previously quiet kitchen.

“Suigetsu, you’re barely civil.” With a gentle smile, the big man inclines his head to Sakura. “Glad you’re staying safe, at least. Wherever you go.”

Juugo always has a way of being kind in a way that gives her a bout of heartburn, paired with eyes that don’t seem to take her excuses and brush-offs at face value. Eyes on the linoleum, she returns the small upturn of the lips and shuts the fridge.

Down the hallway with the backdrop of Karin and Suigetsu’s bickering in her ears. Digging for her keys, she locates the one that unlocks the door to her space.

Untouched, colorless, always the same. The functional essentials of a bed and a desk, and curtains drawn against its own depression. Tossing her bags on the mattress, she stands in the dark and considers the dank and dusty smell, the stillness. The hairs on her arms prickle with a cold sweat —

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Juugo says. Pauses, eyes always seeking, digging into her. Extending a sheaf of mail in his large hand, hovering, aloft. “Figured I’d keep these for you in the same place. And away from them.”

A rush of affection for someone who extends her grace as a principle of his compass and never attaches too many questions. In return she’s careful not to accept too much, not keen to take more than she can give, which feels like so little. Accepting the mail, he leaves her to herself without another word.

Flipping through it, none of it seems important, junky and irrelevant. After all, it’s hard to follow constantly changing addresses of someone who never wants to be found. Tossing it aside as well, she opens her closet and kneels, moving things aside to locate a nondescript shoebox. Leans back on her haunches as if contemplating a fraught choice. With slightly shaking hands, she pulls it to her and removes the lid with the tentative and aversive movements of unwrapping an infected wound. Stares at the items inside, collected in magpie fits in the harried moments she chooses to leave each chapter of her life; vivid and edged memories to cut her fingers and lips on.

She sits

and sits

and when she’s done, she wraps it all up exactly as before, hands moving through her own belongings as a ghost. Ensuring no one can return later to see the afterimages.

She’s still thinking about the papers in the box as she gives a small smile through the window to her companion and settles the headphones around her neck in preparation; her night’s just begun.

As the predetermined music sets play and eventually give way to the improvisatory mixes courtesy of the resident DJ, the questions tumble over one another in an endless unconnected bubble of thought, entwined as snakes. The prospect of an evening around people so unfamiliar and of a certain stature, an invisible web she’s had to suss out in the way of an interloper, is anxiety-inducing at best and nauseating at worst. If her conversation with the man she now knows is Neji Hyuuga is any indication, she’ll be in for an excruciating evening of being on display.

But this is how men such as him navigate the world — others’ discomfort is unimportant, their concerns trivial, inconsequential because all the space belongs to the powerful. The seen.

Twilight creeps.

Her mind rebukes, of course, the idea that this Uchiha Sasuke could be similar. She knows the markers, however, of trauma and wealth. Indicated in large part because he never discusses it even when making overt gestures, ah, like the hotel suite. Head spinning at the implications, which seems silly on its face considering the wanton whatever-it-is they’ve been participating in with enthusiasm. No, it’s the idea of an expensive gesture solely for her comfort, to spend time with her, an extension of something that checks the box of uncomfortable but also fills an indulgent desire.

And in moments the way he turns his eyes on her, the way he drinks her in to slake an endless thirst, is a faulty and weak imprint of every man before and she’s sure, in the marrow of her bones, every single one that will follow.

The thought of him pricks gooseflesh at the base of her neck, sweeping against each vertebrae in legato lyrical phrases. A sense of impending doom and breathless danger and frenzied affection coalescing as one.

“But if it’s proven to be a biochemical reaction,” the man on the line says, pulling Sakura back to the conversation, “and the brain is being flooded with substances causing someone to not only fall in love, but essentially bewitch them while around this new individual, it’s no different than a powerful addiction to the object of your affection. And if we’re now foraying into using this word, ‘addiction,’ how do we examine the truthfulness of chemicals run amok?”

Sakura shakes her head. “All of those things eventually normalize,” she insists. “Let’s not forget that this is an initial stage of attraction and what begins as passion may not persist as that. There’s an arc to this journey — it’s true in every type of relationship.”

“Ah, you find me cynical. I can tell.”

Smiling to herself, she says, “A bit, maybe, Kabuto.”

“Let’s follow this thread.”

Where has she heard that before? Often a sounding board and many times a therapist, it isn’t unusual for topics to derail in these ways, exploring scattershot threads to follow, ideas wandering as lost lambs heading for the end of the night slaughter.

“Sure, if you’d like. Chemistry doesn’t mean we should view it only in a scientific lens. That can be an excuse to view it in an emotionally detached way. The honeymoon period of any bond, whether it’s the beginning of a friendship or someone new and special you’ve met, of course involves strong feelings. And sure, it’s all aided and abetted by the best of chemicals, but that doesn’t undermine any of what it is.”

“Perhaps this is where we disagree: How do we unravel where reality begins and the brain’s illusion ends? Can you or I trust this process? Should we? When the origin of something that should be taken, I imagine, seriously, like love, is rooted in a runaway operation, how do we parse that?”

“It’s a good question. I do agree there,” Sakura interrupts, pointing at nothing in the air, even though Kabuto isn’t able to see her. “It begins like a spark, and fire’s chaotic. But some manage to tame it into something for a lifetime.”

“I suppose none of us can confirm the lifetime part, admittedly,” Kabuto says. “Your use of the word chaotic is interesting, perhaps quite personal to you?”

“We’re always on borrowed time, Kabuto,” she warns, using his name as punctuation in close.

He chuckles, a unique blend of arrogance and deference. “Young lady,” he says, “changing tack here, do you believe love can exist in this way, from a person in pursuit of non-human entities?”

“If this becomes a discussion of something untoward—”

“I’m thinking of abstract concepts, or at the very least complex ones — not animals, if you were worried.”

“I was, in fact; we’ve been down that road before at 2:00 a.m., and it’s a strange one.”

“I’ll offer myself up as a specimen, then. I grew up as an orphan without many strong bonds, and I feel that few people or their emotions offer a use for me. Over the years the only love that has made any sense for me is twofold: First, a desire to serve another in a useful capacity, devoted but decidedly unromantic. Second, the love of the field of medicine.” She can almost hear him raising a palm in a careless shrug, a considered nonchalance that’s anything but. Pantomime performance. Facing him in person would be difficult; something about him makes her bristle, clench her teeth. “These are things that make life worth living to me; most people have erratic emotions and motives.”

“It’s respectable, but unusual. Not that there isn’t a precedent. If we think of famous scientists, artists, and individuals knowledgeable and devoted to their craft, it’s a different type of fulfillment involved. And many of them did have poor relationships and lives, multiple wives for instance. Addiction.”

“Aptly said, Sakura. Another instance that I’d say you may have your own void in need of exploration.”

Pursing her lips, her response comes with a bite. “Another swing and miss, Kabuto.”

Again, she feels him shrug, retreat from the line. Voice dripping slimy and conciliatory as he snarks, “I suppose I did offer myself up, and not you, after all.”

“I think it’s time for the next,” she says, infusing civil kindness in the shift. “Looks like you’ve begun quite the conversation, because lines are lighting up. Have a good night.”

Click.

Her companion in the booth holds up a hand with two fingers — two minutes, 120 seconds, a breather. Removing her headphones from around her neck, she stands and stretches. Crossing the room, she opens the door and pokes her head over the threshold.

“You got a message,” he says. “A strange man called with a rebuttal to the last guy’s arguments. Some rant about how art is the highest form of affection and he had no vision . . . really weird.”

“Huh. I guess he wasn’t comfortable speaking on the show?”

Raising his eyebrows, he runs a hand through his messy hair and smiles. Approaching his mid-thirties and always laboring under a stoic but world-weary demeanor, his slight detachment always rings as the conscientious but awkward treatment from a father who’s never home to tuck in his children. “He used the word explosion, so I didn’t find him particularly stable. ”

Sakura flashes a smile. “I’m back on in a second. Thanks for the interception.”

Waving a blithe hand, he gives her a chuckle — again so much like a well-meaning father. A pang of guilt, the origin of which she’s never sure of, as if he can see through the meticulous cosmetic visage prepared for later, can spot the glitter still lingering in the microscopic creases of her skin. As if he knows what’s buried at the bottom of her bag and has an inkling of her messy tryst and possibly destructive habits.

When she takes her place at the desk, settles the headphones onto her ears and gives him a thumbs-up, her foot brushes against the daybag propped underneath.

Click.

“And we’re back on this chilly Thursday evening, discussing the interplay of biology in the complex concept of love. Before we were specifically talking about how much of this process is truly in our control, and the different types of bonds that can form that don’t meet expectations of our classic ideas of romance. Kabuto, if you’re still listening — someone felt that art should be placed on the shelf over medicine. Not sure how you would feel about that! So we’re on to the next . . .”

Pausing for a moment, she waits for her companion to send over the new caller; meeting eyes through the glass, he does so with a careless shrug, as if saying, Sure, why not?

A flash of irritation: Stoic but waffling, an annoying combination. Sakura’s convinced he has a daughter at home he’s never learned how to communicate with; he strikes her as single-dad, not much extended family, sheepish in the face of attitude. She’s unable to deny that he has a certain sturdiness he brings to long nights; if she wasn’t so sure he would twist in knots at the mere hint of impropriety, she could see him asking after her sleep habits and vegetable servings. She, a prickly young woman and he, an awkward parent.

But she wishes — oh, she wishes he hadn’t let this call through, that his protective sense piqued just once at the correct juncture.

“Pardon, I didn’t catch your name,” Sakura says. Listening to the strange breathing on the other side of the line. Rolling her eyes to her call screener, he puts his hands together and dips his head in apology.

It continues, different and yet similar from a behavior before. Sasuke? She’s not so sure she’s willing to gamble on it though, professionalism notwithstanding. A rattle, a cadence unknown. Even silence has its own sound.

“Hello?”

“I’m here.”

In instinct her fingers curl into fists, green fingernails digging into the skin of her palms. Sharp. It distracts her from the way she yearns to kick her chair back and run. Perhaps it’s painted all over her face in vivid color, a portrait, all shadows and deep rivulets and frozen fear, dimly aware of eyes on her.

“S-sorry about that. Poor connection, maybe.” A smooth response she pours an easy smile into, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“No, I don’t think so. I promise I’m not here to scare you, though.”

A richness, a distinct and familiar quality, a sinister veneer of kindness — does he hear the falter in her own? Is she crazy to feel ready to run?

Chancing a throaty laugh, she says, “I should hope not. Seems like strangers in the night enjoy talking about love and loneliness. At least it always ends up that way.”

The man on the phone makes a dulcet noise of amusement, triggering a shiver that, while embodying the same tone she’s so used to from the man with which she spends most (lately, too many) nights, has something else. A quality that’s cold and dead where Sasuke’s reflects the opposite. Sakura thinks of resting a finger on the button and letting it slip, disconnecting from this, it, severing the connection.

“I’m sure you’ve heard before of what that says about you.”

Biting her lip, she struggles not to imbue a response with the same sharpness. “True; the woes of the host! But the show isn’t about me — it’s about all of you.”

“Tell me,” he says, breezing past her conciliatory words, “do you think that people are locked in by their destiny? Before, the orphan and his self-admitted devotion to something beyond? Incapable of regular relationships or just caught in a web of something else’s choosing?”

“I . . . like to think that we have more choice than that.”

“Is that what you tell yourself? That you choose these things, and each fork in the road is a decision you make, not one made for you? That you’re not caught in something larger than yourself, a web you stumbled into?”

It has a question underneath.

“Let me elaborate,” he continues. Bitterness with a jovial veneer: Playacting. “Do you think meetings and falling in love are coincidences, occurrences, or divine intervention?”

Sakura’s laugh is genuine this time, bold. A touch of amusement. “These sound like stories more than they sound like evidence! They’re not new ideas, of course: Literature in particular discusses all of these thematic possibilities, romantic but not well-supported in reality.”

“I wonder,” he says, unctuous. Sets her stomach roiling, like he’s in the room.

“Sure, there are events that happen with no true explanation. None rooted in evidence, anyway, unlike the things we were discussing earlier.” Sakura’s throat dries out at the close, and she swallows.

“‘Chaste and temperate people — not of their own will — fall in love, badly.’ You probably know that one, as well-read as you are.”

The copy of her book, given as a gift, sits on the bedside table in a room across the city in the apartment of the boy in love that handed it to her — the man that touches her like fire. She senses a string visible only in the light, bonding her to him, a tripwire strung by fate.

“Funny that it’s on the theme of ruining a house, a family name. That sounds so old-fashioned, doesn’t it?”

Goading her with the details he knows. She’s shaking for reasons she can’t understand, a quaking in the marrow.

Lowering his voice an octave, it claws like the night.

“Girl,” he hisses, “do you believe in curses?”

Click.

She gasps, gulping in air as if breaking the surface of water. Vision swimming, she realizes it wasn’t her who hit the disconnect. As he shoves back his chair and opens the door, she gropes for her own controls and hears herself rattle off something about how unfortunately, the connection was lost, and they’ll be cutting to the music early.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have let him come through. What a strange man,” he says. Not coming too close, but after a moment he kneels down to her height. “Are you all right, Sakura? You look . . .”

“Fine.” Regretting the curtness. Inhaling and exhaling in a slow, measured breath, she flashes another thin smile. “I’m okay. Promise. It just . . . really caught me off guard. People are always odd but he was just plain creepy.”

Pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes, she imagines drowning in the bursting color. When she refocuses, her night partner has a glass of water and a bag of —

“Walnuts?” she asks. “Why walnuts?”

Shrugs. “They’re my favorite. You look pale; eat something.”

Acquiescing, she takes a few and chews them without tasting, lost in the accusing tones of a voice black as oily pitch.

This.

This is what she never used to do.

It’s not the activity itself — it’s the tang of too many gimlets and the glitter that she drags from floor to floor, the stardust sparkles taking refuge in her hair and skin. The press of bodies that she doesn’t know, will never know, the painful pressure valve release. If she closes her eyes and succumbs to the spin, the sensation of loosening from orbit and going on the float, she manages to pretend she doesn’t even know herself.

All she can think of is home. What and where is that? It’s certainly not here, where her beautiful shoes have difficulty parting ways from the sticky floor. It’s not the apartment in a neighborhood full of people starving and ill, nor her roommates that pass her most often as ships in the night; not anywhere.

The only thing that makes sense is her lovely, delinquent chemical adventure, yet it will be sabotaged like everything else.

Sakura thinks of his eyes, his hands, his skin. All of it could be here if she asked; she’s sure he would put up with so many things, if she asked.

Instead she brushes the skin and sweat of strangers, a roiling mass of bodies supporting one another as an ocean wave, losing themselves in emotions larger than what one can feel alone.

Her knees tremble; plagued by head spins, this is preferable to thinking.

When she takes a seat on a couch and settles into the cushion, one arm parallel, propped across the back, she rolls her ankle in a circular stretch. Pithy, ignorable. It’s nothing compared to how a heart carries pain, such a different animal.

Someone emerges from the alternating lights and gloom, placing a napkin on the low table in front of her and setting a drink, the same she’s been having all night, all morning. Questioning him with her eyes, he nods his chin behind her and melts away into the noise.

As she turns her head, a hand comes down on hers, the one resting on the back of the couch, and the force of it knives her gut, right under the ribs.

“Look straight ahead.”

Twisting angrily, she pulls; whoever it is digs the heel of his hand into her knuckles. Unable to see his face, she opens her mouth until his other hand settles on her shoulder, draping itself in a way that to anyone else would appear friendly, at worst a bit salacious.

“Let go of me.”

“Will you use those wild hands on me, girl?”

“What do you think?”

The grip on her shoulder tightens. Desperately wanting to flail, fight, but his unspoken threat is no bluff. The twisting sensation vibrates and transforms into nausea, a lump in her throat. Unless there’s someone in that mass of bodies tonight that feels like being a hero, she’s stuck staring straight ahead.

“That’s quite a heartbeat. Nervous, I bet.”

“Who are you?”

“You can’t tell? We just spoke.” He sighs with a hint of amusement. “You’re familiar with so many of us now, this should be easy for you.”

Do you believe in curses, girl?

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” A lie, and not a very good one. Sakura swallows hard.

“Not a very good liar. What is it with you and this family?”

She forces out a dark laugh. “Maybe you’re cursed.”

“I’d argue we’ve been cursed by you. I’m here to tell you to stop. You’re smart enough to let this go, like you let go of everything else. Do what you do — crawl back to who you were.”

“I don’t care about any of you.” Eyes flashing, speaking through a fake smile. “I never started it; I was a child! And not that it’s your business, but I’ve moved on to something new.”

His chuckle is foreboding, makes her feel sick. “Maybe you’re not so bright, then. You can’t even see it. That it’s something old, something blue. Is that how that silly rhyme goes?”

“If we’re going to be here a while, could I at least have the drink you so kindly brought me?”

“You’re a spitfire, aren’t you?” he hisses, tightening his grip. Hot breath ruffling locks of her hair. “You’re mouthy.”

“And I’ll scream, too.” True to form, her voice is a spit and she shrugs him off her shoulder. Surprisingly, he lets her go.

A pause, a deafening silence. She feels him begin to move away, and like the waiter she knows without seeing him that he’s melting away into the dark. Waiting for his inevitable departing words, but they never come.

She waits a full minute before leaping up and bolting across the dance floor.

Down a hallway, pressed with bodies and couples and partners lost in drunken and drugged hazes. Hot, chaotic. Using her elbows to push them aside to fight to the back door. Lets her full weight fall into the door and swings it open into the alley, and it takes her a while to realize the alarms bursting against the muted music is her doing. Too disassociated, too tipsy.

Crouching, leaning against the brick, she fumbles with the phone due to trembling, going right for the number out of a blurry list of them — none saved. All starting with a mishmash of area codes from the bonds she never takes with her. Except she knows the only one that matters.

She swallows a sob lingering in her throat. The emergency alarms tune in and out like a touchy radio.

“What’s wrong?”

Relief — his voice brings nothing but. Forgetting her own rules, she tries to tamp the fear encircling everything she wants to say.

“Can you come?” Feeling pathetic, scared.

“Tell me where you are, Sakura.”

Her mind on autopilot saves her, rattling off the address without pause like someone else speaking.

“I’m coming. Don’t move from where you are unless it’s dangerous.”

Silence strings between them, all the words that need to be said.

“Did I wake you?” Sakura asks quietly.

She imagines him shrugging, the way he looks away in lieu of focusing on her, like she’s too bright and he’s too shy. Or perhaps she’ll see the shadows.

“I wasn’t asleep. Frankly, I don’t sleep well at all. Lately, it’s been better.” Pauses again, inhaling, exhaling. “Something about that guy on your show bothered me. When you didn’t return, I didn’t want to assume — well, you go where you go.”

But Sakura hears in his voice how much he hates it. An admonition and ache all in one, the brusque admission that offers a glimpse of his heart.

“Sasuke—”

“Just stay there. You’ll be all right until I come.” She can almost hear what for him is as close to a smile as he gets. “You’re not a weak woman, after all. So hold on.”

The sensation of a rope around the neck loosens slightly, retreating. Readjusting on her haunches, she stares up at the stars, words surfacing and drowning in her addled daze

you have ruined her and me and all this house

“Sakura?”

Even in her precarious place, the burning in her chest and the wobbling in her legs, his voice still scatters gooseflesh on her hot, glittered skin.

“What did you say?” he asks sharply. “You’re fading. Keep yourself together.”

“Nothing,” she murmurs. “I’ll see you soon.”

Disconnecting the call, she presses the phone against her head, the fingers of her other hand weaving through her hair and tugging it over her face.

This is how Sasuke finds her, still crouching against the brick alley wall, bent and frozen. A grumpy security guard stands a couple of feet away from the open door, scowling at him as if her state is his doing.

“Tried to get your girl to sit inside — she’s not talkin’ much.”

Wrapping his coat around her, she listens to his instructions as in a dream, without reaction or pause. With a dismissive wave toward the guard, he whisks her away and gets a shrug in response.

To the curb, in the car. The grip on her face is tighter than he means, the worry in his voice rougher than he intends; it always comes back, the sovereignty of his name, the resources he invokes as he wishes and when it suits him, hates and indulges. Intensity and arrogance and obsessive love bred in his bones.

But he swipes a gentle thumb underneath her eye, stardust and tears, and somehow even this doesn’t look bad on her. Even this way, she’s divine, inhuman, special underneath whatever pressure made her — a diamond.

“Sasuke.”

Her voice is the throaty scrape of sandpaper, leading him off the path and into the water, drowning and purifying but for a man like him, it’s always doomed to be one and the same.

“Thank you.”

#sasusaku #sasusakufanfic #psalloacappella #psalloacappella:sirens

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shipaholic · 4 years ago

Text

Omens Universe, Chapter 7

Pivotal chapter no. 1, here we go...

This chapter has drinking. So much drinking. Also, Crowley finally has the Bentley, so this will be the first chapter (of many?) in which he totally invents speeding.

The music in this chapter is V Stands For Victory

And I Could Write a Book (Eddy Duchin, 1941).

Link to next part at the end.

(From the beginning)

(last part)

(chrono)

---

Chapter 7

Crowley’s ridiculous contraption bombed down the street at ninety miles per hour. Aziraphale was hardly aware. His eyes were fixed on Crowley’s face as he drove.

This was bad, he thought, dreamily.

Telling himself that made no dent in his emotional state. His mind was wrapped in cotton candy. Cotton candy that was moving very fast… possibly still in the whirly machine they made it in… he shouldn’t try to devise metaphors at a time like this. The point was, despite Crowley being Demonic and Evil and the rest of the standard specs for a minion of Hell, upon realising he loved him, Aziraphale could not make himself feel anything other than Good. Both definitions. This was right. This was what he was made for.

It wasn’t as if Crowley had ever been capital-E Evil, really. In fact, so long as he was being honest with himself (a dreadful prospect, but it turned out love made him brave), he had known this ever since the first time they fused. All those thousands of years ago. That was probably a big part of the reason he had hit the proverbial roof. It was a blow to one’s identity as a font of goodness, to merge minds with your opposite number and learn that he had more in common with you, morally, than most of your allies. Back then, he had refused to accept being humbled and had lashed out at Crowley instead. He’d behaved terribly. Worse than he’d even admitted before now.

But that was in the past, and the present was a carousel, a delicious dreamscape, gliding through the velvet dark with Crowley beside him -

The Bentley screeched to a halt. Aziraphale nearly slammed into the windscreen.

“Home sweet home,” Crowley said, cheerfully.

It was fortunate he didn’t have to love everything about Crowley, because this infernal machine was definitely out.

Crowley peered out of the window. “Hasn’t changed a bit,” he said, approvingly. He opened his door and hopped out. “Coming?”

Aziraphale looked out. They were already at the bookshop. He hadn’t been paying attention.

He collected himself, and his bag of books. He opened the car door with trepidation, as if the handle might explode.

It didn’t. He got from the car and followed Crowley in a daze towards the shop.

Crowley snapped his fingers. A soundproof bubble settled over the shop. Another snap dropped the blinds, and a third clicked the door latch into place.

Aziraphale hovered near the entrance. His familiar space had just become soft and dark and intimate. He wasn’t sure what thresholds would be crossed if he went all the way inside.

It had been years since Crowley had been back here. He revolved, drinking it in.

“Ahh. Place looks good. Very… impenetrable.”

Aziraphale preened. “In its heyday, this place could go six months at a time without selling a single book.”

Crowley gave him a fond smile. Aziraphale was going to spontaneously combust before the night was over.

Crowley clapped his hands together. “So! What are you in the mood for?”

Aziraphale took a breath and tried for a normal answer. “Alcohol seems just the ticket.”

“No surprise there.” Crowley miracled up some brandy glasses.

“Well, of course. I was just in mortal peril, you know.” Aziraphale followed him to the back room.

“Immortal peril. Barely counts.”

~*~

It was an old, familiar scene.

Crowley took over the whole sofa in increasingly supine, twisty positions the drunker he got. Aziraphale sat in the armchair, head and surroundings merrily spinning. He wasn’t entirely sure what they were talking about, but he knew it involved vociferously nitpicking something one of them had said half an hour ago.

“Tha’snot true. Totally unfair. I was going to come by.”

“Lies.” Aziraphale poured another brandy and missed.

“I just fell asleep. For a few years. And forgot.”

“Wimped out, more like.”

“Wimped out? Me? What the Hell did you get up to in there?”

“I’ll never tell. Because you didn’t come by.”

Crowley tried to sit up, wrestled with the throw, and sunk back, defeated.

“I knew it wasn’t all games of Old Maid in there,” he said. “You dark horse.”

“We did some of that…” Aziraphale said, dreamily.

“You what?”

Perhaps he shouldn’t have said that. “Erm. We did - the Gavotte?”

“...Is that a euphemism?”

“No, it’s a jolly lovely time.”

An unbroken row of them, linking arms and kicking their feet. Aziraphale had been one of the better dancers by the end. It helped to be single-handed - no, minded...

He bolted upright. “Crowley! I should show you.”

“Whassat?”

Aziraphale sprung to his feet, after a couple of false starts. He took a moment to let the brandy inside him slosh back to an even level.

“The Gavotte. Watch me. Watch me, Crowley.”

He stepped over a few piles of books. He needed some room… was his shop always this cluttered? He pushed ineffectually at a small table covered in ornaments, then gave up and snapped his fingers. The furniture in the middle of the room obligingly tidied itself off to the side. V Stands For Victory parped its opening notes from the gramophone.

Crowley watched, mouth slightly agape, from halfway off the sofa. Aziraphale beckoned him with more and more insistence, until Crowley slid all the way off, crawled nearer and pulled himself up against the arm of Aziraphale’s chair.

Satisfied that Crowley could at least see, even if his eyes were unfocused, Aziraphale prepared himself. He bounced from his knees a few times and swung his elbows. He’d have to just imagine the rest of the chaps.

“A one, a two, a three, a four -”

Five energetic minutes passed.

Aziraphale thrust both arms towards Crowley in the universally recognised sign for ‘tah-dah!’ The gramophone tooted to a stop, sounding embarrassed.

Crowley’s mouth hung open.

“It’s better than your magic act, thank Satan,” he said at last.

“Oh, come now.” Aziraphale frowned.

Crowley groped for the nearest drink. “That’s cheered me up about giving the old club a miss.”

“You’re no fun. It’s better with more people.”

Perhaps a one-person Gavotte was too reliant on the imagination of the audience. Aziraphale thought for a moment. He pointed to the gramophone. It cranked reluctantly up again.

“This music is poor even by Heavenly standards,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale tripped forward before he could overthink it, and grabbed Crowley’s hand. They swayed, as though reaching for each other on a deck over choppy waters. Crowley’s face was scarlet from alcohol. He blinked at Aziraphale, his eyes a haze of gold.

“Dance with me.” Aziraphale meant to sound authoritative. It came out slightly breathless.

“Ngk,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale shuffled backwards. He felt self-conscious hanging onto Crowley’s hand, so tried to pull away unobtrusively. Drunk as they were, their fingers tangled together, and withdrawing his far-too-hot hand ended up being a bit of a nightmare. Crowley’s face was even redder by the time their hands loosened. Still he drifted towards Aziraphale as if the tether was still there.

The music was awfully trumpety, Aziraphale had to admit, as they stood face to face in the bit of floor space that was clear. He stepped up beside Crowley, and slipped his arm through his.

“Now, it’s not so hard. Even I got it in the end. You move like this -”

He took a step. Crowley stepped the other way, and collided with him.

Things did not improve. The gramophone sounded irritated by the third play through, and Aziraphale and Crowley had dissolved into arguing while Aziraphale tried to watch both their feet.

“This is stupid. Whoever invented this dance did not have demons in mind. Or humans. Maybe horses. This is a horse dance.”

“I doubt this dance was intended for horses - no, you do this with your arms. How many elbows do you have?”

“Two, or none, depending. Hmm. Would you say a snake is basically one long elbow?”

“Thinking about that is above my paygrade. Will you stop getting underfoot?”

“You’re stepping on my feet!”

“How am I supposed to avoid that? They’re everywhere.”

“This is why I never bloody turned up.”

“Honestly -”

Aziraphale held Crowley closer, hoping to wrangle him through the steps.

He really was all elbows and knees. And so warm, radiating hell’s heat through that sharp suit. No hat, no glasses, eyes like suns floating in a swamp. Strands of short red hair teased loose over his forehead. His brows had such character. They were scrunched in that bemused, slightly glum way Aziraphale had noted hundreds of times. He hadn’t quite known he was recording it. Crowley’s face, Crowley’s looks. His angelic memory was long, and its catalogue of Crowley was fathomless.

The music had changed. Someone crooned:

‘About the way you walk, and whisper, and look…’

That seemed unnecessarily on-the-nose.

Aziraphale wondered which of them had done that. He didn’t recall making a conscious attempt. Perhaps it had reacted to both of them.

He could no longer pretend what they were doing bore any resemblance to a Gavotte.

He ought to pull away. His eyes fixed on his hand, resting beside Crowley’s lapel. There was no heart beneath it; nothing so human. But something beat anyway. Something in Crowley was in rhythm with him. They pushed and pulled together. Despite a lack of innate ability, they danced.

He looked up, and searched Crowley’s face.

Crowley looked…

Stunned, a little. Fearful. Yearning.

He’d seen this look before. Stifled versions of it. So many times.

Aziraphale’s heart wrenched towards Crowley’s, and it made no difference that neither of them really had one.

~*~

The gramophone concluded that it would make two lovers of friends. The brilliant white glow that had flared into every corner of the room died away like the last light of summer.

Zadkiel twirled to a stop. He had wrapped his arms around himself. He sighed, and opened his eyes.

He was him. Again. Better and fuller and brighter than ever before.

It was like a loose connection in his brain had snapped into place, and lit up an entire circuit he didn’t know was there.

Of course they loved each other. Of course. He’d always known, without being truly allowed to know. Cognitive dissonance, that was the term. Normally, when people had it, it manifested as plain old denial. For Zadkiel, it was what happened when one of your component parts was very much aware they were in love, and the other part was utterly unaware, no matter how apparent it should have been to literally anyone.

No more. Now, their feelings were an open book. He was remade, and everything was different.

He couldn’t wait to get started.

He snapped his fingers at the gramophone. It gratefully fell silent.

Another snap, and Aziraphale’s furniture shuffled back into place. He had to hop about to avoid his shins getting bashed.

Finally, he snapped to unlock the door.

It fell ajar. The smell of night air stirred through the shop, dark as ink, and full of a thousand small noises.

Zadkiel turned in place. He drank in the long-loved sight of the bookshop. What a wonderful friend it had been. A true home, after centuries of wandering. If he could take it with him, he would.

He straightened his tie, banished the lingering alcohol from his bloodstream, and strode to the door.

His final act was to fish his sunglasses out of his jacket pocket. He left them on a table. He wouldn’t need them where he was going.

He exited the shop smartly. The door snapped shut behind him.

~*~

The street rolled away into the dark distance.

Zadkiel tilted his head up. The night sky was empty of stars and gods, and it was all waiting for him.

Both pairs of wings spread out behind him. He let them both have a good stretch. They’d need it.

He had loved the Earth. He always would. Still… time for something new.

He wished the world the fondest of farewells, and took off into the night.

---

(Link to next part)

#omens universe fic #omens universe #good omens #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #steven universe #phewww what is crazy fusion boy up to TUNE IN NEXT WEEK TO FIND OUT #sometimes you've gotta goofy-dance with your crush and then accidentally turn it into slow-dancing while a Significant Piece of Music plays #and that's the tropiest thing I'm knowingly putting in this fic

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queenlokibeth · 5 years ago

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Shall we talk about the songs on louis’ “28 songs” playlist?

(Massive observation of all 28 songs ahead. Yes it took me 2 hours to make this. Skip to the end after the keep reading if you want the TL;DR)

You’re not the only one - Sam Fender

“The song is in fact about his best mate and himself “coming out on the other end of a bad place” and going out to party. He told Virgin Radio that “It’s a celebratory song about loving your mate, really”. “ - Genius lyrics

“ The fabricated smiles so wide, they're of hope Your composure is so brittle, and you hold yourself so well Inside, you cling to pieces of a broken carousel “ well yes i am crying

“We'll have this place on lockdown, it's here for you to taste“

Call me out - Sea Girls (Nautical theme, anyone?)

“And I've changed a lot since then, ask my friends The crying stopped, on top of that, my eyes forgot An old flame who got her hips on a bucket list And times missed every night since we first kissed”

“ And I've changed a lot since then, ask my friends My clothes, my frame, I've spent enough but feel the same”

“And I'll be waiting when you come and call”

“ I can burn that bridge when we get to it “

The Runner - Foals

“... The narrator is done lamenting his fate now and Part 2 sees him picking himself up, dusting himself off, and moving forward... [A] call to find a sense of purpose and perseverance despite the odds and despite the troubles we may find inside or outside ourselves.” - Genius lyrics

Nightmares - Easy Life

“...topics of insomnia, anxiety, and peer pressure.... The major chords acting to cover up the emotions professed in the lyrics, turning the song itself into a perfect metaphor...” - About the song, Genius lyrics.

“ It's all a bit of fun until somebody gets hurt I’ll take it with a pinch of salt, another bridge is burned” Burning bridges, again, you say?

“ It's all a bit of fun until somebody gets hurt I'll take it with a pinch of salt, another lesson learned But I don't need to know what's real or not no more I don't need to know what's real or not no more “

My honest face - Inhaler (pretty self explanatory title there)

“ [The vocalist] fears being met with nitpicking or criticism of the lesser parts of his performance. He thinks of himself as skilled, but not perfect. “ - About the song, Genius lyrics.

“And honey, I could play the Joker My made up smile broke your heart last night No, no, no, I didn't want to hurt ya But there's just a certain culture when you're young When you're young “

“ And honey, I could play the hater Acting like I hated her last night No, no no, I didn't want to hurt you “

“ I'll take you to an honest place Darling, I just can't find my honest face It's all over the place, it's all over the place “ So he wants to show his audience who he really is, but he can’t.

Your girlfriend - Blossoms (oh? oH?)

This one is interesting. There are many pronoun changes through the song. It’s hard to figure out at which point the girl goes from being “a friend who is a girl” to “girlfriend” and who is the speaker, who is the friend, and who is the girl.

“ I'm a boy And she's a girl With more charm than most movie stars So we met Through a friend We rent a place and she comes round to stay “ The first ‘we’ is the speaker and the girl, the second we is the speaker and his friend. This is when the song starts sounding like a dialogue to me: one person sings everything until before the last line, and the last line is a reply from the friend.

“ And now your girlfriend is ringing in my ears again “ There is a change here from “we met through a friend” (telling the story to someone else) vs this line, where the speaker is talking TO said friend, or perhaps following up on the dialogue theory, this is the friend replying to the speaker.

“ What am I supposed to do? I can tell, they get along so well” Is this the speaker talking about his friend and the girl, no longer talking TO the friend? I feel like this is the (mutual)friend wondering about his girl friend and the speaker.

“Is it possible, she likes me too?

I'm not sure if I should read between those lines “ This could be the speaker wondering.

“I should be moving out but can't 'cause we've just signed a lease “ (Again with the renting? Princess park? Hmm?)

“Thought maybe we'd go out for a movie And we can forget friends who'll be fuming Then I could walk you home in the evening And that's just being friendly “ This can be analysed in so many different ways depending on who’s speakig and to whom.

“And now your girlfriend is ringing in my ears again And when she smiles, I can't hide my jealousy Oh I can't take it, boy I hope she's faking it I heard he bought a ring today

I heard they got engaged today “ This one is interesting, because she might have ended up together with either the friend or the speaker, and whichever one she did not end up with is referring FIRST to their buddy and then moving on to address someone else, telling the story. Also, it almost sounds as if whoever is saying this is jealous OF THE GIRL, not of the guy who is with her.

Overall there is a lot to unpack with this song, mainly because of the change in pronouns and who the singer has as their audience for each line.

Empty hands - Tors

“Too late to call I've been away left you alone”

“I didn't notice you're feeling hopeless So blue-ou-ou again”

“And I'm nothing more than just a man And it breaks my heart When I break your heart”

“And I promised more than I could give And it's not the life you thought you'd live”

“Saturday nights up on the roof Sundays in bed Coffee and sleep Head for a walk Down by the sea with you-ou-ou” (Again nautical theme? Eroda anyone? Lou’s MV? Harry’s MV?)

“When I come back home I see the lights That you left on for me every night When I see you standing at the door Everything i want for evermore “ (Lights up? met you at your doorstep?)

Restrospect - Vistas

“See you find comfort in small things Which she considers the wrong things And you find comfort in hellos Not goodbyes, not goodbye And you try not to have issues With the hate you, love you, and miss yous That all come out when she kissed you Goodbye, goodbye” This is basically saying “hey i know about the stuff you like and don’t, she doesn’t! also you were feeling great until she ruined it!”

“Singing Sweet Caroline with diamonds in her eyes” (diamonds will make sense with the next song)

“Throw my arms to the skies”

“ Let me go and I'll forget Happiness in retrospect” Letting go has been a big theme y’all.

“See you find comfort in tall things Which he considers the wrong things And you find comfort in things he can't Recognise, recognise” OH HO HO HO WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT PRONOUN CHANGE? Now there’s a MAN who isn’t right for this person according to the singer.

“ And you want nothing but all this While he's stuck trying to solve it Nevertheless acquiesce till you feel those Butterflies, butterflies “

Lucy - Ten Tonnes (aHA! Lucy as in Lucy in the sky with diamonds, aka ANOTHER Beatles reference up in this bitch.)

“ Where you left your face “

“ Come away, from the window Haven't you learnt? That in dreams you can't get burned And I will meet you there Under purest skies It's where I'll be When they're finished with me” This gives me some SOTT vibes.

My Cheating Heart - Love Fame Tragedy (Pretty self explanatory song title, pretty self explanatory band name)

“Money, women, cars Leave my head among the stars 'Cause I want it all, yeah, yeah I want it all Puppet on a string is it such an evil thing”

“ So do I sink or do I float now?” The water scenes in the MVs????

Tears dry on their own - Amy Winehouse (ouch)

About the song: “She describes how a tarnished relationship has made her feel, and how she cries often. [Song] Samples Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell’s “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” Interesting sampling there, since ANMHE literally goes “ain’t no mountain high enough... to keep me from getting to you babe. Remember the day I set you free...” and just great song overall i cannot copy the whole thing here but YO.

“Once it was so right When we were at our height Waiting for you in the hotel at night I knew I hadn't met my match But every moment we could snatch I don't know why I got so attached It's my responsibility And you don't owe nothing to me But to walk away I have no capacity “ Well i am crying this isn’t it THIS AINT IT

“He walks away The sun goes down He takes the day but I'm grown And in your way, in this blue shade My tears dry on their own” Letting go, your partner leaving you for someone else... there’s a lot to unpack here.

“We could a never had it all We had to hit a wall So this is inevitable withdrawal Even if I stop wanting you A perspective pushes through I'll be some next man's other woman soon” So, Walls? Hardship in the relationship? Not being the formal girlfriend/partner but the side-chick?

“ I wish I could say no regrets And no emotional debts Cause as we kiss goodbye the sun sets So we are history”

2all - Catfish and the Bottlemen

“Life got led By people who Just wanna flood your head

... But it fits you at the time To fall for every line “ As stated by Genius: “...life is often “led” or heavily influenced by those who can rally people to follow their thoughts and ideas, e.g. friends, employers... The “fall for every line” is referring to the ones who let the people that try to influence their lives into their head and let them take over. “

Also, About: “ The song has a heavy emphasis on how you should hold the best people closest to your heart – the ones who are always there for you when you need them and the people you can count on all the time.”

“ Oh, they convinced me every time That I needed fooling So that I'd go and get it right Yeah, somewhere, they convinced me down the line When I needed fooling So that I'd go and get it right”

Reptilia - The Strokes

About the first lines: “ A shot at journalists; The Strokes, especially Julian, have never been open with the press and want their music to do their talking.”

“"You sound so sleepy, just take this, now leave me" From Genius: “Julian’s girl is talking to him, telling him that he looks “sleepy” but he probably is bored... his girl gets frustrated with him and eggs him on to ditch her.”

Honestly the whole analysis on Genius is pretty on point:

“He’s using sarcasm, the girl is trying as hard as she can to keep the relationship together, she’s thirsty as fuck and the night is barely over.... At this point Casablancas just wants to get out of the relationship. he sees this desperate need to leave, but she remains behind.... He’s waited long enough and it’s finally over between whom ever the girl is. She’s not having fun anymore and her happiness becomes sorrow, he just wants this night to be over....[About the title] Reptiles are cold blooded creatures (and the girl in the song just doesn’t care about the guy.)”

Harmony Hall - Vampire Weekend

This song sort of refers to hate groups, keep that in mind.

“ We took a vow in summertime Now we find ourselves in late December”

“ I thought that I was free from all that questionin'”

“ I don't wanna live like this, but I don't wanna die “

Runaway - KAWALA

“ Run away from the words unspoken Coast to coast going through the motions of Who'll be a better man, who'll do it better”

“ And I'll help you follow the line “

“ We're miles apart, closing up the distance I'm reaching out if you need assistance Who'll be a better man, who'll do it better”

“Today is the day I'll get on Awaiting the storm to move on I lie naked in wait to reform Let's try make it right this time now” I’m-- Bitch i’m---

“ Oh, it's all so emotional Oh, I hope that you're coping Oh, I won't let you lose it all “

Mr. Brightside - The Killers (Ah well we all know this one who are we even kidding)

Honestly this is where shit starts aligning.

About the song: “the song deals with issues of infidelity, paranoia, and jealousy”

“ Coming out of my cage and I've been doing just fine Gotta gotta be down because I want it all It started out with a kiss, how did it end up like this?” Iconic, we all know it, wild.

More About: “ The song is about the THOUGHT that one’s significant other is cheating”

And anyway, more paranoia and jealousy and fear of getting cheated on.

For now - DMA’S

“ All I need to know, she's dead to me” Well that is... harsh.

“ Quite like what I need to be, I'll send your bones to the sea “ You know the drill.

“ No, I won't be anymore, no, we won't be anymore “

“ Lately, we've lost control of everything you're biddin' for You keep me down, you set the score I've been impossible, only words are drowning out Take your head out of the clouds” There’s like 80 different meanings here.

Belter - Gerry Cinnamon

About the title: “ “belter” which is Scottish slang for an exceptional or outstanding example of something”

“ Diamonds oan' her finger and she always looks her best “ Diamonds again. Also allusion to rings ehem.

“ No happy endings, unless fairy-tales come true But she looks like a princess and there’s not much else to do I think I love her “ :(

“Is happiness an option, or has love just turned me blind?” Double :(

Dry your eyes - The Streets

The whole thing is about a breakup.

“In one single moment your whole life can turn around“

“ Please let me show you how we could only just be for us I can change and I can grow, or we could adjust The wicked thing about us is we always have trust”

“We can even have an open relationship if you must”

“Dry your eyes, mate I know it's hard to take but her mind has been made up There's plenty more fish in the sea Dry your eyes, mate I know you want to make her see how much this pain hurts But you've got to walk away now, it's over” It’s like he’s talking to his buddy who just went through a painful breakup telling him to n o t l e t i t b r e a k h i s h e a r t.

“ 'Cause I can't imagine my life without you and me There's things I can't imagine doing, things I can't imagine seeing “

“ 'Cause you said it'd be forever and that was your vow And you're gonna let our things simply crash and fall down? “ I didn’t include it before, but a few other songs also mention vows.

“ I know in the past I've found it hard to say Telling you things but not telling straight But the more I pull on your hand and say The more you pull away”

Confidence - Ocean Alley

(Random fact: I just noticed that this song is from an album called Chiarobscuro, and i didn’t include it but one of the previous songs also used that word)

“ Well, I should've said this, and I should've said that All that I know now”

Modern Love - Courteeners (quite the title)

“We got style and we got grace, we run wild and never dance alone In this town, she’s fucking famous But this town will never be her home” LA anyone?

“ But I don’t need this modern love This modern love Oh, it always lets me down”

“The popularity trap strikes again You don’t need these fools cause you’re incroyable“ Yeah not to be that larrie but the TPWK website has been telling people that they’re “incroyable” (incredible)

“ We found solace at The Star and Garter “ Oh, what is The Star and Garter? Oh you know, just “... a cult club located in their home town of, Manchester.” Anyways moving on

I am slowly losing my shit here:

“ A bare mattress, a lockless door Two Withington hearts on a pique assiette floor Give me back those awkward exchanges The fumbles In bathtubs When we were just strangers We talk about your graduation And the realisation that we might not be together forever and ever “ Withington is an area of south Manchester.

“ Wide-eyed and up all night This could be good” ANYWAYS...

Laurel Wreath - Bear’s Den

About the title: “refers to the Ancient Greek tradition of awarding Olympic victors laurel wreaths. The laurel wreath is also used in academia and as an architectural accent, for good luck.In this song the wreath is withering, and Andrew Davie uses this idea of athletic defeat as a symbol for his failures and relationship issues.”

“ Or the collapsing of a history “

“ But you found me in the morning, December in my eyes” December was mentioned in other songs, too.

“ Got your call, I needed it more than I could let on to you” WELL

Riot Van - Arctic Monkeys

About the song: “[The people in the song] As long as they had some good laughs, they don’t care if they are rich or have a job or are poor or anything. They just want to exist. “

“ Got a chase last night From men with truncheons dressed in hats We didn't do that much wrong Still ran away though, for the laugh Just for the laugh“

“ Well, they won't catch me and you”

“ Is there a certain age you're supposed to be? 'Cause nobody told me"

“ They get their address and their names took But they couldn't care less” Genius says: “ This is the police’s main deterrent for underage offenders, but the parents of these boys have obviously had so many calls from them that the boys don’t care anymore.”

Ahhh but the fun comes with painful consequences:

“Thrown in the riot van And all the coppers kicked him in And there was no way he could win Just had to take it on the chin” Also from Genius: “ Throughout society, whatever he does is never good or acceptable enough. He always gets pushed further down and down, to the point where he’s given up. He’s never going to win, there are too many people with much more power going against him. He just has to ‘take it on the chin’, ie. he has to accept that this is his life, there’s not point fighting against it because nothing will ever change.”

Please, please, please let me get what I want - The Smiths (it doesn’t get more literal that this tbh)

About the song: “ This song is about the desperation to fulfill personal desires... He has lived a life full of disappointment and maybe despair... For once he is having a good time, which is a wonderful surprise...” Also, sidenote, in live shows the title lyric apparently gets changed to “let me get who i want”.

The Less I Know the Better - Tame Impala (buddy let me tell you, the amount of gay fics i’ve seen from different fandoms using part of this song as a title...)

About the song: “...describes the pain of a man feeling left out in a love triangle”

“ She was holding hands with Trevor Not the greatest feeling ever” Y’all remember the Trevor concert incident with Harry? also the singer’s name is Kevin... who’s feuding with Trevor in the song... maybe that doesn’t mean shit.

“ Then I heard they slept together Oh, the less I know the better The less I know the better” Oh perhaps you broke up with your love and now he’s with someone else and it hurts?

“ Oh my love, can't you see that you're on my mind”

“ She said, "It's not now or never Wait ten years, we'll be together" I said, "Better late than never Just don't make me wait forever" Don't make me wait forever Don't make me wait forever” Oh shit bruuuuuh oh SHIT.

“I was doing fine without ya Till I saw your face, now I can't erase Giving in to all his bullshit Is this what you want? Is this who you are?” BULLSHIT? DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE?

“Oh, sweet darling, where he wants you Said, "Come on Superman, say your stupid line" “

Tomorrow never knows - The Beatles (AHHH WE LOVE A BEATLES REFERENCE)

Song is from the Revolver album (gunshot anyone?)

“Turn off your mind, relax and float downstream It is not dying, it is not dying “

“Lay down all thoughts, surrender to the void It is shining, it is shining”

Eat, Sleep, Wake (Nothing But You) - Bombay Bicycle Club

“ Eat, sleep, wake Nothing but you” Habit? I don’t know if I could ever go without?

“ I can see where you are, dream where you are Will the song never end? Us on the bed half a meter apart”

“ I may not say it outwardly So all I have are memories Those looks at the start, the words in the dark But never a flame, we just wanted the spark”

ANYWAYS CONCLUSION TIME, or TL;DR: There is A LOT to unpack here. All of these songs vaguely follow the same theme. There’s a lot of breaking up going on, as well as moving on and third parties being involved. There’s stuff about being controlled, not being enough, wanting to be yourself, There’s references to Louis’ songs, to Harry’s songs, to 1D tracks, to Larry, to Elounor, you name it. This playlist is definitely giving us a taste of what Walls will deal with and boy is it A LOT.

#louis tomlinson #larry stylinson #larry #harry styles #mine

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ellewritesathing · 5 years ago

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When in Rome ... or Paris - I.L.

Summary: When in Rome, do as the Romans do. And when in front of the Eiffel Tower, do as the hundreds of other tourists do. Except you didn’t have anyone to take stupidly romantic pictures with like the other tourists did. So what’s the harm in asking the cute Parisian boy to help you out?

Wordcount: 1.4k+

A/N: Based on this post by hoechloin. Hope you guys enjoy!!

Your trip to Paris was almost everything you could have wanted: window shopping with your friends, touring The Louvre, all the pastries you could eat, and a very cute brunette that you kept running into. Almost. The problem was that you saw a post from one of your old crushes making out with someone new back home.

And it didn’t help that practically everyone on this stupid school trip was having a summer fling. You could totally have a summer fling if you wanted to. It’s just that you hadn’t found the right guy, you kept telling yourself, and you didn’t want to have a fling with someone who would be on the flight back with you.

No, you decided, if you were having a fling with anyone then it would be the cute guy with the curly hair that you’d probably never see again.

Except that you did see him again. In front of the Eiffel Tower. When everyone was taking those dumb couple photos for their social media feeds. And he looked so perfect standing there, talking about art with one of the street painters.

Okay, you thought, it’s now or never.

So you strode over, intent on being perfectly and effortlessly charming … only to trip on a gap in the pavement. You fell - practically head first - and landed a few feet in front of him.

“Oh, my god. Are you okay?”

You looked up to find him rushing over and bending down to check on you.

“That was a pretty rough fall. Do you need any help?” he asked.

“Wait, you’re American?” you asked. The words tumbled out before you could stop them. As if you didn’t have enough embarrassment to deal with from your wipeout, you now got to add these eloquent first words to it.

He didn’t seem to mind, though. He actually laughed. And he had dimples when he laughed like that, which only served to melt your heart even more.

“From California, actually,” he said, reaching up to touch the top of your head. “I’m guessing if you can tell I’m not French, then you probably don’t have a concussion.”

“Probably,” you said with a smile. It still felt your cheeks were on fire and you were pretty sure that you were shaking.

He pulled his hand away after a few seconds and stood up, holding it out again to help you up. You took it and got up as carefully as you could so you wouldn’t fall again. Holding his hand and looking into eyes, you searched desperately for something to say so you could spend more time with him.

“So what brings you so far from home?” you asked. Because everyone loves to talk about why they left their hometown.

“I actually moved here about a year back,” he said. He was still holding your hand, so maybe this was going better than expected. “And you?”

His hand was warm and you’d finally stopped shaking. Things were looking up. “School trip,” you said.

“Your school sounds way better than mine was,” he laughed. There was something about the way he laughed that wasn’t there before. A hint of sadness. But he recovered quickly, giving you a dashing smile as he asked, “So how long are you still here for?”

“Maybe a few more days,” you said, shrugging. “Truth be told, I don’t really keep up with the itinerary.”

“Right.”

He drew the word out as he looked just over your head. As much as you didn’t want it to, his distraction probably meant that he’d be leaving soon. If you were going to make your move, then this was your only chance.

“Look, I know this is going to sound really weird,” you started, “And you definitely don’t have to say yes but, um, everyone here is having this super romantic Parisian getaway and I- well, I’m not. So would you mind kissing me while someone takes a photo of us?”

His eyes snapped back to you and he was frowning slightly. A hand had nervously shot up to the back of his head. “Uh, come again?”

“That’s totally okay!” You tore your hand away from his and started backing away. He just wanted to make sure you didn’t have a traumatic brain injury and you propositioned him. What were you thinking? “I messed up. Don’t worry about-”

That particular crack in the pavement seemed to have it out for you. You tumbled backward and braced to crash into the floor again when something stopped you. Strong arms wrapped around you and kept you from falling.

You looked up, kind of breathless, to find your American stranger in Paris looking down at you. Before you could say anything, he pressed his lips into yours and gave what was possibly the best, most heart-stopping kiss of your life.

“- it,” you whispered when he helped you back to your feet, arms still around them. “Don’t worry about it.”

“So you want a kiss like that?” he asked. He was smiling and lifted a hand to move some hair out of your face that came undone when you tripped.

“Yeah,” you exhaled and tried to steady yourself. You were still in his arms, hands against his chest, and just as close as you’d been a second before. “But maybe in front of a camera next time.”

“Yeah, I don’t really think we have to worry about that.”

He laughed as he looked around at the small crowd of your peers that gathered around. Your best friend had pushed their way to the front, grinning at you and holding up a thumb while clutching her phone. You laughed and hid your face in his shoulder.

“Thanks for catching me,” you said softly, looking back up at him.

“Yeah, no problem,” he smiled. “But maybe next time you should try falling for me in the metaphorical sense though.”

You learned that his name was Isaac by the end of the night and that he’d gone to Beacon Hills High when he was still in California - which wasn’t even half an hour away from where you grew up. He played lacrosse, worked in a bookstore, hated small spaces, and loved all the same music you did. And over the next few days, you spent almost all of your available time with him, taking whatever photographic evidence you needed to remind yourself that this was all real.

You needed that reminder as he stood with you in front of the bus that was currently being filled in by your classmates and would take you to the airport. He’d even given you one of his hoodies to remember him by … which you may or may not have been wearing at that current moment.

“So this goodbye, huh?” you asked.

Isaac raised your hand to his lips and kissed it before saying, “Unless you wanna sneak out the back and stay awhile?”

“As much as I’d love that, I think my parents would set the full force of the FBI on France if I don’t come home,” you joked.

“I don’t think the FBI has jurisdiction here,” he said, furrowing his brow.

“I think you might be right about that.”

You laughed and leaned up to kiss him one last time before heading home. Unfortunately, your phone decided that it was the perfect time to send you a string of alerts.

“You, uh, you need to get that?” Isaac asked, looking down to where your phone sat in your hand.

“Sorry,” you said sheepishly. “It’ll just take a second.”

is that isaac lahey???

omg i knew you were heading to paris but wow 👀

hey, i know you knew isaac! you guys make a cute couple!!

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Isaac asked, pulling one of the drawstrings down and letting snap back up to your face. You scrunched up your nose and swatted it away.

“Technically, nothing’s wrong,” you said as you pocketed your phone so you could run a hand through his hair. “But did you happen to know Scott McCall and Stiles Stilinski while you were at Beacon Hills?”

“Unfortunately, I did know Stiles. And Scott is … he’s a long story,” he sighed. He shook his head and smiled at you again. “And you’ve got a flight to catch.”

“Well, you’ve got my number,” you said. You leaned up and pressed a kiss to his lips. “Maybe you can tell me about it sometime.”

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

#isaac lahey #isaac lahey x reader #isaac lahey fanfiction #isaac lahey imagine #everything is alright!au #teen wolf

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ograndebatata · 5 years ago

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Gift Memories and Floating Leaves

Feliz Navidad, Adrianna!

I was your Secret Santa!

Well... I already saw your own gift, which I plan to read soon, but thank you in advance for it! :)

And like Carla told Elena once, “Great minds think alike.” because I confess I had a few ulterior motives of my own to ask certain questions...

I really hope you like this!

Note: Many things here are deliberately divergent from canon. Because she is my friend, and I know all about her Mirror World AU and the paths certain characters have taken over it, this story is based off of @lostbutterflyutau‘s AU.

To give other readers some context, this universe takes the show’s timeline as canon until Song of the Sirenas, at which point it diverges besides a few isolated elements.

A few key differences here from canon are that in this AU, Carla’s mother died when she was born, and Carla herself, after coming to see the error of her ways, attended school for some time in a place caleld the Mirror World, where she grew as a person and saved the school and potentially more places several times.

In it, eventually Carla and Gabe fell in love, and started a happy relationship, and... well, I can’t say more without spoiling.

But for anyone who is interested in a fuller context of this story, I very strongly recommend her great fanfic When The Music Changes, which can found here.

I hope nobody minds, and I hope even more that I did alright for you, Adrianna. Like you, I tried my best.

_____

Gift Memories and Floating Leaves

At the Royal Palace of Avalor, on Noche Buena…

Standing on the balcony of the palace’s ballroom, her light blue wrap draped over her shoulders, the young brown-haired woman contemplated the twinkling lights of the massive árbol navideño that had been set up in the palace’s courtyard, as well as the smaller and more distant ones of the many decorations put up throughout the city, and the twinkling stars that glittered on the above sky.

It was a lovely view, matched only by the one she knew her violet eyes would meet if she turned around and peered through the ballroom windows. Behind them, people would either be standing in groups or twirling through the dance floor, the spirit of joy and love inherent to the season palpable in the air and visible in everyone, even those who for most of the year weren’t exactly the most agreeable people to be around.

Put together, both pictures combined in such a way that Carla couldn’t help but find surreal, as if Avalor had temporarily lifted itself out of the EverRealm and into another world.

It might seem like a weird figure of speech for someone who had literally lived in another world, but her strong points were dancing and magic, not poetry, and she felt it fit.

A brief breeze blew over her, rustling the glitter-studded dark blue of her ballgown and fluttering her loose hair and running over her skin like a warm soothing hand. Though Carla knew through Elena that ghosts only celebrated with the living on Dia de los Muertos, for a moment, it almost seemed like her mother was beside her this very moment, silently telling her that she got the metaphor, and she didn’t need to be so aggressive, especially with herself.

The thought warming her heart, she closed her eyes and took in a long, deep breath, releasing it in a drawn out, comforted exhale.

As a child, she never would have imagined she would end up spending Navidad like this.

Back then, it had always been pretty much the same thing, one year after another. She and her father would find some place to settle for the season, her father went all out with cooking (the only time of the year at which it was consistently made of purchased ingredients) bought her gifts that she now knew he had sometimes been hard-pressed to afford, and the two of them caroled together.

All things considered, besides the ‘extra mile’ her father went to, Navidad hadn’t been all that different from ordinary days. Her father always went as far as she could with cooking, gave her all the gifts he could afford without impacting their savings, and always tried his best to help her to not feel alone despite the fact that the only company they had was each other. The only real difference between that time of the year and all others was that, unlike all other ceremonies, which her father saw as opportunities to ‘raise their funds’, Navidad was the one where he insisted that people were to be left alone.

But now? Now she actually had a home she could call her own, an actual celebration to attend, and true friends to celebrate it with. And she even still had her father. Granted, he was back in the ballroom rather than outside with her, but that was a small distance, especially compared to certain previous years, which the two of them hadn’t even been able to spend together.

Having him with her was already something to be thankful for.

Her wrap slipped slightly. Carla adjusted it around her shoulders, looking down to make sure she hadn’t creased it.

As she did, her eyes met the silver band on her left hand, the purple gemstone twinkling like a firefly.

A different kind of warmth filled her at the view.

By itself, it was already a beautiful jewel, but the meaning behind it, joined by the two sets of initials - one on each side of the gemstone - reminded her of something else she had for this Navidad.

Yet another thing to be thankful for.

“There you are.”

Carla’s heart gave a slight leap as she flew from her thoughts. Then, a smile spreading across her features, she turned around to the one she knew had spoken, her violet eyes meeting the familiar profile walking toward her underneath the gazebo.

The next moment, he stepped out of the shadows, giving her a full view of him in his dress uniform, and another view she found even better - that of his warm smile and twinkling eyes as he saw her.

“There you are,” she deliberately echoed, her happy smile turning into a teasing one.

Her chuckled fondly at her retort as he strolled up to her, the rapier at his waist swishing to and fro with his steps.

As he rested his left arm over her shoulders and she curled her right one around his lower back, she asked, her voice more serious, “Is everything alright?”

She thought she had managed to keep her voice calm, but she couldn’t hold back the faint concern flickering up within her as she remembered Gabe’s departure from the dance. Today should be his night off, and the fact he was in dress uniform rather than his everyday guard outfit only reinforced that. But as she knew after years of being with him, it could be difficult for the Captain of the Guard to fully have time off. And just their luck, it seemed he had been needed during the Navidad festival.

“It is,” he replied, rubbing her shoulder soothingly through the wrap. “Just a few of the newer guards who weren’t certain of where exactly they should go on their rounds.”

Though a tiny part of her couldn’t help but think that that reason hadn’t been good enough to request Gabe’s presence specifically, the rest of her sighed in relief. At least it wasn’t about any villain having been spotted in the premises or some monster unleashed from a jar or some escaped criminal. Were it any of those, she could only guess their party would end faster than Cinderella’s. Festivals tended to be a magnet for scumbags of all sorts, and despite all the security measures that were put in place, there could be a few who were wily or lucky enough to get past them and wreak havoc.

She should know. She had helped to wreak havoc at similar events in her old days.

Don’t think about that now. She told herself, forcing down the lingering shame brought by the memories of her past life. Those days are gone.

Yes. They were. And she’d never want to go back to them. Not after learning how wrong they were.

“Well, I guess it’s nice that they feel comfortable enough with their Captain to ask directly for him,” she at last said, hoping she hadn’t spent too much time silent. “Even if they could have picked a better time to do it.”

She felt Gabe nodding against her.

“Yes. On both accounts.”

A moment of silence went by, the two of them basking in the comfort of being together. Then, she felt him shifting against her, his stance suddenly more rigid.

“And here?” he asked. “Is everything alright?”

She turned up to face him, meeting the liquid warmth of his chocolate brown eyes.

“It is,” she said. “Just a few… unwanted thoughts.”

His stance turned the slightest bit more rigid. “Is that why you’re out here?” A hint of alarm flashed across his face. “Did anyone…”

He let the sentence trail off, but Carla could read the rest of it just fine. Smiling up at him, she rested her free hand on the one he had over her left shoulder.

“No,” she said. “Nothing like that. I’m only out here because I was hot.”

His stance loosened at her words, but then, his eyes narrowed pensively, as if he was wondering whether he should say something he had in mind or not. Carla held back the urge to curl her eyebrow inquisitively.

“You used the wrong tense,” he at last added. Then, with a mischievous smirk, he added, “You are hot.”

Her lips shifted into a smirk of her own even as joy bubbled up within her. He really was getting a bit too good at teasing her.

“So are you,” she replied, running her hand over the front of his vest.

And she meant it. As much as it was part of her own tease, seeing him in full dress uniform was a treat for her eyes.

An even better one than the usual view of him, at any rate.

The slightly more snug fit of his aquamarine trousers and open-front jacket fit him in a way that she could only describe as wonderful, the gold buttons and the golden trim on his jacket’s lapels and shoulders adding a touch of color, and the rapier sheathed by his left hip as a ‘fitting decoration’ so to speak. Underneath the jacket, the blue vest with gold buttons, coupled with a white shirt that was complimented by a red cravat, gave him a formal touch that somehow was both at odds with his true easy-going self and yet seemed to fit him like a glove. And the five medals he had earned for his services to Avalor over the years, pinned to the jacket’s front by red ribbons, added what could only be called the final missing element whose absence was only noticed after it was already present.

At first, Gabe looked thoughtful again, as if pondering whether he should say something or not. Then, he simply drew her further into him.

Taking care not to snag her wrap on his medals or buttons, Carla rested her head on his chest - careful so she wouldn’t poke his chin with her tiara - and listened to the comforting steady beat of his heart.

And for some amount of time neither of them cared about tracking, they simply stood as they were, the same warm breeze from before flowing over them as they contemplated the twinkling lights of the árbol navideño and the city, no words necessary between them.

It somehow seemed even more surreal than the sheer beauty of the picture all around her. And yet, she had no problem believing it was real.

Not when she could feel it so intensely, seeping into every fiber of her being and spreading through all of her to the farthest depths of her soul.

Another sigh flew out of her, this one dreamy. Gabe brought his free hand up and tucked one of her chocolate brown strands behind her ear, the hand he rested on her shoulder shifting ever so slightly, enough so as to let her feel the metal band resting around his ring finger.

A soft smile returned to her face.

They hadn’t openly talked much about it, but she knew from things he had said and done over the previous days, as well as from his own responses to some of her actions, that he was aware of this Navidad would be yet another special Navidad for them.

“Soon,” she whispered to herself.

The next instant, Gabe shifted underneath her arm and head, and over her shoulders. Though she could tell without moving that he was turning an inquisitive eye down at her, she removed her head from his chest and looked up at him.

“I was just thinking out loud. And I meant how soon it will be yet another first Navidad for us.” Her lips curled in a mix of teasing smirk and fond smile. “Husband.”

Clarity lit up his eyes.

“I know,” he said. “And I can’t wait to celebrate it.” His look a mirror of hers, he added, “Wife.”

After a brief search for a reply, she instead ran a hand along his jawline, her smile still in place. As much as she liked to be a tease, this time somehow didn’t seem to be the right one to let that streak of hers unfold too far.

“And I can believe it,” he went on. “Even if I wouldn’t have in our early days.”

That was something else she got. After al, she had felt exactly the same way back in the days when she refused to even admit her own feelings for him, much less to do something about them.

And perhaps because of the season, one of those sprang to the front of her mind.

Despite herself, she briefly unleashed her urge to tease him.

“You mean like in a certain Navidad-related early day?”

Again, he didn’t give her a verbal reply. But his ever so slight nod, coupled with his fond chuckle and the spark in his eyes, told her that he understood what she meant, and was remembering the exact same moment right now.

///

Four years before, a few nights before Navidad, by one of the Avalor Palace’s living rooms…

Her heart pounding as she stood before the closed door, Carla aimed her tamborita straight at the lock, her senses alert to any kind of suspicious noise, and her being so jittery from the position she found herself in that she swore she’d jump out of her skin if a drop of water landed on her.

Thankfully it wasn’t raining, and the palace didn’t have leaks on the ceiling, but that didn’t make her feel any better. After all, being out in the palace in the dead of night seemed weird to say the least. Even if she excused herself saying that she couldn’t sleep - which sounded superficially plausible given she was in her pyjamas and a robe - coming all the way to this place during an insomnia would sound at least odd.

Of course, the suspicious air to her location was the whole reason she should stay here for as little as possible. The faster she was, the less chances she would be seen, she had told herself more than once as she kept staring at the door, as if her mere gaze could magically make everything end up where it should be and send her back to bed, safe from any suspicions.

It was a sentence she had repeated more than once over the last five minutes or so. But somehow, this time it spurred her into action. Maybe something about her tune had been different this time. Or maybe she just needed to say it more than once to build up her determination. One or the other, it was meaningless. At least she could muster her will now.

“Nitla abrax conzaporti!” she whispered as she brought her hand down on the tamborita’s drum, trying to tap it in the slightest way she could while also doing so hard enough to cast the intended spell.

Violet pulses flew from the drum and toward the door lock, which then slid to the side with a low click. Then the panel itself slid open, more silent than a sheet of paper falling.

Armando really is a good chief of the castle, ensuring the door hinges stay so well oiled. She couldn’t help but quip in her mind.

Then, she scowled at herself. There was no time to joke when she was in such a compromising position.

At least it seemed that practicing this spell in secret had paid off. But there were still a hundred ways things could go wrong before she was done. And again, the longer she stayed up the more risks she took.

Finding it easier to return to her focus this, Carla aimed her tamborita to her right, at the sack that rested beside her.

“Llévaluq!” she said as she smacked the tamborita again. A purple glow bloomed around the sack, which silently floated off the ground and into the open doorway.

Twiddling her fingers, Carla directed the bulk through the room until it landed on its intended spot, the plush carpet muffling the noise.

Sighing in relief, Carla tiptoed into the room, hissing and grimacing as her bare feet briefly made contact with a few patches of uncarpeted floor. This was why she typically made sure to wear slippers. But wearing them now would make her steps noisier, so she had forgone them to reduce the potential giveaways.

A few seconds later, she pushed the door closed, but held it back just before it clicked shut. If the door fully closed, it would make noise, and bring about yet another potential giveaway. At least like this, as long as no one passed directly by the door and didn’t decide to give it a close check, there would be nothing suspicious.

For safety’s sake, she pressed an ear to the door, listening out for any suspicious sounds, like muffled footsteps on the carpet, the rustle of fabric as a guard walked, or even a guard’s breathing.

None came.

A breath forcing its way out of her lungs like clay, Carla straightened herself and headed into the room, half-lit by both the outside light that filtered in through the windows and the twinkling yellow and purple lights that decorated the huge pine tree resting close to the unlit fireplace.

Despite her nervousness, a smile blossomed on her face as she got closer.

There in the dark, with its lights now largely unhindered, rested what Carla thought was the most beautiful and most special árbol navideño she had ever seen.

True, she had seen others that could be described as bigger, or more opulent, or technically better in their decoration. But none could even come close to this one. The first true árbol navideño she had helped to set up since she decided to turn her life around, the first one where she’d truly had the fun of decorating in years.

Her smile only grew bigger as she remembered the various times she had spent working on it, whether it was picking out decorations with Elena and Isabel, or hanging them on the tree with Naomi and Esteban, or casting that spell Mateo had found to add twinkling firefly-like lights to the tree.

Even now, she could stare at it for hours, lost in the memories of the happiness that came with being part of something so special.

You don’t have hours! Her common sense shouted at her. Hurry up!

The warning making her spring back into focus, Carla hastened her step toward the árbol navideño, kneeling down beside her sack, which she had laid by the many gifts that had been placed under the tree. A relieved look spread across her face. No new gifts had been added since the last time she checked, and the current ones still looked indistinguishable enough from each other that there was no way to tell who had gotten each gift.

Her choice still held up.

A slightly easier breath flowing out of her, Carla unlaced her sack, looking into it as she plottd out her next course of action.

“What are you doing?”

A shout flew from her throat, her heart almost shooting out of her mouth as she jumped so high she swore her head nearly smashed into the ceiling. Her sack flapped as she rustled by it, her crash after she landed so noisy that it was a miracle she hadn’t woken half the palace.

“This isn’t what it looks like!” she yelped even as she whirled towards the sound, raising both her free and and the one that still held around her tamborita, her heart leaping like a demented monkey.

For a moment, she almost expected to see three or four guards raising their crossbows at her, their looks as stern as those of Elena when she had kicked her and her father out of Avalor on Carnaval.

Instead, only one guard stood there, and the only thing he had raised was his hands, even though he had a sword he could be drawing at her.

Even in the dim light, his startled and apologetic look were visible to her. And so was his identity.

“G-G-Gabe?” she managed to stammer, her heart still slamming all over her chest, but somehow an edge calmer at the sight of him. “W-w-what are you doing here?”

Of course, it was purely a rhetorical question. She could already paint the whole picture in her mind. Either he had been suspicious at the half-closed door or a faint breeze had somehow opened it before he passed by, all without her noticing. Then he had looked in, seen her kneeling by the tree and started thinking things. Probably bad things, given who she was and the fact she had her tamborita and a sack with her.

Strangely, his apologetic face shifted into a playful one.

“I asked first,” he quipped, somehow managing to sound endearing rather than silly or annoying, perhaps because of the wink he joined to his words.

Though her heartbeat was still frantic, she managed to muster a smirk.

“And I’m a lady,” she returned. “Don’t the rules of etiquette say it’s ‘ladies first’?”

The moment her sentence was done, she barely held back both a scowl and a wince, mentally kicking herself.

Where did that come from? Her inner voice shouted. Why on the EverRealm had her teasing nature decided to come out just at this very moment?

Fortunately, despite how it must have sounded, Gabe only nodded.

“Good point,” he acknowledged, the hint of a grin on his face telling her that he got her joke and was rolling with it, but at the same time something in his eyes conveying that he was also truly trying to respect her wishes.

Then, nervousness ghosting across his features, he stood straighter and then started speaking in a more official voice, not all that different from the one she heard him use with Elena when he was on duty.

“I was doing my rounds, and I saw this door was open, and saw you were here, and…” his voice faded, his arms twitching as if he was trying not to press them alongside his body or put them behind his back. “I have to confess I got confused.”

Fear flashing across his face the moment he finished his sentence, he raised his hands again and said, “Don’t get me wrong, I know you’re grown past your thieving days, but…”

Again, he fell silent. Carla waited for him to find his voice again, but while she could see from the unnatural stillness of his eyes that he was trying to find the right words, he didn’t make any more sound.

And the silence dragged on, so thick Carla about expected to be able to hear the steps of the other guards as they did their rounds throughout the palace, or the crickets chirping outside.

“But?...” she eventually echoed, gesturing in circles with her free hand as if winding a crank.

His features and profile loosening a fraction, he added, “But my curiosity was strong enough that I just had to ask what you were doing.” After a moment’s pause, he added. “For some reason.”

He looked apologetic again, which Carla couldn’t help but appreciate.

But then again, there was nothing to appreciate to begin with. It was a good question after all. There should be no good reason for her to be kneeling by an árbol navideño with a sack in the middle of the night. And while she could tell from his voice and face that he really didn’t believe she was trying to steal anything, she could also tell that he was puzzled as to what she could be doing.

Before she could say anything, he shook his head with an annoyed scowl, the emptiness in his gaze telling her the expression was directed at himself.

“You know what? Forget it. I should have just left you alone. Like I said, I know you’re not here to steal anything.” He gave her a polite half-bow. “I’m sorry I bothered you.”

He started turning around to leave, his gaze no longer focused on her.

Before she could stop herself, her arm shot up like an arrow, a single word flying out of her lips.

“Wait!”

Then, as the word finished, she mentally kicked herself again. But it was too late. Gabe had already turned around. Though his gaze was nothing but gentle and encouraging, Carla still felt as embarrassed as if she had actually been caught committing a crime.

But for a reason she couldn’t quite explain, she felt he deserved an actual explanation rather than to mull the matter over in his head and perhaps literally lose sleep as he tried to find the answer to his question.

His gaze remained as calm as before, but still, nervousness built up within her.

At last, she managed to whisper, “Promise you won’t laugh?”

She winced the moment the question was done, as if her body had already decided there would be a bout of laughter from it alone. But instead, his gaze looking even gentler and more encouraging, Gabe nodded.

“I promise.”

There was nothing forceful or demanding in the words or the way he said it, but her nervousness scarcely faded. After all, she was about to say something that would be weird at best. And yet, for some reason, as afraid as she was of what he could think, she wanted to tell him.

Fiddling with her bracelet as well as she could while she was still holding her tamborita, she tried to muster the nerve to speak up.

At last, she explained, “I’m dropping off my gifts for everyone.”

For a moment, his expression remained just the same. Then, ever so slowly, his left eyebrow started to curl, the hints of puzzlement all too visible in his widening eyes.

“And you need to do that in the dead of night?” he asked, the same puzzlement trickling through his voice.

“Yes,” she replied, trying her best not to look down in embarrassment.

He didn’t say anything, but she could read the next question on his features plain as day, even without using her powers.

Despite her nervousness, she managed to get out, “It’s just… I never had to get gifts for anyone other than Papá. And…” she paused, the incoming words seemingly so hard to utter that she needed time to gather strength to do so. “... well, in case they don’t like my gifts, I don’t want anyone to know they’re from me.”

Understanding dawned on his face. Again, Carla braced herself for laughter or some kind of reproaching comment. Now that he knew the reason, he was bound to find it silly.

But yet again, he didn’t laugh. More than that, he didn’t even seem like he was trying to hold back laughter. His gaze remained just as understanding as before.

“You didn’t need to have done that,” he soothed. “I’m sure they’ll appreciate the effort one way or the other. Whatever your gifts are, they will mean that you thought of them and took the time to get them something, because you like them.”

Despite the comment, Carla felt her whole being loosening. The calm and comforting way in which he’d spoken to her, rather than the mocking or derisive tone she had been so afraid to hear from anyone who might have caught her, made those words much better. At least as good as they could be when he was still telling her she didn’t need to go to such lengths.

She did suppose he was right, although she wouldn’t know for sure. Like she had told Gabe, she had never needed to get gifts for anyone other than her father, and even he hadn’t gotten all that many gifts from her, because she had only started being able to get away from him to buy them herself once she was fourteen, and even then she’d had her spots of trouble. Yes, her father had always liked the gifts she got him, and she had no reason to think her new friends and her found familia would be any different, but all the same...

“I still think it’s better like this,” she managed.

Already, she gathered herself for further words of disagreement from Gabe, sure that he would keep insisting on the matter until she agreed that his point of view was the right one. But instead, he simply nodded again.

“I respect that,” he replied.

And though that sentence could easily be said out of mere formality, she could tell that he meant it.

“Can you please turn around then?” she requested. “I really would rather no one saw where I put anything.”

He gave her another polite half-bow. “I promise I won’t look.”

Then, without any further prompting, he turned around, suddenly rigid as if standing attention, though he was facing the door rather than any person. An invisible weight lifting from her, Carla again knelt by the tree and took her hand to the sack. All things considered, things had gone far better than she had hoped. While she had been caught, Gabe had believed her innocence and given her a chance to explain herself. And now that he was here, she’d be able to finish her job without without being seen by anyone.

Or maybe not. She realized, invaded by a sudden fear.

After all, Gabe was still here. What if…

Don’t be like that! She told herself. This is Gabe! When he gives his word, he keeps it! You know that by now!

Yes. That was something she had always known about him. It was true that many guys liked to pass them off as gentlemen when they were even worse than the scumbags she had met on the road, but Gabe was one of those who if anything was even better than what he proclaimed to be. If he had told her he would turn around, she had no reason to not believe it.

But maybe she should just make sure. And she could do it. After all, she knew a spell that could turn her tamborita’s surface into a mirror. And it was one of those that Mateo called a ‘hitless spell’, so she wouldn’t draw Gabe’s attention by smacking the drum. She only had to whisper the word and she would have a makeshift mirror on her hand, and would be able to see whether Gabe was holding up his promise.

No. She told herself. He had trusted her. The least she could do was now trust him in return.

All the same, it really might be better to simply be sure.

It’s Gabe! She insisted. If he told you he wouldn’t look, then he won’t look!

Then again, he might not just be able to help his curiosity. It had happened when he saw her in the room. There was no way to say it wouldn’t happen now.

Before he didn’t know what was going on! She insisted. Now he does! And he promised!

Yes, he had. And he never broke a promise. That was something Carla knew about him from the days she had been Rita. And, she realized now, it might have been one of the reasons she had never been able to bring herself to manipulate him. Granted, that should only make him an easy target by all means, but somehow, even for her self from back then, there had been something about Gabe that had prevented her from branding him as a target.

But still, maybe just…

I SAID NO! Her mind’s voice shouted.

Then, before she could change her mind, she finally seized one of the gifts from inside the sack, and placed it by the tree, at a spot where its wrapping wouldn’t stand out too much between the surrounding gifts.

Satisfied with her job, she repeated the procedure a second time. Then a third, and a fourth, and so on, until she had placed a total of eight gifts under the tree, each of them carefully placed at inconspicuous spots, inside wrapping paper that didn’t stand out, and with the name of the person they were for written in a disguised spelling so that they wouldn’t know it was from her.

Wiping a forearm over her forehead, she sighed in relief and grabbed her now empty sack in her right hand and her tamborita in her left one.

“You can turn around now,” she told Gabe.

So he did.

Then, to her surprise, he surveyed the gifts under the tree with the same probing gaze she saw him using during guard inspections.

Unlike those, it lasted only a few seconds before he looked at her.

“You did a good job,” he complimented, again somehow sounding both teasing and genuine. “I can’t tell which of these gifts were put there by you.”

She tried her best to shrug nonchalantly, her cheeks crinkling in a sheepish look.

“Well, I got one for everyone,” she said. “Even Esteban. I’m hoping no one feels left out.”

Puzzlement briefly flashed across Gabe’s face when she said ‘even Esteban’, but it lasted all of a moment. Then, for some strange reason, he started inching toward her, but stopped almost as soon as he started and straightened himself again. If Carla didn’t know any better, she would swear he had been about to move closer and comfort her, like she saw him doing a few times to Elena or Naomi, or even to Mateo once.

And despite her childhood mantra of keeping just about everyone at arm’s length, she couldn’t help but be a bit sorry that he hadn’t done so, even as she was above all touched that he had respected her personal space when he didn’t know if he was welcome inside it.

“Like I said, I’m sure they will appreciate the effort.” He smiled. “I know I would.”

She returned the smile even as she felt her blood rushing to her cheeks. She hoped so, almost as much as she hoped that it was dark enough for him not to see her blazing red face. After all, one of those gifts was for him. Which didn’t mean anything special, and wasn’t meant to - Elena and her family had each gotten a gift from her, as well as Naomi and Mateo. Of course Gabe would be included as well. Her getting him a gift didn’t have to mean anything.

Even if she had to admit she spent more time trying to find a good gift for him than for many other people. And that she, for some reason, was more worried about him not liking her choice than she was about other people feeling that way.

“Thanks,” she settled on.

“Anytime.”

Again, there was a moment of silence, after which he spoke up.

“Do you want me to escort you to your room?”

At first, she could only give him a dumbfounded look. Then, as if she was having a delayed reaction, a cartload of sleepiness crashed on her being as if the ceiling had come down on her. Before she could do anything to fight it back, a massive yawn forced its way out of her and into her right hand as she put it before her mouth for the sake of propriety, part of her unable to hold back the thought that she must look ridiculous by holding the empty sack in front of her as she yawned.

“Why not?” she replied after her yawn was finally out.

Saying so, she walked up to him, the two of them making their way to the door.

The fog in her mind suddenly thickened, despite her yawn to clear sleepines out, almost making her sway on her feet. At the last moment, she managed to keep herself in check and hold a standing position.

And then her eyes widened in alarm as she saw what hung above the doorway.

“Wait!” she called, all drowsiness gone from her voice.

He snapped to a halt the moment he heard her.

“What?” he replied, alarm bursting on his features.

Her mouth opened and closed as she ransacked her mind for something to say in response. But despite her best efforts, nothing seemed capable of coming out.

She knew the real reason she had stopped, but she couldn’t tell it to him. If she told him that, he’d really think she was an idiot for sure.

But she had to say something before he started to get suspicious. Assuming he wasn’t already

BUT WHAT DO I TELL HIM? She shouted at herself.

As if on cue, her eyes found the árbol navideño and the gifts underneath it. She seized it - that gave her a solution.

“On second thought, I think I’ll just check one more time, to really make absolutely sure my gifts are properly disguised,” she said. “Can you wait outside?”

This time, Gabe pursed his lips a few times, as if he was briefly struggling with whether or not to make a comment. But like on her request to turn around, he replied, “Of course.”

Carla waited with bated breath as he walked toward the door. For the briefest of instants, she thought she saw him freezing, as if he had also looked up and spotted what she did, perhaps even worked out her true reason to stay in the room. But before she could be sure of it, he kept moving and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. Only when it clicked shut did she let out a sigh of relief.

That door had mistletoe hanging over it. And she knew what mistletoe meant. Couples who found themselves underneath it had to kiss.

So if she and Gabe had walked out of that door together, they would have had to do just that. And there was no way she would do it.

Would it really be so bad? A voice that seemed both annoying and patient asked.

Yes. It would. And not because it was Gabe. In fact, he had to be top of the list of guys she would mind the least about kissing if she found herself under the mistletoe.

Wait. Where did that thought come from?

It didn’t matter. Even if he was on top of that list, she would still mind about kissing him.

It would be her first kiss after all.

No one in Avalor knew that, and even most people who knew her in the Mirror World didn’t know so either, but it was the truth. Though she was eighteen, she had yet to have her first kiss. And while even less people knew that, she wanted her first kiss to truly be special. Weird as it may sound coming from someone with her background, she wanted it to be the kind of unique and dreamy kiss that was discussed in romance novels, the kind where only she and her partner seemed to exist in the whole world, where both of them were lost in each other and their feelings.

Yes, she still didn’t know if she would be able to have that, and she hadn’t yet found the right guy to share it with, but at least she had dodged giving her first kiss away.

Which meant that she still could be able to save it for a special occasion.

She only hoped that someday, she would have it.

///

Present day...

It had been years since, but Gabe remembered that day like it had been yesterday. His puzzlement and curiosity at seeing her kneeling by the árbol navideño with a sack beside her. His inability to hold back his question. Her alarm at his intrusion. His attempts to reassure her, joined by his fear that he was only making her feeling worse. Her own fear that people wouldn’t like the gifts she had picked out for them. And her relief at the fact he hadn’t laughed at her and had respected her wishes for him not to see what she was doing.

In a sense, it had been pointless. Everyone Carla had gotten a gift for had worked out that it came from her, and had taken the time to give her a hug and thank her for it. Of course, that included him, and he had been sincere in his gratitude for the sword care kit she had gotten him. Even today, he still had the box it came in, although the cloth had gotten too stained to use and the products had long since run out.

True, his thanks had come out a bit on the awkward side. Which even then he knew was to be expected, given that they had opened their gifts the day after that year’s Navidad festival, where he and Carla had ended up sharing what they both called ‘their dance’, the one which lead to both of them realizing their feelings for each other. The one that ultimately had been their first step toward this moment.

Yes, the walk had been long, and both of them had stumbled across the way, but they had both managed to get up and keep going forward. And now, years later, they stood outside the very same ballroom where they had taken that first step, now as husband and wife, together on a level they hadn’t been before.

His fond grin melting into a subtler smile, Gabe drew Carla closer and ran his fingertips over her hair. She closed her eyes in pleasure and again rested her head on his chest.

It seemed so surreal now to think there had been a time they had been so afraid of their feelings as to not even talk about them. And that was already discounting the days when they actually had their feelings for each other but were still in denial about them even to themselves. Like the day when they’d had the ‘Navidad-related incident’ both of them had just recalled.

Of course, that had turned out to be for the better. That way, they had been able to share a proper first kiss as a couple, and Carla in particular had been able to have a proper first kiss, period (though he had only learned about that months after the ‘mistletoe incident’).

He supposed it was a good thing neither of them was superstitious. After all, avoiding a kiss under the mistletoe was said by some to bring back luck.

And it was true they had been in some rough spots over the years.

But they had managed to overcome each one. And he knew that together, they could overcome whatever came next.

Still, that was no reason for them not to amuse themselves a bit with their memory of that moment.

On cue with the thought, Carla raised her head from his chest.

“Just what kind of naughty idea came into that mind of yours?” she teased, reaching up her arm to twirl his signature pushed up strangs.

In the early days, there had been a few such occasions where he had wondered if Carla had used her mind-reading power to figure out what he was thinking so quickly. But he learned to sense when she did so, and he knew that outside of a few emergencies, the one time she had used it was on that time when she wanted to find out his feelings for her. This case was just a sign of how well they had gotten to know each other.

“You know, I’m not sure how that can be, but in all these years, I realize we never got to have that kiss we both dodged.”

Carla hummed mock-pensively, her lips quivering as she fought down a smirk.

“Is that so?...” she drawled. “And what are you going to do about it, Captain?”

Saying so, she again reached up and flicked her fingers through his hair. He raised his eyebrows in mock-pensiveness.

“Well, if we had some mistletoe, I know what I would do, but alas, there isn’t any over here,” he replied. “So it seems we will need to move over to a place where there is some?”

She frowned pensively at his words.

“I think that would give everyone too much of a show. We should find another solution.” Her eyes lit up. “And I know just the one.”

Saying so, she slipped her hand under the top layer of her dress and drew out her tamborita.

“I can just bring some over here.”

“Always prepared, I see,” he teased.

She smirked again, flicking at the handle of the rapier at his waist.

“Look who’s talking.”

He had no argument for that. While this rapier was slightly shorter and much thinner than the sword he used on everyday duty, and mostly meant for decorative purposes, it was still fairly sharp and would be able to make damage if he used it on someone. He hoped that day wouldn’t come, but too many things over the years had shown it was better to be safe than sorry.

“Llévaluq!” she said as she aimed her tamborita at a spot above the balcony’s door.

Three mistletoe leaves floated from their ties and floated over the balcony towards them, halting at a spot about a foot above Gabe’s head, magic keeping them still despite the breeze that blew around them.

Without any more words, she slipped her tamborita back into its giant custom-made pocket.

Then, she turned upwards to face him, a current of sparks flowing between them as their gazes locked into each other.

Resting his right hand on her jawline and his left one on her shoulder, he leaned down to meet her, as she in turn reached up toward him, both her arms wrapping around her shoulders, her left hand sliding up to rest on his nape.

Then, their lips met, their mouths moving over each other in exactly the same way both of them knew the other liked byu now, nipping at the ideal spots, pursing their lips around each other’s with just the right amount of pressure, and moving at the exact pace both of them knew the other like.

His right hand moved from Carla’s jawline and dove into the chocolate-brown waterfall flowing down her back, his fingers and palm resting on her nape as her fingers wrapped around his hair. Somehow, the two of them managed to come even closer together, their kiss so tuned over the years that it seemed more rehearsed than one of Carla’s dance performances, and yet flowing from each other as naturally as breathing.

Neither of them spoke, and neither of them actively tried to convey their thoughts through any other way, but as their kiss lasted on until it seemed to grow eternal, both of them knew the other was thinking exactly the same thing.

That despite however things had started out back when Carla first showed up in Avalor, and however they had turned out by the árbol navideño all those years ago, both of them were glad they had found their way to each other, and thankful to be together.

All around them, lights kept twinkling whether from the stars above or from the various Navidad decorations nearby, neither of them paying much attention as they devoted their focus to the moment they were sharing, and the joy that was being with each other.

#elena of avalor #my fanfiction #eoa secret santa 2019 #Carla Delgado #Gabriel Nuñez #Gabela #canon divergent au #my friend's au

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raspberry-river · 6 years ago

Text

Wait, it’s the 28th?

[read on ao3]

Surprise Reyna @swordlesbian-she-ra I was your @sherasecretsanta

you requested either Perfuma X Entrapta X Mermista or Catradora, and I felt more comfortable writing Catradora. I hope you like it 💖 💖

“Wait today was the 28th? She was certain it was at least a week away! No wonder Adora let her sleep in today. Facepalming, Catra grumbled in embarrassment. How could she forget her own birthday?”

Shifting her head a little, Catra sleepily opened her eyes, being careful not to blind herself in the mid-morning light streaming through her open curtains. Groaning in protest, she wriggled further into her bed, not wanting to get out of the warmth. She began to drift off to when her arm met cold empty space behind her.

Praying her eye open again, she turned her head. The space behind her was definitely empty. Rolling her eyes, she threw the bed cover off of her, hissing as the cold air met her bronze skin. Sitting up, she stretched her arms out needing her joints to crack. Sighing as she felt that familiar pop, she threw her legs off the side of the bed, her feet searched for the slippers that are always there. Somewhere.

Standing up, Catra adjusted her pajama top before shuffling over to the bedrooms’ ensuite to start her daily morning routine.

Finally feeling refreshed, Catra shuffled over to the bedrooms only desk, sitting underneath the window. Her burgundy slippers muffling her steps on the wooden floor. Popping her joints one more time, she pulled the chair out from the desk and sat down hunched over.

Running her manicured hand through her curls, her fingers catching on knots, wincing at the tug on her scalp. After a few run-throughs Catra deemed her hair as untangled enough, she started her makeup routine. A little concealer, a dusting of eye shadow, a fierce cat eyeliner and a swipe of lip balm. Giving herself the once over in the desk mirror, she reached for the small wooden box on the desk. Using one hand to open the box, Catra used her other to remove her nose stud. After quickly cleaning the stud, she places it in the box’s soft interior and reached for her favorite nose ring. Pushing the box back with her elbow, she focused her eyes on the mirror, carefully inserting the nose ring.

Clearing the desk, Catra stood up, using her foot to push the chair back under the desk. She strolled over to the wardrobe, grabbing the first thing she saw before changing.

Throwing her dirty clothes in the clothes hamper, Catra makes her way downstairs. Her golden brown curls bounced with every step. Hearing an upbeat tune, she furrowed her brow.

Reaching the kitchen, she froze, her hand stretching her navel fell limp at the site before her.

Standing at the kitchen counter, with her back to Catra was her best friend of 10 years and girlfriend of 2, shaking her hips to the beat of the music that was playing from the kitchens radio. She was quietly rapping the lyrics of the song.

As stealthy as she could, Catra sneaked up to the kitchens island, leaning her elbows on the cold marble surface, her head resting on her hand. A wide grin on her face as she spoke.

“Hey Adora”

Started, Adore let out a screech as she jumped, arms flailing. A wooden spoon, that seemed to be covered in a type of batter, slipped from Adora's grasp and clattered to the ground.

“Catra! W-what are doing here?” Adora stuttered, her voice rising in pitch. She shifted her body, hiding whatever she was doing, fiddling with her fingers.

Biting her lip, Catra eyed Adora's appearance. Her burgundy sweater was cover in what was most likely to be flour and cocoa powder, her left cheek had a smudge of batter.

Ignoring Adora's question Catra leaned over the counter, curious as to what Adora was hiding.

“Whatcha doing?” She asked, her nails tapping on the surface of the counter as she watched Adora.

“Nothing” Adora insisted, moving to lean opposite Catra. She took Catras hand in hers, lifting it to her lips. She places a gentle kiss to Catras knuckle, chuckling as a soft blush appeared on her girlfriend's cheeks.

Opening her mouth to complain, Catra was quickly interrupted by a sudden bang of what was most likely their front door and a loud yell of “We’re here!”

Feeling a headache forming, Catra groaned. It’s not like she didn’t like Bow or Glimmer, they’re okay just draining and loud and annoying. Well the majority of her friends were, she only got along with Entrapta and strangely enough, Mermista. At first, they both avoided each other like the plague, not really wanting to engage in any small talk but after they both committed (complained) about certain events and people.

“What is up party people!”

“Shut up Bow!”

With the interruption she lost her train of thought, Catra peered over her shoulder to see the rest of the so-called ‘Best Friend Squad’ walking into her kitchen carrying 2 shopping bags. Dropping both bags onto the off white tiled floor, Bow shuffled over to the fridge, grabbing a can in cola before facing the three girls.

Being nonchalant about it all, Glimmer placed her bags onto the counter next to the couple. She shot a genre smile at Catra before heaving both of Bows bags next to hers.

Letting her curiosity fuel her, Catra quickly glanced at the closest bag. From what she could see the bag was filled with chocolate fudge frosting and vanilla buttercream frosting. Strange, why would the dork duo need that much frosting? Maybe it has something to do with the batter Adora is making?

Noticing that Catra was starting to place the metaphorical pieces together, Adora was quick to kick Catra out of the kitchen, giving her a kiss on the lips before telling her that she was gonna be late meeting Scorpia and Entrapta for their weekly coffee, handing her a $20 for breakfast.

“Well that not suspicious at all.”

Entering the diner, stripped her coat off. The diner was always warm no matter the season. It was her favorite place to eat out, the atmosphere was always lively but friendly, plus the music they play over the radio was Catras favorite station. So she may be biased but the food is to die for. Waving to the staff behind the till Catra continued to her usual booth where she could see where her friends were.

Sliding into the empty side of the booth, Catra placed her coat beside her, taking her purse out of the pocket to place on the table. Before she could address both her friends, to colorful gift bags were shoved into her face. She blinks once, twice. Confused as to why they are giving her these.

“Don’t give me your rubbish, do I look like a garbage man?” She hissed, pushing the bags back to the other girls.

“Huh?”

It’s not rubbish silly! It’s your gift.”

Now that just confused her even more. Gifts? Christmas was two months away and her birthday was until a few more weeks.

“Gifts for what?” Her voice filled with confusion. Entrapta and Scorpia shared a look before facing Catra.

“It’s October 28th, your birthday, you dummy!” Scorpia teased, swaying side to side. Her ice tinted hair following her every move.

Wait today was the 28th? She was certain it was at least a week away! No wonder Adora let her sleep in today. Facepalming, Catra grumbled in embarrassment. How could she forget her own birthday?

Seeming to sense her distress, Entrapta spoke up, her eyes never leaving the tiny square robot in her hands.

“No need to feel embarrassed, we all forget things, for instance, I forgot the safety code for a robot and they ended up almost destroying my house.”

Not knowing how to respond to that, Catra blinked while Scorpia looked at her in horror. Opening her mouth to respond, Entraptas head shot up, her ruby eyes glittering in the artificial lighting of the diner.

“Anyway,” Entrapta giggled, “Open your gifts! I wanna see if you like them.” Nodding her head in agreement, Scorpia slid the gift bags back to Catra.

Biting her lip, Catra reaches for the lilac bag. Using her nail to cut the tap closing the top, she peered into the bag, eyes widening at the content. Inside was a picture frame, dark in color, pulling it out she gasped. The picture was of the three of them plus Adora at the start of their first year of college. Both Catra and Adora had their arms around each other, Catras head was leaning on Adora's shoulder, her dark golden coils a contrast to Adoras tied up pale blonde locks. Both had giant grins on their faces and affection in their eyes. Scorpia was stood towering behind them her head tilted back, arms in the air. Entrapta was squatting in front, a large remote in her hands and a look of pure happiness on her faces. Catra gently placed the picture back into the bag, glancing up at Entrapta.

“‘Trapta, thank you so much for this! I love it, can’t wait to show Adora.”

Flushed, Entrapta just smiled before going back to her robot.

Grasping the last bag, a deep red, Catra once again cut the tap with her nail, looking in she felt her eye twitch. Reaching in, Catra removed the bags content and placed it all in the table. A variety of cat toys now littered the diners' table, ranging from a simple ball of yarn to a small soft toy sashimi. A few cat treats also lay on the table as well as one purple cat collar.

“If you brought this because my name is Catra then I will kill you.” Catra glowered, irritation visible in her mismatched eyes.

Putting her hands up Scorpia stuttered, “No that’s not the reason,” She took a sip of her drink before continuing, “Its a joint gift with Adora, I swear.”

Huffing, Catra hummed, not really believing it as Adora would have told her something. Yet again Adora didn’t even wish her a happy birthday. Excusing herself, Catra stood to go and order her late breakfast early lunch.

After they all finished their food and leaving a tip, the three girls left the diner, strolling down the street back to Catra’s.

As the trio reached their destination, Catra whipped her phone out, sending a quick text to Adora, letting her know that she back. Taking notice of the cars outside, Catra had a feeling she knew what was gonna happen and cursed under her breath. It all made sense, Adora baking, the dork duo with their carrier bags, Catra being kicked out of her own house. Adora was planning a surprise party. How could she have been so clueless?

"Foda-se" Catra mumbled.

Opening the door, Catra was greeted with a cheer of “Happy Birthday” from many familiar faces, all of them Adora's friends, who then become hers, in a way. Glancing around the room she spotted a few faces that she hasn’t spoken to in a while. She really needed to catch up with Spinerella and Netossa. Though they hardly spoke, they were the few that Catra actually liked and made an effort to be nice too. To her surprise, Perfuma was also here. The two could never see eye to eye as Catra couldn’t give a crap about plants and flowers while Perfuma, who owns her own florist, loved them. Either way, Catra was happy to see everyone.

Scorpia and Entrapta captured Catra in a hug, chanting ‘Happy Birthday’ softly as the familiar sting of tears came. How did she ever get this lucky?

Her best friends let her go as Adora tugged her into the living room. As they entered the room, Catra gasped, in the center of the living room was a pure white kitten being held by Bow, their tiny meows filling the room. So Scorpia was telling the truth.

Turning to face Adora, Catra placed her hands on Adoras cheeks before dragging her down, capturing their lips in a soft but passionate kiss. She could feel Adora's arms wrap around her waist. Tears of happiness finally cascaded down her bronze cheeks.

A cough interrupted their moment, wide-eyed they both turn to Mermista. The girl was picking dirt from her nails as she spoke.

“Like it’s great that you like, love each other but we all wanna try the cake so can you finish this later?” Her eyes finally meet both of theirs, amusement flashed in them. Grinning Adora nodded, dragging Catra behind.

Catra really had the best partner and friends ever. She couldn’t imagine her life without these people.

#sherasecretsanta #catradora #catra #adora #bow #glimmer #entrapta #scorpia #mermista #spinerella #netossa #perfuma #spop #She-Ra #she ra #she-ra: princesses of power #spop fic #my fic #meggy writes

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