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5-falsehoods-phonated · 4 years ago

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Parting Gift

Summary: Virgil navigates an empty world he didn't see before and he can't see now. Thankfully the modified roomba his parents left him helps in the absence of people.Just a silly little fic I thought of because we recently got a robot vacuum.

Warnings: apocalypse scenario, food mention, insinuated death (not described or shown), mild swearing. If there’s more please let me know!

Ships: background Lociet (background Logan x Janus)

WC: 2405

General Taglist (ask to be added or removed) @im-an-anxious-wreck @logans-library

The tap-tap-tapping of Virgil’s cane as he moved along the road matched perfectly with the beat playing out of the one working earbud in his ear. Whatever town or residential area he had stumbled into was quiet and barren though seemingly not nearly as destroyed as the last one he had been in. Changing direction slightly as he has started to stray into wet grass he continued along what he assumed was a sidewalk, carefully feeling for the edge to make sure he was centered before continuing to sweep the cane in front of him to avoid whatever rubble or trash or non working car might have ended up on the side of the cracked road.

Virgil didn’t know what the world had looked like before and he could only imagine what it looked like now. Everything had happened so fast he doubted he’d be able to recognize it anyway. He had never been able to see and it had never bothered him as much as it did now; with no way to know if someone was on the road other than the sound of footsteps he hadn’t heard in months and nothing to keep him company except his music and- well he supposed he couldn’t complain. Tripping slightly over a stray rock he hadn’t felt brought him back from his thoughts and into the real world once again, shivering as he realized just how cold it was getting and how truly tired he was from walking all day.

Continuing on only a couple more feet revealed a pathway leading off to what he hoped was a house or a store. As bad as he sometimes felt about it, there was no one around anymore- at least as far as he had managed to travel thus far- no one would miss a couple cans of ravioli and a few bottles of water if he could manage to scrounge them up. The walkway seemed pretty thin leading away from the main road so he assumed he was in a residential area with houses rather than near anything like a general store or pharmacy; he really hoped he came across one soon he was running low on band-aids. He could only do so much with a cane and though he wished his palms and knees were tougher by now that he wouldn’t have to bandage them every time he fell sadly his callus just wasn’t thick enough.

Long grass brushed his ankles under his too short jeans, wispy blades rustling quietly as he passed. He took his headphone out as he walked after turning on the beat up ipod and pressing where he knew the pause button was from years of the same motion. Crickets began their evening concert as the birds finished their own, the air growing cooler as Virgil imagined the sun finally dipping below the horizon. He shifted the weight of his book bag more to one shoulder as he slipped it off the other hoping to reach an entryway of some sort soon since his feet were protesting the day of doing nothing but picking a direction and walking. Hitting a step he nudged the cane up until he could judge how high it was- sometimes they were high enough to trip him and other times they were so low they were more of an annoyance than anything else- and carefully made his way up all three of them. There were plastic feeling columns on either side of the top step so he assumed he was on the front porch of a house, some careful prodding revealing one of those rubber welcome mats he was constantly getting the soles of his shoes stuck on since when he was tired he refused to pick his feet up properly. He faintly heard his dad telling him to straighten his back and walk like he was alive but he shook it off with an eye roll. Posture didn’t matter if there was no one around to see it.

Fumbling around a minute for the door handle he stopped as his cheeks reddened, reaching up to knock first. Just because he hadn’t run into anyone yet didn’t mean it couldn’t happen and he really didn't want to break into someone’s home if they were still there and startle them. He didn’t fancy getting shot after so long of surviving o his own and to have that compromised because he was a heathen who didn’t knock anymore would be an idiotic way to go for sure. KNocking, however, proved fruitless. Nothing answered but the crickets though as he knuckle raps turned to rather loud pounds on the door they began to quiet. A part of him still wished sometimes that someone would answer, it had been so long since he’d heard another voice. He knew realistically that if he was still here there would have to be other survivors and that if he kept walking he was bound to run into them.

After years of doing nothing but that had yet to turn anything up though, and it seemed that this time would be no different. His hand fell to the knob once again as he took a breath and held it before twisting and pushing open the door. Hesitantly sniffing the air revealed nothing but old, unaired house smell and dust that had been kicked up from the bottom of the door brushing the carpet in the entryway. He sneezed loudly, the sound echoing sadly as if the house had missed the concept of sound, and wiped his nose on his sleeve before sighing in relief. Sometimes he entered a house or store and there would be...different smells. Ones that would make him gag and bolt from the building so the hot, cloying scent wouldn’t stick to his cloths. Those days were declared laundry days anyway, sullenly dunking his clothes in the rivers he always stuck close to trying to rid himself of the memory with the fresh smell of laundry detergent and sunlight. The day after that was spent moving as far away as he could as quickly as he could to get away from the dark scent that hung on the streets. It was safer to scrounge out granola bars from the bottom of his bag on those days than to risk looking for anything more substantial in the buildings he might be able to get into.

As it was Virgil stepped in the house and carefully closed the door behind him, swinging his bookbag around and cringing at the sound of the zipper echoing faintly in the doorway. Grabbing a smaller, padded drawstring bag out he opened it and carefully set the Roomba down, giving it a little pet before turning it on. It beeped out a pleasant little tune before the whirring sound of it starting up and moving away filled the house and he smiled, leaving his bag by the door and getting up to explore the house with Stuart.

Stuart the vacuum, as dumb as it was, was Virgil’s only source of company and had been since he was about four. The world was already crumbling at that point and rather than risking going out and about to find Virgil a seeing eye pet that wouldn’t last his whole lifetime if he lived long, his dads had modified their small vacuum for him in the hopes that it would last. And it had. Rather than having to plug into a power source it was solar charged, which the front of the bag it was kept in and his backpack was clear plastic to allow it to charge during the day, storing hours of energy to be able to work when Virgil needed it. Instead of vacuuming it simply went about bumping into things and storing a digital map of any small area, letting Virgil then walk beside it and stop when it beeped, nudging him in a different direction so he didn't bump into or trip on anything. This of course was before he was proficient with feeling his whereabouts with his cane adn at this point it was like letting a trusted pet out for its nightly walk rather than out of any necessity but Virgil loved it as if it was a dog. His most loyal companion...who he kept in his bag all day. He snorted as he felt out what was feeling to be the kitchen; he’d take anything over the oppressive silence of an empty house.

His mouth tightened as he felt around in cabinets for cans- all smooth labels of course, nothing to differentiate the corn from the beets from the manwich spread. He hated the fact that dinners were so often a surprise just because no one had thought to universalize a system to put a bit of braille on cans. Even some raised lettering underneath the label spelling out one word descriptors would be fine, instead he could only go by smell and taste and hope to god nothing he put in his mouth had expired. He missed grilled cheese and fried chicken and french fries- all things he didn’t have the means or resources to make. He never learned to hunt or slaughter anything and he doubted he’d be able to learn when he didn’t even know how to tell what parts of an animal to eat, let alone see what he was doing to cut it out and cook it. He was lucky he taught himself how to start a fire some years ago- he couldn’t imagine actually catching a fish and knowing when it was cooked enough to eat without just burning it to a crisp. Sighing as he opened a can with his old can opened he tentatively sniffed at the contents.

Baked beans were good. He’d rather have them hot but he had no motivation to go out and start a fire right now and there was no way in hell he was going to try inside- so cold bean jelly it was. He’d had worse. He grabbed his cane from where he had leaned it against the counter and began walking back into what he assumed would be the living room as Stuart beeped to notify him he was done. Smiling as he felt a small nudge he changed direction to navigate around what felt like a dusty leather couch and settled on the floor in front of it to eat his dinner. Stuart came to rest beside him while he dug a spoon out of the smaller bag he always carried and he smirked slightly, feeling around to place a single baked bean on top of the vacuum as a reward for a job well done.

He tucked in as he thought of what his dads would say about him doing that; both of them would more than likely find it endearing but relentlessly tease him about it for the rest of his life. He imagined his father’s face wrinkling up in an amused smile, scars tugging around crows feet and wispy hair tickling his fingertips. Dad’s smile was a lot smaller but no less sincere, mostly held in his eyes that had his lower eyelid just barely lifting. He missed feeling their faces- they’d let him do it whenever he’d ask to make sure he knew what emotion they were displaying. Both of them were awkward when it came to voicing their feelings and Virgil was always terrible at picking up social cues from simply listening, so being able to read a face as easily as a book often helped put them all at ease.Idly he brushed the top of Stuart’s “head”, feeling nothing but cool, hard plastic beneath his fingers.

He cleaned up as best as he could, throwing the top of the can away in a trash bin after wiping it off and setting the actual can on the back porch with another full one for whatever might come by. His cane was carefully tucked just underneath the couch as he unrolled his sleeping bag and small pillow to get comfy for the night, placing his little vacuum by his head before snuggling down into bed and sighing quietly. Reaching out he felt for the button on the side of the roomba, a little rough and worn from years of the same routine of day. Biting his lip he pressed it in before snatching his hand away and tucking himself in completely, squeezing his eyes shut like he’d been sleeping all along.

“Is he asleep?” His father’s silky voice cut through the silence.

“I should hope so, it’s dark out and he needs his rest.” Dad was always very matter of fact, Virgil could imagine his arms crossing as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“...Do you want to start or should I?”

Virgil’s dad sighed. “I hope that you got to sleep at a reasonable hour this time, and that you had a good dinner that was as balanced as you could make it. That- that you’re somewhere safe-”

HIs father stepped in smoothly. “We hope that you’re taking care of yourself as best as you can, and taking care of Stuart as well. Hopefully there are people around that can help you when you need it and you aren’t afraid to ask for it- but if there aren’t I know you’re capable enough on your own.”

“We wish you only happiness, no matter how bad things are or get, always remember that it has the capability to get better as long as you are willing to work for it. I know whatever you’re working on or towards you’re doing the absolute best you can do, and we couldn’t be more proud.”

“We love you, Virgil. So, so much and don’t you ever forget that. take care of yourself and please stay safe.”

“Goodnight, Virgil.” He could still remember Dad brushing his fingers through his hair before the weight had disappeared from the bed.

“Goodnight, Virgil. Sweet dreams.” He felt a phantom kiss on the cheek from memory long since passed, the blankets pulled up and tucked around him. The door creaked shut and the recording ended, Stuart beeping softly to indicate he was shutting down. Safely tucked into his sleeping bag with a full stomach in the silence, Virgil let his eyes drift shut, a smile still on his lips as he fell into a peaceful sleep.

This work is also available on AO3!

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#false writes #sanders sides #sanders sides fic #blind virgil #virgil sanders #blind virgil sanders #tw food mention #food mention #tw swearing #mild swearing #apocalypse au #apocalypse mention #ao3 #insinuated death

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namusthetic · 5 years ago

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The four witches of Greenheaven

Despite the different personalities they have the strongest bond and together protect Greenheaven and its inhabitants.

Cassandra, the nocturnal witch

Always saying they want to be alone but actually enjoys spending time with friends, deathly loyal, mind over heart because cannot afford to hurt again, cold but fragile like glass, empathic but this doesn't mean they care, complains when their friends come visit but secretly enjoys it, damaged, but because of that even more beautiful, quiet whispers and sarcasm, helps out lost ghosts in exchange for interesting stories, dresses and clothes from another time, black humor and sharp remarks, in love with Shakespeare

Aesthetic: dried up roses and specks of dust floating in the morning light, old abandoned houses frozen in time, the howling of the wolves at the moon, trembling candles and silver rings, dragon breath and foggy November mornings, black tea with rose blossoms, faded photographs and the echo of clock chimes, lace cuffs and black cardigans, dramatic black witchy hats, poetry books worn out from use, biting their lip until it bleeds

Song: ilomilo by Billie Eilish

Miranda, the celestial witch

Always with their head in the clouds, curious, easily bored and easily distracted, prefers willful ignorance over harsh reality, dreamer, always fascinated by the most simple things, sees entire worlds and deep meanings where nobody else would, charismatic, forgetful and a bit clumsy, the one people come for advice, 'yes, but what if...', keeps a journal, driven by curiosity, spends hours talking with the elves, has the oddest sleeping schedules, fascinated by humankind

Aesthetic: dangling earrings with the sun and the moon, earl grey tea and milk, dusty shelves full of old books, libraries and soft whispers, bright eyes sparkled alive by curiosity, bronze rimmed dresses, reading by the fire on rainy autumn days, steam and the sound of quill writing on paper, fairylights, stars painted on the ceiling, dew on a spiderweb on a early morning, messy handwriting, pocket watches and old coins

Song: Moonsea by Phidel

Ophelia, the green witch

Likes to take long walks in the woods, talks to faes and animals, calls their plants 'my lovelies' and sings to them everyday, lives in a cabin in the woods, keeps what they find in the forest in the large pockets of their old coat, determinated, has befriended the fox family that lives near their house, has more animal friends than you could count, never following the path, a caring soul, doesn't like humans, grow their own herbs and veggies, has a soft spot for animals, the kindest if you don't step on their flowers, eccentric in the most interesting way, prefers the company of animals and magical beings (less drama)

Aesthetic: the fresh smell of grass in the morning, the shine of the sunrays glistening on the dew at sunrise, dried up herbs, daisies flower crowns and nuts, wild berries and fingerless gloves, green tea and the comforting purrs of a cat, wild hair and freckles, strawberries and water color paint, long patient sighs, iced almond milk, stained glass windows, knowing glances,

Song: Dirty Paws by Of Monsters and Men

Glinda, the kitchen witch

Loves sunlight, a literal ball of pure sunshine, they protect, the mum friend™️, empathetic, always knows how to handle things, optimist, talks to house spirits and gives freshly baked pastries to the neighbor family of gnomes, loves their friends more than anything, always knows how to make people smile and comfortable, laugh with their whole body, the scariest when angry, they are there when you need them, their eyes sparkle with affection, adamant but gentle, dances with pixies

Aesthetic: golden hour, blanket forts, loud laugh and contagious smiles, warm in the most reassuring way, old yellow sweaters and flour stained jeans, singing aloud and dancing around, 'WHAT do you mean you can't remember the last time you've EATEN ?!?!!!!', caramel and toffee, the warmth of sunrays on your face, the smell of baked croissants in the morning, dandelions and buttercups, Chai tea and ginger biscuits

Song: Mr. Blue Sky by Electric Light Orchestra

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┬┴┬┴┤･ω･)ﾉ Hey!

Sorry, but just a small note (≧▽≦)

Aside from the names and the titles (I got inspired from them so I decided to leave them like that), the character descriptions and aesthetics are all in gender neutral pronouns because I don't want anyone to be offended nor left out 💜

Hope you enjoy!

(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

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lune-hime · 4 years ago

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Garden of Tulips (Levi/Reader) Once Upon an Attack on Titan

~Click me for more chapters~

“What did it look like?”

“Hmm?” Levi looked up from his place next to your sleeping form. “The titan that tried to snack on my darling granddaughter.” “Ugly as fuck.” “Aren’t they all?”

Levi recounts memories of the reader and their shared life together while she recovers from a serious injury.

!!WARNINGS!! - Violence, gore, smut, wholesome content ;)

This is a little one shot within the au of my fic inspired by Grimm’s fairy tales.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Jean, I’m leaving now!” You sang out the window that overlooked the garden of your quaint cottage. You slipped your boots on with a leather pop and pulled up the scarlet hood of your cloak. As you padded out the door you grabbed the wicker basket from the table that smelled of wine and warm tartes.

The late afternoon sun was at its strongest, basking your modest abode in an aura of warmth. And within the pumpkin patch that bloomed bronze in the sunlight was a sight to behold indeed.

“ Move asshole.” Jean groaned as he put all of his strength into attempting to push your cow. She was unaffected and continued to happily graze on the dandelions you had forgotten to weed out near the edge of the garden. She flicked her tail in annoyance as if Jean was an incessant fly when he smacked her on the rear.

“Whose being the asshole? How would you like it if you were eating and someone slapped you?” You chided playfully. Jean deadpanned in exhaustion and gave you the middle finger. His irritation rose with every non-existent step your bovine took.

“Yeah well, it’s almost noon. That means the auction starts in one hour.” His statement turned into a groan as he gave another big ineffective push. “If we don’t sell her that means-”

“Yeah, yeah. We’re broke.” You finished his sentence and made a swiping motion across your neck. Selling your beloved cow was the last resort and a stark reminder of how desperately you both needed money. Not only did you siblings have each other to support, but your aging grandmother as well.

“ Exactly . So get over here and help me push her!” Jean pleaded. You sighed and placed the handle of your basket in the crook of your elbow. You knelt down in the plush autumn grass and cradled her large head in between your hands. She immediately stopped eating and regarded you doe eyed. Parting with the sweet creature made you want to cry, but you knew you really had no other option at this point.

“Come on, Milky-White. I promise you will get to eat your fair share of hay at the auction house.” You cooed at her and she gave a sloppy lick to the side of your palm. Jean scoffed when you took the lead to the rope around her neck and she walked compliantly behind you.

“Are you ready to go?” You asked your brother with a smug grin. He rolled his eyes and nodded, brushing the dirt from his vest. When he fell in step with you, you handed him the rope and adjusted your basket to rest on your forearm.

“I’ll walk with you part of the way. The auction is on the way to Oma’s.” You said and rested your free hand on Milky-White’s back comfortably as you strolled down the cobblestone path.

Once you had gotten a fair ways down into the sparse village, the crunching of foreign feet against pine needles alerted you. A decrepit woman emerged out of the thicket a few paces ahead. Her graying brunette locks were pulled back into a ponytail that made the most prominent feature of her face her bold nose. From behind her dirtied glasses she wore a smile that bordered insanity as she waddled closer to the siblings. You immediately halted and put a protective hand on Jean’s arm.

“Well hello pretties. A fine day to take your cow for a walk, isn’t it?” The woman remarked shrilly.

“Yes it is.” Your response was curt as you stood your ground. The old woman let out a chuckle that sounded as if she were squeezing air out of a dusty bellow.

“Would either of you like some candy?” She offered. You assumed she intended to sound inviting but the rising pitch of her voice made it feel like you were listening to someone drag their nails across an endless chalkboard. The woman reached into her beige cloak and pulled out a large lollipop. You squinted at the fine print on the translucent wrapping.

~Confectionaries by HZ~

“We’ll pass, thanks.” Jean replied coldly. The haggard woman began looking him up and down and licking her encrusted lips.

“Are you sure? I’m a candy maker by trade and can assure you that you will never taste anything more-” She began, waddling closer to you. She bypassed your side and began circling you.

“Exquisite.” She finished as she rounded her path behind you. You were now thoroughly repulsed.

“I could give you a tour of my kitchen. I have a grand oven where I bake my treats, unlike the likes of any other. I bet it’s big enough to even fit you in it, my tall boy.” She bubbled and grabbed Jean’s arm. She gave it a good squeeze, feeling around the lean muscle.

“Lady, we don’t want your food!” Jean bristled, his voice cracking nervously. Her jerked his elbow out of her grasp but spooked Milky-White in the process. She took a few clumsy steps backwards and caused Jean to stumble. You moved to calm her, all the while not taking an eye off of the woman. Once Jean had regained himself you stepped in front of your family.

“Ma’am, thank you for the offer, but we really need to get going. We have an appointment we cannot miss.” You declared with a grin as sugary as her candy. She spat in frustration when you lifted the edge of your crimson cloak to reveal a concealed dagger strapped to your belt.

“The feisty ones always taste the spiciest.” You heard her mumble as she creeped away in the direction from whence you came.

Once she was out of sight, you turned to Jean and your precious cow. They both were breathing heavily. You gave them comforting pats and began walking again.

“We need to move out of this village.” Jean whined and urged Milky-White to follow.

Several scarecrows and window sills holding freshly baked pies later, you arrived at the crossroads to the auction.

“Goodbye sweet girl. I hope that your new owners are as loving as me and nothing like my brother.” You said. You gave Milky-White one final smooch and scratched behind her ears. Soon Jean had to pry your pets and coos away from the animal. You backed off with a pout.

"Make sure you sell her for at least 200 dollars or something valuable we can sell. And stay away from that weird wizard, he's for sure a scam artist." You instructed Jean.

“Aw but I like Mike. He's got these beans that make you feel like you're floa-" You cut Jean's ramblings off with the sharpness of your glare.

"Fine fine. Alright, I’m off. Remember to stay on the path and make sure you keep your hand on your knife at all times. And most importantly, be back before nightfall.” Jean instructed and gave you a look that tried to be stern but fell slightly short.

“Yes, yes. Don’t worry, I’m always careful.” You replied to his nagging.

“Yeah but you can’t afford to just be careful. Anyway, tell Oma hello from her favorite grandchild.” He called as he turned down the right fork in the path. You snorted and pushed forward, trodding over the stones that took you deeper into the woods.

For a while it was just you and the conifers until an alluring song was carried by the light breeze to your ears. Delving deeper into the brush, you came upon a familiar face.

“Hi Mikasa. Hello Armin, Eren.” You grinned happily as you passed the group. The war maiden was sitting on a large tree stump along the edge of the path. Her ornate shield rested in her lap as she lazily polished it with one hand and bit into a crisp apple with the other.

She was a mercenary that had recently come to work in your village. As an apprentice at Master Connie’s blacksmith shop, you had interacted with the knight many times when she came in to sharpen her sword or shop for some wares. The two of you had grown quite fond of one another’s company and were on friendly terms.

Her dwarven companions sat on either side of her; Eren’s intensely green glare watched you like a hawk while Armin peacefully beamed up at you. Mikasa wiped the sweat off of her forehead with the back of her palm. Her hand brushed against the bright red headband that held her shortly chopped locks in place.

“Hello Y/N. Lovely to see you.” She greeted, her voice rough with battle experience but as honeyed as the candy the weird woman had tried to tempt you with earlier.

“You too.” You answered, feeling the flames of her firey gaze flushing your cheeks.

“I must say that this gorgeous afternoon is much more beautiful now that you are here.” She sang and flashed you a charmingly captivating smile. As Mikasa spoke, sparrows flitted down from the canopy above to perch along her polished iron shoulder guards. They chirped at the melodic cadence of her voice but soon squawked when she shook them off in annoyance.

The sun was making you borderline sweaty. Yeah, it was definitely the sun.

You nodded in agreement, feeling speechless, and inhaled the fresh pine scent.

“Where are you off to?” Armin piped up while Eren still gave you the stink eye.

“I’m off to my grandmother’s to deliver her some wine and homemade tartes.” You said and patted the top of the basket.

“Would you like me to escort you the rest of the way? It will be dark soon and who knows what wolves or other creatures are lurking in the shadows.” Mikasa offered and stood from the stump. The waning daylight bounced off of her armor and made her look as if she had crafted it out of pure sun rays.

“No, it’s alright. I don’t have that much further to go.” You replied, flattered by her sweet gesture but unwilling to waste her time. Plus you were sure Eren would try to nip at your heels as you walked.

“If you insist. But you’ll have to invite me over soon, okay? I would be honored to taste your cooking.” She said and delicately reached for your hand. She brought it up to her lips and placed a plush kiss to your skin. The fire that was once burning on your face was now rushing through every limb.

“Yes of course!” You stammered bashfully, attempting to portray yourself as unaffected as possible. She chuckled at your reaction and regarded you gracefully.

“Be careful, Y/N. Oh, and tell your stalker of a brother to stop following me into the forest. He’s not the one I want to spend time with.” Mikasa bid you a farewell that left you feeling as if you had drank half of the wine bottle you carried.

“Yeah, or he’s gonna get a knife to the Achilles tendon.” Eren spat aggressively and brandished a cheese knife. You grimaced and turned on your heel to resume your journey.

The remainder of your walk was delightfully uneventful, however, the mistress of time was not favoring you. When dusk began to nestle into the sky you quickened your pace in hopes to beat the celestial blanket to your destination. As you were beginning to trouble yourself with what you could cook that would impress the shield maiden, you arrived at the familiar picketed gates to Oma’s cottage. The calmness of the night almost lulled you into a false sense of security that you rarely felt at this hour.

But it was unusually quiet. Even for nightfall.

Nightfall.

You had broken your and Jean’s golden rule. But you were here now, so it should be okay...right?

None of the usual crickets were singing, none of the usual squirrels were scampering through the freshly fallen leaves, and none of Oma’s usual lights were on.

With your hand placed securely over your dagger, you cautiously approached the residence. You tried to convince yourself that she had gone to bed early, that she was indulging in her pipe on her back porch, or that she had stepped out for a bit to get some last minute ingredients for dinner.

The apprehension in your gut grew as you turned the door knob, only to be met with the door already open. Narrowing your eyes, you proceeded inside. The house was too devoid of light to see if anything was out of the ordinary.

“Oma-” You called tentatively. The only reply was the shrill groaning of her weathered timber under your boots as you shuffled around to find some matches. Your hand sporadically patted down the top of the cabinet she kept in her foyer until your fingers brushed against the match box. You gripped the fire starters and lit the nearest candle. Picking it up by the brass handle, you padded into the living room.

Immediately the viscous stench of iron assaulted your nostrils and caused you to audibly gag. You brought the hand with which you held the candle to your nose instinctively. The illumination this motion created uncovered a pale, delicate hand resting along one of Oma’s armchairs. You gasped in fright, inhaling even more of the putrid smell as you stumbled backwards. The wine bottle wiggled dangerously as you placed your hand on the fireplace shelving to steady yourself.

“WHO’S THERE?” You yelled into the void. Your voice creaked like the floorboards under invisible footfalls that grew closer to your shaking form. In one fluid motion your dagger was unsheathed and held defensively in front of you.

A deep chuckle that was as rich as your wine cut through the shadows.

“Easy with the silver. I’m a friend.” It’s welcome was warm but the voice could not have sounded more frigid.

“Oma doesn’t have any friends.” You declared through ragged breaths. Your head twisted and turned to pinpoint the source of the voice.

“Hm. So the woman who lives here is your oma?” The voice asked ominously.

You swallowed hard and tested the air; cutting through the space in front of you and meeting nothing but emptiness.

“How did you know a woman lives here?” Your inquiry was ended with a sharp inhale as you felt a feather light touch to your shoulder. You were giving yourself whiplash as the voice seemed to be existing within the walls of the house itself.

Was Oma still here? Hiding from this stranger? Or worse…

“A simple guess by the décor.” The voice answered smoothly.

The presence in the room intensified and now you felt palpable forms whirling on all sides of you.

“Where is she?” You demanded, hastily pointing your knife wherever you heard a nefarious laugh or a murmur.

“That is something I would like to know as well. I took time to come all the way out here.” Your mysterious company said.

“It’s awfully late for someone to be traveling alone this far into the woods, don’t you think my dear?” The voice whispered incredibly close to the back of your ear. You startled and turned around, now facing the fireplace and leaving your back tantalizingly exposed.

“Especially for one so-” It continued. Suddenly the pale hand gripped your wrist with such a force that it crippled your palm in pain and made your fingers grow numb. The dagger instantly dropped from your grasp and clattered to the floor.

“Supple.” It cooed. The seductively sinister words slithered under your skin and seeped the oxygen from your lungs. Puffs of icy breath caressed the pulse point of your neck while a nimble hand traveled up your arm that held the candle and raised it to your eye level. You were whipped around and were met with a face accentuated by the soft glow of the candle light.

Your antagonizer took corporeal form in the shape of a man who looked as if he was carved from exquisite marble. His skin was ashen as the stone itself and as flawless as a sculpture. His eyes shown with an argent luster that put your dagger to shame and regarded you with the molten intensity of a forge fire. He drew his face closer to yours ever so slowly.

“Supple indeed.” He praised darkly. His tongue darted languishly along his smirk as if he was already tasting your every feature.

“What did you do to her?” You got out despite the building dread of prey bubbling inside of you. The porcelain man clicked his tongue.

“Absolutely nothing. That’s my problem. That there’s a lack of something to be done.” He explained and continued to smile at you devilishly. He stopped inching towards you once he heard your back hit the fireplace. With nowhere for you to go, he was now able to press his body flush against yours. His leg came to prod at your inner thighs while his hands pinned yours upwards by your wrists. His sharp nails dug into the already tender flesh and threatened to puncture your veins. You let out a cry at the stinging sensation and your mind screamed at you to knee him in the balls.

But you couldn’t move. From the moment his eyes connected with yours, your body fell unresponsive. You couldn’t think a single thought without those silver bullets boring into your brain. Your rapids breaths were constricted against his broad chest as you teetered on the edge of death.

“But I must confess I am quite happy with this outcome.” He said with a satin glee. The last thing you saw before he instantly blew out your candle were the brilliant pearlescent fangs that elongated from his idyllic grin.

You heard a squelching as the flesh below your ear was torn open. It felt as though a flower with scorching petals was placed in the now gaping hole of your neck. Your limbs flailed like one of the chickens Oma placed on the chopping block. The stranger let out a velvety moan that only intensified the burning by sending shockwaves of vibrations across your torso. The longer he drank from your sweet nectar, the paler the flame ran until the pain became as white hot as his complexion.

The man had just begun clenching his jaw to delve in deeper when a gunshot pierced the window in the foyer. Your captor ceased his drinking and listened. He turned his head towards the ruckus with his teeth still embedded with you. Suddenly, a silver arrow flew through the broken glass.

“Come out, vampire. Or I will smoke you out.” A husky voice boomed from the yard. The man retracted his fangs and detached himself from your bleeding neck. The beast chuckled with the crispness of a newborn spring morning. He maneuvered your body so you could walk in front of him with your hands held securely behind your back. You weren’t sure if you even had the strength to use your legs. Walls, did you even still have legs?

“Don’t struggle.” He ordered with a maniacal sing-song to his tone. You barely registered his command. The draining sensation of your bodily fluids freshly leaving you left you feeling like an overused blood bag. Your eyes widened as he began shuffling you to the doorway.

“No-I can’t go-” Your voice cracked as you mediocrely attempted to grab at his arms. You stumbled into his chest as your legs struggled to work properly. He showed no signs of stopping as he continued to walk to the entryway.

“Please…” You pleaded weakly as the rising moonlight peeked through the crevasses of the front door.

The vampire kicked down the door with one fluid motion. The hunter was stationed in the main walkway of your grandmother’s front yard, crossbow loaded and aimed directly at the two of you. His leather tailcoat flapped along the gentle breeze and the bullet casings that rested along his chest reflected the cool gray of the stars.

“We finally are reunited.” The hunter spat. His weapon tracked the vampire’s every movement with the precision of a seasoned expert as he dragged you out further into the yard.

“Smith.” The stranger greeted the hunter like an old friend. He smiled, revealing teeth coated in your thick blood that dribbled down his chin like tumbling rubies.

“Ackerman.” The hunter replied in a hardened tone. “It’s a shame that you resorted to your old delicacies.”

Ackerman hummed and licked the front of his teeth, sighing in satisfaction as he reveled in your metallic palate.

“Squirrels just didn't satisfy me.” He snickered and walked his pointed fingers up your shoulder. A single digit entered your gaping wound and swirled in your juices. You shuddered at the needle-like pressure. Smith’s prominent brow furrowed in disgust when Ackerman brought his finger to his mouth and sucked.

“Drop the girl, she’s almost dead anyway.” Smith said, his stance unwavering.

“Want my leftovers, eh?” Ackerman laughed. “I guess I only ever see you by the light of the moon so I wouldn’t be surprised if you were one of us.”

In your delirium you had begun disconnecting yourself from reality. But the vampire’s last phrase kept the final, unspooling thread from snapping. You heaved your neck sideways with the remaining strength you harbored to gaze up at Ackerman. His lips were as red as a summer cherry and his skin looked even more iridescent next to the moon. He looked like he could have fallen from the celestial body itself.

The moon.

The instant your eyes gazed upon its circumferential radiance your pupils dilated as the lunar rays rocketed into your eye sockets.

The full moon.

Be back before nightfall.

You can’t afford to just be careful.

Your brother's words echoed in your mind as the moon began bathing you in luminous ivory pain.

“Oh no.” You whimpered. You squeezed out a wail as the searing ripping of your joints elongating and reconnecting overtook your entire being. The convulsions of your body caused Levi to release you from his grip with a hiss. The vampire hunter and hunted could only watch as you hunched over agony with freshly punctured claws raking through Oma’s neat lawn. Coarse hair soon sprouted out of your exposed skin and your strained cries grew octaves lower. The buttons of your dress flew free with crisp pops and the seams of your poor dress were pulled apart by your bulging muscles. Your jaw unhinged and lengthened until your face resembled the wolves that Milky-White used to chase from your chicken coop.

Your tortuous yelps suddenly mingled with a deafening gun shot from the gate.

“What in the Peter Piper’d fuck is going on at my house?” Oma hollered, rifle pointed at the sky, as you let a howl pierce through the night.

Suddenly you were jolting awake and pawing at the sheets. Your heart was beating erratically as you shakily brought your hands to your lap.

They looked blissfully normal.

You heard shuffling from outside of the bedroom and Levi was soon standing in the doorway with concern mapping his face.

“Y/N? What’s wrong?” He asked in minor alarm as he came to sit next to you. He was already in his harnesses and uniform so you gaged it must have been early morning. Levi’s eyes searched your clammy form for any signs of outward distress. You sighed in relief seeing your usual pillows, usual closet, usual bathroom, and most importantly; usual Levi.

It had all felt so real.

“I’m fine, Levi. I just had the strangest dream though.” You exhaled as you came down from the high of your slumbered adventure.

“I think your weird dreams stress you out more than being a squad leader does.” Levi chuckled as he ran a gentle hand along your back. You closed your eyes and revealed in the peaceful feeling of his palm along your night shirt. It was a stark contrast to the gory fantasy you just emerged from.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He added with more seriousness in his voice.

You just stared at him. He stared right back, blinking blankly as you analyzed his features. Your hands reached up and took his jaw between your hands. Your thumbs lightly pushed up the corners of his upper lip to reveal his teeth. Levi made a noise of complaint but didn’t swat you away. You leaned in closer to check his canines for any vampiric qualities. When you were assured they were of normal length, you pulled back satisfied.

“Nope, I’m good.” You smiled and planted a quick peck to his lips before jumping out of bed to get ready for the day. Levi watched you pad into the bathroom as he felt his teeth in confusion.

↞↠↞↠↞↠

Eren looked at you nervously as you eyed him from your place behind him in line to get lunch. He looked down at you and gulped.

“Is everything okay, Y/N?” He asked apprehensively. You narrowed your eyes and placed your hand level with the top of your head. You brought it straight out towards Eren, hitting him square in the forehead.

“You’ve always been taller than me, right?” You questioned, looking from your hand down to his feet.

“Uh, yeah.” He confirmed, regarding you suspiciously. He fidgeted with the sides of his plate as you puffed your cheeks in contemplation. Finally you nodded in satisfaction.

“Do you own a cheese knife?”

↞↠↞↠↞↠

“Hange, have you ever thought about owning a candy shop?”

“Y/N. Why would I do that when I barely have time to analyze the retinal samples from Bean’s eye?”

↞↠↞↠↞↠

“You’re dismissed, Y/N.” Erwin’s parting smile betrayed the professionalism of his order. You bowed your head respectfully and walked to the doors to his office. Your fingers dusted over the brass handle but hesitated to grab it. You turned back towards your commander and paused.

When Erwin didn’t hear you leave, he looked up from his desk.

“Is there something else you need, Y/N?” He asked.

You stared at him long enough to lace his brow in slight concern. His coat was the same length, same color, same style as your own.

“I-I like your coat.” You laughed nervously and threw him an awkward grin. Before he had the chance to answer you had bowed your head and hurried out the door.

“Thank...you?”

↞↠↞↠↞↠

Today it seemed like you were playing errand girl more than squad leader. You questioned why you even put on these chafing harnesses as you ferried yet another stack of documents back to your office.

“Hi Y/N, do you want to get dinner together later? I still have some tartes too that I bought when we were in town last.” Mikasa smiled at you as she passed you in the hall. You involuntarily began blushing furiously.

“Definitely, I’ll see you in a couple hours!” You sputtered as you hurried down the hall, slapping your cheeks as you went.

↞↠↞↠↞↠

“Jean.” You called, looking up from the paperwork that littered your desk. The boy who was lazily sprawled out on your office couch hummed into his book.

“We’ve never owned a cow together, right?”

“What the fuck?”

#levi #levi x reader #LEVI ACKERMAN #levi/reader #snk #snk x reader #AoT #aot x reader #attack on titan #attack on titan fanfiction #shingeki no kyojin #hange zoe #jean kirschstein #bisexual jean #fluff #imagine #aot imagine #levi imagine

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limerental · 5 years ago

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for the anonymous prompt: First time Yennefer smiles at him, Jaskier walk full-on into a tree because his brain stops working and his heart takes over and his heart is stupid and only focusing on her

link on ao3 because this got away from me

---

It is academic coincidence that draws the two of them together. The Oxenfurt professor is drafting a historical epic to be performed at spring commencement and requires the knowledge of an expert on ancient, arcane artifacts. Said expert is a bright-eyed sorcerer fresh from a dig in the south.

The man is dangerously handsome and so enthused to have someone to chatter on about his work with that he pays for a whole pitcher of ale at one of the swankier taverns in town, maps and diagrams and documents and dusty old books spread all over their corner table. The pair laugh and bluster and hotly debate together well into the evening, until work gives way to enjoying a delectable platter of dried fruits and hard cheeses paired with yet more ale.

It is halfway through their second pitcher that both of them go still, blinking at one another, stunned by the realization that they have an unexpected mutual acquaintance.

“You know Yennefer?” asks Istredd, his head tipped in fresh appraisal of the strange professor.

“Of course, I do,” says Jaskier. “I’ve known her for years and years. Mind you, many of those years I wished very dearly not to have known her, but we have reached a truce now. Some may even call us friendly. I’ll have to see about getting us all together the next time she’s in town.”

“No, no,” says the sorcerer, smiling somewhat sadly. “I’m afraid we parted last in less than ideal circumstances.”

“Oh dear, none of that,” Jaskier says and stands to gesture for the barkeep to bring more dried figs and fresh-baked bread and tender slivers of sausage. A bottle of wine for good measure.

“We were in love once,” says Istredd, sighing. “I think so at least. We were very young. And foolish.”

“Mmmm,” hums the poet in understanding as he pours the sorcerer a brimming cup of dark wine.

“I loved her eyes the most,” he says wistfully. “Such bright, clever eyes, despite such darkness in them.”

Jaskier nods in agreement. He can’t say that he has spent long hours peering into Yennefer’s eyes, but he has still seen that flare of hurt that lurks in their violet depths. He has spun that detail into more than one composition. He wonders if Istredd has heard them.

“Oh but her smile. I’ve never known something quite so beautiful. So timid and soft and tender. Full of warmth and light. So genuine and sweet and stunning.”

“That doesn’t sound much like the Yennefer I know,” says Jaskier. Yennefer does not smile. She smirks sometimes or grimaces, but her default state tends to be one of barely-contained irritation. Or maybe that state is only due to his presence. He thinks she surely must smile at the Witcher. Or at Ciri, maybe. But he can’t imagine it.

“If you should ever witness that smile turned your way,” Istredd says, cross-eyed with drunkenness, pointing a sharp finger into Jaskier’s chest. “You will feel like the luckiest man alive. I promise you this. You will be half-ruined for any other. You will wish you could inspire that smile a dozen times over and then some. That she would look at you like that until the end of your days.”

“I will take your word for it,” says Jaskier with a laugh, and they spend the rest of the night in drunken revelry until they stumble back to Jaskier’s rooms together and collapse into sleep.

He half-forgets about the conversation.

Until, that is, the impossible happens.

Yennefer smiles at him.

---

The circumstances that inspire it are not so unusual.

Jaskier has been traveling with Geralt through the summer, and their path crosses with Yennefer in some well-to-do town north of Vizima. She invites them to her well-furnished rooms for drinks and some catching up.

Usually, nights like this end with Jaskier booted from her rooms so that the Witcher and the mage can become reacquainted, but this night, Geralt plans to head out for a contract before the crack of dawn and retires to his own room early, leaving Yennefer and Jaskier alone together well into their cups.

Once upon a time to be left alone with the sorceress would have inspired deep terror in him, but now very little of that unease remains. He still hangs on to some of it, just in case, but beyond some casual bickering with no real edge to the insults flung back and forth, Yennefer has been very tolerant of him recently.

Jaskier is telling her about his last meeting with Ciri, grown into a young woman now and as much a terror as she always has been. She had attended one of his lectures and afterward, strolled at his side through the university grounds and down through the bustling markets of Oxenfurt. On a side street that dipped along a canal, they had encountered a gaggle of rowdy gentlemen who felt the need to whistle and coo at Ciri.

And soon discovered what a horrible, horrible mistake they had made.

“I’ve never seen grown men that size run so fast,” says Jaskier with a bark of laughter. “One of them leapt right into the canal and swam for it!”

Yennefer chuckles into her goblet. “That certainly sounds like Ciri,” she says.

“Oh, you can’t help but love her dearly, our little Ciri. Not so little anymore though, I suppose, but I can’t help but think of her as that wild-eyed young girl still. Oh and remember her hair? What a rat’s nest it would become so easily. So windblown and knotted I could hardly brush it out to braid it. Twigs and burrs caught in it and all.”

“I remember, bard,” says Yennefer.

And.

She smiles.

At him.

Despite the gulp of wine he just swallowed, his mouth goes suddenly dry. It is a small thing, the edges of her mouth quirking upward, her stained lips thinning with it. Her round cheeks dimple slightly, and the faintest breath of wrinkles appear at the corners of her violet eyes. And her eyes echo that tenderness, filled with something that he would describe as affectionate warmth if he did not know who she was looking at.

The smile is for Ciri, he thinks but finds that he doesn’t care. It is warming and wonderful and like nothing he has ever seen on her face. He does not mind that it is not for him. He simply feels awed to have inspired it.

“By the gods,” says Jaskier, foolishly unable to stop the words from falling from his lips. “You have the most beautiful smile.”

And her face shutters at once, that smile forced into a grimace.

“Don’t talk nonsense,” she says. “I’m not one of your comely maidens.”

“I’m not-- Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to blurt that out.” Jaskier flounders, struck by the flood of desperate longing to somehow, some way see her smile like that again. “It’s not nonsense. It’s brutal honesty. I’d never risk lying to you, Yennefer. Or risk flirting with you, for that matter. My bits are much too precious to me.”

“A wise man,” says Yennefer, downing the rest of her drink in one go, and the night ends not long after that, Jaskier passing out in the living area of her rooms rather than risk waking the Witcher.

In the morning, the memory of her smile is crisp and clear in his mind even as the rest of the night blurs into a fog.

Just as Istredd had promised, he aches to inspire it again.

---

The second time it happens, he is so overjoyed and thrilled and relieved to see it again that, looking helplessly back at her as he is, he does not notice his feet stray off the edge of the path as he bodily connects with the solid trunk of a tree.

Geralt is escorting him to Oxenfurt before heading on to Kaer Morhen for the winter, and they encounter Yennefer on the maid road on her way to Novigrad.

Jaskier had been surprised to see her travelling by horse rather than by portal and had made some quip implying laziness, and she had remarked back that she was not surprised at all to see him traveling by foot. Couldn’t he afford a pony after all these years of tenure at the Academy?

He had allowed the back and forth to subside quicker than usual.

Since that night in her rooms, anytime that he happened to encounter her, Jaskier had poured ceaseless energy into attempts to bring that smile once more to her lips. So far, no luck.

He has tried compliments and gifts and more stories of fond memories and self-deprecating humor and commentary on her prestige and power and offerings of food and wine and all manner of things he is sure would have inspired at least a faint smile in anyone else.

But this time, it’s one of his newer compositions that does it. To his surprise, it’s not even a song in her honor but a silly one he wrote at his own expense, the jaunty tale of one of his many ill-advised romantic endeavors that went horribly wrong in potentially exaggerated ways. Sometimes leaning into the role of bumbling fool earns more coin than otherwise.

He has begun the third verse, his voice rising over the dusty road, half dancing a jig alongside the horses, when he looks back and sees Yennefer’s eyes on him.

She’s smiling.

Her dark curls fall loose around her shoulders, and the slanting autumn sunlight gleams on the jewels studded along the bodice of her dress, and there it is, the curve of a soft smile edged with laughter.

A fondness at the edge of it, a gentleness in her eyes.

It’s stunning.

It’s everything he remembers it being.

It’s incredibly, disastrously distracting.

“Oof,” Jaskier says as he bounces off the tree trunk and collapses back on his bottom on the side of the road. Geralt doesn’t even bother pulling up, cursing his clumsiness under his breath, but Yennefer?

Yennefer has collapsed into a fit of helpless laughter as she draws her grey mare to a halt, breathless and wheezing. And she’s still smiling, light and airy, and her laughter is not tainted by cruelty, simply genuine humor at what a sight he must look sprawled on the ground.

Jaskier can’t help laughing along with her, stretching out flat on his back to groan and roll in the dirt. The revelry ends when the Witcher shouts at them from down the road to get a move on, that if they dawdle any longer he’ll never make it to Kaer Morhen before the snows, and Jaskier gets up and wipes the tears from his eyes and pats the dust from his clothing and that’s the end of that.

But now?

Well, now, Jaskier aches to hear Yennefer’s laughter just as terribly as he has ached for her smile.

---

She cottons on to his scheming after a while, because of course she does. Because she’s Yennefer, and Jaskier has never known a woman more astute.

He used to fear that cleverness, tremble under her sharp perception, worry what she would perceive of him. But no longer.

“Jaskier,” she says, as he offers her the slender stem of a rose, its petals so dark burgundy as to appear black. She is visiting Oxenfurt on business. When Jaskier had heard of her presence in town, he had sought out his favorite local florist before stopping by her rooms. “Are you courting me?”

He sputters.

“No! I wouldn’t dare! Simply saw this in the market and thought of you. Simply thought you would admire it,” he says. She quirks a slender brow and reaches to accept the gift in curled fingers.

“No ulterior motives, then?” she asks.

“Ah,” he says. “Well, perhaps there is one.”

“Oh?”

“It’s only--” He knows there is no way to say such a thing without outing himself as an utter imbecile, but she already thinks that of him anyway so no harm done. “Well, I’m quite fond of your smile, is all. I had hoped to inspire more of them.”

She looks at him for a long moment, standing in her doorway. She twirls the stem of the rose in her hand, its dark, upturned petals brushing against her cheek as she lifts it to her nose to catch its fragrance.

And then.

She smiles at him with all the beauty and gentle softness he has come to crave, and he finds his lungs have forgotten how to draw air, standing in perfect rapt stillness before her. Something warm and soaring rises in his breast. His cheeks begin to burn, flushing with the pride and awe at having inspired such a thing and when he thinks on it, when he looks closer, when he examines that swelling warmth in his breast--

His eyes jerk up to meet hers with the sudden realization that he has been staring at her lips for longer than is probably strictly proper, but she hasn’t stopped smiling. She does not jump to chastise him or react in scandalized horror at his blatant ogling.

Instead, she laughs, a bright bubble of a laugh that is almost a giggle, and it thrills through him like a shock of lightning, tightening in his belly.

And she says, “come here, you idiot.”

And pulls him by the front of his doublet into a heated kiss.

And he discovers yet one more gesture of hers that he suddenly aches for.

#and formatting messed up in the ask so #had to repost #yennskier #yenskier #yennefer x jaskier #prompt fills

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kpopmalereader · 5 years ago

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existing ; jung yunho

• summary: soft days with yunho • pairing: jung yunho x male!reader • word count: 987 • to do

The trees around you block most of the harsh sunlight, the rest hitting your hand, filtering through your fingers to shine rays onto your face. You let your hand drop onto the grass and close your eyes. The warmth of the sun contrasts with the cool breeze bouncing off the lake a mere ten feet in front of you. Your skin is baked dry, whatever water was left from the hours of swimming every area you could get to is long gone, nothing but a sticky residue left.

Yunho steps onto the rented house’s back patio. You were in the same spot when he came inside to take his shower and it doesn’t appear you’ve moved at all. He ignores his shoes, choosing to dig his no-longer-clean feet into the grass. His steps are muffled, you don’t move at all as he walks closer.

The sun engulfs your body and when he’s a few feet away he finally speaks. “Are you communicating with the angels you come from?”

He can see the corners of your mouth pull up. “You’re very funny.”

“I pride myself on it.” He sits next to you. He kisses your shoulder lightly. “You’re going to get a sunburn.”

“This is worth it.”

You sigh and lay your head on his lap. “Close your eyes.”

Yunho detangles your hair with his fingers. “But look at the view.”

“Trust me. Close your eyes.” You repeat. “Close your eyes and lean your head up. Just feel the sun.”

He laughs and sighs. He does as you say and tilts his chin up until the sun shines onto his cheeks. “It does feel nice.”

“Can we pay for an extra week here?” You ask.

He’s looking down at you again, nothing in this world could pull him from the moment. “We have the same sun at home.”

You hum and put your arms above your head. “But we don’t have a lake. We can’t wake up and want to go swimming or skiing or just to put our feet in the sand.”

“We could buy a place.” Yunho offers. The hand not combing and styling your hair travels down your chest. He draws circles and designs on your skin. “Buy a small lake house or a place by the ocean. Then we can swim or play whenever we want.”

Your smile grows as you think over the thought. A small house with big windows that you accidentally leave open all night. You wake up to the smell of saltwater. Breakfast outside on the patio then you race to the beach before anybody else can get there. The whole ocean to yourselves with no will or need to go anywhere else.

“One day.” You nod your head and peek your eyes open.

“Yeah? You want to own a beach house with me? Co-sign on a mortgage?”

You laugh and lean up on your hands, kissing under his chin. “I don’t think either of us fully understand what that means, so I’ll say again, we will one day.”

He tilts his chin down to catch your lips against his. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

A song you’ve played a million times in the past week can be heard through the cracks under the door as Yunho juggles his keys. He opens the door and the music is close to blaring but you’re nowhere in sight. He hears shuffling in the kitchen and smiles. He drops his things by the door and hums along to the song, following the noise to you.

As he turns the corner into the kitchen the first thing he notices is your feet. You’re standing on the countertops, your comfy socks discarded on the ground, with a bucket of cleaning supplies strewn around. Yunho grabs your phone and turns the music down to a low roar.

“Should I ask?”

You smile down at him and wipe your forehead with the back of your hand. You shrug your shoulders. “Cleaning.”

“Cleaning the top of the cabinets?”

“I was looking for something and noticed they were dusty.”

He nods and walks over to where you’re standing. “Two more questions then. How did you get up there and how are you planning to get down?”

You tiptoe around until you’re facing him. He takes the bottle of cleaner from you and you smile. “Two answers. I climbed and that’s what your height and arms are for.”

He holds his arms up and lets you jump down to him, taking extra time to be positive you’re alright before letting your feet truly hit the floor.

You’re face to face with him, a bit of dust on your nose and sweat on your forehead, and he’s in love. He realizes the song you were playing is on repeat and he leans hallway, waiting for you to press your lips to his. You hum a few words before finally kissing him.

“Is this what you do when I’m not here?” He slides his arms down to rest on your lower back. “Find weird crevices to clean?”

“Sometimes.”

“And other times?”

You giggle and open the microwave to show a plate of precariously piled cookies. “Other times I make a mess of the house myself. Made these from scratch.”

Yunho closes the microwave and loops his fingers with yours. “I’ll make sure I eat most of those after I get some typical dinner food.”

You squint and shake your head. “I didn’t make any of that.”

“I’m sure I’ll find something. But first,” He brushes the dust off your face and smiles. “We both need to take showers. I’ll get something started for dinner and then I’ll head in.”

You pucker your lips, staying in the same position until you’re satisfied with how many kisses you’ve gotten. You nod your head and step away from him. “I would hurry. Or I’m going to use all of the hot water.”

#ateez #kpop #kpop scenario #ateez x reader #male reader #ateez imagine #ateez scenario #yunho #jung yunho #kpop male reader #kpop x reader #kpop x male reader #ateez male reader #yunho x reader #yunho x male reader #yunho x male!reader #jung yunho x male reader #jung yunho x male!reader

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wlw-imagines-blog · 5 years ago

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Abandonment, Enthroned. {Part 4} (Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!reader

Warnings:

Tags: apocalypse au, enemies to friends to lovers, no powers au,

Word count:

Summary: The domestic, fluffy montage, then going to town.

A/N: I have returned from the grave (momentarily)! Extra long because I disappeared for so long

Morning came so much faster than you expected. You closed your eyes, and opened them seconds later to dawn. Laying on your back, you watched the way the dust refracted in the sunlight. You tried not to think about the Winter Soldier, or how much danger Queens was, or about the stranger in the other room.

Everything was upside down. You had moved West when the Militia and New Alliance started their civil war in the east, with New York as their battleground.

Now the battle was moving through the West.

The farm was your little piece of heaven; it provided for you, and kept you safe for the better part of two years since you had stumbled upon it.

You spoke out loud to no one. “If the soldiers move west, I’m going to Oregon.”

After brushing your teeth and washing your face, you changed into a fresh set of holey jeans and a fraying sweater. The mirror and vanity in the corner of the room was vacant of combs, and makeup, but instead was littered with old books. You peered into the dusty mirror. Your reflection was tired, with heavy bags under your eyes, and sleep lines on your cheeks.

A weak smile fluttered to your lips, as you tried to remember the girl you were before the fallout.

With a shake of your head, you left your room, and went to Wanda’s.

You hesitated before knocking.

“Hey, Wanda? Can I come in?”

You heard some rustling before a response. “Yeah, go ahead.”

Behind the door, Wanda was laying in bed, looking better rested than the day before. There was more colour in her cheeks and lips.

“I’m going into town in a week,” you announced. “I’m running low on some supplies, hopefully I can find them there.”

Wanda nodded, sitting up gingerly. Her hand brushed against the bandages on her stomach.

Guilt flashed through you, vanishing as fast as it came. “Does that still hurt terribly?”

“No,” she said, standing up slowly. “Not as bad as it was yesterday.”

Her grip on the bed post was so tight, her knuckles were white. She took one shaky step before pitching forward. You crossed the room and wrapped a tentative arm around her waist.

“May I?” you asked quietly.

She paused, stubborn pride warring in her eyes. “Yes. Thank you.”

You hobbled with Wanda down the staircase to the living room. Her breathing was labored, and she was sweating profusely.

“Let me get you something to drink,” you said, going to the kitchen to retrieve water and a wash cloth.

When you returned, Wanda spoke through her deep breaths.

“I want to go into town with you.”

You nearly dropped the glass of water. “What? Why?”

“I’ll need to know the land when I leave,” she responded. “I never got past your house. If there’s a way to get further west, I need to find it.”

You handed her the glass. “You can come if you can walk without my help. We need to get there as fast as possible, loot whatever we can carry, then get back before nightfall. I don’t want you slowing me down.”

Wanda scoffed, but did not dispute you.

The idea of Wanda leaving brought on mixed emotions. You were afraid for her; she couldn’t stand or walk by herself, let alone survive a day without help. But then again, you were relieved that the house would be empty. After a few months of isolation, you thought that you would welcome the company, but you were ready for peace and quiet. When Wanda left, hopefully the looming threat of the militia would disappear. That was dangerous wishful thinking.

One could hope, anyways.

“We still don’t know what to do the Winter Soldier,” Wanda whispered, legs folded.

“He didn’t hurt us,” you reminded. “Even when he saw you in the window.”

“So, what does that mean for us?”

You shrugged. “No clue.”

“He must have wanted something.”

“Maybe he wanted room and board?”

A scoff. “Right. Of course.”

“Maybe he defected?”

Another scoff. “That’s totally impossible.”

“Well, it’s not our problem right now.”

Wanda shook her head incredulously. “How can you not care?”

“Like this,” you went into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. She did not see the tremor in your jaw.

The day was blissfully slow. You wandered around the farm, cleaning the orchard, chatting with Goat, who found the dropping temperature disagreeable. When you returned, you were shocked to see Wanda staggering around the living room with a wooden crutch.

You grinned at the sight. “You can walk on your own.”

Wanda looked up and nodded. There was a little bit of pride in her eyes. “Kind of. I need the crutch.”

“Still, it’s better progress than yesterday.” you pointed out.

Your infectious grin seemed to pierce Wanda’s usual gloomy mood. “I guess so.”

“Good.” you dusted your hands. “You can help me with the chores.”

You ignored her groan and left to hang the clothes. “Come on, Wanda! Goat won’t feed himself!”

****

Over the next few days, Wanda got her strength back. You always helped from bed in the morning, acting as a crutch to bring her downstairs. After a simple breakfast, you put her to work; hanging laundry, feeding Goat, tidying the house, etc. It would have been merciful to let Wanda sleep in and stay in bed all day, but you weren’t merciful. She needed to keep moving to forget the remnants of the knife wound.

One evening, after a day of weeding the corn field, you made a proper, far more formal than usual dinner. Wanda sat at the kitchen table shucking corn while you stirred peas into stew. Dwarf carrots, potatoes, and chicken. You and Wanda were celebrating; Wanda didn’t need the crutch anymore.

After dinner and a desert of baked cinnamon apples, you went to the attic to store the crutch away.

“Hey, Wanda,’ you called, trotting down the stairs, a large box in hand. “Look what I found.”

She was in the kitchen, finishing the dishes. “What?”

You opened the box and pulled out a large square file. Wanda craned her next to read the title of the vinyl

“Paul Anka?”

Grinning, you moved to the dusty record player in the corner of the room. “I found them up in the attic. I never knew they were here.”

Love songs from the 50′s filled the air, bringing another rare smile to Wanda’s face. You went to the basement and retrieved a large bottle of red wine.

“Want a glass?” You asked while waggling the bottle. “Have you taken any pain killers?”

Wanda snickered and shook her head. “Nope. Pour me a glass.” Despite her grin, there was something that clouded her eyes.

While you attended to the drinks, Wanda stood tentatively in the living room. When you handed her the glass, she spoke up.

“Y/N, why didn’t you know the records were upstairs?”

You turned back to her. “What do you mean?”

“Well, when you say something like that, it implies that this isn’t your house.”

There was a pause in your momentary happiness. “Well. That’s because this isn’t my home. It wasn’t before the rebellion.”

Wanda didn’t seem too surprised. “Can I ask what happened?”

You looked away, eyes landing on the woven carpet. The blues and browns neatly stitched together. You sat next to Wanda on the couch.

“Wanda, I didn’t find this house empty. There was a m-man who lived here. The farmer and his wife. They had two kids; grown up boys who took care of the farm when the man couldn’t.” You swallowed harshly. If you knew things about Wanda, she should know some pieces of your life. “A few months ago, maybe six, when I was travelling west, I landed here. The farmer welcomed me in to stay for a day before I headed farther.”

When you paused, Wanda sat forward. “What happened?”

You met her eyes. “There was a raid. Not by the New Alliance, not by the Protectors. It was just... the townspeople. From the village a few miles from here.”

She was completely silent. Paul Anka crooned softly.

“Ever since the New Alliance cut back food rations, the town had been tense. People needed food for their children. They knew he had the orchard and crops, and they wanted a piece for themselves. It was like a riot. The farmer told me to hide since no one else knew I was here; he asked me to protect their newborn goat.” You did not mention the basement and it’s deadbolt-reinforced steel door. Your face grew pinched as tears welled in your eyes. “I hid while they faced them.”

When you remained quiet, Wanda reached out.

“Y/N?”

You sniffed, shaking yourself from the ache in your chest. “The mob killed them. Him, his wife, and his kids. They ravaged the farm. The orchard was nearly completely destroyed, the house was trashed when I came out. But... everyone was gone.”

“Gone? From the house?”

Shaking your head, you continued. “Completely gone. I visited the town and everyone was gone. Nothing was missing, though there were cars still running and lights still on. It was like everyone had just disappeared.”

Wanda’s eyes widened a fraction. “Y/N, I think they were-”

A crack of thunder made you and Wanda jump in your seats. Rain spattered against the house in sudden buckets, pouring down the windows.

“Oh,” you stood up, looking from the window to Wanda. “The clothes!”

Before she could say anything, you ran out the back door to the yard.

You snatched the sheets and shirts from the clothes line, tossing them haphazardly into the basket. Wanda was by your side, ripping down socks and pants. In the unusually warm sunset, rain pelted down against your head. Thunder roared in the distance.

“Come on!” you called out, grabbing the basket with one hand and Wanda’s hand with the other.

You pulled her back inside, chest heaving. Soaked to the bone, hair plastered to your scalp, you dropped the basket and leaned against the back door.

Wanda rested next to you, pale and gasping at the sudden movement.

“Fuck,” you whispered, turning to her. “Are you hurt?”

Your fingers moved of their own accord, lifting the hem of Wanda’s shirt to examine the bandage. No blood seemed to seep through.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Wanda’s voice was thick. He reached down hesitantly, grasping your hand.

You froze. Your heart pounded loudly in your ears. Her hand was warm, fingers tight against your knuckles.

Wanda licked her lips. “I’m fine.”

In a moment of courage, you twisted your wrist to hold her hand. Your palm pressed to her’s. The fading sun glinted off of Wanda’s hair and eyes. She leaned forward to rest her head against your shoulder. The gesture shocked you.

“Thanks Y/N.”

You couldn’t help but frown. “For what?”

“I don’t know,” Wanda sighed contently. “For helping me. For sharing with me.”

You smiled. “Well then, you’re welcome.”

The music droned on, and you found Wanda swaying in front of you. You wrapped an arm around her waist, leading her to the living room.

Before you could deposit Wanda on the couch, her grip on your arm tightened.

“Wait. Don’t go.”

“What? is something wrong?”

She held you at arms length. “Please. Dance with me.”

“Right,” you scoffed. “How much did you drink?”

“Almost none. Come on, they’re playing our song.”

You rolled your eyes, unable to stop the smile that pulled at the corners of your lips. Wanda’s eyes pleaded silently. Swallowing, you nodded, letting her pull you close.

The music droned on, slow and sleepy as Wanda rested a hand on your waist. You breathed in a sharp breath, letting yourself press against her. You memorized the way Wanda’s thigh rested perfectly yours.

It wasn’t really dancing. It was more like swaying in a circle, arms wrapped around each other. Outside, the sunset glinted off the rain on the windows. Warm petrichor permeated through the living room.

Wanda’s hand slide from your waist to your hip, playing with the hem of your shirt.

“I-” you stuttered. “I don’t know what we’re doing...”

“Should I stop?”

God, yes or no? You found yourself shaking your head. “I can’t. Please. I don’t I can.”

Wanda wanted to leave. She was going to go west, and you were going to stay on the farm. She tried to rob you. She’s a runaway.

You forced yourself to remember who she was.

Wanda’s eyes were wide. She licked her lips and nodded, pulling away.

“Right. Fuck.” A weak laugh. “Sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

You wanted to cry out. Her body was so warm, and you were still drenched from the downpour. Every touch from her fingers felt like electricity. This was what you missed.

“It’s okay, we’re both...” Lonely? Tired? Attracted? “Not thinking straight.”

“Well, that’s for sure.” Wanda let out another mirthless laugh, rubbing her face awkwardly. “I’m gonna go upstairs and rest.”

You nodded, wringing your hands as she left.

“Fuck,” you said to no one, taking her glass of wine and drinking it all.

***

You came downstairs the next day, carrying a back pack. Wanda was sitting in the kitchen, already sipping a cup of coffee and reading a thick book. She really had made herself incredibly comfortable.

“I’m going into town,” you announced, retrieving a walking stick from the mud room. In your bag was water, some food, a first aid kit, and a blanket. You wore your thickest jacket, and your sturdiest boots. “How are you feeling?”

Despite her improved mobility, Wanda’s endurance still left much to be desired.

Wanda stood up, resilient. “I’m good. I can go.”

You nodded, grabbing a flannel coat from the rack and tossing it to her. You could barely meet her eyes. Neither of you were willing to speak about yesterday.

“Fine. Suit up and come to the garage. There’s a bag with supplies for you on the counter.”

She caught it, and you turned on your heel, forcing down every question you had about last night.

***

The car ride was quiet. Wanda sat in the passenger seat, eyes closed, head lolling back as she slept. The roads were so empty; they did nothing but remind you of how empty and lonely it was. There was no one else in the woods, and it scared you.

Sunlight poked between the evergreen trees, glinting off the hood of the red, rusted pickup. You glanced at the shotgun between you and Wanda.

“Just a precaution,” you had told her.

At a four way stop, you turned left. Ten minutes later, you pulled into a little, decrepit town. Five years ago, it would have been picturesque; department stores, two-story apartments, and corner grocers decorated every street. Iron lamp posts and greenery were used to make the whole place seem more welcoming. It would have been beautiful.

But now, dirt and rust covered everything. Broken windows, ajar doors, and overturned garbage cans haunted the town. Stray newspapers tumbled in the streets.

“Jesus,” Wanda said softly when she stepped out of the truck. “This place is terrible.”

You hummed, slinging an empty bag onto your shoulder. “It’s my piece of heaven, Wanda. Don’t knock it ‘til you loot it.”

“Okay, where do we start?” She clapped her hands together.

You pointed down the street to the nearest grocer. “Let’s start with grocers and move to convenience stores. We’re looking for canned and dried foods; they last the longest. Anything that’s perishable has already gone bad.”

You set to work. The pair of you went from store to store, filling bags with whatever canned, dried, and boxed foods you could find. After filling a bag, you tossed it into the back of the truck. Jars of pickles, cans of vegetable soup and spam, bottles of overdue honey, all went into the bags. The two of you worked harmoniously and silently.

You nearly cried when you found out that a whole shelf covered with bags of rolled oats; all stinking of mold. Wanda found huge jugs of canola oil that had gone rancid. The third grocer you two visited smelt so strongly of rotted vegetables, you hesitated to enter.

Afternoon crept up on you and Wanda. Lunch was brief; just a simple meal of some dried fruits and cans of spam. Wanda blanched when you offered the tin.

“Hey, it’s this or moldy oats.” you shook the spam can in front of her face.

She snorted and begrudgingly took it.

Evening fell quickly, covering the town with darkness.

“Let’s head back,” you said, zipping up the last bag.

About ten minutes into driving, the sun dipped below the tree line, turning the sky black. Ten minutes after that, Wanda coughed awkwardly.

“Uh, Y/N, I have to pee.”

“Really?” you sighed. “Can’t you hold it?”

“Probably, but I might get a UTI.”

You held up your hand. “Alright. Fine.”

Pulling over quickly, you parked the truck and turned to her. “Don’t take too long, Wanda; we don’t want to be out when it’s dark.”

“I know,” she rolled her eyes and jumped out of the car. She disappeared between the evergreens.

You sat in the truck, fiddling with the radio. After scanning over every station, hearing nothing but dead static, you checked again. It had been three days since Queens had sent out a transmission and you were getting nervous.

“Y/N!” Wanda shouted. She sounded eerily calm. “I need your help!”

Your heart dropped. Scrambling from the car, you drew the long knife from your belt.

A few strides into the forest and you found Wanda face to face with a Grizzly bear. It was slowly approaching her, nose sniffing at the ground.

Fuck. You picked up Wanda’s fallen walkie-talkie, and pressed the “on” button. You held it close to the receiver of your’s and it let out a horrible screech. The bear reared, and turned from Wanda towards the noise.

You threw the walkie off the path, deep into the woods.

led out a tremendous roar that rattled your bones. It limbered off, searching for the screeches.

After a few shaking breaths you stood up and raced to Wanda.

“Are you okay?” you fumbled to pull her up. There no smell of coppery blood. “Did it bite you? Any scratches?”

“No, no,” she was trembling under your hands. “I’m okay.”

You panic immediately evaporated, replaced with anger. “Then what the fuck were you thinking! You could have died, dumbass!”

“Hey, I saved your sorry ass!” Wanda sputtered. “Without me, you would have been eaten alive! Show a little gratitude!”

“Gratitude!” You laughed incredulously. “What the hell would you know about gratitude? Wanda, you attacked me in my own house, tried to rob me, and I still took care of you!”

“After you stabbed me!”

“After you attacked me!”

“I was on the run and desperate!”

“So that gives you the right to rob some-”

The sound of a rattling engine cut you off. You paused, suddenly on alert.

“What was that?” you whispered.

Wanda looked around the clearing, trying to find the source. “It has to be a car. Someone else is here.”

She grabbed your arm and pulled you around the back of the truck. Your heart beat violently, jumping uncomfortably in your throat. The white glare of headlights illuminated the line of trees as another car pulled into the clearing. The engine cut, and a door opened.

Footsteps crunched on the gravel, slowly approaching you and Wanda

“Wanda,” you murmured hoarsely, pulling out the machete from your belt. “The shotgun is in the passenger seat. ”

She nodded as you raised the blade, mouth pressed into a thin line. Creeping to the door, Wanda kept the knife raised. The passenger door opened easily, creaking ever so slightly. You prayed that the stranger didn’t hear her. The darkness disguised the pick up; if the intruder’s car was two metres to the left, the headlights would have revealed you and Wanda.

Wanda was surprisingly graceful as she slipped her arm into the passenger side and pulled out the gun.

The footsteps continued towards you. The stranger had seen your truck.

“Hurry,” you hissed.

She snatched the shot gun and shot up, pointing it at the stranger. “Don’t you take another fucking step.”

“Hey! Oh shit, okay, sorry. I don’t want any trouble, I’m just trying to find someone. I’ll be out of your way, please leave me alone.”

That voice. You stood up, moving to the stranger. It... couldn’t be.

“Queens?” You called out.

The stranger, shrouded by darkness, seized up. “North? Are you North?”

“Yeah, I am,” You let out a sigh of relief. “Jesus Christ, kid, I was so fucking worried about you!”

You hugged the kid. Within the embrace, you could feel the tension in his shoulders slowly seep out. It took you a moment to realize he was shaking with sobs.

You comforted him. “Hey, it’s okay, man. You’re safe now.”

Glancing over to Wanda, you could see her smile in the headlights.

“Let’s get home.”

#wanda maximoff #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff imagines #marvel #marvel ladies #marvel imagines #Scarlet Witch #scarlet witch x reader #scarlet witch imagines #fanfiction #fanfic #marvel fanfic

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retroateez · 4 years ago

Text

Prophecy - Chapter Thirteen

so,,,, hello!!!

firstly i apologise for how long this took me,,, university has been a nightmare and a blessing all in one and my sleep pattern is still getting worse that being said,, here (finally) is chapter thirteen! to those of you who have been waiting eagerly and showing your support, i thank you so much for giving me the motivation to keep this series going, lots of love - hades x

Prophecy Masterlist wc;2825

The next morning, Hongjoong called you, Yeosang and Wooyoung into his office to discuss your temporary residence. He had stood before you, like a teacher lecturing his naughty students and informed you that under no circumstances were any of you to perform magic.

Easy for you, you thought. You didn't even know how to use it.

"Witch hunters will be able to trace you if they detect any magical source coming from the kingdom," The king explained. "If there is rumour of any magic beings within my court, the other kingdoms will pick up on it immediately, and it will result in bloodshed."

The way Hongjoong had looked at the three of you as he instructed you was terrifying. It was bordering on begging, and deeper behind his golden eyes he looked frightened. And you supposed you would be too, if you had to go to war for such a ridiculous reason.

You could barely comprehend the thought of Yeosang and Wooyoung being killed just because they were non-human. It made it worse how they insisted it was okay because they were 'used to it', as if that justified anything.

Still, they complied to the king's request and agreed to not use any magic within the kingdom, especially in the castle and the grounds.

"We've managed to cover up your appearance here yesterday, so you don't need to be concerned about that. However, I am half tempted to charge you for causing emotional damage to my kingsguard. You gave him quite the fright."

You stifled a laugh at hearing the extent of Seonghwa's reaction to your intrusion, the scary kingsguard perhaps being much softer in demeanour than you had initially thought.

After the briefing, Hongjoong had dismissed you to once again talk over the prophecy with Yeosang and Wooyoung.

The astrologer had informed you that they were making steady progress, they had deciphered some of the constellation meanings and were working on how to avoid the outcomes of their predictions.

"It's very easy to avoid a war," Wooyoung had scoffed that morning whilst tying up his boot laces. "We needn't worry about the Ara constellation because we simply just do not engage in a war."

"But what if somebody goes to war with us?" You asked timidly, staring nervously at the floor.

Wooyoung paced over to you and gently raised your chin with the tip of his finger.

"We won't go to war, Iris. Nobody has any reason to go to war with us. Besides, you'd probably be more worried about the Ball than fighting in a battle."

He had ruffled your hair and swiftly left the room, leaving you gazing at the ceiling with a feeling in your chest you couldn't quite understand. Something had changed with you and Wooyoung recently; he'd been standing closer to you than usual, smiling at you more, being kinder than he used to and truthfully you had no idea what to make of it.

You thought that maybe he felt more comfortable in your presence considering you had to share a room with him.

But that didn't excuse the way your heart raced and stomach fluttered whenever he would flash his killer smile at you or whined like a puppy when you refused to share any of the cook's baked treats with him.

Your current course of action was to completely ignore every single one of those feelings. Either that or take a visit to Yunho and get him to perform a medical examination on you, because you were absolutely convinced you were dying slowly from the inside out. Had some kind of magical parasite burrowed into your skin while you slept and had gradually been sucking the life out of you without you noticing? Or maybe some evil witch had snuck into the kitchens, managed to figure out which delicious looking apple you had been eyeing up the previous afternoon, poison it and cackle mysteriously as she watched you take a giant bite of the apple through the window?

Or perhaps you had been reading too many fairytales and storybooks.

That was probably it.

Yet, you couldn't help yourself. Not when Hongjoong's castle had such a beautiful library, full to the brim with all ranges of books. Even though there was such an extensive selection, immediately you were drawn to the wonderfully illustrated tales of woeful princesses stuck in their towers, powerful dragons aiming to conquer worlds and daring wizards yearning for adventure.

You had yet to find a book about an angry king and his weak-hearted kingsguard, but you didn't really need to read a fictional account to experience that.

It wasn't like you had much to do either; the ball was still a few weeks away and you still weren't allowed to help Yeosang and Wooyoung with the prophecy under Hongjoong's guidance. You saw less and less of Mingi as his lute practice was being upped due to the fast-approaching ball. So you spent most of your days holed up in the corner of the typically empty library.

In fact, that was exactly what you planned on spending the whole day doing.

You raced down the intricately decorated hallways of the castle, brushing your fingertips against the crimson velvet sashes that hung from ceiling to floor. Sunlight filtered in gently through the stained-glass windows, leaving rainbow shards on the plush rugs underneath your boots. In time, you're outside the familiar library door, a much cooler shade of oak than the other doors in this hallway, you notice. It's smoother to the touch too, like whoever designed this room centuries ago took special care in it's creation.

Pushing the door open, you enter the library. The scent is slightly dusty, with a lingering smell of untouched parchment and slowly decaying leather. The room itself is huge, bookshelves line the walls from top to bottom, almost encaging you in with towers of tales and stories hidden within leather-bound shells. The wall to your right is bare of shelves, in its space is a large bay window, with a cushioned area for somebody to sit and read. Coincedentally, your favourite place to lounge and waste the day away getting lost in foreign, mystical worlds.

Unfortunately, your seat appears to be occupied.

"Excuse me," you call politely, making your way over to the lounging figure who has their nose buried in a book. "You're sitting in my spot."

His attention snaps to yours lightening fast. So fast that you're shocked he didn't give himself whiplash or any other injury.

His gaze, much like his face and eyes, are narrow. Slender cheekbones and an unimpressed scowl are directed your way and the feeling of regret settles deep in your core.

"Your spot?" He repeats with a scoff. "And who are you to claim this seat?"

He sets his book down onto the soft window-seat, and swings his long legs round so he can stand up. Even from a distance, you can tell he's got a considerable amount of height on him. Everything about him is slim; his nose, jaw, torso. He takes a couple of steps towards you, and you notice he makes little to no sound. Agile, you think. He reminds you of a cat, his attentive gaze unwavering from your puzzled face, the way he moves concise and utterly silent. Unruly, raven black hair swept atop his head and glittering golden eyes evoke memories of the black cats from home. Slinking quietly through the market stalls, stalking mice or keeping an eye out for danger.

"Iris, right?" he asks.

You nod. "Ye-"

"Wrong." He interrupts you before you finish speaking, and he's standing right before you. So close that if you look up you can see every fleck of fire in his eyes.

"W-what? What do you mean?"

"Your name isn't Iris at all, is it?"

How does he know that?

He smirks at you, thinking he's figured out your deepest darkest secret.

"No, it isn't. How did you know? Did Yeosang tell you?"

"I've been keeping an eye on you, because I don't trust you. Hongjoong may have let you and your friends into the castle without batting an eyelid, but I'm not as easily fooled as him."

"I don't know what you think I'm planning," you glare at him, astounded that he's actually accusing you of plotting something. "But you're greatly mistaken."

He remains silent for a few moments as he eyes you up and down, taking in your hand-me-down clothes (a mixture of Wooyoung and Yeosang's) and untidy, unkempt hair.

"When our name is called," he begins to explain. "We have a physical reaction. Our eyes light up, our ears perk up, our head swivels round as we try to identify who is calling for us."

"Your point?" Somehow you find it in you to challenge him, despite the fact his glare is weighing down on you so heavily you think your knees might actually buckle with pressure.

"You do none of these things when your name is called."

"Okay. So you know that Iris isn't my real name. Yeosang knows that too. Now what?"

"I think if you're going to be living in this castle, free of charge, without doing any work to earn your keep, the least you can do is give me your real name."

In any other circumstance, you would've told him to stick it. Probably with a punch, too. But there's something so intimidating about him, something so covertly dangerous that you can't decipher.

"And why should I tell you that when I don't even know your name?" you bite back, and you see the spark of realisation on his face that he is also a complete stranger to you.

"San." he replies simply.

"Haneul." you answer.

"Haneul?" San echoes. "You don't seem like a Haneul."

"People used to call me Hana."

"Hana? Like the number one?"

You nod.

"Yeosang just gave me the name Iris when I met him, by the way." A part of you felt compelled to explain why you were going by a different alias. Not that you owed San anything anyway. After all, he had been incredibly rude to you despite having met literally five minutes ago.

"And you didn't think to correct him?"

"Evidently not."

San rolls his eyes at your curt response, shaking his head a little and pushing his cheek from the inside with his tongue, the same way that Wooyoung does when he gets annoyed with you. You think that they'd probably get on quite well.

"So, do you actually do anything around here?" You throw the questions back in San's direction, feeling quite fed up of being interrogated for one day. "Or do you make a habit of ambushing young women in libraries and demanding their life stories?"

He gives you another unimpressed look before he goes back over to his book at the window-seat.

"I'm the Ateez court jester," he answers you calmly. "I entertain company with jokes, stories, songs, you name it."

"A jester? I thought you wore silly costumes and hats with bells on?"

San scowls at you from across the room. Does he actually know how to smile?

"You read too much." He deadpans. "I'm not a character in a storybook. I'm a person who has a job like everyone else here. I wear ordinary clothes, I don't wear a hat, and I do more than just tell jokes."

San crosses the room with an air of anger, yet he still manages to walk gracefully without making a sound. He places his book back on the shelf, then approaches you at the door.

"Now if you'll excuse me, I have a ball to prepare material for."

You side-step out of the way, and San slips past you and you listen as the soft pattering of his footsteps gradually fade, and then disappear altogether.

What the f-

"Oh, there you are!"

Wooyoung's lanky frame comes barreling into you, the slight panic laced in his voice making you worry.

"Here I am," you confirm. "What's wrong?"

"Hongjoong wants to see you." He breathes. "About the prophecy."

-----

"I've already told you! I don't know anything more than you do!"

Hongjoong had summoned you into his office, and the atmosphere in the room told you everything you needed to know. You could cut through it with a knife. A strong knife though, as the tension was so thick a regular butter knife wouldn't dent it one little bit. And the way Hongjoong was leaning against his desk with his arms fully stretched out, head hanging down and exhaling out of his nose like a furious cattle ready to charge.

You assumed that perhaps their work wasn't going swimmingly.

"The deadline to solve this is approaching fast, thief. Do you understand that? My people will die if we don't crack this soon."

"What exactly do you want me to do about it?" You angrily retort. "If you've forgotten, you've kept me in the dark for weeks!"

"Because you were of no use." Hongjoong replies simply. He wanders around the side of his desk and meanders his way to stand in front of you, his arms loosely behind his back.

"However, seeing as it was you who intially offered to help with the prophecy, I thought that perhaps reverting to our roots would prove more fruitful." He lowers himself slightly and stares at you directly with his dangerous, poisonous gaze.

His demand renders you silent. You stand frozen in his office, the worried glances of Yeosang and Wooyoung piercing into the back of your skull. You will your mouth to open and scream internally at yourself to speak, to say absolutely anything you can conjure to get out of the situation but nothing comes. Finally, the web of lies you've been spinning since day one is about to unravel itself.

And you can do nothing except for watch.

Is this where you get caught out? After so long? You were beginning to like it here too; the beautiful garden, getting closer to Wooyoung, making friends with Mingi. You had even planned to ask him to teach you how to play the lute. Hell, even making enemies with San was something you were looking forward to. And you hadn't tried the cook's famous apple pie that Mingi raved about. No. No, instead Hongjoong was going to catch out your lies, the stories you had told him and he was going to lock you up in the prison under the castle for the rest of your life. You were going to die, ancient, magicless, friendless, alone, all because you couldn't just tell the damn truth. What were you doi-

"What if it isn't a man?" your tongue expertly blurts out the first thing your racing brain can pluck out of thin air to try and save your back, and you have to stop yourself from squeaking out in shock.

"What do you mean?" Hongjoong asks, with genuine curiousity written across his features.

"Well, the prophecy says Man, doesn't it? But you've been taking it literally. As in, A Man. But what if it means anyone from the human race?"

Hongjoong stands stunned before you for a few seconds, as if he physically cannot comprehend what you have suggested.

"Are you suggesting that a woman will destroy my kingdom?"

"I-, well, no-"

"I think what Iris is trying to say," Yeosang pushes himself off the wall he was leaning against and approaches you and Hongjoong. "Is that we should broaden our horizons a little bit. You know, branch out from searching monstrously powerful men. Look into witches, sirens, even dragons and the like."

"None of those are human, mage." Hongjoong sneers.

Yeosang merely shrugs in response.

"Just a suggestion. Besides, Iris is right. It doesn't state a singular man. The gods haven't always made sense, have they? Perhaps expanding our criteria would be a good thing."

"It could also be somebody disguised as a human," Wooyoung pipes up. "Like a shape-shifter or even a halfling."

"Halfling?" you echo, confused.

"Somebody that is half human and half something else." Yeosang explains. "So a half human half elf would be called a halfling, as would a half human half giant and so on."

"So you really think that we might have something worse than a human on our hands?" Hongjoong asks. He nibbles his bottom lip in a way that makes you concerned for him. It's that moment you remember that he is an exceedingly young king, and that at times he's probably way out of his depth.

He pulls his tawny fur coat tighter over his shoulders and straightens up his posture. It reminds you of a wild fox, and his mannerisms in themselves remind you of a fox cub too. He moves quietly (a running theme of the key figures in this castle, you've noticed), and when he's calm he appears very serene.

You, Wooyoung and Yeosang all nod, and Hongjoong takes that as a sign to proceed.

"Very well. I will have orders out to search and interrogate anyone, and anything that seems suspicious. Let's hope we're right."

Yeah, you exhale. Let's hope I'm right.

#retroateez #medieval au #medieval!ateez #hongjoong #seonghwa #yeosang #san #mingi #wooyoung #yunho #jongho #ateez

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athingthatwantsvirginia · 5 years ago

Text

King’s a Hack

PART SIX OF THE DO YOU SEE HER FACE? SERIES

Pairing: Jess Mariano x Original Character (Ella Stevens)

Warnings: mentions of migraines, plentiful pop culture references

Word Count: 4K

Summary: On a night at home with a stress-induced migraine, Ella is surprised when Jess shows up. The next morning, Ella goes on one of her occasional pie baking kicks.

A throbbing pulse behind her eyes, Ella trudged through the balmy morning to the diner. The history textbook was weighing down her shoulders. April and the air was finally warming, though the morning still had a frosty quality about it. The sunlight was bright but she could still see her breath in white clouds before her. Stepping into the cozy air of the diner, the aroma of coffee hit her right away and made her stomach do a flip. She could work there a hundred years and never get used to it. Coupled with the smell, the place was the loudest she had ever heard it. Drywall was falling in random chunks from the ceiling, men in hardhats strolling back and forth out of a plastic sheet. She’d forgotten about the demolition project Luke had started two days ago after taking a sledgehammer to a wall in the apartment. For a moment, she regretted walking in, but ignored it and took a seat at the counter. Immediately, she dropped her bag to the ground and laid her head on her arms crossed before her.

“Hey, Ella, what can I get for ya?” she heard Luke ask through the commotion.

She lifted her head again, blowing hair away from her face. “Green tea, please.”

Luke’s face fell a little bit. “Oh.”

“What’s wrong, Uncle dearest?” Jess asked, coming up to Luke’s side with a hardhat on his head and an umbrella in hand.

“Nothing,” Ella grumbled, shrugging off her coat.

“Oooo, that’s not a happy face,” Jess teased, observing the pout on her lips and the stormy look in her eyes. Jess gave her the umbrella and she took it reluctantly, then understood as the ceiling fell above her in dusty pieces.

Luke sighed at Jess’s tone, a wiseass as he always was, and put the tea on. “She ordered green tea.”

Jess scoffed. “And?”

“Ella only orders green tea when she has a migraine,” Luke explained.

Ella rolled her eyes. “I do not.”

“Really? How ya feelin’ right now?” Luke asked haughtily, a knowing smile on his face.

Groaning, Ella brought her head back down on her arm dramatically. “I stand corrected.” Her voice was muffled by the sleeves of her sweater.

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. You’re just so insanely unpredictable, honey,” Jess quipped.

As she sipped her tea, the construction and life swirling around her, Ella felt dread for the day ahead building up. It wasn’t often she got migraines, but when she did, she tried her best to power through them. School was bearable when she pretended to be looking down at her notes while actually sleeping. The muscles in the back of her neck were stiff and her head ached with the beat of her heart, but the tea was helping slightly. Lorelai and Rory blew in with their usual brand of chattiness. On a normal morning, it would have lifted her spirits. Instead, she was largely silent as Lorelai relayed the story of how she sliced her hand while trying to clean her gutters. Ella perked up as the tale ended.

“Why’d you try to clean them yourself?” she asked, brows furrowed. She had been cleaning the Gilmore gutters since she had started high school. Her father had taught her when she was a child, as she liked the thrill of the height.

Lorelai shot her a guilty glance. “Well, you were working last night and they were overflowing when it rained last week and I just thought...yeah. It was a lost cause to begin with.”

“Well, I can come by tonight before my shift-”

“Ah!” Luke stopped her, his hand up. “Don’t even think about it. Just stay home tonight, you don’t have to come in.”

“What?” she asked, exasperated. “My family’s at a reunion, I have pretty much no homework. I’m fine! I can work!”

“Wow. How convincing,” Jess deadpanned from his spot on the stool by the kitchen door, observing the exchange.

“What’s wrong?” Rory asked, searching Ella for something amiss.

“Green tea. Need I say more?” Luke said.

Lorelai looked over at Ella sympathetically, reaching to put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Your head again?”

“It’s not that bad! What about your gutters?” Ella reasoned. Without work to fill her time, she imagined she might spend the night in her lonely house clutching her forehead. Not an ideal evening. Even with a headache, work at Luke’s was better than a second in her house, filled with the ghost of her mother.

“Don’t worry. Jess’ll do it,” Luke said off-handedly, tossing a glance over his shoulder to his nephew.

Jess’s eyes widened and he got up from his seat. “Jess will do what?”

“Clean the gutters. Right, Lorelai?” Luke raised his eyebrows expectantly at Lorelai, who faltered under his look and then nodded after a hesitant moment.

“Sure. Jess will clean our gutters.” Lorelai swallowed dryly.

“Instead of scraping the plates you’ll be scraping the gutters,” Luke said to Jess, making a fresh batch of coffee as he spoke. “Height is the only difference. You’ll get paid either way. Just go this afternoon before the dinner shift.”

“Yeah, we’d love for you to do your Breakfast Club routine from our roof,” Lorelai said. Of all the people in Stars Hollow, she may have been the person who hated Jess the most. Rory had spoken volumes to Ella about the disappearing act Jess had pulled the first time he was invited over for dinner at the Gilmore house. “C’mon, Bender, give us a fist bump!”

Jess scoffed and rolled his eyes. He looked to Ella pointedly as she finished off her tea. “You just had to go and get sick, didn’t you?”

“I’m not sick, jackass!” she exclaimed, the sound of her own voice echoing painfully in her ears. She looked around at the group, each person watching her doubtfully. “And all of this is unnecessary. Because I’m fine! Like I said!”

Jess shook his head and took a peek down at his watch. “Don’t wear yourself out. We gotta get to school. You comin’ or takin’ a sick day?”

“Shut up,” she hissed. Gathering up her stuff, Ella saw Jess slip on his own jacket and carry nothing but a novel in his back pocket as school supplies. She led the way with irritated footsteps, dodging the powdered ceiling which fell all around.

Taking off his hard hat and light on his feet as he tried to catch up with Ella, Jess shot Luke one last smirk. “She’s a joy, isn’t she?”

. . .

With the lights dimmed, Ella watched as Carrie White’s powers grew with every passing minute. The house was quiet, almost peaceful, as the night fell. Clouds obscured the view of the full moon, but a few stars could still be made out against the indigo canvas of the sky. She laid with a thin afghan splayed over her, a cool washcloth against her forehead. Three horror movies in, and she was starting to feel a bit of cabin fever already. It occurred to her how little time she spent in the living room anymore. Apart from her bedroom at night, the house was practically foreign. She knew her way around the cabinets at the diner than she did in her own kitchen. Besides, Fiona had rearranged everything when she moved in. The little blue house was no longer the one she grew up in. Just as she was dozing off, a soft knock sounded at the door. Sighing through her nose, she threw the blanket and the washcloth aside, making her way over to the front.

Furrowing her brows, Ella saw Jess standing with his usual smirk and a box of food in his arms. “Um...hey?”

“Delivery.”

A suspicious smile crossed her face. “Excuse me?”

“Well, since tonight you’re all alone and sick-”

“Not sick,” she interjected. “I don’t need rescuing.” Jess barely paused, his smile growing.

“Luke figured you might not have any food in the house, so he sent over a care package,” Jess explained, gesturing down to the box, which contained at least two large paper bags with the Luke’s logo across the front.

Ella scoffed. “But I’m fine.”

“‘I’m fine.’ My god, you’re like a broken record today,” Jess remarked. “Where should I put this?”

“I-”

“Kitchen?” he asked, then brushed past her through the doorway, immediately in the small living room. He noted there was only one light on in the whole space, illuminating everything in a low golden glow. A blue haze emanated from the TV screen, paused on a frame of ‘70s Sissy Spacek. He stopped short, looking back to Ella for guidance, where she still stood slightly dazed in the doorway.

Clearing her throat and blinking once in surprise, she shut the large white door behind her and pointed past the living room, through the open space in the wall overlooking the kitchen. “Yeah, kitchen’s fine. Right through there.”

She followed him in, flipping on the light switch and wincing at the sudden flash before her eyes. Trying not to let the twinge in her head show, she steadied herself on the door frame before walking on. Ella watched as he began unpacking the box’s content. There were bags full of fries, burgers, salads, sandwiches. Along with the greasy amenities, she saw a huge container of green tea bags. A fond smirk passed across her lips, then fell again when she remembered Jess had randomly shown up at her house.

“Jesus, how many people did he think I needed to feed?”

“Well, maybe that cat of yours can put some of this away.” Jess shrugged in disinterest, not meeting her eyes as he spoke. “Luke didn’t know how long your family was gone, so he wanted you taken care of.”

Ella shook her head, though good-naturedly. “I’m only alone for a couple days. He means well but does he ever tire of his overprotection?”

“Not likely.”

She chuckled a little, though her heart wasn’t in it. The pain was back in her head after standing up, and it made her dizzy. Without thinking, she took a seat in one of the rickety kitchen chairs. The kitchen was dated, with a scheme of peach and white that became almost blinding in the daylight. The small, circular table rocked slightly, on uneven legs. It had been there since before Ella was born, though, so she hardly even noticed it.

Jess raised an eyebrow when she sat down abruptly. “I’d ask if you’re okay, but I doubt I’d get a truthful response.”

“Are you calling me a liar, Mariano?” she asked in mock offense.

“Yeah. And not a very good one.”

She uttered a weak laugh. “You underestimate me.” Then, after a beat: “Why didn’t Caesar or someone bring this over?”

“I volunteered.”

“Why?”

“I just wanted to get outta the construction zone,” Jess explained, a ranting tone in his voice. “There’s nothing but banging and yelling. Place gives me a headache.”

She scrunched her nose up at the word. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you wanted to come over here and get a glimpse of this pretty face.”

Jess snorted, though she thought she saw a slight flicker of something across his expression. “Right. I think I get enough at work, thank you very much.”

“Don’t feel bad. Lots of people get intimidated by my level of perfection. Can only handle me in small increments,” she joked tiredly, her chin propped up on one hand.

Finally, he had unpacked everything in a box and stood over it, facing her. After a moment, she realized they’d been looking but not talking, and she brought her eyes down to the food on the table.

Clearing her throat, she ventured another glance at him, her courage returning. “So, are you just gonna stand there the rest of the night, or…?”

Again, Jess shrugged. “Well, you didn’t give me my tip.”

Ella snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself, Mariano. Service is not your strong suit on your best day.”

“Well, if you refuse to give me money, I’ll settle on a fry or two,” he offered, his face amused with the negotiations.

She sighed, a smile of disbelief on her lips. For a moment she thought, and decided she had been wishing for some company all night. Why not Jess? “Be my guest,” she said, motioning to the chair across from her. “You’re not the worst person who could have walked in, I suppose.”

A satisfied grin flashed on Jess’s face and he shrugged off his jean jacket, hanging it on the back of the chair. “What a model hostess.”

“Shut up. Overstay one minute of your welcome and you’re outta here,” she warned, opening up the fries and reaching for a few. She watched as Jess made the salt and pepper dip. On slow days or while closing up the diner, she’d seen him make the condiment a few times. It was pretty fucking good.

Jess scoffed. “In your condition? I doubt you could take me.”

Raising her eyebrows, Ella shot him a look. “Try me.”

“Alright, I’m duly warned,” he said, surrendering.

As she got settled with her food, Jess let his eyes roam over the room. He’d never seen anywhere in her house other than her bedroom at the end of the hall. The peach kitchen felt homey and lived-in. By the kitchen sink, there was a witch hanging on a wall hook. White lace curtains hung over the windows. The fridge was covered with photos and magnets, some of them faded with age. Then, his eyes arrived back on Ella. She reached behind her, opening a cabinet and retrieving silverware and plates. Jess muttered a thanks as she passed him some. He shook his head when she offered him a drink. When she got back to her seat, she began arranging her food neatly on the plate. Jess bit back a laugh, almost expecting the behavior. Her blonde hair was down, slightly disheveled though she had tucked it behind her ears. She had on the same Beetlejuice t-shirt and blue jeans she’d worn at school. It was odd to see her slightly placated, less stressed than she was at the diner. When she looked back up at him, he caught a glance at the redness in her hazel eyes. Had he woken her up? A pang of guilt hit him, but he felt silly so he brushed it off.

“So, how was cleaning the Gilmore gutters?” she asked, munching on a fry.

“Nice alliteration.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Go on.”

He shrugged. “It was alright. Lorelai gave me some Chinese food. We made small talk. Sort of.”

“Awww, look at that. Jess is acquiring people skills,” she mocked.

“Shut up,” Jess snapped, face contorted in irritation.

Ella laughed. She spotted a pickle on the side of his plate and snagged it from him. Though he narrowed his eyes at her, he said nothing in protest. “Why’d you talk to Lorelai anyway? I thought you guys had a long-standing feud?”

Jess shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s Luke’s friend and she helps you out and...Rory asked me to put in a little effort.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” she smiled suspiciously. “Just...listening to directives from others. Not exactly your style, is it?”

“Alright,” he said with finality, straightening up in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “Out with it.”

Ella scoffed. “Well, are you into Rory or something? Seems like you’re pretty open to her opinions.”

He shook his head, his expression unreadable. “Please. Like I’d fall for the resident princess of Stars Hollow.”

“I don’t know. You’ve got similar literary tastes, or lack thereof. At least she has the decency to recognize Hemingway’s inferiority,” she explained, not meeting his eyes and taking a bite of burger after she finished talking.

Jess let out a small sigh and his smirk came to his lips again. “Y’know, Ernest only has lovely things to say about you.”

She giggled. “I doubt that very much.”

A slight tension filled the air before Ella spoke again.

“Look, all I’m saying is, you hate her boyfriend, you’ve got that Holden Caulfield thing going for you. Wouldn’t be the worst coupling in the world.”

“Such high praise. What’s it to you, anyway?” he asked, getting a little defensive. She couldn’t tell whether it was because the idea appealed to him or repulsed him.

She shook her head, her voice light. “Sorry, I don’t mean-” She stopped to sigh, then began again: “Okay, you can’t speak a word of this to anyone or I’ll personally castrate you.”

Jess’s eyes widened at the mock threat, chuckling. “Okay, well I gotta hear this.”

“I hate Dean.”

He gasped, bringing a hand to his heart in teasing surprise. “I’m shocked. Not good enough for our perfect Rory?”

“He’s just...he at least needs to give her some fucking space sometimes,” she sighed. At that moment, her headache shot up her neck and behind her eyes again in a flash of pain. Despite her best try, she couldn’t hide her grimace.

Jess regarded her momentarily. “How’s your head?”

“I’ll survive,” she said, her face guarded.

“You get them a lot?” he asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

Clearing her throat, she swallowed another mouthful of burger and shook her head gently. “Not really. Just every couple months since...uh since my mom and everything. Doctor says it’s a normal stress response or something.”

Humming in acknowledgement, Jess’s eyes flicked to the TV through the opening in the wall to the living room. “Carrie, huh?”

A look of slight relief washed over her, and the small smile returned to her lips. “Yeah. I go on Stephen King binges when I’m not feeling like myself.”

Jess’s brows furrowed and he scoffed. “Why?”

“Because they remind me just how much worse my life could be. Especially if the supernatural got involved,” she explained.

He chuckled a little and raised a doubtful eyebrow. “King’s a hack, y’know. Totally bloated prose.”

“His books are entertaining, what can I say? And I’ve learned so much about the state of Maine reading them.”

“I am so disappointed in you, Eleanor Stevens,” he groaned amiably.

She only shrugged. “Hey, you have your vices, I have mine.” Then, she glanced back over her shoulder and suddenly began gathering up her food. “C’mon, we’re just getting to the good part. The prom massacre awaits for our viewing pleasure.”

Jess smiled, watching her go as he picked up his own food, then joining her on the tattered green couch.

. . .

As he descended the stairs, the smells of nutmeg and apple hit Jess in the face. The aroma was not unwelcome, his empty stomach growling, but he thought it odd. Luke didn’t bake very often, and almost never at seven o’clock on a Saturday morning. Jess would’ve slept in later, but the hunger and his sleep schedule for school had forced him from his twin bed. They didn’t open for another hour, late on Saturdays with less people up so early for work. Jess ran a hand through his messy hair and found Luke taking down the chairs as he passed through the curtain at the bottom of the stairs and entered the diner.

“Are you makin’ somethin’?” he asked his uncle groggily, immediately stealing a donut from under one of the glass domes on the main counter.

Luke shook his head and sighed. “Not me. It’s the pie psycho back there.”

“I told you not to call me that!” Jess heard Ella call from the kitchen.

Grunting in annoyance, Luke rolled his eyes. “This is a sickness, Ella! It’s an unhealthy obsession!”

Blowing a piece of hair from her eyes, Ella emerged from the kitchen into the dim morning light of the diner. “It’s a hobby!”

“What the hell’s going on?” Jess chimed in, a hint of a laugh in his voice. He regarded Ella. Her hair was pulled back again. Streaks of flour painted her pale face and she wiped her hands on the full apron she wore over her simple dress. He snorted and sat down at a stool across from where she stood, her forearms leaned on the counter. “Looks like you’re feelin’ better.”

“Much,” she nodded, a smile gracing her face. A sudden bell sounded and she rushed back into the kitchen. When she came out again a moment later, she held a pie, steaming in her potholder-clad hands. “And I have pie.”

Pursing his lips, Jess nodded in simple recognition. “I can see that.”

“You showed up at six o’clock, unannounced, to make pies without being asked,” Luke exclaimed in exasperation, gesturing in irritation with the rag in his hand. “Just like last summer!”

“Last summer?” Jess asked.

“Every week, she shows up, early hours of the morning, with random pie supplies-”

“And we sold every slice! You get up at four in the morning anyway!” Ella piped up defensively. “We’ve got this apple and then in-” she paused to look at the clock, “ten minutes we’ll have a pumpkin and a pecan!”

Luke groaned, throwing his head back dramatically before returning to his work. “You’re incorrigible!”

“Nice. Five cent word,” she quipped.

Shaking his head, Jess laughed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Last night you’re like a zombie and now you’re the crazy pie lady.”

“I’m multi-faceted,” she said distractedly, crouched behind the counter as she straightened various folded napkins and silverware.

“That’s one word for it,” Jess grumbled, and had to duck to avoid the crumpled napkin Ella launched at him in retaliation.

Ella popped up again from behind the counter, blowing out a satisfied breath. “I just figured I should do something nice for you, Luke. As a thank you for the care package last night.”

Jess’s eyes widened marginally and his back straightened.

Brows furrowing, Luke tilted his head at Ella. “What care package?”

“The one Jess-”

“Hey, Luke, I think I heard the raccoons getting in the trash again this morning,” Jess said hastily.

Luke groaned. Lumbering into the back without another glance at either of the two teenagers, he muttered a final “Dammit!” before disappearing from view.

Slowly, Ella turned back to Jess with a knowing smirk on her lips. Crossing her arms, she leaned on the counter across from him again and raised her eyebrows expectantly.

“What?” Jess snapped defensively.

“Well, aren’t you a fine, upstanding young member of the Stars Hollow community.”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“You wanted me taken care of because my family was gone and I had a headache,” she prodded, watching as a flush reddened Jess’s cheeks and he squirmed nervously under her eyes.

“Aren’t you gonna burn your pies standing out here?” he asked, deflecting.

She shook her head nonchalantly. “No, they’ve still got a while. You’re blushing, Mariano.”

“Shut up.”

“Oh, this is fun. This is very fun,” she teased, watching him grow more uncomfortable by the second.

“Oh yeah?” Jess asked testily, raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah, I’d say.” Then, after a moment, she stood up again and sighed, grabbing the pie knife from under the counter. “Thank you, Jess. That was very nice of you.”

“Nothing to thank me for,” he said, still feigning confusion.

She scoffed, then began slicing the pie, still warm but no longer hot to the level of tongue-burning. “Whatever, tough guy. You want some pie?”

“For breakfast?” he asked, chuckling in a little in relief as she dropped the previous subject. Butterflies of embarrassment still fluttered around in his stomach.

“It’s Saturday. There are no rules. Besides, my pies are legendary.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Jess told her, eyes lingering on Ella when she turned away. A smile blossomed on her face.

#jess mariano imagines #jess mariano imagine #jess mariano one shot #jess mariano one shots #jess mariano #jess #mariano #gilmore girls #jess mariano x oc #gilmore girls fanfiction #gilmore girls imagines #jess mariano x original character #luke danes #lorelai gilmore #rory gilmore #original character #original character stories

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dana-sculy · 5 years ago

Text

Vive Ut Vivas - Chapter Two

→ Chapter One

It’s been 84 years since I wrote the first chapter of this story, I know, sorry it took me so long to continue to write it, hope you all enjoy! To read it in AO3 come here :)

tagging @today-in-fic

In this chapter, different from the first one, we'll see the story under Scully's perceptive. It's also a way to better explore her emotions and inner feelings of the situation. Plus, since in season 11 we came to learn more about Skinner's past and how he also had to deal with trauma, I decided to use that background in the conversations between him and Scully.

Prologue

I remember a time when I was only 5 years old. It was an ordinary day of summer, and mom had decided to take her children for a picnic in the park not far away from our house. She had little pots of everything with too much sugar and more packaging than the space-shuttle. Dad had been away on the sea for a long period of time, and even under the naïve perceptions of myself as a kid, it was possible to see how much she missed him. I don’t know if the picnic was an attempt of cheering the mood more for herself or for us. I should’ve been worried, but instead I just gave her my best smile and pulled out the fresh baked baguettes with brie and cranberry.

The air was warm that day, the beams of sunlight glowed on my skin. Melissa liked to sit close to the flowers and inspect them, under the freshly cut green grass. Charlie and Bill would start fighting with each other any time soon; it was sort of their motto. And that was my cue to go get and adventure by myself.

Looking back today, I wonder how could I and Melissa get along so well together. We were opposites in everything: she was the model, girly girl, who loved dresses, flowers, dolls and the piano lessons mom made sure we attended to. I was never that way. I loved dogs, sports and comfortable pants. I would only come inside home when mom called me with that tone of threat, which is the reason to my abundancy of freckles, due to hours and hours under the sun, climbing trees, running and playing around.

I was the tough child, I guess. Mel was the soft, popular one. That hasn’t changed much now that we’re adults. I still don’t go very well with softness; I keep it under tons of labored layers, deep inside.

This was mainly the reason I feared so badly to come here and stay with my sister. She has always had this thing of hers that somehow goes straight into your heart and sees everything. I’m a private, reserved person, and I like keeping my feelings only to myself. But that never really worked with Mel. Let’s say she would be very good at interrogations.

---

After what felt like an eternity, my tears, which eventually turned into little sobs, finally went away. At some point, Melissa’s tightened her hold on me; there wasn’t much else she could do about the whole situation for now. I ran my fingers through her knuckles, and she released me slowly.

“I guess I’ll be going, Mel.” – I feel terrible for leaving her after such an intimate moment, and especially because I know she’ll have a lot of other questions for me now.

“Work stuff you said, right?” – She sounds discouraged, but not mad, at the very least.

“Yes. Skinner had called me in the morning and he’s expecting me at the Bureau. So… I’d better be on my way.” – I rise from the couch and start to collect my things, stuffing them in my purse. It feels weird, not having my badge with me.

I say goodbye to my sister without turning to look back at her. If I did that, she would find her way into convincing me to stay. Even so, I can still feel her eyes burning on me, absorbing each detail, each movement I do. I close the door quietly and follow my way down the stairs of her building.

---

FBI headquarters - 3:00 p.m.

There is a feeling: it starts when you enter a place you’ve already been a thousand times before, and yet, when you look around, you feel like it’s not the same, even though nothing’s really changed. You try desperately to find out what is different, but the only thing you find is a bitter taste in the back of your mouth, a feeling of intrusion, as if you were the wrong peace of a puzzle, trying to fit in.

I enter through the front door, the big cement columns threatening to smash my tiny figure as I pass them to go through the metal detector machine.

As the elevator doors open, I feel a sense of relief as I notice it’s empty. I am aware that my abduction has made me quite a popular person in the bureau, as if being part of the X Files division hadn’t already granted me that. Mulder talked with me about how a few people, whose existence he’s never known before, had stopped him at the corridor to ask if Mrs. Spooky had been taken by his fellow aliens, or simply to know what really happened to me.

Being a woman in a field that is predominantly occupied by men has taught me that the standards are never equal when it comes to gender difference. I had to work harder than most of my male colleagues at Quantico to stand out, and now as an agent, I feel more than grateful to be Mulder’s partner, because, unlike the others, he treats me like an equal, recognizing my work as an agent without making me feel less capable due to being a woman, and protecting me when it’s needed without making me feel like I couldn’t handle myself.

The problem in that is that it often makes me forget how mean the rest of the bureau can be. I realize I wasn’t that lucky when the elevator doors open again, now in Skinner’s office floor, and I see a very crowded hall ready to swallow me up.

The loud noise of my high heels coming in contact with the floor fill my ears and I feel my body threatening to throw up all the remnants of the cheap lunch I had back at the hospital. I walk silently, looking straight away and trying my best to avoid the curious eyes that follow me. I hear whispers too, but my ears don’t register any words being said. My mind is way too busy fighting to keep me standing and moving forward. Thank God Skinner’s office is not so far from the elevator itself, and I get there quickly enough.

Arlene’s attention is instantly drawn to the creaking door as I open it, increasing considerably as she recognizes my singular figure entering the precinct. She tries her best to be discreet, though. She even gives me a little smile, embarrassed with the whole situation.

“Agent Scully, you can go inside. Mr. Skinner is already waiting for you.” – with that, she returns to typing in her computer.

Skinner is indeed expecting me as I walk to a chair in his conference table. Different from the others, he doesn’t show any sign of curiosity or pity. I feel immensely thankful for that, so I give him a smile. I’m well aware that the evaluation is merely standard procedure, not to mention that it’s just me and Skinner there, but, still, the knot in my stomach doesn’t subside a bit. I guess after all that’s happened, my mind had gotten a little susceptible to Mulder’s paranoia of breaking The X-Files division, and shutting our careers down along with that. Let’s not think about that right now, Dana. I turn the focus of my mind on taking long, deep breaths.

“Agent, Scully, it’s a relief to see you well.” – Skinner is sincere in his words, as he looks straight into my eyes to show me he means it. – “I hope you understand the need of this procedure. You were under a highly stressful situation and that requires a bureau evaluation, to make sure you’re ready to go back to field”.

“Thank you, Sir, I understand. I just want to go back to work as soon as I can.” – And forget this nightmare, I think to myself. For a moment, I wish Mulder could be here. His crack jokes and sassy faces would certainly help lighten the mood.

I remember Mulder with that thought, how he was worried with me coming back so soon, how he couldn’t help himself in hiding his desire to have my company back, despite that. My memory traces the lines of our office: the dusty shells of stuff Mulder makes sure to keep there, his table, his geek poster I came to like with time, the silly green alien key chain he bought me last summer, while lecturing me about how aliens are actually grey. It gives my heart some comfort to remember something so familiar to me.

“Good to hear that, agent. So, let’s begin, shall we?”

Thereby, Skinner starts to present me a series of routine questions, then about standard FBI procedure, and, finally, questions with, I suppose, a more psychological approach. Turns out it’s not that bad, after all. I feel relieved.

After I give my last answer, he pauses, closing his eyes for a bit. He uses the tips of his long fingers to massage his temples, and then takes a deep breath.

“If you allow me, Dana, I’d like to talk to you, off the record.”

I realize I won’t escape personal interrogations today, so I give him a week nod.

“Listen… Your test shows no reason to keep you away from work. That said, I’m letting you know you can return to work any time.”

“I see a ‘but’ coming” – I attempt to make a joke, but he doesn’t alter his serious face.

“Well, yes, indeed. As your boss, I’ll tag along with the evaluation, but as your friend, I’d like to advise you to go home, Dana. You’ll continue to be paid normally even if you take some more time off, and you really should do that. Go be with your family, go rest and give your body and soul time to heal. Trust me, I know the feeling. Your strength is increasing and your body seems better, so it feels like you’re ready to go back to action, but these wounds, Dana, they’re bigger than they look. They can threaten to unsettle your spirit in the most inconvenient of times, and I wouldn’t forgive myself if that caused another risk to your life, or to agent Mulder.”

He was probably right; I knew it in my heart. But how could I tell him that taking time was consuming me, that it was making me mourn over and over again all the things I lost during my abduction? I could no longer rest unless I was under the effect of my sleeping pills, or drowsy due to my strong medication, because when their effect passed away, all I could see in my mind was the same nightmare over and over again. I must've let out something, because when I turned my eyes back to Skinner’s, he had a bigger frown on his face.

“Don’t fight me on this, Dana. You’re the bravest agent I know, but that doesn’t mean you don’t need help.” – He waited for a response, so I opened my mouth in an attempt of an answer.

“Sir, I appreciate your concern, but I really need to work.” – I sigh – “I need something to focus my mind on. I’ll be careful, plus, Mulder will be there to help me.” – I try to give him my best sad-puppy face. It seems to work.

“That’s not the answer I hoped for.” – Now it’s his turn to sigh. – “But I know you well enough to understand that trying to convince you otherwise won’t make any difference.”

“Thank you for understanding that, Sir.” – As I rise from my seat, he speaks once again.

“Agent, as you’re released to come back to work, I want you to be aware that, due to the circumstances of your case, you’ll have to go through periodic psychological counseling. That is not negotiable, agent Scully, but don’t worry, everything you say during session will remain private, these routine sessions are just to make sure you recover from your experience.”

I nod to him and find my way to the door, but he calls my name when I’m about to leave the room.

“Just one more thing, Dana.” – I turn to him. – “As you return, if you feel like you can’t stand a situation, anytime, my offer stands. Promise me you’ll accept help from the ones closer to you.”

From all the times Mulder and I had to count on Skinner’s assistance, I’ve learned to trust him and to believe in the fact that he really cares for us both, but now, from the way he says this words and the look on his face, I feel like this is more than just concern for me. It feels personal, and I’m inclined to conclude that he’s had his amount of trauma too.

“I promise.” – I tell him and leave, there’s a basement I have to go to.

#the x files #txf #txf fanfic #msr #msr fanfic #my fanfics #foc #mine #dana scully #walter skinner #melissa scully

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propheticfire · 5 years ago

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Loyalty

(Viren/Gren, fluff) A Dragon Prince fic:

“I know just the thing that’ll brighten your spirits!”

Gren’s unfailing optimism should be a source of annoyance, but Viren finds he doesn’t mind it. Or, to be truthful, he found it had grown on him. He even looks forward to it now, in those rare moments they manage to carve out for each other. How they’d fallen into this…whatever it is, he’s still not sure. But Gren is like a breath of fresh air in an old, dusty room, a beam of soft sunlight in the shifting shadows, and Viren feels somehow just a little lighter, when Gren is around.

It’s a very welcome thing, especially today. For once, he hasn’t forgotten his own birthday. With no pressing matters to attend to or projects to mind, he’d planned to treat himself for a change. A leisurely walk around the lake, followed by some reading in the gardens, perhaps a light lunch of fresh greens and soft bread on the terrace, then more time outside, enjoying the vibrant spring atmosphere. But plans so often go awry. The day had started overcast, which did not necessarily mean a cancellation of his plans, but halfway around the lake, it started raining, and then snowing. Wet, heavy snow, covering the ground and benches and turning the paths to slush. By the time he’d returned to the castle, he was soaked through, and chilled to the bone.

So much for the rest of the day.

Except that then, General Amaya had arrived, to talk with Harrow and visit the Princes. And with her…

Gren had found him in front of the large hearth in the castle kitchens, cradling a mug of tea in one hand. He’d traded his wet clothes for dry ones, but the chill of the snow still clung to him. Gren’s smile, though, was warm. And Gren’s skin, too, as he came to stand beside Viren, lightly brushing the backs of his fingers over the back of Viren’s free hand, subtle enough that no one would notice.

“You look troubled, High Mage,” Gren had said. “Is something wrong?”

“Not wrong,” Viren had replied, “just…” And he told Gren about his dampered plans.

Gren had thought for a moment, and then exclaimed, “I know just the thing that’ll brighten your spirits!”

And now here they are, with Gren elbow-deep in a bowl of flour and butter and other ingredients Viren had scarcely seen before Gren had swiftly dumped them in, beaming as he mixes.

“This is gonna be the best dessert you’ve ever had! Trust me.”

Viren gives him a skeptical look over his mug of tea. “I did tell you my favorite was crème brûlée.”

“I don’t know, I think I can sway you. Pass me that round pan?”

Viren does as asked, and Gren pours the creamy batter in. Though the kitchen is unfamiliar, Gren moves with practiced ease. It never failed to surprise Viren, how easily Gren adapts to whatever situation he finds himself in. Perhaps that’s why this…whatever it is, seems to work.

The pan is in and out of the hearth before Viren realizes. While it baked, Gren had engaged him in a conversation of what books he would have read if the gardens hadn’t been covered in snow, and with a willing audience, Viren had chatted away eagerly, describing treatises on dehydrating and reconstituting liquid spellcasting components, trade history between Katolis and Del Bar, theories of how preparing certain sigil inks in different climates might affect their magical properties, and a small tome of old elvish poetry he was particularly curious about.

“Sounds like a busy morning,” Gren says, another bowl in his hand as he whips sweetened cream into fluffy peaks. “I’m sorry the gardens are full of snow now, but I hope you at least still get to your reading.”

“Thank you.”

They lapse into silence for a moment, while Viren reheats his tea and contemplates saying what’s on his mind. At long last, he decides to probe.

“Commander Gren, tell me something.”

“Hmm?”

“You spend more time with General Amaya than anyone. You speak as her voice. Yet you’ve sought me out—about whom we all know she has strong opinions—on multiple occasions, and you not only tolerate my company; you engage with me, and…encourage me.” He takes a sip of his tea. “Why?”

Gren sets the bowl down. He turns to retrieve the cake from the cooling rack, and with skilled hands coaxes it out of the pan, but Viren can tell his mind isn’t on the task. After slicing it through the middle and separating the top half from the bottom, he stops.

“I translate for General Amaya. I don’t speak for her. And I love her dearly. But that doesn’t mean we’re the same person. And that doesn’t mean I follow with blind loyalty.”

He slides another bowl over, with sugared strawberries he’d prepared while the cake was baking, and spoons a generous helping of fruit and juice over the bottom layer of the cake.

“You… There’s something about you. People have such intense reactions toward you. You’re very…compelling.”

He dollops a large mound of whipped cream over the berries, then settles the top layer of cake over it.

“There’s a lot more to you than the side I normally hear about. And I want to hear more.”

He tips the rest of the strawberries onto the cake, letting the juice run down over the edges, then piles on the whipped cream.

“Plus, you’re very cute.”

He cuts two wedges out of the cake and slides one to Viren. “Strawberry shortcake?”

Viren’s heart skips a beat. Gren— What—? Gren thinks— He thinks— What—? He opens his mouth to respond, but finds it suddenly full of sweet berries and cake and cream.

The fork slides out from between his lips, and Gren smiles—perhaps too innocently—as he sets it back down on Viren’s plate. “And now, Lord Viren, let’s talk about where your loyalty lies. What do you think? Is it the best you’ve ever had?”

Viren chews and then swallows. The cake is buttery and moist, the strawberries sweet with just a hint of tang, and the cream is cool and refreshing.

“My loyalty to crème brûlée…is being tested.”

Gren’s face lights up like the sun and he laughs. Eyes shining, he takes Viren’s hand.

“Happy birthday, Viren.”

(Also available on AO3)

#tdp #Viren #Gren #VirenWeek2020 #Viren Week 2020 #Viren/Gren #Prophetic Fire does words #mini fic #loyalty #fluff #developing relationship

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iris-writes-things · 5 years ago

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Two Guys and a Baby: Day 11 part 1

Read on AO3, FF.net or under the cut, or read up to 1 chapter ahead as a $1 Patreon patron!

"Oh my God…" Anthony mumbled, rubbing his hands in his face. "I've known you for ten years, how did I not see this coming?" "What do we do now?" "Well, obviously, I'm going to teach you how to cook. Starting with dessert."

Or, it's going to be a long night.

Chapter 14 of 20 Ongoing 2265 words Romance/Humor

That Tuesday morning, Crowley really wished he’d woken up by golden rays of sunlight filtering through old, dusty windows, surrounded by the warm smell of old books and the even warmer presence of Ezra at his side. But alas, Crowley had a responsibility and no way to move Adam’s travel bed to the bookshop, so they’d said — and kissed — their goodnights late the night before, and each gone home with a lighter heart and a spring in their step. And so he woke a tad colder and slightly more lonesome than he would have liked between his Egyptian cotton sheets to the sounds of Adam fussing. It was still an improvement to a few nights before.

And so he got up to feed Adam his breakfast.

Dunroamin Bakery & Patisserie smelled of butter and freshly baked goods. The fragrance met Crowley halfway around the block and if he hadn't already planned to swing by for a pastry or two, he sure did now.

Marjorie Potts, nicknamed Madame Tracy for reasons unknown to Crowley*, greeted him from behind the counter while Sgt. Seymour Shadwell** was scuttling about, preparing the cinnamon rolls. Crowley liked the older couple. Not just for their superb pastries, but for their story. Both widowed at sixty-five, they had found each other, fell in love, married and invested their life savings into opening a bakery to give them both something to keep busy. That was five years ago. Now, their little shop was a staple among London’s top food bloggers, even if the two only knew them as their regulars and neither of them really knew what a blog was.

(*Though, legend has it that she frequently earned some extra cash in uni by holding séances and reading people's fortunes and her stage name kind of stuck.)

(**Drillsergeant, retired, never deployed.)

"Good morning, love. What can I get you? That caramel coffee again?" Madame Tracy asked, already reaching for the coffeemaker. Shadwell prattled behind her with a vague air of jealousy. The man should know by now that he didn't have anything to fear from Crowley, but Madame Tracy insists he does that with everyone she calls 'love'.

"Please," Crowley said with a sigh that sounded more tired than he had hoped.

"Little Adam keeping you up all night?" she asked, handing Adam a dry biscuit. He ate it gratefully.

"What? Adam? No, he's better than I could have ever expected." He carefully took the paper cup of coffee Madame Tracy handed him over the counter and took a sip. His jaws tensed from the sweetness. It was perfect.

"Is it about your crush in the bookshop, then? Giving you sleepless nights?"

Crowley's face broke out in a wide, snake-like smile. "Well…"

"Ooh, so it is," Madame Tracy cooed. Shadwell murmured something that sounded suspiciously like 'bleeding southern pansy'.

"He loves your chocolate croissants. Adam, too," he added. "We've… had something of a breakthrough."

"Have you, now?"

Crowley blushed. "He kissed me. Then we had brunch, and he held my hand the entire time...”

“But that’s wonderful!”

“Oh, and I quit my job."

Madame Tracy paused. She had already been bagging the chocolate croissants. Even the sergeant turned around with a wide-eyed stare. "You what?”

“I was just so done with their bullying, so when they came to fetch me yesterday I just handed in my resignation, effective pretty much immediately.”

“I didn’t think you had it in you, lad,” Shadwell remarked out loud for the first time that day.

“Frankly, neither did I,” Crowley shrugged. “But I’m glad. I mean, I can finally focus on my art again. And I’ll have plenty of time to spend with Ezra, until he gets sick of me.”

“Of course he won’t get sick of you, you old silly. But we’re very happy for you, aren’t we, sweetheart?” Madame Tracy said, turning to Shadwell and back to Crowley again as she handed him the bag of pastries. “You take this, love. On the house.”

“I… uh, thank you. That’s very sweet of you. Are you sure…?”

“Yes, we’re sure. Your coffee, too. Now, go on and surprise that young man of yours while the croissants are still warm. Oh, and do give him our regards.”

“I will,” Crowley said, starting on his way to the door. “Thanks again, really. I mean it.”

“We know, love,” she said, and waved him goodbye.

“Honestly, I wouldna’ have trusted that southern nancy boy to stand up for himself if someone held a gun on him. Lad might have a pair of stones on him after all,” Shadwell told his wife when he must have thought Crowley was out of earshot.

Madame Tracy shushed him.

By the time Crowley arrived at the bookshop, Ezra’s agent was there again. The bell over the door rang, but neither of them seemed to notice.

“Then it’s decided. No book tour, but you’ll sign a number of them in private. It’s really the perfect compromise.

Ezra nodded. “I’m inclined to agree with you, Gabriel.”

“Sounds like a lot of work,” Crowley said as he walked up to them. “I could help out, you know,” he suggested.

Ezra turned around and smiled at him. “Anthony!” he exclaimed. Crowley swore he was going in for a kiss, but he refrained from going through with it. Crowley blamed it on Gabriel. “How were you planning on helping out?”

Crowley smirked and shrugged. “Give me a year and I’ll forge your signature flawlessly.”

“Of course, you could.” Gabriel rolled his eyes.

Ezra patted Crowley’s shoulder, hand sliding down to rest at the small of his back. “Thank you for your offer, but I think my readers would prefer for it to be authentic.”

Despite very nearly jumping out of his skin, Crowley simply shrugged, putting on an air of fake nonchalance. After all, there was a warm hand on the small of his back and that was not something he had anticipated for that morning. “If you say so. It’s your wrist, angel.”

Gabriel glanced at them in a way Crowley knew all too well, but quickly hid it with the empty smile the American seemed to wear so often and clapped his hands with a gaiety that was just as synthetic. “Well then, now that we’ve cleared that up, I’ll leave you two to your brunch,” he said gesturing at the bag of pastries under Crowley’s arm. “But I do hope you’ll feel more comfortable with public appearances in the future.”

Ezra smiled softly, wrapping his arm around Crowley’s waist. “Well, who knows what the future might bring. I’ll see you around, then.”

“Right,” Gabriel said and turned on his heel, making for the door. “I’ll see you around.” And the door fell shut.

“Good morning, by the way, Anthony,” Ezra said, unable to suppress the smile that fought its way to his face.

“I… Morning, angel,” Anthony said, almost stammered, with a slight look of disbelief on his face.

Ezra tilted his head and looked up at Anthony. “Is something the matter?”

“You just…” Anthony tried and seemed to struggle to find the right words. “You just touched me, like that, in front of another man…” he nearly hissed, finally turning his surprise and panic outward.

Ezra, on the other hand, quirked an eyebrow. “Should I not have done that?”

“No. I mean, yes! I mean-- I just didn’t expect it, is all. I thought you were, you know, the slower type…”

“Oh, my dear Anthony...” Ezra smiled in genuine amusement as he removed Adam from Anthony’s arm and carefully placed him on the floorboards of the shop before turning his attention back to the other man. “Anthony, I've wanted this, you, for so long now, I can't bring myself to hide or hold back now. Besides, Gabriel knows. He doesn’t care that I’m the way I am. In fact, he encouraged me to confess to you. Sort of. He said watching my pining was painful, and he’s put up with it for seven years.”

“Ah, so with Gabe it’s fine, but with, for example, your family…"

A chill ran down Ezra's spine. "Out of the question," he said firmly.

"Just checking," Anthony mumbled, putting down his coffee and the bag of pastries on the shop's counter before snaking his arms around Ezra. "I shouldn't have said that."

"I appreciate the effort, my dear, but there's nothing to check," Ezra whispered, returning the embrace and burying his nose deep into the scent of Anthony's cologne. It calmed his nerves ever so slightly. "They were abundantly clear when I was fourteen, and when my ex-wife and I divorced, and they would be if they could see us now. And the worst part is, they would do it with the best of intentions."

"You know what the road to Hell is paved with," Anthony whispered in Ezra's ear as he petted a hand through his hair.

"Reasons their youngest won't show up to birthdays and Christmas anymore, or even return their phone calls."

Anthony chortled, which made Ezra smile.

He pulled back from the embrace to give the man a better look. "Anthony James Crowley, I hereby swear on my life that you will never have to formally meet my family."

Anthony laughed and kissed him, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. "Ezra Zacharie Fell, I wish my mum was alive to meet you. She would have loved you more than I do," Anthony joked. "But for real, Angela and Anathema have pretty much already adopted you as their new brother-in-law slash uncle, so if you'd be up for it, once Adam is back with his mothers, you could join us for family dinner, this Friday night?"

"I would love to."

Ezra had decided quite early on that he liked Anthony's family. If only because they were so different from his own. They were just so… Ezra wished informal wouldn't be the right word, but it was.

For starters, no one ever seemed to call anyone by their actual first names, unless for dramatic effect when someone was in trouble. But then again, Ezra wasn't under the impression that anyone ever got in trouble in their family in the first place. Mum and dad were just mum and dad, not mother and father. But none of that was even what Ezra liked best about them.

'Angie? Hey, it's me…' he heard Anthony from his usual window seat.

No, what he liked best was that their bonds were based on mutual trust and respect. That Anthony got what he needed to flourish as himself in his home situation. When they had nothing else, they had trust and respect, and while Ezra had practically everything else, he never had that.

'Yes, I know you're working, I'm sorry, but I just wanted to ask…'

Had he been younger, he might have resented Anthony for that. For his freedom. For having experienced everything Ezra had missed. But by now, thirteen years after just letting himself be himself, he had done the catching up he needed. At least, he certainly hoped so. Although, having dinner with one's technically-in-laws was not something he had planned on doing by the end of this week.

‘Would you and Annie mind if I brought along a plus one? Yes, I know it’s technically a plus two, shush...’

Of course, he knew Anathema and he knew of Angela. They were exceptional human beings and ever so like Anthony. Some say hate breeds hate, but Ezra could now say with absolute certainty that love breeds love as well. But even that knowledge didn’t stop his hands from shaking. He’d done the whole in-laws dance fifteen years earlier with Michaela and her parents. It had gone swimmingly then because he didn’t have any, as they say, ‘intentions’ with their daughter. Just a nice, kind, if a but bookish kindergarten teacher. But with Anthony, he did. Very much so. He wanted to hold Anthony's hand, for example, and hug him and kiss him and cuddle him in bed on cold days and go for trips to the beach on warm days. But more than any of that, he wanted to love Anthony in the way he could never love anybody else.

'So it's okay then? If he brings dessert? I'm sure that can be arranged.' Ezra became vaguely aware that Anthony was looking at him. 'Alright, Angie, you're the best. Thanks. See you on Friday.'

"Dessert? Me?" Ezra cried.

"Well yeah, it's your favourite course, so I figured it would be perfect," Anthony stated matter-of-factly. Then his face paled and grew slack with panic. "Oh no, was that wrong? Should I not have said that?"

"It's just--" and Ezra felt his cheeks grow red. "Dessert is usually the most complicated course to make…" he sighed. "And I haven't cooked for myself. Ever. Apart from maybe eggs and bacon, cold sandwiches," he thought for another second “and instant pasta.”

"Oh my God…" Anthony mumbled, rubbing his hands in his face. "I've known you for ten years, how did I not see this coming?"

"What do we do now?"

"Well, obviously, I'm going to teach you how to cook. Starting with dessert." Anthony smiled and patted Ezra’s cheek. It didn’t calm him down one bit. “Adam and I will leave a bit early today, since we’ll have to get groceries. Dinner at mine, 7 PM, no excuses. I’ll do the main course, then we’ll make dessert together, alright?”

By the time Anthony’s hands reached Ezra’s own and clasped them firmly, he remembered how to breathe again.

“Alright.”

#fanfic #EN #Good Omens #Ineffable Husbands #Human AU

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libraryscarf · 5 years ago

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here is the piece i wrote for the @womenmadefullmetal zine, which i was profoundly honored to be included in! please check out their tumblr to see all the amazing art and writing that went into this project. i was asked to write about my best girl, winry, and i’m so excited to share this fic with you guys. <3

turning home

( ao3 / ff.net )

The Rockbell women have always breathed smoke, her grandmother tells her, not long after her parents die, but not soon either. We’re furnaces, you and me, she says. Anything that tries to go through us will need to melt.

Winry tries to swallow the lump of black metal in her throat. It sinks into her stomach, distending her insides, like the stretched belly of a snake after devouring a rabbit. That darkness will dissolve eventually, worn away by the passing years and the Resembool sunlight. But fragments of it will float in her system always, pulsing now and then with the heartbeat of loss. It will coat her lungs with iron. It will spike her blood with steel. It will surface in the blisters on her palms, toughening them like hide.

Winry learns at a young age that grief can serve her, both as her burden and as her armor.

: : :

“You shouldn’t be checking in so often. I’m fine. And even if I weren’t, Den knows who to fetch if I need help.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you calling, child?!”

“Well...I thought you might appreciate an update on how I’m doing.”

“Winry. You don’t think I have my own connections in Rush Valley? I’ve known how you were doing the moment you set foot in that wretched city.”

Winry smiles. The anxious bite in her grandmother’s voice hints that Pinako hasn’t been quite as collected as she likes to profess.

“Several people here have told me stories about you.”

“Of course they have. I’m a legend.”

“So you did attach automail fingers to Mrs. Wheeler’s foot instead of toes.”

“Who told you that?!”

“Mrs. Wheeler. And Mr. Wheeler. And Mr. Garfiel. And--”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake. She thanked me later. Made it easier for her to pick things up.”

Pinako’s laughter crackles over the line, and Winry joins her. If they were together, sharing this evening as they have countless others in that yellow house, she would see the spidery lines around her grandmother’s mouth smooth away, and Pinako would resemble the woman of so many years ago, her eyes bright as beads of mercury.

: : :

She sits on the wide windowsill of her room, one leg swinging over the shoe-beaten, dusty street outside Atelier Garfiel. The workshop is humid, ripe with male armpits whose owners are always traipsing in.

Heat rises from the ground in shimmering waves, and she pulls in a long breath. The air tastes like the burnished insides of a forge; the sun prickles in a glittering sky. Yesterday one of her clients had cracked an egg onto his metal knee to the delight of six local children. The sun above reminds Winry of the yolk: a perfect golden disc surrounded by sizzling white.

She loves it here. It isn’t the same love she feels for the sweeping countryside where she was born, a slow, soft thing layered with complications of old sorrow.

The love she harbors for Rush Valley is quicksilver and octane, a rush of searing air, a keen and yellow energy that wakes in her muscles each morning and blasts wild through her dreams each night. It is a rough town that Winry loves, but it fits her roughened parts, and Rush Valley loves her back.

: : :

“I’m happy you’re settled in. Tell the others hello from me.”

“Mei already said hi when she heard I was calling. Zampano and Jerso, too. Oh, and Ling suggested bringing you here to serve as the official court mechanic. They’ve apparently never had one before, but he said you could name your price.”

Winry’s grin stretches across her face. That sounds so like something Ling would suggest that she can nearly hear it in his voice.

“And Lan Fan’s thoughts?”

“She admires your work, but doubts you’d want to relocate so far just to take care of her arm.”

Winry’s fingers skim the pocked surface of the worktable. She knows every divot, every chip and scar, as though they’re carved in her own skin.

“I’d like to visit Xing,” she admits.

“There’s a lot of murmuring about a railroad across the desert. Goodness knows how long that’ll take—but then you and Granny could both come.”

His voice has changed, even since they last saw each other. Winry presses a knuckle to her mouth, her eyes stinging.

“Will you be happy there?”

“I think so.”

“Good.”

“...Winry?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

She chews her thumbnail, cursing her stupid throat for closing up.

“Don’t be stupid, Al. I’ve no idea what you mean.”

: : :

Wandering down the uneven rows, Winry’s eyes skim the names. She halts in front of two close-set stones, where others have left tokens. Her eyes fall on a wilting sprig of sweet violets and yellow honeysuckle.

She sinks cross-legged to the ground between the graves, her back and knees complaining after so many long nights of work. The violets’ brittle stems crumble under her fingers into fine gray dust.

Her father had adored sweet violets, Winry remembers suddenly. He had yelled in delight upon finding the first clumps of them in the spring, when winter still bared its teeth in the frigid midnights and ghosted the mornings with frost. He would gather handfuls, stuffing his nose into the velvet purple blossoms. Winry’s mother laughed often and openly, but never was it filled with more delight than when her husband doubled over, possessed by a fit of uncontrollable sneezing.

A warm drop slips down her cheek, and she swipes at it viciously. Another drop splashes onto the end of her nose. Then the sky opens, unleashing a violent spring tempest that sends Winry sprinting for cover. The overhang of the groundskeeper’s shed provides the closest thing to shelter and she crowds herself under it, blinking the lukewarm rain out of her eyes.

In her haste to escape the storm, she hardly notices the soft grit of the disintegrating violets in her hand. Following a vague impulse, she holds them up to her nose, inhaling their powdery, dying sweetness.

Then she sneezes.

: : :

“Hey, you actually picked up.”

“Don’t make me regret it.”

Winry’s voice is sharp, camouflaging the way her entire body melts at hearing his voice. A voice that is safe, and healthy, and--as usual--a bit too loud.

“Jeez. Is this a bad time?”

A telling pause.

“Are you crying?”

“No!!”

Her head feels like someone has packed it with wet paper. Ed chuckles ruefully.

“You’re sick.”

“I’m fine.” Her “m” s and “n” s are migrating toward “b” and “d” territory.

“You sound awful.”

“Right, I’m hanging up.”

“Okay, okay! Sorry!”

Slowly, Winry puts her ear to the phone again. And then sneezes on it.

“Maybe...a tiny bit sick,” she admits.

“Stop pulling all-nighters.”

“I don’t have an all-nighter to blame for this. And don’t tell me what to do.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Ed says, half-laughing.

The line crackles as he sighs. “You had to take care of me so much. I feel kinda guilty.”

“You were an extremely bad-tempered patient.”

“Well your bedside manner isn’t exactly welcoming!”

Winry hears the veins popping in his neck and forehead. Ed communicates everything of himself through his voice. He could so easily be sitting across from her.

She closes her eyes and imagines he is.

“You know I didn’t really mind,” she says.

A sheepish grunt from Ed’s side. “Is that because you got to boss me around and tell me what to eat and when to sleep?”

“That... was a contributing factor.”

“I knew it!” he crows victoriously. “You’re sadistic. Sick with power.”

“So was that your backwards way of saying, ‘Winry, I’m so sorry I’m not there to nurse you back to health and make up for all the times I was a stubborn jerk’?”

The pause before his answer is just long enough to worry her.

“It would take a hell of a lot more to make up for that.”

Winry’s smile evaporates, her heart twisting.

“Ed...”

“What? I can’t be sincere for a second?”

“It’s not that . I…I just--”

His laugh interrupts her. “You don’t need anyone to take care of you, Winry. You never have.”

“It might be nice, though,” she mumbles. “Once in a while.”

“Consider the hint taken.”

Her chest expands with relief, a warm wave lifting her on its crest.

“Come home soon.”

Ed hesitates. She is hard to lie to, and if he’s smart, he won’t try.

“I’ll hurry.”

Winry believes him.

: : :

When her head aches and her hands are chapped, Winry walks up the hill to the big tree, where an aged swing creaks against its ropes. The valley flows away from her feet in green, rolling swells.

Her mind is busy, though her hands are not.

She thinks of her newest customer: a girl, no older than Ed when he had his surgery, her right hand missing from a farm mishap. Winry had reassured her that with automail, she could still play her fiddle.

She thinks of how Ed mentioned over breakfast how nice a house would look, there at the top of the hill where the foundation of a burned building still lies.

She thinks of Al’s recent visit, when he brought silk and tea and bright, human laughter across the desert.

She thinks of how her daughter reminds her in a thousand half-painful ways of Pinako, asleep now next to her own children.

She thinks of the countless small responsibilities waiting for her at home: an electric motor to tune up, a bruise to kiss and bandage, a shipment invoice to file, a long-overdue call to Paninya, a pie crust to bake.

Winry listens to the birds talking in the branches high above her. She smiles.

Then she turns down the hill, beginning the walk back home.

#scarfwrites #fma fanfiction #fma #women made fullmetal

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chameleonsallinvermillion · 5 years ago

Text

So I bought groceries today...

And it went a little something like this.

The roads were empty. Hardly anyone was about. I bowled along with music blaring. It seemed like a movie scene. The carpark, though, was crowded. The queue snaked back out of the door and all the way down the side of the building, out of the entrance and up towards the roundabout. You have to walk all the way back along it to reach the part where you get to stand. It feels somehow executionary.

All the same, the queue was a nice place to be. The sun was beaming down and there was a festival air, a pageantry to the whole proceedings. It was as if we were lining up for a fairground attraction. Everybody was in a good mood, perched on walls, shouting to one another over the mandated distance of one adult bull seal.

I was perhaps half an hour in that queue. We edged our slow way along. A woman got a notification on her phone that Boris had the virus and shouted it out to a ragged chorus of cheers. The couple three down from me kissed in a truly unnecessary display of physical intimacy in these times of distance – how dare they have somebody safe with whom to share their germs? It seems dreamlike already.

Once you near the entrance, the line becomes formalised. Barriers and partitions are set up. Duct tape crosses mark where you are allowed to stand. Security guards in vests and helmets give directions. Every time somebody leaves, with a laden trolley or a thousand bags, somebody else has permission to enter. We inch ever closer.

At last, the old guard gives me the nod and in I go. The foyer is stacked floor to ceiling with bread. We are walled with bread. Thankfully, bread is on the list so I snatch the first loaf I come to and hurry through into the air-conditioned splendour of a surprisingly peaceful shop.

Nobody is talking – everybody came alone, one person per list. Everybody is focused. The reduced numbers make it almost pleasant, for a little while. I fill my bags with celery and grapes. The thing we have in abundance is fresh fruit and vegetables. I suppose the supply chains of those were already set up. It’s the things they don’t get regular deliveries of that are in trouble.

Things got more complicated with the list. By standing on tiptoe and some serious rummaging, I was able to snag the last two tins of tomato soup. Dedicated detective work won me a pot of custard. The intervention of a kindly gentleman found me curry sauce. He was a marvellous chap, on a state-of-the-art mobility scooter with his lop-eared service dog riding high on the prow like the figurehead of a ship.

Ribena was a no-go. Soft drinks are in short supply and rationing is enforced. There were only a couple of baked bean tins left and I snagged those as well – you’re allowed three maximum, well, there were two on the shelf so I took them. The pasta shelves are empty and only the weird speciality rice is left. The biscuits show clearly the nation’s preferences: no bourbons to be found, but you’re in luck if you favour off-brand Nice. Sauces are in short supply. So are chutneys. Indian food is rationed in the international section; there has been sudden demand.

When you get to the frozen aisle, everything is empty. The great bins that are usually stuffed with bags and boxes lie fallow. A few oven chips huddle together in a cabinet. There’s a decent amount of ice cream. Still, that bids farewell to our dear neighbours’ dreams of frozen peas.

The bags are getting so heavy the handles are in danger of breaking off. Pop hits from the early 90s ring through over the sound of tramping feet and the rustle of a thousand packages. The walkie-talkies of the staff crackle. I hunt down crisps, porridge oats, halved walnuts. It’s strange but the seasonal displays are still up, with their offers and their stacks of cakes and Easter eggs. It seems like something from another land. The Pope has cancelled Easter.

Only four tills are open. The queues stretch back down the aisles. If you want anything from an aisle people are queuing in, your only option is to join the line and hope you end up standing next to it eventually. I settle for the line that runs down the laundry aisle. We’re in for a long wait.

The minutes tick by. I glance behind. I am now in the middle of the line, but I have only moved three paces forward. The washing powder so dearly prized is far off in the future. The radio plays something from the 70s.

Twenty minutes now and I’m securely inside the aisle, but still a long way from washing powders. I stare at the fabric conditioners and wonder about their flavours. Lychee and raspberry seems an odd choice but what do I know about lychees? I realise, all at once, that I know nothing about lychees. Have I even seen a lychee? I feel as though I have eaten one but I cannot summon it to mind. The bags are so heavy now. I place one on the floor and flex my fingers. They are purple and bruised, and will not straighten.

Forty minutes in and I start to sway. The washing powders are so close now but I cannot see them clearly, only the edge of one box. I cannot tell if the kind demanded are even there. I had forgotten my low blood pressure – it’s so much better these days, it’s been years since I’ve stood still long enough to feel the danger. I might faint at any moment.

I wonder if that would make the news. Would somebody write a report about the poor young woman who fainted waiting in line to buy soup? Would they sensationalise it, and I would be forced to issue a statement saying that I’m just really bad at standing upright and everybody should calm down? To be on the safe side, I start to shuffle my feet the way Rob-from-Band taught me all those years ago. I perform a little two-step there in line to the tune of the Spice Girls. The woman in front of me glares at me. She thinks I’m being impatient. The old man behind me nods and smiles sympathetically.

“Not long now,” he says.

He is wrong.

One hour in the line and paradise is unlocked. The box sits there, undisturbed. Washing powder! Washing powder to bring home! It is rationed, but that is no matter. I will take all I can lay my greedy hands upon. I will stuff the remaining space in my bags with blue boxes. The prize, so long sought, is mine at last!

One hour and five minutes into queuing, somebody tries to start a line at the next till. They haven’t realised, you see, that our line divides between two. They are politely informed of the situation and advised to join the rear of the queue, now apparently snaking half-way round the shop despite the one-in-one-out rule at the door. The woman throws up her hands and screams.

“We’re all in the same boat,” choruses the line, in dull unison.

I speak with them. I am them. These people and I are one.

The woman yells but she submits, dragging herself down to the far end to begin her own long quest for salvation. We creep ever closer. I can see the tills now, watch the red lights blink as they fail again and again, for some reason overwhelmed. I watch the face of the attendant. She is so beautiful. She is so dead behind those lovely eyes.

One hour and ten minutes. Somebody tries to start a line at the other till.

“Same boat,” we chant, our eyes blank, our hearts as heavy as our shopping bags. “Same boat.”

At last, the queue creeps again. All at once, I stand alone on the brink. Dusty linoleum stretches out ahead of me and there, unreachable, on the other side of the imaginary bull seal, is the till itself. The woman ahead of me starts to unload her trolley. I never knew they made trolleys that big. Things keep on emerging, like a conjurer’s trick.

One hour and twenty-five minutes since I joined the queue. The attendant approaches me and gestures, from a safe distance, to the now-emptied till. I rush, as if anybody would dare to take it from me. I feel I should hurry for the sake of those behind but my limbs refuse. The deadened pace of the last hour has changed me. I am an automaton; I move at one speed only.

The machine bleeps its terrible bleep. I empty the bags to fill them again. I stack tins at the base, top off with grapes. The machine fails. The attendant rushes to rescue me. I nearly weep as I thank her. She, such is the day, does not seem alarmed. She merely nods, a nod of solidarity, of two women stuck in purgatory.

But I have seen the light. The bags fill. I do not see the price as I flail with my debit card. It is plastic, just plastic. I could break it in my hand. It will give me these items I fought for. How does it do that? I no longer know.

“Thank you for shopping with us,” says the machine.

“Thank you,” I tell it.

Do I mean it? Who can say?

Some lucky soul rushes to take my place. I gather up my bags. I do not feel the pain now. My fingers are raw. I feel nothing. I make my way down the long corridor, past the rows of locked tills and unstocked shelves. The doors are ahead. They swoosh, so quiet, to expel me into the foyer of bread. The security guard turns to look at me. He is still here, then, the man who bade me enter. His gaze is a lifeline. I hold it. To drop it would be to fail, to be sucked back inside, to never escape. I am Orpheus. I must not look round.

The portal is passed. I step out onto concrete, into the fierce rush of petrol fumes and sunlight. He nods, and breaks our gaze. The line moves on, the next couple setting out to begin what I have just endured. The line is so long now, so much longer than it was. It does not matter. I am free. I am born anew.

I walk to my car. I left it centuries ago. The music starts where I left off. This is a different world. The sun is so bright. There are children playing in the carpark, running between the cars, ducking down, laughing. They are waiting. Somebody who loves them is buying bread. They are innocent. They are not tainted as we have been tainted.

I am no longer tainted. I am purified. The engine hiccups into life. I drive slowly out. The roadway is lined with people waiting to enter. The pageantry is still there, the festival, the sunlight. They seem to crowd around my windows. The music plays. I know now how Kennedy felt, that day in Dallas, when the crowds cheered his name.

#quarantine #it's been a day

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lunaticobscurity · 6 years ago

Note

I'm sure a couple of these are gonna be doubles so you can skip over the ones that are, but for that weird ask meme; 2, 3, 7, 8, 9, 11, 12, 14, 17, 18, 20, 22, 24, 25, 28, 30, 34, 38, 43, 45, 47, 49, 50, 56, 59, 61, 63, 66, 68, 69, 70, 73, 76, 78, 80, 83, 84 (the podcast/talk radio one), 86, 88, 89, 90, 92, 93, 94, 98

holy shit! i’ll put all these answers under a cut

2. chocolate bars or lollipops?

chocolate. lollipops leave you with a gross spit-covered stick to dispose of

3. bubblegum or candy floss?

candy floss. bubblegum leaves you with a gross spit-covered lump to dispose of

7. earbuds or headphones?

headphones. i used to use earbuds, but if you’re listening to a podcast and walking near a busy road, the cars drown out the podcast

8. movies or tv shows?

tv shows, just because i have a sohrt attention span

9. favorite smell in the summer?

i dunno, like maybe the hot dusty air in the morning when you wake up?

11. what you have for breakfast on an average day?

whichever cereal i currently have, which is currently golden grahams

12. name of your favorite playlist?

i actually don’t use playlists!

14. favorite non-chocolate candy?

hmmm, those skinny jelly babies. or maybe fizzy cola bottles? the ones from the market that are extra sour

17. most frequently worn pair of shoes?

i only have one pair and they look like this:

18. ideal weather?

a warm, clear night sky

20. preferred place to write (i.e., in a note book, on your laptop, sketchpad, post-it notes, etc.)?

various notebooks

22. role model?

i can’t think of any D:

24. favorite crystal?

heh, you mean the chaos emeralds?

25. first song you remember hearing?

i have no idea!

28. five songs to describe you?

i don’t even know where to start with this ! :O

34. advertisements you have stuck in your head?

CMON CALL CHATBACK 0891 50 50 50

38. lemonade or tea?

tea! but like, big bottles of ice tea from the polish shop, i very rarely drink hot drinks

43. hoodie, leather jacket, cardigan, jean jacket or bomber jacket?

hoodie, i have a cool wintersun zipped hoodie. all the others would be too warm for me, ieven in winter, too. except cardigan, but like, i’m not a grandma

45. which genre: sci-fi, fantasy or superhero?

it’s a cop-out answer, but they’re all good. and at the same time, i’m totally sick of the cliches of the mainstream versions of all three

47. favorite type of cheese?

double gloucester

50. what made you laugh the hardest you ever have?

i don’t know, but probably something really stupid. does it count when it’s one of those times where you and someone else get caught up in a loop of laughing at each other’s laughter until you’re both struggling to breathe?

56. favorite tradition?

when i was on jobseeker’s allowance and had to go to the despair factory every other friday, i started making a bad day slightly better by going to the chippy on the way home, then watching the new episode of nxt while eating my chips when i got back. once i no longer had to go to that cursed place, i carried the tradition on every friday anyway because it’s nice.

59. if you were a video game character, what would your catchphrase be?

a bunch of incomprehensible grunts

61. favorite line you heard from a book/movie/tv show/etc.?

i dunno, maybe all the villain speeches darkseid gives when he’s written by grant morrison? “New Genesis is a stinking cosmic sewer! I have fouled Paradise beyond repair and broken in the mire the shining cities of the Gods! I have won! Is this vanity? Then I will remake the entire universe in the image of my soul, Desaad. And when at last I turn to look upon the eternal desolation I have wrought...I will see Darkseid, as in a mirror....and know what fear is.“, for example

63. five songs that would play in your club?

system of a down - toxicity

ensiferum - one more magic potion

slipknot - duality

babymetal - megitsune

the toy dolls - nelly the elephant

just stuff you can dance to tbh

66. favorite flower(s)?

i don’t have any

68. worst flavor of any food or drink you’ve ever tried?

i can’t say for certain, but mayonnaise is a strong contender

69. a fun fact that you don’t know how you learned?

if you take the digits of any number divisible by three and add them together, the result will be another number divisible by three. and you can keep doing that until you finally get to 3, 6, or 9.

70. left or right handed?

73. favorite weird flavor combo?

people always act like peanut butter on crumpets is weird? but i love it

76. what’s your favorite potato food (i.e. tater tots, baked potatoes, fries, chips, etc.)?

chip butty

78. coffee from a gas station or sushi from a grocery store?

i hate coffee and i’ve never had sushi!

80. earth tones or jewel tones?

erf

83. writing or drawing?

they’re both good, but i’m better at writing

84. podcasts or talk radio?

podcasts, i think the only talk radio i’ve ever listened to was coast to coast am

86. cookies or cupcakes?

cookies.

88. your greatest wish?

love and comfort~

89. who would you put before everyone else?

i dunno

90. luckiest mistake?

i know i’ve made plenty of lucky mistakes in the past, but i really can’t think of any of them D:

92. lamps, overhead lights, sunlight or fairy lights?

fairy lights, or overhead lights, but in the next room over

93. nicknames?

don’t have any

94. favorite season?

summer

98. favorite historical era?

secret ancient indian nuclear war

#nine-hundred-and-nine

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